Berkley Center

“Pace yourself,” my Israeli host family cautions, even as they pile a second helping onto my plate.

Tonight is Rosh Hashanah, the new year. The entire kitchen, from the counter, to the table, to the fridge, to my plate, is covered in food. The set-up reminds me of Thanksgiving back home–a span of generations gathered together, laughing and reflecting, the kids giggling with their elders, and my older cousins sneaking bits of meat off the lamb. As the savory dishes are placed in the center of the table, I am instructed to also save room for the honey cake and mint tea at the end of the meal.

Although I somehow manage to pace myself through the long, multiple-course dinner, the advice to ‘pace myself’ can be taken more figuratively. Pacing myself may be a useful paradigm for thinking slowly and reflecting on what the “high holidays” mean for Israel’s various communities.

The month of September marks an endless stream of holiday breaks from Sukkot to Rosh Hashanah to Yom Kippur. My host university, Ben-Gurion University, grants its students a long break. I am lucky enough to spend each of these three holidays with friends and with a host family (who I now consider another addition to my family, even if not by blood).

For this dinner, I am in the company of both religious and secular Jews, but they have all come together to say prayer, usher in the new year, and of course, eat. One family member says blessings over the dishes as they are passed around. They also explain to me the significance behind the bread, the salt, and the other various foods that are prayed over and eaten. 

Shanah tovah, or, good year. Wine is poured and food is consumed. I sit back and enjoy the sense of family and community that I sorely miss back home. When the festivities are over, I walk (waddle, more so) back home with my host family, laughing and enjoying the cool air. Even through my impending food coma, I am amazed by the communal joy in the air—music blasting from apartments, groups of teens roaming around, and a carefree look painted across their faces. 

Then comes Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. Many of my friends fast and spend the next 25 hours or so praying as well. Though not by law, most communities in Israel respect the Day of Atonement by not driving. There is no public transportation, not even the shared taxi services that have helped me get around the country during Shabbat. So, like others, I stay home and relax.

There is a hush to the air that makes reflection inevitable and quite welcome. Later in the holiday, the streets are filled with kids on bikes zooming around. Parents stray a few meters away, unconcerned and at ease after their services. Everyone wears white.

After Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur comes Sukkot. Though not a part of the High Holidays, and less popularly referred to as the Feast of the Tabernacle, this holiday still brings about a change to Israel’s usual pace. Little sukkahs dot each neighborhood I travel through. Sukkahs are tiny huts where families share treats in honor of the Israelites’ 40 years of wandering in the desert. Most noticeably, the city is not quiet, but rather filled with a different soundscape—again, laughter and joy.

However, this is not only a time to reflect on what the Jewish holidays mean to Jews. I have also come to realize how Israel’s public holidays foster a sense of co-dependence. When searching for public transport during these holidays, I use Muslim-operated shared taxis, as well as non-Jewish, Russian-operated taxis. Israel’s religious minority communities are clearly a cornerstone of Israel’s operations. They even impact when non-religious holidays, like Election Day, take place.

Elections cannot be on Fridays, because of Muslims; they cannot be on Fridays and Saturdays, because of the Jews; and they cannot be on Sundays, because of the Christians. And when you factor in religious holidays, national events, like voting, become a lot harder to plan. But this planning and adaptation is what makes the holidays so special—particular care is put into making them as accessible as possible.

As a Christian, I will likely never be able to remember the prayers from Rosh Hashanah, build a sukkah with my family, or understand the full depth of what Yom Kippur means. Nonetheless, I will always remember the hush and the laughter of the High Holidays.