History of a Hat

“That’s a fantastic hat you’ve got there!”

I was surprised he noticed it.

“Thanks!” I said.

“You’re probably too young to remember the cartoon,” he added. “It’s a bit before your time.”

I was walking out of a backstreet coffeehouse in Jerusalem when a random guy noticed my red and blue cap. We talked for several minutes about the cartoon and about his move from the States to Israel before we parted ways. During my three months in Israel, he was the only Israeli who commented on my hat. But that’s okay; I was wearing it for a more significant reason than style.

I was furiously packing my things the day before I flew to Israel when my dad came into my room.

“You still need a hat for Israel, right?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. I was advised to bring an old hat to keep the Israeli sun off my head.

“You can wear this.” He handed me a faded red and blue Underdog cap, the one I’d seen him wear since I was small, almost as far back as I could remember. The hat could be as old as me, but cartoon was from the 1960s and 70s; he had watched the cartoon as a kid. I was in a bit of shock for several seconds. That was his hat. And he was letting me wear it.

I wore his hat every day I was in Israel, never going outdoors without it. I tried to be gentle with it but the tears in the fabric grew a little bigger every day and the plastic binding in the back was beginning to break; soon I had to hold it together with tape. When I would wear it, I always told my companions that it was my dad’s hat; it was like I was carrying my dad and my family with me wherever I went. There were several times I thought I lost the hat and my heart leapt into my throat each time until I found it again. I can’t lose my dad’s hat.

As I sat on the plane on the return flight home, I still had the hat. It was dirty, dusty, sweaty, and discolored from our travels—but Underdog had dust from ancient civilizations clinging to its threads. I begin to recall all the places Underdog had travelled with me: Hezekiah’s Tunnel, the Bar Kokhva caves, Jericho, Jerusalem, Bethlehem, Nazareth, Megiddo, the Jordan River, the Sea of Galilee—all of these places still lingered somewhere on this hat, mixed in with my sweat. The dirt and grime were physical stamps on my invisible passport; badges on Underdog’s cape. I was never going to wash this hat again.

When I got home, my dad let me keep his hat. Underdog now resides in my room on a peg where I can see it every day and every time I see it, it reminds of me of all my adventures in Israel. I still wear it from time to time; and if I ever get the chance to travel again, he’ll be right back on top of my head where he belongs. I plan to pass that hat on to my children and tell them all the stories of each stain on the brim. I don’t exactly know where the hat came from (I still need to ask my dad when and where he got it), but I do know where it has been—to Israel and back. Just like me.

L'shana Habaah

Old City Jerusalem, Israel

How does one say goodbye to a place as special as Jerusalem? My four friends and I stood just inside Jaffa Gate scratching our heads, wondering what to do. We had four more hours of in the city remaining before we boarded a plane for the States, and we needed an appropriate way to say goodbye to Israel.

During our ninety days in the country, we spent more time in Jerusalem than anywhere else. In the first three weeks of study we went on three all-day field trips to the Old City to get acquainted with its history, geography and culture. We experienced iconic and historic places like the Temple Mount, the Western Wall, tunnels under the Western Wall, Hezekiah’s Tunnel, Zedekiah’s Cave, and many churches and other sites. In addition to all this, every Saturday morning we would go to Shabbat service at a congregation that was composed of believers of all nations, speaking twenty different languages in the same service. After service we would spend the rest of the afternoon shopping, eating, and exploring the Old City. By the time day 90 rolled around we could navigate the narrow, winding streets of the four quarters of the city without the need of a map.

How do you say goodbye to a city so rich in history, so full of character and life, and so full of culture? How do you say goodbye to a city that funnels millions of travelers and pilgrims through its gates every year? How do I say goodbye to the most educational and adventurous ninety days of my life?

There was one more activity in the Old City that I hadn’t done yet. We paid fifteen shekels to pass through a gate and climb a couple flights of stairs to emerge on top of the Old City walls that we had walked past so many times. These old walls held their own sense of character at this point in our relationship, but walking the perimeter of the city on the walls themselves was an uncharted level in my friendship with ancient stones.

