|
|
||||
| “about us” | “stories” | “contribute” | “contact” | |
|
Integrating
Tradition and Modernity I grew up according to these words. From the day I was born, in 1979, I’ve always been asked about my origins, a fair child with clear green eyes and a last name that betrayed a Sephardi heritage. On every date, in every encounter, in every conversation, I have always been asked the question: “Where are you from?” I was born in a city right next to the ocean, between bustling streets and the expanse of beach, sometimes with little greenery but always with lots of sun, sea, and the color blue. I didn’t always love the place I lived. After all, I was always pulled to the calm, quiet scenic views of the Judean Hills, the Galil, the Golan, the cities that surround Jerusalem, places with serenity where it seems as if the destructive and complete hands of construction, industry, and advancement couldn’t touch. “Man searches for meaning,” Kafka wrote, and in every place I found myself, I sought the essence of Jewish existence, or perhaps of Israeli existence. Maybe among the Israeli immigrants, maybe among the Zionists, maybe among the religious, maybe among the Sephardi… so many definitions… Man searches for meaning… And meaning is found everywhere. There is no need to look for it. Perhaps this is the reason why it’s so hard to define it—it’s simply everywhere. About a year ago, while organizing, cleaning, and throwing out old papers, articles, and notebooks before the Passover holiday, I found a box of old tapes. It’s weird to know that the “double cassette” tape that was so readily available when I was kid has so completely disappeared from the shops, something that today might only be found in the stands of the flea market, on the shelves of old stores, and in old age homes, where they collect dust. From among the tapes I retrieved a clunky old Walkman, for which headphones were needed in order to listen to the tapes, without a connection to speakers, computers, or MP players. In order to rewind the tape, I had to open up the device, flip over the tape, press play, open it up again, reinsert the tape, and then check to make sure I got to the right place, which I had been trying to find… To think that in those days an item like a Walkman was so expensive, so important to have, and so complicated to use. So many memories arose in my mind… How as a boy I would listen to entertaining sketches, music, and songs on Kol HaShalom and Arutz Sheva, songs of the land of Israel, pop, and more. A true Israeli existence, another way to express my Israeliness. Among the piles of tapes of Yoharam Gaon singing Ladino chazzanut, there emerged an old tape, green in color, strange, and antiquated with a reel that was crumpled and dusty. On the tape my name was written in pink ink in a child’s handwriting—Eitan. My curiosity didn’t let me rest, and I preferred to listen to this tape right away, rather than to continue to clean for Pesach, which was fast approaching. After fixing the tape, putting new batteries in the Walkman, and flipping the tape over on each side to try to find the beginning, I sat down on my bed and pressed the dusty “play” button. From far way I heard the sounds of laughing children, clattering forks and knives, and chattering in Ladino about the quality and quantity of the food presented. At this stage, someone who sounded like my grandfather opened his mouth in a fluent and mature cantorial voice, chanting a Kiddush that reminded me of Erev Rosh HaShanah. "וביום שמחתכם ומועדיכם ובראשי חודשכם ותקעתם בחצוצרות על עולותיכם ועל זבחי שלמכם והיו לכם לזכרון...." Excited, sitting on my bed I recited out loud the continuation of the Kiddush, in the same style and melody that was planted in my mind at a young age. After the meal, which from the tape sounded very rich, a young boy stood in front of the tape recorder singing Hatikvah, the national anthem of the State of Israel. He sounded a little like he was hesitating, a little shy, a little like he didn’t know all the words—but his intention was understood. After thinking for a little while, I realized that the tap was made in 1982, and the boy singing the national anthem was none other than me. And then it hit me that this was the education that I had received, this connection between being Jewish and being Israeli. This question that I had asked myself for years, that I had tried for years to understand—everything became clear to me in such a simple way. I had this by virtue of being Jewish and having a family who observed and remembered in the Diaspora and then integrated what they had received in this new and different culture, educating a child from a young age in this new atmosphere, an atmosphere of integration between the existing tradition and the new reality—the State of Israel. This culture and background that we had previously, but so many years without a country, were influenced by the lands of our dispersal. The State—the manifestation of the integration between the virtue of our existence with our guarding, teaching, and observing—has come to this land, where the ideas of nation and state blend so well. In this way, I molded my character and my personality over the course of all these years. The foundations of my faith and my belonging to this people were drawn from our past. From that I receive my inspiration for this place, this land, this life. And my grandfather’s generation—they could only yearn for that which the melodies of the prayers he taught us still proclaim. Maybe those old prayers are now mixed with a new culture that’s not exactly traditional, but by the merits of this tradition that was bequeathed to us, we have established a new generation.
I was born here, without ethnic origins. I was born an Israeli, the son of
a Jewish family that was expelled from Spain during the Inquisition more
than 500 years ago and found rest here, in the sweet land of our
forefathers. |
||||
|
|
||||
