A gay Reform ally for Haredim

To say my identity puts me on the other end of the Jewish spectrum from ultra-Orthodox (Haredi) communities is an understatement.  Reform Jews are seen by many in the Haredi world at best as misguided and at worst, ideological enemies.  And gay people, well, are seen as much worse.  Not every Haredi person is a homophobe.  I’ve met some, including through my blog, who see themselves as allies or in the case of one secret Facebook group I’m in, as gay themselves.  And yet a tremendous number of Haredi Jews condemn homosexuality in the most severe terms, making it nearly impossible for someone in their community to come out of the closet as a supporter of LGBTQ+ rights, let alone come out of the closet as queer.  Something which is slowly but hopefully changing for the better.

I share these observations not just from my intuition or news articles, but from lived experience.  Among all my progressive Jewish friends, I have by far spent the most time in Haredi communities.  To the extent where I have two “go-to” restaurants in Bnei Brak, including one where I get the greatest hugs.  I have explored the largest Haredi city in the world many times, and even found things to like.  I even met Hasidim who watch Game of Thrones and boxing on YouTube.  And more perplexingly, actually met Bedouin and chatted in Arabic on the streets of the world’s largest shtetl.

My adventures have taken me outside Bnei Brak as well, including to a cave of Lithuanian misnagdim in Tsfat, a conversation about marijuana and gay identity in Modi’in Illit,  I’ve visited Haredi communities in Boro Park, Crown Heights, Williamsburg, Antwerp, Me’ah Shearim, and more.

The adventures sometimes go well and sometimes don’t.  I once told a Breslover Hasid I was Reform and it didn’t register even the slightest expression of disapproval.  I once told a Yiddish teacher I was Reform and he berated me- during the lesson I was paying for.  I rarely have felt at ease as a gay person and often felt the need to be closeted when entering this community, which made me deeply uncomfortable.  And one Chabad rabbi’s wife I know identifies as an ally to the LGBTQ+ community.

All of this is to say that when we see attacks against our Haredi sisters and brothers on TV these days (of which there have been a lot), I understand why this is complicated.  Far too rarely do these communities stand in solidarity for my well being and human rights.  And yet- some do.  And furthermore, the philosophical question arises of whether we should only stand with those who stand with us.  Or whether we have an obligation regardless.  And perhaps, through some positive interactions, can even bring people together in new ways.

As a gay Reform Jew, I feel my tradition obligates me to stand with Haredi communities battling seemingly endless anti-Semitism.  Not just because it affects me as a fellow Jew (we should be realistic- hatred never stops at one community’s door), but because our tradition asks us to love our neighbor as ourselves.  To be brave.  To lock hands with someone different from you, and hopefully open all hearts involved in the process.

It is ideologically easy for liberal American Jews to stand with refugees, with immigrants, with the queer community, against climate change, and a whole series of other issues that fit neatly into our ideological profile.  Into my ideological profile as well.

It is much more challenging, and equally important, to push ourselves to extend our solidarity to our brethren whose politics, dress, and approach to faith differ from our own.

So in the end, that is my hope.  That liberal American Jews such as me can find it in our hearts to extend a hand to our Haredi brothers and sisters.  And that they will grasp it.  We both have much to gain from such a partnership.  And much to lose- for the people who hate us will hardly care how we pray or what we wear.  They care that we are different.  We are Jews.

The cover photo is one I took while visiting and learning at the Breslover Yeshiva in Bnei Brak, Israel.

 

A queer Jewish-Arab encounter in Budapest

If you’ve been following the news, there’s been at least as much darkness this Chanukah as there has been light.  In recent weeks there has been a slew of anti-Semitic attacks, including the destruction of a Torah scroll in a Persian synagogue in Los Angeles, anti-Semitic graffiti on the 6th and I historic synagogue in Washington, D.C., the murder of three people at a Kosher grocery store in Jersey City, and just today, the stabbing of five people at a rabbi’s house in Monsey, New York.

