Month: November 2017

Yiddish lives

One might be surprised to hear this, but Yiddish lives in Israel- and not just among Hasidim.  Yiddish is the traditional language of Ashkenazi Jews like me.  Before someone says something stupid, let me clarify something- Yiddish is NOT a “mixture of German and Hebrew”.  It is also not only a Hasidic language- it has existed for at least a thousand years as a distinct language, whereas Hasidism has been around for about 400.  On the eve of the Holocaust, 13 million Jews- socialists, communists, Zionists, anti-Zionists, Hasidim, secularists- spoke the language.

Yiddish is an archaeology of the Jewish people and linguistic proof of our ties to the Land of Israel.  About 2000 years ago, Romans expelled Jews from Israel and destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem.  The Jews who weren’t executed were expelled or enslaved.  Many eventually made their way to other parts of the Roman Empire, where their Aramaic and Hebrew vocabulary became enriched with Latin words.  For instance, a famous Yiddish word (still said today even in Jewish American English) is “bentsch”.  To bentsch is to say the special prayer after eating a meal, coming from the Yiddish word “bentschn”.  This word comes from the Latin root “benedicere” meaning “to bless” like “bendecir” in Spanish.

As was the custom of European Christians for the 2,000 years of Jewish existence on their continent, time after time Jews were expelled as we were scapegoated for various social problems.  Other minorities today can probably relate.  And so with each expulsion and migration, Yiddish was enriched with new vocabulary- Italian, French, and eventually Germanic languages.  To be clear- at the time Jews started settling in present-day German speaking areas like Switzerland, Germany, and Austria, there was no such thing as the German language.  There were a variety of Germanic dialects (some of which are still spoken), but no unified language.

Yiddish borrowed heavily from their neighbors’ lexicon, although in some cases developing new meanings particular to their community.  For instance, while in German “shul” means “school”, in Yiddish, it can mean “synagogue”.  Hebrew and Aramaic also interplayed with the Germanic words.  For instance, “froynd” in Yiddish is a “casual friend” or “acquaintance”, similar to the Modern German meaning.  But in Yiddish, there is another level of friendship- a “chaver” (or “chaverteh” for a woman- that’s a Hebrew word with an Aramaic suffix).  That’s a real close friend.  And it says something about the value still placed on Hebrew (known often as “loshn koydesh- holy tongue”) even in the Diaspora.

As German-speaking peoples decided to butcher Jews during the Crusades and expel them from their cities, Jews went eastward.  Believe it or not, initially Polish and Lithuanian rulers (these countries today are more well known among Jews as places we were massacred) welcomed Jews.  Jews became merchants and built communities in Poland- and then all across Eastern Europe, down to Romania and Ukraine.  Name a country in Eastern Europe and we made our way there.

Of course the Slavic vocabulary lent a new angle to the language.  While the Jews that remained in Germany, Holland, and France continued speaking Yiddish- a new dialect developed: Eastern Yiddish.  Bubbe, Zayde, Tate, Mame- grandma, grandpa, mom, and dad- are all derived from Slavic roots.  The first two are to this day used by many American Jews to talk to their grandparents.

Meanwhile, Hebrew and Aramaic maintained a strong presence- perhaps also due to the fact that these languages were used extensively in prayer and in study.  They maintained such a strong presence that when Zionists aimed to revive Hebrew as the main spoken language of Jews, they looked to Yiddish for both Hebraic words and for Yiddish expressions to translate.  The modern Hebrew words B’seder, mamash, b’tachlis, chutzpah, and so many more are of Yiddish origin.  Which is to say- they are Hebrew (“holy tongue”) words that made their way into specific usages in Yiddish- and these usages were copied into Modern Hebrew in a way they didn’t necessarily exist in the Torah or other Jewish languages.

Speaking of translated phrases, did you know the Hebrew greeting “mah nishma?” is literally a translation of the Yiddish phrase “vos hert zach?”, meaning “what is heard?”  Even the famous “mah pitom?” is a translation (calque) from Yiddish.  If you speak Modern Hebrew, you speak more Yiddish than you thought!

Which brings us back to the language.  After the Nazi Germans and their anti-Semitic collaborators murdered 6 million Jews, most of them Yiddish speaking, the language was devastated.  Ashkenazi Eastern European civilization was brutally brought to an end after 2,000 years of life on the continent.  The language itself was feared extinct as the only remaining centers- the U.S. and Israel- were encouraging linguistic assimilation into English and Hebrew respectively.

In particular, in Israel, the government actually forbade non-Hebrew newspapers and theater performances.  Feeling Yiddish (and languages such as Ladino and Judeo-Arabic) was a threat, there was an actual “brigade” of volunteers who would go around shutting down Yiddish events.  I can’t think of something more horrifying to experience than for a Holocaust survivor to have a fellow Jew attack them for speaking the mamaloshn- their mother tongue.

Over the years, the remnants of Yiddish faded both in America and in Israel as Jews were told (either by Christians in America or fellow Jews in Israel) that their language was “lame”, “ignorant”, “backwards”, and (in Israel) “Diasporic”.  For all of Israel’s renewed interest in multilingualism and greater tolerance for diversity, I experienced this attitude myself when I posted my English blog in an LGBT Israeli group (with a description in Hebrew) and someone berated me saying I needed to write my blog in “the holy tongue”.

In particular, people have called Yiddish a “dialect” or “jargon” over the years.  This goes back hundreds of years in Europe- it was a deliberate effort by ruling Christians to demean Jews by insulting their language.  And sadly, some Jews internalize(d) this thought even though Yiddish published its first dictionary before German and tens of thousands of books, 12,000 of which are preserved digitally here.  Yiddish is a language with many influences, just like English.  It is a storied and beautiful language.  As a famous Yiddish linguist Max Weinreich said: “a language is a dialect with an army and a navy”.

When my ancestors moved to America in the late 1800s and early 1900s to escape anti-Semitic violence in Eastern Europe, they spoke Yiddish (one of them also spoke Romanian!).  I even found the Census records to prove it.  With each subsequent generation, a bit more of the language was lost, but it is still present today in my dialect of English, where words like “schlep”, “shlemiel”, “shmear”, and “oy gevalt” are omnipresent.  And sometimes need to be explained to non-Jews!

Yiddish has always acted as a storage device for Jewish culture.  There are certain things that just can’t be expressed in other languages.  And while Germans can understand much of it- there’s a lot they can’t.  And Jews can change their register (by adding more Hebrew and Aramaic, e.g.) to make it harder for them to understand- which is the point.  It was a clever way for Jews to understand their neighbors but speak more secretively if needed to protect the community.

Yiddish, as we saw, also stored a lot of Hebrew.  In some ways it kept the language alive over the course of 2,000 years.  I dare anyone who says Jews aren’t tied to this land to explain to me why Lithuanian Jews were speaking a language 20% made of Hebrew words.

In the end, Yiddish shows that Judaism is not just a religion, it is also a culture- a people.  It’s not coincidental that a few hundred years ago, a Jew in Poland could communicate better with a Dutch Jew than with a non-Jewish Pole.  Jews’ primary relationship was with other Jews.  There is no such thing as Presbyterian cuisine, literature, and language- because that’s a religion.  The word religion is a foreign concept to Judaism- we are a tribe.  You cannot fully separate the culture and the spiritual nature of our people- although many a secularist (and Haredi) have tried.  They are inextricably tied together just like natives living in the Amazon.  Where one starts and one ends is unclear- and there’s no need to clarify it.

Growing up speaking Jewish American English, I was always exposed to Yiddish.  All of my grandparents spoke it or understood it to varying degrees.  And it peppered my conversations.  It’s a very expressive and fun language with a soft side to it.  Despite some of the efforts of Hebrew purists to rid the language of Yiddish, I actually see a lot of it reflected in Israeli culture and language.  It feels comfortable.

