A Haggadah of Hope

It’s not hard to be disenchanted with Israeli politics these days. While most of the world has been focused on Benjamin Netanyahu’s anti-democratic “judicial reform”, his same government has also been engaging in racist incitement and encouraging violence against Palestinians. The pogrom in Huwara is only possible because of a government that cares nothing for the lives of its Palestinian neighbors and who views its own Arab citizens as a threat. With a new militia promised to radical racist cabinet member Itamar Ben-Gvir, we may only be steps away from even more confrontation and death.

In such dark moments, we must not find the light – we must be it. For me, that means digging through my books. It means finding some knowledge, some history, some inspiration for how we can overcome such horrible things.

I found just the book!

Digging through my bookshelves, I found a 1935 Haggadah, or Passover prayer book, from Jerusalem. But it was not any old Haggadah, it was a bilingual Hebrew-Arabic book – with the Arabic written in Hebrew characters.

It remains a mystery to me as to why this Haggadah was published in both languages! Not because there is no reason for it to be – but rather many! First things first – this was published by an Ashkenazi printer – Mendl Friedman. So the printer was unlikely to be a native Arabic speaker, like some of the Jews who had been living in Jerusalem for centuries before the establishment of the State of Israel in 1948. Also, the Arabic inside the the Haggadah seems to be Levantine, though it’s a bit unclear at times and there seem to be a few inconsistencies. For example, in the Four Questions, the writer may have made a grammatical error (or I’m a bit rusty!), by first translating the Hebrew “leylot” (nights) as “leyli” (night as an adjective) instead of “liyali” (nights) before later switching back to “liyali”:

These inconsistencies make me think it was probably not a native speaker doing the translation, although I can’t be sure. In any case, we may never know whether this was an attempt to write in Judeo-Arabic, an attempt by Ashkenazi Jews to fit in their local environment, or the off chance that a Zionist organization wanted to promote integration into the local Palestinian culture (as some of them initially supported). Although the latter seems unlikely since the most pro-Arab Zionist movements tended to be extremely secular and were not likely to be publishing a religious text. If anyone reading this blog has insight into the who, what, when, where, why of this book, please share it with me.

So what does this have to do with today? In short, I am inspired by the publisher’s attempt to integrate Jewish and Arab cultures by way of language. Without knowing the intended audience, I can still say that publishing a sacred Jewish text in Arabic is a statement – especially in the conflict-ridden years leading up to Israel’s founding. I am moved by it and hope we will find many more ways to connect across cultures using language and our sacred texts as a point of commonality rather than conflict.

This Passover, Benjamin Netanyahu will probably be spouting off racist bullshit with his equally crazy family in a comfortable home rather than a jail cell where he belongs. However, we can be comforted by the past and inspired to act in the future. Jews and Arabs have not always been at each other’s throats. In 1935 an Ashkenazi Jew published a Passover Haggadah in Hebrew and Arabic. He probably couldn’t have imagined it would end up in a gay American-Israeli Jew’s hands, but that is the magic of history in action.

May this holiday bring more joy to the world. May it bring freedom. May it give us the courage to confront our modern-day autocratic Pharoahs in America, Israel, Russia, Turkey, Hungary, China, and more. For these Pharoahs sit in temporary comfort – justice will come. Avadim hayyinu – we were once slaves, and we will not stop fighting until we are all free. Chag pesach sameach, Happy Passover, and Ramadan Karim.

להציל את היהדות

מזמן לא כתבתי בעברית. כנראה שאכתוב עם מלא טעויות. אבל אני מרגיש שכדאי לכתוב. כדאי לפרש את הרגשות שלי ברגע כל כך רגיש בהיסטוריה של עם ישראל ומדינת ישראל. הרבה אנשים שקוראים את הבלוג שלי יודעים שאחרי כמה שנים בארץ, אני חזרתי לארצות הברית, איפה שגדלתי. התכוונתי לחזור לארץ ללימודים בבית המדרש של הרבנות הרפורמית. אבל לא מעט זמן אחרי שחזרתי לארה”ב, אמא שלי חלתה בסרטן. אז הייתה מגפת הקוביד. אז נפטר אבא החורג שלי. ותוך קצת זמן, אמא שלי גם תלך לועלמה. בקיצור, הרבה דברים קשוחים התרחשו בחיי ופתאום לחזור לארץ לא הייתה בחירה הגיונית. לפחות כרגע.