We walked on walls that were 500 years old, built in the mid 1500s by the Muslims. Surprisingly, looking down into the Old City was far more interesting than the view outside of the walls. Looking down, we could see in the backyards of churches and monasteries, young Arab kids playing soccer after school, women hanging up laundry from lines on rooftops. We could see the golden top of the Dome of the Rock glistening in the evening sunlight; and church steeples were abundant against the evening sky.

But as we walked atop stone walls that we had walked around for the past three months, I realized how much my perspective had changed since the first time I laid eyes on these stones.

Coming to Israel and leaving Southern California for the first time in my life, I was the outsider looking in; I was outside the walls—especially as an American who has never been overseas.

 I’ve seen Jerusalem in the news, read about it in my Bible, knew a lot about biblical events that took place there; but there is nothing like being there and experiencing it for myself over and over like I had for the past three months. On the ninetieth day, after all my new knowledge and experiences, I’d made it to the top of the wall—but not necessarily into the city; I am by no means more Jewish or more Christian just because of my travels. But I understand more and I can see more, just as my perch from the top of the wall gives me a better view of the city, both inside and outside of the walls.

In the last half hour before we left, I had one more stop to make. A friend led me through the back alleys of Jerusalem, climbing fences and jumping across rooftops until we came to a spot over looking the Western Wall.  Yes, it’s just a wall, just like all the other hundreds of stone walls I’d seen in Israel; but for all the millions of people who travel from around the world to stuff their prayers into the cracks of the historic site, it’s not just a wall.

I stood there drinking it all in for the last time. Odds are I’ll never be in the Middle East again. It was like leaving a good friend that I’ve started to get to know really well. I’m going to miss walking past one of the holiest sites in the world.

I kissed the stones on Jaffa Gate as we walked beneath the old stones for the last time and turned our backs on the city. Who knows when I’ll be back—if ever? But now my prayer echoes those of Jewish people around the world who pray for their return to the Holy Land:

“L'shana habaah b'yerushalayim.”

Next year in Jerusalem.

Mountain Fortress

Masada, Israel

My eyes flew open as my alarm startled me awake. I didn’t have to squint at the bright red numbers on the clock to know that it was far too early to be awake. But I threw on my clothes, strapped on my knee brace and headed out anyway. The moon still shone brightly over the mountain fortress as our group assembled into smaller groups to head up the mountain.

I had heard about this Masada hike long before I ever set foot in Israel. It’s one of Israel’s most popular tourist attractions because of the arduous trek to reach the top, the large ruins at that sit atop the fortress, and the account of its fall to the Romans. It’s also sort of a rite of passage for our class and our semester; coming nearing the end our time in Israel, it’s the last hike of the last field trip of the year. If you don’t climb Masada, I’m not sure if you actually went to Israel or not.

Atop the plateau is the goal: an ancient fortification overlooking the Dead Sea to the east. The fortress was built by Herod the Great but its most notable occupants were the rebels that fell to the Romans in dramatic fashion. Nearly all of the historical information about the story of Masada comes from the Roman Jewish historian Josephus

Atop the plateau is an ancient fortification overlooking the Dead Sea to the east. It was built by Herod the Great in 31 BC but the fort is most famous for its fall to the Romans in the First Jewish Revolt. Josephus the Historian is responsible for penning the fall of Masada and keeping the fortress in the history books. In 73 AD, the First Jewish Revolt was nearly at its end—the Temple had been destroyed and Rome was mopping up the rest of the resistance. However there was a sect of Zealots that fled Jerusalem and took residence in this fortress after defeating the Roman garrison that was stationed there.

The path up the face of the plateau was winding and steep; for this reason it is known as the “Snake”. We climbed the Snake by the light of the moon as the stars twinkled in the sky. It was fairly cold but the physical strain of walking the arduous path kept me warm. My knee injury began to burn under the knee brace and I gritted my teeth to keep going. I tried to keep the history of this place in mind as I continued to struggle up the face of the plateau.

In 73 AD, the Romans sent 15,000 men to take Masada and put down the Jewish revolt for good. Because of the fortress’s position on top of the plateau, it is extremely difficult to approach, as I was learning firsthand. I couldn’t imagine trying to carry 80 lbs. of gear up the face of this mountain. Neither could the Romans. They built a massive siege ramp of earth on the backside of the plateau as they camped at the base. The remains of the Roman camps can still be seen at ground level surrounding Masada.

