Meron - Woke Up Alive Travel Notes, 2006
A collection of writing from the filmmakers

Meron was something else. Like a big party at the tomb of Rabbi
Yochai, who has been dead for about two thousand years. He allegedly
wrote this book called the “Zohar” and started the whole Kabala sect
of Judaism. He hid from the Romans in a cave and meditated and
wrote. It was a good feeling to sit in that cave.  At his tomb, there
were religious people all around chanting. It was surreal with the
deep humming sounds and strong, serious vibes. I stuck out like a
sore thumb and didn’t know how to act.

We sat at this picnic table (the only picnic table at the tomb) and
barbecued. This wasn’t your typical picnic though. Hotdogs and
hamburgers were nowhere to be found. Various blessings rang out
and toasts and cheers each time a new dish, drink or person was
introduced. I drank a black licorice liqueur called “Arak” and then
chased it down with a spicy, grilled red pepper. Then some sweet
red-wine followed by a piece of thinly sliced lamb. There was hummus
and salad, fresh pita bread and spiced chicken, fish, beer and whiskey,
and many fresh fruits and vegetables of different varieties. Rabbis,
young and old, joined us at the table and we had many discussions
about everything from the natural world to the value of having
children.

We headed out of Meron after sunset, through the forests near
Kibbutz Sasa, a little tipsy and tired. Just past Sasa, the rolling
country road tightly (and I mean tightly) hugs the Lebanese border.
Besides the “Caution: Land Mines” signs, military patrols along barbed
wire borders, and an occasional United Nations truck, this area
reminded me of Appalachia. Like Appalachia at night, you can see
movement but there’s a little uneasiness as to who is friend and who
is foe. There were lots of shadows, warning signs, and feelings that
you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time. If you made a wrong
turn up the wrong road, you could really find yourself in Hezbollah
country. I was pretty sure, like the hillbillies of West Virginia,
Hezbollah wouldn’t be happy to see two uninvited Yankees on their
front door step. It didn’t matter how I felt about Hezbollah, it
mattered how Hezbollah felt about me.

We are at Kibbutz Dan now. Safe and sound. The uneasy feeling near
Sasa might have been just as much in our heads as reality. I’m not so
sure. That’s the funny thing about being an outsider in Israel; you don’t
know what to look for in those situations. Who knows what’s normal?
The Hamsas and the rabbi’s picture we bought as good luck charms in
Meron really did help us stay poised. We became more superstitious
that night and less critical of those that are. It’s kind of like a less
extreme version of, “There are no atheists in foxholes.” (It would be
another couple of months before I fully understood that one.)

Whatever becomes of this film is nothing compared to what happened
when the camera was off. I’m sure a lot of filmmakers feel the same way.

A beautiful supporter named Einav, who is enthusiastically introducing
us to everyone in the north, invited us to stay at her place at Kibbutz
Dan. Her friend Orit came over for dinner. More good food. Orit loved
the camera. She picked it up and was a real pro from the first time she
touched it. Jesse and Einav hit it off rather well. I think I’ve lost my
cameraman for a while. That’s OK. We both need some time off without
the tape rolling.

-Mark Blacknell
director, executive producer

Photo by Eyal Bartov