Author: Matt Adler - מטע אדלר

A compassionate multilingual Jewish explorer. Author of "More Than Just Hummus: A Gay Jew Discovers Israel in Arabic": http://tiny.cc/qjfbsz & http://tiny.cc/gkfbsz. Join me on my journeys by reading my blog or following me on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/matt.adler.357. May you find some beauty in your day today. :)

Independence from black-and-white thinking

Today concluded my first Independence Day as an Israeli.  And the first one I’ve celebrated on my homeland’s soil.  It was an independence day for me, a chance to declare my freedom from my own oppressors.  To celebrate my progress.  It was a day to rejoice.

Rejoice I did- I danced to Mizrachi music in the streets, I hung out with friends, I wore my Israeli flag as a cape, I got congratulated for becoming Israeli many, many times.  There were goofy people dressed up as Israel’s founding mothers and fathers.  There was fun.  We deserve a day to just have fun and be proud of our accomplishments.  In 70 years, we’ve managed to do more than some countries do in 200- and under the near constant threat of destruction.  Just today, I was grocery shopping and read a newspaper article while in line.  About Iran wanting to attack us from Syria.  Welcome to life in Israel, where every day we’re alive is a victory.

At some points, I felt I should be happy but wasn’t quite as happy as I thought.  Maybe it was when the tour guide at Independence Hall said: “we’re all Jews here, so feel free to interrupt.”  I totally get the sense of humor and I had to wonder how the Filipina woman and her child behind me felt.  Or perhaps a Druze man sitting in the back.  I think growing up in the Diaspora made me more sensitive to including others- we have some work to do here.  Because most of us are Jews- and not all of us are.  And we all deserve a seat at the table.

It got me thinking.  I really wanted this day to just be about celebrating Israel.  All year long we talk politics and people around the world hammer us for problems both real and imagined.  It can be hard to tell whether some foreigners are criticizing us out of a desire to make this a better place or because they single us out and want us to fail.  Trust me- I’ve met both kinds of people.

So I wanted to just enjoy.  And at some point, I realized nothing is 100% happy or sad in life.  In the Passover Seder, we dip our fingers in our joyful wine 10 times- once for each plague.  We put that wine or grape juice on our plates to symbolize our empathy for innocent Egyptians who suffered on our way to liberation.  No Jewish holiday is black-and-white, we’re a people who knows how to meld the bitter and sweet to the extent that it can be hard to even untwine the two.

The most obvious elephant in the room on Yom Ha’atzmaut, our Independence Day, is the Palestinians.  We are neighbors and the people right across the border have no independence day.  The reasons are complex- and it would be incorrect and even prejudiced to suggest that all of the blame falls on one side of the fence.  And it’s sad that while I’m celebrating today, some Palestinians are mourning what they see as a catastrophe.  The creation of my state.  While they still don’t have one.

I can empathize with why this day is hard for Palestinians (and Arab-Israelis/Arab citizens of Israel).  For someone whose village was destroyed in 1948, sometimes purposefully sometimes not, this day must be rough.  And the wound is still unhealed as our region has been in a near constant state of war for the past 70 years.  With bloodshed all around, including 37 soldiers from my neighborhood alone.

I also wish my neighbors across the border would try to understand why we’re celebrating.  I’ll tell you personally- I’m not celebrating the destruction of any village.  I’m celebrating the fact that I feel free here as a Jew.  Even in America, I’d feel scared or embarrassed to walk around with a big Israeli flag on my back.  In America, I felt self-conscious as a Jew.  Laughed at, picked on, discriminated against.  I felt my Judaism belonged in synagogue or a community center, not on the streets.  The idea of praying in public or being visibly Jewish was scary and anathema to what I felt we were supposed to do to be “respectable” and “cool”.

In Israel, we also have Jews who survived the Holocaust, with no family members, only to build new families here.  Some of whom then lost their children to terrorism or war.  We have Jews here from Egypt whose government stole their property, robbed them of citizenship, and kicked them out.  Just for being Jews.  And now they’ve managed to build themselves a new life and home here.  The place that would offer them refuge, no questions asked.  A miracle.

You can go through this story with just about any Jew here.  This is the only place on the planet where I feel safe being a Jew.  An out-of-the-closet Jew.  For 2,000 years we’ve been at the mercy of whatever ruler we lived under.  And all too often, turned into scapegoats like Roma/Gypsies or African-Americans- and suffered the violent consequences.  Here, we are empowered to choose our own fate for the first time in millennia.  And we’re not going to give it up.  Our greatest threat is our greatest strategic advantage- we have no other place to go.

As Israelis like to say, living here is “lo pashut”- it’s not simple.  And they’re right.  When I saw a person dressed up as Ben Gurion today, I was laughing and also thinking back to when he derided Yiddish.  When I celebrated by dancing to Mizrachi music in my neighborhood last night, one of the women said: “I want to go to America, it’s terrible here.  Well, it’s not the Jews who are terrible…”.  I empathize with her- there are a lot of reasons why a Mizrachi Jew might be prejudiced against refugees or Arabs, as I’ve written about.  And I also hate it.

I am proud to be Israeli.  I love my country and its people.  I’m blessed to be a Jew and I think we have contributed so much to the world and this region.

I’m also sad that many of my Palestinian neighbors live in deep poverty, are ruled by the corrupt Palestinian Authority and Hamas, and are subject to a largely unaccountable and undemocratic Israeli control over their lives.

And I’m sad that Arab-Israelis are basically caught between the two worlds because to a degree they identify with both.

I’m sad that refugees are discriminated against and might be deported.  And I’m sad that their neighbors- my neighbors- have been utterly neglected by the government for 70 years, fomenting their anger.

I’m sad that as a Reform Jew I have no religious rights here.  I have more rights in the States.  I’m sad that as a gay person, I can’t adopt children.  And I’m grateful to live in the only place in the Middle East where being gay is not only legal, it is accepted by a large part of the population.  According to one poll, 40%+ of Israelis say we should accept homosexuality.  The next closest Arab country is Lebanon at 18%.  Palestinians come in at 3%.  Those numbers also obscure a lot of gray space (including among Palestinians).  My city, Tel Aviv, is one of the gayest places on the planet and has a city-funded LGBTQ center.  Almost 80% of Israelis support gay marriage or civil unions.

In the end, living here is complex.  I’ve learned to become a more empathetic and textured thinker by living here.  If you want to come here and try to break things down into good and evil, right and wrong, black and white- you’re coming to the wrong place.  Like the Bedouin man married to a Jew who converted to Islam and are raising their kids in a Jewish school.  We are awesome and diverse and not easy to fit into a box.  So put down your placards and get to know us before boycotting us or telling us we’re all fascists.  While you sit on Native American land or, in the case of Europeans and some Arabs- on our Jewish property.  Life is not so simple when you start to empathize with everyone.

And it makes it much richer.  So on the 70th anniversary of Israel’s founding, let’s declare our independence from black-and-white thinking.  When you start to live in the gray space, you start to realize it’s not gray at all.  It’s the many, many colors of the rainbow.  Each with is unique shade.  Sometimes too bright to stare at, and often too beautiful to gaze away.

In a note to my American friends struggling with a difficult time in history, join me in embracing the complexity.  Get to know your Appalachian neighbors, gun owners, evangelicals- people you don’t agree with.  Not to convince each other or approve of toxic behavior.  Rather, simply to understand what might cause someone to think that way.

Embracing complexity can bring with it a lot of emotions- sadness, fear, joy, anger, hope.  It is eye-opening and sometimes even overwhelming to see the full spectrum of humanity.  The easy solutions don’t look so easy and sometimes, I feel as helpless as I do empowered.  At that point, I invite you to learn from Israelis.  Because what Israelis are astoundingly good at is just letting go.  Give yourself a chance to celebrate- anything.  Because all people- no matter the race, religion, or country- we all deserve time to celebrate.

Happy birthday Israel.  May year 71 bring us, our friends, and our neighbors peace, prosperity, hope, and strength.

I love you Israel.  When I criticize you, it’s because I want to make you better.  I’m glad to be home in your arms.

Am Yisrael Chai.

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This Independence Day, I belong in Hatikvah – שכונת התקווה מעל כולם

Today was Yom Ha’atzmaut.  Israeli Independence Day.  My country, my home turned 70 today- every day and every year a true miracle.  We’ve got our problems and we manage to survive and learn and grow.  And should continue to do so.

This morning, not really knowing what to expect (are stores open?  are restaurants open?  are museums open?  are buses running?), I ended up going for a stroll.

