that's what goats say.

12.15.2011 Woodpeckers above me as I sit by the Sea of Galilee and write and cover my fingers with the ink of my broken pen. Yesterday we took a jeep ride through the Golan Heights, amid the abandoned Syrian bunkers and above the kibbutzim that were once routinely shelled. Our driver played techno for us as we drove through the uncleared minefields amid the cows and gazelles. Our guide, who grew up on a kibbutz on the Golan, spent weeks of his childhood in bomb shelters.

We then bussed to the top of Mt. Bental, where we looked down into Syria, the U.N. demilitarized zone, and Lebanon behind the mountain. A nearby kibbutz had fields right up to the border, and water reservoirs were everywhere - the Golan being Israel's main source, and the Kineret (Galilee) its main reservoir. The national mood is said to depend on the depth of the Kineret.

Atop the mountain our guide told us of the Six-Day Way, and showed us where Israelis, many Orthodox, successfully defended the northern border in a far outnumbered battle with Syria on Yom Kippour. To our North was a majestic snow-topped mountain, half of which was Syrian and half Israeli. The precariousness of the survival of Israel was tangible, visceral, as I climbed down into the bunker atop Mt. Bental. I was taken by the beauty of the struggle to exist.

In the afternoon we hiked to the Devora waterfall and through the valley below. Territory of nomads and Mosaic tribes - we could feel the wandering people as they had passed before us and washed in the hidden pools amid the lithe trees. The light was beautiful and the glow of souls was a delight to feel.

12.17 Poems by Rachel, and a visit to the waterside cemetery where she is buried. The wind in the trees and the whisper of her lines: "Kineret, O my Kineret, were you there or did I only dream?" Fishing boats on the lake below us.

12.18 Visit to the Sapir water site. 75% of Israel's water is recycled for agriculture. Some is desalinated, much of the rest comes from the Kineret. Night in Bedouin tents, a massive slumber party. Just before bed our guide takes us out into the desert to feel the voice of the indifferent mountains, the expanse, the deity. The desert is ready to devour us, and then we are called back into the circle for a niggun - I sat a little to the side, still overcome by the sheer volume of sensation, as everyone embraced and sang - I had this exact vision a decade ago.
We wake at 4:30 to ascend Massada before the sunrise.

12.19 "Jerusalem of Gold". Positively verklempt coming in to Jerusalem. A welcoming ceremony for us, complete with Challah, wine and the sounding of Shofars, at a park overlooking the old city.

12.20 Kaddish at the Kotel. A slow and holy sensation made completely normal by the company.

12.21 Mt. Herzl Cemetery. Here I see the first genuinely handsome man of the trip - his photo is on a gravestone. Our soldiers tell of Roi Klein, who caught and ran with a live grenade to save his companions, and one of the soldiers' friends has just died while trying to diffuse a bomb - when she realized it was going to explode, she also ran with it, away from her fellow soliders. Even as a group, we feel shaken watching our peers divulge the dedication and sacrifice of their reality, especially in contrast to ours. In the afternoon we visit the Ayalon Institute, a former kibbutz south of Tel Aviv where bullets were produced in a secret and quite literally underground factory, until independence in 1948.

12.22 The day in Tel Aviv, to which I will return on my own to walk endlessly and happen upon the most poetic manifestations of city life - a hidden garden that plays classical music, fantastic murals and street art, bars without a hint of hipsterdom. After dusk in Rabin Square, we happen upon a menorah lighting, and dance the hora with some local kids.

12.23 Yad Vashem. Still stunning no matter how much you read; almost physically traumatic. The most terrible image, from this new toned-down version on the memorial, is of a mother trying to shield her toddler as they are shot. The more nightmarish images are too much even to process. A beautiful curly-headed boy around 10 years old passes me by during the tour; momentarily glowing with the souls and the hopes of all the children gone. We go straight from Yad Vashem to the Mahane Yehuda covered market; it seems half of Jerusalem is shopping for Shabbat. Only after an hour of the market, caught in the full flurry of humanity, do I feel restored to the ability to speak.

12.24 Shabbat. A walk to the Kotel with our guide, 8.7 miles round trip. Had I known the distance I would not have walked in skirt and sandals, but the discomfort certainly lent authenticity to the pilgrimage. This evening is our last with Taglit. Our guide takes us on a moonlit walk through a neighborhood of alleyways and menorahs, understated and divine.

12.25 First day traveling alone. Still with a couple of good friends from the trip; we visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre and stand in line for an hour to briefly see one of the places Jesus might have been buried. Pouring rain; we splash around Old Jerusalem amid the tchotchkes, and sorely miss our free lunches and guide and bus.

12.26-27 Tel Aviv and Jaffa, a vibrant young city (1909) and its swank and ancient uncle (1900 BCE). Both exude the spontaneity of precarious life. Food is amazing here - shakshuka, Druze pancakes with fresh cheese, baklava and mountains of spice.

12.28-29 I bus alone to Ein Gedi, and hike for the day with a found companion. Ein Gedi National Park is a playground of desert mountains and oasis swimming pools overlooking the Dead Sea, which is an unearthly extravagant blue, and very unpleasant for swimming.

12.30-31 Jerusalem. On Friday I walk through Mea Shearim, an ultra-orthodox neighborhood and the site of some recent disputes on gender segregation. In a little bakery there I buy the most buttery-delicious rugelach, which I eat all day long. I am delighted to be spending the day alone, as I do not have to share a single rugelach. After lunch I walk to East Jerusalem to find a guide to show me a bit of the West Bank, after having been unable to obtain directions from the organized tour guide I had booked. I meet a fellow American in the street, born in the West Bank and moved to Chicago as a boy during the Second Intifada, who agrees to drive me around parts of the separation barrier. We spend several hours together, driving and discussing what he would consider an equitable division of land (1967 borders), as well his opinions on the settlements (they should be evacuated and handed over), Palestinian infrastructure and government (kind of a letdown), and Hamas (knows some pretty cool guys in there, apparently). The Palestinian side of the separation barrier has been extensively graffitied in English, including one mile-long monologue that at points asks for brotherhood and solidarity, and at others compares Israelis to Nazis. My companion and I are both nervous - him that he is bringing in a Jew, me that I will ask the wrong question and expose an inappropriate amount of support for Israel.

Shabbat has descended and the streets are emptying. I eat that night with Israelis - a biologist, a ballet dancer, and a computer programmer, in their thirties, unconcerned with procreation, and great company. In the morning I walk to the Israel Museum, which houses an immense and impressive collection ranging from ultra-modern art to reconstructed synagogues. They have all sorts of excavations from Ein Gedi and environs, as well as the Dead Sea scrolls and the Aleppo Codex, which is the oldest known complete Hebrew bible.

As soon as Shabbat ends and transportation starts again, I bus to the airport to meet friends who are returning on the same flight. After some excruciating El Al security, we ring in the new year with Golan champagne at gate D8 of Ben Gurion.