Ashkenazim – Page 3 – Planting Roots Bearing Fruits

Be a good Israeli and learn Arabic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The biggest threat to Israel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why do so many Israelis know nothing about each other?

This is a question that confounds and deeply frustrates me. If we’re going to live together and thrive and appreciate each other, we certainly can’t do it living in silos.

I’d like to share a few examples from people who I think are well-intentioned:

Yaniv is a Jewish doctor (every mom’s dream!). Growing up in a secular Persian and Moroccan family, he’s now partnered with an openly gay Ashkenazi Orthodox man- already showing he’s pretty open-minded. I was telling him about my trip up north last week, where I visited many Arab villages, including some Christian communities. He actually lived for several years in Haifa as well so he has spent time in this part of the country. I started talking about the different groups in Israel- Greek Orthodox, Greek Catholics, Maronites, etc. And I noticed he didn’t really react. I asked him if he had learned about Christianity in school. He and his partner basically explained that in their schools, they learned only very basic information and didn’t get any exposure to the different types of Christianity. In the country where the religion was born! They were surprised, for instance, to learn that in the U.S. there are hundreds of different types of Protestantism alone.

Ahmed is an Arab Muslim cab driver. We were talking about our backgrounds and he asked about my origins. I explained that I’m Ashkenazi from Romania, Austria, Lithuania, Russia, and Belarus. He asked why my family came to America. I explained that in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s, there were massive pogroms in Eastern Europe along with crushing poverty that motivated Jews to move to America. Ahmed asked me: “They killed Jews in Russia too? I thought they just did that in Germany during the Holocaust.” I was shocked, although I had heard similar things from European Christians in whose countries anti-Semitic violence took place, which is all the more problematic. There is 2,000 years worth of anti-Semitic massacres and discrimination which you can read about a bit here. Ahmed was sorry to hear about the anti-Semitic killings and genuinely surprised.

Yoav is a 26 year old Jewish guy from a moshav near Jerusalem. An open-minded guy, he told me about how he thought it was important for Jews to get to know Arabs and vice-versa. I told him how I visit all parts of the country, including nearby Bnei Brak, a Haredi city you can read about here and here. He said he’s never been there (he lives 20 minutes away) and was considering a trip sometime, but he’d need time to think about whether he was up for it. As an aside, I met an 18 year old from Ramat Gan, a 5 minute walk from Bnei Brak, who had never even stepped foot there, even to buy a bottle of water. Yoav said he had seen on the news that someone paraded around Bnei Brak with an Israeli flag and got negative reactions from people, so he was afraid to go (a number of Haredim are not Zionist for religious reasons). I told him that first of all, I’ve been a number of times and never had any issues- in fact, I found a lot of interesting food, music, and people. I also told him that if your first interaction with someone is to delve into several-hundred-year-old political debates, you’re not going to have a very good discussion. Rather than getting your information about your neighbors from the news, I said, just go and meet people for yourself. He nodded in agreement.

Yair is a 20-something man from Jerusalem. I believe he either is or was Modern Orthodox. I had told him I was Reform and he and his Haredi friend asked me a bunch of (sometimes provocative) questions about the movement. I do think that they were well-intentioned and curious but had not met many Reform people before. Again- their sources were the news. I did ask Yair: “What personal experiences have you had with Reform Judaism?” He said: “Oh well I went to a Reform synagogue in London once and it did nothing for me. Sorry, but Reform Judaism is kind of hollow.” I then said to him: “There are millions of Reform Jews in the world and over 1,000 synagogues. If I ate one bad schwarma in Jerusalem, would that be fair to say all Jerusalem food sucks?” He said I made a good point and listened as I explained a bit about my community.

I could write a whole separate blog about ignorance I hear from tourists here (I met a Christian American tonight here for business who was absolutely shocked that Sunday is a day of work here and he wondered what Christians do here. My answer: “they adapt”. I had to spend a solid 15 minutes explaining how Jews in the U.S. adapt to a calendar that doesn’t reflect our holidays and traditions- he had no idea). But I’d like to focus on my neighbors for a moment.

The examples I gave above are of Israelis who I truly believe have good hearts and are open-minded people. These are not people who are hardcore bigots or full of hate (although those exist in every society). These are people who know almost nothing about their neighbors, but who I believe have some curiosity about them.

I don’t have an easy answer to this problem. Unlike in the U.S. where people go to school together with kids of all different races and religions, here there are separate schools for each sector of society. Setting up a genuinely pluralistic multilingual public school system could take quite a bit of energy and time (although it’s perhaps an interesting outside-the-box idea to explore).

