I have jet lag. Extreme jet lag.
I never should have bragged that I hadn’t experienced real jet lag. I doomed myself to a miserable first few days in the land of milk and honey.
It started with puking on the flight attendant as I exited the plan, continued when I discovered my luggage did not arrive, and finally kicked me when I fell asleep on the drive from Herzliya to the north where I would be sharing passover with my host family. I missed the sights, and some much needed chatter with my friend. I missed myself, since as it turns out, jet lag is an out-of-body experience.
We arrived in Metula at the Lebanon border, a quiet village built on the ridge of hills overlooking Mt. Hermon, the Eion & Hula valleys, and the Galillee landscape. My knowledge of the area was limited to Bible history. Metula was located between the cities of Dan & Abel Be Maacah, mentioned several times in the old testament, but perhaps most known from the story of Joab. As I would quickly learn, the history of the land is rich in history beyond the Bible.
Metula was founded in 1896 by Baron Edmond de Rothschild as a moshava, a semi-cooperative agricultural community. After Israel’s War of Independence, a few more neighborhoods were added to the moshava, which grew into a rural town. Most of Metula’s early settlers earned their livelihood from agriculture. Even now, along the winding roads there are peach, plum, and nectarine orchards.
We passed The Good Fence at the Lebanon border as we headed for the host house. Seeing it was a reminder of the conflicts that plague this beautiful country, of the necessity of this military zone, and yet it managed to meld into the landscape rather than mar it.
We had time to shower and change before the planned passover meal. This was my first experience at a Jewish Pesach Seder. The weight of interpretation and explanation fell on the shoulders of my friend. She was quite amazing.
I’ve only known her a year, but during our travels outside Israel I’ve only heard her speaking English with perhaps a few words in Hebrew when asked. She has an exceptional mastery of the English language, barely an accent to suggest she’s not an American. Surrounded by friends and family in her native land, I was a bit shocked and amazed to hear her so easily speak Hebrew, to witness her animation and passion that matched the others at the table. Everyone was welcoming, boisterous and ready to celebrate. Even though very little English was spoken, the hospitality was palpable.
A tent with a u-shape table set-up was constructed outside the home. There were to be about 15-20 people at the dinner. At each place setting was a Passover Haggadah, a book that includes the story of the Israelites’ exodus from Egypt, as well as the prayers, songs and rituals. It was written in Hebrew so my participation was limited until I managed to pull the English version from the internet. From the haroset to the gefilte fish to the matzo ball soup, I partook of each course and attempted to perform the rituals. Sadly, this resulted in me spilling my red wine all over the place. The American Idiot flails at seder.
It was funny to note that hunger speeds up ritual dinners in any country. I laughed with them as they rushed things along, but couldn’t stop myself from comparing the rituals of the evening to what I knew of the original passover meals outlined in the Old Testament. I asked questions, enjoyed the responses, and even managed to answer some on my own. My friend teased I was a better Jew than her. Honestly, I’m just very interested in the beginnings of these traditions and how these beliefs are incorporated into today’s religious structures and society.
With each course and each prayer, as what I knew from books became a real experience for me, I could only appreciate the richness of the culture and heritage of this chosen people . So many of my childhood memories are tied to the story of Moses and the children of Israel. My spiritual heritage is built on this story, on Jesus honoring this tradition at the last supper as he took the rituals and traditions into a new covenant, a new understanding. I’m not from Israel. I am not Jewish, but I have been adopted into this lineage.
There’s something magical about Passover in Israel. Even as the meal has taken a more modern feel, adapted through the ages and taking on the personality of the hosts, the truths and heritage remain. This is a people brought out of slavery in Egypt to become a chosen nation. This is a land blessed. This is an experience beyond the senses, but of the soul.
I felt honored to be included, to be a part.
In spite of the thrills of the evening, I was beat by the end of the meal. I wanted to savor the emotions, the sensations. My body had other ideas.
Jet lag stinks.
by G. Anne Bassett 