Israel
Something has embraced and kissed this place
Giggles tickle the honey sun which strokes life into everything
Love, and relentless, bold pride, build the stone and border
Sticky sweet greens, velour beiges, candy reds, luscious oranges,
shiny prickles, crystal waters, and creamy cool whites
are quilted together to map out Israel.
Jenny Lass, 16
Toronto, Ontario

“Meaning of Homeland”

from Amos Oz in Who Is Left (Jerusalem, 1971)

I do not live in order to renew the days of old or to restore the glory of the past. I live here because it is my will to live as a free Jew.
...The new State of Israel is not tied by an umbilical cord to Jewish religion and history, but also not completely detached from them. It is in the curious and fascinating situation of “facing.” “Facing” means neither uninterrupted continuity, nor a new start. “Facing” means continuous reference to the Jewish past...
It is an indirect, tortuous, dialectic reference, burdened with conflicts and tensions, saturated with the confusion of revolt and the emotionalism of nostalgia, full of contradictions and contrasts.
I, for one, am one of those who believe hat these clashes and tensions, contrasts and contradictions, do not contain the seeds of spiritual poverty and shallowness. On the contrary: they are a mine of cultural wealth, a fertile well of spiritual dynamism. Without being a believing Jew, I am enthusiastic about the exciting abundance that lies concealed within the convolutions of our existence here, in the land of the Jews, facing Judaism.

Journey
Bare feet on hot pavement
Beat out the sounds of summer
Far away from home
And sheltered lives
All the attractions are toured
By giggling girls and muscular boys
We pay our respects to the Wall
Slipping notes in the cracks
And reciting Kaddish
As we tear our clothes
And then dance away the nights
In smoke filled dance halls
And little tourist traps
We have been thrown together
By faceless names
In well-lit offices
Hired to coordinate
“Meaningful Summers”
We learn to explore
Together
Becoming so much closer
Than anyone could ever
Have known or expected
Hoped or dreamed
We are tourists in a strange land
Which slowly grows
To feel like home
Dutifully, we wear our hats
Carry our water-filled canteens
In our backpacks or bags
And take pictures
Of random soldiers and Hasidim
Who look at us with contempt
And wonder why we bother
And whether we really care
The letters come from home
Over seven thousand miles away
Are you wearing your sunblock
Stay away from Arabs
And please write soon
We laugh to ourselves
And throw them aside
Nothing can touch us
Not now
Not here
We learn to be quiet
In dark museums
And have pillow fights
In strange hotel rooms
Where we stay for a night
And lock all the doors when we leave
We make random friends
From other groups
“You’re from Ohio?
Do you know Sandy?”
Hoping for bits
Of gossip from home
We talk for a moment
And then move along
Thrilled by new bits of trivial news

We sleep on the bus
On the way to Arad
Or Ben Gurion’s tomb
As we loudly complain
About trivial things
Which we know
Don’t matter at all
And close our windows tightly
As we pass
Through the West Bank
Arguing
Over what tapes to play today
And hoping that Tovah
Will come with the mail
No one will ever know
At home when we return
What this summer has meant
They will ask politely
Pretending to understand
Private jokes
And experiences we have all had
They will look at the albums
Connect the names with the faces
And places with events
They will laugh
At the twenty four pictures
Of the sunrise over Masada
And silently wonder
Why we took them all
But they will never know
The pain of Yad Vashem
The beauty of Eilat
The wonder of our Shabbatot
Or the closeness of our group
And how it felt
To say goodbye
But we will remember
As we write letters
Late at night
While term papers lay on desks
Unfinished and forgotten
And when the phone bills arrive
And must be worked off
Six hours a day
At boring jobs
We will remember it all
And when we sit
Around Seder tables
Amongst family and friends
Saying, as always,
“Next year in Jerusalem”
We will secretly smile
As we drink our last glass of wine
Thinking of Jaffa Street
And Ben Yehudah
And of the Old City
And wishing that it could be true
That we could return
To the sounds of summer
And the pounding of bare feet
On Jerusalem stone