America – Page 11 – Planting Roots Bearing Fruits

Free baklava as the police sirens wail

Today, I had a stressful day.

I lost my debit card in the Golan Heights, my phone’s data plan stopped working, and I had a long bureaucratic meeting at the Ministry of Absorption. And that was all before noon.

It ended up working out, but I just felt exhausted and stressed. So, as has become my custom, I went for a walk by the beach. I called my friend Jack in Minnesota to wish him a happy birthday and made my way down the boardwalk to Yafo.

I miss Yafo. I’ve since moved to a new apartment in another part of town, but I used to live right by this beautiful 10,000 year old city. Every time I went, I just felt the stress lifted off my shoulders as I stared at the Mediterranean, listened to the waves, and talked with the people.

After eating some delicious schwarma, I headed to the Abouelafia bakery, site of my first in-depth Arabic conversation in Israel which you can read about here. I was in desperate need of a good talk with my friend Adnan but instead I found his much younger coworker Sager who I had met with him.

When I first met Sager a few weeks ago, he was quiet. I tried to engage, but Adnan and I did most of the talking and Sager looked uninterested.

When I came back this time, from the second our eyes met, Sager looked excited to see me.

He invited me in and we got to talking.

Over the past week, there has been rioting in Yafo. There have been Arabs protesting against the police, sometimes violently. I honestly don’t know all the details because I hate listening to the news.

Sager didn’t wait one moment to tell me his opinion. He is an Arab Muslim. He is from East Jerusalem. And in his experience, the police do ethnically profile here and it is quite unpleasant. At the same time, he is furious with the protestors, who are burning things and causing problems. He feels that they are unnecessarily damaging relations between Arabs and Jews, who he views as brothers. In addition, he is concerned for the livelihood of the bakery’s owners and his own job. If Jews and tourists are afraid to visit Yafo, then there won’t be any business. This pain will also hurt the dozens of Arab businesses in the area.

We talked about our shared hatred for extremism on all sides. How the rest of the world likes to obsess over every last problem between Israel and the Palestinians but the world is silent when hundreds of thousands of Syrians are butchered. I shared with him an Arabic poem I wrote in the Golan overlooking the Syrian border, which he loved. In his words, the Golan Heights it the most beautiful place on the planet and I think I agree with him.

We talked about what it’s like to be a minority. Most Jewish Israelis don’t know what it is to be a minority as a Jew. Part of that is a good thing- it’s a product of Zionism and it’s part of the blessing of having one small place on this planet where we are normal. Part of it is problematic- I think some folks here have lost sight of the Jewish experience and the sensitivity we’ve often had for other minorities. My minority identity, which was undoubtedly a burden in the U.S., is to my advantage here. I can enjoy all the blessings of a validated identity while showing empathy and kindness to the minorities I share this country with.

In between us singing Nancy Ajram and dancing dabke together (yes, this actually happened), Sager thanked me for speaking Arabic with him. Our whole conversation was in Arabic and while, like in any second language you speak, there were times I didn’t remember this or that word, we got our points across. My speaking Arabic has made living in Israel a much, much richer experience and frankly I think every Israeli should speak it. A fifth of the population already speaks it as a native language, not to mention our millions of Palestinian, Egyptian, Jordanian, Syrian, and Lebanese neighbors. You don’t have to speak it perfectly to speak it well- give it a shot. When you speak to someone in their language, their heart opens up. You will do more for peace by getting to know your neighbors than any lobbying effort or protest.

Finally, as we wrapped up, I wanted to head home and get some rest after a long day. I kept trying to pay, but he was attending to other customers. I was getting a little annoyed but he’s a good guy so I waited.

Then the sirens came. Firetrucks and police cars drove by, racing down the street and wailing. Sager told me they were dealing with the protestors again. Our hearts sunk for a moment.

Honestly, I felt pretty safe. In fact, I felt safer than in most areas of D.C. where I am originally from. Yeah I might choose to read the news a bit more, but also I might not. There’s some sense of tranquility with just being able to live in the moment and trust your instincts.

My instincts said that Sager was a good guy. I tried to pay for the baklava but he just nodded his head and told me to take it for free. We smiled at each other, gave each other a bro-ish high five, and I grabbed a cab home (better not to mess with buses when there’s rioting).

That’s Israel for you. Intercultural dialogue. Baklava. Racial profiling. Rioting. Sirens. Kindness. Brotherhood.

You can have your quiet suburb of Kansas City. I’ll take a place where a piece of baklava means so much more than Baskin Robbins.

Bombs during dinner

This weekend, I went to one of the most beautiful places on the planet, the Golan Heights. Please don’t bother reading the Wikipedia article, it’s a bunch of political nonsense and needs to be edited.

In short, the Golan Heights is the northernmost part of Israel. Once it was a part of Syria, but after Syria invaded Israel in 1967 and lost the war, Israel pushed back the Syrian soldiers and gained the Golan. The Golan is important strategically because it is high ground and for the first two decades of Israeli history, the Syrian Army used that advantage to pummel Israeli villages below in the Galilee.