Lately, I’ve been learning more about the areas south of my neighborhood.  Yesterday I discovered Ariel Sharon Park, which is a former waste site turned into a gorgeous park reminiscent of a rural farm or orchard.  Stunning and hard to believe it’s in Tel Aviv.

park ariel

Today I was walking down Etzel Street, the main street in Hatikvah, when I bumped into a woman I had met earlier when we laughed at a guy screaming on the phone.  I asked her what was to the left at the end of the street.  She said it was her neighborhood, Ha’argazim.  I asked if there were restaurants and such there and she walked with me to show me.  On the way, she made some racist comments about Eritreans.  I explained I was against expelling refugees, but basically decided to leave the conversation be because I don’t want to lecture people and in Israel, you have to let some things slide.  Also, she’s from this neighborhood and it’s a seriously neglected part of town.

We bid each other a chag sameach, a happy holiday, and went our separate ways.  One particular quote of hers stood out: “they care more about the Eritreans than they do about the people who live here.”

I thought more and more- what if she’s right?  We’ve been so focused on our activism- have we forgotten the people who’ve lived here for 70 years?  Who are neglected by the city and the State?  And most certainly the wealthy North Tel Aviv “liberals” who never venture down to these neighborhoods?

As I strolled through Ha’argazim, I couldn’t help but agree with her.  The houses are shacks.  Literally shacks.  With piles of trash all around the neighborhood, never cleaned up by the city.  In America, it’d be called a shantytown.  Somehow they manage to give the houses some charm.  And that doesn’t excuse the utter indifference the residents have to face.  Any more than their poverty excuses racism.

It was important for me to see where this woman lived.  It was somehow poorer, dirtier, and smellier than my own part of town- which has its own special stench.  I would never agree with or justify her bigotry- and I also feel I have greater empathy for her now that I know her situation.  I feel her anger is misdirected at the refugees, but the anger itself- boy is that justified.  These pictures should outrage anyone in Tel Aviv.  Likud, Labor- no government has helped these people and it’s a stain on our society’s values.  And I want to be a part of fixing it.

Since Israel can sometimes surprise you, I wandered my way into a beautiful park nearby- Begin Park.  There, there are two lakes, one of which has water skiing where you are pulled via cable above your head.  There is a petting zoo.  And it’s just calm and green and wonderful.  There are even roosters that crow!  And people practicing acrobatics from trees!

This park is what Israel looks like when people care.  I hope one day Ha’argazim and all of South Tel Aviv will benefit from such consideration.  And I’m excited to try water skiing right by my house!  Who knew?!

Eventually, I made my way up North to Kikar Rabin, Rabin Square for the “premier” celebration tonight.  I was supposed to meet a friend of a friend.  Who knew I was going alone.  The friend cancelled part of the plans- fine that happens.  Then, he was supposed to come at 9:30.  No show.  Then, he says he’s coming at 10:30.  Already feeling deeply left out- I was alone standing in a see of families (and I have none)- I empowered myself to leave.  And good thing I did- I didn’t get a message from the other guy until 10:45 saying he was “on his way”.  Would’ve been miserable.

Being in Israel- being anywhere- by yourself is hard.  Israel is such a family-oriented society- which is part of why I want to find a partner here.  And part of why I love how willing people are to take you in as their own.

So a note to Sabras.  One of the great things about being Israeli is our flexibility.  When you cancel plans, you figure the other person can figure something else out.  That’s often true- but remember that olim, in particular ones who come here alone, we don’t always have a back-up plan.  We don’t have friends upon friends to call.  So don’t blow us off.  Take it seriously when we’re waiting for you.  You don’t have to make the plans in the first place and half the time we expect you to cancel anyways- it’s OK.  But when it’s a holiday, especially one with family, please don’t leave us hanging alone.  It’s inconsiderate at best and mean at worst.

Sick of standing alone, I hopped into a cab and headed to my neighborhood.  Tired of the yuppie North Tel Aviv vibe, the utterly boring concert, and the loneliness, I felt my neighborhood would have the answer.

And boy was I right.  As soon as I got out, I noticed a store selling Israeli flags.  I had never gone in, but they were blasting Mizrachi music, so I popped in.  I was wrapped in an Israeli flag.

Without even two words of introduction, we pumped up the music and danced.  Me and the three young women.  One of whom put bunny ears on me.  People walking by smiled and joined in.  A confused old lady kept coming in and out, so I gently helped her walk towards her house.  We exchanged phone numbers- one of the women, Sivan, lives right down the street from me!  And she has a cute guy she’s going to try to set me up with 😉

Once when I was at a Reform Movement event in Israel, a decidedly “liberal” environment, someone laughed when I said I lived by Shuk Hatikvah and grew up in Washington, D.C.  He was amused by the “contrast” between living in “amazing” D.C. and (fill in the blank) Hatikvah.  People giggled.

My response: “you obviously haven’t spent much time in D.C.”  That’s true on many levels- one, because D.C. is a much, much more violent place than my neighborhood.  And while it has its pluses, it’s an utterly sterile “networky” work-obsessed city that’s not that fun.  I’m happier here than I think I’d ever be in D.C.

So on Israel’s 70th, I have a few thoughts.  Refugees and low-income Mizrachim- we can and should care for them both.  Not just theoretically or with slogans, but with real kindness and action.  Someone’s prejudice shouldn’t preclude us from caring for their well-being.  And it might even soften some hearts.

To my fellow progressives, liberals, left-wingers, etc.  Walk the fucking walk.  Compassion and kindness, which I view as fundamental values of our movement, shouldn’t just be extended to people we agree with.  Lehefech, to the contrary, the real test of our values is when they need to be applied to those who disagree with us.

Want to laugh at Shchunat Hatikvah?  Think America or Ramat Aviv or your well-kept kibbutz is better than my neighborhood?

Alek!  Yeah right!  My neighborhood has something your high-tech stock options can’t buy: soul.

My neighborhood sometimes smells like crap, but at least it isn’t full of it.

This Yom Ha’atzmaut, I got the greatest gift of all: I know I live where I belong.  May you find your own sense of belonging wherever you call home.  Chag sameach 😉

Yom Hazikaron Shidduch – שידוך יום הזכרון

Ok- for those who don’t know what a shidduch is, it’s when a matchmaker (or a friend these days) “sets you up” with a potential partner.  Or a “connection”.  There are even professionals who get paid to do this.  It’s a very, very Jewish concept that some other similarly “ethnic” cultures embrace.

Tonight, April 17, began Yom Hazikaron.  It is a day to honor fallen soldiers and victims of terrorism here.  About 30,000 people since the founding of the State 70 years ago.  An astoundingly high number when you consider just how small of a country Israel is- and was at its founding.  With a population of just 806,000 in 1948 to 8.8 million today, 30,000 lives lost is a lot.  More than an American or European can possibly understand in recent history.

Having never observed this holiday in Israel, I decided to go to the community center by my house- Beit Dani.  The center itself is named after a fallen soldier Daniel whose family lit a flame in his honor tonight.  There were several hundred people gathered.  With a solemnity I haven’t seen in Israel- not even on Yom Kippur.

A choir sang sad songs.  Flames were lit by families of the deceased.  A Member of the Knesset, incidentally an openly gay one which was kind of cool, read a moving speech.  His name is Amir Ohana and he’s the first LGBT parliamentarian of the Likud.  I’m not usually a fan of his party, but I admire his courage in being himself and today isn’t really about politics.  It’s about memory.  He was really nice and we took a cute selfie.

ohana

I walked over to the other side of the event where a screen showed a slideshow of all 37 young people whose lives were lost- from my neighborhood alone.  You simply can’t understand the magnitude.  It has only 11,480 residents, like a small town in America.  Everyone either lost someone in their family or knows someone who did.  It’s a moving and sad experience to watch the names and pictures of these young people scroll down.  Over and over.

I noticed a middle-aged woman alone- tears welling up.  She asked how I knew how to zoom in on my camera.  I showed her and then told her, being a good Israeli, that I’d just take the picture for her.

The picture she needed was of her brother.  Yoram Hayu.  Killed in 1977 in a helicopter crash at the age of 18.  He started the army a year early because he was that motivated.  While he grew up in Hatikvah, he also was a kibbutznik- perhaps during his army service.  He was Smadar’s older brother, apparently a hit with the ladies, and now he was gone.

chayal

Smadar, the woman, she’s from my neighborhood.  She was at the ceremony alone, with her mom at home.  This was the first time she had been to the memorial ceremony in our community.  Since 1977 when her brother was killed.  She had been to other events, but not right here where they grew up together.  She was visibly moved and sad.

In America, when you see a stranger who’s sad you probably just say you’re sorry.  People are protective of boundaries and also more distant.

Here, seeing Smadar alone and sad, I simply hugged her.  And she held me, we swayed, we shared in the sadness and I tried to bring her some comfort.  Because a greeting card doesn’t say I love you.  That’s how Israelis do.

I told her that I was grateful to her brother and all the soldiers who made it possible for me to live here.  She stopped me: “don’t say thank you.  You don’t need to.  It was an obligation- his service.  It’s our obligation as Israelis.  If you want to honor his memory, live your life to the fullest.  Enjoy and appreciate every moment you breathe.”

