by nvpadmin | Jan 1, 1970 |
The vertical coffin faces me as I walk into the underground bunker below. The dusty gravel, dry, stale air and cool interior mock the hot sun outside. I feel safely hidden. Old equipment lies around in disarray and disuse. Syria can be carefully watched from the perched, powerful binoculars in front. The border has been quiet for now. One feels safely buried, like the coffin that greets me in front. Deep below the ground, this hidden bunker protects its soldiers. Yet, the coffin speaks of the thousands of Jewish Martyrs who remain behind: Silent. Deep. Hidden. Forever...
by nvpadmin | Jan 1, 1970 |
To the non-discerning secular eyes, one sees only hats. But a religious man will make deductions that a secular person cannot. He will notice that the scribe, the man with the glasses, is from Jerusalem. Only Yerushalmi, Rabbis, religious men and young boys from Jerusalem, wear hats like these, where the brim is stiff and is designed to stay up, where the edge is unbendable. In the 7th Generation, Chabad men began to wear the brim down and now, because of the Rebbe, all Chabad men wear their brims down, as seen in the other two hats. An article of clothing, like these hats, speaks volumes to those in the know. It communicates sect, place of origin, destination, and religious observance. These hats seem to move in unison, down through the centuries and into the streets, offering a familiar comfort and admiration to a tradition that cleaves so closely to rules, order and faith. It matters not from what country, religious order, ethnic group, race, sex or age we belong. Each of us wears clothing and accessories that define who we are and where we belong. Yet, the harshest judgment falls upon religious Jews who cling to a dress code, for reasons known only to...
by nvpadmin | Jan 1, 1970 |
by nvpadmin | Jan 1, 1970 |
by nvpadmin | Jan 1, 1970 |
The early morning light caresses the New Jerusalem stone. The old man sits by The Wall, at the entrance to the men’s section. He is unaware of the camera’s presence. He would have been offended if he knew the camera would be stealing a piece of his soul. Now, in his shabby clothes, that have clung to Rebbes for hundred’s of years, he appears like the beggar Elijah, when he returns to earth, dressed as a poor man, to right some wrong. His red plastic shopping basket accompanies him and serves as a prop that brings him into the present. It is filled with a few scraps of personal, practical possessions and holy remnants from centuries long ago. In his mind, he haltingly speaks of his travels, how he has journeyed through time. He has witnessed the burning flames from the Inquisition, has lived next door to Rembrandt in the poor Jewish quarter in Amsterdam, 1625. He has known the brutal cold and grinding poverty of Krakow that drove him out of Poland. His Hasidic roots and yearning have delivered him into Eretz Israel, the Home of his People. In his mind echo the languages, the sounds from his own voice, Dutch, Polish, Russian, Yiddish. Private images wander across his inner landscape. He longs for the whisper that can weave his story. But soon, he stops, leaving his last thought to dangle, hang, inside the air. His solid bearing anchors him to the earth and stone. His concentration pulls him into himself, as he counts his meager coins. Like Elijah before him, he is a Messenger from God, confirmed...
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