In the meantime, I do have a suggestion. We need to step outside our bubbles and find one way each week in which we reach out to someone new. Someone from a background we know little or nothing about- or are even afraid of. It could be as simple as asking your Orthodox co-worker how the holidays were and what her family did. Or asking the secular guy in your office what music he likes. It could be opening up Wikipedia and reading about Arab Christians in Israel. It could be watching this amazing dabke dance from Nazareth or asking your favorite Arab falafel guy to teach you a few words of Arabic.

The point is if we wait for the government or politicians or the media or NGO’s to do this work for us, it’ll be too late. If we’re really going to make Israeli society work, we need to get to know each other. You don’t need a program. You don’t need a tour guide. Gently step outside your bubble (knowing it’s still there when you need to reflect and regroup) and embrace the possibilities.

No law can make someone like you. That only comes from an opening of the heart.

Every sector of Israeli society in one day

Today, my day started with terrorism and ending with me and some Mizrachim singing Umm Kulthum.

I’m in the (very stressful) process of finding an apartment in Tel Aviv. I’ve never had such a difficult time finding a place to live in any other city. The loosely-regulated rental market here is super competitive with sketchy offers abounding. I’ll find something, it’s just exhausting.

In need of a break, I did something most Tel Avivim would not do when in need of relaxation, and went to Jerusalem.

Having gotten a bit turned around, instead of taking a bus from the Central Bus Station, I actually ended up taking a bus to Kfar Chabad and then a second bus to Jerusalem. I could detour here and tell you about the adventures of making a highly-improvised bathroom stop between bus rides, but I’ll save that for one-on-one conversations 😉 Israel constantly challenges your definitions of “gross”.

I hopped on the second bus, which incidentally took us partially through the West Bank/Samaria.

This particular route was gorgeous. Unlike the main bus lines to Jerusalem, this was totally rural with no traffic whatsoever. The scenes were idyllic.

I felt a bit nervous going through this area today as there was a terrorist attack this morning. Three young men – an Ethiopian Jew, one (I believe) Mizrachi Jew, and one Israeli-Arab – were ruthlessly murdered as they did their job providing security for the community of Har Hadar. Solomon, Yossef, and Or – may their memory be for a blessing. I’m praying for their families. And I was so sad this morning I was frankly at a loss for words- and I still am.

I almost didn’t go to Jerusalem, but in the end- fuck terrorism. There’s only so much you can control in life and after taking reasonable precautions, I just want to live my life. Just like these young people would’ve liked to.

Incidentally, we passed by a sign to Har Hadar on the way to Jerusalem. It’s that small of a country.

I get to Jerusalem, a bit frazzled, and hop off the bus. To my right is a sign with bunch of Hasidic posters, one of which was in Yiddish. I approached two twenty-something Hasidim and asked in Yiddish for them to explain one of the signs. Turns out, there is a Yiddish-language theater production being broadcast out of Brooklyn into movie-style screens in Jerusalem and Bnei Brak, which they invited me to.

The two young men were Belz Hasidim and for an hour and a half, we spoke in a mixture of Yiddish, Hebrew, and English. One, Dovid, was born in London and the other, Yankev, grew up in Montreal, another one of my favorite cities. Yankev was a bit shy, though we spoke a little French together since he learned some in Montreal (and so did I!). Dovid was a real shmoozer and a sweet guy. He told me all about yeshiva and how he lamented the lack of Kosher steak in Jerusalem. He made a point of telling me he doesn’t go to political demonstrations, which reminded me of how I often felt in America having to show I wasn’t one of “those” people in my minority group. We talked about our favorite Jewish texts. They love the halachos of Shabbes and I shared with them my favorite Jewish teaching – which, much to my surprise, they didn’t know. In fact, they asked me to translate it for them into Yiddish, which remarkably I did!

Before leaving, as some people are wont to do here, Dovid shared with me a little bit of prejudice. He told me, in light of today’s attack, that Arabs aren’t very bright. I of course challenged him on this and his response, while bigoted, was quintessentially Jewish and kind of funny: “The Arabs aren’t very good at terrorism. Jews don’t do terrorist attacks but if we did, we’d be better at it.” So basically, in a phrase that would make the alt-Right twist and squirm and vomit, he said that Jews would make better terrorists than Arabs. As the father in My Big Greek Wedding would say “the Greeks invented everything.” I couldn’t help but chuckle.

I headed towards the Old City as two Arab women stopped me. They asked me in Arabic for directions (how cool is that??) – and surprisingly, thanks to my Arabic and the glory of modern transit apps, I helped them find their way! In fact, I was headed in the same direction.