A few years ago, I found a private tutor to start learning the language in earnest.  I then was blessed with the opportunity to go to the Workmen’s Circle “Yiddishland” program in New York.  There I learned not only the language, but also the culture- the music, the traditional dancing, so much.

When I made aliyah and moved to Israel, I wasn’t sure how much yiddishkayt- Yiddishness- I would find.  I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how vigorously Hasidic communities here are preserving the language- my cover photo is a bunch of newly printed Yiddish books for children in Bnei Brak.  With Hasidic Jews’ high birthrate, the language is about to make the comeback of a lifetime.  At the same time, I personally wanted to find a more progressive setting for my Yiddish too.

I’ve been pleased to connected with organizations in Tel Aviv like Yung Yidish (a library and concert venue in the Central Bus Station), Arbeiter Ring, Yiddishpiel Theater, and so much more.  I even got the chance to see a Yiddish musical based on the Barry Sisters last night!  The subtitles (which I was proud that I only needed occasionally) were in Hebrew and Russian.  Not a small number of Russians here also speak the mamaloshn- tribute to how international and cosmopolitan this language is.

To conclude, I’d like to share a story about how Yiddish lebt- how Yiddish lives.  I went to the library here to try to find Yiddish books.  I was disappointed when the librarian said their branch had none.  Feeling despondent about the future of the language, I asked what other languages they had.  She mentioned French, which I also speak.

I headed back to the French section only to find something curious.  A French book- almost a hundred years old- by famed Yiddish writer Sholem Asch!  In other words, a Yiddish book…translated into French!  I shared my excitement with the librarian, who was astonished.  I may very well have been the only person to discover this.

This is how Hebrew survived in Yiddish- and how Yiddish now survives in Israel.  Little fragments of a prior world integrated into a new form.  An immaculate metaphor for Judaism itself.  And I’m telling you- don’t count Yiddish out.  Because those sparks of Yiddishkayt are being rekindled- in Bnei Brak, in Mea Shearim, and right here in the most secular place of all- my home, Tel Aviv.

The most diverse Israeli day ever

Today, I did too many things to write a story.  So I’m going to list them:

-I spent a train ride talking in French with an Orthodox Jew of Moroccan origins who immigrated from France.

-I hung out in an underground pool with arches built in 789 by the Abbasid Caliphate in a boat.  And then I wrote an Arabic poem while inside!

-I met Peruvian (Jews?) and talked in Spanish about my friend Claudia who did Peace Corps in Peru.

-I visited a church from the 1200’s with a super hot Arab security guard whose smile and kindness melted my heart.  Can you say “return visit”?

-I bought a CD of Iraqi music in Arabic sung by an Iraqi-Israeli Jew back in the day who was born in Iraq- for 10 shekels!

-I talked about Ethiopian music and Sigd in a store covered in Amharic and Hebrew signs.

-I watched Karaite Jews pray Ma’ariv evening prayers.  Most of them are of Egyptian origin, so I chatted with them in Syrian and they responded in Egyptian Arabic.

-I made friends with an Israeli soldier when our trains got messed up and delayed and we had to switch lines.

-I did dinner in a mixture of Hebrew, English, and French with a Sabra and a French non-Jewish PhD student…whose family is from Guadeloupe!   We talked about our shared love of Zouk.

-I danced dabke for easily three hours with young Arab students.  A German exchange student came and I helped a talented dancer in a hijab translate dabke instructions into English (and a little Yiddish, which he can largely understand!).

-I then hung out with said wonderful German exchange student for another three hours walking around Tel Aviv and talking about life here.  He is one of the most open-minded, non-judgmental, kind people I’ve met here.  He’s not Jewish and I couldn’t imagine that a non-Jewish German would make my night…in Tel Aviv!

-Thinking no more cultural richness was possible, I hopped into a cab.  The Israeli man turned on the music (without lyrics) and asked me to guess where it was from.  Within 5 seconds I said “Thailand!”  I love Thai music and used to buy it at the Thai grocery store back home.  He was shocked.  His wife is Thai and he lives in Thailand with his children, only coming back to Israel to care for his parents.  He speaks fluent Thai- as do his biracial children.  He was mightily impressed that my favorite Thai dish is Pad See Ew- he says everyone says Pad Thai!

This is what I have to say- today I spoke English, Hebrew, Arabic, Spanish, French, and Yiddish.  Just last week I also spoke Catalan, Portuguese, and Farsi (with both Persians and Bukharans).  If you have the curiosity, the passion, and the will- you can experience more cultures here than you can count.  I live in a neighborhood where I regularly meet Iraqis and Moroccans and Syrians (Jews) and Burmese and Sudanese and Eritreans (non-Jews)- I even had someone tell me her friend is half Ghanaian half Filipina.

When people find out I’m a polyglot, they often tell me “what do you do with your languages?”  Sometimes it feels accusatory- “why aren’t you making a ton of money off of them?  Why aren’t you working for the government or the military or the CIA?”

You know what?  What I do with my languages is what I did today.  I explored ancient civilizations, made new friends, learned about other cultures, danced, sang, wrote poetry, and built bridges of peace.  I felt happy 🙂

If you can show me something more valuable or enriching than that, be my guest.

In the meantime, I’m just happy to live in one of the most diverse countries on the planet.  Where the combination of things I did today is only possible here.  One person today said to me “but honestly what is there to see in Ramle?”- one of today’s destinations.

The answer: “everything, if you’d just open your mind.”

Something my fellow Reform Jews don’t want to hear

This past Thursday, a group of Reform Jewish leaders from the U.S. and Israel tried to hold services in a plaza above the Kotel (Western Wall).  In an atrocious display of aggression, security guards roughed up the rabbis to try to prevent their prayers.  Sadly, Israel suffers from a deep lack of religious pluralism, where progressive Jews aren’t given any legal stake in the Jewish State.  Frankly, even a number of Modern Orthodox rabbis (including in the U.S.) have felt the consequences of this exclusion as the Rabbinate veers further and further rightward.  It’s hard to see how excessive state involvement in religion is good for our people- including our religion itself!

And yet.  I find something utterly audacious and disrespectful about the way the Reform Movement, of which I have been a part since birth, is handling this situation.  Prime Minister Netanyahu, who is not my favorite politician, is nonetheless the democratically elected leader of Israel.  In a democracy, leaders are selected on the basis of citizens’ votes.  It’s quite simple.  In the U.S., rather than a parliamentary system, we have Congress- but the principle is the same.

Reform Jews in the U.S. skew very liberal.  I myself am a progressive and a die-hard American-Israeli Reform Jew.  Name a Reform program, and I’ve done it.  Hebrew school, Confirmation, NFTY, my Temple youth group, serving on various boards, leading teen services, serving as president of my college’s Reform Chavurah, hosting the national Kesher convention, traveling with Reform students to Argentina, working at the Israeli Reform Movement’s summer camp, participating in the young professionals group at my Temple in D.C.  And on and on and on and on.  The movement’s values shape the way I see the world.

One of the movement’s points of activism is campaign finance reform.  I wholeheartedly support this endeavor.  The American political system is rife with corruption and the fact that corporations can essentially buy elections (and politicians) to me undermines the very nature of democracy.  You can read the movement’s positions here.

Yet when it comes to Israeli politics, Reform Jewish leaders in America confront the Israeli government as if they were citizens.  While I clearly believe all Jews have a stake in Israel no matter where they live, there is a substantive difference between someone who lives here and someone who doesn’t.  As an Israeli, you pay taxes, you serve in the army, you face the brunt of the government’s decisions, you take the risk of hopping on the bus every day knowing it could frankly be your last.  That is not how American Reform Jews live.  Which is fine, and their right.

But that changes the nature of the conversation.  When Prime Minister Netanyahu and members of his coalition have insulted Reform Jews, progressives abroad were rightly outraged.  But what I found astonishing was that for many bigwigs in the progressive Jewish world, the reaction was to say they’ll use the “power of the purse“.  In other words, to either stop donating to Israeli causes or to shift their donations in different directions.  All of which is their right.

