The plane shook.

Violently.

No smoke in the cabin, which I guess was a plus.

I repeated this to myself as my seat lurched side to side in an attempt to break free from its restraints. Every few horizontal tremors were then punctuated by jumps and drops- were we going over speed bumps? I have to remind myself to breathe. This ride will end…eventually.

One way or another.

This wasn’t the worst turbulence I’d ever seen; as a young lad I was once on a plane where the engine malfunctioned, smoke filled the cabin, people screamed and we made an emergency landing. I can recall the feeling that ‘this was it’, the end- and some sense of peace with that.

Apparently, 7-year-old Josh was far more spiritually-centered than 28 year-old Josh…but what’s new. I clenched the armrests ferociously, just as tension gripped every inch of my body. The music in my ear probably didn’t help: a symphony by Einojuhani Rautavaara (Symphony 7, ‘Angel of Light’) with constantly active strings and winds, bombastic brass statements, elongated stretches of dissonance and tense, almost never-ending developments. I should have changed to something else, but I couldn’t force myself to act. One small click of an ipod felt like far too much to ask for. Besides, the music was downright religious in all of its terrible splendor, a most appropriate soundtrack for this voyage into one of the most spiritually-fraught regions of the world.

Israel.

The promised land.

It’s my first trip to another continent, my first time in a different country aside from a mission trip to Jamaica in 6th grade (the main memories from it are of milkshakes, boat rides, and cute girls).

This is not, however, a solo backpacker adventure; I am here on my parents dime as part of a full family affair. My brother sat beside me, inexplicably sleeping through the whole mess. This has been a longtime dream for my parents, a religious journey with their children to the hallowed grounds of Christianity. Deep down, I think they also harbor some hope that this trip will also turn me back into their idea of what a Christian should be…a hope I am afraid they are cursed to never see fulfilled. In their eyes, I will likely always be the prodigal son who never returned.

At this moment, I think it’s just as likely I’ll be their dead son in a few moments. The Rautavaara symphony ends- and then begins again, thanks to automatic album repeat. I still can’t change it. This music will be with me to the bitter end. I spend the rest of the flight in some kind of tormented state between wakefulness and rest; my eyes closed, but I never felt the satisfaction of sleep. Just tension. I suppose it could have been fearful apprehension of the trip? Or perhaps punishment for the beer I drank on layover in Frankfurt? I don’t know why I was in this purgatory, but despite my sins we were graciously allowed to land safely at David Ben-Gurion Airport outside Tel Aviv.

We arrived late at night, and after navigation of security and logistics (and without a stamp in our passports, which I would only later understand was meant to ensure our safety in future travels around the world) we drove to our hotel on the Mediterranean shore. It was 1am or so, the travel day had been extremely long and I had not slept- yet I was not tired in the least bit. The thrill of discovery energized me, wired me up so that sleep was an impossibility. I could rest plenty later in life, I thought. So I explored the hotel grounds, walked up and down the shore and eventually stopped in at a seaside bar to order a drink that would wipe out all $10 in my checking account- and in the process, met the Threshold Guardian that would unlock my own personal, parallel journey apart from my parents. She served my drink, we struck up conversation and before I knew it we were in her car trading a crisp joint back and forth. Our relationship would never be romantic or sexual, though she was incredibly charming and attractive; her role instead was to serve as an instrument of fate. One path existed before I met her, and two thereafter.

The next day we drove out of breezy, cosmopolitan Tel Aviv, to do some volunteer work at a food bank in a city nearby, Netanya. We packed lots of bags and boxes and moved things around the office for most of the day, with a break for a Greek-style lunch at some point; the experience that stayed vivid in my memory, however, was the hour or so where I was allowed to leave the office and wander around town. Only a short drive from Tel Aviv, this city felt like a world away. Instead of wide, palm-tree lined streets with open air cafes and affluence on display this section of Netanya was dusty, crowded, and endless. Everywhere I walked I saw small shops in identical disarray and apartment units overflowing with humanity; the environment compared to Tel Aviv was probably more oppressive, yet the inhabitants were out-sized in their character. This is what life must be like for the majority of the country, I thought to myself. It was daunting yet reassuring in its own way. Around me, thousands of olive-skinned humans went about their business- the business of accomplishing this day and moving to the next. For the first time on the trip, I truly felt that I was outside of the bubble.

