In the world's holiest land, where each street name bears historical significance and ancient roads carry signs to the local McDonald's, sometimes the things that stand out most are not the ancient cobblestones, but the contemporary skyscrapers. Each time I return to Israel, every thousand-year-old synagogue in Jerusalem becomes exponentially more boring than the last-but a shady adult bookstore only miles from the Old City: Now that's interesting. Fast food and pornography are not holy, but they are a flashing sign that reads "This is where we live," in the midst of a thousand historical places that could be explained with the words "This is where we died."

This explains why the holiest moment I found in the land of my biblical forefathers was not while leaning against the Western Wall covered in tefillin and a tallis, but while standing against the wall in the back of a Tel Aviv dance club on New Year's Eve, covered in stale beer and cigarette smoke.

My cousin Yonatan, who works as a promoter for another club in the city and splits his time between soldier-duty and partying, did not understand what I found so remarkable about a bunch of drunken Israelis dancing together. But it is Yonatan and others like him that create the unique spirit in this crowd. There is something in the atmosphere of a land that has been consistently marred by conflict since the time of the Pharaohs that just makes everyone so much more laid back. What's the sense in trying to be cooler than someone else when both of you are going to be sporting the same green uniform and M-16 tomorrow?

For us Americans, it is almost impossible to understand the type of community that exists in the Israeli nightlife. Nearly every song played that night was greeted with excited shrieks as the partiers shuffled around the room to find new dancing buddies. The music was diverse, but personal preferences were set aside for the sake of the other revelers. For instance, it was only after he led me around the room in a conga-line that my cousin turned to me and said, "You hear this band? They totally suck!"

The old clich of "work hard, play hard" has never seemed more real. Everyone in the room seemed to be united by one goal: to party as hard and as long as possible. When a group of tired partiers moved to the couches to catch a quick nap, another group woke up and stumbled back onto the floor to take over their post. The incredible energy never let up until the club closed at 6 a.m.

Yonatan is lucky. It is Saturday night, and he doesn't need to report back to base until eight in the morning on Sunday. My cousin Lee, on the other hand, is forced to exit the club a bit before closing time since she has to be at her base by six. Granted, they do not put their country in peril by being hungover the next morning. Lee is still in basic training and Yonatan's job consists of filling out the necessary paperwork to make sure that soldiers leave the army on time (or, as his older brother puts it: "He is like a-how do you say?-coffee bitch."). Sure his main pleasure in life is partying, but there is no lack of pride in Yonatan's voice as he tells me about the reaction he now gets from people when he walks down the street in his uniform.

"The old people, they are not scared of me anymore," he says.

Although Israelis make jokes about some army jobs, there is no disrespect for any soldier in the army, no matter the specific job. The standard issue M-16 bears a constant reminder that when push comes to shove, as it very often has in that area, everyone's job becomes the same-to protect Israel.

Among other things, I recognized the aura of the club as something that I've found, although rarely, at Brandeis parties. In a way, Brandeis is sort of like the Israel of colleges; we're small, mostly Jewish, and we always have something to worry about.

Like the Israelis, we all have a share in our own unique culture. It is not a coincidence that the best parties of the year often come around finals time; this is when we are too overworked to care about what we do. But we should learn to let loose even before we are at our highest stress level. As in Israel, unwinding should just be a way of life. We should be proud of the jobs we are doing and even a little scared. We're not like the Israeli soldiers, who wake up everyday with the specter of death looming. But the thing that hangs over our heads is also scary: responsibility.

So Brandeis readers, it is not the hyper-competitive, "Hey, look at me!" party culture of America that we should try to emulate, but the "no day but today" spirit of the Israeli nightclubs. Somewhere beneath Brandeis' divisive social scene lies the possibility of a campus that is united by its desire to let loose and party like mad-a virtual land of milk and hunnies. If holiness can be found in the nightclubs of Israel, then we may be able to find in our party lives something equally elusive: some real fun.