Category: America

Why reading the news is a waste of time here

Ok, first things first- yes, sometimes you do need to read the news.  I, for instance, when planning my trips, search the name of the town I’m visiting to check for safety.  When I heard air raid sirens in my apartment, I lit up my WhatsApp but I also checked news sites.  News has a purpose when used effectively.

And most people do not use it effectively.  For many years (and once in a while now), I just get caught up in the news.  Reading- whether on Facebook or on the news sites themselves- just depresses me.  I get that the media needs to make money so they focus on the most dramatic and often sad or offensive things.  Today, I glanced through articles about anti-Semites boycotting Israel, anti-Semites attacking Germans wearing yarmulkes, Jeremy Corbyn being anti-Semitic, Natalie Portman’s mess, and the likelihood of war with Iran and Syria.  I literally just cried.

It’s not because the words being written are untrue (although sometimes they are), it’s because they are true.  And they suck.  And they’re selective.

Because I’ll tell you what I did the past few days and was not in the news.  I took a bus from my low-income stereotyped neighborhood to three beautiful rural communities just around the bend.  I met an archivist who sat with me for an hour and a half to explain to me the history of his town.  I hiked through a forest in northern Israel to the Druze village of Daliat Al-Karmel.  When I asked some Druze women for directions, they sat me down, plied me with tea and coffee and salads and sweets.  They gave me a huge container of leftovers.  Drove me to the village and added me on Facebook and WhatsApp.  Today, I went to Zichron Yaakov, discovered a beautiful hidden trail, hitchhiked down the mountain to Maagan Michael’s gorgeous Caribbean-like empty beach.  Then, I walked on the sand to Jisr Al-Zarqa, a Bedouin village, where I was the only tourist visible.  I got to hear some pretty cool Bedouin Arabic, talked with a guy about Arabic music, and spent a peaceful bus ride hanging with some friendly Bedouin women.

In the course of about three days, I had been to national parks, a kibbutz, a moshav, a suburb of Tel Aviv, a Druze village, and a Bedouin Muslim one.  The main reason I write this blog is for me- it’s a record of my journeys, it’s therapeutic, and it’s fun.  I like writing, I enjoy it.  The other reason is because these kinds of stories- real and authentic- don’t make their way into the news.  The nuanced, the complicated, the fun, the moving, the heart-warming, the sad.  The full spectrum of the human experience.  Instead of reading like a laundry list of everything bad in the world, I prefer to share something a bit more real.

Because the sad stuff- the anger, the extremism both left and right, the aggression- those all exist.  And sometimes I touch on them.  And I feel that the media, perhaps in the quest for eyeballs and ad dollars, only focuses on the negative.  The things that make you click even though you (and I) don’t want to.  We’re hooked.

Living in a country plagued by terrorism and war, I’ve learned something from my fellow Israelis.  And I want to remind them of it- and teach my friends abroad.  Faced with crazy shit, you have two options.  One is to live in chaos.  Either a constant state of panic or burying your head in the sand and pretending nothing is happening.  The other option is to live in the here and now.  To be present, to enjoy what you can, to be grounded and live your life with gratitude for every moment you have.

That second path is the one I choose and strive for.  It’s the one many Israelis, both Arab and Jewish, manage to pursue much, much better than Americans during these difficult times.  Perhaps because we’re a more communal society.  Perhaps because we’ve been dealing with trauma for longer and know how to better cope with it.  Either way, my gift to Americans reading this blog right now is that spirit of embracing the present.  It’s not to completely detach yourself from worries nor to pretend that shit isn’t going down.  Sometimes, it is.

It’s just that on a day when everyone was talking about Natalie Portman and Iran, a Druze kid was practicing English with me.  I was taking selfies with cows.  I was taking selfies with sheep!  I was listening to the waves of the ocean as I walked towards a Bedouin village.

We all have choices about how we spend our time and energy.  We all have a right to our feelings and we make choices about how we live our lives.

I have opinions about all the “news” items I shared.  And I have a right to them, and maybe I’ll share them- and maybe I won’t.  Because maybe, like tonight, I’ll be too busy meeting other young people in my neighborhood at our first block party.  Organized by a friend I met in a sushi joint around the corner.

Shoot this, boycott that, yell this, scream that.  I don’t really care.  Because the music is blaring so loud around me that I just hope one day you’ll open your ears to listen.

What do you call people in Israel who speak Arabic?

No, there’s no racist punchline 😉

This is a question I get a lot.  Sometimes “well meaning” American progressives come here and start calling every Arab they meet a “Palestinian”.  Perhaps out of a desire to validate their identity, but without considering that it’s a bit more complicated than that.

For starters, there are Palestinians who live in the West Bank and Gaza Strip.  There are also Palestinians in other countries like Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and elsewhere.  Those in the West Bank are largely governed by the Palestinian Authority and those in Gaza by Hamas.  Israel exerts partial military control within the West Bank/Judea and Samaria and at border crossings.  Gaza is entirely independently governed by Hamas and entry to Israel or Egypt is strictly controlled by the respective governments.  All of those people are pretty clearly Palestinian.  Maybe a few Samaritans in Hebron would identify otherwise- not entirely sure.  But almost to a T, regardless of religion (almost all Palestinians there are Muslim, there is a small Christian minority), these people are Palestinian.

