My Journey Home
Joanne Davis

I'd like to take you on a journey. It started in Beachwood, Ohio, in 1984, when my dream to visit Israel first started taking shape. My grandma had just returned from her second trip to Israel and brought a video back for my family. I remember watching, and being entranced by this country, this Land of Milk and Honey. My desire and interest to visit this mysterious, yet often talked of place was natural; I learned "Hatikvah" long before "The Star-Spangled Banner." In high school, however, I started losing interest, in part because of my teenage disenchantment with Sunday School. I also started to believe that visiting Israel was a privilege for the lucky ones who could afford it, and resigned myself to a long wait.

In college, the dream of my childhood began to reappear soon after I began taking Jewish Studies courses and discovered how rich and fascinating our history and culture as a Jewish people are. At the onset of 1999, a trip to Israel within the year became my focus. How, I wasn't exactly sure, but I knew it would happen.

...Next stop -- JFK airport, December 19, 1999. I could not believe my good fortune. While working at the Hillel International Center two years ago, I frequently heard people discuss a project called birthright israel, wondering if I could be part of it. After I left Hillel and became involved in my new position and responsibilities, birthright fell to the back of my mind -- but Israel didn't. And here I was at the airport, seeing old friends and meeting many new ones as we were about to embark on the first birthright Israel trip, this one organized by BBYO.

In the hours before our late flight from New York to Tel Aviv, sitting in the odd baggage claim area for Tower Air, our group of one-hundred twenty-five participated in a number of ice-breakers. I normally facilitate ice-breakers -- I didn't want to do them! Besides, at that point, I already felt that I was in my element -- I had found a bunch of fellow Clevelanders to hang out with!

One of the last activities, however, started to make this surreal experience (I'm still convinced that the Tower Air terminal is on an entirely different plane than the rest of the universe) become the reality I had eagerly awaited for so many years. Once within our smaller groups of approximately forty, we were each given an empty BBYO envelope, which was supposed to represent our empty, yet-to-be packed suitcases. It was nearly impossible for me to keep my inner cynic quiet. The next directive was even harder to swallow without my eyes rolling. A number of pictures and quotations lay on the floor for us to pick up and carefully add to our suitcases. Disinterest (or was it laziness?) and exhaustion from my three attempts to get to New York from Washington, DC had gotten the better of me, and I had my friend Brian Blitzer choose the six for my "suitcase." Slowly, people started sharing the meanings of their various choices with the group. How could I share mine? Brian randomly grabbed the contents of my luggage (including a kepah - and I don't wear them) -- how were these significant to my life? The cynic must have retreated, because I soon found myself raising my hand. In addition to the kepah, Brian had also brought me the Ten Commandments, the words to "Hatikvah," a flashlight, and a picture of the Kotel. I told the group of my passion for Jewish study, and how "Hatikvah" was the first national anthem I learned and the one I still identify with. What kind of significance did the flashlight have? The flashlight, I told my peers, would help me eventually find my family; relatives in Haifa that no one had been in contact with in at least forty years. Two weeks earlier, I sent forty letters to most of the Goldners I found in the Haifa phone book, hoping one of them had forbears originally from Snatyn, Poland. Sitting in baggage claim that night, I thought about how slim my chances were of finding my family, even with my "flashlight" there to guide my way. I also wondered if my other expectations for the trip, those I vocalized and those I kept to myself, would be met.

Over thirteen hours later, my first goal was met -- we safely arrived at Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv. Although I had just endured the flight overseas, and saw signs welcoming me to Israel in both English and Hebrew, I felt as if this were all a dream. Was I really there? Were my feet actually touching Israeli soil?

The following day, although still in a state of disbelief (which I found was something I shared with my new friends), I started experiencing the wonder and glory of Israel. One of our first stops was the Kotel. I arrived armed with my long skirt and prayers from family and friends to insert in the fabled Wall. I was struck by its size; I had not expected the setting to be so intimate. As I drew closer, it slowly grew in size, the majesty of Kings David and Solomon and the Temple taking over. My siddur in hand, I did the only thing I could think of, and said the Amidah and the Shema. Eyes closed, I felt the cool, smooth stones and wondered who had been there before me. As I stepped back, I watched the other women davening. Here, at the Kotel, we were all Jews -- not Conservative, Hasidic, or Reform. Whatever our opinions were, we had all been infused with the essence of Judaism, and were all Jews: together, equal.

Before I left the United States, I thought that the most spiritual event would be our visit to the Kotel. While it was emotional, it paled in comparison to what I experienced the following morning. Leaving Jerusalem at twilight, we headed south for an evening at a Bedouin camp. I could hardly wait -- my sister's stories of her favorite experience during her first visit two years ago conjured up many images (all of them based on my Indiana Jones-esque view of life in the desert).

