Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel spoke about leadership in the way Moses took that role, saying “It’s a kind of men who combine very deep love and very powerful dissent, painful rebuke, with
unwavering hope.” These attributes certainly describe the way in which Moses climbed the mountain, with a deep love of God and for his people, and returned to find the golden calf; then powerful dissent and painful rebuke when he forced them to drink water that he had contaminated with dust made from the melted and then ground up gold. Despite his being so angry that he broke the tablets and poisoned the people, he still had enough hope to intervene with God on their behalf.
Moses’ presence among them as a leader was necessary for them to keep their faith and continue on their trek. When they could no longer see him, they also could not maintain the “vision” of their mission, and vayeira turned into vayar; they were overcome by fear.
What about Moses? He was able to maintain the vision and his faith. That is not to say that he was never anxious, or impatient, or ready to give up when it seemed the obstacles were insurmountable. He was human, and all these thoughts and feelings were unavoidable at many points along the way as he led these two million, or so unfocused people who must have been
continually asking, “Are we there yet?”.
The year I lived in Rwanda was 2014, 20 years since their genocide had occurred. 100 days during April, May, and June during which a million people had been murdered, were set aside for commemorations and observances. For me, it coincided with Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance, and Passover. Being the child of a holocaust survivor made growing up in such a
household a bit different than that of my friends. For starters, *no one else’s father had numbers tattooed on his forearm, “A” for Auschwitz 16986, stripped of his identity, reduced to a number; I
knew my father had watched his parents being forced into the gas chamber, his sister and her 3 year old son shot in front of him, his transport to Stutthof labor camp 10/26/1944, the death march to Veihingen in January 1945 and then he himself being heaved onto a pile of bodies to be burned. It was horrifying and unimaginable. Being there is unimaginable; but it was history for me, very
different than the experiences of the people among whom I was living. There were few Rwandans who had not been personally affected by the atrocities committed. It was too recent. But how
long does memory last? This is the generation to whom it happened; I am the next generation and it is a very different thing for me; my grandson knows, but doesn’t really understand. How then, do we honor the memory and still retain enough of the immediacy to prevent ourselves from letting it happen again? How do we free ourselves from hate and desire for revenge? How do we move on?
The president of Rwanda decreed that there are no more tribes, only Rwandans. He espoused unity and reconciliation. He was right; I knew this, and yet from my first days there, seeing the
genocidaires, the perpetrators, every day, in every city, town and village, I was at a loss to know how that could be accomplished. There was no room in the prisons for all who had been convicted of war crimes, so they were back in their towns and villages, tens of thousands of people, ostensibly doing community service. Maybe it wouldn’t work here because the mantra was enforced by armed police and military and people were afraid.
Love your neighbor? How? That is one steep and treacherous mountain, that of reconciliation, and it seemed to me there were ample opportunities to lose sight of those goals, to let fear take hold and once again let a golden calf lead everyone into anarchy. During that time, I had been looking for something, on a quest to learn if people really can move on from such an ordeal, how justice and compassion are balanced, and if it really is possible to do so without dying in the desert as is what will ultimately happen to the Israelites. The answer had thus far eluded me and so, despite my exhaustion, I bought a permit to go to Volcano National Park and headed north towards Uganda at the start of Kwibuka (genocide remembrance). It is the first National Park in Africa; there, in the Virunga Mountains, live the only remaining mountain gorillas in the world. I wasn’t sure what I was going to learn there, however climbing a mountain to look for something, maybe gorillas, seemed like a good idea at the time.
I had planned to leave Kigali early on that Friday so that I wouldn’t be driving my borrowed SUV after dark and of course, problems at the hospital kept me there much longer than I had hoped; another maternal death, and one I was desperately trying to prevent, an older woman whose abdomen was filled with tumor that was obstructing her breathing needed her surgery; she could
not wait.... Finally, I was ready and took a mototaxi home; they are motorcycles with crazy drivers, but I was in a hurry by then. I said good bye to Winston and headed out. It’s about a two hour drive
to Musanze in the north. Without anything going wrong, like getting lost, I figured I could just make it there before dark. I did not have a place to spend the night arranged, however winging it had seemed to work in the past. Of course I got lost. Of course finding a place to stay proved to be more difficult than planned; getting out of Egypt is hard. Eventually, I made it to the other
shore so to speak, had something to eat and got into bed.