But what astonishes me is how tone deaf this argument is.  For a movement that fights day and night to protect American democracy and to get money out of politics, how do they think it sounds to the average Israeli when Americans say their going to use their dollars to influence the government?  Israelis are already fairly unfamiliar with Reform Judaism, viewing it as an American import (right or wrong), so it doesn’t exactly bolster our case to hear a bunch of rich American Jews threatening the Israeli government.

I have to reiterate- I favor a pluralistic solution at the Western Wall.  I am horrified by people attacking fellow Jews simply because they practice Judaism differently.  My movement deserves a place in Israel, just like every other faith.

I just don’t think that a bunch of unelected Reform leaders coming from America on their annual visit have a right to speak for me as an Israeli Reform Jew.  I know our movement prides itself on democratic values- so why on earth don’t Reform Jews get to vote for our leadership?  Rick Jacobs, the current president, may be an awesome guy- I have no reason to believe otherwise.  But as they say in the famous Monty Python and Holy Grail scene: “I didn’t vote for you.”

I work in public relations for a living so I know the value of a good protest to raise awareness of your cause.  And I think that at least in part motivated this recent activism.  And the absolute idiots who run the Western Wall Foundation gave the protestors a ton of free publicity by harassing them in front of a bunch of cameras.

The Reform leadership seems to think that this news will galvanize American progressive Jews to take action.  I think they’re wrong.  While among the core Reform and Conservative Jews, this may be true, the other 90% who show up twice a year for services are more likely to simply feel alienated from Israel.  And decide not to visit.  And maybe even decide to distance themselves from Judaism itself.

That is a huge problem.  For Israel itself (not just the current government) and for Reform Judaism both in America and especially in Israel.  In Israel, we’re facing the fight of our lives to grow the movement.  Rather than spending money on public relations and paying for American rabbis’ plane tickets- how about you give those dollars to our movement in Israel?  Help us build more schools, more young adult events, and more communities.  And send more people to visit, not give them a reason not to.

In the end, Israel, for all its faults, is a democracy.  And in a democracy, it’s not money that votes.  It’s people.  The Prime Minister, be it the current meshuggenah or another meshuggenah, calculates one simple thing: votes.  When building a coalition, which party has how many seats based on how many votes.  If American Jews are really serious about changing the political calculus in Israel- and helping Reform Judaism thrive here- they should pack their bags.  That’s probably not a popular thing to say- I’m sure I’ll get push back from a bunch of friends.  Of course you don’t have to make aliyah, but can you imagine how different the Knesset would look if a million Reform and Conservative Jews made Israel their home?  At the end of the day, 22% of Israelis are Orthodox (though please, let’s move beyond stereotypes and realize there are bridges to be built here too).  And 3% are Reform.

Do I foresee all my American friends packing their bags and making aliyah right now?  No.  Although if you do, you’d be most welcome and I think you’d find Judaism and life here rewarding.  We have a growing and energetic Reform Movement as well.  In the meantime, let’s do this.  Let’s democratize the Reform Movement so all of our voices are heard.  Let’s allocate more resources to the Israeli Reform Movement so we have a larger and legitimate voice in the political system and society.  And let’s avoid too many public confrontations that force American Jews to choose between their love of Judaism and their love of Israel.

This isn’t a one-sided issue- to my Orthodox friends reading this blog, I hope you understand the agony my movement is going through because we are being publicly humiliated by the Israeli government.  Please help us and raise awareness in your communities.  Israel will cease to exist if the sinat chinam, the baseless hatred, between all of our communities continues.

May we come to find a day when the Western Wall, the holiest site in Judaism, is not a place of conflict or control.  But rather, a place of joy, a place of holiness, and a place of wholeness.  As my cover photo in an Ariel grocery store says: “If I forget thee oh Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its cunning.”  Indeed- in loving our holy city, let’s just not forget our shared humanity in the process.  Amen.

South Tel Aviv is the Best Tel Aviv

Some of you may know that a couple weeks ago, I finally found a long-term apartment.  Everything about my identity- being Reform, being American, being progressive, and being queer- should lead me to live in the more secular center and north of the city.  But I feel utterly blessed that I ended up in the south.

When I first moved to my neighborhood (whose name I won’t reveal over the internet), I was apprehensive.  I knew absolutely no one there and there were posters advertising Shas concerts everywhere.  There are almost no young secular/Reform Ashkenazi people and I have yet to see a pride flag.  There are no pubs, nightclubs, cafes with WiFi- it is quiet.  Part of that is the beauty of the place and why I chose to live there.  Though at times, it was so quiet I felt lonely.

Today, I had no plans for Shabbat.  I had plans Saturday night, but during the day I figured I’d wander around and get to know my neighborhood.  And then I heard a boom.  And a tap tap.  Boom. And a tap tap…it was a darbuka!  I stepped outside and heard loud clapping and drumming and singing coming from across the street.  Not the utterly depressing slow moan of westernized Israeli rock (sorry guys- I do like some of it, but mostly it makes me want to cry!).  But rather the boom boom and ululating of Middle Eastern music.

I’m an outgoing guy, so I simply stood outside and listened- and as seems to be the Israeli custom, they immediately invited me inside.  When I say invited- I don’t mean a polite “how do you do?” and offering a cup of tea.  No- I was ushered into a room of 20 people, given a Mexican sombrero, plied with food and drink- all while I danced with people I just met to beautiful, soul-stirring Mizrachi music.

It was amazing and overwhelming all at the same time.  While I danced, the uncle tried to get me to drink whiskey (I don’t drink), then the cousin handed me pitas with hot dogs in them (which I shook while I danced), then the grandfather told me over and over again to keep eating!  I was living my dream of being in My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

Then, the most amazing thing happened.  The family asked me what song I’d like to sing.  I am an avid Mizrachi music fan.  This music is, hands down, the most unique cultural product to ever come out of Israel, although many (sometimes racist) Israelis wouldn’t realize that.  This music was born out of a fusion of the traditional Arabic, Turkish, Greek, Ladino, and Persian music brought by Jews to Israel in the 40s and 50s.  It then used the best of the West- drum sets, synthesizers, and electric guitars to imitate traditional instruments.  Add in a dose of Israeli folk tunes along with elements of Ashkenazi melodies and voila, you have the first “world music” before “world music” even existed!

So as I stood there, the first song that came to mind was “Mabruk aleek”.  It’s an Arabic-language wedding song.  And there I was dancing, having an absolute blast.  As with most things in Israel, life can go from quiet and lonely to exciting and heart-warming in the matter of seconds.

I was told I could sit and eat now- as relative after relative brought me food and water and food and water.  But things only got better- I discovered my new adoptive family is half Syrian and half Iraqi.  And with the exception of the youngest generation- everyone in the room speaks Arabic!  I specifically studied Syrian Arabic in college in the U.S. with a professor from Damascus- and now with Syrian refugees on Skype.  It was a dream come true!  Everyone’s smiling with each Arabic word I say.  And I’m spending Shabbat with Jews- in Arabic!!  For an American Ashkenazi Jew, this is a surreal experience, and one I’ll never forget (though I’ve been invited to come again over and over- so I doubt it’ll be the last!).

Then we moved to another room so I could meet the other 15 relatives.  I was asked at least three or four times if I was married, but the final time it was because they wanted to set me up with someone’s daughter.  The first few times I laughed off the question, but now I had a choice to make.  In the living room where we were banging on darbukas and recording videos on cell phones (things Orthodox Ashkenazi Jews don’t do on Shabbat), there were also at least half a dozen pictures of a rabbi who I presume was Rav Ovadia, who founded the Haredi Shas party.  Let’s just say the party isn’t generally a big fan of gays, Reform Jews, or really most of the things that people in the north of Tel Aviv support.