Now, the Golan is home to both Jews and Arabs, with a slight Jewish majority. Arab communities include Druze, Muslims, and Alawites. The Arabs often identify as Syrian, although a number of them have adopted Israeli citizenship. It’s a very rural area and extremely green and beautiful. It’s kind of reminiscent of a Middle Eastern Vermont or Switzerland. Before I get into my story, here are some pictures to give you an idea (I visited the picturesque Galilee along the way so I’ll throw in a few from there too):

Friday afternoon, my friends and I went for a hike in the Galilee. A park ranger told my friend Jordan to get out of the creek and then told me I was wondering too far away. As with almost all tense situations in Israel, the awkwardness immediately dissipated when I started to talk to the guy. Turns out Muhammad is a Muslim Arab from the Golan, meaning his roots are in Syria. I spoke with him in Arabic and he started to open up to me. Turns out, Arabs in the Golan are afforded the very unique opportunity to go to college in Syria (this is astonishing because Syria and Israel are technically in a state of war and Syria doesn’t even recognize Israel. But as with all things in the Middle East, you find loopholes). He studied medicine in Damascus for a year, but then had to flee because of the civil war. He decided he didn’t like medicine (despite his parents’ wishes that he become a doctor- does this sound similar, Jewish friends?) and became a park ranger and enjoys being in the peace of the outdoors. He definitely had some delusional ideas about how great life is in Syria for its meager remaining Jewish community (after all, there is a reason almost all of them have left). That being said, he was also clearly a very open-minded and tolerant person open to people of all backgrounds. He is a person forging his own path (pun intended), something I can identify with.

After our hike, we went to a kibbutz to spend the night. To say this place was magical is an understatement. It’s the most romantic, scenic, and peaceful place I’ve ever been. And I’ve been to the Alps. It is a rural, progressive Jewish lifestyle, something that is almost non-existent in the United States. Not only is most of rural America conservative (whereas kibbutzim have socialist origins and still lean left), but also Jews as a minority need to be around lots of other Jews in order to make for a rich communal life. This partially explains the high concentration of Jews in New York, Boston, DC, Chicago, Miami, LA, San Francisco, Atlanta, etc. The same could be said for gay people, which is a big reason why I, as a gay Jew, have stuck to major urban areas in the U.S.

This is not the case in Israel. You can enjoy a progressive rural lifestyle and feel at home. No rednecks here 🙂

I have a deep love for nature and tranquility so I found the experience awe-inspiring and thoroughly relaxing. I wandered around the kibbutz and nearby and just felt at peace. I have a strong inclination to raise my family in a place like this in the future- somewhere safe, Jewish, open-minded, and surrounded by God’s beautiful plants and animals.

After singing “Lecha dodi” by a lake as the sun set over the mountains much like the first kabbalists in Tsfat, I came back to the house for Shabbat dinner. As we laughed and relaxed around the table, we heard a boom. And then another boom. And many more. We realized that those were bombs being dropped in Syria’s civil war. The border is just a few kilometers away. It was a somber reminder of the violence raging oh so close by. It’s one thing to hear about the civil war and quite another to simply hear it. I prayed to God for the safety of my brothers and sisters just across the border.

We then had a lovely dinner and I wandered around alone afterwards exploring the kibbutz, praying, dancing, just unwinding. I looked up at the moon and talked out loud to God. “God, thank you for this beautiful Kibbutz. God thank you for Shabbat and for the beauty of nature. God thank you for the opportunity to visit the Golan Heights. God, thank you for the gift of being an Israeli. For the gift of living in this place, for bringing me here. Where despite the news and despite the booms off in the distance, I feel safer than I ever have in my life. Help me to grow stronger and heal and to make your name great. To strengthen your people and to bring peace. Amen.”

I went inside, talked to a really hot Lebanese guy Ameer on Tinder across the (other) border, and got the best night’s sleep I’ve had in Israel yet.

That’s life in Israel- radically accepting that there are some things you can’t change (war and borders), and then thoroughly enjoying all the amazing things in front of you (trees, lakes, mountains, Judaism, good food, friends, and more). Never taking life for granted and, while things can be sad or scary, rather than being paralyzed, just enjoying the hell out of the blessings you’ve got.

It was a little scary and sad to hear those booms in the distance. At the same time, I can honestly say that I actually felt safer at this kibbutz than in America. Here, I feel my identity is validated, that I’m a part of a big national family, and that I’m enjoying life to the fullest. It’s worth the risks because life here is so much better for me.

