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My summer at Szarvas in Hungary, a camp unlike any other
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BY: SARAH JACOBSON Irving I. Stone Editorial Intern
The summer before my junior year of high school, I was accepted to spend 14 days at a camp in Szarvas, a remote town that was a several-hour drive from Budapest, Hungary.
Along with 19 other Americans, I would be introduced to hundreds of campers hailing from all over Eastern Europe and Israel. Aside from this unique opportunity to learn about other cultures, the camp had a particular goal: to educate young Jews about our shared heritage.
My Jewish identity was formed by visits to Israel, Hebrew school, Shabbat dinners, observance of important holidays, and very enthusiastic parents. It was, I later realized, a Jewish-bubble upbringing.
In Szarvas, I was introduced to an entirely different world.
This world opened up immediately. We quickly realized that most of the international campers our age spoke English, and new friendships started to form. During free time, I would wander over to my Hungarian friend Gonzci, who gave me lessons on the correct pronunciation of Hungarian slang that I endlessly butchered. I visited Benny, and as we lay in the grass near his cabin listening to European techno music, he confided his plans for the future: to one day leave Hungary and become a pilot for the Israeli Defense Forces. I would take walks with my 11-year-old Polish friend Tommy, who would tell me to watch out for his big debut in America someday as an actor.
We were kept busy with activities. One day might include a game of water polo with the Romanians, a soccer game with the girls from Kaliningrad, learning sessions with some of the Russian and Polish kids, or a visit to the art shack with Serbian teens. We ate all of our meals divided by country, and it was only during this rare separation that the differences in age and nationality, forgotten throughout the day, were reestablished. To our left sat young Russian children who whined to their counselors about the food they were given. To our right sat boisterous Polish teens who always seemed to be telling jokes. A walk to the bathroom took you through five or six different countries. Once we had eaten, camp directors delivered announcements in seven different languages. Although these messages added a good 45 minutes to each meal, I was always fascinated by the exotic sounds and nuances of the words being spoken.
A few days into camp, we were all brought into the gymnasium for a dance. As songs blasted over the sound system, kids from the country that the song represented rushed onto the floor, singing at the top of their lungs and dancing the moves. The rest of us watched from our posts, slowly catching on to the chorus and awkwardly shuffling around to keep up. Eventually “Cotton Eye Joe” blasted, and my American friends and I, thrilled to hear something familiar, rushed to demonstrate the silly line dance we had all learned in our respective hometowns, presumably during our bar and bat mitzvah years. I noticed all the other kids were just as intent on imitating us as we had, them.
Toward the end of the two weeks, it was time for the camp “discothèque.” We proudly executed the steps we had worked on in the privacy of our cabins and belted out foreign words to songs we pretended to know. Dripping with sweat and sheer jubilance, I decided it was time to take a break halfway through the night.
I climbed onto the bleachers to watc
what I had been involved in minutes before. Kids of all ages swirled around, grabbing anybody they could reach to join them. Differences in nationalities, beliefs and cultures had flown out the window. Each person blended with the next. The meek, hesitant, distinct groups that only days earlier had stayed confined to whom and what they knew had transformed into a collective mass of red, happy, sweaty faces.
Amidst all the fun we were having, our learning sessions each day reminded us about some of the camp’s objectives. We became more knowledgeable about our history and current events and through debates and activities, about ourselves. For many of our new friends, camp was their chance to connect to their Jewish heritage, practice freely without fear of prejudice, and build friendships with other Jews around the world before they returned to their homes, where theirs was often the only Jewish family in their town.
One day, after a particularly engaging discussion about our personal Jewish identity, I asked a friend from Serbia to describe his to me. We sat away from the others, in the privacy of the woods. He took long, slow drags of his cigarette, his piercing blue eyes focusing on the ground between us. Using his impressive English, he explained how he practices Judaism with his family in his home. At school, however, he encounters a lot of anti-Semitism.
“They have painted my locker,” he finally said quietly, “sometimes with swastikas.” He turned to me, his blue eyes sad. “It’s hard in Belgrade. You have to be tough and mature at a young age.”
Holocaust night at the end of camp stands out more than any other. A few of these kids would learn the details of that tragedy for the first time. Some of the more informed campers, or those who had come to camp for years, used this night as the one time of the year to mourn with fellow Jews.
Learning about the Holocaust as I had in my safe suburban American town was quite different from standing on soil in a country that had been devastated by the Nazis. There it felt more real and much more overwhelming.
I purposely stood away from many Americans, positioning myself in the middle of a mixed crowd. We read to ourselves excerpts from survivors’ diaries that had been translated into all of our languages.
What started as complete silence soon turned into a low hum, as if we believed that greater respect would be paid to those lost in the war if their names were murmured aloud. All around me I heard a fusion of words I could not understand, but the emotions were so poignantly clear. The murmuring had a crescendo effect, and the wailing of those angry and devastated rang loudly, lasting for what seemed like hours. We eventually quieted down and wordlessly formed a circle. With candles lit, each of the seven countries we represented took a turn saying, “I’m lighting this candle for …,” and participants recited some names from a list of those who had died from their specific country. We ended the night chanting the Israeli national anthem “Hatikvah,” cementing the sense of unity I felt with such a large, diverse group.
On the Friday night following my arrival home from Szarvas, I sat with my family around the dinner table, celebrating Shabbat as we always had. This time, however, I was wrapped in the scarf that my Russian friend Iliya had worn everyday before insisting that I keep it. We chanted our blessings over the candles, wine and challah, and I tuned in and out as my family commented on their day and how nice it was to eat dinner on our porch during such lovely weather. My thoughts were drifting to some of the friends I had made at the camp in Szarvas. I silently prayed that they, too, would one day be able to openly and proudly celebrate Shabbat with their loved ones.
