Israel - Our Homeland?

Implicit in the laws regarding the Shemita and Yuval, contained in this week’s Torah portion Behar, is a reminder that even if we own the land, per economic standards, it is not ours to keep. Every seven year, the land must rest. Every 50 years, וקראתם דרור בארץ , the land must be ‘released.’ In actuality, these laws are virtually impossible to enact. While convoluted loop holes are built into the halachik system today in order to enable, at the least, a symbolic re-enactment of the shemita and yuval in modern day Israel, it remains unclear if (and most believe improbable that) these laws were ever fully applied in the land. Yet, this attempt at tempering our sense of sole proprietorship of the land serves as a lesson from which all those living in the region today – both Israeli and Palestinian should learn.

One of the greatest challenges with regard to Jewish religious identity vis a vis the state of Israel, in my opinion, has to do with the terminology we use with regard to Israel. The sacred attachment Jews feel with Israel is often described as one of returning home to the land of our ancestors (the land to which Avram was called, lech l’cha, "go forth!"). Israel is identified -- it is qualified -- as our homeland.

Permit me a personal anecdote. The first time I visited Israel was to live there for an extended period of time. All first year students of the Hebrew Union College were (and still are) required to study at the HUC campus in Jerusalem. My very first visit to Israel, thus, required my securing an apartment, making new friends and acquaintances, getting settled into a new neighborhood and learning where the post office, phone and utility companies (in those days, bills were paid in person), bank, shops, and bus stops were all while immersing myself in a new language and culture. It literally required my making a home for myself. I was not a tourist or religious pilgrim. This home in Israel, by the way, was the first that I had ever set up and lived in all by myself – no family, no roommates, just me, myself, and I. This adventurous experience of picking up and moving to Israel as a younger woman was extraordinary; but despite the wonder of it all, despite the very fact that I was creating a home in what I was raised to understand to be the Jewish homeland, I was still a foreigner: an American student living on a extended, but temporary, visa. I loved living in Israel. I long to do it again, perhaps as part of a study sabbatical; but, it isn’t my home. America is, currently, Pikesville.

This sacred concept of ‘homeland’ is underscored by our liturgy – the prayers we regularly recite, our festival cycle (specifically our pilgrimage festivals of Pesach, Shavuot, & Sukkot), and of course, all of Rabbinic literature. Our hearts and mind are constantly directed where towards Zion,המחזיר שכנתו לציון. The power of this sacred concept of “homeland” has its roots in the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple and the forced dispersion of our ancestors from what was literally their home. Recall that the Temple was not only a centralized place of worship. It had far more meaning than a local synagogue. The Temple was a symbol of independent sovereignty. Long before the separation of church and state, the Temple, in Hebrew literally, mikdash – holy thing/site, stood in Jerusalem as the seat of both religious and temporal power. The Temple, this holy site, represented Jews having full power over Jews. It wasn’t solely the religious component that made the Temple so enduring, rather, this coupling of religious and political sovereignty is at the heart of what makes its memory so compelling. The Babylonian and later Roman conquest of this seat of power had huge implications for the Jews of that period, implications which have extended to us, the inheritors of Rabbinic Judaism.

In lieu of this physical structure representing power and cohesion among the community, Rabbinic tradition fostered and nurtured the memory of it and the constant yearning, back (חדש ימנו כקדם, "renew our days as before") and yet at the same time forward, towards this sacred place. Moreover, though the Temple, the mikdash, no longer stands, sacred place is still attainable; it is within our reach. The Rabbinic sages specifically identify the home as the mikdash me’at. Each of us has the capacity to create a microcosm of the Temple in our own homes through the practice of ritual and mitzvot. It wasn’t until the 19th century when German Reformers dared to use the word Temple to refer to a Jewish institution outside of Jerusalem; and indeed, its pointed use brought with it controversy that remains, though far less so than in its day, today.

A challenge faced by the American Jewish community, particularly the liberal Jewish community, is how to maintain this sense of Israel as homeland when faced with the possibility of religious autocracy in place of democracy and pluralism. If we truly consider Israel ‘homeland,’ than we cannot continue to pray and yearn towards Jerusalem without a firm commitment to furthering democratic and pluralistic values within her borders. Vital to this commitment is that we – and by ‘we,’ I mean both Jews living within Israel and without her borders – must be cognizant of the ‘other’s’ narratives regarding the land. Though Israel may be the Jewish homeland, it isn’t solely ours. It is sacred space to others who have a stake in its history and a stake in its future. The only way it can remain a sacred, and even viable, space for us is if we, and more importantly those who live there both Jew and non-Jew, figure out how to respect the narrative of others who lay claim to it.
_________________

In honor of Yom ha-Atzma-ut (Israel's Independence Day) which was marked this past week in Israel, I share a few examples of Israeli poetry which I hope will serve to challenge us to reflect on Israel, not just as our homeland, but as a land that serves as home to many.

Each of us has a Name: written by the poet ‘Zelda.’ Zelda was born in the Ukraine in 1914, moved to Jerusalem with her parents at the age of 12 and died there at the age of 70. She had a traditional religious upbringing and did not devote herself fully to writing and teaching until after her husband’s death. Her work began to appear in 1968 and immediately became popular among religious and secular Israelis alike.
(Read Each of us has a Name)

After the fall of 1956 – written by Dvora Amir, a sabra, born in Jerusalem in 1948. Her parents were Polish immigrants who became very active in the agricultural workers’ movement. She began her study of Hebrew literature, Jewish philosophy, and kabbalah after the 6-day war. As her life, much of her poetry reflects the backdrop of war.

Two poems by Ayman Agbaria, a Palestinian-Israeli (his self-identification) poet and play write: Everyday and Debate.

I conclude with one of my favorite poems by Yehuda Amichai, one you’ve heard me recite before. Amichai, who lived and wrote throughout the latter half of the 20th century in Israel, is one of Israel’s most popular and well-known modern poets. His poem Jerusalem succeeds in relating a painful honesty in its utter simplicity.