We hopped on the train and I froze. I had walked with them 10 minutes speaking in Arabic but when I got on the train, I was scared to keep talking. I looked around, and thinking about today’s terrorist attack, I was worried how people might react. There are legitimate reasons I felt that way, as you can read about here.

As I got off the train, I walked towards the Old City. I saw an Arab man selling sunglasses. I approached him and I said I didn’t need any glasses, but I told him he was making me happy so I wanted to give him a gift and handed him some money. He invited me to sit with him. We spoke in Arabic (I felt more comfortable out in the open air instead of cramped public transit where, frankly, attacks are more likely so I can understand people’s fear). Turns out he’s from Hebron in the West Bank/Samaria. He comes to work in Jerusalem each day. He doesn’t know any English, so I taught him some English words to help with his marketing. The poor guy is 60, 70 years old with 10 kids and a two-hour commute each way. I can’t imagine what today’s terror attack is going to do to his livelihood as transit will slow and work permits may be frozen. I suppose the terrorist wasn’t thinking of his fellow Palestinians who need to make a living when he shot three people.

The man gave me a big smile and a warm handshake as I headed off to meet my friend Sarah, a Modern Orthodox/Traditional Jew from America. We ate Kosher pizza and then wandered through the Armenian Quarter, where I had never been. I love Armenians. When I was in high school, a friend gave me an Armenian CD which I still have on my computer. Armenians are so, so similar to Jews. They are a Diaspora community that survived a genocide and manages to preserve their language and religion. And they’re pretty cute!

We talked with several Armenian men about their visits to the homeland, their life in Jerusalem, the Armenian Church (they had strong opinions- and not positive ones!), and the Armenian-language schools down the street. I even got to hear their Armenian-accented Arabic! One man votes Meretz and his wife votes Likud. I went to an Armenian restaurant and got a fascinating dessert made out of crushed grapes and walnuts with a string inside. And, because this is how I roll, I got info on some Armenian tutors- because at some point, that would be fun.

On my bus back to Tel Aviv, I befriended a handsome American tourist named Nicolai. Non-Jewish and from Wisconsin, we talked the entire hour-long trip about Israel, Judaism, America, Bernie Sanders (we’re fans), and so much more. A truly open-minded fellow- which is not something to take for granted. Too many people arrive to Israel with preconceived notions of what it is and isn’t. He was pretty much an open book.

His phone didn’t have internet, so I walked him 20 minutes to his bus stop and got him on his way home. Because that’s what we do in Israel- we go out of our way to help others. I find the generosity that surrounds me here encourages me to be even kinder to people.

I hopped in a monit sherut cab and headed home. What a day! Hasidim, Modern Orthodox, Arab-Israelis, Palestinians, tourists, Reform Jews (that’s me!). What else was missing?

As our Russian driver helped us wind through (largely) secular Tel Aviv, two Mizrachi guys up front started singing. Koby Peretz, Sarit Hadad, Shimon Buskila- you name it. Then, to their surprise, I made a request.

“Inta omri,” I said.

Pleasantly surprised that an Ashkenazi would request an Egyptian classic, they started to sing. And to their delight- I joined in.

On a day when a deranged man tried to break the place I call home, I started the day with his hatred and I ended it by singing with Jews in Arabic.

And in-between, I hung out with every sector of Israeli society.

Want to write public policy papers about how to solve the Middle East conflict? Go for it- maybe they could help. Honestly, I don’t know.

What I do know is I probably won’t have time for your conference. Because I’m going to be speaking Yiddish with Hasidim, training a Palestinian in marketing, and singing Mizrachi music in a cab. I’ll be getting to know my neighbors. Just like Solomon, Yossef, and Or would’ve wanted.

Norwegian-Persian Jews

I didn’t fully appreciate the diversity of Israeli Jews until I made aliyah. Yes, I had visited on trips, but you don’t get to know people with the same degree of depth. One of the things I love about American Jewry is the cultural cohesion and unity. And one of the things I love about Israeli Judaism is how incredibly diverse it is.

Last week, I was in Jerusalem. My friend and I went to a Thai restaurant. We were joking around with the guy behind the counter. Turns out, he’s a half Kurdish half Moroccan Jew. We joked about him finding us a fourth person so we could all go on a double date. He said he’d be happy to take us to a Kurdish restaurant down the street and then taught me some Kurdish. Right, my Jewish Thai restaurant waiter offered to teach me the Kurdish his grandparents say around the dinner table. Chew on that one for a while.

