Category: Coexistence

Yiddish and Farsi: Kissing Cousins

About two years ago, I decided to take some Farsi lessons.  Having grown up with Persian friends and gone to their plethora of grocery stores and restaurants, I always had a curiosity for the culture.  I also frankly just think the language sounds musical and peaceful.

I found a private tutor but, for a variety of reasons, stopped after a couple months.  The language lay dormant in me (other than talking to lots of cab drivers and some friends).  I kept listening to the infectious music though.

Now that I’m in Israel, I pulled out the textbook I had bought in the States (anticipating I was continuing with the teacher).  I wanted to refresh the language- I have a lot of opportunities to speak it here.  There’s an entire market near my house where store after store is owned by Persians and I like chatting with them.

In my book, I came across something interesting.  The Farsi word for “homework” is “mashgh” spelled مشق.

To me, the root looked Arabic- and I was right.  A high percentage of Farsi words are of Arabic origin, which has helped me learn the language.  Although the language itself is categorized as Indo-European, meaning it is more closely related grammatically to German or English than to Arabic.  As an example, the word “isn’t” in Farsi is “nist”, eerily similar to the German (and Yiddish!) “nisht”.

Back to the word.  So I looked up words from the same root in Arabic and found مشقة.  “Mashaqqah” means “hardship”.  Hmm…this word sounded very familiar to me.

But you’ll be surprised to hear that the word it reminded of was in Yiddish.  “Máshke” משקה is the Yiddish word for drink, but more specifically often used for alcohol.  I know it because I once learned a Yiddish folksong about it!

Lo and behold, this Yiddish word comes from a Hebrew word.  “Mashkéh”, spelled the same way as the Yiddish word, more generally means beverage.  Its plural form even adorns the liquor store near my apartment.

Do all these words come from the same root?  I’m not actually entirely sure, though it seems so.  When words move from one language to the other, pronunciation can change and letters once essential in the original language may disappear.  For example, “Mashaqqah” has two “qafs” (q), whereas in Farsi, mashgh, does not.  I’m not sure why, but that’s how it is with many Arabic words as they migrate into other languages.

And so to from Hebrew to Yiddish (and in some cases back to Hebrew).  The Hebrew word “tachlith” תכלית migrated into Yiddish as “tachlis” (same spelling) and back into Modern Hebrew as “tachles” but spelled how you pronounce it in Yiddish תכל’ס.

So here’s what I find amazing.  First, that my learning of languages helped me explore this fascinating adventure.  Second, that I may have found a word (besides Shalom/Salaam) that in various forms appears in Yiddish, Hebrew, Arabic, and Farsi.  And third, that we are all are far more connected than you might think.

Because while many know Arabic and Hebrew are closely related (about 60% from the same roots), so too are Yiddish and Farsi.  Meaning there are two Jewish and two predominantly Muslim languages that are related!

How so?  First, both Yiddish and Farsi are unique- they are Indo-European languages with strong Semitic overlays.  For Yiddish, that means tons of words from Hebrew and Aramaic.  And for Farsi, that means Arabic influence.

For instance, the English word “is” is “hast” in Farsi and “iz” in Yiddish- all three of which are related.  None of which are close to the non-existent present tense “to be” in Arabic and Hebrew.

Not only that, but the ways in which Semitic words are incorporated into the languages are often identical.  For instance, when making compound verbs, the noun comes from the Semitic language and the verb comes from the Indo-European root to make a new verb.

For instance, in Yiddish “khasene hobn” חתונה האבן means “to get married”.  Khasene, pronounced in Modern Hebrew “chatunah” means wedding.  And it is paired with the Germanic element “hobn” meaning “to have”.  To have a wedding, there you go.

Now in Farsi, the same thing happens.  The verb “harf zadan” حرف زدن means “to speak”.  The first word, harf, is from the Arabic word for “letter”.  The second word, the verb of the verb, is the Persian word “to slap”.  To slap a letter?  To speak!  There you go.

Similar processes happen with regards to phonetics, to pronunciation.  Words from the Semitic languages often are pronounced differently in Yiddish and Farsi than how they’d be pronounced in Hebrew and Arabic- even when they’re written identically.  Shalom in Yiddish is sholem (or shulem) and salaam in Arabic is salam in Farsi.

Understanding how this process happens in Farsi later made it easier for me to learn Yiddish.  That’s right- Farsi helped me learn Yiddish.  And having the foundation in Hebrew and Arabic made it easier for me to learn both languages.