So I debated internally and did something brave: “you can set me up with her daughter, but it won’t work because I’m gay.”  I looked around and asked: “are you in shock?”  And without skipping a beat, one of the aunts says to me: “oh no, we have that in our family too.”  I started to smile as relative after relative starts thinking of men to set me up with.  One of the younger relatives actually pulls out her phone, calls her friend, and gets me the number of a gay guy to help me make friends in the community.

After helping one of the men download an app on his phone to turn YouTube videos into Mp3’s (he loves everything from Eyal Golan to Umm Kulthum), I hung out with the youngest kids- two 10-year-old girls.  We danced to Justin Bieber on the street and made funny videos.

Before I left, I was of course given a full container of homemade Iraqi kubbeh and rice.  They told me to come by whenever and one of the little girls even said, “come every Shabbat!” at least three times.  They took my number and said they’d introduce me to the neighbors, show me where I can volunteer, and feed me a lot.

My neighborhood is a lot browner, a lot more Middle Eastern, a lot more Arabic-speaking, and a lot more working-class than North Tel Aviv.  And you know what?  That’s not only “OK” by me- it’s fucking amazing.  Because the 14-year-old me who went by himself to a Sarit Hadad concert in Maryland is smiling from ear to ear.  Mizrachi music- Mizrachi culture- isn’t something new for me.  It’s something that, from the first days of when I learned Modern Hebrew after my Bar Mitzvah, gave me hope in dark times and energy and smiles.  It connected me to my Judaism and to Israel itself.

Unfortunately, there are many Israelis now and back in the early days of the State who are avidly racist against Mizrachim.  Even Mizrachi music was banned from the radio by the government in its early days.  And to the surprise perhaps of some of my fellow progressive American Jewish friends- this racism largely comes from secularized “progressive” Jews of Ashkenazi origin.  The kind who write for Haaretz or sit on the Supreme Court- two of our favorite institutions.

But let’s move beyond the politics.  What I’m trying to say is my neighborhood- this is not where the tourists are.  This is not where the wealthy people are.  This is not “trendy” and it’s not French-Vietnamese vegan fusion food.  These are people who have fought for their cultural and economic existence- and are here to tell the tale.  These are people whose Sephardic Judaism has a remarkable fluidity- even queerness- to it.

God bless them.  Because when a lonely newly-minted Israeli stumbled outside his house today, he didn’t just meet his neighbors.  He met family.

Because for all the beautiful luxury penthouses in North Tel Aviv, there’s one thing money can’t buy.

Warmth.

Be a good Israeli and learn Arabic

Today I had some phenomenal experiences in Israel- only because I speak Arabic. Rather than write a post with facts and figures about why my fellow Israelis should learn the language, I’m going to simply share my story.

This afternoon, I stopped by a sandwich shop.  While the chef made me a chicken in pita sandwich, I asked him where in the neighborhood I could buy a notebook.  He said he was new to the area so he didn’t know.  I told him I was new too.  He lives in North Tel Aviv but happens to work at this restaurant a couple days a week, only as of recently.

After explaining I was an oleh chadash, a newly-minted Israeli, he welcomed me and asked where I was from.  I then asked him what his family’s origin was.  Turns out he’s Moroccan and moved to Israel when he was very young.  Not looking more than 35 years old, I was stunned.  Most Moroccan Jews in Israel moved during the 1950s.  He even grew up speaking Moroccan at home- something rare among young Israelis.  We switched to Arabic.  I told him how cool it was to talk to a Jew in Arabic.  In America, where 90% of Jews are Ashkenazi, it’s almost unthinkable to find a native Arabic speaker in your synagogue.  And yet here I was talking with a 35 year old Moroccan Jew in Arabic.

Wrong.  Amir (pseudonym) is Moroccan but, to the surprise of probably everyone reading this, is Muslim.  And not a convert- a Muslim by birth.

How did we get here?  So first off, Amir tells me he grew up in Tira.  I’ve heard of Tira before and I did some googling to double check- yes, in fact, it is an Arab town.  It’d be quite out of the ordinary to find Moroccan Jews living in the middle of an Arab village here.  In addition, while many Moroccans can get by in Levantine Arabic (the dialect I speak along with Arab-Israelis/Palestinians), he had a strong facility with the language and didn’t revert to any Moroccan-isms.  I’m familiar with some because several of my college Arabic professors were Moroccan.

So finally I asked him: “Tira is an Arab village- are you Jewish?”  I figured maybe, working in the neighborhood we were in, he might be afraid to reveal his identity.  He then told me he wasn’t Jewish but was most certainly Moroccan.  So then the obvious question- how on earth did he get here?  For those of you unfamiliar, Israel and Morocco don’t even have mutual embassies, let alone coordinated immigration policies.

At this point, there’s a Jewish Israeli sitting in the cafe too.  Moshe is of Moroccan descent, but barely speaks the language.  But of course, even though Amir had told me over and over how great my Arabic was, this other shmo had to tell me I don’t speak like an Arab- which is bullshit because I have a great accent.  Like most insecure people, he chose to take his own identity issues out on me (look for a future blog on Mizrachi identity).

Noticing the other patron, Amir turns away from him and leans in to tell me: “It’s a secret, but my family worked with the Israeli government and that’s why we were able to come.”

Wow.  First of all, I have absolutely no way to verify it.  But in the interest of protecting his privacy, I did use a pseudonym and will not reveal the restaurant.  I do have to say though that after having talked for about an hour, he seemed like a legit guy and I don’t have any reason to question what he said.

As I headed out from the restaurant, we gave each other a smile and a hearty “ma3 asalaameh”.  Nice to make a new friend!

Still in shock and full of adrenaline, I walked through Tel Aviv until I found myself hungry again.  This time, I popped into a Cofix, a cafe here, and no joke, I hear my favorite Egyptian pop song.  It’s something that’s literally on my phone right now.

Seeing as how almost no Arabs live in the center of Tel Aviv, I was pleasantly surprised.  I went in and addressed the young man in Arabic: “hey, is this your music?”  He looked a bit confused.  So I switched to Hebrew.  And it turns out, yes this is his music.

I switched back to Arabic but found he only understood about half of what I was saying.  And not because, like Moshe thought, I “can’t speak like an Arab”.  Rather, it’s because he’s not Arab- he’s Jewish!

What?!?  Ok so this kid, Nir, his family is Syrian.  His parents speak Syrian Arabic at home- the exact dialect I speak.  He grew up with it and in his own words “is in love with Arabic”.  Which is why he blares the music in his cafe in the middle of Tel Aviv.

I asked him if he understood the song.  He said his Arabic isn’t so strong but he wants to learn.  I told him I could teach him.  He was confused- how does an American Jew become Israeli know Syrian Arabic?  And why not just Modern Standard Arabic?  I explained that I studied with a Syrian professor from Damascus in college- in the United States.  He thought I was kidding but then I started speaking to him in Syrian again and he realized I was the real deal.  He took my number- I hope he calls and I can connect him to his heritage.  You could digest that sentence for a lifetime.

Before I left I asked the second barista if he understood the song.  He could pass for Arab, but it turns out he was Jewish.  He said he thought it was about peace.  What a beautiful sentiment.  In a day and age when many Israelis and Americans would assume the worst of a song in Arabic, this young kid, smack in the middle of Tel Aviv, assumes it’s about peace.  It just touched my heart.

I told the kids the song was actually about encouraging people to vote in the Egyptian elections.  I explained some of the verses and they were eager to learn.

So here we were- three Jews, one Ashkenazi American, one Syrian, and one from who knows where.  Sitting in Israel, listening to Egyptian music, babbling in a mixture of Hebrew and Arabic.

If there’s one thing I can take from today it’s that where Jewish starts and Arab ends isn’t so clear.  Just like the bilingual script in my cover photo.  When coming to Israel, the absolute best thing you can do is to leave your assumptions at the door.  And the second best thing you can do is to learn a language so filled with love and art and history that you’ll be bursting at the seems making new friends from every race and religion.  And that language, my friends, is Arabic.