This past weekend, I hung out with a bunch of vegan hippie Jews at a commune in Tel Aviv. As they munched on lentils and drank home-brewed Kombucha with shouts of “lechaim”, I met a half Norwegian half Persian Jewish filmmaker. Yes, both halves are Jewish. Apparently, her grandparents on either side only spoke their native language (Norwegian and Judeo-Persian), so they couldn’t communicate with each other! Luckily, this talented young woman speaks both Norwegian and Farsi and even spent two years living in Norway.

Today I hung out in Bnei Brak. While I was buying some books and music, I befriended the two salesmen. One, who looked quite clearly Ashkenazi, was a Vizhnitzer Hasid and a Yiddish speaker. We had fun shmoozing a bisl in the mamaloshn. Turns out, he also understands Dutch- his mother’s family is from the Netherlands. Oh and his father was born in Switzerland, where his parents were working for the Jewish Agency. For people who know the politics of Hasidim and Zionism, take a moment to digest that one for a bit.

The other Hasid in the store looked more tan skinned, so I mistakenly assumed he was Mizrachi (there are Mizrachi Hasidim). Turns out, he’s just like me- an Ashkenazi Jew who kept his Middle Eastern complexion even in the Diaspora 😉 . Guess there isn’t just one “Ashkenazi look” after all. Now brace yourselves for a real kicker. His family made aliyah…from Mauritius. Right, so basically his family escaped the Nazis but the British refused to let them into Mandatory Palestine. So they sent them to a bunch of islands in the Indian Ocean. To this day, his family likes to tell stories of what it was like there.

I could literally go on and on with examples- my friend who is half Serbian half Moroccan and works at a Kosher Georgian restaurant, my half Iraqi half Ashkenazi female rabbi, my half Italian half Ashkenazi friend married to a Cherokee Jew! The diversity here is endless. If your image of Israel is that everyone looks like Andy Samberg, you’re in for a major shock. And I’m saying this as someone who would very much like a country of Andy Sambergs- what a cute Jewish boy!!

Israel is an incredible fusion of hundreds of Jewish cultures from around the world, preserved for 2,000 years and reuniting and reconfiguring meaning. I definitely miss my American Yiddishkeit, a force that unites the 90% of American Jews who are Ashkenazi with a shared humor, cuisine, and dialect. The good part about Israel is that in the absence of a unifying Judaism, there is the freedom to mix and match. It’s truly a place where no one can say, as someone told me on a temple trip in 5th grade: “you don’t look Jewish.”

The Mediterranean is my mikvah

Today, I really started feeling Rosh Hashanah. I did some reflecting on the holiday and decided I wanted to adapt a Jewish tradition I learned about in the States. Some people go to the Mikvah, the Jewish ritual bath, before the start of the New Year. The idea is to cleanse yourself- to leave behind the sins, the hurt, the “shmutz”.

When I was in America, I would go to what most religious Jews would recognize as a mikvah- an indoor space where you disrobe and go through a series of ritual dunks and blessings.

Here in Israel, I tried something different. I bought five rolls of old bread from the grocery store and headed to the beach. I looked for something sweet to eat along the way for a sweet New Year and drank my first Israeli bag of chocolate milk (yes, that is a thing!). I felt it was appropriate because as I’m keeping my Jewish customs alive I’m also adding to them. A nice modern and Israeli twist.

I started by doing the Tashlich ceremony. Tashlich is where we symbolically cast away our sins by throwing them into flowing water. With the first few rolls, I hurled them into the sea as I thought about how I had hurt others or myself during the past year. Then, I did something unconventional (I’m a Reform Jew and reform is a verb- so we believe in an ever evolving Judaism)- I threw a few rolls to chuck away the sins others had committed against me. I asked God for forgiveness for the hurt I had caused and for justice to be served towards those who had hurt me. I asked for healing for my body and soul from the pain and I asked God to send healing to those who I had hurt.

Then, I undressed (except for my bathing suit- a dunk in the mikvah is usually naked but I had to adapt since people were still walking along the beach- even Tel Aviv has limits 😉 ). In an indoor mikvah, there are seven steps you walk down to get into the water. So I simply walked seven steps into the Mediterranean, talked out loud to God about my hopes for the year, made the bracha, and took a dunk. Each time I felt lighter and lighter. I looked up at the stars, listened to the waves crashing, and thought to myself that really everything is bigger in Israel. Instead of an aisle dedicated to your food at the grocery store, the whole store is your food. Instead of holiday greetings being limited to the walls of a synagogue, you can say “shanah tovah” to any stranger on the street. Instead of a mikvah inside a synagogue, you’ve got the entire Mediterranean where your ancestors sailed.

