Parshat Acharei Mot: The Olive Tree

 

In loving memory of my mother, Bryna Rouge bat Yechiel ah

Last week, Stephnie and I visited a very dear friend of mine who lives with her husband and two daughters in Bet Shemesh.  We have known each other since we were teenagers which, without giving away our respective ages, is a long time.

The family lives near some green belt land and at the top of an adjacent hill lies the monastery of Bet Jamal.  The name of the area seems to be derived from the ancient burial ground of Rabban Gamliel I who was the head of the Sanhedrin. 

During a pleasant tea on their front lawn, the four of us discussed hiking up the hill to a mysterious 'olive tree' that they wanted me to view.

My friend’s husband and I proceeded to make our way through a field and then up the incline to our destination.  As we approached the tree and were about to reach it, he asked me to close my eyes before entering the clearing it occupied.

I have to say that I was intrigued.  What could be so special that required such a move?  I dutifully complied and after leading me by the hand for a few minutes, he asked me to open my eyes.  The sight that greeted me was quite overwhelming.

There, standing before us was an olive tree that has been reckoned to be more than two thousand years old.  It has a circumference of over 8 metres (25 feet) and twisted roots that snake around the tree deep into the ground below.  It is truly a marvel to behold, as you can see from the picture below.  Words cannot describe its presence and form.  It was simply breathtaking.

We both looked at the tree and marvelled at its structure and age.  How much has it seen in two millennia?  Has it acted as a hideaway for our ancestors in a land that has seen so many conquerors?  Has it survived a multitude of brush fires that threatened its very existence?  We noticed that a fungus was growing on some of its bark, yet it was managing to heal itself.

My new hiking partner explained how inspired he becomes each time he encounters 'his tree' and the reaction of those he takes along to pay a visit.  You know when you are in the vicinity of greatness and this tree was simply magnificent.

I found it difficult to tear myself away from the spectacle.  As we descended the hill, we looked at the beautiful vista which took in the different neighbourhoods of Bet Shemesh.  Halfway down, we paused to daven Mincha whilst viewing the rapidly setting sun.

On our way back, he told me about his parents and how his mother had been a survivor of Bergen Belsen.  I shared my own family history and noted that his wife was also the daughter of a hidden child who had been saved in occupied France. 

Last week witnessed both the first Yartzheit of my dear mother on Tuesday and Yom Hashoah on Thursday - the day in our calendar when we remember those of our nation whose lives were stolen and whose relatives were uprooted.  Hundreds and thousands of years of history were wiped out in the blink of an eye.  Millions of human trees were torn from their deep roots, never to be seen again.

And all the while, this olive tree stood stoically and witnessed from afar the catastrophe that was taking place.  Another incomprehensible event in the span of its gargantuan lifetime.  Perhaps it cried tears by shedding its leaves.  Perhaps it felt that the people it had seen exiled two thousand years ago would never return.  Perhaps it just hoped to cling onto its own dear life by extending its roots even deeper into the shaky ground that had been its home for longer than the lifetime of any human being.

Two thousand years after the people who might have planted it had perished, their descendants whose own families had been cut down, returned to marvel at its resilience and refusal to be defeated.  My friend, her husband and I are living, embodiments of the second generation who have survived the Shoah.  She is Israeli, he is Australian and I am British.  Three wandering Jews and a tree which has never left its place of origin.  Is that not a description of what is means to be a Jew?

The olive tree, whose outstretched roots allowed us to sit in its lap reminded us that it was one of us.  There have been many who would have liked to wrench our roots out of the spiritual soil that has kept us alive since Avraham set up his tent in ancient Canaan.  They have never succeeded. 

For we are like that old tree.  The more you tug at our leaves, the more we dig our heels in.  Perhaps that ancient tree is the perfect metaphor of what it means to be a Jew. 

Long may it continue to flourish.

Shavua Tov.