The Pardes: Yes Howard . . . It's Easy To Get Excited About a Holiday with the Hasmoneans

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Yes Howard . . . It's Easy To Get Excited About a Holiday with the Hasmoneans

This morning my son, Adin, woke me up to remind me that Hanukkah begins tonight. When I asked him why Hanukkah was so special he said, "Hanukkah is about the Jewish people fighting to be Jewish and winning!"

I couldn't have been more proud! And more satisfied - all that Jewish day school tuition was paying off! I should add, by the way, that Adin also mentioned the story of the miracle of the cruse of oil which lasted eight days instead of just one (Bavli, Shabbat 21b) and how he found that "miracle" just as compelling as the other.

My early morning jubilation was quickly mitigated, however, by the New York Times op-ed page where my eye was drawn to the caricature of a spinning dreidel atop an article written by Howard Jacobson entitled, "Hanukkah, Rekindled" (www.nytimes.com/pages/opinion/index.html). I say caricature of a dreidel because it wasn't a rendering of a traditional dreidel; one with the letters nun, gimmel, hay, and shin embossed on each side. In the drawing one finds those letters spinning off the dreidel and replaced with the words: "Why it's so hard to get excited about a holiday with the Hasmoneans." Those words sum up the message of Mr. Jacobson's commentary on Hanukkah. He opines that few Jews find a connection to the Hanukkah narrative. "I'm not asking for contemporary relevance," Jacobson bewails, "History is history: whatever happens to a people is important to them. But Hanukkah - at least the way it is told - struggles to find a path to Jewish hearts."

"Struggles to find a path to Jewish hearts?" One wonders after writing 1,141 words if Mr. Jacobson really knows anything about the meaning of this holiday which has captured the hearts and minds of Jews in some ways far more profound than the major festivals of the Jewish year (e.g., Sukkot, Passover, Shavuot). Fighting for political and religious freedom against a foreign occupying power (i.e, Antigonus IV) and against the assimilationist program of a corrupt, Jewish religious leadership (i.e, High Priest Menelaus and other hellenized Jews) are facets of a compelling story which are beyond our emotional reach? To the contrary, Hanukkah reminds us of a time when a rag tag group of Jews refused to abandon their values, principles, their God and defeated the greatest military power of their day to keep the flame of Judaism alive.

Mr. Jacobson writes great fiction and was a worthy recipient of this year's Man Booker Prize, but when it comes to understanding the meaning of Hanukkah and how its many relevant lessons reverberate within the contemporary Jewish heart he could learn a thing or two from my nine year-old son!

Wishing you all a very happy Hanukkah filled with the Hasmonean spirit!

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UnknownDecember 9, 2010 at 10:55 AM
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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.