Now, moving westward from the West Bank, there is East Jerusalem.  East Jerusalem came under Israeli control after the Six Day War in 1967.  Because of the sacredness of this city for Jews, Israel treats it differently for legal purposes.  While West Jerusalem was already part of Israel in 1948, East Jerusalem, which was primarily Arab, became officially annexed to the city in 1967.  Meaning, its Arab population has Israeli residency cards.  This allows them greater job opportunities, freedom of travel both within Israel and abroad, and more contact with Jewish Israelis.  There is still discrimination and it’s not on a level that you can compare with the West Bank, for example.  The vast majority of East Jerusalem Arabs would probably identify as Palestinian.  I’ve noticed this anecdotally through my travels there and I believe polls would back this up.  That being said, since East Jerusalem Arabs are eligible to work in Israel, some actually end up working for the government and even volunteering for national service.  Or the Israeli military.  So I think the layers of identity for them would be a bit less straightforward than someone in Ramallah.

Now, on to pre-1967 Israel.  There are several groups of Arabic-speakers in Israel.  First, there are Jews.  Jews have lived in predominantly Arab countries for two millennia.  They lived there, by and large, before the Arabs even arrived.  They then mixed their Hebrew and Aramaic with Arabic to create their own unique Judeo-Arabic languages.  From Morocco to Iraq to Yemen.  Often written in the Hebrew alphabet, like Yiddish.  Sometimes intelligible to their Muslim and Christian neighbors- and sometimes not.  In recent decades, the number of Judeo-Arabic speakers has declined.  And there still are many Jews in Israel who speak Arabic.  Not just those who learn it at school.  But also those, like my Syrian and Iraqi neighbors, who grew up with the language.  The vast, vast, vast majority of these Jews do not identify as Arab.  While some of that is tied to the stigma of being Arab, discrimination against Mizrachim, and the conflict with the Palestinians, there are other factors at work too.  First, there is the fact that Arabs committed massacres against their indigenous Jewish communities in the 1950s and 1960s, which forced Jews to come to Israel.  Most Jews lost their Iraqi, Egyptian, Yemeni citizenship and all their property.  It’d be hard for them not to come to Israel angry and wanting some distance from the people who were supposed to protect them.  Only to find their new Arab neighbors here blowing themselves up in pizzerias.  The other factor is that the Middle East wasn’t always Arab.  Arabs are from Arabia and conquered the region to spread Islam.  Jews have been living in Iraq, for example, since the Babylonian Exile, 600 years before Christianity.  Over a thousand years before Islam.  So to call an Iraqi Jew Arab- that could be a real invalidation of their identity and history.  A small minority of Mizrachim do identify as Arab Jews, often as a way of contrasting with the European elite.  But I would strongly recommend not calling Mizrachi Arabic-speakers Arab and certainly not Palestinian.

Notice we haven’t even gotten to the Christians, Muslims, and Druze.  In general, Arabs who are citizens of Israel do not define themselves as Palestinians.  Here is some polling data:

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Here’s another poll with similar but sometimes contradictory data (perhaps depending on the phrasing of the question- also the first poll doesn’t include East Jerusalem):

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What overlaps is that about 15-20% of Arabs who have Israeli residency identify as Palestinian.  Sometimes hyphenated or attached to the word “Israeli”.  A larger portion identify as some variation of Arab, again sometimes hyphenated as Arab-Israeli or Arab citizen of Israel.  And a significant number just identify as Israeli.  For what it’s worth, there are also Arabs here who primarily identify by their religion, not their language or ethnicity.  Food for thought for people who are looking for a simple black-and-white breakdown.

Druze, Christians, Circassian Muslims, and Bedouin Muslims tend to identify more with Israel and less with Palestinian identity.  There is also a strong contingent of Christians who feel strongly about their Arab or Palestinian identity.  And other Arabic-speaking Christians who don’t even identify as Arab.  Many Druze, contrary to Israeli popular belief, feel they are both Druze and Arab.  I believe I got that info from a Pew survey, but am having trouble tracking it down (feel free to send it!).  Very, very, very few Druze would call themselves Palestinian (though a few do like Maher Halabi).  And many would be quite offended at the statement.  And they are native Arabic speakers.

Among these groups, Druze and Circassians crafted agreements with the Israeli government for their sons to be drafted into the military.  By agreement.  An increasing number of Bedouins and Christians- and even Arab Muslims- are choosing to volunteer or do national service, even though they are not legally obligated.  There are even Arab Christian priests encouraging it.

It’s worth noting the Druze mentioned here are the ones in pre-1967 Israel.  The ones in the Golan Heights were formerly citizens of Syria- and some now are taking Israeli citizenship in light of the brutal civil war.  They are not obligated to serve in the military and would almost certainly identify themselves as Syrian rather than Palestinian.  My friend’s dad says he’s a “Syrian now living in Israel”.  And I imagine people in his community have a variety of ways of describing their multifaceted identities.