אבל למרות שאני נמצא רחוק מהארץ פיזית, אני חושב עליה כל יום. אני מתגעגע לחברים שלי שם ואני מודאג מאוד לגבי המצב הפוליטי. לצערי, כאמריקאי, אני מכיר את הפאשיזם באופן מאוד אישי. אני גר בוושינגטון די סי. הייתי פה כאשר דונלד טראמפ השתדל לגנוב את הבחירות וכאשר הוא הסית נגד אזרחיו ב6 לינואר. הייתה תקופה מאוד מפחידה.

עד ה6 לינואר, הרבה חברים שלי בארץ או התלהבו מטראמפ או לא הבינו למה אמריקאים מבחינות פוליטיות שונות לא היו יכולים “להסתדר”. כלומר, אנחנו פשוט לא ידענו איך לדבר אחר עם השני. אבל אחרי ה6 לינואר, הרבה חברים שלי סוף-סוך הבינו שזה לא היה עניין פשוט ובעצם זה היה משבר פוליטי שחווינו בקפיטול.

לצערי הרב, כל ישראלי שפוי עכשיו מבין מה שקרה בארה”ב לאחרונה. שיש בשתי המדינות תנועות פוליטיות שרוצות להרוס. שרוצות לדכא מיעוטים, למחוק את “האחר”. זאת תנועה פוליטית בינלאומית- מרוסיה להונגריה, מארה”ב לאיראן, וכן לישראל.

מהנסיון שלי בארה”ב, אני רק יכול להדגיש כמה זה חשוב להמשיך להפגין ולתמוך בתנועות פולטיות שהן בעד הדמוקרטיה לכולםן. גם כן לפלסטינאים.

אין עתיד למדינת ישראל בלי דמוקרטיה. ואין דמוקרטיה בלי חרות לכל תושבי ישראל ופלסטין.

בסוף, כמו כל דבר במדינה היהודית, זה עניין של איזה סוג של יהדות תהיה חזקה יותר בישראל. ברור שצריך להיות מקום לגיוון- גם ליהדות השמרנית שאני לא מאמנין בה. אבל- בואו נגיד את זה בצורה ברורה- אנחנו רוצים עתיד של איסור חמץ בבתי חולים או אנחנו רוצים עתיד של יהדות שוויונית?

ליבי במזרח. לכל המפגינות והמפגינית האמיצים- תודה. אני איתכם בלב ואני אמשיך לדבר עם הממשלה שלי בארה”ב כדי לשכנע אותה להשתמש בכח שלה לשמור על הזכויות שלכם. כי בעצם, למרות שאנחנו רחוקים פיזית, האינטרסים שלנו דומים מאוד. אנחנו חייבים לתמוך אחד בשני בשוויון.

אני הפכתי אולי פחות דתי אחרי כל המוות והטרגדיות במשפחה שלי ובחברה שלי בשנים האחרונות. אבל אני כן מאמין שהגורל שלנו הוא משותף. ואף פעם לא אוותר על הקשר בינינו והחלום של שלום, של דמוקרטיה, ושל יהדיות שמייצגת את הערכים שלנו. מתגעגע המון- שנתראה בקרוב בע”ה עם חיוכים של הצלחה של המאבק.

Democracy Now

Israeli democracy has never been perfect. No democracy is perfect. Embroiled in over 70 years of conflict with its neighbors, the State of Israel has often taken antidemocratic steps. Occupying the West Bank and its over three million Palestinian residents is certainly antidemocratic. And fortunately, there are many Israelis who agree with me that that must ultimately change. As of now, Israelis advocating for peace and for an end to the Occupation have democratic protections. Protections Palestinians only wish they had – be they from Israel or their own Palestinian Authority.

A while ago, I read a quote from a Palestinian who said that the thing he admired most about Israel was that, at least for its own citizens, there was democracy. Acknowledging that he couldn’t benefit from it didn’t stop him from gazing towards Tel Aviv and the beaches and the freedom and the dozen plus political parties (including Arab ones) and saying “wow, I wish I had this too.”

That fragile democracy that is granted to Israel’s citizens, first and foremost to its Jewish citizens but also to a degree its Palestinian-Israeli citizens, was once something to admire. In a region of the world plagued by religious extremism, Israel stood out as a mostly secular and reasonably liberal place depending on where in the country you lived. Much like how things can really vary by place politically in the U.S., but you are guaranteed certain fundamental rights that other countries in the world sometimes lack.

