Twelve days, 39 educators and 575 miles later, I am still unpacking and reflecting upon my time in Israel as a Fellow in the Leadership Institute. We learned, studied, pushed the boundaries and one another’s comfort zones. We brought tough, difficult and sometimes painful dialogue to the table. We laughed until we cried, and at times, only cried.
We visited schools and participated in an international conference with Israeli teachers. We met a man named Amin who shared his family’s story of losing his home in 1949 and his dreams of one day seeing his grandchildren play on that land. We spoke with Jews who were trying to build community in a land where they felt they had no community. We met with innovators and leaders in grassroots movements from inspiring at-risk youth to emboldening a liberal, pluralistic voice in an increasingly conservative, intolerant atmosphere. We walked in the footsteps of the Talmud and watched the newest in modern performance art and audience participation. We celebrated Shabbat with progressive Jews who are pioneers in Israel by taking their inspiration for practice from Jews in the United States. We forged the beginnings of relationships for our schools and classrooms that are built on ancient connections in a modern context. We met people who are as concerned as we are about our future; and together we embraced a challenge to find a new language in which to converse about what lies ahead. In the words of Amin, we are “one land, many peoples.”
For me, being in Israel is at once complex and a home-coming. I am overwhelmed by emotions and questions. I feel a part of the very land, something I don’t feel in New York. I have traveled all over the world, photographing and working; I feel different in Israel, and the complexities and emotions are not numbed, but heightened with each visit.
Our physical journey began in the desert and we traveled north to the bustling metropolis of Tel Aviv, then north to the Galil and south again to end in Jerusalem. Every day was a coalescence of the historical and the modern, our collective memories and the individual experience. And every day I was forced to face the troubling questions and conflicting emotions. Visiting a public school in Haifa and seeing all the wonderful accomplishments this community has made in the face of adversity filled me with pride; and yet, the school remains segregated and Arab children attend a different school. Local leaders in Yerucham have seen real success in turning inward for strength, notable in the number of young adults who have now returned as teachers to a place they once ran from in droves; and yet, those on the outside still scornfully refer to this isolated place in the desert as a “settlement town,” even after 60 years.
And then there is Jerusalem. So much complexity wrapped up in the framework of religion, identity, history, past and present. Avraham Infeld, a leader and trailblazer in Jewish education tells us that “…Jews do not have history; Jews have memory.” In Jerusalem, this electrifies the air.
ory is tied to every story in Israel, whether it is thousands of years old or unfolding today in front of us. Our story is connected to every story of every Jew around the world, whether it is thousands of years old or unfolding in front of us. This pulls me in and reminds me of why I am a Jewish educator. This is more than an idea and tugs at my heart; it reminds me of why I am an artist. My story is part of this incredible tapestry. My children and my students are a continuation of the threads.
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