I had to stop and rest for a few minutes; my muscles were aching and my knee was in real pain. The dark sky was showing hints of pink daylight at the horizon. With the dark fortress looming in front of us, and dawn approaching behind us, we continued on. We were nearly at the top.

The Roman siege lasted a couple months. As the siege ramp steadily grew taller and the Romans neared the top of the plateau, the rebels knew the end was near; they had nowhere to run. Outnumbered 15 to 1, Josephus writes that the leader of the rebels named Elazer ben Yair made a famous speech atop the plateau in which he spoke of their resolve to fight for freedom. As the Romans approached, he urged the rebels to do what needed to be done.

When we climbed the final staircase into the fortress, we were greeted by other brave souls from the group who had run the Snake to get to the top. One by one, the rest of our group ascended the mountain and we sat to await the sunrise. About twenty minutes later, the sun crept over the Jordanian mountains and glistened off the Dead Sea below in beautiful hues of orange and pink. I was glad I’d made it; the pain was worth the view.

The ruins of the fortress were enormous. There were two palaces, a massive bathhouse, a synagogue, and one of the largest ancient cisterns ever found. We spent another hour exploring the fortress before descending back to the bottom.

When the Romans reached the top however, the fortress was as lifeless is it as today. The Romans entered the fortress to find a “citadel of death”. The rebels has set all the buildings on fire and committed mass suicide to keep from disgracing themselves and falling into Roman hands. Josephus writes that the rebels casted lots and killed each other and their families (because suicide is forbidden in Judaism) with the last man killing himself. Only a few women and children survived.

Masada now stands as a symbol of Jewish heroism to many people, although others would disagree. Masada was the most memorable hike for me because of hype surrounding it and the history that accompanies it. The beauty of the sunrise, the pain in the climb and company of my companions made the trek worth it. I climbed Masada to find it just as dead as the Romans, but I wasn’t here to conquer; I was here just to see.

I came, I saw, I climbed.

Masada.

Reverse Archaeology

Beit Guvrin, Israel

I stopped army-crawling for the first time in fifteen minutes and tried to catch my breath, nearly choking on rocks and dust. If I had been in this tunnel about 2,000 years ago, I would probably be very Jewish and I would probably be very afraid.

Jewish rebels dug out these underground tunnels and caves during the Third Jewish Revolt, also known as the Bar Kokhva Revolt in the early 130s AD, in which the Jewish people rose up against the Roman Empire for the third time in 70 years. These tunnels were used as supply caches and living quarters as the rebels successfully held off the Romans for four years from 132-136 AD. The entrances to these underground living quarters were purposely made to be small and tight fitting so that a Roman soldier in full armor and gear would be unable to fit in the tunnel. The rebels covered the entrances with brush and foliage; during raids or ambushs, the rebels would emerge from the ground and surprise-attack the Romans, and then disappear into these tunnels where the Romans couldn’t follow them. The Bar Kokhva rebels did this for several years before the Romans were able snuffs out the rebellion completely.

The tiny entrance of this cave featured a thirty-foot tunnel that revealed a large central cave that held entrances to other tunnels, which led to smaller spaces where two or three bodies could live and sleep. My merry band of rebels and I entered these caves and explored the adjoining tunnels for nearly an hour. Many of the tunnels were almost too small for even a small guy like me to get to my hands and knees so I dragged myself along on my stomach to squeeze through the rocky confines of these dark corridors.

After an hour of crawling around in the dark, my flashlight nearly dead, I ready to get out. I’m not claustrophobic but being thirty feet underground, closely surrounded by solid earth for a solid hour is a little disconcerting to say the least.

The exit tunnel was a little slit of space in the earthen floor that thoroughly tested one’s proficiency with the army crawl. One at a time we slithered through the opening to climb upwards towards the surface, squirming through narrow openings that I forced me twist and turn in all directions just to get my shoulders through. My arms ached from inching those first twenty feet but from what I was hearing from my comrades crawling ahead of me, I still had a long way to go.

My heart began to pound a bit harder, and it was already difficult to breathe in such tight spaces. Digging upwards, I began to crawl at the walls with renewed urgency. No Roman threat could heighten my desire to escape—not even Hamas could make me crawl faster through this tunnel than I was right now.

