The Pardes: Only in Israel!

Monday, July 4, 2011

Only in Israel!

I don't know why I bothered to set my alarm last night. This morning I was awakened at 5:30 am by the guy who picked all the recycleables that are collected on the street. I swear, I heard each and every bottle and can hit the bottom of his truck. My day had begun!

It continued with a wonderful surprise. As I was walking down my street I heard a voice, "Rabbi Herber, Rabbi Herber!" I backed up, looked up at the window of a second floor apartment and saw a familiar face. It belonged to Uri Ish-Shalom, a young man who had been a member of my synagogue, Congregation Beth Israel. Uri and his family had returned to live in Israel (Uri's father, Oded, is a native Israeli). I had officiated at Uri's Bar Mitzvah and his confirmation, and just a few weeks agao had seen him in Milwaukee. I thought that the Ish-Shalom family was living in the Jerusalem neighborhood of Talpiyot. Little did I know that they were living down the street from me. I spent a few minutes catching up with Uri in their apartment and then was off to Machon Hartman, looking forward to seeing the rest of the family during my stay.

I had just experienced a wonderful, "only in Israel" moment, one that more than trumped that annoying moment when I woke up.

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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.