It’s enough to make anyone’s Chanukah flame flicker.  May the memories of the deceased be for a blessing, and may the Creator send healing to the wounded- and serve justice to those who did us harm.  May we find ourselves safer, with non-Jewish allies standing at our side like we so desperately need them.

On days like this, I often find myself in need of a bit of hope.  Which brings me to an old story from one of my adventures.

I found myself alone in Budapest.  I was backpacking through Europe and had spent the first part of my trip in Romania.  It’s not the most gay-friendly country in the world, especially not some of the rural areas I visited, although they were very interesting.

In need of some company, I opened up the CouchSurfing App.  It’s an app better known for finding a place to crash for free, but I was just using it to meet some new friends.

I found one woman, let’s call her Ayesha since she’s not out of the closet and the internet makes our world smaller by the day.  She had written “Looking for someone to go to a gay bar with”.  I immediately wrote her.

Now keep in mind my profile said I was from Israel.  Ayesha’s said she was from Amman, Jordan.  Two countries technically at peace, but whose populaces have almost no interaction.  A huge percentage of Jordanians are actually Palestinians, so the potential for a hostile interaction was not hard to imagine.

But Ayesha wasn’t like that.  She was excited to have someone to join her at the club, and I was just as enthused.

I walked in, we hit it off, and ordered some pizza together.

We got to talking and it turns out Ayesha was bi and this was her first time in a gay bar- ever.  Also, she was not out to her family.  Also, apparently I was about to participate in her first gay DATE!  Yes, you read that right.  Ayesha didn’t just invite me to the bar.  She also invited a Macedonian rugby player with whom she hoped to rumble in the pitch (I have no idea if that’s a rugby metaphor, but you get the point).

Turns out, it was one of the best nights ever.  The Macedonian rugby player brought her teammate and the four of us had a blast.  We talked about our different countries, the good, bad, and ugly (Macedonia is not a gay paradise either- but apparently has a growing scene!).  We talked about being queer, about music, about our shitty pizza and Hungarian customs.

And after the two Macedonian women had to leave, Ayesha and I just danced.  Danced and danced and danced.  None of the stress of the Middle East or its various conflicts mattered.  We laughed, we sang, we lip synced, we lived.

It was one of the best nights of my life.

Not because of the night club (it was ok), or the pizza (can I say again how shitty it was?), or the cute boys (c’mon Budapest, I thought you could do better!).

It was because for one night life stood still.  All the world’s conflicts and shouting and arguing didn’t matter.  Because one Jewish gay guy and one bi Jordanian woman had a great night together.  Despite it all.

I hope this holiday season, whatever your religion or traditions, you find your Ayesha.  Someone who is essentially curious about the world more than seeking conflict.  Someone fun who brings out the best in you.  And that you find your inner strength to take a bit of a risk.  To reach out to someone you don’t know.  And to send a tiny bit of warmth their way to light the path to a better reality.

Chag sameach, happy Chanukah, and shanah tovah- to a happy New Year!

Cover photo is of a mural in Haifa near the railroad that once connected Amman, Jordan to Haifa, Israel.  What was once may yet be once more.

Per què sóc jueu i independentista

Per als llectors que no em coneixen, sóc un jueu americà i israelià.  Vaig aprendre el català fa uns anys a Georgetown University a Washington, D.C.  Vaig prendre un curs d’un semestre, subvencionat per la Fundació Ramon Llull.  Encara que ja estava interessat en Catalunya abans, aquell aprenentatge em va canviar la vida.

Molts cops, la gent pensa que només les llengües amb més parlants importen.  Com si la quantitat de boques parlant representés la saviesa o l’intel·ligència.  Però no és veritat.  Podem pensar, per exemple, al cas del grecoparlants, que són només 13.4 millons, però que sense dubte han contribuït fenomenalment a la civilització occidental.

