Why India?

India: Enchanting and surprising

By SUZANNE SINGER, SPECIAL TO THE JERUSALEM POST

27/03/2010

The country bombards the visitor with the unexpected – color, noise, human mass and extremes.

MUMBAI, India – It was the second candle of Hanukka. We lit, along with Israelis and others who somehow find their way to Chabad houses worldwide. But this was different. We were at the Mumbai home of Rabbi Hanoch Gechtman, his wife Laki and their infant Musi, in a building massively guarded by armed Indian soldiers.

After singing and consuming Laki’s jelly donuts, Rabbi Hanoch invited us to join him for the inaugural lighting of a menora on the roof of Nariman House.

My husband and I and an Israeli businessman living in India and his visiting wife went along on the short ride.

We passed through the fenced entry to the former Chabad residence and community center, now protected by Indian police while it is being repaired, we climbed past dark rooms pitted with bullet holes where only a year before Pakistani Muslim terrorists murdered the beloved Chabad Rabbi Gavriel Holtzberg and his wife, Rivkah. We remembered Sandra, the Indian nanny who snatched their toddler son Moshe from the carnage and saved him. Emerging on the rooftop, we overlooked the twisting lanes of the Colaba neighborhood where the music of a wedding procession below reminded us that Indians love to celebrate anybody’s tradition.

We were near the sea from which the terrorists in small boats had spread their murderous net to the luxury Taj and Oberoi hotels, to the railroad station and to the building where we now stood in the dark.

Neither in Mumbai, nor in Delhi where we spent most of our time, nor in the Himalayan village where we lived for a week, nor in the southern state of Kerala where for centuries Jews lived observant lives among Hindus and Christians, did we experience kippot-wearing anxiety or anything but indifference or interest in our identity as American Jews now living in Israel.

Until three years ago when my husband was invited to visit a research institute in Delhi, I had no urge to visit India. The usual reasons – dirt, beggars, roadside shanties, people sleeping in streets, intestinal anxieties and a general sense of too complicated.

But even before the invitation, I had become curious. At some events I attended where Indian defense and security experts met with their Israeli counterparts, it became clear that India was becoming tight with Israel, at least at certain levels, and that we recognized each other’s enemies and shared challenges.

This, while Europe and much of the rest of the world was becoming increasingly critical of Israel, even of our existence as a Jewish state in an Arab sea. And it also caught my attention that at any point in time there are about 40,000, mostly post-army young Israelis, wandering around India (unfortunately, not all behaving as good representatives) and that some return home ready to explore the spiritual side of their Jewish lives.

That’s led some to break out of Orthodox expectations and take new paths to Jewish observance – to possess Judaism in a way that carries meaning for those who had been indifferent or alienated.

Then there is this. With 161 million Muslims – 13 percent of its population – India has the second largest Muslim population in the world after Indonesia.

Although Muslims are integrated in the national fabric, they experience inequalities and, sometimes, clash violently with the Hindu majority. But this vast democratic state is committed to recovering and moving forward. I feel there an unusual mix of passivity and dynamism.

India challenges assumptions and senses. It bombards with the unexpected, with color, with noise, with human mass, with extremes – of temperature, of depth of valleys, of height of mountains, of wealth and poverty.

It is infused with spiritual expressions, in public spaces, in elaborate temples, in small shrines, in quiet home corners. India blurs cultural/religious lines, absorbs and transmutes.

For centuries Jews lived in Cochin and other towns along the Malabar coast in the southwestern state of Kerala. The Cochin Jews presence is documented for 1,000 years and may have begun as early as the time of the Roman destruction of Jerusalem’s Second Temple 2,000 years ago.

They lived a religiously traditional life in harmony with their Hindu neighbors, with privileges from and protection by the local maharajah. Over time, Hindu customs that did not conflict with Halacha penetrated Jewish observance, a syncretism described in intriguing detail by Prof. Nathan Katz and Ellen S. Goldberg in The Last Jews of Cochin.