There are things I miss about American Judaism. For one, it took me two separate trips to grocery stores here to get ingredients for dairy kugel! And literally one store didn’t even have sour cream- thank God the Russians here appreciate this food so I found it at one of their stores. I miss the rituality of American Judaism- I even found myself watching Youtube videos of Rosh Hashanah services at Reform synagogues to hear my favorite melodies and prayers.

What is amazing about Israel is that you can take these traditions and, in a completely spontaneous fashion, riff off of them. Theoretically, I could’ve done a mikvah dunk in the Potomac River (although it might’ve required a lot of showers afterwards!), but I never thought of it. Here, this whole country is a Jewish playground. The sky is the limit. Especially when you’re staring at it from your planet-sized mikvah.

My First Israeli Rosh Hashanah

Yesterday, I walked by a Breslover Hasid on the street doing his typical goofy (and cute) stuff to make people smile. After I bought a sticker, he wished me “shanah tovah” – a happy new year. I had to pause for a second. Is it really that soon? Is Rosh Hashanah only a week away?

And then I had another thought- other than a Jewish person I already knew, nobody in my life has wished me “shanah tovah” on the street. If you want to understand in one interaction why I’m here, it’s that. Something most Israelis don’t even notice because they’ve lived in a Jewish-majority society their whole lives is something very unique and special for me. I’m validated on every street corner.

Then I got to thinking- what does Rosh Hashanah mean to me as a new Israeli? I’ve never been here during holidays- only during summer trips. What is it like? I found out my synagogue doesn’t have first day Rosh Hashanah services- something unimaginable for an American synagogue. For American Jews, the High Holidays (yamim noraim) are THE event of the year. Millions of people who don’t regularly participate in any other aspect of Jewish life will still go to shul. More secular Israelis may simply do a holiday meal. But American Jews en masse go to synagogue- for hours and hours. And they pay a lot of money for it. It’s a very interesting difference.

In America, Ashkenazi Jews have our special foods. For Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur break-fast, I remember eating sweet dairy kugel, amazing bagels, lox, whitefish salad, 5 varieties of cream cheese (including lox spread!), black and white cookies, dense American rugelach, matzah ball soup, chopped liver, egg salad, herring, you name it. Israeli salads and Sephardi foods are delicious, they are just not what I grew up with as Jewish food because I’m Ashkenazi like 90% of American Jews.

Before the holiday, everyone runs around to get the food ready and pick up their spreads, greeting each other in our Jewish English sprinkled with Yiddish. At my synagogue, you had to pick up your tickets in advance- because we don’t have a government that pays for our synagogues, we have to pay ourselves. You get to synagogue and you’re dressed to the nines- suits, ties, high heels. Here in Israel, the only time I’ve seen a suit is on a Haredi person! There are people here who have “wedding jeans”. We’d all eat together before going to synagogue. The way I grew up I’d go to Erev Rosh Hashanah services followed by a 3 hour morning services. Most Reform Jews don’t observe the second day.

I was lucky enough to grow up in an area with a large Jewish community, so public schools were closed. But in the vast, vast majority of the U.S., schools and offices and transportation are open- and you need to request time off to observe it, which is not always as simple as it sounds. In the U.S., Rosh Hashanah is special because of what you do at synagogue with your community and at home. And it can be very special- very intimate. Like you’re part of this cool 4,000 year old club. Because outside your home, it is invisible. When Israelis wonder why Americans go to synagogue, this is one of the reasons- to have a space to be Jewish. At 2% of the population, there are no TV ads that wish you “shanah tovah”. If you don’t make the space, there is no Jewish community.

Here, it is everywhere. I was at a bakery last night and I noticed an ad for five different types of honey cakes (oh yeah, we eat those too in America). These are cakes you eat specially for Rosh Hashanah. I was in shock. In America you have to know where to go to find these. The local Au Bon Pain won’t be selling them.

I don’t really know what Rosh Hashanah will be like here. I’m a bit anxious. I’m a religious Reform Jew and it matters to me. And yet on some level I feel less a need to go to all the services and more of a need to build community, especially in light of the fact that I’m here alone. I also feel that if all I do is have holiday meals, that won’t be enough. I believe in God and I want to pray for a good year and renewal.

My Judaism here is evolving, in ways I didn’t even expect. This year was a hard one and one of immense personal growth and fortitude. I sometimes miss being a Jew in America- the foods I know that are almost invisible here. The heimish religious communities where if you are participating, it’s because you really care about your Judaism. Because you don’t have to. Here, you’re Jewish by default. There’s something beautiful in how “normal” Judaism is here. And I also feel like in some ways for that reason it can be easy for Jews here to lose sight of how special our tradition is.

