The Pardes: Getting Older Has Its Benefits

Friday, February 18, 2011

Getting Older Has Its Benefits

I'm was feeling old, really old . . .

In just four days I turn 48, just two years shy of 50. I know, I know, "80 is the new 50." Which means "50 is the new 18." But I don't feel it: my body takes longer to recover from the intense physical workouts I perform on my bike, I seem to sleep fewer and fewer hours each night, and my hair is getting more thin and more grey. I'm not much into celebrating birthdays, and this year I was beginning to feel even less so.

No, I'm not experiencing a mid-life crisis. That's not supposed to happen until I hit that magic number 80. I'm just beginning to take stock of my life; thinking about what I want to accomplish personally and professionally with the years I have left. I'm also realizing that there are some wonderful benefits that come with growing older. First and foremost there is the the gratification that comes from watching your childen grow older as well guided by the values you hold dear, and sharing the same experiences you yourself have come to cherish.

My daughter is currently visiting Israel for the very first time with her 8th grade Jewish day school class. I've been to Israel close to 30 times and I'd always wanted to accompany her on her first trip but it just wasn't meant to be. That's o.k. I've been savoring every moment of our daily chats (she just called to wish us a Shabbat shalom from Tel Aviv). Hearing the excitement in her voice about her visit to Machane Yehuda, about eating a felafel at Moshiko's and climbing up on a Merkava tank at Latrun (the museum and memorial to Israel's armored division) has given me an unquantifiable amount of joy. In short, watching my daughter fall in love with Israel has made getting older for me a tremendous b'rakha (blessing). I now look forward to aging, to seeing my son walk on the same streets of Israel that I've walked and his older sister has tread, and watching both of my children living their Judaism and Zionism with passion. Yes, getting older does have its benefits.

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I Felt the Rains Down in Africa (With Apologies to Toto)

Before I left for my trip to Uganda a very dear friend presented me with a gift: a black, leather journal to take with me so that I could record all of the experiences, feelings and emotions I would have during my journey. Wherever I went, that journal accompanied me. There were many days filled with long hours of conversion interviews as we sat in batei din (conversion courts) when I had to commit to memory what I was observing and then try to commit it all to paper in the late hours of the night. Some nights I was simply too tired to write; others the victim of no electricity which resulted in no light with which to compose a single letter. Most nights, however, I made entries into that little black journal; recollections which now bring back magical memories of a once in a life time adventure . . .

July 8, 2008

The journey has begun . . .

We arrived at Entebbe Airport. The landing was a memorable one. I wondered what the Israeli commandos, Yoni Netanyahu, z”l, et al thought as their plane landed in the evening darkness. When I disembarked from the plane I looked up and saw the terminal. The words “Entebbe International Airport” appeared over the door.

This, however, was not the terminal of the Entebbe rescue. After walking through immigration and customs, retrieving our bags and exchanging our American Dollars for Ungandan Schillings we (Rabbi Bradley Shavit Artson, his 15 year-old daughter, Shira, and Rabbi Cheryl Peretz) were met by Gershom (Rabbi Gershom Sizomu), Samson (a member of the Abayudaya community and our guide), Richard Camras and David Kalendar (friends and colleagues of mine). In the airport parking lot Samson pointed out the old Entebbe terminal and the Air France airplane which had been high-jacked by the terrorists (on June 27, 1976).

The ride through Kampala (Uganda’s capitol) was fascinating; a sprawling, big city with cars and people everywhere. We dropped Samson off and began the long drive to Mbale (pronounced “em ba lay,” a district in Uganda’s north-east adjacent to its border with Kenya) – 292 kilometers (5 ½ hours) in Gershom’s Toyota s.u.v. We were packed like sardines which made every bump in the mostly, unpaved, dirt roads an experience.

Gershom drove like a man possessed, but so do all Ugandans; like Mexicans and Israelis. You drive on the left side of the road here, like in Great Britain. He had to constantly pass trucks and cars on the right side of the road which was exhilarating and frightening at the same time. In one instance, a car and motorcycle came at us at the same time – in both lanes. It was like playing “chicken.” Finally, the motorbike went left and the car on our right.

We drove through an enormous state pike. With the window down you could here the wildlife: animals, and insects, and see people on the side of the road making their own sounds.

The side of the road here is often busier than the roads; people walking, riding bikes, motorcycles, even at night. It was amazing to see so many people traveling on the shoulder in pitch darkness. We rode by small towns with people gathered around fires and candles; a hive of human activity in moonlight. It was ethereal!

We arrived in Mbale and had dinner in an Indian restaurant (Uganda was once home to a thriving Indian population. Idi Amin forcibly expelled the country’s Indian citizens and confiscated their assets and property. Many Indians have returned to Uganda and re-established themselves as an integral part of Ugandan society. Their cuisine remains very popular among Uganda’s indigenous population. Indian restaurants abound in the country. Chapati (Indian bread akin to Israeli pita, but dare I say better) is sold at Ugandan intersections along with newspapers, candy and bananas. My best Indian food to date was eaten in an Indian restaurant in Kampala). Our meal consisted of fried fish, chips (i.e. fries) and salad. We all skipped the salad.

When we reached Nabugoya Hill via a new, paved road we met greeted by Tzipporah, Rabbi Sizomu’s wife and his family. Brad and I walked up the hill to the guesthouse where we met other people staying there: a couple, both college professors from California and their ten year old daughter; two Israelis who were a part of a film crew from New York (the director was an Ethiopian-Israeli who had made yerida (immigrated from Israel to the U.S.); and a colleague from Chicago, Rabbi Reuven Barkin.

Getting to sleep was a challenge because of the heat in the room and the impossibility of sleeping with the windows open to the mosquitoes, which can be a real at issue at night despite the mosquito nets. Eventually I fell asleep without a tee shirt and, most of the night, without the sheets.