It was so affirming.  So brave.  She asked me about my aliyah and my life.  Of course, she asked me if I was married.  When I said no, she said she’d look for someone.  And I said: “I’m gay, it needs to be a guy.”  She said: “hmm, that can be tricky in Hatikvah, but I have a hairstylist who’s gay and has a partner- I’ll ask him for names.”  Then, she told me she’d ask her friend if I could go to his Independence Day barbecue.

As the evening drew to a close, I told her: “only in Israel can you make a shidduch on Yom Hazikaron!”  We laughed and laughed.  It’s really true- we’re a people more than any other that knows how to draw out the honey from the wound.  And make the best of life.  With Syria and Iran threatening us, with slides of fallen soldiers still scrolling behind us, Smadar and I smiled as we said goodbye.  Her second shidduch may be finding me a nice guy.

But her first one was becoming my friend.

How one haggadah makes the case for Israel

This week will mark Israel’s 70th birthday.  If she was a Jewish lady in South Florida, she’d be relaxing by the pool playing mahjong telling her grandkids to visit.  She has matured and grown into herself.  Confident and stronger than ever.

One of the ways Israel really failed in its early days was with regards to cultural diversity.  In particular, Jewish diversity.  I’ve talked about it with regards to Yiddish and Mizrachi cultures.  And the rather egregious stereotypes the early Sabras (and some today) spread about Diaspora Jews.  I understand the challenges facing a new state under attack seeking unity to protect itself, but at times the State was overzealous and ended up hurting its own people.

What I’m happy to say is that despite the challenges that still exist, Israel has grown into its diversity a bit.  Its diversity, which I see as one of its greatest assets.

I’ve written extensively about how the State has worked against this diversity and today I’m excited to share how in some ways, that has changed for the better.

Today, I went to Rehovot, a city outside Tel Aviv.  My friend studies at the Weizman Institute there, so before meeting him for dinner, I headed to the Yemenite Heritage Museum.  I can’t recommend this museum highly enough.  While you’ll miss part of the content without Hebrew, it’s still worth checking out.  And if you speak Hebrew, you’ll get a deeper glimpse into a several thousand year old heritage worth exploring.

Rehovot is one of those places in Israel where even Israelis will say “there is nothing to see”.  But they are wrong, as you’ll see.  Because exploring, finding wonder in the world is not just about where you go.  Though certainly some extraordinary places will inspire even the most cynical of people.  Discovering the awe that surrounds us, the interesting, the curious- that’s about how you see where you are.  With an open heart and a curious mind, there are sparks of meaning and light in every town on this planet.  In unexpected places.

As I wandered the museum, I learned about the history of this ancient community.  I was already a fan of Yemenite music back in the States and recently went to a Yemenite store in Bnei Brak to get more of it.  Yemenite Jews have several unique dialects of Hebrew, Judeo-Arabic music and literature, extensive Hebrew poetry, special clothing, folk dancing, and all sorts of other cool culture.

I learned at the museum that as far back as 400 years ago, Yemenite Jews, who I had assumed were pretty geographically isolated, were in direct contact with Jews in Israel.  Rabbi Zecharia Dhahiri traveled all the way from Yemen to Jerusalem, Tsfat, Hebron, and Tiberias.  He met with famous rabbis and even brought back their mystical Kabbalistic influence and prayer styles.  And rabbi after rabbi continued to visit our homeland and some Jews even moved there, well before the establishment of the State of Israel.

The Jews’ presence in Yemen is documented from 110 B.C.E. although it may go back even further.  They have been there since before the Islamic conquest and before the peoples of the country were Arabized.  Alongside Hebrew for prayer and learning, they spoke a unique Judeo-Arabic dialect which some still speak in Israel to this day.

In the mid-20th century, amid pogroms and anti-Semitic violence, Yemenite Jews were airlifted to Israel en masse.  Many Yemenite Jews and Muslims remember their two millennia relationship with love and longing.  I have a number of Yemeni Muslim friends who have great relationships with Jews.  Unfortunately, Islamic extremists and Arab nationalists had to ruin that, just like they are ruining Yemen itself today.

Walking around the museum, I was in awe at the Shabbat candle sticks, the Havdalah spice boxes, the circumcision knife- in short, all the ritual objects we share.  And that they did in their own special way going back many centuries.

What most struck me, as is often the case, were the books.  Jews are the People of the Book- that’s even what we’re called in Islam.  After 2,000 years without a state, our empire, our knowledge, our territory became the written word.

The museum includes some very, very old books.  Including Torah scrolls hand-written in Yemen over 500 years ago.  Brought to Israel and saved amidst the chaos of 1950s anti-Semitic violence.

One book in particular struck me.  It was a haggadah, a book Jews all around the world use to tell the Passover story at our Seders each year.  The haggadah text itself is believed to be 1700 years old, possibly older.  Its sources rooted in the Torah itself, going back hundreds and hundreds of years before.

The page the haggadah was turned to was one that I immediately recognized.  It begins “kadesh, urchatz, karpas, yachatz…”- it is the 15 part step-by-step recitation of what the Seder will include.  A kind of preview or table of contents.  Here’s what it sounds like when a kid sings it 😉

Anyone, and I mean anyone, who is Jewish and goes to a Seder will hear this.  And if they practice the religion at all, they will know it.  It doesn’t matter if they’re Moroccan or Ashkenazi or Yemenite or from Transylvania.  This is shared meaning.

What’s so astonishing is that we kept it all alive and preserved the same text for almost two millennia.  Like the Torah itself.

As Yom Haatzmaut, Israeli Independence Day, comes upon us- I ask this question.  If Jews are not from this place- from where I sit writing this blog now- how do you explain why we all prayed in the same exact language for 2,000 years in the Diaspora?  In places without Whatsapp or Facebook to check in with each other.  And in a Semitic language- a language quite obviously from here and directly related to Aramaic and Arabic and Amharic.

There are those who try to discredit the Jewish people’s connection to this land and to each other.  They claim Ashkenazi Jews are Greek converts- or Turkish (competing theories that might make both of those countries laugh given their tortured relationship).  They claim Ashkenazi Jews and Yemenite Jews aren’t related- even though we have particular, unique vowel sounds we share in common in Hebrew not heard in other communities.  Despite being separated by an unforgiving geography.  They claim we’re simply a cooked-up movement with no real connection to this place.

And they are wrong.  Besides various genetic studies that have shown disperse Jewish communities to be related, and the fact that a Druze friend says I look like someone from his town not an American, despite the fact that in America people are more likely to think I’m Latino than white.  Besides our genetic diseases and our curly hair that reminds me of my Lebanese friends.  Besides the fact that we sometimes look a lot like our Arab and Palestinian neighbors here.

They still say we’re not from here.

Well, to be fair, we’re a mixed people.  There have always been converts to Judaism.  There’s no such thing as a “pure people” on this planet- a concept so racist and absurd I hope we can leave it aside.  My own DNA kit analysis shows me to be 91% Ashkenazi, with several percent coming from Asia Minor, Eastern European non-Jews, and oddly enough South Asia- I do like a good chicken tikka masala.  And have been known to have some killer Bhangra moves.

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Some of this test is statistical white noise, though I used some other advanced sites to decipher the data.  What was most fascinating was that even though my ancestors immigrated to America from Eastern Europe, my DNA was closest to that of Mediterranean people such as Cypriots, Lebanese, Sicilians, Greeks, Kurds, and even Palestinians.

Palestinians themselves are likely to have some Jewish blood.  The few Jews who managed to escape Roman expulsion sometimes converted to Christianity.  Some of them converted to Islam later.  And were Arabized or mixed with the conquering Muslim tribes.  It’s not for nothing that sometimes I’ve hit on Arab guys here thinking they were Jewish.  And in the end, not really caring too much either way because they were pretty hot 😉

My point is we’re all mixed.  And given the history, both Jews and Arabs are tied to this land.  And even related to each other.

I can understand the Palestinian fellah, or peasant, who saw masses of Jews returning to join their brethren living in Israel.  And felt confusion, nervousness, and sometimes anger.  What was this all about?  Why are my landlords in Lebanon selling my land?  Who are these people?

So let me explain.  We’re here because we’re from here.  We were kicked out, against our will- and not because of you.  Although sometimes we took our anger out on you.  The Babylonians and then the Romans oppressed us and dispersed us around the world.  Where we kept praying in our holy tongue- a language completely unrelated to most of the cultures that surrounded us, at least in Europe.  We kept celebrating the same holidays and even using the same book on Passover to retell the story of our redemption.

Why would we come to this place if we’re not from here?  I can think of 10,000 calmer, richer, more peaceful lands for us to (re)settle in if it was simply a matter of escaping persecution.  And persecution there was a lot of.

