FINDING YOUR BROTHERS

 

FINDING YOUR BROTHERS

"And Joseph went after his brethren,

and found them in Dotan." (Genesis 37:17)

This is a personal story about a 10-K race.  Ostensibly an ordinary race that began in Judea-Samaria, in a village called Dotan but turned out to be a memoir of self determination and more importantly, a discovery of brotherhood.  A brotherhood built out of respect and love, where brothers and the Givati Brigade always watch each other’s backs.

The other day, I was in Khadera, waiting for a bus to take me to an ordinary race in a place called Mevo Dotan.  Also waiting, sitting next to me were three soldiers.  They were young, but had a tough look and they all sported a battle ribbon on their chests.  I saw from their shoulder patch that they belonged to the Givati Brigade, an elite battle-hardened infantry unit.  Maybe this race was not going to be so ordinary.

I had signed up for a 10-kilometer race, about 6 1/2 miles.  For sure, no big deal, but it turned out for me to be a big deal, on a couple of different levels. I’m an experienced runner.   I probably started jogging or running back in 1982 when I was living in Southfield, Michigan.  And I have been doing that ever since…5-K’s, 10-K’s and all of the way up to half marathons, my limit.

One of the things that made this race different was the setting: we were going to start out from the village of Mevo Dotan which is located in the northern Shomron or if you will, Samaria or if you are of another mindset – the West Bank, and according to the Oslo Accords II of 1995, Area C of the "Disputed Territories".

Area C comprises about 60 percent of the Judea-Samaria and is entirely under Israeli control.  But in and amongst Area C are the Palestinian Areas A and B.  Area A is completely controlled by the Palestinian Authority and is verboten to Israelis.   When you leave the confines of Mevo Dotan this is the warning sign that one sees; and for a newcomer to the Territories, it is chilling reminder of imminent danger.

Mevo Dotan sits on top of a hill.  About 600 people live there, maybe 100 families, religious and secular.  Because of this mix of customs and traditions it was interesting to see how the community worked out a particular aspect of Halacha, Jewish Religious Law, in regard to their swimming pool.

I arrived early and it was hot, approaching 90 degrees. I was directed to the swimming pool in order to take a dip in the pool.  However, when I got there, I was told that entrance to the pool for me would have to wait another 2 hours because now the pool was reserved only for women, no mixed gender swimming until then.

Disappointed but undeterred, I asked at the concession stand if they sell any beer.  “Sure, a half liter of Heinekens for 15 shekels”, said the manager.  I’m easy; that’s a very good price, about four dollars for an imported ice cold 17 ounce can and plastic cup and some sliced pickles. It is important in this climate to stay hydrated and for me to maintain my moisture balance.

About two hours before race time I went back to the village center and saw that the small, no frills synagogue was open.  I went inside.  It was lovely; it was welcoming; it was “Hamish” as they say in Yiddish.  I picked up a prayer book and davened Mincha, the afternoon prayer… what a glorious feeling.

Like I said, I’ve been to many races.  One of the very best for me is a 5 mile race in Brooklyn hosted by a boy’s Catholic high school.  I love that race, but no Mincha there, and no Mincha anywhere else except in this beautiful little shul in northern Samaria, a place considered illegal by the world community except for us Israeli Jews.

There were about 350 participants in the race, most of whom were soldiers.  Many races begin with the bang of a starter’s pistol.  What would they do here, I wondered?  Then I’m thinking, silly boy, if this group hears a gunshot everyone will dive for cover or grab for a weapon

When it comes to races, I have a peculiar superstition, which I do not ordinarily share with others, but with you I will make an exception.  When you sign up for a race you are given a bib with a race number that serves as your ID.  I always try to make my race number into a lucky number, sort of like a good luck charm or a talisman.  There is a Jewish mystical way of doing this that has to do with transforming the numbers into words that may have a special meaning. My bib number was the numeral “2”. 

At first I was stymied and did not know what to make of it.  Then it came to me:  In Hebrew the numeral 2 is the equivalent to the 2nd letter of the Hebrew alphabet, the letter “Bais” בּ .  The first sentence in the Book of Genesis, the first book of the Bible, starts with the letter Bais, “In the Beginning…”  The bib number was a definite winner and a good omen for what surely was to come.  In any event it put a smile on my face.

 By now it was towards dusk and a little bit cooler, and time to gather at the starting line.  One of the other runners looked at my bib number and commented: “I see that you are sheini (numeral 2 in Hebrew), but where is rishon (numeral 1)?”  I told him that I didn’t know but pointed to shlishi (numeral 3) who was a short distance away.  He kept looking at my number and said: “Ah, the letter Bais as in the start of the Book of Genesis.  It is a lucky number.  Mazel tov.  This blew me away.  Here I was with a perfect stranger, who without batting an eye made the same calculation as I had done.  Then it dawned on me; I’m in Israel with a bunch of other Jews, and we are not perfect strangers; we are brothers.

The race manager wished us luck, and off we go.  At 75 years of age, I was the oldest and pretty close the slowest of all the runners.  It only took a couple of minutes to find myself at the back of the pack which had quickly disappeared from view.  We ran along a two lane road, running in a westward direction to another settlement village called Hermesh where the race will end.  Midway between the starting point here at Mevo Dotan lay the small Arab village of Imreihah.  

There were water stops at 2-kilometer intervals, protected by the IDF.  And always behind the pack you hear the rumbling of Land Rover size military vehicles, another layer of protection.  For the majority of the race I was running mostly by myself, sometimes with a couple of other stragglers.  Ah, the lonliness of the long distance runner.

The sun began to set; evening was approaching.

All along the route were well-wishers, “Kol kavod”; all honor they cried.   At one point I passed a dozen or so soldiers in full battle dress who gave words of encouragement.  Boy, did that sound good.  But in retrospect, I should have been giving them words of encouragement.  I don’t know what they were doing out there, but it was not to take a pleasant stroll in the park.

By the time we reached the race's halfway point it was already nightfall. Because of the shoulder's unevenness I ran on the edge of the road and stumbled on a reflector but luckily regained my balance. There was oncoming traffic and it was becoming a little dangerous. And to add to this mix, just around the bend, looming up ahead on a long steep rise was the Arab hilltop village of Imreihah.

The road began to wind; the hills began to climb, and those hills were a killer, and so was the heat. I had not trained for hills; Nahariya where I live is flat.  Shame on me. My breathing was ragged; I was thirsty, my mouth was dry, and the muscles in my thighs were screaming. What the hell was I doing out here? However, time to move on.

Imreihah may have been quaint, but I could not see much in the dark. I could, however, make out the sullen faces of Imreihah's residents. They lined the road; I'm sure that the least they wished for was that we would be gone, and they were definitely not happy to see our military escort…life in the Territories.

The race concluded at Hermesh.  There was plenty of water, popsicles and apples.  I was drenched in my own perspiration and sucked down a couple of bottles of water in short order.  For two more hours my mouth was dry and I kept on drinking.  On the train ride back to Nahariya, my home, I got to thinking: Joseph went to Dotan to find his brothers, and that is just what I did.  I found a little about myself and much about all my brothers in Dotan…Baruch Hashem.