And who knows, one day maybe Ameer and I will be able to cross the border and pick up where we left off last night 😉

Nigerian Hebrew on Tisha B’Av

Today is Tisha B’av, a somber holiday where Jews recall the destruction of both holy Temples in Jerusalem According to tradition, they were both destroyed on this particular date of the Hebrew calendar. For some Jews, today is marked by fasting and reading from the Book of Lamentations. For others, it’s a day to contemplate the baseless hatred that supposedly brought about the destruction of the Temples, the infighting among Jews that purportedly gave our enemies the opportunity to destroy us. For some Jews, it’s just an ordinary day of the week, but where almost all the stores are closed for the holiday, making them frustrated that the Ultra-Orthodox Rabbinate has so much power in this country to impose their vision of Judaism on others. On the night when Tisha B’Av starts, the Rabbinate has the power to fine businesses that open. I’m starting to understand why secular Jews bristle at the power of this theocratic governmental institution.

That all being said, today for me was about moving. While I had planned to go to synagogue last night, I didn’t end up going because I was looking at apartments, scrambling to find a place to live. I successfully found a new place (yay!) and am now writing you from my new room!

To get my things to my new apartment, I took a cab. The driver spoke English with some sort of African accent that sounded familiar. I asked where he was from and he said Nigeria. Nigeria! I knew there were foreign workers here but never knew there were Nigerians! I grew up with several Nigerian friends, so we bonded over our love of foo-foo (a Nigerian food).

Then, we started speaking in Hebrew. I have spent my entire life doing Jewish things and have never heard someone speak Hebrew with a Nigerian accent. It was unique and beautiful and a sign of true respect for my culture like I have rarely experienced. To hear him say he was turning left on “Rechov Yud Lamed Peretz” (a street named after a famous Yiddish author) gave me the tingles. I realized that my culture really is the dominant force here- like it is in no place on the planet. Something that both excited me and make me kind of curious what life was like for this man. I can’t imagine being a foreign worker in most places is particularly hospitable and I know the Israeli government doesn’t have a great track record with guest workers or refugees. I felt empowered and privileged and fortunate and I also felt confused and uncertain. All valid feelings. I’m proud to see my identity validated after a lifetime of pain and discrimination. And I am concerned about the fate of this man, my neighbor, considering he has lived here for 20 years and may not even have citizenship.

As we pulled up to my new place, I heard something curious. The man was speaking in Ibo, a Nigerian language, but I recognized some of the words. Not just the English words, but also Hebrew ones! He’d slip in “balagan” (a mess), “chashmal” (electricity), and other Hebrew words into sentences he was speaking in Ibo. It reminded me of how American Jews sprinkle our English with Yiddish sayings or how Latinos in the U.S. do likewise with Spanish.

This place is a melting pot. Judaism has always been a place where different cultures come together. Long ago in the days of the Temple it may have been Moabites and Canaanites. Today in Israel it’s Polish Jews and Russian Jews and Moroccan Jews and Ethiopian Jews and American Jews and yes, even Nigerians.

As I got out of the car, I heard a politician on the radio say “today, our Temple is the Knesset, it’s modern Israeli society.” An interesting thought. Rather than waiting for us to rebuild the Temples of old, perhaps we should consider that we live in a time where we once again control our own destiny. What should that look like? Who belongs to our people? How do we want to contribute to the world?

As it says in Leviticus: כְּאֶזְרָח מִכֶּם יִהְיֶה לָכֶם הַגֵּר הַגָּר אִתְּכֶם, וְאָהַבְתָּ לוֹ כָּמוֹךָ

“The stranger that sojourns with you shall be unto you as the home-born among you, and you shall love him as yourself.”

If the State of Israel is in some ways our new Temple, then can we make space for those who tie their fate to us, for those non-Jews who join us in peace along the journey? Can we give them a holy space in our house?

I very much hope so.

Alabaman Arabs and the Western Wall

Yes, that is what happened to me today.

Today, I took my first trip outside of Tel Aviv since making aliyah and went to Jerusalem. I decided to go to the Kotel, known in English as the “Western Wall” or the “Wailing Wall”. It’s the last remaining wall of the Second Temple built in Jerusalem for the purposes of Jewish worship. Basically, it’s the most sacred site on the planet for Jews.

It’s been at least 12 years since I was at the Wall and I was very excited to go back. My anticipation was building as I made my way through the markets of the Old City. This was the place my ancestors came from, the site that informs all Jewish spirituality. Even today’s Jewish rituals and prayers are modeled after the Temple rituals. The cruelty of the Roman Empire that destroyed the Temple couldn’t defeat our faith.

As I thought these powerful thoughts and felt these deep emotions, I came upon a sign that said “Alabama, the heart of Dixie”. I had to re-read the sign a good two or three times before I realized yes, I was staring at a trilingual sign that said “Alabama” in English, Hebrew, and Arabic. I felt like I was in some dystopian novel. On what planet is there a University of Alabama store in the middle of the holiest city on earth?

Sure enough, it was an entire store dedicated to the University of Alabama owned by Arabs. I met the kids running the store, who were sweet. I spoke with them in Arabic and it turns out one of the kids’ dads studied at University of Alabama and became a huge fan. I asked who exactly comes to their store, given the small number of Alabamans in Jerusalem, and they said lots of people came by. I have to give them props for marketing because it obviously drew me in!