Most of the two to three thousand Jews residing in Cochin and other towns along the Malabar coast moved to Israel after its rebirth in 1948.

I am enchanted with this massive nation. Despite its more than a billion people speaking 18 official languages and 1,600 minor ones and dialects, an English-speaking visitor can feel comfortable, even in the less traveled destinations.

Bookstores are a special surprise, many with impressive stocks of the most current and classic English works from everywhere; political, historical and cultural/religious books about India, exquisite photographic volumes, children’s tales – and run by booksellers, like those of old, who read, advise and know where books stand on their shelves.

A warning: Because the prices are lower than at home and the selections so enticing, it is tempting to buy a lot. Ship them home by sea mail; don’t arrive at the airport with overweight bags.

Above all, I urge those who treasure freedom and tolerance, love riotous colors, fabrics, crafts and archeology, find human diversity enriching, respect the quests of God-seekers, and, like me, are drawn to people for whom Judaism and its practices and beliefs are respected even if not understood – travel to India!

The writer is a contributing editor to Moment magazine and Biblical Archaeology Review.

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The Lions of 101

They were paunchy and lumbering, some still taut with cultivated white beards, their wives--maybe not the ones they began with, children old enough to have their own army stories and grandchildren who could not yet know how the nation survived its early years. More than 100 friends and family of Shlomo (Shleimi) Baum came together at the Almorah restaurant in the Judean hill town of Even Sapir. We were there to remember Shlomo on the 10th year since he died. We were there because Elana thought to bring us together with her now grown children Maia, Ilil, and David to hear stories about a husband and father who had been a legend in his lifetime.

It was a celebration of the 101, a unit of the IDF organized by Arik Sharon in August 1953 to retaliate for fedayeen
attacks against Israelis that had been costing many Israeli lives. Arik brought in Shlomo Baum as his deputy along with 50 men chosen to stop the raids by retaliation attacks in Jordan and Egypt. The unit carried out several damaging raids to carry the message that Israeli lives were not cheap and five months later 101 was absorbed in the Paratroop brigade. But one of the messages that came through at Shlomo's gathering this week was that the doctrine of retaliation that had been forgotten during the years after the 1948 Independence War, was reestablished as a core doctrine of the IDF.

It was an evening of reminiscence about Shleimi, everything from his famous big ears to his immensely strong body and bravery, to his intense curiosity about making things work. Stories came from members of the 101, from military historian Uri Milstein, from poet Haim Gouri, from General Israel Tal whose fame rests upon his development of Israel's Merhava tank, from novelist Meir Shalev and many others. And in between, musicians played familiar old songs.

Max and I were there with our son Daniel because when we lived in Israel from '73-'77, we met Shlomo and Elana and Max spent many hours with Shlomo, already retired from active service but deeply concerned about the political direction of Israel. And when Daniel and Alex came to join Tzahal, Shlomo was always ready to help them. Max and Shlomo would argue, the tough lion and his friend from such a different world. And when Shlomo would disagree with Max he would say MA-AX, as though it had two syllables, before launching into a lecture to straighten out his friend.

It was a privilege to be at this gathering of patriots. It was a reminder of how long Israel has had to fight to exist and of the price paid by many to protect it. It was a reminder that there was a time when, at least for some, protecting what you value was an imperative.

Alex Remembered

It's been months since I blogged. Why? Not because of lack of things to say but mostly because what I want to say is directed individually. But this message is for all, a message of memory directed forward.

The memory is that of our son Alex, z"l, killed in a battle with terrorists in Lebanon who were trying to make their way to attack northern villages in Israel. Alex was serving as a platoon commander in the Givati brigade of the Israel Defense Forces. The date was September 15, 1987, Alex's 25th birthday.

Each year in Israel, as it was yesterday, the nation mourns its fallen soldiers and civilians killed in acts of terror on the day before it celebrates the rebirth of the modern state in 1948.