This fragile democracy, which allowed me to participate in countless demonstrations for LGBTQ+ rights, for Palestinian rights, for Druze and other minorities – that democracy is failing right now. It is under threat from within. And that threat is named Benjamin Netanyahu, flanked by homophobic and racist politicians such as Itamar Ben-Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich. Much like American democracy was (is?) under threat from right-wing extremists such as Donald Trump, Israel is facing a similar January 6th-type moment.

What is this threat? It has several faces. First off, there is Benjamin Netanyahu’s “judicial overhaul” which seeks to neuter the Supreme Court and save his own ass from his ongoing bribery investigation. Secondly, there are rabidly anti-Palestinian policies bubbling beneath the surface, as Itamar Ben-Gvir seeks ever greater control over the security apparatus in the West Bank. Thirdly, there is the issue of religious coercion. This coercion ranges from anti-LGBTQ+ policies to shutting down construction work on Shabbat, the Jewish Sabbath. It even includes a bill that would criminalize the entry of leavened products into hospitals during Passover, when such food is not traditionally eaten by Jews. It is a slap in the face of non-Jewish patients and families and Jews who may not be Orthodox in their observance.

How does one confront such authoritarian impulses? Israel is not unique in facing this challenge. I live in Washington, D.C. and was here for January 6th when right-wing terrorists attacked our own Capitol with the blessing of our former President. Countries like Poland, Hungary, India, Turkey, and others have seen a surge in authoritarian policies over the past few years.

In the U.S., the (lower-case d) democratic forces managed to unite moderates and progressives and even the occasional conservative to fight back on the streets and at the ballot box. It is thanks to the efforts of this coalition, particularly minority voters, that the Democratic Party had its best midterm elections in decades.

In Israel, this same demographic is fighting back- and hard. And I’m proud of my friends who’ve been demonstrating across the ocean. Hundreds of thousands of Israelis have taken to the streets to make their voices heard- for democracy, for change, for rule of law, for minority communities.

Well, not so much for minority communities. Palestinians and Palestinian citizens of Israel are under threat like never before. Israeli moderates and progressives are taking to the streets to protect their democracy. But rarely if ever have we heard from their most prominent leaders, Yair Lapid and Benny Gantz, about the racist threat to Israeli democracy. Of course the judiciary is important – and it can be a bulwark for non-Jewish communities as well. But the protest leaders have yet to address the intersection of their cause with that of the millions of Palestinians facing the prospect of ever-greater discrimination and violence from this government.

While some on the Israeli left have continually advocated for an inclusive vision of Israeli democracy that includes the rights of Palestinians, the center of the political map has yet to address this “Black Lives Matter”-esque issue. And by that I mean the crucial understanding of how minority rights intersect with the fight for democracy- for all.

In other words, because minorities don’t have a seat at the table in this protest for democracy, it will likely fail. I hate to write that – especially about a country I so love and want to see succeed. But until Palestinians- both citizens of Israel and those living across the Green Line– have a voice in this movement, it will be incomplete and not strong enough to take on the ferocious right-wing government threatening us all.

The photo I used for this blog is of me and two Druze friends of mine protesting for minority rights in Tel Aviv in August of 2018. It was a time when we fought for a shared future together. It was a time when Jews and non-Jews came together for democracy. It is possible. It is doable. It has been done before. It must be done now.

Im tirtzu eyn zo agadah. If you will it, it is not a dream. In the holiest of lands, hope must rise.

When the sh*t hits the fan

This past week has been one of those crazy weeks you never forget. My step-dad has spent the week in the ICU due to two blood clots and after going into cardiac arrest. My mom, who is on her newest round of chemotherapy, is taking care of him. I’m just trying to keep my head above water. Trying to enjoy life’s little moments and joys to distract me. With some degree of success. Thank you to all my friends who’ve been there for me this week and are helping me get through this.

This week, the insanity of my life seemed to parallel that of Israel’s.

Just as my world seemed to be spinning, Israel voted in one of the most right-wing, ultra-religious governments in its history. As an Israeli citizen, I’m embarrassed to see the rise of fundamentalism in my other homeland. It just goes to show that what we’re seeing in the U.S. and Europe is spreading to other countries as well. We must rise or fall together. This is the moment for people who care about the future of Israel – and its Palestinian neighbors – to speak out for democracy.

Faced with adversity in Israel and my own home front, I’m faced with a choice. I could pray, I could sway, I could wait for others to act in my place.

I will do no such thing. First of all, I will be there for my immediate family. Secondly, I will be there for myself – allowing for moments of relief and even joy as I step away from the trauma I’m dealing with. I want to live my life, which is what my step-dad would want even as he struggles for his own.