They had mugs and signs that said “Roll Tide” in Hebrew and Arabic. For especially my Israeli friends who don’t understand this, watch this video. Alabaman fans are particularly fanatical (about their team) and unabashedly southern, so even as an American it was a total curiosity to see a Palestinian store dedicated to probably the most Republican place in the country.

And there it was. I had a great conversation with the kids and their uncle- they’re very funny and friendly. And then I walked to the Western Wall.

When I got to the wall, I tried praying once and it was pretty good but didn’t feel super powerful. It ended up being a warm up.

I chatted with some German tourists and then went back for round two. I grabbed a tallit from some Chabad guys (I was smart enough to tell them from the get-go that I didn’t want to lay tefillin, but of course they tried anyways, and of course I said “no thank you” and did what I wanted).

I then headed back to myself and enshrouded myself in the tallit, giving me a sense of privacy and direct connection to God and my inner spirit. It was like my own personal synagogue. I now started to open up. I noticed a kid next to me. He was probably in high school. I had talked to his group earlier- they were Reform students from the U.K., from the same Jewish movement I belong to. It felt powerful for us to pray next to each other given the Israeli government’s recent rejection of Reform prayer spaces at the Western Wall.

After a few moments, he stood there by myself and just started crying. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. And one of the most sincere.

As I peered through the hole in my tallit at him and heard him wailing, I started to well up with emotion and sob. I thought of all my ancestors who walked this land. That their hands built this Temple and this very city. That it’s because of the sacrifices of millions upon millions of Jews who were butchered mercilessly for over 2,000 years by Babylonians and Greeks and Romans and Catholics and Klansmen and Spaniards and Portuguese and Germans and Poles and Russians and Protestants and Arabs and Muslims and on and on and on. They laid down their lives for me. Most of them could only dream and pray for the day when they would be able to return to our homeland and pray at our holiest site. And I carry their prayers in my heart.

When I decided to make aliyah, some of my friends asked me questions like “do you know anyone there?” and “have you ever been there?”. Yes I do and yes I have. If you’re a very active Jew, you almost certainly know people in Israel and you’ve visited. Totally innocent questions, but ones you might typically ask someone moving somewhere far and exotic like Vietnam or Zimbabwe.

Israel may be Zimbabwe for you, but it is not for me. Even though before making aliyah I had only been here twice, it is not a strange and foreign place. While there are for sure cultural differences that I continue to learn about, this is not a colony. This is not a destination. This is not a stint abroad.

This is my homeland. It is the source of my religious beliefs and my cultural heritage. It is my people whose traditions gave rise to both Christianity and Islam many generations later. Its stones cry out with the tears and laughter of my forefathers and foremothers.

It is a place that belongs to me as a right that my people have fought long and hard for. The right to pray at our ancient holy sites free of violence or discrimination. As recently as 1967, I could not have prayed at the Western Wall because Jordanian troops wouldn’t allow it.

The point is this: I am a Zionist because I believe I am not “moving to a new place” but rather because I am returning to the place I come from. A place that has room for me to pray in peace at the Western Wall, for my Christians friends to visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and for my Muslim friends to pray at the Al-Aqsa mosque. And even to own an Alabaman t-shirt shop.

Amen.

Sexy Jews

No, that’s not an oxymoron. That’s a fact.

Tel Aviv is filled with a whole lot of sexy Jews. Sexy men and sexy women. Gay and straight and lesbian and bi. Toned muscle, pecs, six-pacs. Joggers, yogis, boxers, dancers, volleyball players. Shirtless, sweating, smiling, swimming, sunbathing. Hot. As. F*ck.

Many of them wear Star of David necklaces or sometimes yarmulkes. And they speak the language of the Torah as their bodies gleam effortlessly in the sun.

It is a true paradise.

In the U.S., Jews are often portrayed on TV and in films as sex-less geeks. Men are often portrayed as effeminate and too “bookish” to be sexy (think Ross on Friends) and women are often portrayed as overbearing and unbearable (think Fran on The Nanny). We are good at being lawyers, doctors, professors- but we almost never thought of as sex symbols. And even if there are Jewish sex symbols, such as Zac Efron, they are almost never talked about in connection with their Judaism.

That’s not because American Jews aren’t sexy- there are a lot who are! It’s because the society we live in has told us we’re not and I think we’ve internalized it to a degree, as can be seen in items like the semi-satirical “Nice Jewish Guys” calendar.

Here, that doesn’t exist because we built this society. The other day, I went to a gay beach in Tel Aviv. So in other words, other than a few tourists, a gay Jewish beach. The world’s only gay Jewish beach. And it was amazing. Besides the loads of hot guys, I just felt like I could be myself. I didn’t feel self-conscious speaking Hebrew among gay people or speaking Yiddish to my Israeli friend who came along. And I didn’t feel self-conscious about looking at the hot guys in a Jewish environment.