As I explored, I passed an army office. In preparation for the trip I had learned how military service was a universal requirement for all Israeli citizens over the age of 18, not unlike the early Roman Republic- only this included all females as well. And probably wasn’t a 20 year commitment. But just the thought of it was astounding to me; in college I had a couple summers with a traveling marching band, experiences that broadened my world and gave me a community of lifelong friends and memories…and yet all we did was play instruments and march or dance around a football field. I didn’t have to risk my life and join on to militaristic practices to ostensibly protect my nation. How would I have fared, if this were my fate instead? I wasn’t necessarily a pacifist when I was 18, but I definitely became one soon after; would that have still happened had I been a veteran of military service? Or I would believe more in the necessity of violence to maintain peace? I don’t know. But I know I have an immense respect for every Israeli I’ve met who did something I never had to do. Later on the trip I would see a small exhibit that honored young Israelis who lost their lives in battle, and one particular plaque that struck me directly in my heart:

There is no consolation

The lack of punctuation at the end of that sentence still levels me. Incomplete, because it will never be rectified.

And yet…

A few weeks before the trip, I had seen a documentary from the country titled The Gatekeepers; it consisted of frank interviews with former heads of the Shin Bet- the intelligence agency in charge of domestic security in Israel and it’s occupied territories…ie. Palestine. It was a documentary of immense tragedy, yes, but also of intense regret for a bloody history. There were many steps that could have been avoided along the way on every side, and not a blameless actor to be found. To hear these men- men who loved their country and rose to the top through honest dedication only to find themselves essentially helpless- or worse- against the great tide of reciprocity.

“The future is dark because if you put most of our young people in the army, they’ll see paradox. We have become cruel to ourselves and mainly to the occupied population.”
“You can’t make peace using military means.”
“…I was approached by a Palestinian acquaintance named Iyad Saraj, a doctor of Psychiatry. He said ‘Ami, we finally defeated you.’ I said to him are you mad? What do you mean, defeated us? Hundreds of you are getting killed, at this rate thousands of you will get killed. You’re about to lose whatever tiny bit of a state you have and you’ll lose your dream of statehood. What kind of victory is that? He said to me, ‘Ami, I don’t understand you. You still don’t understand us. For us, victory is seeing you suffer. That’s all we want. The more we suffer, the more you suffer. Finally, after 50 years, we’ve reached a balance of power, your F-16 vs. our suicide bomber.’ This statement gave me a very clear insight. I suddenly understood the suicide bomber phenomenon. I suddenly understood our reaction differently. How many operations did we launch because we hurt, because when they blow up buses it really hurts us and we want revenge. How often have we done that?”
“…we won every battle but lost the war.”

Lost the war. Here I was in a country with a military considered peerless, an intelligence apparatus feared around the world, a respected record of armed success- and they have been completely unable to suppress the poverty-stricken indigenous peoples after conquest and occupation. Their F-16s were matched by suicide bombers, and every hurt only led to more hurt. Because you can’t make peace using military means.

The next day, we went by Nazareth on the way to the Sea of Galilee. As we walked ancient roads, I heard for the first the Adhan, the call to prayer to Allah. 5 times a day these ring out from a minaret, a reminder to stop for a moment and turn to the eternal. I could not see the minaret from where I walked; I was blessed by a disembodied voice instead. A prayer from- and to- the heavens. I was utterly transfixed; not that the voice was superhuman or operatic, but that it was so earnestly human, haunting in its passionate imperfection. To this day, I stop every time I hear it; there is something pure in this expression, this submission before eternity. In Islam. 9/11 occurred when I was 16 years old, and as a good Christian boy in middle America most everything in my culture before and after encouraged me to fear Islam. I rambunctiously cheered the invasion of Iraq, and the sense that we were on Israel’s side fighting against the terrors of the Arab world. It wasn’t until, well, this particular year that I started to understand the complicated history of Israel’s occupation, of western Christianity’s many crusades against the Islamic world, of our own history of direct and indirect interference in Iraq and Iran and any other country with oil in pursuit of self-interest over universal humanitarianism. Of the fact that imperialism breeds terrorism, that “one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter.”