We’re here because it’s home.  Because there are Arab villages named after Hebrew words that make no sense in Arabic.  And there are now Israeli villages that replaced prior Arabic names with similarly-sounding Hebrew words.  In my own neighborhood, Kfar Shalem comes from the Arab village “Salameh”.

Jews lived in this land before Arabs were even a people.  And there were other peoples here before the Jews.  And the Arabs came after the Romans expelled most of the Jews.  And generally treated them better than Europeans did.  And some Jews managed to stay here despite it all.  And now we’re back in a big way.

Jews are from here.  The English place names for various holy cities here derive from the Hebrew.  Jerusalem from Yerushalayim.  Hebron from Hevron.  Bethlehem from Bet Lehem.  Safed from Tsfat.  This is not a modern phenomenon, it’s from our Bible and our history.

Arabs are now from here too.  Even if they arrived in the 700s, that’s still a solid 1300 years.  Now we’re back and living together in the same land.  All too often in hatred and violence, though in smaller quantities that people outside this land realize.  There is true beauty here you’ll never read in a public policy paper or in the New York Times.

So on Israel’s 70th birthday, I say “hooray!”  We’re home.  Like the Yemenite haggadah and my own haggadah says, we escaped persecution and made it to our Holy Land.  We’ve been reading it separately for 2,000 years and now I can go to a museum, chat with Yemenite Jews, and feel like I’m back at a family reunion.  What a miracle.

As we enter year 71, let’s remember our history and acknowledge the history of our neighbors.  On both sides.  We share this land- whether we want to or not, we’re both here and we’re both, in our own unique ways, from here.

Happy Birthday Israel!  We deserve it.  To my Palestinian friends- I can understand if this is a day of sadness for you.  I hope one day we can find something to celebrate together.  In the meantime, I’m going to party.  This year, with a bit of a Yemenite step 😉

When Jews defend themselves

Yom Hazikaron is around the corner.  It’ll be my first time honoring this day here in Israel.  Once a year, Israelis gather and remember their loved ones who died in battle or were murdered by terrorists.  I am not sure what to expect other than a lot of sadness.  Memorial Day in the U.S. often felt distant, like a day to have picnics.  I think in Israel, both because of the scope of the killing here and its immediacy, it’ll feel quite different.

Soon after I made aliyah, I made friends with a young man named Adam.  18 years old, training to be a combat soldier, graduating from high school this year.  His family owns a Kavkazi restaurant in Ramat Gan, where I “met” his cousin Ruslan, who was killed by a roadside bomb two decades ago- at the age of 21.  I met him because I happened to be in the restaurant on the anniversary of his death.  The dumplings were delicious.  Welcome to Israel.

When I think of young men and women like Ruslan, it makes me sad.  He’d be about 42 today, maybe married with children, working, building a life for himself.  And instead he’s turning to dust in the ground.  Like over 23,000 other Israelis.  With more added each and every year.

The sadness is hardly limited to our borders.  Just north of us in Syria, thousands upon thousands of people are being killed while the world sits in silence.  Where are the mass demonstrations?  Of anyone?  Of Palestinians?  Of Western liberals?  Of Israelis?  Of European activists?  Of Muslims?  Where?  Where is everyone?  People love to kick and scream about Israel, but I just don’t hear their voices when hundreds of thousands of innocent Syrians are being gassed to their deaths.

Palestinians, Lebanese, Syrians, Egyptians, Jordanians- everyone here has their own sadness.  My own country, Israel, has sometimes caused that sadness.  And our sadness has sometimes been caused by them.  I mourn the loss of every life and support people’s remembrance of their loved ones.

This is our day to do it here and we deserve it.

One particular person stood out as I wrote this blog.  And it was not a soldier.  It was Mireille Knoll.  Mireille was an 85-year-old Holocaust survivor living in Paris.  Having survived Nazi genocide, she lived a long and beautiful life in France.  Until two Muslim men walked into her apartment this year and stabbed her 11 times while yelling “allahu akbar”.  That’s not what I said, that’s what one of the actual suspects said.  Along with neighbors.  The same suspect shared that his accomplice said: “She’s a Jew. She must have money.”

I wish I could pretend this was the only anti-Semitism in France or America or any of a number of countries this year, but that’s not true.  In America, we have a rise in neo-Nazism and in anti-Semitic behavior on the left.  Including a large swath of the Boycott, Divestment, Sanctions Movement (BDS), which encourages people to target Israel, and only Israel, for economic boycott.  Not targeted boycotts, not against certain politicians or policies, but against my entire country.  Some of the activists, which include some Jews, are simply trying to push my country in a more progressive direction, even if some (though maybe not all) of their tactics are misguided.   And others among them are flat-out anti-Semites- and this is based not only on news reports, but on actual comments I’ve heard from them.  Rothschild conspiracies and beyond.  To criticize Israel is not necessarily anti-Semitic- Israelis do it on a daily basis.  When you single out Israel among all nations for a never-ending stream of hatred while never mentioning even more drastic human rights abuses elsewhere- you’re a bigot.

I have a friend- and I don’t use the word lightly, he’s an actual friend- who shared with me an insight lately.  Eric is an American Christian and he said: “I have Jewish friends at home who’ve barely, if at all, been to Israel, but want to volunteer for the army there.  I have no idea why they’d do that.”  Because he loves culture and diversity, he added: “I know it’d be difficult, I just wish the Jewish Diaspora was stronger- I wish their communities could go back- to India, to Afghanistan, and beyond.”

He is well-intentioned- I know him.  And I need to address these questions.  First off, I think Israeli Jews whose families came from places like Morocco and Iran- whose families were kicked out of there- also wish they had a connection with those places.  Due to the anti-Semitism of those governments, who stole their property and citizenship, it’s not so easy.  I know Eric knows this, but nobody in Israel particularly wants to go back to a Muslim-majority country that kicked them out and where not a small number of people would still be happy to see them killed.  One friend’s Syrian-Israeli family knows that their historic house has been turned into a luxury hotel.  One day, God willing, if there’s peace, I’m sure Israeli Jews would love to visit and reconnect with their heritage.  In the meantime, it’s the sin of the Muslim world that we can’t do that.  I know Eric understands this and it was more of a wish.  It’s just that he’s pining for something we’ve already had to move past.  None of my relatives are left in Poland.  If we could’ve lived peacefully in the Diaspora, we would’ve done it.  We tried for 2,000 years and our neighbors never succeeded in securing our lives.

Now, to the second part.  Why would an American Jew- even one with little or no direct connection to Israel- want to volunteer for the IDF, our military?  A good question given this holiday.  I personally am somewhat of a pacifist, so I don’t think I’d volunteer for any military.  And I totally understand the volunteers.  Jews- despite our relative economic and political success- are a small and sometimes belittled minority even in America.  Jewish characters in the media are portrayed as effeminate.  The women- overbearing.  Few as sexy or powerful.  We’re only accepted in so far as we don’t act “too Jewish” and aren’t visibly identified as such.

There are many good things about Jewish life in America and about America in general.  And there is one basic thing that Jews have the right to do only in Israel: defend ourselves.  Christians and Muslims alike didn’t give us this right.  Only after 2,000 years can we protect ourselves and not be at the mercy of whatever people or ruler has control over us.  Which gets to Eric’s comment about returning to the Diaspora.  It’s certainly a cultural loss for both us and the friendlier of our former neighbors.  But why would we go back?

Israel made and makes mistakes.  Politically misusing soldiers and sometimes even harming innocent civilians.  Kicking Arabs out of their homes.  The First Lebanon War was in many ways a disaster, even in the eyes of the Israeli public.  And our current quagmire in the West Bank continues to put both Israeli soldiers and Palestinian lives at risk- without an easy solution.

So why would a Diaspora Jew want to be a part of this?  Why would they volunteer for my military?

Mireille Knoll.

That’s why.  Mireille Knoll’s granddaughter Keren Brosh made aliyah from France to Israel, arriving in 1997.  Incidentally, the year Ruslan was killed.  Keren became an IDF intelligence officer, something her grandmother was very proud of.

Mireille Knoll survived the Holocaust only to be murdered by anti-Semites in a self-righteous country that loves to lecture my own about human rights (while taking basically no responsibility for its own colonialist past).  And that bans headscarves and can’t even protect its Jewish citizens’ lives.  Over and over and over again.

Mireille was defenseless.  I pray for her soul’s peace in the High Heavens.  She did nothing wrong, she didn’t deserve to die.  And I’m tired of my people being made into sheep for the slaughter.  We look great as victims, but too many Westerners don’t like to see us with a gun.

So when a Jew grabs a gun and says “enough!”- understand where it comes from.  Understand what it feels like for us to see Keren Brosh strong and protecting our people here while her grandmother was butchered in France.  Even thousands of miles away, we see our people suffering and we remember our history.  We want to help and we want to define our own destiny.  Not by being a sidekick, not by being a punchline, and not by being the overbearing caricature of a Jewish woman that is The Nanny.  Not by being tolerated.  But rather by being free to set our own course, even at great sacrifice.