If you’d assume that Israeli Muslims would be the most likely to identify as Arab or Palestinian and less so as Israeli, you’d be correct.  With some very important qualifications.  As mentioned, Bedouins and Circassians- both Muslims, are much less likely to identify as Palestinian in any form.  In the Bedouins’ case, Islam is generally much more important than nationalism and they’ve often been discriminated against by their sedentary Arab neighbors.  Circassians are quite fully integrated into the society and while many speak Arabic as a second language, they tend to be much more Israeli.

It’s also worth noting that if someone identifies as Arab or Palestinian here, there is a difference.  When someone says “Arab-Israeli” or “Arab citizen of Israel”, there are a few potential reasons why.  First off, there are Arab nationalists here who are against Palestinian identity.  Pan-Arab nationalism, which believes in an Arab identity stretching from Morocco to Saudi Arabia, is less a fan of state-based nationalism (e.g. Syrian, Palestinian, Egyptian nationalism).  There is the concept of bilad al-sham- the Levant.  Some Arabs here prefer to think of themselves as part of the greater Arab culture rather than the particularistic Palestinian identity.  Palestinian identity- like every other country in the region- is a modern concept.  Not because the people didn’t exist here (before anyone goes there), but rather because this area didn’t have borders before colonialism. Which is why the Arabic spoken in northern Israel is almost identical to Syrian or Lebanese and the Bedouin Arabic in the Negev has a Saudi or Jordanian tint to it.

Another reason why people here might prefer Arab over Palestinian is because there is pressure here to dissociate themselves from the conflict.  Someone might even choose one label in one context and another in another.  Identity can be relative.

A final, and important reason, is that some Arabs here just don’t identify with Palestinian nationalism.  And not because, in the case I described, they are pan-Arab nationalists, but because they simply want to live a good life here.  They don’t like politics.  They don’t like violence.  Some may even feel that if they took on the label Palestinian, it does a disservice to the real suffering of people in the West Bank and Gaza.  That basically if you have Israeli citizenship, things might be rough sometimes, but overall the quality of living is quite good.  And to compare yourself to someone living in abject poverty and misery- that’s not quite so fair.

Sometimes when American and European progressives come here, they try to correct me when I call someone Arab.  “Don’t you mean Palestinian?”  or they’ll just work the word “Palestinian” into their response- even though I just said Arab.  Maybe it’s not their intention, but I feel there’s a kind of “let me educate you” haughtiness.  That somehow if I’m calling someone Arab instead of Palestinian- someone who’s a citizen of Israel- it must be because I’m a hyper nationalist intent on denying their identity.  And thank God for the Western Liberal who can come teach me civilization.

And they’re wrong.  Because I have a basic rule- I identify you the way you want to be identified.  If I meet an Arabic-speaker here in Israel who prefers to be called Palestinian, Palestinian-Israeli, Palestinian citizen of Israel- I will call them that.  Or Arab.  Or Arab-Israeli.  Whatever they choose I validate that.  And I’m not going to impose my New York Times Huffington Post NPR podcast understanding of the Middle East on them.  Because newspapers are printed in black and white.  Which is about the depth that they can offer of a society thousands of years old halfway around the world.

So I encourage you- don’t put me or my Arab/Palestinian/Arab-Israeli/Arab citizens of Israel/Christian/Muslim/Druze/Bedouin friends in a box.  Because boxes are for shoes.  And unless you’re willing to walk in ours, you should probably return them to the store.

What do you call people in Israel who speak Arabic?  Ahmed, Maryam, Ovadia.  Even Matt or Matah.

Or as the cover photo says: friend.

 

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 😉

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.

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.

A Muslim pluralist

One of the great frustrations I’ve faced when dealing with dialogue here is that some people aren’t pluralists.  Being a pluralist, as I see it, is about saying “I have one way of doing things, you have another, let’s co-exist.”  It means legally allowing people to do things you don’t agree with.  It’s not about getting into a war of whose tradition is better, it’s just accepting that we’re all in this together with some right to autonomy.

In the Jewish World, this is a frequent dilemma.  There are Orthodox Jews who see Reform Jews as inadequately Jewish (hence why my movement is not recognized by the Israeli government).  There are secular Jews who think Orthodox Jews are overly superstitious, conservative, and backwards and should just modernize with the times.  While in the U.S. Jewish pluralism is stronger than Israel (perhaps because it’s not tied up with a government), there are still issues in places like Hillel and Hillel and Hillel.

That being said, you can’t even being to compare American pluralism with what goes on in Israel.  Here, there is no separation of Church/Synagogue/Mosque and State.  Which means progressive Jewish movements are put at a disadvantage financially, legally, and politically.  The same could be said for people who feel Jewish and aren’t recognized as such and also people who just aren’t religious at all.  Of any background.

I find that communities here struggle- on all sides- with the idea of letting someone else do something you disagree with.  You’ll find militant vegans protesting Hasidic kapores rituals but not protesting the hamburger joint on their block.  You’ll find Reform Jews railing against Hasidic intolerance, while making fun of their clothes, their language, and their religiosity.  If you replace Hasidic with Hispanic, I doubt my fellow Reform Jews would make fun of their culture.  Of course you also have the more well-known bigotry of Haredim who throw stones at cars and “immodest” women, etc etc.