When I hear the Adhan, I don’t hear any of that violence. Only love and humility. We humans are the ones who create the violence out of it.

From Nazareth, we continued on to the fruitful, amiably pleasant Sea of Galilee for an afternoon of sightseeing that culminated with divergence from the family’s path: my Threshhold Guardian arrived to whisk me away to a sunset seaside wedding.

This wasn’t a traditional Jewish wedding- this was a couple of twenty-somethings unrestrained in their celebration of life, love, and great music. The cover photo image was that of the gorgeous bride, resplendent in her white dress, dancing her heart out on top of a bar to a remix of the Macklemore song Thrift Shop.

(This is how I want all wedding receptions to be)

Throughout the night I got to meet other exuberant guests, flaunt impressively terrible dance moves, and fall in love with a mysterious Israeli woman I would never see again…my basic routine for a wedding. I was thankfully just another face in the crowd, able to jump in and step back and ride the crest of the celebration. In the flow of a couple conversations I brought up their military service; every one had different types of jobs, some in tech, some in support, some on the front lines. Every one of them looked back on their experiences as integral, formative in some way, and full of deeply-forged bonds. Where they found something in themselves they didn’t know existed. Most of them hadn’t seen combat or life-threatening situations, but there was a paratrooper with an easy smile and clouded eyes that belied an uneasy conscience. He never spoke a word of regret, but his eyes told a more complete, unutterable story.

He had many stories, though, and we spent an hour or two talking about life and love, danger and bliss. He had a brother and sister with him who quickly made me feel like a part of the pack- and further helped me feel like I belonged by revealing the younger brother was much too young to be here drinking. We were now wedding crasher partners. It was a beautiful, note-perfect night.

Later, as I lay in bed, I could faintly hear explosions from Israeli-occupied Golan in the distance.

The next morning we leisurely approached the day, lounging and making a salad and missing a chance to connect me with my parents before they left for Jerusalem. No worries, though; she had to get back to Tel Aviv, where I could hop on a bus. As we meandered back past orange groves, picturesque valleys and arid hill-lands, we talked about all the things she felt about her experience as an Israeli; the pride she felt for her service, the strength she derived from her lineage and the close friendships she had developed through the years…and the ambivalence she felt when it came to her country’s treatment of the Arab minority, the grip of orthodoxy over humanitarianism. There was no love lost for the violent fringes of either side. Though minorities in Israel tend to receive more favorable treatment than minorities in nearby countries, they still face more hardships in their land than the majority. Arab students receive less education funding, their communities are more impoverished, they don’t see equal representation in government and generally face more obstacles in their pursuit of prosperity. Yet she did not see them as pitiable or depressed- her favorite part of Tel Aviv was Jaffa, a more historically Arab section of the city, which she described as teeming with spices, music, bazaars, street art, nightlife, boisterous humans and beautiful mosques. I would later discover for myself that it was all these things, and more.

Such colorful visions danced before my eyes as we bid farewell and I climbed aboard a bus to Jerusalem. Seated next to me on the bus was yet another stunning Israeli woman- at this point I should admit the possibility that I simply find every Israeli woman irresistibly attractive- with whom I immediately struck up conversation. We talked nonstop for the next couple of hours through increasingly mountainous, dramatic terrain that reminded me of mystical New Mexico. She was an architecture student at a University in Tel Aviv, traveling back to spend the weekend with her parents per her usual routine. I was fascinated to hear how the sabbath experience differed across communities; she viewed it as a weekly pause, a chance to rest her body and mind- and perhaps more importantly, as a time when the family came together around a meal. It wasn’t necessarily a devotion to Yahweh that drove her- at least not directly- but adherence to familial tradition. To love. Which is, I would suggest, where God truly resides. There were many variations across the Jewish population, she assured me; some spent hours in recitation, some used it as a chance to work on other hobbies, some casually gathered with friends and acquaintances. I reflected that it seemed analogous to the Muslim Adhan, only concentrated in one weekend period rather than distributed evenly over the course of each day.

