I hustled up the stairs, nearly out of breath, and opened the door to Dustin, Stefan, and Pieter's dorm. In Dustin's room, Liran, one of the five Madrichim (counselors) sat on the edge of Dustin's bed. He had been familiarizing Dustin with all the locations on the Golan Trail and giving him advice for our upcoming hike.
Over the course of the months here, some of us have become pretty good friends with the Madrichim.
"Liran, what's up?" I asked.
A former First Lieutenant in the IDF and a native of Ashkelon, Liran was known for his typical good cheer. Dark-skinned, bespectacled, with close-cropped black hair, and always bearing a grin, Liran had been the most approachable of our Israeli counselors at Tel Aviv University from the very beginning.
Over time that has changed as we have gotten to know the other four: Dvir, Moshe, Almog, and Oshrat.
"I wanted to see if you wanted to take part in a ceremony for Yom Hazikaron," Liran stated with a degree of stoicism unusual for him. "It's Israel's Memorial Day for fallen soldiers and victims of terror attacks. We do this every year and it's very, very important to everyone."
"I'd love to do it," Dustin responded without hesitation.
"It'd be an honor," I followed swiftly.
"Great!" Liran said as the infamous grin returned. "We were all hoping that you would do it. I should tell you though that the week before, we will be practicing every night for several hours. It's a big commitment."
"That's fine," we both answered.
"Excellent."
***
April 11, 2010
The bottom floor of Dorm Building Aleph contained several large rooms that served as makeshift classrooms. I was expecting to find an uninhabitable disaster zone littered with construction material and dust as I walked through the door at 8:00 p.m. Much to my pleasant surprise, it was clean, spacious, and well-lit.
Looks like the eight months of belligerent construction and the din of power tools at 6:00 a.m. finally paid off, I thought in bemusement.
As the only two Master's students participating in the event and at the behest of the Madrichim themselves, Dustin and I took a seat in the chairs ringing the walls. The rest of the students, all undergraduates and all either Americans or dual citizens, started to show up one-by-one.
Unlike the undergraduates from last semester, whom we all got to know very well (i.e. Liz, Mike, Elana, etc.), the new group was relatively unknown to us. In fact, I didn't know a single one of them. And with the exception of two guys carrying guitars, Dustin and I were the only other males.
After everyone had taken their seats and finished gabbing, the Madrichim walked over to begin explaining exactly what it was that we were about to spend a week preparing for.
Oshrat, the head Madrichim, thanked all of us for volunteering and explained that we would be putting on a ceremony for TAU students to be held in the massive complex of Dorm Building G on the eve of Yom Hazikaron. It was an annual event and it involved various readings (both in Hebrew and in English) and songs (all in Hebrew).
Dustin and I generously offered to sing a stirring duet, but Oshrat stubbornly insisted that the songs and singers had already been selected. Instead, we were asked to review the parts that were available and choose what we would like to read.
Or so we thought.
As everyone gathered around the fold-out table to go through the various Hebrew and English readings, Oshrat approached Dustin and I. She had a strange look to her--one that suggested there was more to what was required of us in particular.
"We wanted you to be the ceremony's host," Oshrat said bluntly to Dustin.
"Oh-okay," Dustin responded.
"Can you do that?" she pressed. "You'll have to read in both English and Hebrew."
"Hahaha," I mocked.
"And we wanted you to read 'Yizkor,'" Oshrat said as she spun quickly on her heel to face me.
She handed me a piece of paper with nothing but Hebrew on it. A lot of Hebrew. A lot of hard Hebrew.
"It's very important," she said as she watched the look of poorly disguised horror crossing over my face. "Can you do it?"
Dvir, guitar strapped over his shoulder, strutted up beside Oshrat and I. The most laid back of the all the Madrichim and a ready reserve paratrooper in the IDF, Dvir had an almost Zen-like aura of relaxation about him. Since our excursion to Eilat in December and our epic dance-off, Dvir and I had developed a steady and competitive back-and-forth sarcasm between one another.
"This is actually the most important part to an Israeli. So don't screw this up," Dvir said with a sly grin as he strummed a single hard chord on his guitar.
"So I should probably avoid you, then?" I responded.
"Drew," Oshrat said seriously. "Can you do this?"
"Absolutely," I said before thinking.
"Can you read the first two lines for me?"
So I started and sputtered through what looked to be Hebrew written by the Almighty Himself.
"How was that?"
Oshrat looked sideways and pursed her lips as if trying to buy herself some time.