My hope for this year is that I can embrace the beauty of a country where I can walk down the street and see myself in every street sign, every ad, in a Hasid with a clown nose wishing me a shanah tovah. And where I can share some of my special American Jewish spirit so people here remember just how rich our tradition and spirituality is- and that it will only continue if we cherish it.

Wishing you all a Shanah Tovah- a good new year. May it be filled with happiness, hope, community, and freedom. A zisn yor – a sweet new year. May it be as sweet as the dairy kugel I’m going to bake 😉

Hasidic Game of Thrones

No this blog isn’t about feuding Hasidic dynasties. Rather, it’s about my dinner in Bnei Brak and a Hasidic man who likes Game of Thrones.

Last night, I was hungry. I had a busy day and hadn’t eaten enough. I reasoned that this justified eating a calorie-rich Ashkenazi meal and kugel. So I hopped on a bus to Bnei Brak.

The restaurant was supposed to close at 10 so I hustled from the bus stop because it was 9:45. Of course, this is Israel, so actually the place stayed open till past 11, so I was fine 🙂 Nice to know Jewish Standard Time really is an international thing.

I ordered grilled salmon, a potato blintz, apple kugel, and chicken soup. Mmmmm. Foods of my people and of my childhood.

I struck up conversation with Moti, the guy behind the counter. Moti is a Belz Hasid, though it sounded like his family also had strong connections to the Vizhnitz community.

Much to the surprise of some people reading this blog, Moti speaks both Hebrew and Yiddish fluently. Many people assume Hasidim only speak Yiddish in Israel. I think he prefers Yiddish as he told me in the mamaloshn “Yiddish iz mayn shprakh” which means “Yiddish is my tongue”. Also he called Hebrew “loshn koydesh” (the holy tongue), which is cool because I haven’t heard that phrase since I was at Yiddish camp last summer. It’s the traditional way of saying “Hebrew” and could also be tied to Hasidic concepts of how to use the languages (Hebrew=holy tongue, Yiddish=daily tongue). Yet here he was floating effortlessly between Yiddish and Hebrew with me.

Interestingly, he can only read and write in Hebrew. He said Hasidim in Bnei Brak, with the exception of Satmarers, read and write in Hebrew even if they often speak in Yiddish. Maybe next time I’ll offer to teach him how to read and write in Yiddish 🙂 . If a queer Reform Jew teaching his new Hasidic friend how to write in Yiddish isn’t an incredibly rich and unexpected act of Jewish solidarity and continuity, then I don’t know what is.

As I was asking Moti about Thursdays (apparently that’s the day when the best food comes out, including homemade gefilte fish mmmm), another Hasid named Kivi approached me. He needed help translating English on an appliance he bought. He then told me he loves English and that even though he doesn’t get to speak it much, he loves reading it and watching…YouTube.

YouTube. Hasidim watching YouTube. What does Kivi watch on YouTube? What’s his favorite show? Game of Thrones. The blood-soaked, sex-filled show that’s too gruesome for me to even watch. He then asked me if I had seen the last “fight”. I didn’t understand. But then he explained that he’s a boxing fan and loves to watch the fights online.

Still processing everything I just heard, a Yemenite man invited me to synagogue to davven Ma’ariv. Because there’s a synagogue around the corner, like around every corner in Bnei Brak.

Scared shitless and super excited, I said yes. Keep in mind that I have never prayed at an Orthodox synagogue, much less a Hasidic one (yes, this was a Hasidic shtiebel). I have also never prayed in a single-gender environment (Reform Jews sit with men and women together). And this was a step beyond that- there were no women anywhere, just men davvening together. Also, it should be said that as a gay person, I felt scared. Clearly if nobody knew I was gay, nobody would do anything. But having read stories of Haredim stabbing people at pride parades, pushing conversion therapy, and protesting against gays in the military, I felt nervous. And I understood for a moment the pressure gay people must face in this community. To be fair, I didn’t know exactly how they’d react (perhaps people wouldn’t harm me or might even be more open than I’d expect). And I didn’t want to risk my safety or well-being by coming out.

My experience was really interesting. First off, there is a beautiful rhythm and musicality to Hasidic prayer. It is not just mumbling. There is a beautiful entropy within the framework of fixed prayers, with people improvising and singing whatever words speak to them. And I joined in.

Second, all the prayers were said by the chazzan (cantor) and the other men in the room in an Ashkenazi accent. Even though the vast majority of American Reform Jews are Ashkenazi, under pressure from the Israeli pronunciation in the 1950s and 60s, we abandoned it. It was perceived as “old world” and “backwards”. And so we lost touch with a beautiful part of our heritage, much like Mizrachim in Israel were pressured to abandon their fascinating accents. Here in this shul, the accent lives. I felt like I was transported back to the shtetl where my ancestors came from. The culture murderously ripped apart by Nazis. The culture that lives to this day despite them.