Saudi Country Music

Yes, that’s right- tonight, I heard country music on a Saudi radio station.  It took me by total surprise.  It just goes to show that the Middle East is a whole lot more diverse than you might think- and a whole lot more interesting that you’ll find out by reading the news!

Today I had a very productive day.  On my way back from the mall (man is it cool to see a mall all in Hebrew!  Never had that as a kid!), I switched on an app on my phone and started listening to Arabic music.  Last night, I listened to Syrian radio- to an entire evening of the majestic Fairouz.  The host’s greeting in Arabic was adorable: “Masa’ Fairouz, Masa’ al kheyr” – A Fairouz evening, A good evening!  Listeners even called in from all corners of Syria.  It was surreal to be listening to the radio station just north of the border- of a country in the midst of a horrifying civil war and a country I cannot legally visit.

Tonight, I decided to give the Saudi stations a try.  At first, there were the typical and beautiful rhythms of khaleeji music– music from the Persian Gulf.  Gulf Arabic music sounds quite different from Egyptian, Lebanese, or Moroccan music.  Each one has its beautiful elements.

Then I started to get nervous.  The announcer said in a grave tone in the Saudi dialect: “once upon a time, we were great.  We were revered and respected.  Now what?”  Holy shit, I thought, this is going to be a depressing news story about the latest political intrigue in Saudi Arabia.  But instead the next sentence shocked me and made me giggle: “a few days ago we were defeated by Portugal 3-0.  What are we going to do about our soccer team?”

Just goes to show that things aren’t always what we expect 😉

Speaking of which, I switched to another Saudi station.  Expecting more Arabic jazz, I instead got some American country song filled with y’alls and drawls.  In complete shock, I continued listening as pop songs followed rap songs followed, both male and female artists singing.

Curious what else I’d find, I hopped on another station (found an angry preacher) then another (beautiful Quranic chanting) and two Indian music stations from Dubai and then I visited Jordan.  The Jordanian radio station was playing something oddly familiar.  The beat- it wasn’t Arabic- it was…reggaeton.  That’s cool, I thought, it’s not just Israel that 20 years after the fact discovered reggaeton music I grew up on.  Our neighbors like it too.

In fact, they like it so much, they’re now mixing it with Arabic music!  A quick YouTube search for “Arabic reggaeton” will reveal a boatload of songs.  It is catchy and fun and I highly recommend trying it out.

People love to hate on technology.  It’s ruining society.  Young people don’t know how to socialize.  It’s no replacement for human interaction.  Yada, yada, yada.

Some of the critiques are valid, others are the same stupid stuff people said when the printing press was invented.  The point is technology is like anything else in life- it’s about how you use it.

For me, I’d love to be able to go to Syria and Saudi Arabia.  And I hope to visit Jordan sometime soon, although if we’re totally honest it can be challenging both as a queer person and an Israeli.  I’m sad that for political reasons I can’t- and I’m sad in particular for the people of Syria who are suffering.  I’m also sad because Saudi Arabia doesn’t look like it’s headed for a lot of long-term stability either.  I’m sad because in every country in the world there are good people I’d like to meet- and who’d like to meet me.  Of course there are fire and brimstone clerics (we have a few in Israel) and mean people and bigots, but there are good people out there too.  Complicated people.  People I can learn from- and teach.

So this is what I have to say: I’m not going to wait until the borders open between Israel and countries like Syria and Saudi Arabia.  I’m going to use technology to get to know my neighbors as best I can.  Why shouldn’t I enrich my life with the treasures their cultures have to offer?  I’m sure somewhere in Riyadh there’s a kid secretly listening to pirated Mizrachi music.  If you think that’s naive, you need to do your homework.  As the phrase goes, “we’re all in the gutter, but some of us are looking up at the stars”.

As I walked down the streets of South Tel Aviv, I’m sure there are people I passed by who would utterly disapprove of me listening to Saudi Quranic chanting or Syrian pop.  That’s the music of Arabs, of the enemy.  Those people hate us.

But I bet there are more than a few people who have held on to their Middle Eastern roots.  Who if I pumped up the volume loud enough, might join in and even dance.  Because the beauty of South Tel Aviv is that the people who live here- the music they blare every morning when I wake up.  It’s so utterly and deeply Middle Eastern that you don’t know where the Umm Kulthum starts and the Omer Adam ends.

All Middle Eastern countries are more diverse than you might suspect.   I speak Arabic so I actually know what my neighbors are saying- and it’s interesting.

I live in a country built on a miracle, on a 2,000 year old pipe dream that came true.  And while people are reading and re-reading Ha’aretz and Yisrael Hayom and the New York Times, I’m practicing my southern drawl.  Because one day, by the grace of God, I’m going to hop on a plane, get my passport stamped, and listen to Kenny Chesney play Riyadh.

Ken yehi ratzon.  May it be so. 🙂

The hardest part of making aliyah

When I moved to Israel, I anticipated many challenges.  Israeli culture is very different from even American Jewish culture.  The directness, the sometimes harshness of people’s words can really catch an American off guard.  As can the practically non-existent social boundaries.  I knew I’d have to make adjustments to my career and make new friends.  I’d also sorely miss some of my favorite foods and cultures that are omnipresent in the diverse area I grew up in.  I’d be far from my existing support network and would have to build a new one- practically from scratch.  All this in a country I hadn’t visited for 12 years.

But the single hardest part of my journey, by far, was finding a home.  Not a metaphorical home, but an actual house.

Before arriving, I had reserved an AirBnB for a month to give me time to search for an apartment.  Little did I know that even though the woman advertised having air conditioning, she claimed that she was “allergic” to the machine so she wouldn’t turn it on.  As my Sabra friends told me, she was allergic to the electricity bill.  So there I was, a freshly minted Israeli arriving after 15 hours of travel (with only 1 hour of sleep on the plane) and a bedroom at 87 degrees Fahrenheit.  The final straw for this apartment was when I got food poisoning at four in the morning and rather than offering some words of consolation, the host complained about me waking her up.

After having received a refund for the remaining three weeks from AirBnB, I scrambled to find a place.  Still hung up on jet lag, I managed to find a generous lesbian couple who had also made aliyah from the States a year ago.  I slept in their office for a while while I searched for an apartment.  But as I think we all discovered, having three people, a dog, and multiple cats in a small apartment just doesn’t work.  And from the beginning, this was going to be a temporary place.

So I ran around trying to find a new place.  I found a sublet in the middle of the city.  I had a roommate- not ideal, but fine for a temporary stay.  My landlord, on the other hand, stole money from me that required endless hours of mediation and legal threats to be returned.  It’s not worth going into a ton of detail, but let’s just say that that’s one among many examples.

Needless to say, I was tired of hopping around apartments.  I wanted my own place- no roommates, no pets, no thieving landlords.  With a long term lease.  A home.

This is when I really discovered why Israelis protested en masse in 2011.  In particular in Tel Aviv, there is a massive housing shortage.  Most Israelis want to live in the Center of the country but the building hasn’t kept up.  As a result, demand is high and so are the prices.  Although prices are significantly lower in Tel Aviv than in places like Washington, D.C., San Francisco, and New York (which Israelis should realize- this is not a uniquely Israeli problem), there is a unique competitiveness to the market here.  When you show up to view an apartment, there are often multiple people viewing at the same time.  I can’t think of anything more awkward.  Everyone is trying to woo the all-powerful landlord while somehow pretending to like each other.  It’s super uncomfortable.

Then, the landlord will tell you there’s an extensive waiting list.  And to be honest, there usually is (although of course some lie).  The landlord can ask you any friggin question he wants.  In the U.S., there are extensive rental protections.  Where I lived in Maryland before aliyah, there was even a free service offered by the local government to investigate unscrupulous landlords.  Of course there were still bad apples, but at least there was legal recourse.