These circles of intolerance extend to other religions here.  I’ve met Greek Orthodox Christians who claim they came before the Catholics.  I’ve met Catholics who railed against Evangelicals.  I’ve met Evangelicals who told me I’m not being a good Jew.  I’ve met Muslims who said Arabic was the world’s first language, as uttered by God.  And couldn’t believe I didn’t convert to Islam after reading the Quran.  I’ve met Arab Christians who don’t particularly like Muslims.  And Arab Muslims who don’t believe Jews have any connection to this place- and told me this to my face.  And I’ve met Arab Muslims who get ridiculed by other Arab Muslims for being half-Romanian or immodest or even for being Bedouin.

And of course, you have the Palestinians who want to wipe Israeli Jews off “their land”.  And the Israeli Jews who don’t recognize Palestinians even exist.

It’s enough to make your head spin.  Probably like yours is now.

So at times like these, when people here just fill you with sadness and anger, I like to think of strong counterexamples.  At a time when Islam is turning increasingly fundamentalist- or at least its fundamentalist elements are growing in prominence- I met the most unlikely Muslim pluralist.

I visited the Arab village of Tira, which you can read about here.  I briefly mentioned my interaction with Jamila.  Jamila is a high school student.  She works at a toy store.  I had never been to an Arab toy store, so I wanted to see what it looked like.

She was super sweet.  While I came in trying to show my deference to her culture, all she wanted to talk about was Israeli and American culture.  She really wants to visit Tel Aviv more.  She loves American movies.  Hebrew is her favorite subject, Harry Potter- not the Quran- her favorite book.  Nothing wrong with liking the Quran- I personally love parts of it.  Just that Jamila is not who you might expect to say this.

Because Jamila wears a hijab.  A headscarf.  Generally a sign of religious conservatism or perhaps devotion to tradition.  And a bone of serious contention in Western Europe.

When she kept talking about how much she liked Jewish culture here, I asked why.  Her answer contains a grain of truth we all should pay attention to.

She said: “what I really like is that when you go to the beach here, the Jewish women can wear whatever they want.”

Before you launch into a Western-style approbation of hijabs, that’s not what’s going on here.

I asked her: “so you mean you wish you didn’t have to wear a hijab?”  After all, I have met Arab girls here who have told me that.

She said: “no, I wear a hijab because that’s my tradition.  I’m Muslim.  What I like is that they don’t have to.  The Jewish women have the choice.  I like riding my bike, but some people here don’t approve because I’m a woman.”

In other words, Jamila is a pretty awesome example of a pluralist.  She wears a hijab- and would continue to do so- she just likes that Jews here tend to have more choice.  That she could wear a hijab but maybe her sister wouldn’t.  Or would change her mind according to her views over time.

Jamila, surprisingly, is a good example for all of us.  We do not have to agree on many things.  I admire the Hasidic community for keeping Yiddish alive, for preserving certain customs, and for their birthrate to be honest.  I see other things in the community, such as homophobia or gender politics, as quite problematic.  And people ask me: “well Matt, you’re a queer Reform Jew, how could you possibly like Hasidim?  They won’t accept you.”

To which I say: “I’m a pluralist.”  I can like what I like about certain communities and not like what I don’t like.  I can accept that both aspects exist.  And I’m entitled to my feelings on them.  Unlike some of the more militant secularists here, I don’t want Haredim to abandon their traditions because they’re “backwards”.  I do want more of a separation of religion and state.  And there are things I like about their community.  The things I don’t- well, sometimes you have to find other avenues for making your case rather than imposing laws.  And- this is the tough one for many people- sometimes you just acknowledge that it’s there, whether you agree or not.  And that it’s maybe not my role to change everything about how someone else lives.

Like Jamila and her hijab, I don’t want everyone to be like me.  I want people to be free to choose their own path, even when I don’t want to follow it.  It’s important to remember coercion can flow in all directions, left and right.  Muslim and Christian.  Orthodox, Reform, and Secular.  Israeli and Palestinian.  My respect for conservative traditions is not necessarily at the expense of my progressive values.

Lehefech, as we say in Hebrew.  “To the contrary”.  It is because of them.

Gaza, Indian Christians, and Passover

A whole lot more happened today, but that’s what I could fit in a title.

Last night was Passover.  Passover in Tel Aviv was amazing.  It was my first time celebrating it in the Holy Land and I loved it.  As a child, Passover was my favorite holiday (though this year’s Purim in Tel Aviv is giving it a run for its money).  It’s a holiday about freedom and especially growing up with abusive relatives, it always had a special meaning for me.  About my own potential for freedom one day and all the other oppressed people in the world who I would make that journey with.

Here in Tel Aviv, I went to two seders: one Reform and one LGBTQ.  Perhaps one of the few places in the world where you can genuinely “Seder hop”, I walked from one to the other in 10 minutes.

At the first Seder, I met a fellow gay Jew, Oscar, who was Spanish and Swiss and spoke French, Spanish, Gallego, English, and some Hebrew.  Pretty amazing to kind of meet a European me!  We agreed to meet the next day for lunch in my neighborhood, the “other side” of Tel Aviv.