Since arriving 3 weeks ago, I’ve been to a gay rights rally, visited a gay art exhibition (including the cover photo for this blog), made friends with a lesbian rabbi, participated in an Orthodox LGBT Torah study group, started living with a lesbian couple, and so much more. I can’t even think of them as separate items anymore because I don’t have to go out of my way to do them- they are just a part of my life. As they should be.

For most of my life, my Judaism and my sexuality have felt like two separate worlds. Identities that aren’t supposed to touch. Here, in Tel Aviv, they are so intertwined that it finally feels natural.

I’m gay, I’m Jewish, and I’m sexy. Wanna go for a jog?

Israeli socialized healthcare

Israel has many beautiful things: a gorgeous seashore, delicious Middle Eastern food, a sense of empowerment for the Jewish people, a multicultural society, and much more. It also has its share of challenges- low salaries (relative to the U.S.), endless bureaucracy, regional conflict, and so much more.

I’d like to focus right now, though, on one of the best aspects of living in Israel: socialized healthcare. In Israel, everyone, by law, has health insurance. It is provided through one of several government-approved plans. Approximately 4-5% of your salary is deducted automatically, on a progressive scale, and you simply have health insurance. If you want the super-duper supplemental insurance which covers things like massages and acupuncture (yes, you read that right American friends), it costs…$32 a month! There are no deductibles, no pre-existing conditions, and no premiums.

To an Israeli, this might hardly seem noteworthy. But allow me to explain how healthcare works in America. When I lived in the U.S., I was self-employed. I paid $500 a month simply to have health insurance. There are literally millions of Americans who have no insurance at all- which could result in emergency room visits costing many thousands of dollars if they get sick. People literally go bankrupt in the U.S. because of healthcare costs- they could even lose their home. In addition to my $500/month premium, I also had to pay what’s called a “deductible”. A deductible is the amount of money you personally have to pay before the insurance company starts paying anything for your treatments. Since my plan was very high-quality (by American standards), my deductible was fairly low: $1200 for in-network (doctors that worked with my insurance company) and $2000 for out-of-network (doctors that didn’t work with my insurance company but might be the best ones for what I need). That means that, before the insurance company will even pay one cent for your treatment, you may have to pay as much as $3200 in addition to your monthly $500 fee. Even after you “hit your deductible” (meaning you’ve paid these amounts), the insurance company only covers part of your treatment and you or your doctor have to submit paperwork to the insurance company each time, which may decide they don’t feel they should pay for your treatment. Sometimes, they’ll only tell you what they’ll cover after you go to the doctor. And sometimes, the insurance companies will not cover your treatment. Please re-read that Israeli friends- sometimes, even with health insurance, you will not get any payments from the company. In short, this is like playing Russian roulette and it can be very, very, very expensive. I’ve had years where, including medicines, doctor’s appointments, and insurance payments, I’ve paid $15,000 for healthcare- or more. Just for that one year.

So now perhaps you can see why I’m in awe of the Israeli healthcare system. Today, I went to get my healthcare card. It took all of 20 minutes. There is an app I can use to schedule my appointments. All medical records are digitized (oh yeah, Israeli friends- you often literally have to send pieces of paper between your doctors in the U.S. because there is no centralized healthcare system). I’m only beginning to learn the system, but I can already say that it is leaps and bounds ahead of what we have in the U.S.

There are a lot of things Israel can learn from the U.S. This is something Americans can learn from Israelis. Socialized healthcare works. It is not a theory, it is a fact. At a time when the American government is cruelly trying to dismantle Obamacare (which in and of itself it not even that great of a system, but was at least in the right direction) and kick millions of people off insurance, Israel guarantees all of its residents healthcare. Jewish, Muslim, Druze, Christian. Rich and poor. Young and old.

Healthcare is one of the reasons I made aliyah. Some things are easier in the U.S. than Israel, but healthcare is absolutely, without a doubt, not one of them. I was tired of my hard-earned money going to greedy insurance companies and wondering when or if my medical conditions would be treated. I’ve made a long list of doctors I’m going to go see and I can’t wait. I’m also going to get a lot of massages because they’re awesome and are a huge stress relief.

Health is life. Without it, you can’t do anything. I’m glad and grateful I live in a place that values it. And I pray that the American government learns from its ally what it means to take care of your people’s health.

My New Minority Identity: American

When I decided to make Aliyah and come live in Israel, one of my main reasons was to live with my people- the Jewish people. As a minority in the U.S., I’ve been subject to a great deal of antisemitism throughout my life and while there are some beautiful things about being a minority, it can also be extremely hard. I often felt, even in good circumstances with good people, like I had to explain who I was and what I believed in. Having talked to other minorities in the U.S.- Muslims, African Americans, Latinos, etc.- I know that my struggles were shared by many people.

Part of the reason I came to Israel was to not be a minority anymore. To live in a Jewish-majority state and in Tel Aviv, where the LGBT community is so numerous that even if it’s not a majority of the city, it’s a very high percentage. Where my identities would be validated.