Bottom line?  While Farsi and Yiddish seem worlds apart, they are perhaps more closely related to each other in some ways than to other languages you might expect.  They share unique characteristics, and do so in style 🙂 .  While the world sees Iran and Israel as enemies and while in Israel, Mizrachim and Ashkenazim never miss an opportunity to demean each other’s cultures- the truth is we’re all related.

Don’t take my word for it- pick up a dictionary, find a teacher, and unlock the secrets that language has to teach you.  Even about yourself.

The Satmar part of town

I’d like to tell you a story about nothing.  It’s kind of refreshing in a place where shit is constantly hitting the fan (although much less than someone from abroad might think).  As I write this blog piece, an Israeli plane bombed some military facility in Syria and air raid sirens went off in southern Israel.  I heard some loud noise in my neighborhood and so I checked the news and found out about these events- I have no idea what the connection is but it can be scary here sometimes.

And then life continues.

So right, the other day I went to Bnei Brak.  At this point, we can say that Bnei Brak- and Hasidic Judaism– is a part of my identity.  I don’t just go as a “tourist”- I go because it’s part of my heritage and my people and it’s absolutely fascinating to see a living, breathing Yiddish community.

After eating delightful gefilte fish and kugel and buying loads of Hasidic music, I headed to the Satmar part of town.  The Satmar part of town?  Yes.  In Bnei Brak, each Hasidic group has a yeshiva where people study and it’s kind of their neighborhood.  In a small way, it’s a way of bringing back their former towns in Europe destroyed in the Holocaust.  Because the way you get around Bnei Brak is to say: “where is Vizhnitz?  Where is Belz?  Where is Satmar?”  These are all Hasidic groups- all named after the towns in Eastern Europe where they were founded.  And there’s an eerie and beautiful ring to being able to ask where they are- still- as if you’re heading to the village itself.

So why did I go to the Satmar part of town?  First of all, what is Satmar?  Satmar Hasidim are one of the largest Hasidic groups in the world, with members in multiple countries.  This still makes them a small minority of Jews, but they are influential and growing.  While most Hasidim are not Zionists, they are very much in favor of the Jewish people, love the Land of Israel, and have varying degrees of affinity for the Jewish state itself.

For instance, there are Haredi parties in the Knesset- the Israeli parliament.  These parties are dominated by Hasidim and participate in the lively (and often chaotic) Israeli political process.  Secular Israelis often bemoan these parties’ political influence and that their voters sometimes get government stipends to learn Torah.  I’m not interested in the politics here, just setting the stage.

On the contrary, Satmar are much more insistent on maintaining separation from the Israeli government.  To the surprise of some reading this blog, Satmar Hasidim do not accept any stipends from the Israeli government and do not even vote in national elections.  Say what you will about their politics, at least they’re consistent.  To those secular Israelis bemoaning Haredi “leeches” stealing our tax dollars- that simply doesn’t apply to Satmar.  You might wish they were Zionist, but they aren’t hypocrites.

Anyways, I don’t want to get sidetracked into messy political and ideological debates.  I’m clearly not a Satmar Hasid- I’m a queer Reform Jew- but I find the community interesting, especially since they are often a target for secular disdain.

One of the cool things about Satmar Hasidim is their love of Yiddish.  Most Hasidim in the U.S. both speak and read/write Yiddish.  I’ve discovered that most Hasidim in Israel speak Yiddish as a native tongue but write in “loshn koydesh”- or what we call Hebrew.  That in and of itself is a fascinating linguistic dichotomy worth a separate blog entry.

But Satmar, they speak and read and write and live and breathe Yiddish.  So, wanting some books in Yiddish, I headed to their part of town.  I found a bookstore (one of the cool things about Bnei Brak is the plethora of Jewish bookstores) and immediately noticed there were more Yiddish books than elsewhere in Bnei Brak.  I then asked the shop owner (in Yiddish) where I could buy a Yiddish newspaper.  Seeing I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, he knew I wasn’t Hasidic even though I wore a yarmulke.  So he told me I could talk to him in Hebrew.  But when I told him “ober ikh hob lib yiddish” – but I loooove Yiddish – he grinned from ear to ear. And told me to go to the grocery store around the corner.

At the grocery store, I talked to a bunch of people to get help finding a paper.  Because the new papers come in on Friday morning before shabbes, there weren’t any left.  Although there were some interesting looking magazines.  Because I’m a creative person and an Israeli, I then asked if they had last week’s papers.  And sure enough, there were some.  I got a copy of Der Blatt, a Satmar newspaper printed in the U.S. and read around the world.

The two guys behind the counter shmoozed with me.  It was so fun!  One of them, when I couldn’t find the word in Yiddish, would revert to Hebrew.  But the other guy- he was a real mensch.  He would answer me- in Yiddish.  THIS is how you know a language is strong.  When the speakers stick to their guns- either out of ideology or monolingualism- those are the people to talk to.  Because that’s ultimately how I learn best.

