The MOOPs Storm the Galil

After our expedition to the Shomron, it was inevitable that our surviving members who had no significant alternative plans or surgeries would be eager for another adventure. The Shomron trip had been a huge success and I was again looking forward to the extraordinary beauty of the mountains, valleys, flora, and fields of the Galil.

The war intervened and the trip was postponed time and again; we were beginning to despair. As soon as the pikud oref permitted, however, we were instructed to gather in the municipal parking lot (across from English Cake, which opens at 6:30 and, as every MOOP knows, has toilet facilities as well as coffee and pastries). My wife brought her signature MOOP excursion specialty, which has won her a loyal following among MOOP women: two rolls of toilet paper, which she graciously shares as they line up outside the ladies room du jour.

We assembled for a scheduled 8:00 am departure. Everyone was early, which is the beauty of arranging trips for old people. If we are not early, you may assume that we have died, and the bus can leave on schedule either way. We boarded the bus. We had been advised to leave the front rows available for the many folks who claimed to be afflicted with motion sickness; I made Ahuva join me way in the back, because I didn’t want to be in front of anyone afflicted with motion sickness.

On April 26, MOOP embarked on its Galil excursion, undeterred by the fragility of the ceasefire.

[For the uninitiated, MOOP is an acronym that I coined for Modi’in Organization of Old People. It is not a pejorative. We are proud MOOPs–collegial, highly educated, well-medicated, diverse (to the extent that a bunch of old, white Jews can be diverse), and mostly ambulatory.]

Immediately upon boarding the bus, the intrepid MOOP septuagenarians and octagenarians, in exhilarated but hushed tones, started planning for the first bathroom stop. We were excited to see that the extraordinary tour guide from our previous trip was leading us. He is personable, knowledgeable in ancient and modern Jewish history, conversant with Biblical and Talmudic sources, charming, and highly sensitive to the strained facial expressions and low moans of the elderly that indicate a communal desire to find toilets. He also has a passion for Israel.

His name is Chezki Bezalel of Ahavat Ha’eretz. He brought us all back alive, with our own passion for Israel renewed and reinvigorated, and without a single broken hip.  He is a treasure. And he was assisted by his wife, Yehudit, who provided support above and beyond the call of duty. The tour organizers were also exemplary, patient and thorough. Shepherding a bunch of old Jews is not easy.

Two underlying themes, before the details of the trip: (1) The beauty of the land of Israel touches the Jewish heart and her history speaks to a Jewish soul. There is no authentic Judaism without a commitment to the land that was integral to the original compact with God. So yes, the concept of Zionism, the commitment to this land as a Jewish national and religious home, is part and parcel of Judaism. (2) While the devastation of the border communities of the South on October 7 was horrific and their graphic destruction ineradicable from our memories, the punishment inflicted on the North continues to this day. There are no tourists in Meron, Tzfat, Kiryat Shmona, and the beautiful wineries. The economy is hurting; in many places we were the only tourist bus. Chezki encouraged us to shop (after we used the toilets and washed our hands) and buy local falafel and shawarma. Need I say that the women were eager to shop and the men, for once, asked no questions about expenditures? Just the sight and sound of English-speaking tourists was a tonic for inhabitants looking forward to better days.

So if you are planning a few days of vacation, remember that Europe doesn’t like you and doesn’t need your trade. Thank God for America, but it’s doing just fine, thank you. Let the returning, healthy (please God) soldiers go to Thailand and the Himalayas. The rest of you, visit Israel. You won’t believe how welcome you will be.

Moses begged God for permission to enter the land, but his request was denied.  Instead, from the heights of Nevo, God showed him all the land: from Gilead as far as Dan. . . the entire land until the sea (yes, from the river to the sea) that he had promised to us. Because of Moses and all those who followed and dreamed and fought and died, we are able to walk the land ourselves. It is not something to be taken lightly. Imagine if Moses had your opportunities.

On each trip, I try to set some personal objectives. On this one I wanted to see if I could find any evidence of Jewish antiquity older than the MOOPs. There were about 50 of us, average age 75 or so, so we were, collectively, about 3,750 years old.  Accordingly, I was looking for something that showed evidence of a Jewish presence about 3,800 years ago.