And when it comes to my brethren across the ocean – Arab citizens of Israel, Palestinians, and Israeli Jews and Druze – I will step it up for you. As LGBTQ+ and Reform rights are also under attack, I will not sit by silently. The Israel and Palestine we want to build is possible. And we will not give up. Please consider a donation to Standing Together, my favorite Jewish-Arab activist organization, to promote solidarity and peace.

One of the things I learned while living in Israel was the power of embracing life and its fulfillment even in the darkest of moments. That’s why you’ll find Israelis partying on the beach as rockets fall down. It’s an extreme example, but a real one.

So as the rockets metaphorically fall on my own family and on Israel’s democracy, I will fight, but I will also dance. I will push when needed, rest my body to rejuvenate for the long haul, and I will enjoy the people and love that I get to experience each day.

Because as my cover photo from Majdal Shams says in Hebrew and Arabic: “Why not?” Hope lives, always.

Game time for democracy

For those of you who follow Middle Eastern politics, you might have noticed the thousands of Israelis protesting Benjamin Netanyahu over the past few months. What’s interesting about the protests (which I avidly support) is how they are framed. While most protestors I had seen in the past had focused on Bibi’s corruption, many of these protestors were calling on their fellow citizens to “save democracy”. The two concepts are intertwined, but it’s the understanding that democracy itself is at risk that we in the U.S. should pay attention to.

Faced with our own corrupt leader who doesn’t believe in democracy, what are we to do? We have to prepare ourselves with survival tactics to resist and ultimately disarm Donald Trump’s machine of lies. I don’t use these words lightly- I have friends and relatives voting for this man. People I care about. But whether they choose to understand reality as it is or not, the facts are such that our very democratic system is at risk. As Bernie Sanders said, this election is not about Trump vs. Biden, it is Trump vs. democracy itself.

Democrats and allies on the progressive spectrum in the U.S. have a lot to learn from our Israeli ideological counterparts. Benjamin Netanyahu has been Prime Minister for 15 years in a row. And yet Israeli civil society, although in some ways “on the ropes”, has managed to forcefully resist his authoritarian tendencies. Progressive Israelis have managed to build Arabic-Hebrew bilingual schools, Israeli-Palestinian dialogue/solidarity groups, societal support for LGBT adoption rights, and so much more. All in the face of a strongman who cares nothing for human rights. The peaceful protestors over the past few months have been tear gassed as if Israel were, well, more like some of its neighbors than the glowing democracy government mouthpieces claim it is.

So back to the American elections tomorrow. It’s clear that civil society can flourish even under an autocrat trying to dismantle democracy – like both Bibi and Trump. However, it is hard. Hard as hell. And I hope that if, G-d forbid Trump wins or steals the election, we as Americans will have the wherewithal to build that resistance. I think we have the power.

The better option is to win this election like our lives depended on it. And like our democracy won’t survive without a Biden win. Because America is not immune to the authoritarian winds blowing throughout the world these days. Freedom is fragile.

If we don’t want to live in a society where Trump is President for a decade and a half like Bibi, it’s time to put aside any doubts. Any third party flirtations. Any questions about Biden himself (who wasn’t my first choice). And to vote for him and Kamala Harris and get everyone you know to do so.

Because it’s not just our future that’s at stake – it’s our present.

As my cover photo says, “only love will win”. Let’s do this for democracy tomorrow.

I wrote a book

The past few months have been a struggle for me personally, for both of my countries, and for the world.  As death tolls skyrocketed and we found ourselves in quarantine, I found myself increasingly searching for what to do next.  Just before quarantine, I had started a new project that I had been dreaming about for several years: writing a book.

The task, the aspiration, took on new meaning as I found myself with loads of free time and little to do with it.  I picked up painting as a new hobby, but I wanted to do something a bit more meaningful and productive as well.

So I looked back on my 100+ blog entries and wasn’t sure where to start.  I had adventured not only in Israel, but also in almost a dozen European countries.  And even within Israel, I had explored a wide variety of communities, ranging from Haredim to refugees, from LGBTs to Reform Jews – and everything in between.  Where should I start?

With the options overwhelming, and not wanting to write a 500 page book, I decided to start with my explorations using the Arabic language.  After all, it was one of the most unique (and one of my favorite) vantage points for exploring Israel.  And one of the least expected.  What was this gay Jew doing exploring Israel in Arabic – and not with the goal of covering the Arab-Israeli conflict?

