I and quite few other bochurim will be returning to Chutz La’aretz in just a few days. I can’t wait for that flight. Not. I suppose I should be thankful though; Boruch Hashem, it is mostly bochurim on this flight. The families are traveling in the opposite direction- from America to Eretz Yisroel- and those others are already here and don’t go home for Yom Tov. So we really do have an easier flight.
As I start preparing myself for the flight home, though, I can’t help but feel… sad. I’m going to be leaving. Yes, I’ll be coming back, iy”H, but just the same, I’ll be leaving the land of my forefathers. My land.
I’m transported to a hot, sticky summer day…
Its 4PM on a sweltering summer Tisha Ba’av afternoon. Hundreds of us 8-12 year old boys are gathered in the main Bais Medrash of the camp, which doubles as a recreation room and auditorium. Our Learning Director, a Holy Jew with a long brown beard mixed with the occasional white hair is standing in front of the Aron Hakodesh. We’re sitting there to hear a little about Tisha Ba’av and the Churban Habayis. And no question about it, this is the Rabbi to tell us. A fire and brimstone type of guy, he’d have been at home in any Southern church, lecturing lava about the hazards of drink to a sleepy audience in a fly filled sanctuary.
As he thunders on to the mostly bored kids, I remember being mostly unimpressed, and far more interested in the Mario game I was secretly playing while pretending to pay rapt attention. But then his voice started breaking… and things began to get interesting.
He was speaking about Eretz Yisroel, and that fact that our aveiros brought about our exile from it. Soon, he was telling us about a recent trip of his to our country. Tears were streaming down his face, soaking his long beard. My Mario forgotten, I was completely focused on the scene in front of me. This guy was real. This guy was live. And then he said something I’ve never forgotten since. Describing a trip up north, I can hear him now…
“As we traveled, we went through many Arab settlements and villages. All over, they were. Not Jews, were they. Arabs. Strangers…but it’s my land. Don’t you see, it’s my land. MY LAND”. This last was a broken, screaming cry, desperate. As if he were begging us, little kids all, to help him, to understand and share in his pain. We all sat stunned. Quiet. Game Boys aside.
And perhaps, just perhaps, a little bit
Pained.
Ever since then, I’ve thought of Eretz Yisroel, in some ways, as my land. Not in a Tzioni, Rav Kook sort of way (chas v’shalom), but in a nice, pareve type of way. Like this Rabbi, perhaps. And when I have to leave it, I feel like I’m parting with a something I own and love, without any contact until my next visit. No phone calls, pictures, or shmuessen. Because really, you need to be here to schmooze properly with the land. Truth be told, even when you’re here, most people don’t know the language of the land. But if you do know the shprach, you can have the most wonderful conversations.
I’m reminded of a story that took place in the Russian shtetl of old. A Jewish peasant was tilling the soil for his Russian nobleman; backbreaking labor. As he plowed and sowed the land he would frequently see his master bending over in the fields. The Russian would take a fistful of the soil, and let it slowly run through the cracks between his fingers. He’ would then put his ear to the earth, and slowly, a beatific smile would spread across his face. After watching this scene play itself out over and over again through the years, the middle-aged Jewish farmer finally gathered the courage to ask his master what he was doing; what was it he heard when he put his ear to the ground. “Ah Yankel, I’m listening to the music. The enchanting music of the beloved Russian motherland.” Music, thought the Yankel fellow wondrously! He too, put his ear to the ground, to listen to the music. The Russian nobleman began laughing uproariously. “Yankel, don’t you know- you’ll never hear it. This isn’t your land. The music won’t ever play for you”. Many years later, as the story goes, Yankel made aliyah. Now, when old man Yankel puts his ear earthward, he hears it.
Ah, what music he hears.
Yes, I’ll be going to America for Succos Bein Hazmanim. But Boruch Hashem, I’ve heard the music. And although we won’t be having any shmuessen, Eretz Yisroel and I, I’ll be listening to the music. Once you’ve heard it, you see, it’s always playing itself over in your ears… like a stunning symphony that you can’t get of your head. And just when you think you’re about to forget it, when the last strains are echoing away, you see a random sight on the street- a Jewish vendor rearranging his fruits, or a meshulach in Shomer Shabbos, - or even hear a few words of Ivrit- and the niggun crescendoes.
So goodbye, Eretz Yisroel. Arrivaderci, people of Israel. But although I go, fear not…The music plays on. As the immortal MacArthur said, “I shall return”.
As, IY”H, one day we will all.
“V’Shavu Vanim Lig’Vulum.”
(Photo credit; kylehixson)