El cas dels catalans no és diferent.  Amb més de 10 millions de parlants, el català forma part d’una civilització de fa més de mil anys.  Una civilització amb literatura, música, dansa, arquitectura, poesia, i més.  I cada aspecte amb el seu caràcter únic i local.

Mil cops, quan vaig dir que parlava català, la resposta ha segut “per qué?  Cada català parla castellà, és una llengua petita, i no et serveix més el xinés o alguna llengua ‘important’?”  I la meva resposta és: “una llengua és un dialecte amb un exèrcit i una marina.”  O sigui, que a qualsevol lloc al món, podem trobar saviesa i riquesa cultural.  No importa el tamany de la llengua- encara si no té poder polític, val la pena aprendre.  De fet a vegades les llengües sense tant poder polític ofereixen una perspectiva nova i especial.

No és gaire curiós que aquesta expressió coneguda entre lingüistes i activistes és, de fet, una contribució de la meva civilització, la jueva.  El lingüista Max Weinrich, un acadèmic que s’especialitzava en la llengua ídix, la llengua dels meus avis.  I recenment, una llengua que vaig aprendre jo per a conectar-me amb els meus arrels culturals.  És una llengua minòritaria que, igual que el català, ha segut menyspreada pel seu tamany i “falta d’importància”.  Molts cops, racistes es refereixen al idioma com un “dialecte” de l’alemany, igual que el prejudici que diu que el català és només un dialecte del castellà.

És precisament per aquest menyspreu i imperialisme cultural que com a jueu, m’identifico amb el moviment per l’independència de Catalunya.  Perque jo sé bé que les forces majoritàries del món- no podem comptar amb elles per a protegir les nostres cultures.  Som pobles que hem patit la discriminació i la persecució- i del mateix estat espanyol.

Llavors comparteixo la meva solidaritat amb el poble català durant aquest moment difícil.  No sé qual sera el resultat, però vull que sapigueu que teniu el meu suport.  I seguiré parlant en català, en castellà, en anglés, en hebreu, en qualsevol llengua possible, per a que el món s’enteri de la justicia de la vostra causa.

Perque els pobles petits importem.

Una abraçada,

Matt Adler

Washington, D.C.

catala

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.

What Reform and Orthodox Jews can learn from each other

First, a little background.  I was raised a Reform Jew and have been involved in the community since I was a young child.  I served on my Temple’s youth group board, was on the NFTY-MAR Social Justice Committee, traveled with Kesher to Argentina, led my college’s Reform Chavurah, and represented my movement as part of my Federation’s dialogue program with Reform, Conservative, and Orthodox youth.  I’ve led services in St. Louis, Washington, D.C., and Tel Aviv.  I’ve visited Reform communities in at least eight different countries.  And I believe that social justice and tikkun olam should be integral parts of Jewish practice.

In addition to my ongoing involvement in the Reform world, I am also a member of an Orthodox synagogue and have on various occasions over the past six months prayed regularly at three different Modern Orthodox synagogues.  I’ve been to Orthodox weddings.  I’ve davvened with Hasidim in Bnei Brak.  I’ve wandered the Haredi bookstores of Me’ah She’arim and Crown Heights and done Sukkot with a Chabad family in Montreal.  I’ve visited the ultra-Orthodox community in Antwerp and eaten gefilte fish in a  Satmar restaurant in Williamsburg.  I’ve spent countless Shabbats eating and laughing and counting on my Orthodox friends to both provide joy in my life, and to be there for them when they needed a sympathetic ear.  These are deep relationships I’ve developed and am proud to have, including with Modern Orthodox rabbis who I’m out of the closet to as a gay man.  I’m a member of Eshel, an amazing organization of LGBTQ+ Jews who’ve spent (or spend) time in Orthodox spaces.