I had planned on walking him through the refugee and foreign worker neighborhood of Neve Sha’anan, which we started to do.  Then we looked at the Central Bus Station, arguably one of the grittier buildings in the world, and he said “ugh, it’s so ugly!  I hate that place.”

I quickly changed our itinerary to show him the hidden beauty of this chaotic space.  Since it was Passover and Shabbat, most things were closed.  The most interesting things were still open.  An entire area of Filipino restaurants, cafes, and grocery stores was open.  Homemade food filled the air with delicious smells.  We sat and got some food, including my first-ever Halo Halo, a delightful dessert drink with a million types of toppings and fruit.  The woman behind the counter, like most Filipinos here, speaks amazing English and opened her Halo Halo machine just for us 🙂

Passing by a store, I noticed something curious.  Inside was a Sri Lankan flag!!!  I know this flag because in Washington, D.C., once a year, they open all the embassies for visitors.  I had been to the Sri Lankan one and eaten this delicious coconut rice with spicy red sauce.  Turns out the woman inside was indeed Sri Lankan!  And she told me the name of this delicious dish was Miris and Hal Bat, a name I’d been searching for for years!

The woman was so kind.  She’s thinking of opening her own Sri Lankan restaurant in Tel Aviv (friends- keep your eyes pealed!).  She grew up Buddhist and then converted to Christianity in Israel.  Her husband is from Darfur and I presume Christian (perhaps explaining her conversion).  He was super nice and we talked about my favorite Sudanese music.

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Heading out, I let Oscar go on his way and I strolled towards Yaffo.  There, I bumped into some lost tourists from Belgium.  One of whom was exceedingly gorgeous.  I gave them a free tour of Florentin and we decided to sit down to coffee.   They have two weeks in Israel so I chatted with them for a couple hours and helped them plan their trip.  We spoke in a mixture of French and English.

After being so kind as to treat me to my tea, they headed to their hostel and I walked home.  On my way home, I saw women…dressed in saris.  While this might not be such a strange sight in Suburban Maryland where I grew up (with a lot of Indian friends), it felt kind of random in Tel Aviv.  I’ve met Indian Jews here, but there aren’t many in Tel Aviv and I haven’t seen many in traditional clothing.

Because it’s not weird to talk to random people here (like it is in much of America), I went up and asked where they were from.  They said they were Indian Christians.  They were in Yaffo celebrating Easter.  I wished them a Hag Sameach, definitely the first time I’ve used that phrase to wish someone a blessed Easter.

Arriving back in my neighborhood, I saw something strange.  A clean store.  For those of you who’ve spent time near Hatikvah, you’ll know that my neighborhood has many virtues.  Delicious ethnic food, cultural diversity, rare Jewish languages, and a certain warmth to the people.  But nobody would say the virtue of my neighborhood is its cleanliness.  When I come back from a trip abroad, it takes me a day or two just to get used to the smell again.

I walked up to the store and saw beautifully arranged fruits and vegetables.  Seeing as how I was hungry and most restaurants were closed for Passover, I decided to buy some produce.

Turns out it’s a brand new store.  Owned by Sudanese Muslims- from Darfur.  It’s probably rare for someone in the U.S. (or pretty much anywhere outside of Darfur) to bump into both a Darfuri Christian and a Darfuri Muslim in the same day, blocks apart.  Unless they happened to be working with refugees.

I was blessed with the chance to speak Arabic with them, for a few reasons.  One, because I love languages and the chance to hear Sudanese Arabic outside of Sudan is pretty rare.  It’s a really neat dialect.  Also, I wanted to share a message.

I told him: “batmanna inno al-pesakh al-jay, ra7 itkoon 3ankoon 7urriyeh.  3eid al-fisi7 huwwe 3eid al-7urriyeh.”  That I hope that next Passover, they will have freedom, because Passover is the Holiday of Freedom.  We talked about how I’m working with other olim here to support refugees.  And you could see his smile grow by the second.  I know where I’ll be shopping more- and it’s a 5 minute walk down the street.

On my way home, I couldn’t help but think about my fantastic Pesach experience.  This was undoubtedly the most diverse Passover I’ve ever had.  And I grew up in a county that has 4 of the 10 most diverse cities in America.  I’m starting to wonder if in some ways, my corner of Tel Aviv is even more diverse.

I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity to celebrate this Passover in freedom.  Freedom to do it how I want, with whom I want, and where I want.  Freedom is a blessing every day you can enjoy it.

I pray and will work for the freedom of the Darfuri men I met today and all refugees.  Here and around the world.  There are few causes more dear to my heart or so morally clear.  Whether these refugees continue to live in Israel, are blessed with a secure country to return to, or move elsewhere, I pray that they are able to live in safety.  Nobody- nobody- should be sent to their death.  I hope that next year I won’t need to write this blog again because refugees will be given what they need: refuge.