As I started to write and compile in my little indoor bunker of an apartment, I started to remember the fond memories I had of exploring Israel.  And felt grateful that I got to see what I saw when I did- when I still could.  That I took advantage of every opportunity to see new ways of life, new forms of thinking, and ultimately meet new friends.  Which is how my Israeli WhatsApp contacts include an American-Israeli tour guide married to a woodworker, a Muslim Bedouin student, a Bulgarian-Israeli immigrant, and an Orthodox gay guy among others.

This book, more than anything else, is about these kind of one-on-one personal experiences.  That I happened to make because I spoke Arabic in a country where four different religious communities speak it.

It’s about connection and it’s about making peace – not through big agreements, but through individual friendships and conversations that help you cross cultural boundaries and build a bit of hope in places that really need it.  Including your own heart.

I encourage you to join me on this journey and read “More Than Just Hummus: A Gay Jew Discovers Israel in Arabic”.  It’s available on Amazon.com – Kindle and black-and-white interior paperback and color interior paperback.

When we can’t leave our homes to travel where we want, join me on this adventure from the comfort of your living room.

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Why I’m not afraid of the word Palestine

Last night, I found myself on an unexpected adventure.  While I sometimes miss the density and intensity of my adventures in Israel, after the past few days of rocket attacks, I’m feeling pretty grateful to be in Washington, D.C. and not in Ashdod.

I found myself in an Uber with a female driver wearing a hijab.  We got to talking, initially about mundane topics like podcasts and language learning.  Eventually, I asked what languages she spoke and she said “just Arabic”.  My eyes lit up.  I started speaking to her in Arabic and she was thrilled.

For the next twenty minutes, we talked about everything.  She loved my Syrian dialect, calling it rai’3ah, or “fantastic”.  She then asked the question all Arabic speakers ask me.  “Where in the Arab world have you been?”  This is a loaded question, although not intended to be.

The reason why is that Israel, in all honesty, is a part of the Arab world, or at the very least experiences a Venn Diagram overlap with it when considering the 20% of its citizens who speak Arabic as a mother tongue.  Not to mention the half of Jews there who come from Arab countries.  Furthermore, I had been to Palestinian cities and towns, which clearly qualified.

So I answered the question like this:

“Ana kinit be’Isra’il wa’Falastin.”  I was in Israel and Palestine.

Two countries whose borders are increasingly vague and whose cultures overlap and interact to such an extent that I find it sensible to sometimes mention them in the same breath.

Fatima’s ears perked up.  She was curious.  While she only called the countries I visited Palestine (which is not how I view things), she wanted to know where I had lived, what I had seen, and more.  She was respectful.  I told her I had lived in Tel Aviv and mentioned some of the Arabic-speaking areas I had visited in Israel and (the areas east of the Green Line I call) Palestine.

I even told her a funny story about language practice I experienced in Tel Aviv, to share some of the life she probably rarely hears about.  I was sitting in a restaurant and asked “efshar et ha’sal?”  I meant to ask for the salt, but by using the Spanish word “sal” for salt, I ended up asking for a basket!  The waiter asked why I needed a basket, and I said “for my chicken!”  It cracked him up at the time, and Fatima was no different.  It’s all a lesson that making mistakes while learning languages can be a blessing if you learn to laugh.  I’ve never forgotten the word for basket.

At times during my life in Israel, I struggled with the concept of Palestine.  What are its borders?  Does it threaten Israel’s existence?  Is there a way to make peace between these two countries and societies?

Now, I feel more at ease.  Even with someone like Fatima who may not even recognize Israel.  And yet finds herself open to hearing about it, even as she can’t speak its name.  Much like I used to struggle with the word Palestine.

Fatima knew I was Jewish.  That I am an Israeli citizen.  And yet something in our conversation, despite the different views we held, kept us talking.  Even had us laughing and complementing each other.

It’s the kind of magic Benjamin Netanyahu lacks on even his best day.  It’s called compassion.  It’s called dialogue.  It’s called respect and a desire to use words rather than bombs to make a point.

After Bibi’s most recent show of force, which killed about two dozen Palestinians and resulted in yet more warfare launched by the Islamic Jihad terrorist organization, the only thing we saw grow was fear.  The only result we saw was damaged houses, crying children, and trauma.  After a decade as Prime Minister, the Gaza Strip is beset by increasingly dire poverty and terrorist organizations and the Israeli communities that surround it have more PTSD, more death, and more desperation.