I’m grateful for the soldiers who’ve sacrificed for me.  I honor the bravery of all victims of terror.  I long for a day when soldiers and security checkpoints won’t be necessary- for anyone who lives here, Israeli, Palestinian, or otherwise.  When the water guns will outnumber the real ones.

In the meantime, I’m not going back to live in the Diaspora.  And I’m glad I have soldiers who put their lives on the line to protect me.

I wish Mireille Knoll had had soldiers to protect her.  So she wouldn’t have been a helpless grandmother stabbed to death for being a Jew.

That’s why I’m Israeli.

The Holocaust

For lack of a better title, that’s what I’m calling this blog.

Today is Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.  It is my first time spending this remembrance in Israel.

I knew in the back of my head it was coming tonight, but I was surprised with the speed.  I was going shopping in the Shuk and as early as 4pm everything started to shut down.  With no food at home, I scrambled and even convinced the mini-mart to sell me a milk carton as the tarp was being pulled down.

Living alone here, I wasn’t sure quite what to do.  I’ve been to Holocaust remembrance ceremonies in synagogues and Jewish Community Centers in the States, but you don’t get the feeling that the whole country is coming to a stop.  Quite the opposite, the average non-Jewish American wouldn’t even notice.

After deciding to cook some lentils I had lying around from the Eritrean corner store, I got to thinking.

This past year, I started doing genealogy of my family.  It’s not easy- I come from a deeply toxic and abusive family across several generations so to “reconnect” with long-lost relatives is hard.  I don’t know how they were as people and if they gifted me the torture I survived as a child.  What I hope, on some level, is that someone up the family tree was brave and hopeful like me.  Someone who aspired, who made it to America, who overcame obstacles.  Whose courage runs through my blood and brought me to my homeland.  Their very distance from me and my not knowing them allows me to imagine such a scenario.  To enjoy that several of them were Yiddish teachers.  That one was a rabbi.  That they spoke Yiddish and English and Romanian and Hungarian and Russian.    It gives me a little sense of rootedness when I sometimes experience loneliness and a sense of detachment.

It also helps me understand where I come from when Nazi Germans and their Polish, Hungarian, Russian, etc collaborators murdered my family.  Because while some of my Palestinian neighbors want us to just “go home”, it’s not quite so simple.  The truth is the homes we had before the Holocaust no longer exist.  There were 17,000 synagogues in Europe on the eve of the Holocaust and now there are 850.  European Jews numbered 9.5 million in 1933- and today barely 1.4 million- 85 years later.  You cannot find an Ashkenazi Jew who didn’t lose relatives in the Holocaust- whether they know their names or not.

And in Israel, they know their names.  Because about 90% of the State’s initial population was either Holocaust survivors or their relatives.  While the vast majority were Ashkenazi, a number of Sephardic communities were annihilated by the Germans, including the beloved Salonika which is now basically empty of Jews.

Some people do not get the Holocaust.  Many, many, many non-Jews I’ve met, including people I grew up with in the U.S., think the Holocaust is the only major act of anti-Semitism to befall the Jewish people.  I even had a French teacher in the States who genuinely thought no anti-Semitic violence happened before the Holocaust.  Wrong.  The Holocaust is the climax.  It’s the climax of 2,000 years of Christian anti-Semitism, which later morphed into race-based anti-Semitism.  The reason Yiddish has Hebrew, Aramaic, Italian, French, German, Polish, and Russian in it is because we’ve been expelled from all those lands (and others) over and over again.

Something few Americans I know want to acknowledge is their privilege as Christians.  Or as descendants of Christians even if they don’t practice the religion.  My point here, by the way, is not to suggest Christianity is inherently anti-Semitic nor to blame individuals today for the acts of other people.  Rather, I want to suggest that people need to understand the way being not Jewish gives them privilege over Jews everywhere in the world except Israel.

There are the basic things like when public holidays take place to the likelihood that a Jew will be elected President (in America- I’m not holding my breath).  Then there are the country clubs that wouldn’t admit Jews, the universities that had quotas, the lynchings, the job discrimination, the Hollywood surnames that lost their “skys” and “mans” and “bergs”.

I’ve personally been discriminated against- classmates calling me a rich Jew, people telling me Jews were loudmouths, having bomb threats called into the Jewish Community Center, even being thrown out of a taxi by an anti-Semitic driver yelling rants.  Being called “similar to an Islamic extremist” for keeping kosher.  A guy I was dating once even broke up with me after he found out that I didn’t eat pork.  Read between the lines.

It should be said that American anti-Semitism, even with its recent scary rise in cemetery desecrations, is relatively mild compared to other countries like France and Russia, from where Jews continue to flee.  It should be said, though, that there was a 57% increase in American anti-Semitic acts in 2017.  Something I believe American Jews should keep in mind and at least consider taking a glance at the Nefesh B’Nefesh website as an option.

The fact that American Jews, as a whole, have achieved great success- much like our German counterparts prior to Adolf Hitler- is not primarily to your credit, America.  It’s to ours for overcoming the obstacles you often put in our way.  The fact that my family was excluded from institutions didn’t just give you an advantage- it gave us a disadvantage which we bravely overcame.  And still overcome.  Discrimination is never neutral.

As I continued to do genealogy, I mapped out where my ancestors lived in Europe before coming to America starting 130 years ago.  I’m still working on it, but here’s my map so far:

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As I found my relatives’ birthplaces, I came across other databases.  The Nazis, to their credit, were diligent Germans.  The kind who keep good notes.  Who keep the trains running on time and the logs well-written.  There are entire databases, I discovered, of the names of Jews who Germans murdered.  And what I found, to my shock, was people with the same surnames as my relatives from the very same towns- killed by the Nazis.  In some cases, they were the only people in the town with the same surname.  My family.

While for many Israelis, Holocaust remembrance day is very direct- they remember their immediate relatives.  In some cases, they remember themselves in concentration camps.  American Jews, with the exception of post-war refugees, are another generation separated from the pogroms we escaped.  And we don’t necessarily know the names of our lost relatives, even if we realize they must have died.  With the help of the internet and Nazi record-keeping, I can now say I do.  It makes it much more personal and makes me a whole lot angrier.  And sad.

A while back, I met a young German man here studying for a semester.  I took him under my wing, showed him Tel Aviv, talked about Jewish history, and even brought him to a Yiddish Klezmer performance.

I think he was well-intentioned but supremely ignorant.  We talked about the Holocaust, which I welcomed.  I’ve struggled to find non-Jewish Germans willing to dialogue (partially because I don’t know many) and I think we both need it.  The young man asked me: “Why do Israelis keep talking about the Holocaust?  It happened so long ago.  It’s old history.”

My heart sunk.

If this is the kind of German that makes his way to Tel Aviv- which initially gave me hope- I started to wonder what the German back home thought of me.  I know rationally that it’s not wise to judge an entire people based on a few interactions (I’ve had some other problematic ones with Germans here- including one who complained about our holidays and our “weird-looking language”).  And emotionally I just get so angry.

In the end, Europeans, white people, Christians, whatever you want to call them.  The people across the pond who aren’t Jews.  They- not all of them- but they caused our trauma.  And, to a certain extent in recent years, you could say the same of Muslim-majority countries, though historically they treated us better relatively speaking.

So when Europeans – because it was not just Nazis, it was also millions of their collaborators – caused us trauma, it has become a generational problem.  Especially here, when combined with the wars and terrorism that followed.

So when French activists or Swiss protestors lament our aggressiveness or “disproportional force”, it’s hard for me to take them seriously.  Not because they don’t have a point- sometimes the trauma heaped on us has gotten passed on to Palestinians and our Arab neighbors.  But rather, because it’s the pot calling the kettle black.  When Europe is ready to compensate us and restore the property – and, impossibly, the lives – of our people, I’ll be ready to talk.  I just can’t really handle a German lecturing me about disproportionate force.  Who doesn’t even know about the tortured Jewish history of his town.  And if that’s hard for you to hear, good.  Because at least we’re being honest now.  And you have to take our feelings into consideration if we’re going to build something better here.

On our side, we haven’t gotten a moment to breathe.  Israelis, in particular those who have lived here many years, haven’t gotten a respite since the Holocaust.  Nearly non-stop warfare and violence.  We deserve a rest.

We also need to remember that because of all the traumas our people has been through, we must be extra cautious not to harm others.  As I’ve written about before, there have been times when Israelis, in particular in 1948, passed their trauma on to Palestinian civilians.  For the first time in 2,000 years, we have the power to abuse others.  Including refugees.  Few things are black-and-white, we just must remember that with power comes great responsibility.  The kind of responsibility and sensitivity that Europeans rarely showed us.  Such as the Polish politician who called Jews “animals” on social media.  Last week.

