This week, touring Israel with my daughter, I understood our generation gap a little better, and I understood it because of Birthright Israel.
Birthright Israel has toured 280,000 young Jews between the ages of 18 and 28 all over Israel. Called Taglit in Israel, Birthright kept going when the Intifada scared most Jewish tourists away, and it continues today to connect a whole generation of Jews from around the world to life in Israel and to each other. It was originally funded by Charles Bronfman and another philanthropist. Some years ago, I took the time to thank Mr. Bronfman personally for this mitzvah, or shall we say, this set of nearly 300,000 mitzvot that he has accomplished.
Taglit has a rule. If you’ve already been on a youth mission to Israel in the past, you are not eligible for Birthright. I had hoped that when my daughter Sasha was a student at Concordia University she might go on Birthright, but she had already been on a sponsored youth mission and was ineligible, to my great disappointment.
Last week, Sasha came to Jerusalem to visit us. We left Jerusalem for a day to visit Tel Aviv, and among the important sights in the area of Rothschild Boulevard is Israel’s “Independence Hall.” Originally this was the home of Meir Dizengoff, first mayor of the city. After his death it became the Tel Aviv Art Museum, but that has grown and prospered over the years, having just opened another new wing, and long ago it left the premises of the Dizengoff home.
It was decided that the historic importance of the Dizengoff house lay in the fact that Israeli independence was proclaimed there. The setting of that historic meeting was recreated, with the same dais, the same blue and white drapery and Israeli flag, the same old microphones, the same chairs, each marked with the name of the person in attendance. After a short and moving introductory film, visitors enter the hall, receive an orientation to the history surrounding the moment, hear a recording of the event, and rise as if with the hundreds originally assembled to sing Hatikvah. Loren and I have visited before, found it moving, and wanted to share the experience with Sasha. This time, however, there was a surprise.
We arrived early, and it looked as though there would only be half a dozen visitors, when suddenly a vast group of young people with deep, dark bags under their eyes entered Independence Hall. I whispered to Loren, “It’s got to be Birthright,” and it was. All were from the USA with the exception of a couple of Viennese young adults, and when we questioned those around us, we learned that their experience in Israel continued daily to uplift them, but also that they were on the go from dawn ‘til dark. We didn’t ask about their own partying habits.
I thought to myself, “This is Sasha’s Taglit.” It couldn’t have come at a more appropriate moment. Together we had walked the tunnels of the Western Wall, gotten lost in the Arab Shuk, gone to the Kotel, ambled through the streets of Jerusalem to Machaneh Yehudah public market, a market so huge it makes Jean Talon Market look like a sweet corn stand in St. Zotique. We had visited Montefiore’s windmill and seen the early Zionist developments, then wandered through the massive and newly refurbished Israel Museum. (The archeology wing was dedicated to Sam and Saidye Bronfman.) We walked the steep hills of Ein Kerem and visited Hadassah Hospital, saw the Chagall Windows, and much more. It was all wonderful, mostly father/daughter, so the time had come for Sasha to be with her generation, and there they were in Tel Aviv at Independence Hall, and in grand numbers.
A guide stepped forward to speak, and for the next 1 hour and 15 minutes our attention was nailed to each word he spoke. I want to convey to you the heart of his message and how he reached Sasha’s generation.
The guide asked if anyone present had a cell phone. Nearly every hand went up. It’s the cellular generation, a generation in constant contact with each other by voice and by texting. Of course, he said, from Hollywood movies, the whole world knows what number to call in North America when you need help. What’s the number? A chorus chanted, 9-1-1.
When you’re in trouble, he said, you know what to do. You call 911. Someone will immediately pick up the phone on the other end and help will be on its way. An ambulance, police, fire trucks, whatever emergency need you have – 911 will reach a helping hand to get you out of trouble. That’s the main reason we put cell phones in the hands of our children, so they can call us in an emergency, or if not us, 911.
In 1948, Jews looked back upon the death camps and the destruction of the 6 million. Jews looked out at DP camps across Europe. They saw British troops blocking the way into Palestine for the hundreds of thousands of Jews who needed rescue. They saw Arab lands cranking up their persecution of Jews after the 1947 UN resolution on Palestine creating two countries, one a Jewish state. Those Jews who died in concentration camps, those Jews stuck in DP camps, those Jews being persecuted across the Arab world – what was their 911? Upon whom could they call for help?
What happened in that room in Tel Aviv, in Independence Hall, can be called the creation of the Jewish 911. The resolution that the Jewish council passed in that hall did not create the State of Israel. No. Read Israel’s declaration of independence carefully It created a Jewish state to be known as the State of Israel. For the first time in 2000 years, there was a territorial nation in existence whose purpose was the maintenance and efflorescence of the Jewish people.
For those outside Israel, this meant that for the first time in 2000 years, they at last had their own 911. If you were in trouble, shried gevalt, cried for help, someone would, so to speak, pick up the phone at the other end of the line in Jerusalem, and help would be on its way. That’s what happened in Meir Dizengoff’s old house on Sderot Rothschild in Tel Aviv. The Jewish 911 was born. That’s the explanation that made the moment so clear and so compelling to the young people sitting in the room, and among them, Sasha Lerner. That’s when we rose to sing Hatikvah and tears were in my eyes. You, too, would have wept.
My tears were not simply from the joy of knowing that Israel exists, strong and free, but that my daughter and I shared an understanding about Israel despite the difference in our generations, and all thanks to our cell phones and 911 -- and thanks to a very wise Taglit guide.
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