"It was...acceptable," she lied. "But you've got a week to get it right, so it's okay. And we're going to work with you every night."
She walked away and I turned toward Dustin. He looked like he had just walked into a brick wall as he exhaled sharply in resignation.
"That duet idea isn't sounding so stupid now, is it?"
***
April 12, 2010
It was 8:00 p.m. again. We had spent two hours the night before sounding like the stars of the Hebrew Short Bus. We had spent all day in the classroom. Exhaustion was self-evident.
We were separated by the Madrichim to work on our parts individually for all of the second night. I spent most of the night giving Liran a headache. Oshrat spent most of the night turning Jack Jack Carmack into an ill-tempered sea bass.
"The 'Yizkor' is the most important part of the whole ceremony," Liran explained to me. "It's the remembrance for all of the fallen soldiers of the Israeli Defense Force. It's very important that you say it precisely correct."
I read the first three lines to Liran again. And again. And again.
"How was that?" I asked enthusiastically.
"Do it again," Liran responded tersely.
"That bad, huh?"
Outside of the bottom room in building Aleph, two of the girls practiced their singing parts. I wasn't quite sure if it was humans singing the first time I overheard them. To make an extreme understatement, it was incredible. Better than any of the garbage Americans eat up on American Idol.
Liran seemed to read my thoughts as I lifted my head up.
"They're very good," he said with a nod.
"They're not even Israeli and they're singing in Hebrew," I said distantly, lost for a moment. "That's unbelievable."
"I'm going to read it this time and I want you to listen to how I say everything, the...uh...the song of the words...the...uh," he stammered.
"The cadence and the intonation," I finished for him.
"Exactly."
Behind us, sitting in two black fold-out chairs, Dustin and Oshrat repeated his lines.
"You're saying it wrong," Oshrat stressed to Dustin, who was becoming stressed in his own right.
"Yom Hazikaron," Dustin repeated.
"Yom Hazikaron," Oshrat said again.
"Yom Hazikaron," Dustin repeated.
"Yom Hazikaron," Oshrat said with a smile.
I caught Dustin flashing her an angry glare. Or perhaps it was just one of frustration. The difference was likely a moot point.
"Okay, take a break for a few minutes and I'm gonna go check on the others," Oshrat said as she rushed off.
I had gotten up from my chair and was walking around trying to repeat the way Liran had said the first few lines. One of the girls, Becca, who was also reading in Hebrew, walked over. We had met the day before. She lived in northern California and was a student at UC-Irvine. She was ethnically Persian, which was interesting given the current dynamics going on between Iran and Israel.
"So I completely forgot your name and feel like a complete idiot," she said as she walked over.
"Alex," I quipped.
"I sense deceit," she responded. "It was Da...."
"Drew."
"Where are you from?"
"Alabama," I said with a smile.
"Really? Well your accent is hardly noticeable," Becca responded.
"Really?"
She smirked sarcastically.
"Shut up."
"Well on the bright side, even if your English leaves a lot to be desired, your Hebrew actually sounds pretty good," she offered.
"Well that makes sense seeing as how I don't speak English. I speak American."
"You are definitely from Alabama," she said with a laugh.
***
April 13, 2010
"You keeping rolling your R's when you say Yisrael," Liran said with a bit of incredulity. "You sound Spanish."
"You smell funny," I responded.
Liran shook his head.
"Read the last three lines again."
It was the last day of individual rehearsing. Out of the twenty or so people that had volunteered, or in our case, been asked to do this event, almost everyone had their parts down fairly well.
Everyone except for me and Dustin.
Oshrat, Almog, and Liran were switching off and on between the two of us, having us read for fifteen minutes on and then walk outside thereafter for a few minutes to avoid the impending brain cramp.
Moshe and Dvir were with the guitar players and the singers outside. I imagine that I speak for both Dustin and myself when I say that it was relatively easy to relax in-between reading while listening to those girls singing.
After an hour, everyone gathered together for a brief meeting. I took a seat next to Dustin and Becca and wanted nothing more than to go back to my room and sleep. The Madrichim seemed fairly worn out by this point, which was to say nothing for how I'm sure everyone else felt.
They wanted this thing to be perfect. And it was understandable. As Oshrat informed us the day before, all of the Madrichim knew someone who had been killed in the line of duty or been killed by a terrorist attack.
This ceremony was more than just a memorial for fallen soldiers and for innocent lives lost to Islamist terror. It was representative of the continual price Israelis have to pay for their basic right to exist. It was representative of an ingrained part of Israeli identity: heartbreaking loss and bitter determination to keep moving forward.
