Live from Tel Aviv Beach, Part II

This evening, as the sun set, I swam. Israel, like New York, is in the midst of a heat wave, and even as the evening breezes rolled in off the Mediterranean, the water was warm and soothing. There were only a few other bathers near me - a family tossing a frisbee, a couple chattering in Russian, a guy with an underwater metal detector working his way patiently back and forth in the shallow water. A man was davening minhah (reciting the afternoon prayer service) in a bathing suit, t-shirt and black kippah alone, next to the now-empty lifeguard station - I must confess that I've never seen THAT before on the beach. I watched Tel Aviv light up, floating in the salty, draining day.

Out of nowhere in a particular, a song popped into my head: Cantor Charles Osborne's "Samahti Be-omrim Li," (here is a performance featuring Cantor Osborne on piano; although not a perfect recording, it gives you an idea of how moving this piece is; song starts at 1:52). The text is Psalm 122:

שָׂמַחְתִּי, בְּאֹמְרִים לִי בֵּית יְהוָה נֵלֵךְ
עֹמְדוֹת, הָיוּ רַגְלֵינוּ בִּשְׁעָרַיִךְ, יְרוּשָׁלִָם
Samahti be-omrim li, beit Adonai nelekh
Omedot hayu ragleinu, bish'arayikh Yerushalayim
I rejoiced when they said to me: Let us go up to the House of God.
Now we stand within your gates, O Jerusalem!

The psalm speaks of the peace that enables the author to enter the Temple in Jerusalem; Osborne's setting speaks to me of the ancient yearnings that led late 19th-century pioneers to start building the modern State of Israel in this land, which the Romans re-named Palestine two millennia ago to further dishonor the defeated Jews. Those yearnings are still with us, and yet peace is not.

Tel Aviv is not Jerusalem, but I am beginning to understand that it is almost as holy. "Pray for the peace of Jerusalem," says the psalm. And so we do, even on the beach.

Live from Tel Aviv Beach

There is really no time that I feel as overwhelmingly happy as when I land at Ben Gurion Airport. I'm not a clapper - the spontaneous applause that always breaks out when the plane touches down does not draw me in. But walking with my suitcase from baggage pickup out into the arrival hall is always a big thrill. A short time later, armed with my first kafeh hafukh (the distinctly Israeli cousin of cappucino) and a rented Daihatsu, I saunter forth onto the highway with rinnah (joyous song) in my heart and Reshet Gimmel (the only radio station that plays exclusively Hebrew-language music) on the stereo.

The beach is, of course, gorgeous at night. Looking out over the water, I see slowly=moving lights in the distance - Jewish guardians of this corner of the Mediterranean perhaps, or maybe the merchant marine hauling bananas to European markets. Mellow Israeli music floats out from the bar, and as I nurse a half-liter (of Stella Artois, unfortunately; the only Goldstar in sight is the label on the stein), I consider and reconsider the wonder that is the Jewish state.

I belong here; these are my people. I am reminded of the sentiment in Joel Engel's well-known art song, "Shenei Mikhtavim" (Two Letters), featuring the lyrics of Avigdor Hameiri:

לא אזוז מפה לעד!
Lo azuz mipo la-ad!
I will not move from here forever!

Of course, I'm returning to galut (the Diaspora) on Thursday night. But the yearning of 2000 years remains with me always. These are my people; I belong here.