They were really impressed that I came to buy a Yiddish newspaper to practice the mamaloshn- the smiles, the kind words- they were real.  Before leaving, I thanked the guy who answered me in Yiddish, saying I appreciated him helping me learn.  He gave me a wink and I was on my way.

On my way out, I noticed a sign (in the cover photo): “Satmar Market: a homey supermarket”.  For my fellow linguists, there’s something interesting here.  While Satmar Hasidim stick to Yiddish out of a desire not to use Hebrew (the holy tongue for prayer), the sign is actually bilingual.  The words “market” and “supermarket” are written like you would in Hebrew and the other words in Yiddish spelling.  Guess things are a bit more complex than meets the eye.  I love it.

A few days later, I sat and started reading the paper.  And I noticed the most fascinating headline.  On the front page was an article about the Zimbabwean dictator Robert Mugabe being deposed.  Based on my own preconceptions about Satmar- their opposition to the Israeli government, their intense and strict Judaism, and their focus on study- I expected a bunch of articles about Torah.

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But lo and behold, in a residential neighborhood of Bnei Brak, people are reading in Yiddish about Zimbabwe.  And Saudi Arabia.  And tax reform.  And the Warsaw Ghetto.  Just in this week’s edition.

So what’s my story?  I have absolutely no story.  During a stressful week, I took a bus to Bnei Brak, ate delicious food, bought good music, and found an interesting newspaper in the language my ancestors spoke for 1,000 years.  I felt at ease, I hopped on a bus, and met a gay Reform friend for ice cream in Tel Aviv.

Want to live in a bubble where you know more about trekking in Cambodia than about your Hasidic neighbors?  Your loss.  There’s a fascinating civilization down the road begging to be discovered.  Begging for you to rediscover it inside you.

It’s not about agreeing on everything- or much at all.  It’s just about being a curious, open-minded human being and finding sparks of light to illuminate your path- wherever you might find them.

The most diverse Israeli day ever

Today, I did too many things to write a story.  So I’m going to list them:

-I spent a train ride talking in French with an Orthodox Jew of Moroccan origins who immigrated from France.

-I hung out in an underground pool with arches built in 789 by the Abbasid Caliphate in a boat.  And then I wrote an Arabic poem while inside!

-I met Peruvian (Jews?) and talked in Spanish about my friend Claudia who did Peace Corps in Peru.

-I visited a church from the 1200’s with a super hot Arab security guard whose smile and kindness melted my heart.  Can you say “return visit”?

-I bought a CD of Iraqi music in Arabic sung by an Iraqi-Israeli Jew back in the day who was born in Iraq- for 10 shekels!

-I talked about Ethiopian music and Sigd in a store covered in Amharic and Hebrew signs.

-I watched Karaite Jews pray Ma’ariv evening prayers.  Most of them are of Egyptian origin, so I chatted with them in Syrian and they responded in Egyptian Arabic.

-I made friends with an Israeli soldier when our trains got messed up and delayed and we had to switch lines.

-I did dinner in a mixture of Hebrew, English, and French with a Sabra and a French non-Jewish PhD student…whose family is from Guadeloupe!   We talked about our shared love of Zouk.

-I danced dabke for easily three hours with young Arab students.  A German exchange student came and I helped a talented dancer in a hijab translate dabke instructions into English (and a little Yiddish, which he can largely understand!).

-I then hung out with said wonderful German exchange student for another three hours walking around Tel Aviv and talking about life here.  He is one of the most open-minded, non-judgmental, kind people I’ve met here.  He’s not Jewish and I couldn’t imagine that a non-Jewish German would make my night…in Tel Aviv!

-Thinking no more cultural richness was possible, I hopped into a cab.  The Israeli man turned on the music (without lyrics) and asked me to guess where it was from.  Within 5 seconds I said “Thailand!”  I love Thai music and used to buy it at the Thai grocery store back home.  He was shocked.  His wife is Thai and he lives in Thailand with his children, only coming back to Israel to care for his parents.  He speaks fluent Thai- as do his biracial children.  He was mightily impressed that my favorite Thai dish is Pad See Ew- he says everyone says Pad Thai!

This is what I have to say- today I spoke English, Hebrew, Arabic, Spanish, French, and Yiddish.  Just last week I also spoke Catalan, Portuguese, and Farsi (with both Persians and Bukharans).  If you have the curiosity, the passion, and the will- you can experience more cultures here than you can count.  I live in a neighborhood where I regularly meet Iraqis and Moroccans and Syrians (Jews) and Burmese and Sudanese and Eritreans (non-Jews)- I even had someone tell me her friend is half Ghanaian half Filipina.