I also couldn’t help but think of New Testament passages where Jesus and his disciples were confronted by rigid Pharisees for ‘breaking the sabbath’ to do things like collect food or heal others. In response, Jesus said “There is something greater than the Temple here.”

We continued to talk of her passion, architecture. She described her inspirations, and her favorite spots in Jerusalem. Most intriguingly, she taught me about the ‘Jerusalem Stone’ style I would see throughout the city: made of limestone or dolomite from quarries in the region, the style evokes a sense of the land’s history in beautiful hues of rich white, subtle pink and soft beige that all seem to glow at sunset. By municipal decree, every building here must be adorned with this stone…but not necessarily constructed from that specific material. As a result, there were now many structures built with modern materials that simply apply the stone look as a facade, a thin outer layer meant to imply a visage of antiquity. Was this what religion had become in some respects? I wondered aloud. A modern construction under historic symbol. One could call this either a lie or a sacred compromise and find truth in either assertion. Personally, I found the style to be lovely beyond compare- and another sign of the troublesome desire to hold on to past at all costs. Innocuous in stone form, but more destructive in other respects….as I would see the following day.

Upon arrival, I walked through town to my family’s hotel- and stumbled right into another Jewish wedding. This one was on the opposite side of the spectrum; all the men wore prescribed kippot (skullcaps), the bride and groom strode slowly forwards to festive music via traditional instruments, and it seemed every attendee danced and moshed around them with abandon. Traditional, yet overflowing with the same exuberant joy I witnessed by the sea. A joy indicative of culture preserved in people dispersed across the world for thousands of years, who could sometimes only find a sense of home in their shared culture. Lifeblood forged in fire. I wanted to leap in, but I felt I lacked the appropriate headgear.

The next day, our reunited family ventured out into the Old City. Thousands of years of history, hostility, harmonious worship and human greed: this was a living, breathing archaeological dig with every strata exposed simultaneously. The Dome of the Rock, the al-Aqsa mosque, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the Church of St. Anne, and the Temple Mount are all packed within a jumbled square kilometer, glued together by a maze of alleyways, apartments, endless shops and bazaars. When I stood in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the ground underneath me had been a part of Jewish antiquity, a Roman temple to Jupiter, a Roman church dedicated to the death and resurrection of the Christ, violent destruction, renewal, centuries of protection under Muslim rule, and now religious tourism from across the entire world. Underneath another cathedral nearby there was a still-active dig underway, with contemporary, recent, and ancient history all visible.

My brother and I even ventured into a white mosque, our first time to ever set foot in one. We were welcomed warmly into a space that was clean, spare; a few men sat and spoke in a manner which, despite the language barrier, evoked calm rationality. The air of the mosque was unassuming yet reverent, a kind of heavenly practicality. I don’t know what I expected, but what we found was…well, rather ordinary. Of course, we only spent 10 minutes or so and didn’t even try to explore any more of the mosque, though we felt slightly dangerous the entire time.

The Church of Holy Sepulchre was quite different; grandly ornate, darkly voluminous. A shaft of light pierced the great Dome of Anastasis above, positioned over the shrine said to hold Jesus’ tomb. Whereas the mosque had a quiet sense of egalitarianism, this cathedral provoked awe and distance, a keen awareness of one’s place in the hierarchy. Of the order in which things were meant to be. I was overcome by the history of the place and the miraculously-preserved details hidden in every corner…but I also felt the space was dark and strangely oppressive. Perhaps that is the appropriate atmosphere for the mythical location of the death of Christ.

From the church we headed across Old Town, in a blind attempt to navigate the Christian, Muslim, Armenian quarters and end up in the Jewish quarter. While the old city is only 1 square kilometer, it seemed there were hundreds of kilometers of passageways criss-crossed throughout. It was impossible at times to know if we had entered an alley or an outdoor bazaar. At one corner we just stopped and watched a couple men operate a stone oven to bake fresh pita bread with romance in our eyes. A short while later, stomachs full of tasty pita bread and armed only with cell phones in offline mode, we eventually found our way to the Jewish quarter and our ultimate destination- the Western Wall.