And now to return to the title of this blog.  As you may have noticed in the news, many thousands of Gazans, along with some Palestinians in Israel, the West Bank, and Lebanon are protesting.  Are they doing it to coincide with Passover, due to its message of freedom?  I don’t know, though it would represent perhaps a welcome recognition of our shared existence, even if the timing might serve to stiffen Israelis’ spines rather than inspire empathy.  Even if the cause is just, I’m not sure I would choose Ramadan as a time to protest Islamic anti-Semitism.  Just like if I’m angry at a friend, I wouldn’t yell at him while he’s studying for a stressful test.  Part of communicating is understand when the other person is ready to listen.

I’m not suggesting there’s a particularly ideal time to make the powers that be listen.  I’m just saying that if any part of your goal is to reach the Israeli heart, making a Jewish religious holiday a time for protest is going to backfire.  Especially when I remember as a teenager, a Palestinian terrorist blew up a Passover seder killing 30 people and injuring 140 more.  Even I felt angry about the timing of these protests and I’m rather empathetic to the cause.

I have little doubt that it is miserable to live in Gaza.  Unemployment in Gaza, as of 2016, was 42%.  For youth, 58%.  Child labor is on the rise.  The Hamas government is an abysmal filth pit of extreme religious conservatism.  At various times, it has banned Palestinian women from dancing, from riding behind men on motor scooters, from smoking in public, from getting haircuts from male barbers, from running in marathons.  It even banned New Year’s Eve celebrations in the name of Islam.  It has banned Palestinians from reading certain books, from holding hip-hop concerts, and from going to the water park.  Already feeling geographically penned-in on both the Israeli and Egyptian borders, I have to imagine that Hamas’s extremist steps only escalate the tension that Gazans feel on a daily basis.

What’s the solution?  I’m not honestly sure.  Marching to the border with names of their former villages and demanding to “liberate Palestine” is only going to make most Israelis angry.  And scared.  I’m personally scared for what is happening and what may yet happen.  The loss of life, which has already begun, will likely continue on both sides.

I empathize with the anger of many Gazans.  Their life sounds suffocating and if we’re totally honest, no government in the region is totally innocent here.  People, including children, are suffering.

I also feel that the Palestinians striving for their own freedom need to remember that I, along with my fellow Israelis, have worked hard for our own.  We’re not going anywhere.  You can come back to Salameh, the Arab village I live on top of, and maybe we can build a life together.  That’d be a miracle and maybe it’s not possible due to the hatred all around.

What you cannot do- or at least what I will stop you from doing- is kicking me out.  The Palestine of 1947 doesn’t exist anymore.  Pieces of it, perhaps.  Just like the many Jewish communities around the world destroyed or cleansed by both Muslims and Christians.  Which is why we’re here.  Just this week, a Muslim man in France stabbed an 85 year old Holocaust survivor to death while shouting “Allahu Akbar”.  Stabbed 11 times.

Does this man represent all Muslims?  Of course not- and to suggest so is bigoted.  But the thing it doesn’t need to be all Muslims for Jews to feel scared.  We’re scared.

You’re scared.  You don’t like it when Israeli jets bomb your houses.  To get terrorists, but ultimately killing innocent Gazans along the way.  Inevitable.  And sad.  And how does the average Palestinian, who only knows Israelis in an army uniform, build a relationship with our culture beyond warfare?

And for Israeli Jews, while we’re blessed with having Arab neighbors in our own country (who frankly we should get to know better), the only image we have these days of a Palestinian is of a terrorist.  Or of a more “peaceful” person waving a flag, storming the border fence, claiming to liberate Palestine.  From us.  Presumably, to kick us out.  Back to the world that murdered us over and over and over again.

This blog could continue endlessly.  The torment of people here, on all sides, is so, so sad.  My friend Hekmet teaches me dabke, a Palestinian and Levantine folk dance.  The other day I told him how sad it was to learn about how some Zionist militias destroyed Arab villages.  He told me something that both eased my conscience and gave me hope: “Matt, it is sad.  And it’s also sad that Jews were kicked out of Middle Eastern countries.  In the end, we just have to live together.  We can’t only focus on the past.”

The past matters.  And so does the present.  My sincerest hope is that while knowing our past- as Jews, as refugees, as Israelis, as Arabs, as Palestinians- we can live together in peace.  Because re-litigating or liberating or invalidating or denying on any side will just kill and kill.

I don’t want a war here this summer.  I’ve come to a point where I like living in Israel.  And I want to meet Palestinians who want to build a future of hope together.

If I can take away one message from my Passover today, it’s that it’s possible.  Today I spent my holiday with Muslims, Christians, and Jews.  And I had a blast.

And not the kind that kills innocent people.

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My cover photo is me eating Filipino chicken wings.  One day maybe me, refugees, and Palestinians can all eat them together and make a delicious mess 🙂

 

The day I learned to love Israeli security guards…and police

My experiences with security in Israel have not always been fun.  I’ve been racially profiled as an Arab.  Just last week on a trip up North, an American friend and I got pulled over at night by cops in Karmiel who interrogated me about my smoking habits (I have none) while perusing a bunch of data about me on a computer.  I’ve gotten ridiculed by security guards for being American.  I’ve gotten patted down many times, sometimes a little heavier than might be needed.  And I find it stressful and a constant reminder of the state of warfare in this region to have to get checked at every bus station, every mall, every public place.  It feels invasive and as an American who didn’t grow up here, it just feels overwhelming and harassing.