On many levels, I identify with Holocaust survivors.  Of course as a Jew and as a human being, but also as a survivor of torture and abuse by my relatives.  I’m an only child and I pulled my way out of that swamp with every last bit of my energy until I made it to the Holy Land.  Where those survivors and this survivor now live together, building a new life of hope, health, and joy.

Israel is an imperfect place, like every other country.  If you want to know why, despite all our very loud and vociferous differences, Jews here feel we need a homeland, all you need to do is count the number of Jews in Poland.  Or to try to find the synagogue where my great-grandfather prayed in Latvia.  Or to find the Jewish community of Pacsa, Hungary where my great-grandfather Adolf Adler lived.

Guess what?  You’re going to be in for a lot of tears.  Because our heritage there was erased.  And it’s because we have a new homeland, a complicated and blessed place, that we are still alive.  Israel struggles with many things- preserving Jewish culture, guarding human rights, and even sometimes pursuing peace.

One thing we’re good at is saving Jewish lives.  Something Europeans never really could figure out.

Have a meaningful Yom Hashoah.  May this remembrance find the existing survivors treated with more dignity.  May it find all victims of genocide treated with respect.  May it find us living in a world where while I remember my people being gassed, I don’t have to think about my neighbors across the border in Syria suffering the same fate.

One Holocaust, many genocides.  Never, ever again.

—

p.s.- if you’re wondering what the cover photo is, it’s the flag of the German-American Bund.  The American Nazi party.  Because Nazism wasn’t just Hitler.  We all must stand up for what’s right.

*Image by Paloeser

Bedouin Arabic…in Hasidic Bnei Brak

Yes, the title is exactly what you think.

As an appropriate sequel to my blog “Bedouin Yiddish“, in which I discovered a Bedouin man who speaks Yiddish in Rahat, I found Bedouin speaking Arabic in Bnei Brak!

Before we get to that, let’s start at the very beginning.

Today, I was planning on visiting the West Bank.  Area C, where Israelis can visit, is where I’ve made contact with a Palestinian practitioner of non-violence who partners with Israelis (including settlers).  However, feeling rattled after yesterday’s “preview of a terrorist attack“, I decided I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to make the most out of the experience.

Instead, I made my way to Bnei Brak.  I’ve written a lot about this Haredi city of 200,000 people on the doorstep of Tel Aviv.  My first Haredi hug, my first time praying in a Hasidic shtiebl, Satmar Yiddish newspapers, the hot guys, and the time I got a blessing from a Vizhnitz Hasid.

Speaking of Vizhnitz, that’s exactly where I went today.  Kiryat Vizhnitz, named after the town in Europe where the Hasidic dynasty was founded, is a part of Bnei Brak I knew less about.

Knowing that there was a renowned Vizhnitz bakery AND a Yemenite Haredi bookstore, I knew this was my destination for the day.  Quench the thirst of my soul and my stomach!

I started at Nosach Teiman, a Yemenite Jewish bookstore and Judaica shop.  The riches of this small store are innumerable.  I bought loads of Yemenite music, a Judeo-Aramaic calendar (!!), prayers written in Judeo-Arabic, and a book of Judeo-Arabic expressions translated into Hebrew.  It does not get any better than this.  Here are some pics:

They even had Yemenite Jewish clothing, make-up, and perfume for sale.  For a community that had to escape by the skin of its teeth from fanatical neighbors who wanted to exterminate them, they’ve sure done an amazing job of preserving their culture upon arriving to Israel.  While unfortunately fewer and fewer Yemenites here speak their unique language, I did hear a few words in the store- which I could mostly understand with my Arabic!

Energized, I headed to the Vizhnitz bakery, sure that I’d also find new adventures on the way.  On my way there, I came across several yeshivas.  The first, a Sephardic one, where I got a free book called “Mishnah Brurah”.  It’s old and beautiful- and free.  Bnei Brak is one of the few places on the planet where you’ll find timeless beautiful books simply sitting outside waiting for you to grab them.  For free or minimal cost.  These are the Jews who truly continue to embody that we are the “People of the Book”.  Looking for Jewish knowledge?  Skip Amazon and head to shuls in Bnei Brak.

Down the street, I saw the Belz Yeshiva.  There’s a famous song about the shtetl, or Jewish village, of Belz that once existed in Eastern Europe.  So to see the town recreated in front of my eyes- its Jewish presence in Europe exterminated- was awe-inspiring.  As Holocaust Remembrance Day approaches in Israel, I couldn’t help but let out a huge smile.  As the famous Yiddish resistance song says: Mir zaynen do.  We are here.  In the face of Nazi persecution, Christian annihilation, Islamic fundamentalism, ever-shifting anti-Semitism on both left and right- we exist.  We survived.  We. are. here.

To see my heritage continue in the face of 2,000 years of European brutality is a miracle.  It fills me with hope, wonder, amazement, and joy.  Our mere presence is a victory in and of itself.

I headed to the bakery with a fulfilled soul and a hungry stomach.

The bakery was delicious.  It was nothing but challahs left and right.  Some huge, some small and all a bit sweet.

While I noshed on my challah, I noticed something interesting- a sign with baking instructions in Arabic.  Bnei Brak is 1000% Jewish.  A mixed city this is not.  A secular person moving here would be considered a mixed population.

Then I noticed a tan-skinned man yelling in Hebrew at a Hasid.  Something about business.  Given how everyone yells in my neighborhood- even when not angry- I didn’t make much of it.  Must just be a Mizrachi guy who does business with Vizhnitz bakers.

Then I heard the most unexpected thing ever: Arabic.  And not Yemenite Judeo-Arabic.  Arabic from here.  I approached the tan men in Arabic.  Their eyes widened with excitement and surprise.  You have to remember I’m wearing a black yarmulke, a kippa, a head covering.  I look, for all intents and purposes, Modern Orthodox.

Turns out, they’re Bedouins.  I told them I had been to Rahat (where I discovered the Yiddish speaker).  They said they lived in a nearby town of Ad-Dhahiriya, whose name at first I confused with Nahariya, a city in the North of Israel.  Only once I google its name right now did I realize…it’s a Palestinian city.  In the West Bank.

We had a great talk about the Bedouin dahiyye music I like (they’re going to teach me the dance next time) and I was proud to hear, as I walked away, them say “wallahi bye7ki 3arabi mnee7”.  Wow he really speaks Arabic well.  My smile inside and out could not be bigger even as I write this now.

While Yemenite Arabic in Israel is struggling, I found Bedouin Palestinians who are keeping Arabic alive in Bnei Brak.  While my trip to the West Bank didn’t happen today, I did end up meeting Palestinians.  And having fun.  And hopefully warming a few hearts, like they did mine.

Still hungry, I grabbed a sweet for the road.  The man at the store turned out to be a fellow polyglot.  He spoke Hebrew, Yiddish, French, and English.  And a straight-up Haredi Jew.  We shared a fantastic short conversation in all languages.  I bet you didn’t expect that in Bnei Brak.  Or the gluten-free falafel I found.  Or the multilingual dictionaries for learning Arabic, Hindi, Chinese, Italian, Spanish, Farsi, and Yiddish (the latter possibly for Mizrachi Jews).  All alongside a side for “kosher” phones that filter out “non-kosher” content.

What I hope you take from this adventure is the unexpected mystery and glory of finding new places and new people.  Bnei Brak is an awe-inspiring place.  With things that will surprise you if you open your mind and heart to the possibilities.

On my way back to Tel Aviv for a Eurovision concert headlined by Dana International, Israel’s first transgender superstar, I felt sad taking my yarmulke off.  I like my black yarmulke.  It suits me.  Not as a decoration and not just as a sign of respect for Bnei Brak.  But because I like that part of me.  That heimish, passionately Jewish, bookish, dancing-down-the-aisles Matt.  The Hasidic part of me.  The Haredi part of me.

And I don’t like feeling that I need to take it off when I come back to Tel Aviv, especially at an event with a lot of gay people.  Who- and I understand why- will be afraid to talk to me because of it.

This is what I hope we can one day overcome- on all sides.  I long for the day when I can be a gay Hasidic Jew- with the flexibility to still pray Reform and to go to gay parties.  And find a gay partner.  I long for the day when secular gay people will accept my passion for Judaism, including Orthodox Judaism, as a part of me.

I shouldn’t have to sacrifice bits of my soul to keep other people happy.  Nobody fits into a box- boxes are boring.  I’m glad I explore different things and my life is much, much richer for it, even with the challenges.

When I go to Bnei Brak now, I’m not just a visitor.  I know this place.  And I like some of it.  I hope it continues to passionately preserve its Judaism and I hope it can find ways to be more inclusive of people like me.  And I don’t know how possible it is to do both.  I would like to try- I suppose I already am.

