Spiritual Uplifting

The Tzfat Klezmer Festival

Two thirty a.m. Four pairs of muddy boots embark on a trek. Destination Tzfat. The night was electric; crisp Kinneret air filled our lungs as the buses emptied. The Klezmerim have returned.

Touched down in the land of Kaballistic rite in the middle of the hallowed night. Twisted war scarred alleys lined with glowing candles welcomed our arrival. As we trod the footsteps of legends past, we were witness to how the shells of modern steel could tear at the skin of this holy city but could never challenge the soul, and could never fully bring it down to our corporeal world.

Now floating, sleeping bags in hand, we knew those thoughts had to be temporarily put away as we looked for a soft spot to lay our weary heads, to cuddle up with the Ari z"tl and go to sleep. Dawn pierced the sky like a razor through black paint; the festival had begun. We didn't even begin to realize just how many people shared our journey until we ascended out of the old city to the level of the countless outdoor cafes and local shops lining the cobblestones on both sides of Rehov Yerushalayim. Coasting along this main thoroughfare of Tzfat looking for breakfast, we all knew that this would be three days to remember.

It just so happens to be that masquarading as hotel staff or just a very confident lost guest determined to get his complementary breakfast, one could manage to eat very well at any one of the buffets in the dining rooms of whichever modern hotel suited your preference. It was Tuesday, and therfore Malon HaMerkaz was offering all your continental favorites. After enough cheese to kill three horses for the reasonable bill of nothing, the odyssey continued. On account that the bands weren't due to begin playing before seven or nineteen (depending on whose watch you were wearing) that night, the day was ours to reacquaint ourselves with the city and the waters of the Kinneret.

We came back as the bands were tuning up and Tzfat was getting ready to rumble. There were different stages set up in the cozy stone-clad town squares of old Tzfat, each hosting diverse Jewish bands simultaneously playing their different styles of music. As the sun set the sleepy alleys became packed with people rubbing elbows with mystics and locals, winding through the endless tables of vendors, stopping at the flaming food stalls or waiting in line for freshly squeezed juice. Crossing the old British-patrolled demarcation line between the Jewish and Arab quarters of Tzfat we had to pass a newly installed border patrol of a "spirited" group of Breslov Chassidim, whose chants of Na! Nach! Nachma! Nachman! echoed loudly off Her Majesty's now rusted and abandoned watch towers.

Three nights running from stage to stage on different corners of old Tzfat. We took in everything from a jam session of sixteenth century Chassidic Nigunnim, a three hour Carlebach revival, the songs of Rav Nachman set to hard rock and reggae beats, and of course, Klezmer. Any description, no matter how accurate, could never come close to capturing an atmosphere that could never be laid out in words. Originally thinking it was a weak but conceivable comparison, in the end I couldn't even think of denigrating the experience by calling it a Jewish Woodstock.

From the onset, we decided to put our cameras away as they to could not even attempt to capture the reality surrounding us. As the crowds were thinning out, we walked to the ancient cemetery near the mikvah of the Ari z"tl where we met an old local who told us volumes of those famous mystical "Tzfat stories."

The finale, winding up at dawn marked the end of the Klezmer festival, and as we boarded the same bus that brought us Tzfat was still glowing, glowing like the eternal memories of three August nights.