This has been true for these identities in many ways. I am constantly surrounded by hot Jewish men who I glance at- and often glance back! I am surrounded by street signs with the names of Jewish leaders on them and I hear my favorite Israeli music blasting out of the windows of cars passing by. In many ways, I couldn’t ask for a more validating space to live in.

At the same time, I’ve discovered I have a new minority identity that I didn’t fully expect when I moved here: American. It never seemed particularly noteworthy or clear to me in the U.S. that, even as a double minority, I was also part of the majority as an American. Never has that been more clear to me than in Israel.

The other day, I was talking to a gay guy who noticed all my pictures on Facebook of me going around Israel. He knew I was an American oleh chadash (new immigrant). He told me I looked like a “tourist” and laughed. I told him I didn’t find it funny- that there are many other ways I could’ve visited Israel, but I made a very tough decision to uproot my life and live here as a citizen. He told me “not to take it that way” and thought it was funny how I was “such a new immigrant”.

Last night, I was at a board games night and this guy told me that in English, “peaches” means “boobs”. I told him I was American and that’s not a thing. He told me he was in front of the White House two weeks ago yelling at Trump so he “emmmm, reeeeeally knowwwwz Eeeeenglish fluent”. Just to clarify this for everyone- I had an Israeli correct me on my English- after I told him I was American.

I was sitting in a cafe with a new friend talking about Israelis’ favorite complaint about Americans- that we were too “PC”. I asked him to explain exactly what he meant by that. The friend, a well-intentioned and left-wing guy, told me “you guys have this whole debate about using the word n*gger and I don’t understand it”. I proceeded to summarize the 400 year history of this racist term after which, to his credit, he finally admitted there are legitimate reasons why people don’t like this word.

Today, however, may just take the cake. I was at a gay Torah study and this older man, seemingly out of nowhere, starts telling the group how all the “kushim” (an Israeli word somewhere between “colored” and “n*gger”) in the U.S. are homophobic bigots even though gay people always supported them. My blood pressure shot sky high. When I wanted to respond, the young rabbi in the room told me I could do so in “one sentence”. I said “sorry I’m going to take a few”. I tried to explain that not only is this a gross overgeneralization and racist, but that there are a ton of LGBT black people too and “black” and “gay” aren’t mutually exclusive categories. I also mentioned that the NAACP, among other groups, actively supported the LGBT community’s fight for marriage rights. Instead of any sort of acknowledgement of my much needed nuance, I was shouted down by younger participants who told me, the only American in the room, that black people in my country are homophobes. Because I suppose when watching rap videos on YouTube is your only reference point for actual African Americans, you’ll come to such thoughtful conclusions.

I could channel my legitimate anger, sadness, hurt, and loneliness into a bunch of sweeping generalizations about Israelis, but then I’d be just like people who stereotype me and my (other) country. Instead, I’ll say this: some Israelis are raging racist anti-American bigots. Others are open-minded, eager to learn, and sweet. And many fall somewhere in the middle. People, in the end, are people. You can find good and bad ones (and mediocre ones) any and everywhere. It takes some filtering, but I hope I get to the point where I’ve built a really solid social circle here that validates all my identities: gay, Jewish, Reform, progressive, and yes, American.

To Israelis’ credit, even if their main point of reference about American culture is a trip to New York, Lady Gaga, and Game of Thrones, at least many are trying to learn about my other culture. Most Americans know much less about Israel than Israelis know about America. That being said, I’d encourage Israeli to dig a little deeper about my country. It’s one thing to know the pop culture of another place and quite another to understand its social intricacies. Ask me questions, dive in- don’t be afraid. I’m open to talk, just like I was with my friend who didn’t understand the word n*gger and was open to listening to me. That’s dialogue. I’m eager to learn about you and eager to share about me.

In the end, I came to this country to be changed- to grow, to experience, to live in a new part of the world that is deeply connected to my identity. I thank the Israelis who are making this journey possible. At the same time, I am an oleh chutzpani – an outspoken new immigrant. I didn’t just come to be changed- I came to change. There are things about this society that must evolve, and that includes the way it treats its minorities- Arabs, Druze, Russians, French, and yes, Americans.

You can count on me to raise my American-Israeli voice. I’m just getting started.

Israeli folk dancing on the beach

Yes, you read that right. Tonight, I spent 4 hours Israeli dancing on the beach. Israeli dancing consists of line, circle, and couples dances that are rooted in traditional Jewish dancing and fused with modern songs and steps. Here’s an example.

I’ve been dancing since I was 14 years old, when I would go to the Israeli dancing club in a small windowless room at my high school during lunch. It was so fun that my friends suggested I start going to a weekly session in Rockville, MD, so I did! I danced with the Israeli dance troupe at my college, called Magniv, and even choreographed for them. After a few year break from dancing, I reconnected with the community last year in DC and have been going weekly ever since.