After a night of singing, laughing, and building new friendships and getting very little sleep, we rose before dawn, eager to greet the new day in this incredibly unfamiliar, dusty land. Slowly, people started walking away from our oasis and across the plateau. As the sun slowly broke, and the sky exploded in hues of red and gold, we began to see the sometimes rocky, sometimes fluid, outlines of the vast terrain. If only I could bottle the serenity I felt standing in the Negev, wondering which far off mountain was Masada. By now, fifty or sixty birthright participants had congregated to watch this glorious sunrise together. In the distance, one of the guys singularly prayed, no longer facing east, but north, to Jerusalem. And then, without much more than a few words, those of us who had made the early morning pilgrimage sang Aleynu and recited the Shema together, following them with the most beautiful and sweet rendition of "Hatikvah" that I will probably ever hear. To me, this conversation with nature and G-d was what Judaism is all about.

Later than morning, we climbed Masada, and took an almost 2,000 year leap back in history. As I explored the remaining buildings and made the arduous descent down the Snake Path, I wondered what life was like for the Zealots who gave their lives to Judaism on that mountain. I was looking at the same great expanse they had. Had they been lonely? Did they see hope beckoning to them? The same questions started racing through my mind the next week as we shimmied our ways through the tight caves and passageways at Bet Guvrin National Park, site of the intricate tunnel system devised for the Bar Kochba Revolt. Sharing the same earth and air as these dedicated historical figures was thrilling, especially after studying them. Jewish history in Israel was no longer something I read in a book or discussed in class. It became mine, and it continues to live hundreds and thousands of years later. This journey to Israel was full of intensity and emotional and intellectual highs. The people I met and lived with for ten days are wonderful, fascinating people, each with his or her own reason for making the trip. The listened and observed, and provided strong supports when the emotional currents seemed almost too much to bear. I am still struck by how I scared myself on a day titled, "Israel and Politics." This was the first time I had ever truly considered making aliyah and it surprised and overwhelmed me; I felt as if I'd been sacked by a 300-lb defensive end and had the wind knocked out of me. I never imagined that the connection I made to this sacred, beautiful land would be so strong. And as my passions grew, and words appeared at my lips, my heart beating faster, faster, my friends watched my eyes grow wider, heard my voice grow raspier, and listened as this new excitement to protect our land overtook my being. Some of them may not share my beliefs or convictions, but they understood and listened.

A few days later, my journey about to end, we hurriedly tried to finish our souvenir shopping in Mea Shearim and on Ben Yehuda Street. I began thinking about I would soon be leaving and what I would be taking home. Was I still seriously considering picking up and moving to Israel? I am struggling with the various permutations of that thought daily.

I thought about the items I "packed" at JFK, and how my experiences measured up to my expectations of the Promised Land. The air I breathed and amazing sights I took in, from our desert sunrise and impromptu praying, to the moss and ferns growing out of the cracks of the Kotel, to the juxtaposition of a modern glass exhibit set amid the ancient Tower of David and Citadel, greatly exceeded anything I dreamt of. And just when I thought my fantastic journey couldn't get any better, I learned that the flashlight I packed a week earlier worked. Our madrich, Uriel, notified me that my cousins, the Goldners, had called! Three days before we left, from a public phone on Dizengoff Street in Tel Aviv, I called Haifa to speak to my cousin Tal. She told me that she'd received the letter, which had been addressed to her deceased father, and after speaking with her aunt, realized we were related. After numerous calls throughout Israel and to B'nai B'rith in Washington, she was finally able to track me down. As we spoke, I heard Mottl the Tailor singing "Wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles", in my head, the decibel level rising every time he reprised that phrase. Still in shock that we found each other, I only remember parts of our fifteen minute conversation. The following day, I met another cousin -- this time face-to-face. This was a dream come true. It continues -- my cousin Jacob recently sent our Israeli family tree and pictures to me via e-mail. This gift of Israel, given to me and thousands of others as our birthright, is the most precious thing I have ever received. I not only explored new cities and walked through our communal history, but I also discovered fascinating new facets of myself. To some Israel is my birthright, but to me it is my home.

BBYO / Oranim Educational Initiatives Ltd. birthright Arrives in Israel. The first birthright Group ever.

One of our birthright groups poses for a photo at the Promonade overlooking the Old city of Jerusalem

Another group learns about the role of Jerusalem the Golden City in Jewish life.

The entire BBYO / Oranim Educational Initiatives Ltd. birthright group, 124 people, gathers at the ancient entrance to the Temple. Here on these steps thousands of pilgrims from the ancient Jewish world ascended to fulfill the commandment to gather at Jerusalem three times each year.

Having explored the ancient fortress of Masada we head down to the Dead Sea for a float, some lunch and then its off to see more of the extraordinary Judean Desert.

Following in the footsteps of the pioneers of the Second Aliyah our participants visit the Kinneret Courtyard, the place where Jews came in the early 1900's to "transform the landscape and by doing so transform my soul".

Just before Shabbat a well earned soak in the hot springs of Hamat Gader below the Golan heights.