First we visited Ilaniya, formerly Sejera, the first Jewish colony in the lower Galil, founded by Russian immigrants in the early 20th century. They were Christians who decided that Saturday was the appropriate day to observe the Shabbat and proceeded to convert to Judaism and emigrate to Israel. Ben Gurion worked on a farm there for eighteen months and unwisely decided to pursue a career in politics instead. It was among the first settlements to be protected from Arab marauders by the armed cavalry of Ha’Shomer. Alexander Zaid, one of the most illustrious members of Ha’Shomer, took up residence in a cave which also housed the Moshava’s mikveh. (The mikveh was dry; fortunately, none of the MOOPs needed it.)

From there we made our way to the Kinneret moshava, the birthplace of Naomi Shemer (as well as the poet Rachel). It was a Zionist and communist enterprise, where the children lived apart from their parents. Only one family (her grandparents) lit shabbat candles, made kiddush, and said havdala–outside so the archaic practices would not sully the purity of the movement. The settlers were known for their adamant adherence to doctrine; they could teach Lenin how to do it right. Aharon Shidlovsky, one of the first members of the kibbutz, argued against participating in any tourist industry that might evolve. He threatened to go on a hunger strike and leave the kibbutz. “I didn’t come to Israel to sell soda; wait until I die.” So they did.

We heard amazing, first-person stories about Naomi Shemer from Amiram Idelman, a scholar who actually attended elementary school classes she taught and performed (badly, he said) in musical presentations she wrote.  We sat under the eucalyptus trees about which she wrote songs. We heard about how, in 1948, the kibbutz was persuaded (after four communal meetings on the subject) to allow her to study music at Hebrew University instead of fighting in the War of Independence or doing agricultural work. The deciding argument was made by the mother of a 19-year old who had just fallen in battle. She understood that music was Naomi Shemer’s destiny, and would make an incalculable contribution to Jewish life.

There have been Jews living in the Kinneret area for well over 2,000 years. When the Romans destroyed Jerusalem, many made their way to the area around Tiberias.  Fifteen hundred years earlier, the Jews who were exiled by Nevuchadnezzar were asked to sing the songs of Zion on the banks of Babylonian rivers; they demurred.  We sang Naomi Shemer songs on the banks of the Kinneret. No Jew without a heart of stone could fail to be moved. And MOOPs with warm and patriotic Jewish blood flowing through our atherosclerotic arteries were inspired.

Later, on the bus, someone led us in the communal singing of “Machar,” and got many of the words right.

We checked into the Lavi Hotel, which was clean, friendly, and equipped with beds.  Also food. And beautiful walking paths for Ahuva. I ate and slept.

The next day we encountered an archeologically significant site that was indeed older than all of us combined, had a Biblical pedigree, and was connected to Abraham. Following the war in which his nephew Lot was taken captive, Abraham pursued the enemy until Dan (“וירדף עד דן”). He then divided his forces to follow the two paths through and around mountains that are still extant, and pursued the enemy until Chovah, left of Damascus. (Genesis 14:14-16) That site houses the oldest arches built of mudbrick in existence, marking the gateway to the city of Laish, later named Dan (apparently the Mesopotamians borrowed the arch idea from us).

So there we were, 3500 years of antiquated Jews examining an antiquity that was well more than 3700 years old. To be quite candid, we appeared to be in better shape. Nevertheless, it was awe-inspiring to be in a place where the Jews were able to fight the battle to completion and prevail, without any second-guessing.

At the Tel Dan Nature Reserve, a couple of hundred meters away, we strode through the swiftly flowing streams that carry water from the Hermon to the Jordan. Yes, its sheer beauty is overwhelming, but not more than the awareness that Abraham and his victorious soldiers probably refreshed themselves from these waters.

It took us thousands of years to return home to the land that was promised to Abraham. How could fifty old people from Modi’in not feel renewed and invigorated by a feeling of continuity? Our grandchildren are serving in the IDF, keeping this dream alive for us and future generations. May they, like Abraham, be refreshed by the blessings and beauty of the land.