Here, the legal system is basically a load of crap.  When it comes to housing, the landlords know they run the show.  I was asked invasive questions about my salary, my family’s salary, my job, my religion, my national origin, my sexuality, my politics, and more.  What Israelis need to understand is that while this is par for the course in Tel Aviv, it is illegal in the U.S. and most civilized countries.  If you have the money and pass a background check, you can legally rent wherever you want in the U.S.

Could I have chosen not to answer these questions?  Sure.  But why would the landlord choose me, then, when she can simply pick someone else from a list of 30 people?  One guy, after grilling me for 30 minutes, ended by saying “you seem like a nice guy, but I have a whole list of people who work for the army and get great bonuses and benefits, so I’m just not sure we’ll choose you.”  With a smile.

I had landlords ask me to pay 6 months rent- up front.  I had landlords ask me to pay rent- in cash.  Leaving me with no paper trail of having paid the rent at all in an almost non-existent legal system.  I was offered one apartment that I’m pretty sure was tied to some sort of mafia.  I was told over and over again that the apartments were quiet- only to find construction projects (both existing and planned- there is a database) all around.

Trying to fix this situation, a new law was passed in the Knesset this past year to provide more rental protections.  What I then encountered were multiple landlords (illegally) inserting clauses into the leases stating that the new law did not apply.  Of course a lease doesn’t supplant the law of the land, but it certainly spoke to what kind of landlord they’d be.  One woman, when I asked her to revise the lease, said “but I’d never hurt anyone!”  And she refused to change it.

At the end of my rope and having seen literally dozens of apartments in person, I turned to the hated real estate agents here.  Real estate agents in Israel are nothing like real estate agents in the U.S.  Here, I don’t hate Arabs, I don’t hate Haredim (these are the usual targets).  No, who I absolutely detest in this country are real estate agents.

I had real estate agents (who I told I wanted a quiet place) try to sell me on illegal apartments inside a carpentry factory.  I had real estate agents tell me a place was too small for me only to call me frantically the next day and say we should go see it because it’s great.

I had a particular apartment I was ready to sign on.  I had had my lawyer review the lease in Hebrew twice.  I had prepared my checks (you have to pre-sign a year’s worth of checks here).  I had prepared my 5000 shekel deposit and my 4000 shekel pre-payment of the last month’s rent in addition to the 4000 shekels for the first month.  In addition to all that, I’d have to pay several thousand shekels to the real estate agent.  But two hours before the lease was supposed to be signed (the day before moving day), the real estate agent told me the landlord wanted to add a clause.  A clause that stated that if I left early, I needed to find a replacement (no problem, this was already in the lease), but also to give up 4000 additional shekels.

Of course I didn’t sign.  Adding a last minute clause is already a huge red flag.  Adding one that would rob me of 4000 shekels if, God forbid, I had a life emergency and needed to find a new renter- now that’s depraved.  The real estate agent yelled at me, a lot.  I told her I had to go.  And she called- I counted- 6 times in 10 minutes and texted over and over.  I wish I could say this was the only time, but I was also berated over the phone by at least two other real estate agents who felt this was somehow acceptable behavior.

The worst part of all of this is that based on the comments I heard from landlords and real estate agents alike, I knew I was being taken advantage of because I was an oleh chadash, a new Israeli.  Even though I have fluent Hebrew.  Nothing about this process is more revolting than that.  I made the sacrifice to make Israel my new home and to see fellow Jews manipulating me made me sick to my stomach.  And exhausted.

Tired of all the games, I decided that I’d look in South Tel Aviv.  It’s cheaper and more importantly, less competitive to find a place.  And when I say South Tel Aviv, I don’t mean the hipsters of Florentin- it’s also a mess to find an apartment there.  And I don’t mean Yafo- it’s in such high demand (and gentrification) that I found it quite hard too.

No, I live where the music is Mizrachi.  Which I love.  Where the streets are filled with diverse refugees from all over the world.  Where there are real, honest-to-God neighborhoods, not some sort of revolving door of young people trying to pay astronomically high rent.  Is my community super queer-friendly and packed with Reform synagogues?  No- although I haven’t gotten to know my neighbors yet and I know Israel can always surprise you.  I do know there are Shas posters nearby, which I find both amusing and frightening.  I’m thrilled that the food is cheap and absolutely delicious.  I even found a sushi place- and the maki rolls cost 9 shekels!  Try finding that in Dizengoff Center!

In the end, I come back to my name, Matah מטע.  It means orchard and I chose it because I’m planting roots to bear fruits, to blossom.  And what I realized is this- I was tired of the “no, no, no, no” I was hearing and wanted to get to the “yes”, like in my cover photo.  More than being in a central location packed with young people, what I needed was a home.  And what I started to realize is that having gone through so much in the States, this wasn’t really a new home so much as a first home.  I needed some soil so I could ease my bark into the ground and find some stability.  After four months here, I just needed a quiet, safe place to come home to at night and sleep.

And that is what I found.  I’m grateful for the help of friends and my lawyer, who supported me emotionally and with advice.  Was it easy?  Absolutely not.  If you’re making aliyah because you think it’s a piece of cake, you should immigrate to Ireland.  Or Belgium.  Or Japan.  Because Israel can be really friggin tough.  Not always for the reasons Sabras think, but it is hard.  I have to admit my faith and my hope were tested repeatedly while finding a home.  And I hope I can find some peace of mind by reconnecting to the Israelis who give me spirit, rather than the people who drained me of it.

On my way home Friday, I heard a song wafting through the air in my new neighborhood.  I recognized the melody.  And as I got closer, I sang along: “lecha dodi likrat kalah, pnei shabbat nekablah.”  The traditional Jewish song for welcoming Shabbat, the Sabbath bride.

I couldn’t help but think that for all the challenges I’ve been through- and the unknown ones that may lie ahead- that I made the right choice.  Because rather than hearing the boom boom boom of the middle of Tel Aviv, I’m hearing the songs of my people.  Prayers I’ve said since childhood.

There may not be a lot of Reform synagogues in South Tel Aviv, but you don’t always need one when your prayers fill the air of the market and you’re singing along.  With your new key in hand.  When you move to a new home, you’re praying with your feet.

The biggest threat to Israel

There are many threats to Israel- terrorism, nuclear weapons, earthquakes, poverty, diminishing water resources.  You name it.  But for me, the biggest threat facing Israel is one word: invalidation.

First, let’s start with what the word validation means.  Validation does not mean agreement and it doesn’t mean love.  Validation means showing empathy and understanding where someone else is coming from.  How the conditions of their life have informed their views and even if you see the world differently, you can get a glimpse of why they are the way they are.  Even if, in the end, they may be too difficult for you to be friends with.  It’s a difficult skill and an extremely useful one for living an effective life.

Validation is useful for building healthy relationships.  And its opposite, invalidation, is how you destroy them.  All of us invalidate sometimes- we judge, we mock, we belittle.  Maybe other than Buddha himself, I don’t think there’s a single human being who never judges.  However, there are degrees of invalidation.  Invalidation is when we say harmful, hurtful things to (or about) people.  She’s ugly.  I’m fat.  My neighbor’s a dumb ars.  That Orthodox woman is frumpy.  That gay guy must be a pill-popping slut.  That Haredi man is a fanatical homophobe.  That Arab is only good for making falafel- he probably wants to throw us into the sea.

Israelis have a serious problem when it comes to judging both themselves and others.  Judging has been a part of Jewish culture since the Torah- the Bible isn’t exactly Zen Buddhism.  But I remain fairly convinced that the sometimes mind-numbingly intense judgments that I hear here are also a product of trauma.  When someone is traumatized or experiences intense pain, unless and until that person heals, it is common for people to pass that trauma onto others.  That is why it is so common to see families- generation after generation- experiencing abuse.  It’s also why I distanced myself from toxic relatives and broke a chain of toxicity to build a better life.

