(Dad and I at our hotel in Tiberias, overlooking the Kinneret)
(The commanding officer of the platoon of soldiers and me)(Sarah, Mom, and I at the Israel Museum exhibit in Jerusalem)
With the arrival of my parents and sister looming before the Pesach holiday, I couldn't contain my excitement. It had been several months since I'd seen my family and whenever we are together, we manage to seek out adventure and share many laughs.
During the week of Chol Hamoed (the intermediate days), we visited sites we had never seen. We traveled to the Judean desert, climbed Herodian and descended into the caves later used by those who participated in the Bar Kochba rebellion. We learned a great deal from (what turned out to be) a private tour hosted by Ir David of sites along the path from the top of Har HaZeitim (Mt. of Olives), descending to the Old City walls. We took in the excellent exhibit at the Israel Museum on Orphaned Art: Looted Art from the Holocaust. We visited the vast Tzidkiyahu's Cave near the Damascus Gate. We traveled around the northern Galilee, stopping in Tiberias, Rosh Pina, Tzfat, the Dalton Winery, and Haifa. My father and I even managed to take an accidental tour of Ras al-Amud (an Arab neighborhood deep in East Jerusalem).
The highlight of the trip, however, was definitely our annual visit to Hebron. As I described in last year's post below, we truly enjoyed the unique opportunity to tour the kasbah, which is not open to Jews during the year. We wanted to give my sister the chance to see and learn what we had learned during our previous visit.
This year, we chose to visit Hebron on the second day of the annual two-day festival. The second day is always busier because many big-name Jewish-Israeli bands perform in front of the Ma'arat HaMachpela. The tour was called for 12:30pm, which left us plenty of time to tour the various booths.
At 12:20pm, I heard a voice over the loudspeaker announce: "Unfortunately, the army has informed us that they are only able to take a small group on the tour due to security concerns. As a result, we will now be giving out tickets. You must have a ticket in order to join the tour." Before I could finish translating the announcement, a large and unruly crowd gathered around the announcer's booth, pushing, shoving and elbowing, in order to obtain tickets. My mother, father, sister and I decided to split up in the hope that we'd be able to penetrate the mob of at least 100 people.
After a few moments, I dejectedly gave up. It quickly became clear that the announcer would hand out a paltry 25 tickets to a clamoring crowd quadruple the size. I was disappointed with the behavior of those around me, and could not contend with the bigger men who neglected to notice my presence. I made my way to the back of the crowd, only to discover my mother busily fussing with something.
"Mom, I just can't get in there. What are you doing?" I asked. Almost too intent on what she was doing to look up, she briefly raised her eyes and responded in a hushed and mysterious voice, "I'm making tickets." Fairly confused, I asked again, "What are you doing?" Once again, my mother responded, "I'm making tickets," and continued to fold and tear thin slivers of paper.
The sight of my Mom, with eager and precise attention, crafting counterfeit tickets for a tour of the Hebron kasbah threw me into a fit of giggles. My sister, after a few minutes, also gave up and joined us in the back of the crowd. Similarly confused, she queried, "What's Mom doing?" Barely controlling my laughter, I informed her that our Mom was making tickets. Soon after, my Dad rejoined us and received the same explanation.
Moments later, those who had tickets set out for the tour. My Mom hurried us along and we joined the group, sticking toward the front. No longer laughing, I worried aloud to my mother, "What if the army discovers we have counterfeit tickets and arrests us?" My mother dismissed my unfounded fear and we carried on with the group.
At the entrance to the area of Hebron in which the kasba is located, there is a huge metal fence. An entire unit of Israeli soldiers, present to accompany and protect the tour, stood by the opening of the fence, letting one person at a time through the opening after taking their tickets. Somehow, my sister and mother managed to enter with their tickets, which resembled everyone else's. A few more people passed by, and then it was my turn. As my heart palpitated, I handed the captain my "ticket" and he waved me through. My father followed.
My family looked at one another with sheer astonishment. My mother, drawing upon her seemingly endless resource of ingenuity, had managed to get us in to the tour. We, once again, were moved by what we saw and learned in the kasbah- the homes that still betray evidence of Jewish ownership, the attempt by several European countries to invest millions of dollars in order to entice Arabs to settle in the kasbah, and so on. My sister particularly appreciated being there as she had not been present during the previous trip.
Herzl applied his bold dictum to founding a Jewish state. Pluck, persistence and a dash of ingenuity. For my family, on a much less grandiose level, "If you will it, it is not a dream" is now synonymous with my mother's concise response: "I'm making tickets."
(IDF soliders accompanying us through the Hebron kasbah)
(Dad, Mom and I at the Dalton winery in northern galilee)