In America, the price paid for our way of life, our freedoms, and security is placed on the shoulders of a relative few. In Israel, it is a burden carried by everyone.
For the Madrichim, this was not just a tribute. This was and would always be personal.
Oshrat informed us of the dress code for the ceremony. For the guys, it was a nice white shirt and black pants. For the girls, a white top with black pants or a black skirt.
"This will be the first time I've dressed as an Orthodox Jew," I whispered to Becca.
"And hopefully the last," she whispered in return.
***
April 14-15, 2010
Wednesday and Thursday focused exclusively on rehearsing the actual thing. The ceremony itself was supposed to last about forty-five minutes. Oshrat wanted a full eight rehearsals before the Sunday ceremony.
Dustin and I arrived early on Thursday. We were supposed to practice from 5:00-9:00 p.m. Neither of us were particularly thrilled with this prospect.
"I'm not gonna be able to say my part much better than I can say it now," I pontificated to Dustin.
"Yea," he agreed.
Over at the table, Dvir and Liran sat around strumming their guitars. It was nearly quarter past 5:00 and only six or so people had showed up. I could sense Oshrat's frustration cutting through the room like a blade.
"Country roads...take me home...to the place I belong," Dvir sang, or butchered, depending on your perspective.
"You're new name is Denvir," Dustin said as Dvir just smiled and continued thrashing John Denver's classic hit.
A few people started trickling in as Becca came over to Dustin and I and asked if we wanted to practice one more time individually before we started. There was little enthusiasm for this peer review, but we figured that her Hebrew was much better than our own and that she would be more indicative of the audience on Sunday than the Madrichim.
Dustin read his parts aloud first and received general approval. His difficulties with 'Yom Hazikaron' had apparently been overcome--whatever elusive vocal technicalities that had caused Oshrat concerned seemed to be nonexistent as far as Becca was concerned. Dustin palpably relaxed.
Then I read my part for what seemed to be the thousandth time.
"So how did that sound?" I asked.
"It was good," she responded.
"Okay, now put on your white wig and tell me how it really sounded," I pressed.
"Little more work," she said with a laugh.
It was 5:30 now. Moshe walked past Dustin and I and noticed both of us with our headphones in. Our impatience at the lack of punctuality on behalf of the others was just as great as that of the Madrichim. We wanted to get this thing done and go home.
"Andrew, what are you doing?" Moshe asked me.
"Before football and basketball games, we would listen to music to get pumped up," I explained. "It's called getting 'crunk,' Moshe."
Moshe paused and gave me a befuddled look as Dustin imitated one of Tyler's infamous "rock star" kicks.
"You have your traditions. We have ours."
***
April 18, 2010
We assembled in the convocation hall of Building G. It was 1:30 p.m. We were going to rehearse three times, go home for dinner, and then meet back at 7:00 p.m. before the start of the ceremony at 8:00.
Some of us had already spent three hours that morning in Hebrew class. I had read the 'Yizkor' to our teacher Varda and much to my relief, she said I sounded great. At this juncture, I wasn't as concerned with how I sounded as much I was with just getting everything over with.
The rehearsal plodded along at a grueling rate. I felt like I was in the middle of a Ben Stein production. Every tick of my watch was followed by an hour long interval before the next. Reality had given way to the infinite purgatory that was the ceremony--a ceremony that we would forever strive to take part in but would in fact never reach.
I knew the 'Yizkor' by heart. I could say it in my sleep. I could taste it, I could drink it, I could breathe it. The most difficult part of the night was going to be the forty-five minutes required for me to stand on the stage, silent, stoic, and motionless.
In between the first and second rehearsal, the Madrichim brought in pizza. Neither Dustin nor myself were particularly hungry, so we opted to talk with Liran about war and politics--two topics which he's always up for discussing. He told us stories about the Gulf War and the rain of SCUD missiles that Saddam Hussein was lobbing on Israel, about how he and his family sat underground in a bunker wearing gas masks--his parents frightened out of their minds, his older brother focused on using the mask as a mask for his own fears, and Liran, being just six years old, finding the whole experience a lot of fun.
"My brother would make up games for us to play while wearing the masks in order to distract us from our parents' fear," Liran said with a smile. "At the time, I thought it was a lot of fun."