My first week in Israel was so chaotic, I didn’t get a chance to dance. But this week, I made sure to go. It’s one of the best decisions I ever made. It’s hard to describe to you what it feels like to dance to the songs of your people on the beach as you watch the sun set over the Mediterranean. There was such an energy that the fact that I was sweating every ounce of liquid out of me didn’t matter. I met some really nice people- it was so welcoming and people I literally just met were grabbing me to dance circles and couples dances with them. And what really struck me was how young everyone is. I’d say 50% of the dancers were under 35, something that will astonish my American friends who dance. It was so nice to hear many songs I knew- connecting my American Jewish life to my new Israeli life. We Jews really are an international club!

Beyond that, a few things stood out to me and moved me. One, dozens and dozens of people- tourists, Israelis, young, and old- gathered around us and just watched. Some would make their own goofy dance moves. Others took video clips. And most just simply watched and enjoyed. I’ve never felt so appreciated and validated in my life. Other than one very special instance where a Catalan TV crew filmed my Israeli dance session in Maryland (that video will come out in January- I’ll keep you posted), I’ve never felt like this very treasured activity or my Judaism in general was worthy of a spectacle. And I don’t use the word spectacle in a negative way- I mean that I felt highly appreciated. It made it even more special. In addition, it gave me great naches (pride) to see that the Municipality of Tel Aviv sponsors the dancing. Therefore, it is 100% free of cost. This is the benefit of being in a place where your passions, your traditions, and your culture are actively supported. Not tolerated, not enjoyed, not accepted (those are all good too though!)- but financially supported by the government. You’d be hard-pressed to find another place in the world where the government funds Israeli dancing.

For all the issues that surround the State of Israel, Zionism, the Arab-Israeli conflict, and what have you (and I’m not denying those issues exist), there’s one simple fact: this is a place where my faith and culture is valued in a way that nowhere else can truly replicate. I wish that for all peoples- it’s an incredible feeling that we all deserve.

I’d like to give a major shout-out to my Israeli dancing family in DC. Next time you find yourself in Israel, which I hope is soon, please please please let me take you dancing. It will be a memory you never forget.

Listening to bluegrass in Tel Aviv

I had a rough time sleeping last night. Lots of pent-up emotions that I’ve felt over the past week came pouring out. It has been really hard- meeting dozens of new people, escaping an abusive AirBnB host, finding new housing (then finding housing after that housing), hours of bureaucracy, jet lag, adjusting to the heat, and so much more.

There have of course been amazing and life-changing moments as well. Even those have the potential to stress you out as much as you enjoy them. When even the street art in Tel Aviv plays on biblical motifs, it is hard to escape Judaism even in Israel’s most secular city. It’s part of what makes it so cool to be here.

And so hard. In America, if I wanted to engage my Jewish identity, I could prepare myself. I could go to a synagogue or a Jewish Community Center, to Moishe House or a friend’s Shabbat dinner- and I could tap into my Jewishness. I knew what to expect and how to behave, even if I had never met the people. Because it was my American Jewish culture. And as soon as I stepped outside the event, I was back in American non-Jewish society. Sometimes that made me sad, as I felt I needed to check part of my self at the door. And sometimes it was refreshing as I could recharge myself in the broader society.

Here, everything is Jewish. When I say everything, I’m not exaggerating. Israelis might not see it this way. For me, as an American-Israeli, it feels that way. All the signs are in Hebrew. For instance, next to a parking garage, there’s a sign that says “Boachem Leshalom” which means “come in peace”. To a religious American Jew, however, this reads differently. It’s the beginning of a famous verse of the prayer Shalom Aleychem, something we sing on Shabbat. Next to a parking garage!!! I can’t think of an equivalent in the U.S. but perhaps it’d be like seeing “He is Risen” on an elevator.

It’s awesome and totally exhausting. I’m not used to having Judaism everywhere in my life. And such heavy duty politics mixed into casual conversations (and this is coming from someone who grew up in Washington, D.C.).

Sometimes, you just need a break from it all. This morning, I put on some bluegrass music from one of my favorite bands that I saw in Charlottesville, VA years ago. Something you will never, ever hear in Israel. Something thoroughly American and beautiful. I called an American-Israeli friend and made plans to talk about light, apolitical, non-religious things. I don’t know- football, college stories, old flames, who knows! The point is nothing serious!

As I sat down to eat breakfast (boy am I missing my shredded wheat, trying to find some in Israel), I went to Google Advanced Image Search and googled “pictures of hamburgers”. And I felt a wave of relief and comfort come over me as I scrolled through picture after picture of hamburgers, cheeseburgers, bacon burgers, you name it. Some of which I don’t eat. And to be honest, I didn’t really eat hamburgers much in the U.S.

But it just felt like home. Where I don’t have to extend myself, to explain myself, to go into the depths of politics and religion, where I could just be. I felt out of place often in America. And I also miss it. It took moving to Israel to make me feel truly American.

What’s this blog all about?