When people find out I’m a polyglot, they often tell me “what do you do with your languages?”  Sometimes it feels accusatory- “why aren’t you making a ton of money off of them?  Why aren’t you working for the government or the military or the CIA?”

You know what?  What I do with my languages is what I did today.  I explored ancient civilizations, made new friends, learned about other cultures, danced, sang, wrote poetry, and built bridges of peace.  I felt happy 🙂

If you can show me something more valuable or enriching than that, be my guest.

In the meantime, I’m just happy to live in one of the most diverse countries on the planet.  Where the combination of things I did today is only possible here.  One person today said to me “but honestly what is there to see in Ramle?”- one of today’s destinations.

The answer: “everything, if you’d just open your mind.”

Something my fellow Reform Jews don’t want to hear

This past Thursday, a group of Reform Jewish leaders from the U.S. and Israel tried to hold services in a plaza above the Kotel (Western Wall).  In an atrocious display of aggression, security guards roughed up the rabbis to try to prevent their prayers.  Sadly, Israel suffers from a deep lack of religious pluralism, where progressive Jews aren’t given any legal stake in the Jewish State.  Frankly, even a number of Modern Orthodox rabbis (including in the U.S.) have felt the consequences of this exclusion as the Rabbinate veers further and further rightward.  It’s hard to see how excessive state involvement in religion is good for our people- including our religion itself!

And yet.  I find something utterly audacious and disrespectful about the way the Reform Movement, of which I have been a part since birth, is handling this situation.  Prime Minister Netanyahu, who is not my favorite politician, is nonetheless the democratically elected leader of Israel.  In a democracy, leaders are selected on the basis of citizens’ votes.  It’s quite simple.  In the U.S., rather than a parliamentary system, we have Congress- but the principle is the same.

Reform Jews in the U.S. skew very liberal.  I myself am a progressive and a die-hard American-Israeli Reform Jew.  Name a Reform program, and I’ve done it.  Hebrew school, Confirmation, NFTY, my Temple youth group, serving on various boards, leading teen services, serving as president of my college’s Reform Chavurah, hosting the national Kesher convention, traveling with Reform students to Argentina, working at the Israeli Reform Movement’s summer camp, participating in the young professionals group at my Temple in D.C.  And on and on and on and on.  The movement’s values shape the way I see the world.

One of the movement’s points of activism is campaign finance reform.  I wholeheartedly support this endeavor.  The American political system is rife with corruption and the fact that corporations can essentially buy elections (and politicians) to me undermines the very nature of democracy.  You can read the movement’s positions here.

Yet when it comes to Israeli politics, Reform Jewish leaders in America confront the Israeli government as if they were citizens.  While I clearly believe all Jews have a stake in Israel no matter where they live, there is a substantive difference between someone who lives here and someone who doesn’t.  As an Israeli, you pay taxes, you serve in the army, you face the brunt of the government’s decisions, you take the risk of hopping on the bus every day knowing it could frankly be your last.  That is not how American Reform Jews live.  Which is fine, and their right.

But that changes the nature of the conversation.  When Prime Minister Netanyahu and members of his coalition have insulted Reform Jews, progressives abroad were rightly outraged.  But what I found astonishing was that for many bigwigs in the progressive Jewish world, the reaction was to say they’ll use the “power of the purse“.  In other words, to either stop donating to Israeli causes or to shift their donations in different directions.  All of which is their right.

But what astonishes me is how tone deaf this argument is.  For a movement that fights day and night to protect American democracy and to get money out of politics, how do they think it sounds to the average Israeli when Americans say their going to use their dollars to influence the government?  Israelis are already fairly unfamiliar with Reform Judaism, viewing it as an American import (right or wrong), so it doesn’t exactly bolster our case to hear a bunch of rich American Jews threatening the Israeli government.

I have to reiterate- I favor a pluralistic solution at the Western Wall.  I am horrified by people attacking fellow Jews simply because they practice Judaism differently.  My movement deserves a place in Israel, just like every other faith.

I just don’t think that a bunch of unelected Reform leaders coming from America on their annual visit have a right to speak for me as an Israeli Reform Jew.  I know our movement prides itself on democratic values- so why on earth don’t Reform Jews get to vote for our leadership?  Rick Jacobs, the current president, may be an awesome guy- I have no reason to believe otherwise.  But as they say in the famous Monty Python and Holy Grail scene: “I didn’t vote for you.”