It's almost 22 years since Alex was killed and yet on this memorial day, and the days following, those who came to know him continued to grow. The collection of Alex's letters and army journals was published in English 12 years ago. The Hebrew translation--page for page the same content--has been available for a little more than a year. And because of them, Alex is known to educators who invite the family to speak to young Jews.

Our son Daniel talked about Alex at a nighttime outdoor ceremony at Jerusalem's Ammunition Hill. Hundreds of young adult Jews from English-speaking countries who have been spending a year in Israel with MASA grants heard seven siblings of fallen soldiers speak about their brothers and sisters. That same night I met with some 15 or so students from Pardes who are spending a year or more studying Jewish texts. I told about our family's decisions, about Alex's life and death. Most important was to read some of Alex's words and those of others about him and to show the quarter hour DVD about Alex. Then to talk together about life choices, his and ours and theirs.

The next day began with a ceremony at the high school Alex attended when he was a boy in Jerusalem. They read the 70 names of their graduates who had died in Israel's wars and two girls gave readings by Alex and by his brother at the time of Alex's death. An hour later we stood by Alex's grave at the military cemetery at Mt. Herzl when the nationwide siren brings everything to a halt for two minutes, even cars on the road whose drivers get out and stand silently. That same afternoon, Max and I spoke to about 80 16-17-year-old Australians and New Zealanders at the Rabin Hostel in Jerusalem. They had just come from a week in Poland visiting the death camps and learning from survivors about the Holocaust. They arrived in time to experience Israel's remembrance of its soldiers whose lives were given to protect the young nation. They were a remarkably serious and attentive group, listening to Alex's story, raising their own dilemmas, speaking seriously with us as they considered their own Jewish lives and what they would make of them.

Still to come is our visit next week to Israeli Bar Ilan University students who will have read Alex's book in an English course. From these young adults we can expect probing questions and challenges. Life in Israel can be joyous but raises serious questions about responsibility to self and nation. Because Alex grappled with these questions, they engage with him through us.

Shortly thereafter we travel to the center of the country to meet with American Jewish Day School seniors who come for their last semester to experience Israel. Again we are the Alex surrogates, telling his story, reading his words and hoping that they will be inspired, as he was to build lives, with Jewish meaning.

(see www.alexsinger.org)

From Loch Ness to Pompidou

Two separate trips from Israel this summer, with two grandchildren--Itay's bar mitzvah trip to Scotland and Noa's bat mitzvah present to Paris. They both confirmed that as long as our strength holds out, this is an ideal opportunity at an ideal age to learn who our grandchildren are and to discover hints of who they will be. I suppose they also learn who we are and what matters to us.
People keep asking: "Who decides where you go, you or the child?" We decide. We have made four such trips to date. The destination hinges on a combination of what we think the grandchild would like, what we want to do, and what opportunities come up that will control the cost.

Usually we plan, read, suggest and decide what happens each day. But there always seems to be something that's an "I must see the ..." For Noa hers led to standing two hours waiting in chilly drizzle on our last day in Paris to get into the elevator to the first level of the Eiffel Tower (a compromise with going to the very top). With Itay it was Loch Ness of monster fame that became part of our one day with a car and driver on our rainiest, most overcast day in the Highlands.

Specially memorable are the totally unexpected: Itay's patience, caring and understanding when Max ended up overnite in the Ft William hospital with a probable kidney stone. While I negotiated and waited for Max's dismissal papers in the morning Itay spent half the day alone at our B&B.(Max ended up fine but we missed some hours in Edinburgh and a Highland Games experience.)

A Noa moment was when she stood contemplating a piece of typographic art at the Pompidou Center museum of modern art and compared its roughness that she liked with what she achieved in her bat mitzvah invitation's purple pomegranates.

We have 7 more grandchildren to go in the next 8 years. Challenging to think about a precedent no one wants to break.

