Next Year in ... Tel Aviv

Shalom everybody! This is my last letter from Israel – from Tel Aviv to be precise – and when you read it I will back, and Pesach will be about to begin (or may have just started).

The Haggadah tells the ancient tale of the Exodus – but it also looks forward to a future time of freedom. That’s why the traditional text instructs us to fill the Cup of Elijah, the prophet, who, according to the Bible, rose to heaven in a fiery chariot, and, according to the Rabbis, will return to Earth to announce the coming of the Messiah. That’s why it’s customary to open the door, in the expectation of his imminent arrival… That’s also why, at the end of the Seder, it’s usual to say, ‘Next Year in Jerusalem!’ to express this yearning for the future, which is also associated with the restoration of Zion. As Liberal Jews, we look forward, too – but not to a Messiah; to a ‘Messianic Age’ of universal freedom, justice and peace, and so, our Liberal Haggadah adds: Next Year in a world redeemed!’

Twenty-eight years ago, I celebrated Pesach on a small kibbutz, in the western Galilee, where I lived for thirty weeks. I can’t remember if it felt different saying, ‘Next Year in Jerusalem!’ in Israel. I’ve only returned for short trips since that time, and never been there for Seder night. My latest major excursion – just fifteen weeks this time – has stopped short of Pesach, but being in Tel Aviv for almost four weeks as I write this, has given me a new ‘take’ on those well-worn words.

Tel Aviv was the eleventh district to be founded outside the city limits of Jaffa. In 1909, a group of Jewish residents of Jaffa purchased plots just beyond Neve Tzedek, which was established in 1897, the first of the Jewish districts. But unlike those that had gone before them, their intention was not simply to build new homes for themselves because Jaffa had got too crowded. They had a vision of a new Jewish city; a new Jewish world for a new Hebrew-speaking Jew, who had left the ways of the old world far behind. Neve Tzedek imitated the middle-eastern style houses and narrow alleyways of Jaffa; they envisioned modern dwellings on broad avenues.

Legend has it that, standing on the sand, the group sent the children to gather shells, and distributed the plots by a ‘sea-shell’ lottery – to avoid any arguments. It is hard to imagine that, yes, where bustling Tel Aviv stands today, there were once just sand-dunes! But I’ve seen the photograph with my own eyes – a huge one hangs in the foyer of Independence Hall on Rothschild Boulevard, where the State of Israel was declared on May 14^th 1948. It is easy to understand, when you look at that photo of all that sand, the sense of excitement they felt at the prospect of building something utterly new – even if we know that those bare sand-dunes did not mean that the rest of the land was empty… far from it…

The point is that with so much biblical territory to inhabit – not least, Jerusalem – these immigrants from the history-laden continent of Europe chose not to return to the Jewish past, but to create a new Jewish future. Of course, they weren’t indifferent to the Jewish heritage of the land. That is, after all, why they were there. But they wanted to transform it. And so, they named their new neighbourhood ‘Tel Aviv’ after Nachum Sokolov’s translation of Theodore Hertzl’s book, Altneuland (Old New Land): Tel – a mound of ancient ruins; Aviv – spring; re-birth. Building on the Jewish inheritance in Eretz Yisrael, they were determined to look forwards, rather than backwards.

Not surprisingly, the ideal Jewish city the European immigrant founders of Tel Aviv envisioned was rather European, too. But just as they weren’t interested in returning to ancient Jerusalem, so they had no intention of re-creating old Europe; they hungered for a new modern environment for a new modern Jew; a place to be free. And the amazing thing is that they succeeded! Tel Aviv is a modern city. But not like any other modern city I’ve ever visited. It’s not simply full of all the features we identify with modernity – both good and bad – it also still holds a vision of an egalitarian person-centred society, which is practically non-existent anywhere else. Walk around the streets of Tel Aviv, and you will see that most of the buildings are three-storey – sometimes five-storey – mini blocks, each surrounded by hedges and trees. During the 1930s the architecture of the modernist International School, became the model of residential building throughout the city, exemplified best by the simple, functional style of Bauhaus. When the Bauhaus School was shut down by the Nazis in 1933, it was inevitable that the refugee Jewish architects would bring Bauhaus to Tel Aviv. As a consequence Tel Aviv became the official Bauhaus capitol of the world – and has been recognised by UNESCO as a ‘world heritage site’ for this reason.

So what can we learn from Tel Aviv – from the conjunction of Tel – a mound of ancient ruins – and Aviv – spring; re-birth? This unique city teaches us that although we must study and cherish our Jewish inheritance, we cannot centre our Jewish identity on reverence for the past; we must also look to the future. This is the central message of Pesach, too: Like our newly liberated slave ancestors before us, we are on a journey towards a new tomorrow. Perhaps, rather than saying, ‘Next Year in Jerusalem!’ it might be more appropriate to say, ‘Next Year in Tel Aviv!’ Chag Samei’ach!

© Rabbi Elizabeth Tikvah Sarah