In the back of my head, I always knew there’s a reason for all of it.  Perhaps some of the excesses like racial profiling aren’t necessary, but that there were real genuine security reasons for this heavy duty security surrounding me.  I grew up reading the news about terrorism here and visiting the country itself.  So as much as I didn’t like it, I learned to adapt and accept it.  And to empathize with the low-income guards digging through my bags.

Today, I learned to love Israeli security guards and even the police.  As a broadly left-wing person, I’m not generally a fan of police nor of state interference in my life.  And sometimes maybe it can save your life.

I was at Beit Ariela, the main library in Tel Aviv.  I specifically go there because it’s one of the quietest, most peaceful places in the city.  In a place where people scream just to say “hello”, Beit Ariela is a tranquil island.  A place where the tiniest whisper will get you American-style death glares.  Where it’s clean and you can really focus and block out the noise and stress.

Today that changed.

Getting ready to take a work call from the States, I headed towards the exit.  Only to find it blocked off.  The entire square in front of my building was filled with police tape, a cop car, and police officers.

In a state of shock, I asked the librarian what was going on.  She said a phrase, later confirmed to me by an Israeli friend: “chafetz chashud”.  A suspicious object.  She tried to explain it to me in broken English because- thank God- I didn’t know the phrase.  Let’s just say you don’t learn that in Hebrew class as a 13 year old in the U.S.

The building was under lock down.  Nobody could enter or exit.  I felt suffocated.  I started to pray, not knowing what else to do.  Oddly, the Israelis around me were fairly unphased.  One woman even complained saying she just needed to get to an appointment.  I was scared shitless.  I couldn’t help but think back to when I heard an air raid siren go off a week after I moved into my apartment.  Life here can go from normal to scary in the course of seconds.

Not knowing what to do, I did perhaps the most Israeli thing of all, and just moved forward as I could.  I called my colleague in the U.S., told her what was going on, and then in the lobby of the library just had my business call.

Midway through the call, we were told all was clear and I took the brave step of going outside.  Brave because as well as these things can be cleared, you never know if there’s a second package waiting for you somewhere.  It’s a common terror technique to plant multiple objects or suicide bombers near each other.  So you get the maximum effect of piling one attack upon the clean-up of another.

Shivering inside and trying to stay functional on the outside, I walked across the street to Sarona Market while talking to my colleague.  I then recalled how when an Israeli friend living in D.C. visited me, she told me there was a terror attack there just two years ago.  Right in front of the Max Brenner store where I was supposed to meet a friend.

While I would never let it actually turn me into a hateful person, I finally understood why some Israelis hate Palestinians.  When you have the fear of death struck into your heart, when you wonder if it’s going to be your final moments, when every car or backpack or bus becomes a potential threat, how are you supposed to be empathic towards others?  I imagine many Israelis, like me, know that it sucks to be a Palestinian.  Occupied by Israeli troops, neglected and discriminated against by other Arab countries, impoverished, and governed by a corrupt Palestinian Authority- it must be hard to even breathe.

And I think most Israelis are just tired of it all.  What other people on the planet- even the most oppressed- slap on a belt of explosives and jump into a crowd of civilians?  Obviously most Palestinians don’t.  And more than a few do.  More than 40% of Palestinians support suicide bombings- more than any other Muslim country.  Until the past couple of years when terrorists started spreading to Western countries and other Muslim countries, I can’t think of another culture where this phenomenon happens so prominently.  I could be wrong.  I just can’t think of anything off hand.

Palestinian leaders have a culture of celebrating violence.  I’m familiar with the danger of cherry picking examples and that every NGO will have its slant, but here are some examples.  I wouldn’t remotely suggest that you couldn’t find incitement (or violence) on the Israeli side, just that it almost never ends with someone strapping a belt on, screaming Allahu Akbar, and exploding in a crowd of innocent people.

I suppose my point is this: I’m one of the most peace-oriented, fluently Arabic-speaking Israelis you’re going to find.  And if today is any indication, if I continue to experience the fear that is Palestinian terrorism, you’re going to find me changing my politics bit by bit.  Resisting at first, and then wondering what we’re supposed to do.  I hope we can find another way and I also deserve the right to live.  Like my Palestinian neighbors.

I hope I can manage to keep my heart open to the peace-loving Palestinians who just want to live side-by-side with me and make this place the best region in the world.  And it’s going to be hard if I’m scared to live my life for fear of being burst into pieces.  And to what degree can each of us, Palestinian or Israeli, influence the situation?  All it takes is a few seriously ill people to sink the ship and ultimately we can’t control what everyone will do on either side.

In conclusion, I’m glad I’m alive.  I hate being searched invasively day-in and day-out and I’m sure Palestinians hate it too in the West Bank.  I hope for the day when we can live like we’re in Minnesota, lie in the grass, have a picnic, and pretend all this killing was just a bad dream.

In the meantime, I’d like to thank the brave security guards and police officers who kept me safe today.  I’m not endorsing state policies nor am I saying the police are perfect.  I’m saying that I find it a miracle that these people can go home after neutralizing a suspicious object and feed their kids, read them a story, and tuck them in to bed.  I am in awe of your courage and your willingness to put your life on the line so I and other Israelis- both Jewish and Arab- can live to see another day.