The meek, hesitant, distinct groups had transformed into a collective mass of red, happy, sweaty faces.
Along with 19 other Americans, I would be introduced to hundreds of campers hailing from all over Eastern Europe and Israel. Aside from this unique opportunity to learn about other cultures, the camp had a particular goal: to educate young Jews about our shared heritage.
My Jewish identity was formed by visits to Israel, Hebrew school, Shabbat dinners, observance of important holidays, and very enthusiastic parents. It was, I later realized, a Jewish-bubble upbringing.
In Szarvas, I was introduced to an entirely different world.
This world opened up immediately. We quickly realized that most of the international campers our age spoke English, and new friendships started to form. During free time, I would wander over to my Hungarian friend Gonzci, who gave me lessons on the correct pronunciation of Hungarian slang that I endlessly butchered. I visited Benny, and as we lay in the grass near his cabin listening to European techno music, he confided his plans for the future: to one day leave Hungary and become a pilot for the Israeli Defense Forces. I would take walks with my 11-year-old Polish friend Tommy, who would tell me to watch out for his big debut in America someday as an actor.
We were kept busy with activities. One day might include a game of water polo with the Romanians, a soccer game with the girls from Kaliningrad, learning sessions with some of the Russian and Polish kids, or a visit to the art shack with Serbian teens. We ate all of our meals divided by country, and it was only during this rare separation that the differences in age and nationality, forgotten throughout the day, were reestablished. To our left sat young Russian children who whined to their counselors about the food they were given. To our right sat boisterous Polish teens who always seemed to be telling jokes. A walk to the bathroom took you through five or six different countries. Once we had eaten, camp directors delivered announcements in seven different languages. Although these messages added a good 45 minutes to each meal, I was always fascinated by the exotic sounds and nuances of the words being spoken.
A few days into camp, we were all brought into the gymnasium for a dance. As songs blasted over the sound system, kids from the country that the song represented rushed onto the floor, singing at the top of their lungs and dancing the moves. The rest of us watched from our posts, slowly catching on to the chorus and awkwardly shuffling around to keep up. Eventually “Cotton Eye Joe” blasted, and my American friends and I, thrilled to hear something familiar, rushed to demonstrate the silly line dance we had all learned in our respective hometowns, presumably during our bar and bat mitzvah years. I noticed all the other kids were just as intent on imitating us as we had, them.
Toward the end of the two weeks, it was time for the camp “discothèque.” We proudly executed the steps we had worked on in the privacy of our cabins and belted out foreign words to songs we pretended to know. Dripping with sweat and sheer jubilance, I decided it was time to take a break halfway through the night.
I climbed onto the bleachers to watc
what I had been involved in minutes before. Kids of all ages swirled around, grabbing anybody they could reach to join them. Differences in nationalities, beliefs and cultures had flown out the window. Each person blended with the next. The meek, hesitant, distinct groups that only days earlier had stayed confined to whom and what they knew had transformed into a collective mass of red, happy, sweaty faces.
Amidst all the fun we were having, our learning sessions each day reminded us about some of the camp’s objectives. We became more knowledgeable about our history and current events and through debates and activities, about ourselves. For many of our new friends, camp was their chance to connect to their Jewish heritage, practice freely without fear of prejudice, and build friendships with other Jews around the world before they returned to their homes, where theirs was often the only Jewish family in their town.
One day, after a particularly engaging discussion about our personal Jewish identity, I asked a friend from Serbia to describe his to me. We sat away from the others, in the privacy of the woods. He took long, slow drags of his cigarette, his piercing blue eyes focusing on the ground between us. Using his impressive English, he explained how he practices Judaism with his family in his home. At school, however, he encounters a lot of anti-Semitism.
“They have painted my locker,” he finally said quietly, “sometimes with swastikas.” He turned to me, his blue eyes sad. “It’s hard in Belgrade. You have to be tough and mature at a young age.”
Holocaust night at the end of camp stands out more than any other. A few of these kids would learn the details of that tragedy for the first time. Some of the more informed campers, or those who had come to camp for years, used this night as the one time of the year to mourn with fellow Jews.
Learning about the Holocaust as I had in my safe suburban American town was quite different from standing on soil in a country that had been devastated by the Nazis. There it felt more real and much more overwhelming.
I purposely stood away from many Americans, positioning myself in the middle of a mixed crowd. We read to ourselves excerpts from survivors’ diaries that had been translated into all of our languages.
What started as complete silence soon turned into a low hum, as if we believed that greater respect would be paid to those lost in the war if their names were murmured aloud. All around me I heard a fusion of words I could not understand, but the emotions were so poignantly clear. The murmuring had a crescendo effect, and the wailing of those angry and devastated rang loudly, lasting for what seemed like hours. We eventually quieted down and wordlessly formed a circle. With candles lit, each of the seven countries we represented took a turn saying, “I’m lighting this candle for …,” and participants recited some names from a list of those who had died from their specific country. We ended the night chanting the Israeli national anthem “Hatikvah,” cementing the sense of unity I felt with such a large, diverse group.
On the Friday night following my arrival home from Szarvas, I sat with my family around the dinner table, celebrating Shabbat as we always had. This time, however, I was wrapped in the scarf that my Russian friend Iliya had worn everyday before insisting that I keep it. We chanted our blessings over the candles, wine and challah, and I tuned in and out as my family commented on their day and how nice it was to eat dinner on our porch during such lovely weather. My thoughts were drifting to some of the friends I had made at the camp in Szarvas. I silently prayed that they, too, would one day be able to openly and proudly celebrate Shabbat with their loved ones.
The meek, hesitant, distinct groups had transformed into a collective mass of red, happy, sweaty faces.
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