-At some point in history Christians adopted the name ‘Wailing Wall’ for this site, and the name stuck in popular culture though some Jewish friends had intimated to me their displeasure in the negative connotation implied.

Now, I’m a pretty harmless American white kid with no reason to fear security forces in this country; yet for some reason I was incredibly anxious upon entrance to the security checkpoint here. It may have been the fact that I had never been so close to such big guns, or that the checkpoint itself conveyed fear for the area I was set to enter. I don’t know. We were separated, the men of the family on one side and my mom on the other, to observe ancient Jewish custom for synagogues.

Once through, we walked out into a plaza in view of 2,000 year old stones- remnants of a wall built to protect the storied location of Solomon’s original temple. Visible avatar of communal grief. These were the most portentous stones I had ever laid eyes on, and I felt…something? I think?

It’s an odd feeling, a nuanced sensation. In so many ways, we are told by other humans to treat them as sacred; if someone with no exposure to human history had discovered these stones in this configuration without all the cultural security and fanfare, what would they think? Would they find this wall a grievous symbol of something lost? Would they simply see materials with potential? A home? A waste? History may just be propaganda for an author, theft of its subjects. Yet…when I saw a man touch a stone, whispered intonation of passionate fervor on his breath, I felt something. Not everything about this could be a lie- surely there was something sacred in his mental/spiritual state. Maybe that was what had always been sacred, and the stones only help provoke it.

I wandered into a hall nearby, obliviously deep in thought. After a dozen or steps, though, I became aware of negative attention; I looked up to see teenagers and old men alike focused on me. There was something they all had which I lacked, I just couldn’t put my finger on it…shame rose in my face, and I stopped in my tracks. All of a sudden it dawned on me- everyone here had something covering their head. Everyone, that is, except me. Oh man. I turned to leave, but at the last second I was rescued: a white-stubbled man put his arm around me, placed a skullcap upon the crown of my head and ushered me towards a pair of chairs.

“Don’t worry”, he reassured me, “you are not the first lost American to stumble into this space and break our customs.”

“That obvious, am I?”

He smirked. Weariness and warmth colored the corners of his face, a lifetime of challenges and ultimate acceptance faintly visible. “Do you know where you are?” I professed ignorance. “This is Wilson’s Arch- yes, arch. There are arches at the entrance, so when they added this hall as an extension they just kept the name.”

“Who was Wilson?”

He shrugged. “Who knows anymore?”

I chuckled. He went on to explain some more of the history of the wall; the first temple, which may or may not have been built by Solomon, was destroyed by Babylonians. A second temple was built not long thereafter, and then expanded centuries later by King Herod- only to be destroyed itself by Romans during a Jewish uprising in 70CE. This instigated a 2,000 year tradition of grief directed at this remaining section of wall, a symbol of all that had been taken from the Jewish people. Arabs called it a place of weeping, for so many would come to tear their garments and cry aloud, encouraged by Jewish law. But it was not just grief here; many believe that the Divine Presence still exists in the stones, and it is as close as anyone can now get to the ‘Holy of Holies’. It’s not even just a holy place for Jews- this is also held by some traditions in Islam to be the place Muhammed tied up his steed before he ascended to heaven. Early followers directed their daily prayers here to the temple mount before the Kabah at Mecca replaced it in their faith.

“But in the end, we do not know what it is exactly.” I turned towards him, quizzical; “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we think the Foundation Stone is somewhere beyond, but we don’t know. We think the Holy of Holies is somewhere, but we don’t know. We think Solomon built the first temple, but we don’t know. There is no evidence; some say it was built later than his time, some say it never existed as we thought, some say it is physically here, some say it is an idea.”

I look around- the hall is full of men (and only men) in various states of devotion. I see boys with large scrolls, pride in their voice as they read aloud. I see men quietly speaking to the wall as if it was an old friend. I see others transcribe from books, and a group of men in hats gathered around a ‘Torah ark’.

He watched me scan the room. “Some of the young ones believe that if they pray here every day for 40 days, they will receive their soulmate. Some are told that prayers here are heard more than any other place.”

“And the scribes?”