Stones that Speak

(As you will notice from the two month gap in postings, I am not much of a blogger. Problem is an excess, not a lack, of things happening in life.)

Tonight I experienced the conflation of time. I sat with Max on the stone curb of what archaeologists identify as a shop on the road that ran along the western wall of the Temple Mount when the Temple itself stood up above. Directly in front of us, protruding from the wall high above, were the stumps that remain of the staircase (now called Wilson's Arch) where once pilgrims climbed up to the Mount. And slightly to our left on the level where we sat was a heap of huge boulders that had fallen to the pavement below 2,000 years ago during the Roman destruction of the Second Temple.

Tonight was the beginning of a day of mourning and fasting, the ninth of the Hebrew month of Av, Tisha B'Av. On this day, Jews gather, sit on the ground, and read out loud the book of Lamentations that describes the horrors of the destruction in 586BCE of Jerusalem by the Babylonians and the exile that followed. It is commonly attributed to Jeremiah who had foretold the destruction and lived to write this heartrending poem. Over the millennia Tisha B'Av has come to be a day of mourning for numerous Jewish tragedies that were said to occur on the same day, most notably the Roman destruction in 70CE of the Temple, rebuilt and enlarged by Herod.

We sat with some hundred or so student and adult tourists and residents of Jerusalem in an area assigned to the Masorti movement, Israel's name for Conservative Jews. This location had been granted to them so that they could sit men and women together with women reading as well as men. At this marvelous spot, they are out of sight of those Orthodox who for many years protested against them, sometimes violently.

Conservative Jews In Jerusalem no doubt would choose greater visibility, but to us this location on this night and the walk past the walls of the Old City into the excavation area, was an extraordinary gift.

What Is a Hilltop Settlement?

Moshe had been asking us for months to come and see what "hilltops" are really about. So when Ellen and David came from DC ready for everything we gathered Moshe and drove an hour north into Shomron. He assured us: No, they won't stone us; no we don't need a protected car. So driving our Nissan we took off to Yitzhar where Moshe's daughter Ayelet Hashachar and husband Akiva live with their three small children in packing crates converted into a liveable space. It was a hilltop overlooking the settlement for which it was a satellite. There were three or so other families in similarly makeshift homes. Akiva showed us his whole wheat grinding machine that will again grind wheat from his fields after the shmitta year ends and a new growth occurs.
Ayelet with a glowing smile was entrancing in her long cotton dress and head covering that she wore with the elegance of a fashion model. But fashion is far from the thoughts of these idealistic youth.
She explained that they came here because here they could have some land to farm. In the Galilee and the Negev they could not buy land. Not quite clear why but it was clear that they loved their scrubby piece of hilltop with its long view to Tel Aviv when the haze lifts. The children run about barefoot on the stony soil. Ayelet explained that they homeschool the two older children, the oldest was about 5. They decided they don't want to entrust their children to teachers who may not love them enough.
Fanatics? No. Maybe yes in their patience and willingness to live with very little and to believe they can build and grow. They reported that soldiers come from time to time and destroy what they build. Then they rebuild and it happens again.
Very hard not to love these gentle pioneers trying to harvest grain and grow kids on a piece of empty land connected to a settlement.
The questions remain, many not answerable where we were.
But it seems reasonable to say that until Palestinians realize that Jews must have their nation and live in peace in it, conversations about this disputed area and how it will be divided are premature. Meanwhile, Ayelet and Akiva are not obstacles to peace.

Jerusalem Sounds

Strange day. White cloud fragments floated against blue sky; winds that in winter would have sent us indoors tossed everything. Pointed cedars whipped their spines. Twisted pines revealed how they came to lean, forever imprinted with youthful experience. Bougainvillea enflamed their swaying cedar perches.
It was shabbat so the creaking trunks and shaking leaves were all the more evident in Baka's quiet streets.

And Noa practiced her haftorah for what will be in two weeks.