On Friday morning, we returned from a long five days in Poland, visiting sites relating to the Shoah, or Holocaust. We saw ghettos, old shtetls, and death camps. Overall, it was a very emotional but incredible informative trip that I think everybody got a lot out of. One of the main things we focused on while there was the contrast between the vibrant Jewish life in Poland prior to the Shoah, and the tragic amount of death caused by it. I think the place this was most evident to me is in the village of Tykochin. This was a Jewish village which was purged of its Jews in 1941. The shtetl of Tykochin is a model of Jewish living in Poland prior the Holocaust, while the mass graves the lie in its forests reveal the true evil in the Nazis' actions during the Shoah.
Tykochin was a thriving Jewish community for over four hundred years, and at least half of its four thousand residents were Jewish before the Holocaust. When we arrived in Tykochin, our first stop was what at first glance looked like just an open field. But upon closer inspection, we found it to be a Jewish cemetery. It hadn't been cared for in years, and most of the tombstones were either missing or lying on their sides. The point of visiting the cemetery was to show that there was such a large Jewish community living there, that they even had a huge area set aside just for Jews who had passed. Later in the morning, we went into the synagogue. While no Jews currently live there, the shul is maintained by residents, and used as more of a museum than a functioning religious center today. One of the most interesting things to me about this synagogue is that prayers were written all over the walls, because not everybody had siddurim to follow along with. After looking around for a few minutes, we prayed mincha, the afternoon service, and did a NFTY style song session. It was really fun to bring back some of the Jewish life that was robbed from this beautiful building. What I kept thinking about while I was there was that their community was just like my Jewish community at home, if not stronger. Gertz encouraged us many times to think about what it would be like if suddenly things turned bad for Jews in America, and to me that is inconceivable. I can't imagine anything happening to cause people to start persecuting Jews in the states on the level of the Holocaust, but I'm sure at one point, that's how Jews in Tykochin felt as well. Being there made this more clear than ever, because I could see what it would have been like, where the Jews came together, where they prayed and studied, where they were had their holy community, a kehillah kedoshah. The previous day in Warsaw was spent focusing on the dreariness of ghetto life, but this was the first time in Poland I got a feel for what it was like to be a Jew living in Poland. It seemed like it was probably pretty good.

In August, 1941, the Nazis instructed all Jews living in the shtetl to meet in the square. They loaded people on trucks, and forced those who could not fit to run behind them into the nearby forest of Lupochowa. While running, they were forced to sing a song about Nazis spilling Jewish blood. Over the next two days, Nazi soldiers shot and killed every single Jewish person, infants included, and disposed of their bodies in mass graves. After we left the synagogue, we got on the busses and rode in silence to the forest. It seemed a very far run. We heard from the account of the only survivor, who someone lived through being shot, and was able to climb up out from under the dead bodies covering her in the pit. She spoke vividly of watching her father be forced to undress, and seeing her sister beg for life, a futile effort of course. After hearing this disturbing account of what happened there, we walked to the site of all three pits, where all of Tykochin's Jews will lie forever. We lit some candles, and held a ceremony to honor them. Being there made me realize how truly wicked the Nazis were. All I could think about was what kind of person could stand there and murder that many people. The Nazi soldiers shot entire families, little children, old men, pregnant woman, mercilessly. It also made me think of the extent to which they intended to wipe out the Jews. They ended not only the current lives of so many people, but also the future lives. After those two days in August, there never has been and probably never will be a Jewish community living in Tykochin. This can be said of many places. At one point, approximately 75% of the world's Jews lived in Poland. Now, there are only about five to ten thousand. I don't think I will ever be able to comprehend the horror of what happened in Tykochin, and because of that I can only imagine what the Jews living there were like.