I find myself in the unique position of loving both communities and finding something beautiful in each space.  Theologically I still define myself as a Reform Jew, albeit one whose practices lean more traditional than the average member of our communities.  And I think both communities, often at loggerheads and in political conflict in Israel and around the world, should learn from one another.

Let’s start with the concept of community.  Orthodox Jews are brilliant community builders.  Study after study shows that if you want to make friends, you need to see them regularly, organically, and often spontaneously.  Last Shabbat I went to synagogue for kiddush and without even asking, a friend invited me to lunch, where I happened to be joined by a new member of the congregation who I had been talking with on WhatsApp for months answering his questions.  He’s new to town and until Saturday, I had never even met him face-to-face.  I didn’t even view it as a favor, I just felt it was part of the ethos of my community.  Countless people had stepped up and included me in their lives, I would of course do the same for a new member of the synagogue.  Warmth, kindness, and inclusion of new members is interwoven organically into the fabric of the Orthodox communities I’m a part of.  It’s not a special initiative or program- it’s an integral part of the lifestyle.

When you add to this mix the fact that many Orthodox Jews feel an obligation to regularly go to synagogue, it is a potent way to build links between people.  I know that any given week, without having to make plans, I will see most of my friends in the same two or three synagogues.  And sometimes more than once a week if there are weddings, additional holidays, and sometimes even Shrek viewings!  There’s a tightknittedness that one rarely sees in the modern world.  And leads to a rich spiritual, social, and communal life.

In short, consistent obligation creates community in a way that progressive synagogues have rarely succeeded in doing.

So what, then, can Orthodox Jews learn from their Reform brethren?  A few things.  One, that tightknittedness need not come at the expense of concern for the “other”.  In a world that is increasingly polarized and in which we are witnessing political cruelty at the highest levels, Jews cannot remain silent.  Even if it does not always directly affect “us”.  In other words, it requires great effort to ensure that communal solidarity and tightknittedness doesn’t come at the expense of caring for those not in the community.  Reform Jews are incredible at tikkun olam and social justice work that ensures that Judaism is also part of a broader societal “we”.  Politics is often hushed in Orthodox communities that I’ve been a part of, and while this can be a reprieve from the news cycle, I believe religion is inherently political.  Being quiet for the sake of internal cohesion can come at the expense of speaking out on the issues of the day like the Prophets of old.  We come from a tradition of speaking in the here and now.  While respecting diversity of opinion within the Jewish community is important, so is mobilizing to protect the rights of others.

Another thing Orthodox Jews could learn from Reform Jews is to let go of some of the guilt they feel for making non-halachic decisions.  In other words, because Orthodox Judaism views Jewish law as binding, when individuals (inevitably) make personal decisions about the nature of their religious observance, it is often accompanied by a sense of feeling “less” observant than their peers.  With accompanying guilt, or a sense of inhabiting a lower spiritual plane.  Reform Jews, precisely because they celebrate rational, educated choice as the gateway to religious practice, don’t feel as much guilt about not keeping the same “level” of kashrut or traditional Sabbath observance.  For Reform Jews, Judaism is an evolving tradition.  So if we accept that even the most strictly Orthodox Jews make individual decisions about religious practice, perhaps it’d be beneficial to simply label this as “difference” rather than “levels” of observance.  You are not more or less Jewish than someone else simply because of the time of night you light Shabbat candles.  Rather, it’s because of the light you feel from their warmth in your heart, inspiring acts of kindness.

Reform Jews could use some more religious obligation, ritual, and communal warmth.  Orthodox Jews could use less guilt, more openness to change, and more concern for people outside their community’s borders.

And we could all use a deep breath.  There are enough crazy people in the world who are happy to persecute us for being Jewish, for being different.  Do we really need to add to the masses of fanatics by hating each other too?  After all, it’s hardly as if anti-Semites are clamoring to persecute only one kind of Jew.  Kindness is the path forward for the Jewish community- both internally and our relationship with the rest of the world.