Of course, while Liran and his family, like hundreds of thousands of other Israeli families, were hunkered down in their shelters fearful of chemical and biological fallout from Saddam's onslaught, U.S. and Israeli Special Forces, alongside the CIA and Mossad, were frantically working to locate and destroy all of the SCUD sites to keep Israel from being drawn into the conflict and widening it to include the entire region.
I found conversing with Liran about American and Israeli military history to be the most interesting part of the afternoon. It was the proverbial calm in the frenetic storm of the Madrichim's repetitious drive for perfection.
Dvir walked around the stage and grabbed a slice of pizza. I turned toward him surreptitiously as he stuffed his face with a disheartening slice of flavor-challenged kosher pizza.
"So I've been thinking that with my hick accent, it's probably a good thing I'm not reading in English," I said.
"It'd be better if you weren't reading at all," Dvir responded without missing a beat.
Dustin belted out a laugh.
"You made your bed. Now you've gotta lie in it, Dvir," I said with my arms crossed.
Dvir smiled, crammed another piece of pizza into his mouth, and with his back turned shouted over his shoulder for me to remember "not to screw up."
Then break came to an untimely end.
"Alright everyone, back on stage," Oshrat drilled.
***
"I've decided to go for the "rolled-up sleeves Dubya" look," I informed Dustin over Gmail chat.
"I think I'll do the same," Dustin replied. "We'll bookend everyone on stage."
"Sounds good. Let's just hope it doesn't channel his speaking abilities."
I logged off of the internet and began to shut my computer down. I had twenty minutes to get dressed and get down to Building G. As I started to get dressed, the gravity of the event hit me full force.
The week had been arduous in every meaning of the word. It had also been fun despite being stressful and time-consuming. The Yom Hazikaron ceremony that was about to begin was in a way of culmination of all of my experiences in Israel up to this point.
I had decided to come to Israel to gain greater insight into the conflict between the West and radical Islam. It was one of the most difficult decisions I have ever made, but it was the right one. Eight months in Israel had taught me a lot about this country, my own country, cultures, religion, people, and the world. It had fully cemented in my mind something I had believed before I had ever left: that Israel had always been the epicenter of humanity's struggles and that her people were not alien or foreign--that their values and their ideals lined up identically with our own.
Over 20,000 Israel soldiers had given their lives for a land restored to them after 2,000 years in exile. The Jewish people finally had their home back, only to face onslaught after onslaught from their neighbors. The peace today is a tenuous one. And they, perhaps unlike any other nation on earth, understand the price of keeping their homes.
They are not uniform in their approach to solving the problems and crises facing their state. The fractional and fragile government of government is miraculous in that it somehow manages to stay together. Some Israelis want a just peace. Other Israelis seek just a peace. But they are united in their understanding of what it takes to preserve their society, their culture, and their home.
And that is what Yom Hazikaron is all about.
As we gathered in the hall and took our place on stage, the crowds materialized. Dustin's Rotary sponsors showed up. Tyler biked over from his house outside Ramat Aviv. Pieter, Ryan, David, and Andrew took their seat in the middle of the room. Stefan walked in and stood back under the large, arched entrance--leaning casually against a wall. Hundreds of students, Israelis and non-Israelis, took their seats or stood around the outer ring of the room. All of the Israeli students had just finished their stint with the Israeli Defense Force--some of them had been in Gaza or Lebanon. Some of them had lost friends.
Dustin approached the podium, speaking in Hebrew and in English, asking for everyone to turn off their cell phones and stand in preparation for the siren at 8:00 p.m. The sirens would begin Yom Hazikaron and the start of the most somber day of the year for Israelis.
And just as on Yom HaShoah, the sirens would blare out throughout the entire land of Israel. And everyone and everything would once again come to a halt. People would soon stand still on the freeways, in restaurants, on the streets, in their homes.
Not twenty seconds after Dustin finished reading, the siren rang out. And everyone froze. Some of the Israeli students were visibly shaking.
In my mind, I remembered what Oshrat had told us earlier in the day and the reaction to it.
"There are some people in here who don't like that the ceremony is taking place in this building and in the past they have tried to disrupt the ceremony by shouting or in various other ways," Oshrat had nervously explained to everyone.
"Are you serious?" someone had blurted out incredulously.
"Arabs," someone else muttered, making the word sound more akin to a curse.
"Security is going to walk above all of you and try to prevent this, but if it does, just keep going as if nothing is happening at all, okay?" Oshrat had said as she glanced at all of us.
Dustin had informed me earlier that the dorm building was the one in which the Arab students resided. This was unfortunate seeing as how the building was the only one in which the ceremony could be held.