Yesterday, we went to the Israel Museum. We had already been there to see the Dead Sea scrolls and a model of the Old City, but this time we went to an exhibit about Jewish life in the Middle Ages. We went inside multiple reconstructions of synagogues from different parts of the world. What I saw that interested me the most was a painted sukkah. The deller family commissioned the artwork in the nineteenth century, and held on to it for decades. A picture of the sukkah can be found here on the Israel Museum website. http://www.english.imjnet.org.il/popup?c0=13557
In 1935, it was smuggled out of Germany in order to preserve it. I have never seen a sukkah that has been painted before, so it was very new to me. It's a very interesting look into the traditions of Jews in Europe. The paintings depicted the city of Jerusalem. It's pretty cool to think that while these Jews were living in Germany, they were creating images of the holy city, and now here I am living just outside of it. It was one of many moments that made me feel so lucky to be here. I also think it's really special that the sukkah was saved. During the holocaust, many Jewish artifacts were destroyed, making it harder to gain an understanding of what life was like before. But thankfully, some things made it out, and we can go to museums to learn and see actual objects that were part of Jewish life during that time.

This week I read an article by David Benkof of the Times of Israel. It can be found here. http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/palestinians-exist/

Benkof's goal of this article is to prove that the Palestinian identity is a valid one. Some people try to assert that Arabs have invented the idea of a Palestinian people, and thus there is no Palestinian-Israeli conflict.  David's point is that all peoples are invented, whether it happened recently, or centuries ago. He ends the article by saying that this argument needs to be dropped so that we can move on to a meaningful discussion about the conflict. I definitely agree with the writer's point that the Palestinians are just as much a people as anyone else, because all people's are invented. 

What interests me most about this article is when Benkof says that even the Jewish people is invented, as it had to begin at some point. This isn't exactly related, but it reminds me of a question I have wondered about for a long time. It has never been clear to me whether Judaism is a race or ethnicity, as well as a religion. I remember asking my dad what I should say when people ask me what ethnicity I am, and he responded that saying I was Jewish is acceptable. My mom didn't agree with him, saying I should cite the countries my ancestors come from. Race is something passed down genetically, so Judaism cannot be a race, because anyone can convert to Judaism. Ethnicity is defined as the fact or state of belonging to a social group that has a common national or cultural tradition, and according to that definition, I think Judaism could be considered a race. However, there are many different traditions within Judaism. While lots of Jews share many aspects of their culture, there are lots of different groups with different traditions, such as the Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform, as well as the distinction between Ashkenazi and Sephardic. I know that being Jewish is definitely an identity of some sort, but I don't know exactly what it is, other than a religion. 

This week I read an article written by Adam Kirsch for Tablet Magazine about the Jewish figures written about in the Talmud. The article can be found here: http://www.tabletmag.com/jewish-life-and-religion/164675/daf-yomi-73
The author first notes that most of the figures written about in the Talmud are unbelievably wise Rabbis, so holy that most people have a hard time relating to them. For this reason, Kirsch thinks the people written about who aren't Rabbis can be more interesting. He discusses Tavi, a non-Jewish slave, who slept under his bed in while in the Sukkah, a strictly forbidden action, to demonstrate that while he knew the law well, he did not have to follow it. I agree that Tavi would be fascinating to talk to, because he would likely be more on my intellectual level. He could probably explain things to me, and I wouldn't be completely lost within the first two sentences. Tavi could tell us all about the Rabbis, from an outside perspective.
What I find to be the most interesting part of the article is the last two paragraphs. Kirsch explains a debate about whether the side of an elephant is fit to be a wall of the Sukkah. Certain Rabbis said no because it could walk away, and others said you could tie it down, and others raised the question of what would happen if the elephant died during Sukkot. The Rabbis decided that because you could prop the carcass up and it would still be high enough, it is still fit to be a wall. The fact that the Rabbis thought out situations to this extent is amazing to me. It just shows me how important it was to them to make sure that the law is followed perfectly, and that every scenario is thought out. At the same time, I wonder if they wasted their time imagining these ridiculous realities. Is it really essential that the Rabbis have rules for the off chance that somebody might decide to use their elephant in building a Sukkah? I'm sure there's a good answer to this question, so if you have one, let me know in the comments.