We could keep trying the same techniques and feel pervertedly comforted by receiving the same horrifying results.  Or we could try what I did.  Talking.  Creative problem solving.  Dialogue.

I’m not suggesting it’s easy nor do I know exactly how to do this on a political level- I’m not a politician.  What I can say is if it reduces the chance of more misery, it’s worth a shot.

As Fatima dropped me off, she said to me a phrase that will stick with me the rest of my life. “Fi amal,” she said.  “There is hope.”

Hope

A quick glance at the news is enough to make your stomach turn.

Today over 20 Iraqis were massacred by their government.  Hezbollah thugs attacked peaceful protestors in Beirut.  Donald Trump continues to abandon Kurdish allies to Turkish aggression in northern Syria.  Settlers attacked IDF soldiers in the West Bank.

And yet there are rays of hope.  The protestors in Beirut, in particular, inspire me.  Fed up with ineffective government, they have put aside their (numerous and strong) sectarian affiliations to push for a clean house.  Sunnis are protesting Sunni politicians.  Shiiites, Shiites.  Christians, Christian leaders.  The rallying cry of these protestors is beautiful: “kullun ya3ni kullun”.  All of them means all of them.  Meaning not a single politician is being spared the anger of these idealistic protestors.  People brave enough to speak out as the country experiences a severe economic crisis and in a place where politicians don’t take kindly to criticism.  A place that has known Civil War.

They are a role model for what we should all be doing.  Instead of engaging in ceaseless blaming of one group against another, we should realize that the people up top enjoy this conflict.  While we tear each other to shreds because we pray or speak or look differently, our basic needs go unmet.  Patients die because of lack of care, trash goes uncollected, jobs become more scarce, and the rent continues to skyrocket as if none of it was happening at all.

It’s time to unite against the few who control our fate and yet care so little about it.  Israel could learn a lot from the Lebanese protests, especially as Benny Gantz is now charged with trying to form a government.  If he doesn’t, we will see a third round of elections in a country already fed up with voting over and over again.

Much like its neighbor to the north, Israel’s political parties are almost entirely divided by ethnicity and sect.  There’s the Sephardic ultra-Orthodox, the Ashkenazi ones, the secular left, the secular center, the secular center-right, the modern Orthodox, the Russians, and the Arabs.  In Lebanon, the names are different, but the concept the same.  A gaggle of Christian sects, Sunnis, Shiites, and Druze jockey for power based on group labels.  An entire bloody civil war was fought over it.  It’s depressing.

And yet there is this ray of hope coming from the north that sometimes people can put aside their partisan and sectarian labels and come together for the common good.  My hope is one day Israelis will be able to do the same, as they briefly did when they protested against rising house prices.  Perhaps the most salient issue in Israel today, yet one repeatedly shunted aside in favor of endless ethnic conflict both within and externally.

This is not easy.  But my hope is that the fervor gripping young Lebanese people can inspire Israelis to follow suit.  Only by putting human interests first will we be able to make the difference we need to see in the world.  And perhaps one day, God willing, we’ll see Lebanese and Israelis joining together in protesting for justice.  In one straight line from Beirut to Tel Aviv, like the British colonial trains used to run.  If you will it, it is not a dream.

Shabbat shalom.

 

An Israel contingent on justice

This week’s Torah portion is Shoftim, or “judges”.  The word, when used as a verb, also means “they judge”.  You can read the text here.

In this portion, the famous quote “justice, justice shall you pursue” makes an appearance.  What stands out to me, though, is the rest of the quote.  Few people disagree with the concept of justice, even if we might have radically different concepts of what it means.  It is the rest of the quote which particularly intrigues me.

In the Reform translation, it reads: “justice, justice shall you pursue, that you may thrive and occupy the land that the Eternal your God is giving you.”  The Jewish Publication Society’s version reads: “Justice, justice shalt thou follow, that thou mayest live, and inherit the land which the LORD thy God giveth thee.”

In today’s political climate, the difference between the word “inherit” and “occupy” is everything.  For now, I’ll leave it at that, but the verse clearly complicates your point of view no matter where you stand politically.  “Inherit” is a gentle word.  When someone passes away, you may find yourself with a “yerusha” or inheritance, the same root as the word used in this famous Torah quote.  It is something passive, something that comes to you- that you do not conquer.

Occupy, on the other hand, is a very different way to put things.  And without delving too deep in the morass that is Middle Eastern politics, if you’re on the progressive side of the spectrum, this biblical dictate certainly complicates our relationship with the Divine.  And our engagement with Torah itself.