Soon I could see plant roots dangling from the rocks overhead, and the tunnel grew warm and steamy. I could see light ahead—real, natural light. One final push, one last tight opening to wriggle through. Covered in the same dust and dirt of the rebels who carved the caves, I pulled myself out of a hole in the ground into blinding light.

The relief and celebration that ensued was as if we’d found buried treasure. In a sense, we had. Sunlight. 

A Place and a Name

Mount of Remembrance, Jerusalem, Israel

We all knew we were going to go at some point; not because it was clearly marked on the schedule, but because this is one of the things you do when you go to Israel.

Yad VaShem is Israel’s official memorial to the victims of the Holocaust, built in 1953 by Israel’s parliament. The name Yad VaShem is taken from a phrase in Isaiah 56:5 meaning "a place and a name". The memorial Yad VaShem revolves around the idea of providing a place to carrying on the names of those who were killed. After the Western Wall, it is the second most-visited tourist site in Israel, with over a million visitors a year. After seeing the Western Wall many times during our three-month stay in Israel, it was time to experience Yad VaShem. Today, it was our turn.

I didn’t know what to expect. I had seen pictures, read stories, seen movies—but I didn’t know. This was no longer a story in a book or a portrayal on a screen; it was about to become a reality to me, and I was not ready. None of us were.

Endless books and media has been written and created about this event, but it will never be enough to do it justice. Reading my inadequate attempt to show you what I saw is not enough. Nothing will be enough until you see for yourself this glimpse of the shadow of the darkness that nearly extinguished an entire race of people; a darkness that has overshadowed an entire culture, leaving an everlasting scar on the hearts and minds of the people to this day.

The first third of the museum concerned Nazi Germany’s rise to power and Hitler’s strategy to bring about his Final Solution. First, German Jews were publicly persecuted and humiliated as anti-Semitic policies were put in place. Jewish people were labeled and set apart from German communities, forced to wear the yellow stars and publicly display their nationality. Their citizenship and passports were revoked as they lost all civil and legal rights; government-approved progroms like Kristallnacht became commonplace as terrorism and violence against Jewish property became the norm. As the Second World War broke out in 1939, German Jews were forcibly removed from their homes and sent to labor camps and starved to death; their belongings either became property of Germany or were burned in massive bond fires.

At this point in the museum, displays ceased to be newsreels of Nazi soldiers parading through the streets and became cases of belongings that were left behind by the millions who were removed from their homes. Words on a screen became real items owned by real people.

There were piles of books in both German and Hebrew that were supposed to be burned in a case to my left; metal instruments and contraptions to measure facial features in a time when racial purity was law and the fate of far too many were decided by the width of the nose or the roundness of the head. There were piles and piles of old trinkets—watches, hair combs, earrings, small toys—all left behind, each one representing a life that was reduced to a statistic. There was a child’s doll that caught my eye. It was old and dusty, hollow and empty with no stuffing or filling left in its limbs; there were black holes where the eyes used to sit—empty and lifeless.

I’ve seen photographs of rooms filled to the ceiling with shoes of prisoners who entered the gates of concentration camps; many never made it out, and none got their shoes back. I saw a small sample of aged leather shoes, small in number compared to the photographs. But if every two shoes was one person… I stopped counting.

In one display there was a lock of braided hair, golden brown, ribbon still intact. Lily was twelve years old when the Nazis knocked down her door. She had never cut her hair before so her mother cut one of her braids and gave it to the neighbors for safekeeping. Lily’s hair was here, but Lily didn’t make it.

Sprinkled between the displays were video screens showing survivors telling their stories, recalling horrendous things they saw and experienced firsthand. The museum was silent except for these survivors telling their stories in Hebrew. I stared at the screen and tried to imagine things I couldn’t imagine; when the video finished and started its loop again, I walked away in silence. What else could I do?

There were canisters of pebbled gas, some unopened, that never got the chance to empty their deadly payload on multitudes of innocent human being huddled together in some concrete chamber in the backwoods of Poland. I was looking at canned death, and probably hundreds of lives that were spared because these cans were never used.