So next gay party, don’t be surprised if I put on my yarmulke for a bit- just to see how it feels.  And to see how you react.

And next visit to Bnei Brak, don’t be surprised if I linger a bit under your city’s rainbow-colored flag to take a selfie.  Because inside it feels really queer.

Just like speaking Bedouin Arabic in the middle of a Hasidic bakery.

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A Preview of a Terrorist Attack

Israel is an exceeding loud country.  I’ve lived in big cities for most of my life and I speak 8 languages, so I’ve traveled.  And nothing- I repeat nothing- comes close to the noise of this place.

I live in South Tel Aviv, perhaps the single loudest part of Israel.  When people greet each other here, standing inches apart, they shout “shaloooooom!” as if they were down the street.  I go to Shuk Hatikvah, my local market, and it is super loud.  I’ve gotten used to it.  People are simply hawking their goods- cucumbers, dates, you name it.

One day, I heard screaming so loud in front of the market that I actually didn’t cross the street.  I was afraid something was “going down”.  And to be fair, if there’s one neighborhood of Tel Aviv where that’s likely to happen, it’s mine.

I paused for about 30 seconds looking anxiously.  The man was selling tomatoes.

Add to this that I live on the flight path to Ben Gurion Airport, with planes flying at all hours of the night.  And the fact that my neighbors blast Mizrachi music every morning (which I actually like to wake up to).  And basically, I’m used to loud noise.  It’s my home.

I’m also now a bit more accustomed to the idea of terrorism.  In America, terrorism is a far fetched concept.  Unless you lived in Lower Manhattan on 9/11, you haven’t really experienced a massive attack.  There have been smaller, very deadly shootings for sure.  Sadly, even last week at Google.  But not on the scale of what Israel has experienced.

According to one source, Palestinian terrorists have killed 3,759 Israelis.  Here’s a list of the major attacks since the 1990s.  Adjusting for population, this would be the equivalent of 740,227 Americans.  More than all the American soldiers who died in World War I and World War II combined.  There continue to be terrorist attacks on a regular basis, mostly ignored by the Western media bent on a simplistic black-and-white view of the region.  That does Israelis and Palestinians a disservice.

This is, by the way, not an attempt to downplay the death and sadness experienced by Palestinians.  There’s enough tears to drown both sides here- to the extent that you can really boil this conflict down to two sides.  Which I don’t really agree with.

My point is simply that it can be stressful to be an Israeli.  The other day I was locked in my neighborhood library for 20 minutes while police neutralized a suspicious item outside.  It was scary, which I suppose is the point of terrorism.  It’s not just the killing, it’s that the way it is done is meant to inflict maximum psychological harm.

Today, I was relaxing at a neighborhood cafe.  While checking my loads of WhatsApp messages like a good Israeli, I heard the single loudest and most explosive noise I’ve heard in this land.  And it wasn’t just me.  Everyone- I mean everyone- immediately turned towards the sound, eyes wide open, and hearts skipping a beat.  You could just feel it.  Israelis are not easily phased.  You know that a noise isn’t a problem in Israel if no one is looking.  And you know it is if people drop what they’re doing and all start to stare.

Luckily, people started talking within a minute or two and realized someone’s tire on a motorcycle had blown out.  Everyone started smiling and let out a sigh of relief.  Mine was audible.

After recuperating for a moment, I did what people here do- I went on.  I went to the bathroom, I got some water, and I headed to a pizza place where I called a few friends and told the guy working there about my favorite American hip-hop.

And then went home on a very crowded bus where a small fight broke out and there was more screaming.  I guess on some level I was relieved it was the usual Hatikvah screaming.  And not that of people wailing over bodies spilling blood.

I’m grateful to be here writing this blog.  Thousands of Israelis weren’t so lucky over the past 70 years.  That’s right, my country has made it to 70.  The golden years, if it were an elderly Jew retiring in Florida.

I’m proud to be an Israeli.  I’m not always proud of what my government does or how all of our people act- just like I was when I lived in America.  Being proud of your country also means speaking out for what you believe- that’s democracy.

Yom Ha’atzmaut, Israeli Independence Day, is around the corner.  The decorations are up in my neighborhood and around the city.

I have a simple message for my friends abroad, especially my progressive friends in Europe and the U.S.  Empathize with us.  Don’t stop empathizing with Palestinians.  Just also empathize with us.

If you had bombs going off, attacks for 70 years, wars, and such a fear of these things that a loud tire bursting is enough to startle you- then you’d be a lot like us.

We don’t have the luxury of having massive rallies like they did in Barcelona after the 2017 bombings.  Because if we had such rallies every time someone’s child was split into pieces, we’d be doing nothing but rallying every day.

We have lives to live.  Understand that even the most eccentric Israeli behavior- or politics- has reasons behind it.  Whether it’s the right path or not, there is something that causes people to behave the way they do.  The way we do.

I’ve met some Americans here truly open to listening and to exploring all the good and bad of the cultures of this region.  Kudos.  I’ve met other foreigners who come and lecture me about my own people, my own religion, my own history.  Even flat out anti-Semites.

If you’re the latter- start your work at home.  With yourself, with your community, with your own country.  Americans have little to stand on when heaping sometimes aimless anger on Israel.  Every inch of your country was inhabited by Native Americans and you take it for granted that it now belongs to you.  I can personally say I know next to nothing about the Potomac Indians who inhabited the town I was born in.  And I’m at least aware enough to know they exist.

If you don’t think Jews are from here- you’re wrong.  Both we and Palestinians are connected to this land.  And we’re both a lot more connected to here than you are to Boston or Minnesota or California.  Because you’re not from there- you’re from Germany, France, Scotland, or Ireland.

And to the Europeans nodding right now- who do you think caused all of that?  Or even most of the problems in Israel and Palestine?  It’s you guys!  Who stole Jewish land, money, and lives on every inch of your soil for 2000 years. Who colonized the Middle East and stole its resources.  Me and my Palestinian friends are living with the consequences of your imperialism.  So stop munching on your free-range Swedish meatballs with an air of self-righteous “neutrality”.  Because the German Volkswagen you’re driving was built with the blood of my people.  And your British Petroleum is paid for with the blood of 405,000 Iraqi Arab lives.

In the end, none of us are entirely innocent and few are entirely guilty.  The effect of terror, at least on me, is that once the fear fades and my safety returns, the anger builds up.  Which is what I’ve shared with you today.  So try to understand what it must feel like on a national scale- when the explosion really happens.

I feel blessed to be an Israeli, and as I continue to settle in here, I’m not quite sure what it means to be an American going forward.  We’ll have to see.  I do know that I just want peace.

The kind of peace where I can live in my Jewish homeland without thinking that a blown out tire is going to be the last sound I hear.

How to stay sane while living in the Holy Land

Recently, I was talking to an Arab friend in Arabic.  He said there are three groups of people here.  One, Arabs who think this whole land only belongs to them.  Two, Jews who think the same thing about themselves.  And three, Arabs and Jews in the “mushy middle” who want to live together.

I think I agree.

Today, I saw a good demonstration of how this plays out.

After lazing around on the beach on a gorgeous day, I had some extra time on my hands.  Because I live in by far the most fascinating country on the planet, I simply slipped my sandals on (and then off) and walked into a mosque.  The Hassan Bek Mosque is a historic building located in the middle of Tel Aviv.  It was built in 1916 and to this day is an active mosque.

According to what seems to be a pretty well-sourced Wikipedia article, the mosque was built on land that the Muslim governor of Yaffo confiscated from Arab Christians.  Later, it was used for Arab snipers shooting at Jews.  During the 1948 War of Independence, Israel captured the area.  The houses were largely razed and some troops wanted to demolish the mosque itself, which was vetoed by future Prime Minister Menachem Begin.

At various times it was going to be turned into real estate development (stopped by protests) and may have housed a suicide bomber, which led to some Jews throwing firebombs and some Arabs hurling rocks at the Jews from the mosque.  Arabs then threw rocks at Jewish motorists and some Jews threw a pig’s head into the mosque.

In short, a microcosm of the region’s conflict, some of which I didn’t know about until writing this blog.  Depressing and important to be aware of so you know where everyone is coming from.

If you go to the mosque itself, it’s just gorgeous.  You wouldn’t know any of that crap if you just enjoyed the beauty of the building itself.  Here are some pics:

After some peaceful reflection, perusing the beautiful books (including Qurans from Egypt and…Saudi Arabia!), I talked with a man inside.  We chatted in Arabic because I wanted to know what a sign meant.  It said (in Arabic) “Tasu is in danger”.  I knew “is in danger” but didn’t know what the word “Tasu” was.