And yet what intrigues me the most about this particular verse is the connection made between pursuing justice and receiving political autonomy.  In other words, the Land of Israel isn’t simply given to the Jewish people in the Bible.  This verse makes abundantly clear that it rests on the pursuit of justice for it to be fully realized.  After all, one could simply say “justice, justice shall you pursue” without any mention of the Land of Israel.  But this verse makes the connection explicit.  That our gift of self-determination is contingent, indeed dependent, on doing the right thing.

The implications are enormous.  The Bible, after all, is an incredibly political document.  To pretend otherwise is to ignore the text itself.  And the text has enormous implications for today’s world.  After all, the early Zionist movement explored other locations for a Jewish homeland, including in Africa.  But the heart pulled us in the direction of our ancestral land.  A land which did not lay empty- which is still precariously shared between two peoples.  If the text of the Torah did not include verse after verse promising the Jewish people this sliver of territory, today’s politics would be quite different.  And we might be eating yams instead of hummus.

The implications also extend to how we engage as a people in this Land.  It is, in my view, not enough that we are simply promised a piece of territory by an ancient document.  This ancient document, filled with wisdom (if sometimes in need of an update), makes clear that any society which is to flourish, to “thrive” in this Land must pursue justice.  It is far from a free pass to do as we will without regard to humanity- both our own and that of other peoples in the region.  The humanity of the poor, the humanity of refugees both Jewish and not, the humanity of Palestinians, the humanity of olim, the humanity of the stranger among us.  The humanity of every person in need.  That is the mandate we are given to pursue over and over again in the Torah.

So where does that leave us today?  It might be enough for me to suggest it as an interesting lesson for our personal lives.  To be good people, and to seek out justice however we can as individuals on a daily basis.  Something I absolutely believe in and strive to pursue.

Yet we can’t ignore the fact that Israeli elections are around the corner.  On September 17, the Israeli public will decide the next chapter of our history.  Far be it from me to endorse a particular political party, I will simply suggest that justice be a metric for our decision-making process.  Does this political party stand for the greater good of society?  Does this party seek peace and pursue it?  Does this party balance our need for security with our need to treat all humans with kindness and humaneness?

That is the barometer our Torah sets out.  There is no more repeated commandment than that which asks us to welcome the stranger.  So this election season, as frustrating as it can be, let us find an opportunity to search our hearts for compassion and wisdom.  So that Israel, the Jewish people, and all humankind can progress in a fashion worthy of the justice we must build.  And to use our self-determination responsibly, on foundations of truth and hope.

The cover photo is of me and an African refugee in Tel Aviv at a rally to support their human rights.

Roots

The premise of this blog is that one needs roots in order to grow, to thrive.  I’ve seen this idea in action.  By connecting to my ancient roots in Israel, my family’s history in Europe, and by understanding where I grew up in the States, I understand myself better than I did a few years ago.  After being in Israel, I know why people think I look Greek, Turkish, Italian, Spanish (and Hispanic)- it’s because my DNA is from the Mediterranean.  After being in Hungary, I now know why my family cooked so much with paprika when I was a kid- the country is covered with it.  And it’s where two of my great-grandparents were born.  And after re-visiting where I grew up, I understand a lot of the challenges I’ve faced and continue to overcome.  And I remembered how the diverse hot pot of cultures known as Montgomery County, Maryland helped nourish my passion for multicultural exploration.

Which brings us back to my premise.  One needs roots.  You can live without them, but to not know where you come from- both as an individual and as part of a broader collective- is to miss out on some fabulous new understandings of the world.  Of your community.  And of your self.

Another benefit of understanding your roots is that you realize how diverse they are.  How generation after generation, my ancestors have planted and re-planted their Judaism and their bodies in new soil.  Often forced by governments and people who hated Jews, or by grinding poverty, they forged their way from Israel to Europe to North America.  And, in my case, back to Israel.  Thankfully, by choice.  Although millions of Jews expelled by Arab governments or whose families were hollowed out by the Holocaust made Israel their home with no other option.  Thank God- and to our pioneers, our soldiers, our brave entrepreneurs- for giving us a place to call home no matter what.

One thing I’ve realized about roots is that they can be nourished by various soils.  Take, for example, the Italian synagogue in Jerusalem.  After the Holocaust, Italian Jews were worried that their already decimated community would find its 2,000 year heritage erased.  Rather than leaving the synagogue to decay in post-World War II Italy, they shipped the entire synagogue to Jerusalem.  I had the blessing to visit it and it is stunning.  Not just because of the outstanding architecture, but because it, like the Jewish people, is the ultimate survivor.  And the fact that it remains an active congregation only makes it more majestic and inspiring.