“They believe writing out the Torah is a religious act in itself. They only use certain materials, follow prescribed customs before and after and may not transcribe from memory. It must be handwritten and exactly to specification for it to be holy. This is their sacred duty, and there is no more sacred place for that duty than here.”

“And what about you?”

He considers for a moment. “I think the Holy of Holies could be there, or it could not. In the end, we may never know, and it may never matter. I have an ex-wife, and three grown children. I do my best to be a good man and a good father to them. I think the Lord would approve of this. The rest, ah, is out of my hands.”

I don’t know how long we sat and spoke, but his demeanor and the love emanating from his voice has stayed with me forever.

An hour later, after we had departed the plaza, a group of women went to the wall and attempted to pray on the side designated for men only. They were apprehended and escorted out, with orthodox men yelling at throwing stones at them.

That night, after the rest of my family fell asleep, I continued my night-owl explorations with a walk over to a multi-cultural ‘rave’ I had read about online. I had been to some clubs in the States, mostly while in college, and I fully admit to never being completely comfortable in that environment- the emphasis on status and appearance, the expensive drinks, the specifically sexualized style of dance were all not really in my wheelhouse. But I was determined to experience an infamous Jerusalem rave and live as fully as possible in this limited window of opportunity. So off I went into the night, dressed in the best clothes I happened to have with me. The rave I found, however, was not what I expected- it was far better.

Multi-cultural was not just an advertising term to attract people; the event was truly global, diverse and unpretentious. Nobody on the floor danced in the sexualized style I was conditioned to anticipate- they danced with the same abandon I had found elsewhere, seemingly without any regard for status or sex. The DJ spun us around the entire globe; a didgeridoo get-down preceded an african-drum jam which led to a wild waltz that turned into a sexy samba and more. The floor was open to all, and though some groups coagulated in various areas, no one dominated the center of attention; every new song worked as a spotlight for a different group invigorated by their preferred style of music. I never saw anyone made to feel uncomfortable by another, no territorial disputes between irrational men. Just a love of dance, and of a diverse community. I have no idea how ridiculous I looked on that floor, and I didn’t care one bit. There was no alcohol to hide behind or use as placebic confidence mask- just human beings of every color, music of every style, and physical expression of inner spirit. I met a few people, but it didn’t matter that I spent most of the night ‘alone’. I felt like a true part of the community, thought it was only a few hours on one random May night. It didn’t matter where I had come from, or where I was going next.

I did eventually leave, some time in the middle of the night. Exhausted and energized. I meandered back towards the hotel, my body still hot and steamy. A lovely ending to the night, I thought- until the next discovery was unveiled. Bright lights and human voices lured me around a corner, to a completely unexpected sight: a fully lit baseball field occupied by two teams in uniform. Mind you, it was 2am on a sabbath night, not exactly what I would have assumed to be prime baseball time. These young guys clearly didn’t care. Uncertain if I was fully cognizant or simply delirious from hours of dance, I sat down and gave them another spectator. It seemed to me that they were all college-aged, perhaps in some kind of intramural league or something? I couldn’t fathom why the game was being played in the middle of the night, but within minutes it was obvious they were here due to extreme passion for the game. One would have thought they were experienced American ballplayers by the way they spoke- arguments over arcane rules, complete ease with every corner of the obscure lexicon of this uniquely national pastime. They ragged on each other like they were extras in The Sandlot, as if they had studied the sport as rigorously as the young students in front of the Western Wall had studied their Torahs. For all I knew, these were the same students, wrapped up in the minutiae of both ancient religion and modern sport. It was a surreal, endearing scene, perfection I could never have expected from this insanely full day, and a shining example of the qualities that would come to imbue my favorite travel days: unexpected variety, authenticity, a lot of life and a dash of serendipity.

This was the energetic peak of my trip; we left for the dead sea the next day, and my body likewise turned into a cadaver. It may have been something I ate, it may have just been my body and spirit extended past their reserves. It may have been simple routine for a westerner exposed to international microbes for the first time. Whatever the case may be, a couple days at a resort by the lowest place on earth was a timely turn in our journey’s path. The dead sea is not quite the saltiest place on earth, but it is salty enough to effortlessly levitate the body. The water felt extra slimy, as if there was another layer of impermeability over my epidermis; a thin saltwater suit, grafted onto me the moment I entered the sea. I must have laid there entombed for hours, weakness in my body succored by salted aridity. There’s a reason the resorts around us were overrun with rich Russians and pricey magic healing minerals in every store.