I walked through the Hall of Names, a large circular room with bookshelves that covered every inch of the walls from floor to ceiling. The shelves were full of books that were all titled with the Hebrew word yizchor: “remembrance.” Each book was full of names.

The Children’s Memorial sits in an underground tavern as a tribute to the one and a half million children murdered during the Holocaust. Inside the memorial is completely dark, except for memorial candles suspended in the air and multiplied by mirrors, giving the effect of countless stars burning in the night sky. These candles serve as a burning reminder of the lives that had been mercilessly snuffed out. In the background a voice reads the names, age, and birthplace of young ones whose memory still burns bright in my mind: “Isaac Olberstein, Poland. Five years old.”

Three hours later when I walked out of the museum, my throat was dry and my hands trembled. Visitors huddled around each other in the courtyard, hugging and comforting those who wept for the millions. The clouds mercifully covered the sun and biting breeze whipped through the courtyard, sending more shivers down my spine. No one spoke. It was too painful to speak. There are no words. There was nothing to say.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to shed tears for all the names I’d read and all the stories I heard; I wished I could’ve cried. I should have. But I didn’t.

It took our group three hours to walk through exhibits full of little pieces of hell, preserved and locked behind cases of thick glass for the world to see. What I saw and what I heard, I will never forget.

Life and Death

Jewish Quarter, Jerusalem, Israel

This bookstore was actually open. It was the first open shop we’d come across since we heard the gunshots.

Only forty-five minutes before, my four friends and I heard gunshots ring out over the Old City from where we stood on the Mount of Olives. We returned to the city to find police and IDF troops everywhere and all of the main shops closed. Many shopkeepers abstained from selling their wares that day because the police had killed a Palestinian man. This man had tried to assassinate a well-known rabbi on the temple mount the day before. The religious and political tension of this event had come to a head when the police tracked the man to his home and gunned him down.

As we emerged from the bookstore, we heard music and cheering, and saw a large crowd of people making their way through the large courtyard adjacent to the big white synagogue. Leading this procession was a boy dressed in white who held the attention and the respect of his peers who excitedly clamored around him. Others carried balloons and clapped to the jubilant song of a flute and drums. The procession made its way around the square several times before coming to a stop under the cover of some umbrellas; the boy was beaming the entire way.

The joy and happiness that this crowd of bar mitzvah participants exuded was inviting and welcoming; I was almost tempted to join their song and participate in their celebration. It was a breath of fresh air after dodging police and walking past empty shops and angry Palestinians. Amidst the violence of the morning, the gunfire and the soldiers, the death and the political uproar, these people were celebrating this young boy’s ascension to religious adulthood. For them, this was a very joyous and monumental occasion in this boy’s life. But it is a bittersweet one as it marks his entrance into the swirling world of religion; religion is life in this country, but in this country it can very quickly lead to death, as we overheard that morning.

It felt like two different worlds but it all dwells in the same city, within the same walls—the joy of life and the tragedy of death. They live side by side, hand in hand. The people here have seen this all their lives and it’s nothing new to them. We saw the story of the shooting on the news later that day and we couldn’t believe how mellow the city had been compared to footage that the news aired.

That day of the gunshots and the bar mitzvah, the day of a death and a new birth, I witnessed two sides of the religious phenomenon that makes Jerusalem what it is. There’s a side of the news story that the camera doesn’t see; a part of the population that isn’t represented by the screaming extremists on the screen. During the Gaza disputes of the summer, I was told that 95% of the country is going about their business as usual. When I landed in Israel, I quickly learned that it was true.

The safety of our semester during the unrest in Jerusalem was always a concern to those who weren’t there, and understandably so. During my time in Jerusalem and in Israel, I never felt that my life was in danger—not necessarily because there wasn’t danger or unrest around me, but because the people are so accustomed to it that it was never really a big deal to them. Thus, it wasn’t a huge deal to us. Yes, they want the fighting to end; yes, they want the disputes to end, but this is the way it is.

For a country almost always threatened by war, prayer for the peace of Jerusalem is not taken lightly and it has been a biblical command for centuries. After standing within the walls and hearing the gunshots and seeing the violence and unrest almost firsthand, we should all be praying for Jerusalem. In Jerusalem, it is real.