Like the Italian synagogue, I too am nourished by diverse terrains.  Whether its the deep green of the Galilee, the churches of Eilaboun, the beach of Ma’agan Michael, or the ancient stones of Jerusalem, my heart is in Israel.  And if it’s the eleven Jews of Satu Mare, Romania keeping their community alive, or the pluralistic Jewish community center in the tiniest of buildings in Ljubljana, Slovenia building bridges with non-Jews, or the descendants of conversos in Lisbon who do Shabbat every week in an apartment first rented by Holocaust refugees.  My heart is in Europe too.

And if it’s the smell of whitefish salad, the dozens of times I get to speak to new Arab immigrants about Judaism- and their own memories of their countries’ Jewish communities, and the deep pluralism and tolerance that pervades Jewish institutions, then my heart is in America too.

So in the end, it’s not that roots are overrated.  It’s that you’re allowed to plant them in various places at different times and reap the challenges and rewards that that climate has to offer.  We are each able, to the best of our legal and financial capacity, to explore new places and incorporate new knowledge into our tree rings.  So that as each year passes, we hopefully grow wiser, with a bit thicker skin, and remain sensitive to our selves and our surroundings.

We can only be physically in one place at one time.  With the grace of modern technology, we can communicate across great distances and share ideas faster than ever before.  It’s a conundrum and opportunity wrapped into one.

Like the other day when I sat at Gratz College holding a centuries-old Tseno Ureno and dozens of pre-Holocaust Yiddish and Hebrew books.  Books whose owners may have perished in the fire of Nazi terror, or who after surviving it, may no longer be alive today to read this post.  Let’s hope they died of old age, but we know both possibilities exist.

To hold such books is magic.  Because the great spiritual endeavor, indeed fervor, of the Jewish people lies not as much in our biblical narrative so much as in the reality of our own survival.  That as much as I love our religious heritage, the fact that I’m performing the same act or saying the same words or thumbing the same pages as my ancestors is what draws me to God.  More than the obligation to do so.

Yet what has become clear to me is that if Jewish history, indeed our truth and our reality, is what holds the deepest spirituality for me- our culture, our music, our food, our togetherness.  It is also true that our community survives thanks to obligation.  That even if that space is an uncomfortable one for a liberal-minded Jew to inhabit, it’s one worth exploring.  Because if we don’t find ourselves obligated to a broader set of ethics and laws, even as they evolve, how do we continue to survive?

In short, that is why I’ve found myself, the die-hard Reform Jew who was the RCVP of his Temple TYG, who was on the NFTY-MAR Social Action Committee, who led his campus’s Reform Chavurah, who traveled with the URJ to Argentina, who helped write a Reform sex ed curriculum, who led services in Tel Aviv, who visited Reform shuls on four different continents.  I’ve found myself in a new space.  I’m the Reform Jew who walks to an Orthodox synagogue.  Where for the first time in my life, I’m now a member.

It’s not because I disavow myself of Reform Judaism.  I love a lot of the values and intellect of Reform Judaism and will continue to feel awe-inspired by its willingness to challenge and to change.  I am a proud Reform Jew who thinks this movement has a lot to contribute to Judaism.

It’s just that much like I don’t need to limit myself to being Israeli or American or Ashkenazi, I can be gam ve’gam.  Both this, and that.

So I’m the American who also votes according to Israeli interests.  I’m the Israeli who speaks Arabic.  I’m the left-of-center voter who has voted for four different American parties (yes, once even for a Republican).  I’m the Reform Jew who goes to an Orthodox shul.  I’m the diverse, multicultural, exploring, driven person who likes to travel and see new points of view.  The gay man who hangs out with the Amish in Yiddish.

So what are roots?  Roots are a start.  They’re a movable foundation.  Whose soaking up of nutrients changes their very composition.  They are a beginning, they change, they are stability.

I find myself, as my blog suggest, bearing fruits.  Making new friends, reconnecting with old ones, writing a new future even as I use my past to inform it.  Not to dictate it.

I will continue to bear fruits wherever I find myself planted.  Bringing nuance, change, hope, and compassion- and seeking it from those around me.  Learning, growing, and contributing to the communities I love.  And discovering new ones to explore.

That’s how you sow an orchard.

Cover photo: “Bereshit” (Genesis) – Tseno Ureno Yiddish Bible,

Gratz College, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

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