Yesterday was by far the most relaxing Shabbat I've had so far in Israel. Traditionally, Shabbat is the day of rest, and you aren't supposed to do much. But when I'm at home Saturday is one of two days I get to do whatever I want, so I'm almost always busy the entire day, whether I'm surfing or hanging out with my friends, etc. I've never really appreciated the idea of Shabbat, possibly because with or without Shabbat, my American schedule would still include no school on Saturday and Sunday. In ancient times, on the other hand, most people worked every single day, and the idea of a day of rest was absurd to non-Jews. I've been trying to make the most out of most of the Shabbats here and hang out with as many people as possible and do homework, keeping myself busy. Yesterday, I spent my time sleeping in, playing guitar, resting in the room, and playing cards. I didn't follow all the rules of Shabbat, for instance I turned on and off the lights multiple times, but most definitely did rest. Today I just feel so much better having had a day not to worry about school or anything. It made me realize the importance of having a day of rest, and I just might continue to use Shabbat the way it was intended.

This week I read an article written by a conservative Rabbi struggling to find a Jewish movement that appeals to him. Written by Rabbi Amitai Adler, the article can be found here: http://shma.com/2014/02/motion-without-movement/
Adler was raised in a modern Orthodox home, but one which was very unique. His father was Orthodox, and his mother went from being Orthodox to Reform. He describes how many different Jewish values important to different movements were cherished in his family. Adler then talks about trying to find a movement to fit his upbringing. He desired a movement that valued education, outreach to secular Jews, and offered spiritually rich services and experiences. He chose to become a conservative Rabbi, and while it appealed the most to him, this movement still did not perfectly fit Adler's idea of Judaism. At the end of the article, he expresses his plan to teach the unique form of Judaism he grew up with to his son, and hope that some day after his time, maybe more people will find meaning in his idea of Judaism.
Personally, the Reform movement is the only form of Judaism I have any real experience with, besides going to a few services at my local Chabad and a conservative Bar Mitzvah once. Even with the Reform movement being the most lenient Jewish movement, I don't exactly follow all the rules and guidelines. I expect there are probably some people out there who wouldn't even consider me reform. I think every Jew has his or her own idea of what's important in Judaism, and for this reason I think it's hard to divide all Jews into three major groups. Now, I know there are a lot of groups within the three major movements, but even so, I think every individual has his or her own perspective. For this reason, I respect Rabbi Adler for continuing to search for what he wants out of Judaism. He is a member of the conservative movement, but in his home, he creates the type of Judaism that is meaningful to him. In some ways this reminds me of how members of the Reform movement select which laws to follow; however, Adler is more dedicated to halachah, or Jewish law. I think a lot of people probably feel the same way as he does, in that they are always looking for a form of Judaism that fits them best.

On Saturday we came back from ten days away from the Kibbutz. This included Gadna, a program to give teens an idea of what it's like being in the IDF, going to En Gedi, lying on the beach in Eilat, and seeing four countries at one time from the top of a mountain. But for me, the most meaningful part was waking up at 2:30 am to climb Masada. Masada is the site of an ancient fortress on top of a mountain in the desert which eventually wound up in the hands of Sicarii group of Jews as the last holdout of the Great Revolt against the Roman empire. After living under siege for three years, the Romans were finally about to breach the walls and capture the Jews. But before this could happen, the last remaining Sicarii decided to commit mass homicide, and eventually suicide, to prevent the Romans from overtaking them. This way, their death was in their hands, and they didn't have to serve under the Romans. After Masada fell in 73 CE, there was never an autonomous Jewish state until the establishment of Israel in 1948, almost two thousand years later.
Today Masada stands as a symbol of Israel's strength. Upon completion of basic training, IDF soldiers used to climb Masada, and they would together shout that Masada will not fall again. To me, it is incredibly powerful that we finally have a Jewish state again, and Masada is a perfect emblem of the Jewish peoples' will to hold on to it. The Sicarii were so passionate about holding on to their land, that they were willing to hold out on a tiny hilltop completely surrounded by enemies. This in itself to me is illustrative of the State of Israel today, a haven for Jews surrounded by countries it often has trouble dealing with. The ceremony for the soldiers on Masada shows that although our situation might be similar, we will never let Israel fall, and we must do everything we can to hold on to it. Thinking about this while sitting on top of Masada was incredibly powerful to me, and it really made me think about the significance of and the necessity for Israel to exist, and also the strength and power of the Jewish people then and now, and how different that is from the two thousand years in between.