One week ago to the day, on July 4th, 2017, I made one of the boldest decisions of my life: to move to Israel and become an Israeli citizen. In Hebrew, this process is called “aliyah”. Every Jew (even if someone is a quarter Jewish) has the right to this opportunity enshrined in the Israeli “Law of Return”. As long as you go through the (heavily bureaucratic) process and your ducks are in a row, you are free to make aliyah. No matter what country you’re from, whether you’re Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, or not religious at all. Actually, even if you profess another faith like Christianity but have 1/4 Jewish roots. We’ll go into the Law of Return another day in more depth, but for now let’s just say this is truly a unique process. Immigrating to the United States this is not. Israelis and Diaspora Jews alike tend to view this not as immigration so much as a homecoming.

When I told my friends I was making aliyah, I got a wide spectrum of reactions. I heard such varied responses as “congrats! That’s awesome, good luck!”, which was probably my favorite. I inevitably heard “are you going there to help Palestinians?” (I love all people, including Palestinians, but this is a bit like asking someone moving to China if they’re going to help Tibetans- probably a worthy cause, but a kind of strange initial reaction to someone moving to another country). I got asked whether I was concerned about Israeli politics (indeed, a veritable mess, but hardly worse than the batshit bonanza going on in the United States right now). I was asked about the “demographic threat” (their words, not mine- and asked by a left-wing non-Jew), what I would do for a living, would I feel safe, where would I live, do I have family there, etc. etc. People were stunned, excited, thrilled, anxious, sad, happy- you name it.

One thing I wanted to make sure to do was to make the process my own. Everyone had their own reaction to my moving, and in the end, my friends, even with their sometimes frustrating questions, stood behind me and supported me. But I wanted to make sure the process was mine first and foremost.

One of the reasons I made aliyah was to be with my people. This is probably first and foremost why I came to Israel. Having experienced a lifetime of antisemitism and being a minority, I wanted a place where I could be my true authentic self. A place where I didn’t have to constantly explain or justify my culture, my holidays, my tradition, my mannerisms. It’s not that all Americans are bigots- as Donald Trump would say “and some, I assume, are good people“. There’s a lot to like about America- its diversity, its fluidity, its grassroots activism, and of course its delicious ethnic food. In the end, I will always be American. But my people have been Jewish a lot longer than being American. The roots of my culture go back literally thousands of years. My ancestors have been in the U.S. for about 100-130 years maximum. It has clearly had an influence, but first and foremost, I’m a Jew. Why is that? Because the holidays I enjoy the most are the Jewish ones. Because I’ll always choose kugel over a hamburger. Because I feel more at home in a synagogue than a boy scouts den, a church, or a Rotary Club. Because I talk with my hands and because “mazel tov” slips off the tongue more easily than “congratulations”.

It’s not that I dislike all things American, it’s just that I never really fully felt at home. When I had to take unpaid leave from a progressive Latino non-profit to observe Rosh Hashanah. When I was thrown out of a Lyft for being a gay Jew. When I was berated by a classmate in high school for being a “rich Jew” because I wore a Fossil watch. When I was told by another high school classmate that she couldn’t believe I was Jewish because I wasn’t a “loudmouth” like the other ones. When a guy broke up with me because I wouldn’t eat pork. When a woman I met at a happy hour in DC sent me David Duke videos on Facebook.

Thank God my friends aren’t like that, but this has also been my reality as an American Jew- I could literally write blog upon blog of similar experiences. When you’re 2% of the population, it can be really hard to feel safe, appreciated, and respected. Which is why perhaps I’ve always felt close to other minorities.

Hence why I’m here now. I also came to Israel to find a Jewish partner (very hard to do so in the U.S.- 5% of 2%!), to travel Europe and the Mediterranean, to speak a bunch of languages, to never deal with Winter again, and so much more.

So back to the point- I wanted to make this process my own. Many people when they make aliyah take a Hebrew name. Mine is Matah מטע, which means “orchard” or “plantation” (without the creepy American slave connotation). I could’ve taken a more typical Israeli name like Matan, Mati, Matityahu- all of which come from the same root as Matt (which is in itself a Hebrew name). But I wanted something more special. Matah sounds like Matt but comes from a different root. It is a biblical word but is an extremely modern sounding name. It is truly unique, just like me 🙂

When talking to an Israeli friend about my name, I explained that I liked the idea of trees bearing fruit, just like I hope to do when I’m here- to bloom and grow. She said that was interesting because her first impression was that I was using the name to indicate I was setting down roots. I loved it. The truth is, I’m doing both. I hope to set down my roots so I can bear fruit- to feel a sense of belonging and stability so I can contribute to society and flourish.

That is what this blog is about- it is about the journey of an American Jew to his ancestral homeland to build a new life. It’s also about maintaining connections with the life he left behind- because I’m not just an Israeli, I’m an American-Israeli. It’s about exploring the myriad benefits that life in Israel has to offer- and the challenges.

Join me on my journey as I plant my roots to bear new fruit.

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