Heritage Trek: The Final Frontier
Everything that is, everything that ever was, and everything that will be is moving. From microscopic to macroscopic, all particles, all objects, and all people are in a constant state of shifting from place to place. But this is only three quarters of the equation. For if we truly live in a four-dimensional universe, time and space are inseparable, and all things, living and nonliving, are travelers throughout.
Roll it back, then. Roll it back to New Year’s Eve, 2004. Roll it back and move it across the Earth, to a crowded bar in Jerusalem. There a skinny boy sleeps in a chair, a tranquil island amidst the surrounding cacophony of celebration. Here in the land of milk and honey, a group of young Americans are partying like there’s no tomorrow. A year ago, if you were to ask these jovial youths, in an impromptu poll, what they would be doing when 2004 became 2005, a party in Israel would seem as far fetched as the Red Sox winning the World Series. The skinny boy wakes up; even he can’t sleep through this inaugural event, for it marks not just the commencement of the New Year, but what will turn out to be the most surreal and profound twelve days of all of their young lives.
But this is not the beginning.
Roll it back 16 hours. These young Americans, these 41 strangers aged 18 to 26, these dirty, sweaty, tired Jewish youths, file off a Boeing 777 jet at the sparklingly new Ben Gurion airport in Tel Aviv. Their lengthy incarceration in a cramped transportation vehicle is not over, however, and soon these, greasy, smelly, sleep-deprived arrivals file onto a tour bus, headed due east. Roll it forward 60 minutes, and these loud, boisterous post-teens are picking olives and eating clementines at an orchard outside the city. These disgusting, filthy, olive-stained workers are wondering when they’ll get a chance to rest. The answer: in about twelve days.
Their constitution is diverse; their motivations myriad, ranging from religious to hedonistic. Some are here to experience their heritage and traditions. Some are here to enjoy a free twelve-day vacation. Some are here to enjoy a free twelve-day booze-fest. Most are here for some combination of the three. Each person has their own distinct charm, something unique and unusual. There is the level-headed museum curator with a penchant for silliness and an aversion to lactose. There is the bitter, angry boy with an annoying knack for smug accuracy and ambitions to become a rabbi. There is the mischievous redhead whose antics throughout the next two weeks will become infamous for their irrationality. There is the skinny boy whose sleep patterns border on the narcoleptic. There is the quiet girl who brandishes a flashy pink iPod. There is the rosy-cheeked boy who randomly breaks into verses of “I’m a Little Teapot” and “I Want Candy.” There is the mysterious pseudo-philosopher who never removes his trench coat. And there are many more.
“Six-thirty wake-up call. Seven o’clock breakfast. Seven-forty-five, on the bus.” This is the modus operandi, the mantra, the law for these twelve days of their lives. Roll it forward to the first morning of 2005. Feeling more like slaves than guests, these exhausted, anxious, cleansed (finally) travelers file onto their bus, hoping that the day’s events will justify the physical stress.
They do. Roll it forward gradually now, and these ragged, inspired, excited explorers are wandering the old city of Jerusalem and crawling through underground Edimite caves. The skinny boy is asleep at a coffee bar while a belly dancer performs for the group. A group of Israeli soldiers join these 41 ragtag, sheltered, debaucherous Americans, and it becomes evident that there is no difference between the two groups, be it nationality or otherwise. These ambitious, determined thrill seekers are climbing Masada and hiking through the desert mountains of Eilat. These pious, humble venerators are standing before the Wailing Wall and visiting the Yad Vashem Holocaust memorial. These lazy, docile tourists are lying on the beaches of the Red Sea sipping mixed drinks. These unsuspecting, naïve youths are changing and being changed in ways they do not yet understand.
There is no better way to forge bonds between human beings than to share the experience of movement. Not just by traveling through spacetime; this is only four dimensions out of many, for all things are in constant flux, not just time and position. Emotions, ranging from exhaustion to amazement, from despair to jubilation, reveal human nature at its very worst and its very best, respectfully. These 41 spoiled Jewish Americans on their gratis twelve-day trek across Israel are gaining something that none of them anticipated but now seems indispensable. Photos decay, memories are forgotten, but friendships transcend space and time.
Roll it forward to the present, and move it back across the world to Ithaca, New York. The rosy-cheeked boy sits at his computer, trying desperately to accurately convey in words the feelings and experiences accumulated over those fateful twelve days. And he’s failing miserably.
During winter break of 2004-2005, the author embarked on a twelve-day journey funded by Birthright Israel, a non-profit organization which offers free trips to Israel for Jewish youths. More information can be found at Birthright Israel. For trip photos, visit Team Israel.