MEMOIR
Battlefields, Baristas, and Korean Ballads
A misguided, musical expedition through Israel’s History
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We’re standing atop the Golan Heights, a short but trying walk away from a coffee venue. We can see the outline of the café poking its head proudly upward from the desiccated valley behind it. In the valley, you can visibly make out the border lines between the embattled nations. From up here, you can see Israel, Syria, Jordan and Lebanon.
The Golan Heights has played a fundamental role in Israeli history, and it’s a territory that’s still a major source of controversy today. It’s been the site of many battles, and its war-torn remnants still remain here. We’re each tired, hot, and hungry enough, though, that the history of this hallowed locale takes a back seat to the coffee and pizza place perched atop it. It’s called Coffee Annan, and we hike shamelessly up historic hills to clamber through its air-conditioned doors.
At the site of such history, the addition of this modest pizza and coffee shop seems almost blasphemous. Perhaps that’s why there’s a sign on the front counter that reads “We don’t have Wifi. Talk to each other. Pretend it’s the 90's.” The scales have to be balanced somehow.
“For he shall have coffee, but no Wi-fi,” I think to myself in the most godly internal monologue I can muster.
But still, the sight of baristas is such a welcome reprieve that we could hardly be more thankful. Our ancestors braved month-long treks through famished deserts so that we could have mountaintop cappuccinos, after all.
But on this Birthright trip, even wifi-free caffeine rarely comes without a little moralizing. It turns out… the battles fought here weren’t just for the rights to this pizza shop.
As we finish our pizzas, we’re ushered toward a speaker with a pre-written agenda. He’s a heavyset man in a maroon shirt, a beige hat, glasses, and a microphone fixed didactically in front of his mouth. The first part of his history lesson goes over smoothly. The air-conditioned lobby of this pizza-serving sanctuary has instilled us with patience. We try our best to huddle around him.
He speaks with the expectation that American Jews on Birthright are well-versed in Israeli history, and he’s discouraged to learn otherwise. His frustrations begin to surface when the open-ended questions he raises are responded to with near-unanimous shrugs.
“Now, does anyone know what military… uh…” he pauses for a moment to search for the right word. “…event took place here in 1973?” he asks hopefully.
“Was that when the Golan Heights was captured by Israel during the Six-Day War…” one of the women from our group answers tentatively. The answer emerges so unsurely that a question mark quickly cues itself behind it.
The speaker grimaces with annoyance as he labors not to bring his face to his palm. “No…” he decides on an ill-concealed sigh instead. “It was during the Yom Kippur war of 1967.”
After his fourth question, he astutely decides to stop asking questions and move onto the outdoor portion of this lecture/tour.
Once outside again, though, the overbearing desert heat begins to rapidly leech the caffeine from our systems. And those of us Jews with IBS begin to suffer the effects of undigested pizza festering in this relentless Middle Eastern sun. As minutes go by, we each find ourselves fervently wishing for a return to the coffee bean-scented sanctuary.
Instead, we’re guided through the crumbling battlements that have stood here for entire centuries just to be ignored by a group of thirsty Americans. What little enthusiasm people have for this outdoor lecture in its opening minutes dwindles to oblivion completely by the twenty-minute marker.
Slowly but surely, more and more of the group begins not-so-subtly seeking shelter from the sun as the presentation parades on. Neither the presenter nor our group’s tour guide, Isaac, bother to object. Once we reach the 30-minute marker, Isaac is right alongside us in the unspoken hunt for shelter from the sun’s rays.
The only shade that can be found up here, though, is offered by a 6-foot-tall tree confined within a caged stone wall. I can only imagine that the cage is here to keep this weary straggler tree from abandoning its post in search of more humane living conditions. Surely no tree in its right mind would decide to live here. Not even in this economy.
We each cram ourselves into the thin streaks of shade that meander along the crumbling stone wall. They appear like little tributaries intersecting but without any of their sweet, aqueous relief. We begin to ration our water bottles as the presentation continues stretching further and further beyond the bounds of our attention. Those of us who’ve finished our water desperately seek relief in the canteens of sympathetic friends.
As the presenter drones onward, an odd sound emerges suddenly. It’s like a dreamy chorus of distant voices echoing over the mountainside, and it seems as though it’s approaching us. The sound is inexplicable. Working its way up the infernal mountain, it grows louder and louder.
As the voices near us, there’s a feverish exchange of confused looks and raised shoulders between the members of our group. The speaker attempts to raise his voice, but the group’s attention had already fled over the Syrian border before these singing congregants could even begin weaving their way up here.
The light and hopeful chants continue in unison, and the speaker continues crescendoing accordingly. Isaac checks his watch as he struggles to conceal his concern. It’s unclear whether he’s fighting the heat, struggling with boredom, or whether he simply knows something that the rest of us don’t about the quickly-approaching singers dressed in all white and farmer hats.
Once I hear the word “Jesus,” I understand what inspired this trek of theirs. They move about with a holy grace and noses held obliquely toward the sky. They’re grinning so sanctimoniously that they hardly even seem aware of the ground beneath their feet. With a divine certainty and eyes nearly sealed shut, they allow their faith to guide them. At these heights, the approach probably isn’t the wisest.
They sing with angelic compassion and exude a love for all life, but they approach us with an almost comedic disregard. Whether they’re here to save us from the presentation that’s slowly lulling each of us into comas is beginning to appear unlikely. Whether they’ve even noticed this crowd of shade-seeking Americans in sunscreen seems doubtful. If they’re aware of a presentation they’ve just interrupted, it’s hard to tell by their awe-inspired ode to the cloudless sky.
“However, let’s speak about one meaningful player in the Middle East — Iran. Iran was — in 79 — however he wasn’t a secular one — who shared the ideology of the Shia — ” the speaker says aloud, but his serious words are punctuated by the ethereal elegies of the singers in white. The words are in Korean, but occasionally a “Jesus” or “amen” rears its head through the unfamiliar dialect drowning out our speaker.
The vowel-heavy choral extravaganza continues onward unabated like an 18-wheel truck over a tricycle. But instead of thundering boisterously down the I-95, the softened melodies float over the mountain with a laughable indifference to its unvolunteering listeners.
“If you are living in Iran, or living in Syria, and you speak against the regime… you will be arrested. So in Iran — and how you express yourself — we can understand and learn about Iranian regime — ” the speaker continues before being drowned out by another airy chorus of disembodied “ahh’s,” “ooh’s,” and “Amens.” His imperfect English is made all the less decipherable by his impassioned co-performers.
“However — in Iran — you will try to convince of the word — and the only person who can make decisions in Iran is the supreme leade — ”
“Ahhhh ahh, ooooo-ooo, Jeeesuus”
“And if you are a Shia believer — you will obey it — however, just to giv — ”
“Amen ooooh oooh, oooo, eee, yaaah,” the vowel-laden chorus in white continues. Isaac begins tapping a foot with uncharacteristic impatience.
After another fifteen minutes of this serious political lecture and an untold quantity of discordant Korean hymns, we board our tour bus once again and head toward the Jordan River. Following an afternoon of laborious lecture in the sweltering sun, and an unwitting worship attendance, the waters of the serene river are more rejuvenating than even the country’s most refreshing frappuccinos.