I did miss the voices of women (and I did make a point of including the matriarchs in my prayers as well as sometimes using the female gender for God – bruchah at yah…). At the same time, it was intriguing to pray with men. When I came out of the closet at 18, I felt like my masculinity was ripped away from me by society. I distinctly remember a moment in college where a female friend said “when are we going shopping?” To which I said “I didn’t know we had plans.” She responded: “oh we didn’t, I just know gay people like to shop all the time.” I could literally give hundreds of examples like this. I wasn’t allowed to define my gender as I wanted. Just as hyper masculinity was thrust on me as a child, an invasive femininity was imposed on me as a queer person. Here, in this shul, I actually felt like I could be a man. No questions asked. With my fellow Hebrew bros.

There were also moments when I felt like the prayer structure was rigid. The man next to me kept pointing me to this page or that. At first, I found this irritating because I wanted to go at my own pace and to speak the words in my heart. I then came to realize that in this setting, prayer was very much a team effort even if there’s room for improvisation. And secondly, that I think his intention was to help me participate more than to tell me what to do. As a Reform Jew used to extensive independence and autonomy in prayer, I found this confusing at first. I then just kind of observed it around me as I found new ways of expressing the prayer in my heart. A different style, for sure, but not without its own merits.

The prayer concluded and the Yemenite man, who I was kind of concerned was going to proselytize me, simply came up and said: “it was nice to meet you, I hope to see you again.” With that, I walked down the street and picked up a call from one of my rabbis in the States- a woman. We laughed about my experiences in Israel and I told her how I was getting involved with the Reform community here. And then I realized- I was practically shouting the word Reform over and over again in the middle of a Haredi city. And literally nobody batted an eye.

Not because there aren’t conflicts here or prejudice. But because perhaps there’s a more fluid co-existence than you might expect. It’s a place where queer Jews speak Yiddish to Hasidim. Where I can talk to my female rabbi on the phone after davvening with a bunch of men. Where a Hasidic man loves English, and even watches Game of Thrones.

A gay Reform Jew goes to Bnei Brak

Today, I went to Bnei Brak and had a good time.

Bnei Brak is an almost entirely Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) city of nearly 200,000 people right on the footsteps of Tel Aviv. It is the sixth most densely populated city in the world. Door-to-door, it was a half hour ride. Culturally, it’s a million miles away from the bikinis, hip-hop street performers, and pride flags of Tel Aviv. Inhabited by a variety of Hasidic and misnagdic sects, with a smattering of Modern Orthodox, there are a lot of black hats, swaying peyos, and tons and tons of children.

To many of my more secular friends, the idea of a day trip to Bnei Brak is at best a waste of time and at worst, nauseating. Please allow me to share what I, a gay Reform Jew, actually found to enjoy in this fascinating city:

Delicious Ashkenazi food – I sorely miss American Jewish food, which is almost entirely Ashkenazi. I love me some jachnoon and falafel, but it is not what I grew up on. I had delicious matzah ball soup tonight and it hit the spot. Ashkenazi culture for secular Israelis has become nearly invisible. This is due to repression from more hard line Zionists in the early years of the state, when Yiddish theaters and newspapers were shut down by protestors, and due to a desire to fit in in Israeli society. For the majority of American Jews, Ashkenazi-ness is an essential part of our Judaism and I was happy to see people keeping it alive here.

Hot guys – perhaps it’s from growing up in a more religious Jewish community (progressive American Jews as a whole are more religious than left-wing Jews in Israel), but I find a cute non-bearded guy dressed in 17th century Hasidic garb and a kippah…hot! I love that he’s boldly Jewish, that he loves Torah, and that he has a certain softness to him. Don’t get me wrong, I love me some strong Zionist men, but seeing a Hasid here reminds me a bit more of the Jews I know from home in the Diaspora. Which is perhaps why they bug the h*ll out of secular Jews who don’t want much to do with the “old Jew” of the shtetl.

Good music – I love me some Hasidic music. I bought a compilation of Vizhnitz niggunim sung by artists from Bnei Brak. I found a really cool music store which has hundreds of different artists, mostly in Hebrew, but some in Yiddish. Some of the artists were American Hasidim like Lipa Shmelzer who I knew from the U.S. Quite a number of Mizrachi artists were popular in the store, like Zion Golan and the Revivo Project, which is interesting and shows there’s more cultural fusion going on here than meets the eye. In general, I noticed more Mizrachi Jews in Bnei Brak than I expected to see and quite a number of shwarma joints, something you’d never find in Williamsburg.

