Tales from the Tombs of Israel
Judith Fein
It certainly seemed odd. People who were otherwise sane, intelligent, and credible would travel to the part of northern Israel known as the Galilee to pray at the tomb of the first-century rabbi Jonathan ben Uziel. Afterward, they would rapturously report that they had met their soul mates and gotten married. Since I was in the vicinity of the tomb, I decided to check out the departed matchmaker. Fortified with a healthy dose of skepticism, I entered the tsyun, a low, whitewashed building made of local rocks, cement, earth, and stones.
Inside, the sepulcher was draped in dark velvet. On the women’s side — men and women are separated in Orthodox Judaism — some prayed earnestly from Hebrew prayer books and several deposited coins and bills into charity tins. Some left offerings, including bright-colored cloth, silk and chiffon scarves, plastic hair ornaments, and underpants. Underpants? I walked back outside more amused than inspired. When my husband, Paul, returned from the men’s side, I asked what had happened. “Nothing,” he responded.
We next visited a tomb in the ancient village of Meron, perched on Mount Meron with its abundant greenery and views of the Galilee. In the tomb rests Shimon bar Yochai, thought to have written the central book of Kabbalah, the Zohar, almost two thousand years ago. Believers go there to pray for prosperity, peace in their souls, fertility, and healing.
Paul and I climbed the narrow main street to the two stone archways with Hebrew inscriptions that lead to the whitewashed tsyun. Paul entered the men’s section, looked around, took a few pictures, and left.
As soon as I entered the women’s side, I began to shake and sob. A few women sat on benches, while others stood facing the walls or the tomb itself, praying. No one paid any attention as tears splattered the front of my pale blue shirt. I wove through the other women to the tomb, placed my head on the cool white exterior, and prayed and cried for healing for my thinning bones. I felt — how can I describe this? — as though my words were heard.
Out in the stark afternoon sun, Paul was waiting. I told him what had happened. He was surprised, but couldn’t connect to what I described. I hardly could either, yet for hours afterward, my tears welled up. Something had happened at the tomb of Shimon bar Yochai, but I didn’t know what it was.
Our next stop was the town of Netivot and the modern tomb of Baba Sali, a Moroccan holy man credited with miraculous healings. The site was large and institutional, with glossy pamphlets, wall plaques, and two rooms where people counted the donated coins. The whole thing turned me off.
Then a bus arrived, and a line of Yemenite women got out. I was immediately drawn to them, and began to talk to them in English, broken Hebrew, French, and gestures. An older woman grabbed my hand and led me to a booth where a man sold boxes of candles. I did as she did and purchased one, for about two dollars. Then she took me to a large outdoor furnace in which a fire was burning. She removed each of the 12 candles from the box. She indicated that each candle represented a family member or friend. She prayed over the candles, one at a time, and tossed them into the fire. I did as she did — asking for healing, romance, and well-being for people I love. Then my guide headed into one of the rooms, placed her hands on a tomb, and began to pray aloud. Several other Yemenite women joined her, praying fervently.
A small group of tourists arrived and began to speak in English about the tomb, saying that the architect who had built the Baba Sali center was buried there. Oops! My new Yemenite friend was praying at the wrong tomb! But the news didn’t disturb her or her friends. They continued to pray, then moved on to the real tomb of Baba Sali, where they prayed until it was time for them to board the bus. When my new friend hugged me good-bye, she put her hand over her heart and sighed. Clearly, she had received from Baba Sali what she came for.
The Woodstock of Tomb Festivals
I was on the trail of something. I asked the Israelis I met about other tombs. They said that the major annual event would take place a few days hence at the gravesite of Shimon bar Yochai. So, on the holiday of Lag Ba’Omer, in the merry month of May, we returned to Meron for the anniversary of the great rabbi’s death.
The place was unrecognizable. The roads were jammed.The town was like an Orthodox carnival. From makeshift booths, vendors sold crafts, religious objects, clothes, books, dates, nuts, and soft drinks. Families camped out in tents. Men with long beards asked for charity or offered blessings. According to tradition, if a couple cannot conceive a child, on Lag Ba’Omer, the man distributes drinks until he has served 18 bottles of wine to cure the barrenness. In the street, young men pressed glasses of wine on us. We drank, of course. It would be rude not to honor their desire for children.
Nearer the tomb, Hebrew music blasted from loudspeakers. Huge screens showed a video of the admired Lubavitcher rabbi. In the street, people handed out fliers and prayer cards bearing the name of Nachman of Bratslav, another famed rabbi. People were hawking wares and hanging out. Was this Meron or Woodstock? As soon as the sun went down, a great bonfire was prepared near the tomb of Shimon bar Yochai. A rabbi poured olive oil onto the logs and the bonfire blazed. Men in black began to dance and sing with fervor. Women danced in a circle. Everyone was clapping and stomping and hooting with glee in an eruption of ecstasy. Everyone shared food, drink, blessings.
The tomb was mobbed because of the tradition that men bring their young sons to get their first haircuts on this night. No women were allowed, so Paul decided to take some photos. It took him five minutes to elbow his way through the crowd. I expected him to stay for a minute or two, but he didn’t come out for half an hour. His face was flushed — he had been pulled into the dancing. He had put his arms around the shoulders of the men on either side of him, and kicked up his heels as they did. There were dozens of men in the dance. Paul found it oddly bonding, moving, and meaningful.
Suddenly I understood. This was not the cerebral, institutionalized Judaism I found so empty in my own life. It was an outpouring of joyful, crazy, irrational ecstasy. Whether or not I agreed with their brand of Orthodox Judaism, these people were undeniably moved and transported. There was no question about the clarity of their faith.
Faith, the key to it all. Faith made women looking for their soul mates leave behind scarves and underpants at the tomb of Rabbi Uziel. It was faith that I felt in the sepulcher that houses Shimon bar Yochai. Faith that I could be healed. Over the years, countless thousands had entered these rooms, praying for success and healing; a palpable energy from their prayers and tears remained. Through a brush with the dead, I felt well on my way to experiencing what was holy, spiritual, and sacred among the living. Even Paul had felt a stirring in his soul. Our trip to Israel was not in vain.
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Judie Fein is a an award-winning travel writer who writes for Spirituality & Health as well as to NPR’s Savvy Traveler.
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