As I stood on stage and as the siren mourned to Heaven itself, I couldn't help but feel the ember inside flare up at the thought of anyone disrupting the event. Last week, it had been a Muslim girl's flagrant refusal to pause in memory of the victims of the Holocaust. This week there was the prospect of denigration toward fallen Jewish soldiers.
And this from Muslim students attending Tel Aviv University--individuals reaping some of the greatest benefits of a society that they loathed.
I couldn't help but think that the idea that there are real "partners in peace" is a lie--an illusion being offered by dishonest an delusional politicians and pundits seeking to avoid the harsh truths of a conflict as old as time itself.
As far as I was and am concerned, there is only one party interested in peace. That has been the case all along. It was the case yesterday. It is the case today. It will be the case tomorrow.
The sirens came to an end. Dustin resumed his place back at the podium and announced the reading of Yizkor and the lowering of the Star of David to half-mast.
What butterflies had been in my stomach before evaporated as soon as I walked up to the podium. I had prayed all week for the ability to do this. Speaking in public was not something new--speaking in public at one of the most sacred ceremonies in an entirely different language was something else entirely.
But I had noticed beforehand an Israeli girl, in her early twenties, leaning heavily on the shoulder of another student. I didn't have to ask her to know that she had lost someone very close to her--her shaking despair told me more than words ever would.
I walked up to the podium and let the words flow as best as I knew how.
***
The ceremony went well from that point onward. Despite a few minor hiccups with the music, mainly due to things out of the control of the guitar players and singers, everything went smoothly.
We gathered afterward in a corner of the room. No one had interrupted the ceremony this year. No one had said a thing at all. I'd like to think that was more due to the otherwordly angelic voices of the girls who sang. I still don't know the lyrics to much of the music, but I can't imagine doing anything other than falling into a trance when listening.
Liran approached me after as I stood talking with Stefan and the others. Dustin was speaking with his Rotary host on the other side of the room.
"I just...uh...wanted to thank you for volunteering for this," Liran said as he extended his hand. "You and Dustin aren't even Jewish and you..."
"It was an honor, Liran," I interrupted. "Thanks for coming to us in the beginning."
The former IDF First Lieutenant nodded his head slightly as I slapped him on the back.
***
An hour way, in the holy city of Jerusalem, another ceremony was going on at the very same time as ours. I will end with the words of Lt. General Gabi Ashkenazi, Chief of Staff of the Israeli Defense Force, and President Shimon Peres.
“As I was making my way from the plains near the beach to the mountain, I gazed upon the changing views of the road leading to Jerusalem, all silent witnesses of the battles and, together, one immense memorial monument to the heroes of the land who gave their lives for Israel’s security.
Only minutes pass before I traverse the fortress at Latrun, between the canyon and the mountain, where warriors for Israel’s independence held bloody battles, where sabras fought shoulder-to-shoulder with new immigrants, survivors of the Holocaust fresh off the ships, who did not even speak Hebrew.
In Sha’ar Hagai, I silently looked at the skeletons of armored vehicles, memorials of those who broke a path to Jerusalem as their ranks were dwindling. I then passed the Harel interchange, named after the brigade commanded by Yitzhak Rabin, a brigade that fought to take hold of the Castel overlooking the routes to the city.
And as I reach the gates of Jerusalem, seeing in my mind’s eye the paratroopers fighting on Ammunition Hill and near Augusta Victoria, those who arrived here, to this place for which the Jewish people yearned over generations, I remember the sounds of shofar by Rabbi Goren and Mota Gur’s eternal call: ‘The Temple Mount is in our hands."
-Lt. General Gabi Ashkenazi
“Bereaved families, whose Remembrance Day does not start with the siren that calls for a minute of silence, or end with the kindling of the beacons; you who came to this place, in the nebulous light of dusk, in the chilly Jerusalem evening air, facing the remnants of the Temple, represent over 20,000 households in Israel who lost the most precious of all, in the storm of battle, and in the line of duty.
I am aware that nothing can compensate for the sound of the steps of a son you expect to hear on the staircase, which has suddenly turned silent. The son whose uniform you hung on a hanger in the closet, which generates a yearning to smell the smell of his body one last time.
Facing your tormented eyes – there is a loss of words. A testimony of the truth that destiny has inflicted upon you the heaviest of prices – bereavement. And bequeathed to our nation the greatest of achievements – revival."
-President Shimon Peres
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