Moving right along, we went to Metulla, right on the border, and saw the Hezbollah villages, now flattened, a stone’s throw away, and shuddered to think what might have happened had the fighting in the North been initiated first. We met a couple who moved to Metulla out of a sense of obligation to maintain the city. We went to Kiryat Shmona, which has endured unimaginable assaults and dislocations.  Chezki exhorted us to shop with a vengeance and we did. We went to Tzfat. All the shops and galleries are closed, but Chezki told us the story of the Palmachniks who saved the city in 1948, and the charedim who fed them cholent on Shabbat.

We went to Meron, where the able-bodied climbed from the site of the grave of Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai to the ruins of a first century synagogue, while I kept Rashbi company and recited tehillim. I focused on my entire family, one by one, and then on the needs of my people throughout the world and here in Israel. Short on time, I then determined to read from wherever the book happened to open. This is where it fell open:

אכן שמע אלהים, הקשיב בקול תפלתי.  ברוך אלהים אשר לא הסיר תפלתי וחסדו מאתי.

In truth, God has heard, He has hearkened to the sound of my prayer. Blessed is God, Who has not turned away my prayer or His lovingkindness from me. (Psalms 66:19-20)

Thus assured, I went back to the bus. But, in the spirit of sharing, anyone who needs a bracha, just contact me. I appear to be on a roll.

Back on the bus, Chezki pointed out that the mishna divides the Galil into three regions, each marked by separate planting seasons and harvests and crops.  The demarcation lines (e.g., Kfar Chananya) are still apparent and easily detected.  Learning it in the text of the mishna is so completely different from seeing it as you drive past the sights and crops described in that text. One is an intellectual exercise; the other is a spiritual epiphany. “I am in my ancestral home.” The Mishna is not abstract theory; it described the lives lived by my ancestors.

Kibbutz Lavi, the site of our hotel, was founded by B’nei Akiva teenagers from England. Most of them were German children whose parents had placed them on the Kindertransport, thus saving their lives. Almost all of them lost their original families. When they started the Kibbutz, having been separated from their own families, they wanted to violate the socialist convention and keep their children together in the family homes. It was controversial. Eventually the community voted to allow the deviant behavior, but only after rules were adopted to keep bachelors from voting. As Father Guido Sarducci said of the Pope’s opinion on birth control back when Saturday Night Live was funny, “You don’t play-a the game, you don’t make-a the rules.” As an aside, the original Paddington Bear was based on Michael Bond’s memory of Jewish children of the Kindertransport arriving at a London train station with small suitcases and tags around their necks. Paddington was not from Peru; he was a Yecky.

We drove right up to the “good fence” on the old Lebanese border, through which thousands of Lebanese once passed daily to work in the North. Now there is nothing but ruins on the Lebanese side. Scores of our soldiers relaxed there, probably awaiting orders to redeploy. They were kids–beautiful, powerful, vibrant, motivated, talented, committed–what a debt we owe them! How they have distinguished themselves and their generation! How will we ever repay them?

Finally, there was the obligatory visit to a winery, the Rimon Winery, unique in that it focused on pomegranate-based wines and products. The proprietress told us that we were the first visitors in over a month and a half. We purchased pomegranate wine with wild abandon and in abundance.

Every single one of us had been to the Galil previously, but after the war we saw it with fresh eyes. We saw very little that surprised us and very little that did not amaze us. Every second on the bus, driving past the ineffable natural beauty of the fields and mountains, seeing what has been accomplished here by our people over the past century under the stress of war after war, immigration wave after immigration wave, calumny upon libel, moved us all to prayers of thanksgiving and gratitude. All the sirens and trips to the safe room, all the political and religious bickering, all the nonsense of daily living here, pales into insignificance when placed in context of the miracle we are privileged to be living.

Sometimes you just need to be reminded why we are here, what this land does and should mean to us. Sometimes you just need to be reminded that, as the great MOOP contemporary Pat Boone once sang, “This land is mine; God gave this land to me.”