He explained it was the name of a cemetery in Yaffo (Yafa in Arabic).  A Muslim cemetery which, incidentally I had visited in previous adventures, that is now possibly going to be turned into…a hotel.  When you consider the long history of conquest and re-conquest and desecration this land has known, it’s just so, so sad.  I patiently listened as he explained the situation and I shared my sympathy.  It’s hard to imagine a Jewish cemetery becoming a hotel here- the government is excruciatingly diligent about not building on Jewish graves due to prohibitions in Jewish law.  So much so that even Secular Jews get peeved by it.

The man pointed me to pictures of the neighborhood (called Manshiyya before 1948) on one of the columns.  The pictures were sad and the descriptions in English were pretty brutal.  Here is a slideshow:

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Occupation, nakba, bombing, demolition, ethnic cleansing- these are their words in English.  The sad part is there is some truth to what they’re saying.  As I’ve written about extensively on this blog, some Zionist militias forcibly expelled Arabs in 1948.  That’s not a theory, it’s a fact.  It’s also true that few things are black and white and the language used on these signs, in English for tourists, was as bombastic as possible.  Their existence perhaps evidence that Israel’s freedom of speech is a bit healthier than some expect.

No mention was made of the Christians whose land the mosque is built on nor the Jews who were shot at from its property.  I understand the anger of the worshipers especially in light of the recent cemetery controversy.  I also wonder if these signs are presented in a way that fosters knowledge of the past for the sake of building a better future.

Feeling sad and angry (both at the interjection of the painful past into my present and at the real estate developers who are about to turn a Muslim cemetery into a hotel), I walked back to the man.  I told him in Arabic: “I’m sorry for what’s happening.  I’ll pray that they don’t turn your cemetery into a hotel.  In the end, we must live together.”  He gave me a big smile and a handshake.

This man knew I was Jewish.  I can’t change the past- not the fact that this neighborhood was destroyed, nor the hateful acts committed on all sides in this place, nor the cemetery issue itself.  Although I plan on speaking out about it now.  What I did was just try to warm someone’s heart.  In a place where I feel quite helpless about convincing politicians, I just tried to be a human and reduce the hate in the world.

Feeling extremely tense, I walked towards Yaffo, where later I’d be celebrating the Moroccan Jewish holiday of Mimouna.  I stopped for some food at an Arab-owned restaurant.

The owner was hot.  Physically, for sure, and also just really nice.  Khalid had a beautiful smile and an infectious and kind personality.  We chatted on and off for hours.

An American woman walked in totally confused.  I helped her order and translate between her and Khalid.

Khalid noticed how I helped her and several other customers with the menu and I made some corrections to the English on their fliers.  He asked me if I would work with him.  I was surprised.  He basically said I had a nice connection with the customers, I knew public relations, and he needed help.

As I considered what had to be one of the kindest and most interesting job offers I’ve ever gotten, the American woman asked me about Gaza, about refugees, about pretty much everything that makes me cry a lot.  When the complexity and the sadness just overwhelm.

So instead of policy solutions (which Americans love), I gave a different answer.  I said: “If you want to live here, you need to know the past.  Insofar as the past helps you make a better future.  If you fixate only on the past, you’ll never see your way out and we’ll be stuck in a never-ending blame game.  We have to also live in the here and now and a better life together.”

Khalid then looked at me while the woman grabbed her purse.  He said: “Don’t pay for your food- we’re business partners.  You have to come work here.  I don’t see religion.  I see that when someone looks me in the eyes, I trust him.”

With a true feeling of gratitude, I headed to Mimouna.

What I wish for the Middle East and for my beloved country of Israel and the Palestinian people is this.  Know our past- and know the past of the other peoples of this land.  And don’t get stuck in the swamp of never-ending hatred, sadness, and guilt.  We don’t have time for it- we only get one life.  Know the past to learn from it and make a better future.  Let’s build it together.  Let’s live in the complicated space that is the Hassan Bek Mosque next to the serene park built on its neighborhood’s ruins next to the gorgeous beach we all enjoy.  Let’s live in the Mimouna party of Moroccan Jews who are my friends and whose families were expelled by Muslims in North Africa.  And who continue to celebrate the customs they once shared with them.

This place is messy.  It needs healing.  Put down the megaphones, put down the guns, and most importantly put down the sense of ultimate righteousness and purity.  Because we’re all a little dirty and wouldn’t it be better if we had someone to scrub our back and clean those hard-to-reach spots?

The first pro-refugee sign in my neighborhood

As some of you may have heard, just last night I was celebrating with refugee friends the defeat of Bibi Netanyahu’s deportation plan.  They would be given refuge in Western countries or in Israel.  Their lives, in short, would be saved.

After many, many sleepless nights and demonstrating and activism and awareness, I was so delighted to finally feel victorious.  To have literally saved lives.  And all in partnership with the refugees themselves, who were ecstatic.

We had this brief moment of love and joy in the streets of Neve Sha’anan where we pumped up the music and paraded with the news.  Refugees learned of the news from us as we walked down the street.  You could see them smiling from ear to ear.

It was, for a brief moment, perhaps the single most positive step the progressive moment had made in either Israel or the U.S. in the past year.  And against great odds.

I came home feeling happy and relieved.  Perhaps one of my best moments in this country.  Only to find that Netanyahu had paused (and later cancelled) the agreement.  Specifically after meeting with “activists” in my part of town.  Including a woman pictured kissing Bibi’s hand.  They wanted every last black person gone.  No deal with the U.N., no “half-assed” measures.  They don’t want to incentivize other “infiltrators” to come.

I can empathize with their frustration- their (our) neighborhood is frankly smelly, neglected, and poor.  And they are taking it out on the wrong people.  The refugees didn’t cause these problems- they’ve been here for years.  In the early years of Tel Aviv, the municipality didn’t even provide social services to Hatikvah.  The hard-scrabble people here did it themselves, which is amazing.  And also has literally nothing to do with African refugees.  This neighborhood, my neighbors, will continue to neglected as most poor people are.   Whether we live amongst Sudanese people or not.  Neighborhood investment can’t come at the expense of human lives- regardless of their race or religion.  It’s wrong.

Now Netanyahu is preparing to reopen the detention center, circumvent the Supreme Court ruling barring deportation, and ship my friends to their deaths.  I’m sad, I’m furious, I’m tired of this back-and-forth game.

It also frankly makes it hard to live in my neighborhood.  I wonder how many of my neighbors support the deportation.  Sometimes I’m afraid to ask.  I’ve been yelled at before walking home from rallies.  I did discover two neighbors who support the refugees, which was reassuring and also a reminder not to stereotype an entire part of the city based on a bunch of wacked-out media personalities and corrupt officials.  Because if I don’t have some counterexamples to the hatred, I just start hating my own Jewish neighbors.

So tonight, fed up with the bullshit, I decided to take a rather brave step.  I live in a neighborhood where there is no- and I repeat no- pro-refugee signage.  No leaflets, no posters, no banners.  You will see those things in other areas of South Tel Aviv, but there are no hipsters on my street.  I am “the American”.  The most common sign in my neighborhood is for a rabbinic study session or pictures of Shas Rabbi Ovadia Yosef.  In my part of town, the Likud is the left wing.  The other voters are often going for Shas.  It’s certainly a complex place, not black-and-white, and it’s also a rather right-wing part of town.  The most right-wing part of Tel Aviv by far.

In this context, I recalled an Arabic word I learned the other day.  Some Sudanese guys from Darfur opened up a brand new produce shop.  Beautiful, clean, friendly.  I bought some fruit and talked to them in Arabic.  Of course, also about the deportation.  They asked if I was a “naashit”.  I couldn’t place the word, but with the help of some explanation and Google Translate, I learned it was “activist”.  And I said “yes!”

My refugee friends taught me the word activist.  In Arabic.  And tonight, it was time to put it into action closer to home.  Closer than a rally, a Facebook post, or even a blog.  Having no idea how my neighbors will react (I still don’t know while writing this post), I hung a huge- I mean huge- banner that says “South Tel Aviv Against the Deportation”.  Right beneath my windows.

Seeing as how it’s on the rear side of my house, I’m not sure how many people will see it.  But people will- because it’s huge and I can see people’s windows from my own.  So somebody, at least one person, will notice.

And that is a good thing.  Because I’m not just hanging this sign for the refugees.  I’m hanging it for my two neighbors who agree with me.  And perhaps others who are too afraid to speak out due to our own community’s aggression.

I may not be originally from Yad Eliyahu or Shchunat Hatikvah or Israel.  But I am a human being, I’m an Israeli citizen, and I live here now.

The merchants of hatred say they represent my neighborhood and I say “no”.  You represent yourselves.  I am going to speak my voice.  I’m going to stand up as a member of the Hatikvah community, of South Tel Aviv and say “not. in. my. name.”

If you want to send innocent people to their deaths, God help your conscience.  I will not be silent.  And even when I’m not talking, I will still be speaking with every glance you take at my big motherf*cking sign.

Love your neighbor as yourself.  Damn straight- my refugee neighbors deserve all the love they can get.