I was rattled out of sleep by the percussion of water on the tin roof in the night, it only registering slightly at that moment. It registered completely at 5AM when I looked out at the pouring rain. What should have been a 20 minute drive to Kinigi took an hour over treacherous, steep, rocky roads, now flooded with all the rain. I was anxious to get to the meeting point so the guide, our leader for this expedition, wouldn't give up and leave me behind.
A man was walking along the road, waved to me and I stopped to pick him up. It turned out he was the guide. Emmanuel was 8 years old when the genocide happened. He stood and watched, helpless as a neighbor hacked his father to death with a machete in his own house. After a silence, I told him about my father and my family. It didn’t even happen to me, but I don’t know how I
could relate with those who murdered my family, much less forgive them. I asked Emmanuel if he wanted to kill the man who murdered his family, a man who he now saw and was living in the
community. He told me that he had a three year old daughter and that he and his wife were expecting another baby in a few months. “I want to choose life for my children”, he said, “the killing has to stop so it stops with me.” In Hebrew, the word for Egypt is mitzrayim; it describes a state of mind: it means ‘narrow place’. This was Emmanuel’s mitzrayim and maybe he had found a way
out, a way forward.
At the meeting place we had a cup of sweet, hot Rwandan tea before we abandoned our shelter and set off into the mountains. The road to the village in the foothills of the mountains was even
worse. There we picked up two others, Rwandans with rifles, for protection from the two-legged guerrillas who cross into Rwanda from Uganda and Congo to kidnap mazungas, white people. By
the time we set out on foot, three hours had already elapsed. It was here, in this village that Emmanuel grew up and met his first gorilla at the age of four.
In the second section of Parashat Ki Tisa, Bezalel is singled out because he has been endowed with a divine artistry, with skill and ability unique to him. This defined him; it defined his purpose in the world. In Exodus Rabbah it is written “At the very first moment of Creation, I prepared one person for every task”. We all search for purpose and meaning to our lives, search to identify
that one contribution only we can make; Emmanuel had found his. After travel and schooling, he returned to this place. He knows the jungle, the gorillas, and he feels a powerful commitment to protect this village, these mountains and all their inhabitants. He really is wise beyond his years, passionate about his “mission” and steadfast in his leadership and advocacy. He is their Moses.
We slogged through the mud skirting acres and acres of potato fields, at that point, not fully realizing that this would prove to be the easiest part of the hike. We tried our best to avoid
slipping in the mud, also not yet realizing how futile an effort this was. After about 45 minutes, we arrived at the border of the park, scaled a four foot stone wall, crossed a log bridge over a shallow
ravine and entered the dense jungle to begin the climb up the mountain to about 3,200 meters.
The rain continued, quite heavy at times, and it wasn't long before the raincoats we wore proved completely useless. As the altitude increased, the temperature decreased. The ground vegetation is quite dense and head high or higher in most places. Within the mix of plants were several kinds of nettles that sting on contact with skin and whose barb penetrates even mud-encased pants. The vines become entangled in your legs as you climb and actually prevented some falls and slides back down into the mud. There was water flowing, and in some areas you sank to the knees. Thousands of fire ants are seen in places using their bodies as a bridge across the water. For the most part, there is no discernible path save for that created by the guide with his machete. It is clear that it would require no more than a few hours for it to be obliterated, reclaimed by the dense jungle. We crawled, we climbed, for hours in the pouring rain, shivering, soaked to the skin, and covered with mud under the leaky umbrella formed by the trees in this rainforest. After many hours, we stopped to rest in a clearing and through the haze, I suddenly noticed the breathtaking beauty that surrounded me. Emmanuel started talking again, teaching us about the groups of gorillas, and how their families are organized. He taught us the distinctive sounds they make to communicate and what each one means and tried to get me to eat eucalyptus leaves.