To continue the thread of death, we took a day trip to a national park in the desert nearby- Masada, home to an ancient Israeli fortress and setting for one of the most infamous battles in Jewish history. The name itself is translated as ‘fortress’; it was built by King Herod as a possible refuge in a tumultuous period, and still bears the characteristics of Roman-Hebrew palaces of the time. It is perched spectacularly on top of a mesa, overlooking the dead sea and desert lands as far as the eye can see- and perfectly placed for an outnumbered small contingent to hold out against superior firepower for an extended period of time, which is how it achieved its legendary status. Jews had revolted against Roman rule in Jerusalem, instigating a 7-year war in which Roman forces under Titus eventually re-conquered Jerusalem and destroyed the second temple. A splinter group of Zealots, the Sicarii, overran the Roman garrison at Masada near the end of the war and used it as refuge, home base for a series of raids in the countryside. Roman legions laid siege to the fortress for months, constructing an impressive wall and siege ramp to breach the compound. Upon entry, however, the Romans found that nearly every Sicarii was already dead. Rather than to submit to Roman rule, they made a suicide pact- but since Judaism prohibits suicide, they drew lots and killed each other. Two women survived, hidden away in a cistern, who would testify to the mass partner-suicide. This is precisely the kind of valor a good Roman soldier celebrates, so the story spread throughout both the Roman and Jewish world to great acclaim.

Standing in the middle of these ruins, I didn’t necessarily feel awe at the legend...I certainly connected with the romanticism of a lost cause, but maybe not with its violent terminus. Was life under Roman rule such that suicide was honestly the only noble choice? I admit to feeling nothing but respect for what Rome achieved, even there at the desert fortress: nearly 2,000 year old walls still stand, a superior strategy and organization clearly evident from my physical and historic vantage point. I felt a slight thrill exploring the cisterns, baths, ramparts and palatial rooms; there is so much that we have inherited from the Roman empire, for good and ill. They committed many atrocities and caused much suffering, yet they also represented progress to much of the world. Irrepressible, inevitable progress- which is always a frightening prospect, to tradition-based societies more than any other. Yet I can’t help but wonder, if I was a Jew alive at the time would I have resisted Roman rule so ferociously? Or would I have been on the other side of many family discussions?

Or perhaps I just have the classic scene from Monty Python’s Life of Brian in my mind, where a leader of a rebel group asks his fellow Jews what the Romans have ever done for them- only to be forced to accept a list of practical improvements to their lives the group remembers.

All right, but apart from the sanitation, the medicine, education, wine, public order, irrigation, roads, the fresh-water system, and public health, what have the Romans ever done for us?

On our return from Masada we stopped by Ein Gedi, an oasis of fresh water from scarcely-believeable waterfalls, named after David himself. Also the site of a massacre of innocent men, women and children at the hands of the Sicarii.

At the end of our trip, it was a much-needed small moment of cleansing. I did not know how the trip would prove to be important to my life, but I knew some kind of chemical reaction was underway. After another most uneventful day in Tel Aviv we found ourselves on a plane westward-bound over the Mediterranean- thankfully with a little less moving and shaking than our entry flight. I reflected on the trip as I stared out into night. Contentment and longing co-existed in my spirit; perhaps just the feeling that something had been initiated which had no visible destination or detail. A seed had been planted, but I knew not what would come of it- or if there was any “thing”. My adult life had been a series of cycles to this point- a radical departure, followed by the accumulation of routine and connections, followed by the feeling that there was more for me to do, which would lead to another radical departure, followed by…

The last image of this trip in my mind was that of the faintly visible outline of Italy under moonlight, adorned in a glittery jewelry that called my name. Six months later, I would drop everything and move to New York City; two years after that I would back on a plane over open ocean, bound for a solo backpack adventure that would radically re-direct my life once again.