It’s a city – I’ve visited Hasidic Brooklyn (Borough Park, Crown Heights, Williamsburg). You can read some of my thoughts about that community and my visit there in this blog. One of the big differences between Hasidim there and in Bnei Brak is that the former is a community intertwined with its neighbors. There are Jamaicans and hipsters wandering through. It is a neighborhood, not a city. Bnei Brak is an entire Haredi city and it is really cool to see. I saw boys and girls playing together. Both men and women were friendly and willing to talk to me (and I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt). I had found it a bit more difficult to get people to open up in New York, especially women (even though I also speak Yiddish). I couldn’t help but think that maybe if Hitler hadn’t succeeded, there would be cities like this all over Eastern Europe. And I’m grateful that Bnei Brak is a living testament to our fearlessness and our willpower to survive despite antisemitism.

Are there problems in Bnei Brak? Sure. I saw a sign today with pictures of hellfire admonishing women to avoid evil and wear headscarves instead of wigs. I also saw a sign lamenting secular education. And there are almost no pictures of women anywhere for reasons of modesty.

At the same time, I saw tons of Haredi women wearing the wigs despite the signs. I also saw secular people and foreign workers wearing short sleeves without anyone batting an eye. I actually saw a Chinese guy completely shirtless in the middle of the street. And yes, I saw a young woman in a sleeveless shirt and shorts walking down the street with no harassment.

I’m not here to tell you Bnei Brak is a bastion of progressive thought. Or that there aren’t problems or that there aren’t Haredi people who are radical or violent. These things exist (and not just among Haredim). At the same time, I am concerned because I think the rest of the world tends to paint this community with a broad brush. I am concerned that some of the anger towards Haredim in Israel isn’t about policies (like Shabbat laws, which are a real issue), but rather about longstanding ideological feuds among the Jewish people and, frankly, prejudice.

Just like any other group of people, there are Haredim who are more friendly, who are more open-minded. And there are others posting signs admonishing women about their hair styles. And many people who are somewhere in between. In the end, we are people and when we start generalizing about hundreds of thousands of people, we are bound to foment prejudice rather than understanding.

I went to Bnei Brak today so that I could observe and I could learn. Because I believe that if my only source of information about people is the news, then I’ve already lost. Because my day ended not with stones being thrown at me for immodesty, but rather with a Hasidic guy winking at me and walking into a wedding where the band played beautiful Yiddish music. Music I understood. Because Israel is a 2,000 year old delayed family reunion. We’re just getting to know each other. Step outside your comfort zone and meet your relatives. If a gay Reform Jew could find something to like in Bnei Brak, I bet you could too.

Talking about the Holocaust over Indian food

Israel, as I’ve discovered, is a place where absolutely extraordinary life-changing conversations happen every single day in the most mundane places. On the bus, in a restaurant, even with your taxi driver. You don’t need to go to a synagogue to learn here, you just need to open your mouth and ears.

For example, the other day I met a friend’s friend. She’s a sabra (native Israeli). We’re eating at an Indian restaurant and as we’re chatting, just casually mentions she’s a third-generation Holocaust survivor from Poland.

I can’t really remember anyone saying something so profound, personal, and shocking over naan and chana masala in the U.S. And she didn’t look visibly upset- more just like she was sharing a fact about herself. I’m from Washington, D.C. and like sushi and she’s a third generation Holocaust survivor.

She told me how her grandparents, even after years in Israel, would eat every last scrap of food off their plates at every single meal. Even when they weren’t hungry anymore. She told me how she and her siblings would “sneak” food off their grandparents’ plates so they wouldn’t over-eat.

She told me how her parents didn’t want her to go on her school trip to the concentration camps in Poland (because yes, that is something every Israeli teenager does as part of the national curriculum). Her parents were angry that their tourist dollars were going to a country that sadly still is home to many anti-Semites.

She told me how her grandmother could forgive the Germans for the Holocaust- they were from a foreign land killing foreigners. But she couldn’t forgive the Poles who aided them- because they betrayed their neighbors and many did so willingly and joyfully.

We continued the conversation for a while, but then slipped into other topics like her job, the Reform Movement (incidentally she studied with a Reform rabbi I know here in Israel!), the food, and other things. We laughed, we joked, we ate.

She rode the bus home with me and got off at her stop. On her way to her boyfriend. To chat, to watch TV, to drink tea, to go to bed.

Just another Israeli day.

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