After I decided to head into the market to meet my friend, I looked at the security guard.  I gently handed him my bag, looked him in the face, and said: “todah rabah chaver, sheyihyeh lecha yom tov.”  Thank you my friend, may you have a good day.

A good day indeed.  Because he’s going home to his family.  And I’m alive writing this blog to you tonight.

When you bump into a high school friend in your neighborhood

For those of you who’ve been reading my blog, you’ll know my neighborhood is a bit off the beaten path for American immigrants to Israel.  It’s off the beaten path for most Israelis.  My particular street is quite quiet, kind of like a Mizrachi kibbutz, but a two minute walk away finds you in the poorest neighborhood of Tel Aviv.  And one of the most interesting.  Filled with Moroccans and Iraqis and Eritreans and Bedouin (still figuring that one out) and Yemenites and Russians.  And me.

The first reason I moved to my neighborhood was financial.  The rest of Tel Aviv was too expensive for me to find a place by myself.  Tired of living with roommates and not willing to spend exorbitant amounts of money, I looked where less people “like me” look.

I happened upon a great apartment and snatched it up.  The price was right, it came mostly furnished, it included most utilities, and I was able to negotiate a good lease.  A lot of hard work went into that- I saw easily 40 different apartments in person before finding this one.  You can read about my process here.

One of the downsides to my neighborhood is it’s far from…everyone.  Well, not everyone.  Certainly not my Iraqi neighbor downstairs who likes to “role play” Abu Mazen in Arabic yelling at Israel (my neighborhood is many things but boring is not one of them).  But it is far from other young professionals- some of whom flat out told me they’d be scared to visit me.  Fortunately, I have many friends who feel otherwise and have come to my park for picnics.  But as we say in Jewish English “it’s a schlep“.

That can make me feel lonely sometimes.  Especially on Shabbat when there is no public transit and people are even less willing to make the trek.  And it also becomes hard for me to visit them.  I’ve spent more than a few Shabbat afternoons alone and bored.

My neighborhood has a lot of amazing things.  It’s amazingly diverse, it has great food, it’s cheaper, it’s authentic.  The owner of the Mizrachi music store around the corner was Zohar Argov‘s producer.  It’s a place where almost all aspects of the conflict in this country come together and somehow things manage to stick together.

At night, better than anywhere in North Tel Aviv, you can truly see the stars.  The moon calls out to you.  It calms me to look towards the heavens after a hectic day, no skyscrapers around, and to just breathe.

Tonight, the most unexpected thing happened: I bumped into a friend.  Feeling kind of lonely, I left my apartment and headed towards “the city”.  “The city” because my neighborhood doesn’t feel like the rest of Tel Aviv.  You wouldn’t know it was the same city if you visited here.

On my way there, I saw a group of young people.  I was a bit surprised.  I knew there were a few in the neighborhood, often living with their families, but rarely in large groups.  As I got closer, a bearded man gave me a huge hug.

I was in shock.  Who was this guy??

After a look at his sheyne punim, I knew: it was Omer!  Holy crap!  Omer is an Israeli friend from Beit Shemesh, a suburb of Jerusalem.  We met in high school because his city was paired with my hometown of Washington, D.C. for an exchange program.  We hung out in D.C., I believe I saw him when I came several years later to visit Beit Shemesh, and then reconnected on Facebook.  Once I made aliyah, we got to see each other again in person.

Omer is an avid board games player.  Turns out, so is someone in my neighborhood who was hosting a board games event!  Delighted to bump into someone who knew me, someone who hugged me- spontaneously- in my neighborhood, I immediately asked him to invite me to the next event.

Living alone in a foreign country can be hard.  And I don’t just live here, I immigrated here.  I’m a citizen.  I have no particular plans to move back to the U.S. although as a dual citizen I legally can.  And since my work happens to be done remotely, I can bounce between countries, which is great.  It’s also true that it feels different to live here as opposed to visiting or being on a program.  Washington, D.C. will always be one of my homes.  And what I’m starting to realize, to whatever extent I choose to stay here short or long term, Israel has become one of my homes too.

A place where I bump into an old friend on an unexpected street who cheers me up.  A place where, just twenty minutes later, I bumped into another friend I met outside a nightclub weeks ago.

A place where for all its insanity and its toughness, I guess I just don’t feel like as much of a stranger as when I stepped off the plane on the Fourth of July almost a year ago.  Hopeful, confused, anxious, and inspired.  Jet-lagged and later coping with food poisoning and being stalked by toxic relatives and being yelled at daily by Sabras for no particular reason and being racially profiled as Arab and waking up to 3 A.M. air raid sirens and all sorts of traumas big and small.

Israel is whack.  That’s how I’d say it in American.  And Israel, I’m just not sure I can entirely live without you.  And if you don’t think that’s the most Israeli way of saying “I love you”, then you’re probably not one of us 🙂

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p.s.- my cover photo is a picture of teddy bears from the Arab village of Tira because this is a feel good story 🙂