If you think of the Jews who’ve come to this land, it hasn’t usually been for happy reasons.  Ashkenazim escaping pogroms.  More Ashkenazim escaping the Holocaust.  Holocaust survivors escaping post-war pogroms (yes, you read that right- Europeans continued butchering Holocaust survivors after the war).  A huge percentage of Ashkenazim here are descendants of Holocaust survivors- including almost every Hasidic Jew.

Mizrachim escaped their own pogroms from Morocco to Yemen- only to find their property confiscated by Arab governments.  And then, upon arriving in Israel, they were put into impoverished refugee camps.  Russian Jews fled the Soviet Union (where their religion was banned) and its chaotic aftermath.  The U.S.S.R. was a government so antisemitic it literally has its own Wikipedia article about how antisemitic it was.  Persian Jews fled the Ayatollah, French Jews fled (and still flee) antisemitic terror and discrimination, and even today there are American Jews like me escaping rising antisemitism and white supremacy in the United States.  The list goes on and on and on and on.  And it has a 2,000 year old antisemitic backstory.

And when these Jews arrived in Israel, while many were grateful for a safe haven, their cultures were often decimated in the name of Jewish cohesion in the nascent state.  Ashkenazim were told to stop speaking Yiddish (police even raided Yiddish theaters- an unforgivable thought when you think that the spectators were likely Holocaust survivors).  I even remember a survivor telling me that when she arrived to Israel from Poland after the Holocaust, Sabras would call her and her mom “sabonim”- “soap”.  That was to make fun of the “weak” Diaspora Jews who the Nazis reportedly turned into bars of soap.  Mizrachim were also pressured to give up their languages, their music, their culture- which to many Sabras seemed a bit too much like the (Arab) enemy.  To this day, they continue to have significantly lower average incomes than Ashkenazim.  And every single Israeli Prime Minister has been Ashkenazi, unless you count some recently discovered Sephardic genes in Bibi’s DNA.

With these examples, we’re literally just scratching the surface with Jews.  And it’s worth saying that the Arab population here has suffered its own traumas- of wars, of discrimination, of terrorism (yes, Israeli Arabs are also attacked by terrorists), of families divided across borders, and more.

Add to this 70 years of on-and-off warfare, and you can understand why Israel has three times the rate of PTSD as the United States.

So when a fellow Israeli is harsh to me.  When they say something mean and judgmental- about me, about another community, about themselves- I understand.  I don’t by any means justify it- I think it’s harmful and if we’re going to thrive as a society, this must change.  And sometimes I frankly have to protect myself by distancing myself from their toxicity.  And I get it.  Israelis have been through a lot.  And not everyone is healing.  It took me a while to get to this understanding- but this is the ultimate validation.  I don’t personally agree with being racist or hateful- I just know that if someone got to that point, there’s something causing it and I hope they choose a different path.

Many Israelis complain to me about American “politeness”.  They think Americans are fake- when they smile, when they say thank you, when they do a whole variety of quotidian acts that make up American culture.  On the one hand, I get it- there are times when Americans can be exceedingly formal.  It can be hard to gauge if someone really likes you- or what they think.

At the same time, I remember what one Israeli friend said to me: “I don’t like that in America they’re all the time worried about whether they’re hurting you.”  To this I say- you’re not talking about politeness anymore.  You’re talking about consideration.  You’re talking about kindness.  You’re talking about someone caring how you feel- and trying to respect your boundaries.  In a way that you never got growing up in a society filled with people whose boundaries have been crossed over and over again against their will.  Who have endured but in many cases, not healed.  And who all too often pass their hurt along to others.

To this I say- enough.  All Israelis, in fact all people, deserve the right to heal from their traumas.  And to not have new pain heaped upon them.  As a society, we can still keep our bluntness and our assertiveness without the spite and without the cruelty.  Find one way to heal yourself this week- and find one way to encourage a friend.  I’m not a psychiatrist or a PTSD expert, nor do I have the power to stop violence.  But I think that if we each find a way to bring some healing into our society, it will do us all a lot of good.

To borrow a bit from our Christian neighbors, my cover photo is from an Arab church in Haifa.  It says: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you“.  Amen.

Haredim speaking Arabic, dabke, and air raid sirens

Yesterday, I was sitting on a bus.  In front of me, there are two Haredim, a man in a black hat and his wife.  But they weren’t speaking Yiddish- they were speaking Arabic!

I listened closely to make sure it wasn’t just Hebrew with a Mizrachi accent, but no, sure enough it was Arabic.  I then, in a first for me, spoke to Haredim in Arabic.  Turns out the man had been born in Egypt and moved to Israel at a very young age.  And his wife Miriam- now this is interesting- is Jordanian.  And, in her words, Arab.  Very, very few Mizrachim would identify as Arab- especially today, but even historically- many were simply Jews who lived in relative peace among their Muslim and Christian neighbors.  The chaos of the modern era changed that, before nationalism, including pan-Arab nationalism (or modern Zionism) existed.

Therefore, given that a Mizrachi Jew, even who speaks some variety of Arabic or Judeo-Arabic, would likely not identify as an Arab, I wondered about this woman.  Just a few days before, I had been reading about Jordan and while it has a rich ancient Jewish history, it hasn’t had a stable Jewish community for quite a long time.

Which got me thinking- I believe Miriam is a convert.  In her own words, she is proud of being Arab and thinks there are good Arabs, Jews- good everyone everywhere.  But she thinks Jews are nicer than Arabs.  I responded that I wasn’t so sure based on my interactions with real estate agents here!  We laughed.

Before I got off the bus, we passed by what I presume was a left-wing demonstration.  Yesterday was the anniversary of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, the former Prime Minister of Israel.  He had tried to forge a peace agreement with the Palestinians and was murdered by a fanatical right-wing Jew.  The protestors blocked the intersection and started slapping the bus.  I was kind of concerned, but mostly I was pissed off that these people were keeping me from my destination.  I’m all for peace demonstrations, but I’m not sure what you accomplish by scaring a bunch of innocent people on a bus.  I once thought only right-wing people could be fanatical, but I’ve found that people of any political stripe can be utterly intolerant and invalidating.

Annoyed by the demonstrators and extremely excited about the Haredi Arabic conversation I just had, I hopped off the bus and headed north to a dabke workshop.  Dabke is a traditional Levantine dance popular among Palestinians, Jordanians, Lebanese, Syrians, Kurds, and Iraqis.  For years, I’ve loved this dance.  It just looks so fun!  I’ve watched YouTube clips and listened to the music on my iPod.  In Arabic class in college, we got a brief introduction to it, but I never really had the chance to dance it.

Until last night.  I found an amazing workshop and danced my pants off.  It was so much fun and the people there were at least as fun as the dance.  Being the only Jew- the only non-Arab- in the room, I aroused a lot of curiosity.  And frankly, mostly a bunch of friendliness.  People gave me their numbers, invited me to hang out with them, asked me about America and even Israeli folk dancing (which I also do).  I even met two separate women who wanted to practice Spanish with me!  And the whole session- before you ask if you can join me- is in Arabic.  This is their space, as it should be, and they were generous enough to allow me to enter it and enjoy their culture.  So unless you’ve got some pretty strong Arabic, you’re going to have to take a language class before you take the dance class 🙂 .

If you want to take a look, this is what our dance looked like last night!  (I’m the guy in the blue shorts and teal shirt).  So much fun!

I returned home feeling buoyant.  As I got ready for bed, I started hearing a loud noise.  This was my first night in a new apartment, so I thought it might be the sirens from the hospital nearby.  And then I heard what sounded like airplanes.  Getting louder and louder.

My first thought was that my landlord ripped me off by giving me an affordable apartment that constantly has flyovers from Ben Gurion Airport.  What a jerk!

But then I realized- the sirens kept going.  This isn’t an ambulance.  This isn’t a plane.  This is an air raid siren.

