This weekend we went on a trip to Masada and the Dead Sea. Masada is on top of an isolated rock plateau that can only be reached by walking up 45 minutes worth of stairs, and looks out over the crystal clear blue of the sea and the Jordanian mountains beyond. The view of the sun rising over the desert in the morning, tinting pink the dry riverbeds of rock and stone that snake to the sea, is otherworldy. Standing up there looking out at the brown mountains against the azure lake is so tranquil, but the history behind the place is quite gruesome. On top of the mountain King Herod (who is also famous for the Second Temple, the remains of which are the Western Wall) built a fortress where more than 600 Jewish families lived in the first century AD. When the Roman army laid siege to it in 73 AD, the resisting Jews, the last survivors of the revolt against the Romans, committed mass suicide, preferring to die free rather than become Roman slaves. The Roman siege camps, as well as the ramp they constructed to reach the top, are among the best preserved examples in the world.

Masada today is the most popular tourist site in Israel. Every single Birthright group goes. It is where IDF soldiers take oaths when they start training. It has been declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO. It indeed is one of the most beautiful places I have seen, but I really struggle with the story and what it means to me. To gather in a place where Jews sacrificed everything for human dignity and the right to be free to express their Jewish identity is very powerful, especially in light of the upcoming themes of Passover. But a part of me wishes that the story that draws 800,000 visitors a year weren't so deeply tragic and violent, especially at a time when the fear of enemies of the Jewish people is so strong in Israel.

At the end of our program, all of the Israeli staff talked about what Masada meant to them. Most of the stories were sweet, but one stuck out at me in particular. Michal said that she took a group of American's up Masada on Yom Hashoah, the Day of Holocaust Remembrance. She was nervous about spending such a solemn day at a tourist spot, but she said that when the sirens that call for a moment of silence on that day swept the airs, every single person on Masada stopped what they were doing to give their respects to the day, even tourists across the world who didn't know at first what the sirens meant. For her it was a powerful reminder of where she came from and what sacrifices were made for her to be here. Above all, this is what helped me to understand why Masada is meaningful to so many people.

After such heavy thoughts, it was nice to float in the Dead Sea. The water is a cool glittering blue, its unbroken surface reflecting shimmering desert mountains beyond. It was my third time, but the joy when you first lean back and allow the dense water to buoy you effortlessly to the surface makes me laugh out loud every time. The salt burns your skin wherever it is dry or scratched, and your feet feel tender against the salt crystals along the sea floor. We took mud baths before entering the water, sinking in knee deep to the mud pools and spreading the silky black earth on our bodies to protect us from the sun. When we left the water, our skin felt soft and smooth from all the minerals, our bodies both rejuvenated and exhausted. It was quite a jumble of sensory experiences for one day.

This weekend, Abe and I hiked from Tsfat to the Kineret, following the trail that spans the country from North to South. It was so beautiful, and full of surprises. We started our journey in the cemetery behind Tsfat, where Jews come to take ritual baths and pray among the grave sites of famous rabbis and spiritual leaders. The cemetery is beautiful, with each gravestone unique and well tended to, and great big fig trees protecting their memories. The path led us down into a narrow river valley, the bed long since dried up, having carved deeply into the steep mountains on either side. Sometimes we hiked at the very bottom of the valley, underneath carob trees with lush canopies of shade, and other times we scrambled up boulders to walk a narrow path dizzingly high up along the ridge. We camped in the valley that night, under a blazing moon. The path gradually widened the next day as we emptied out into a prairie, crossing towns and grazing herds of cows. The grasses grew taller, bright yellow mustard and spikey purple thistle and delicate pink flowers that brushed our shoulders as we pushed back the overgrowth to find the narrow trail. More towns started to dot our horizon, and we trekked through orchards of bananas, grapefruit, mango, and oranges, stopping to stretch in their welcome shade. The final segment of our hike was a terrifying ascent, first up hundreds of stone stairs, and then straight up the sheer face of the mountain in a rock climb to the top, my hands and feet finding the narrow stone holds without my eyes because to look down was too scary. When we finally reached the summit, we were rewarded with a view of the whole Sea of Galilee, the hills of Tzvat where we started so far we couldn't even see them! We marveled at the view for about 2 and a half seconds, and then collapsed to the ground from exhaustion. My favorite though, was that halfway down the mountain, we found a series of caves. Eager to explore them, we hopped off the path to take a peek. What could be there? Bedoin tents? Ancient Jewish artifacts? We poked our heads in and saw... cows! It was such a surprise to me. I guess everyone likes the shade.

I am now in the airport, on the way back to DC, where I will be for the next two weeks. I am very excited to spend Passover with friends and family, and rest and refresh myself for the last stretch of my teaching year. Chag sameach, everyone!