Where Rastas and Chasidim Meet: The Strange, Powerful Pull of Uman

Let’s start at the end. If anyone reads this column and comes away thinking I am recommending flying to Uman this year, read it again. I am absolutely not suggesting violating Health Ministry guidelines, or risking dangerous crowding at the holy, packed gravesite.

Now that that’s been said, we can begin. As my 40th birthday approached, my husband handed me an envelope. Plane tickets. Forty-eight hours from departure to being back home. He knew that if he didn’t put a done deal in front of me, I would never have had the nerve to leave the kids. I hadn’t left them for 14 years, until that moment.

Once in my life, I entered the gravesite of Rabbi Nachman. In my smallness, I believe what I felt there reflects the experience of hundreds of thousands. I felt a burst of healing. It hovers in the air of that place. I felt it whisper in my heart: "It’s going to be okay. You are good, loved exactly as you are, My daughter." I was embraced by blessed Hashem. I was flooded with love, acceptance, and endless containment. As if someone were saying, "I’m here, holding your hand with love, even though I know the whole truth about you. Because I know the whole truth about you." I felt like a little girl running to her father, waiting with open arms and a huge smile. I felt healing love. That is the feeling that makes this place, this experience, holy.

When Rastas and a Chasid Cross Paths

What hasn’t been said about hitbodedut? Hitbodedut is your direct bond with blessed Hashem. A direct connection, with no filters. You and Him. Hitbodedut comes from the root meaning alone, just like the hated word "isolation." Who among us has not had to go into isolation this year? And who among us does not need hitbodedut all year long?

And what hasn’t been said about dissolving into the great gathering of *Rosh Hashanah* in Uman? To be absorbed into the collective is to be one with the community. Together with the community. Included within it in self-nullification.

This year taught us that we can isolate until the end of time, but at the end of the day, if we do not act as a community and understand that we carry responsibility on our shoulders for the wellbeing of others, the plague will not pass.

About ten years ago, I received a picture from the gravesite. A young man, his body a canvas of tattoos, giant holes in his ears, his hair woven into dreadlocks, standing and talking with a black-and-white chasid. One picture that explains what it means to be absorbed into the whole. In Uman, you meet everyone. It’s not like being a member of the opera society and asking where the polite people are who skipped the concert because their throat was a little scratchy, and they’re too polite to make noise with the plastic wrapper on a lozenge. It’s not that. It’s meeting our people. In all our beauty and all our ugliness. In our joys and in our sorrow. The righteous and the guys throwing plastic chairs at the pool. It is being part of the great gathering of the dispersed of Your people Israel. For real. The cast-off and the wounded, the frayed and the ones who, had Rabbi Nachman not issued a direct instruction, would have despaired long ago. They all came to be healed. To hear soft whispers of boundless love. For years I’ve heard all the talk about the parties and the chaos in Uman. Apparently even the COVID czar has heard about it. He says it is not holy. Maybe in all his doctoral studies, he missed the courses taught at the school of the Jewish soul.

Balfour Protesters for Uman Pilgrims

Thirteen years ago, I more or less forced my husband to fly to Uman. I even cornered him with a 5-year-old child in tow. When he landed there, he called and said: "A nightmare. We’ll talk at home." When I came to pick them up from the airport, chasidim of every kind were landing there. Suddenly an older chasid came out, maybe 90 years old. It was hard for him to walk, and still he was carrying a Torah scroll. I was stunned by the self-sacrifice. If that elderly man was capable of going through that madness with a Torah scroll in his hand, then apparently everything I knew about the importance of this trip was still not enough.

For 13 *Rosh Hashanahs*, my husband has flown to Uman. For 13 years, eyebrows have been raised in confusion over the fact that my husband "leaves" me on the holidays. As if his being here on *Yom Kippur* would somehow make him especially useful. To that familiar raised eyebrow I answer, "Too bad. Raising eyebrows causes wrinkles." And this year? If there is one thing to say about this year, it is that nothing can be planned. Hashem laughs, etc. So as of the writing of this column, you can say that this year my husband is not flying to Uman. The truth is, I am terrified that he will not go. Not only because I am used to wailing during the shofar blasts hand in hand with my Efrat, but because every year my husband comes back from his date with Rabbeinu carrying treasures, diamonds. In Breslov editing, they call them "lights." I want that husband, the one who gets a full tune-up from Rabbeinu. The one who returns entirely sanctified, dedicating himself to the holy union of the Holy One, blessed be He, and His *Shechinah*. I want a husband whose service of Hashem is a burning fire. I want a husband who cried at the gravesite because he was overwhelmed with gratitude for our life. I want a husband who feels yearning for prayer all year, because "What was, was; the main thing is to start again from the beginning." I want a husband who felt he had been forgiven, that he is clean and pure. Despite everything and in spite of everything. I am not compromising on half-measures either. I want the whole package. I want children like that too.

So maybe a compromise will be found, and maybe a safe framework will be found for them to fly to Uman this year. Balfour protesters in exchange for Uman pilgrims. A nice tie for public image. I don’t know, everything here is political. But I am not worried about the chasidim. They bind themselves every day. They immerse, practice hitbodedut, learn, and try to live it all year long. So this year, the yearning to feel loved will awaken and intensify, but someone who binds himself is supposed to believe that his *tzaddik* is everywhere, and all the more so our blessed Father. Maybe it has been decreed that this *Rosh Hashanah* we are not meant to merge into the collective, but דווקא to be alone and try to understand what Hashem wants from us, because it is pretty clear that we are not getting the message. Either way, we must surrender and understand that it is not that Rabbeinu is not inviting us this time, but that the *tzaddik* too is surrendered before his Boss.

In any case, it is not the chasidim I worry about, but that tattooed, pierced boy. He too longs to be drenched in love, for someone to see the truest truth beneath the costume hiding pain and yearning. If not Rabbi Nachman, peeler of husks, who will see that inside him he is lined with love?

If anyone came away from this column thinking I am not recommending flying to Uman, go back to the beginning.

Apple and Plum Crumble

A very American dessert, easy to make. Thanks to the sweet fruit, I cut the sugar as much as possible. A winning combination of sweet fruit and crisp dough. Usually this recipe is loaded with butter, but this time it is a vegan version. It can also be gluten-free, with suitable oats. It is always served with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, which pretty much defeats the vegan idea, so I skipped it.

Ingredients:

One medium rectangular Pyrex baking dish

For the fruit layer:

2 peeled Granny Smith apples // 6 plums // 50 grams brown sugar // 2 packets vanilla sugar // 1 teaspoon cinnamon

For the dough layer:

100 grams almond flour // 100 grams oat flour (grind it yourself in a grinder) // 50 grams coarse oats // 70 grams coconut oil // 2 packets vanilla sugar // 1 packet baking powder

Preparation:

Preheat the oven to convection, 180 degrees // Cut the fruit into medium cubes and pour over all the ingredients for the fruit layer // Mix together and place in the Pyrex dish // Lightly grind 50 grams of coarse oats, so that you get oat crumbs but not flour // Mix together the dough ingredients with your hands. You should get crumbs // Scatter the dough crumbs over the fruit // Bake in the hot oven for about 35 minutes.

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The column was published in the newspaper "Besheva."