Having absolutely no idea what to do in this situation (luckily I never experienced it in America), I googled it.  And thank God somebody took the time to write it.  Go to the ground floor, avoid windows and doors, and pray.  And at 3:30am, that’s exactly what I did.  Alone and in the dark.

I was scared absolutely shitless.  I prayed and prayed and messaged a couple friends who were equally confused.  After a while (which seemed like a very long while), the news published that it was a false alarm.  But I’ll tell you, it didn’t sound so false when I heard plane (projectile?) after plane (missile?) overhead over and over again.  I envisioned my building collapsing to the ground.  Would I survive?

Thank God I did and thank God everyone is OK.  I’ve truly never experienced something like that in my life before.  And I hope you don’t either- it’s scary.  And having read that earlier today, the terrorist group Islamic Jihad was threatening revenge because Israel destroyed one of their weapons smuggling tunnels.  And that there was an armed confrontation between Israel and Syria in the north.  That basically it wouldn’t have been a shock if the air raid sirens had been accurate.

Being someone who has already suffered trauma in my life, it was hard to get to sleep- it pushed a whole bunch of triggers.  Finally I was able to lie down and get some rest.

I wrote to my friends on Facebook last night that if you don’t have the dedication and faith to keep you here, you simply won’t make it.

Everyone has a stake in this society and we must work together to make it the best place on the planet- which I think it is and has the potential to be.

I understand the rage that people can feel here- when you’re scared, when you’re scarred, you just want to lash out.  There are productive ways to do this and harmful ones and I hope we can strive to do the former more than the latter.

To anyone outside of Israel who has any doubt as to what terrorism does to the Israeli psyche, I invite you to crash at my place next time there’s an air raid siren.  All the Ambien in the world won’t help you sleep and it will haunt you after you wake.

And to the “peace” activists who slapped my bus- I get you.  You’re horrified, you’ve been hurt by someone, somewhere in this Holy Land.  But get a therapist.  Do some yoga.  Pray.  Take some anti-anxiety medications.   Whatever works for you.  But stop taking out your anger on your fellow man.

Be like the hundreds of young people I saw engaging in dialogue in Kikar Rabin yesterday.  Be like the Haredi man who married a Jordanian (convert?) and speaks Arabic.  Be like me and go dance Palestinian dabke with new Arab friends.

Or be like my Arab friend Lena who I met last night.  When I told her I was an American Jew who now lived in Tel Aviv, her answer was simple and touching:

“You are welcome here.”

That, my friends, is how you make peace.  One heart at a time.  A quiet and beautiful answer to the screeching of a siren.

As my cover photo says in Arabic: “life is sweet”.  Damn straight it is.  Because I’m alive.

And that’s how I learned the Arabic word for “terror attack”

In a horrific terrorist attack in New York, 8 people were killed and at least another dozen were wounded.  I found out about the attack while perusing Facebook in an ice cream parlor in Yafo.  Everyone around me was laughing and having a good time and I just froze and started checking in on all my friends.  My emotions welled up as I saw 37 friends were marked safe.  Thank God.  And then I was on the verge of tears as I noticed that 175 friends of mine had not yet confirmed their status.  I even noticed some people had had friends ask them if they were safe and had not responded yet.

I then started messaging friends frantically, trying to find out if they were OK.  This is the strange and challenging part of being a dual citizen- I’m feeling the pain of my friends in America while I’m sitting at a gelato shop and people are giggling.  Obviously not at what happened, but they just don’t know what’s going on.  It’s somewhat of a dual life.

I finally found out a close friend was safe- but her husband works very close to the attack.  Thank God he survived, but it’s scary to think about.  Unfortunately for Israelis, this isn’t a new concept, although it’s one Israeli experience I hope to never have to suffer.

As I write this blog, it’s still Halloween in America.  Halloween in Israel is weird- it’s almost non-existent.  Some of the things I love about the holiday, like picking pumpkins, hayrides, pumpkin pie, candy corn, seeing cute kids in costume, or going to a friend’s party- they just don’t happen that much here.  It’s not part of the culture.  Understandable, but I still miss it.  It’s doubly hard because one of my very toxic relatives has a birthday on Halloween so it brings up all sorts of mixed emotions.

Tonight, I didn’t expect a scary Halloween, but I got one.  Just like the Halloweens with my toxic relatives and just like all too many days that have scarred people in the Land of Israel.

Some people ask me how I get through the tough times, through the excruciating challenges that I face as an oleh chadash, as a new Israeli citizen.  You know how?  Everyday miracles.

Before I heard about the attack, I was talking with an adorable 17-year-old named Tony who worked at the ice cream shop.  He really likes American rap, so I suggested some artists (he had never heard of Common!).  We talk about how he wants to move to Canada or maybe go to college in Germany to become an engineer.  When it came up that I’m gay, his co-worker joked that he’s a homophobe or a closet-case (this is the humor here- this is not derogatory).  He of course denied it and said he likes everyone.  He even was a little self-conscious and asked me if he looked like a homophobe.  Of course I told him he doesn’t (is there a way to look homophobic?), and he smiled.  What a nice young Jewish boy with a goldene neshamah- a beautiful soul.

Wrong.  Tony is Arab.  And like not a small number of Arabs here, if you called him David Goldstein you’d think he’s an American Jew.  Once he shared that he was Arab, I switched from Hebrew to Arabic and we kept talking.  About music, travel, culture, you name it.  After every customer he served, he’d come back and keep talking to me.

After I found out about the attack, I was visibly upset.  I didn’t say anything because I was too busy checking in on my friends.  But eventually I needed to go home and sit in a quiet place where I could call people.

Before leaving, I wanted to tell Tony why I had to go.  Many Arabs here mix Hebrew into their Arabic.  The Hebrew word for terrorist attack is “pigua”, and it would not be strange for an Arab to speak in Arabic but simply use a Hebrew word in the middle of a sentence.  Much like American Jews sprinkle our English with Yiddish and Hebrew.  But I knew that if I spoke with Tony in Arabic and then said the word “pigua” in the middle of the sentence, the Jewish customers might flip out and I didn’t want to scare anyone.

So I looked at Google Translate to find the Arabic word: “hujoom”.  I told Tony about what happened in New York and that I needed to go home to check in on friends.  He looked shocked and then sad.  He came over and gave me a nice warm bro handshake.  I hope to see him again soon at the ice cream shop- he might not be a nice Jewish boy, but he’s certainly a nice Arab boy.  And while I hope he pursues his dreams to study abroad, a part of me will be sad that this country will miss out on the presence of a kind person.

And that’s how I learned the Arabic word for “attack”.  Not by, thank God, an attack on me here in Israel.  And not from the media.  But rather, from seeing my friends in pain in America and wanting to share my sadness with a new friend, an Arab friend.  A 17-year-old kid who loves hip-hop and scoops ice cream.  My neighbor.

There is nothing positive to take from a terrorist attack.  It’s murder plain and simple.  It’s deranged and it’s sad.  I hope we can make a world where this kind of hate doesn’t exist anymore and we can live in peace.  Like my cover picture from a mural I saw in Tarshiha says in Arabic: “no to violence”.

In the meantime, let’s live.  Look for the everyday miracles, like my interaction with Tony.  An interaction made possible by my decision as a 17-year-old to start learning Arabic at the Jewish Community Center in Rockville, Maryland.  And for three years in college in St. Louis.  And with Syrian refugees over Skype.  And by his decision to open up to me- to show me kindness, to respect my queer identity, and to show empathy in my time of sorrow.

Peace is not made through powerful men shaking hands.  That may be part of it, but it’s the opening of hearts that truly sustains it and makes it possible.  May we all find a way to do so every day, even just a little bit.  It makes our world a better place and it gives us hope to overcome great challenges.

May the memory of those who fell today be for a blessing.  May God bring healing to wounded.  And may we know the fruits of peace so that the scariest Halloween we have is when our kids sneak up on us and say:

“Boo.”