I didn't know what to expect from the second march to Jerusalem in memory of our neighbor Avihu Keinan. The first march is in that elite category of "Greatest Life Experiences". The steps we took echo in my soul.
Last year, I didn't really plan on marching. Yes, I strongly identified with the idea, but I didn't want to be a full day on the road in the strong Israeli sun. With some vague idea of "meeting up with it if...", I dressed and prepared myself for an afternoon in Jerusalem sans walking shoes and with a shopping bag suburbanly hanging on my arm. Three hours after my intrepid neighbors started their trek, I left my house. Minutes later, a neighbor pulled up alongside me: "Do you want a ride to join the march? I want to check up on my kids; they're walking by themselves."
I took her offer as a message from G-d. She is the friend who pulled me up after a terrorist drove over my foot. Ten minutes later, we found the marchers continuing south from Ofra, and I joined them. It took a couple of kilometers to find my rhythm, but I then began to enjoy the physical sensation of possessing our Land. I readily admit that I rode a few times, but most of the distance was by foot, and the entire experience was indescribably thrilling.
This year, I really planned. Dressed in a long heavy cotton skirt, a long-sleeved, high-necked blouse, topped with a Givati-purple* commemorative t-shirt and a very wide-brimmed hat, slathered with sun screen, shod in proper walking shoes, with back-up sturdy sandals and clean socks, water, fruit and yogurt in my bag and a camera in my pocketbook - I was prepared. This time I walked from Shilo to Ofra, the only difficulty being a lack of toilet facilities, inhibiting drinking, so when someone offered a shuttle to the Ofra gas station and back, I got in the van.
My "grand plan" was to get to Ofra by foot and then rejoin the march in Jerusalem. I was the oldest female walking, so whatever I accomplished put me "first place" in my category. My daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter were about to drive to Jerusalem as we got to Ofra, so I accompanied them to Pisgat Ze'ev, the first Jerusalem neighborhood on the route. Then, in my marching costume, I entered the Pisgat Ze'ev mall and ate a proper restaurant lunch of spinach quiche and salad. Via the cellphone, I was able to know when and where to meet up with the group. Due to army pressure, the walking part was shortened and they arrived in Pisgat Ze'ev by bus. I hadn't really missed much. So far, it was nothing special of a day, though lunch was good. You know what they say about "second times".
I must admit that I rode on the highway from Pisgat Ze'ev to French Hill, since I don't like breathing the pollution from the cars. There, in French Hill, we were gathered and told of the final route. We were to walk straight to the Old City, to Sha'ar Shechem, the Damascus Gate, and then straight through the Arab market to the Kotel (the Western Wall).
Armed with Israeli and Shilo flags, we sang as we marched. Then, suddenly it seemed, we were at Sha'ar Shechem, a place most Israelis avoid, even those who feel very comfortable walking to the Kotel; there are more welcoming routes. Instead of going straight in, the men and boys began to sing and dance, praising G-d, "v'shavu banim l'gvulam" ("and your sons have returned to their furthest borders"). Tears of joy. I felt transported to the day in 1967 when I saw the television newscast of the Israeli paratroopers crying and praying at the Kotel.
The singing continued as we marched, proud and strong, through the crowded market to the Kotel. We felt safe, at home. The Arabs opened up paths for us, just like when Nachshon stepped into the Red Sea, and the sea opened up for him and B'nei Yisrael.
The second time was even better than the first.
Note:
* The different branches of the Israeli army are recognized by the colors of their berets. For instance, the paratroopers have a dark red beret, the tank corps, a black one, and the Givati Brigade has a deep, strong purple beret.
Last year, I didn't really plan on marching. Yes, I strongly identified with the idea, but I didn't want to be a full day on the road in the strong Israeli sun. With some vague idea of "meeting up with it if...", I dressed and prepared myself for an afternoon in Jerusalem sans walking shoes and with a shopping bag suburbanly hanging on my arm. Three hours after my intrepid neighbors started their trek, I left my house. Minutes later, a neighbor pulled up alongside me: "Do you want a ride to join the march? I want to check up on my kids; they're walking by themselves."
I took her offer as a message from G-d. She is the friend who pulled me up after a terrorist drove over my foot. Ten minutes later, we found the marchers continuing south from Ofra, and I joined them. It took a couple of kilometers to find my rhythm, but I then began to enjoy the physical sensation of possessing our Land. I readily admit that I rode a few times, but most of the distance was by foot, and the entire experience was indescribably thrilling.
This year, I really planned. Dressed in a long heavy cotton skirt, a long-sleeved, high-necked blouse, topped with a Givati-purple* commemorative t-shirt and a very wide-brimmed hat, slathered with sun screen, shod in proper walking shoes, with back-up sturdy sandals and clean socks, water, fruit and yogurt in my bag and a camera in my pocketbook - I was prepared. This time I walked from Shilo to Ofra, the only difficulty being a lack of toilet facilities, inhibiting drinking, so when someone offered a shuttle to the Ofra gas station and back, I got in the van.
My "grand plan" was to get to Ofra by foot and then rejoin the march in Jerusalem. I was the oldest female walking, so whatever I accomplished put me "first place" in my category. My daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter were about to drive to Jerusalem as we got to Ofra, so I accompanied them to Pisgat Ze'ev, the first Jerusalem neighborhood on the route. Then, in my marching costume, I entered the Pisgat Ze'ev mall and ate a proper restaurant lunch of spinach quiche and salad. Via the cellphone, I was able to know when and where to meet up with the group. Due to army pressure, the walking part was shortened and they arrived in Pisgat Ze'ev by bus. I hadn't really missed much. So far, it was nothing special of a day, though lunch was good. You know what they say about "second times".
I must admit that I rode on the highway from Pisgat Ze'ev to French Hill, since I don't like breathing the pollution from the cars. There, in French Hill, we were gathered and told of the final route. We were to walk straight to the Old City, to Sha'ar Shechem, the Damascus Gate, and then straight through the Arab market to the Kotel (the Western Wall).
Armed with Israeli and Shilo flags, we sang as we marched. Then, suddenly it seemed, we were at Sha'ar Shechem, a place most Israelis avoid, even those who feel very comfortable walking to the Kotel; there are more welcoming routes. Instead of going straight in, the men and boys began to sing and dance, praising G-d, "v'shavu banim l'gvulam" ("and your sons have returned to their furthest borders"). Tears of joy. I felt transported to the day in 1967 when I saw the television newscast of the Israeli paratroopers crying and praying at the Kotel.
The singing continued as we marched, proud and strong, through the crowded market to the Kotel. We felt safe, at home. The Arabs opened up paths for us, just like when Nachshon stepped into the Red Sea, and the sea opened up for him and B'nei Yisrael.
The second time was even better than the first.
Note:
* The different branches of the Israeli army are recognized by the colors of their berets. For instance, the paratroopers have a dark red beret, the tank corps, a black one, and the Givati Brigade has a deep, strong purple beret.