A few more steps forward, through the continued driving rain, and there right in front of me was Karisimbi, the mother gorilla clutching, sheltering her 4 month old baby. She was sitting quietly
in her nest of leaves, intermittently holding him closer and looking up as if to ask for the rain to stop. She was wet and did not seem happy. Soon, her 3 year old daughter joined her, and now all three
huddled together against the cold and rain. I moved in and was joined by the others in our little group. We were silent, surprised to find ourselves, now surrounded by the entire Amohoro (it means peace) family of 19 gorillas; as if in a Disney movie, the rain ceased and there was a break in the clouds revealing warm sunshine. I half expected the cartoon bluebird to land on my
shoulder and sing “Zippedy doo da”.
Baby jumped out of his mother’s arms and came towards me. Karisimbi made the gorilla sound of happiness, a throaty, musical sound as she lifted her face to the sun. The gorillas interacted
with us, acknowledging our presence; they are awesome, beautiful, sentient beings. It is not that long ago that they narrowly survived their own genocide at the hands of humans who nearly
exterminated them. Here we were, welcomed into their "house", their community. Unity and reconciliation here on the mountain.
After about an hour, they disappeared into the jungle, the clouds and rain returned as did our shivering and we began the hike back down to the village. Karisimbi and her baby followed for a
while, then they too vanished without a trace. We arrived in the village greeted by children and looking fairly disgusting. We were just in time to interrupt a genocide commemoration. It is the first week of Kwibuka, and village gatherings as this one were taking place everywhere. Emmanuel
is a survivor and a truly remarkable man. On the drive back to Kinigi over that terrible road, I asked him how he viewed the idea of "unity and reconciliation". He said that harboring anger, resentment, and hatred were toxic, personally deadly. He said that even if he killed the perpetrators, it wouldn't bring his father back to him. He said that the only way to chose life, is to move forward as a unified people. Remembrance, commemoration, and respect are necessary, however, that is a very different thing he said, than living in the past. He truly lives now, for his daughter, his family, his community; he added that that was the only way his country would survive. He represents the “slave” generation and it seemed to me, he was on track to actually make it to the Promised Land. He understands the mandates of Tikkun Olam (repair of the world), and Tzedek tirdof, the pursuit of justice and peace; he knows that while “love” can’t be mandated, it is possible to begin by treating others as you would want to be treated.
Emmanuel embodied these teachings of Hillel and then Jesus, a living example to those around him. At the start of Kwibuka, I said that I hoped to learn something. I didn't have any idea that the lesson would occur slogging up a mountain in the mud and rain, meeting this remarkable man,
being welcomed by this amazing community of gorillas, and then arriving back at the village to see everyone sitting together, victims and perpetrators alike, remembering the past, and at the
same time, looking to the future as one.
With the approach of Passover at sunset of the full moon over Rwanda, there was a lot to think about as I prepared for it in the best way I could in that place. In order not to die in the desert as
the Israelites, newly liberated from slavery did, we have to move on from all our traumas. For the Rwandans, the mantra is remember-unite-renew and in that moment, it had been only
twenty years. For the Israelites, it was forty years and the mantra Moses taught was the same. That is, in the nutshell, the Passover Seder.
This year, more than ever before, because we are still plagued by disease, enslaved by war, hatred, racism, and anti semitism, environmental destruction, lack of adequate and equitable health
care, barriers to education, denied freedoms and basic human rights, I will wonder for all of us, are we there yet?; when will we be there?; and if not now, when?, if it is not we who create it, then
who? May this be the time we all realize that, as Michael Walzer said,“Wherever we go, it is eternally Egypt, that there is a better place, that the way to the Promised land is through a wilderness. There is no way to get from here to there without joining hands and marching together.”. Like the fire ants, when we join together, we can make it to the other side, the freedom side.
So pray as if everything depends on God, and act as if everything depends on you. Forget the golden calf…leave it. Even though our story started with העם ויר, don’t be afraid. Entrances to holiness are everywhere. The possibility of ascent is all the time, even at unlikely times and through unlikely places. There is no place on earth without God’s presence. As R. Gamliel taught, When you find yourself in a place where no one is acting human, be humane; when you find yourself amid indecency and corruption, find the compassion, decency and justice within yourself. Be that example. You matter. Together, we can create a different world. רץון יהי קן May it be so. Amen