I work in public relations for a living so I know the value of a good protest to raise awareness of your cause.  And I think that at least in part motivated this recent activism.  And the absolute idiots who run the Western Wall Foundation gave the protestors a ton of free publicity by harassing them in front of a bunch of cameras.

The Reform leadership seems to think that this news will galvanize American progressive Jews to take action.  I think they’re wrong.  While among the core Reform and Conservative Jews, this may be true, the other 90% who show up twice a year for services are more likely to simply feel alienated from Israel.  And decide not to visit.  And maybe even decide to distance themselves from Judaism itself.

That is a huge problem.  For Israel itself (not just the current government) and for Reform Judaism both in America and especially in Israel.  In Israel, we’re facing the fight of our lives to grow the movement.  Rather than spending money on public relations and paying for American rabbis’ plane tickets- how about you give those dollars to our movement in Israel?  Help us build more schools, more young adult events, and more communities.  And send more people to visit, not give them a reason not to.

In the end, Israel, for all its faults, is a democracy.  And in a democracy, it’s not money that votes.  It’s people.  The Prime Minister, be it the current meshuggenah or another meshuggenah, calculates one simple thing: votes.  When building a coalition, which party has how many seats based on how many votes.  If American Jews are really serious about changing the political calculus in Israel- and helping Reform Judaism thrive here- they should pack their bags.  That’s probably not a popular thing to say- I’m sure I’ll get push back from a bunch of friends.  Of course you don’t have to make aliyah, but can you imagine how different the Knesset would look if a million Reform and Conservative Jews made Israel their home?  At the end of the day, 22% of Israelis are Orthodox (though please, let’s move beyond stereotypes and realize there are bridges to be built here too).  And 3% are Reform.

Do I foresee all my American friends packing their bags and making aliyah right now?  No.  Although if you do, you’d be most welcome and I think you’d find Judaism and life here rewarding.  We have a growing and energetic Reform Movement as well.  In the meantime, let’s do this.  Let’s democratize the Reform Movement so all of our voices are heard.  Let’s allocate more resources to the Israeli Reform Movement so we have a larger and legitimate voice in the political system and society.  And let’s avoid too many public confrontations that force American Jews to choose between their love of Judaism and their love of Israel.

This isn’t a one-sided issue- to my Orthodox friends reading this blog, I hope you understand the agony my movement is going through because we are being publicly humiliated by the Israeli government.  Please help us and raise awareness in your communities.  Israel will cease to exist if the sinat chinam, the baseless hatred, between all of our communities continues.

May we come to find a day when the Western Wall, the holiest site in Judaism, is not a place of conflict or control.  But rather, a place of joy, a place of holiness, and a place of wholeness.  As my cover photo in an Ariel grocery store says: “If I forget thee oh Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its cunning.”  Indeed- in loving our holy city, let’s just not forget our shared humanity in the process.  Amen.

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.

Saudi Country Music

Yes, that’s right- tonight, I heard country music on a Saudi radio station.  It took me by total surprise.  It just goes to show that the Middle East is a whole lot more diverse than you might think- and a whole lot more interesting that you’ll find out by reading the news!

Today I had a very productive day.  On my way back from the mall (man is it cool to see a mall all in Hebrew!  Never had that as a kid!), I switched on an app on my phone and started listening to Arabic music.  Last night, I listened to Syrian radio- to an entire evening of the majestic Fairouz.  The host’s greeting in Arabic was adorable: “Masa’ Fairouz, Masa’ al kheyr” – A Fairouz evening, A good evening!  Listeners even called in from all corners of Syria.  It was surreal to be listening to the radio station just north of the border- of a country in the midst of a horrifying civil war and a country I cannot legally visit.

Tonight, I decided to give the Saudi stations a try.  At first, there were the typical and beautiful rhythms of khaleeji music– music from the Persian Gulf.  Gulf Arabic music sounds quite different from Egyptian, Lebanese, or Moroccan music.  Each one has its beautiful elements.

Then I started to get nervous.  The announcer said in a grave tone in the Saudi dialect: “once upon a time, we were great.  We were revered and respected.  Now what?”  Holy shit, I thought, this is going to be a depressing news story about the latest political intrigue in Saudi Arabia.  But instead the next sentence shocked me and made me giggle: “a few days ago we were defeated by Portugal 3-0.  What are we going to do about our soccer team?”

Just goes to show that things aren’t always what we expect 😉

Speaking of which, I switched to another Saudi station.  Expecting more Arabic jazz, I instead got some American country song filled with y’alls and drawls.  In complete shock, I continued listening as pop songs followed rap songs followed, both male and female artists singing.

Curious what else I’d find, I hopped on another station (found an angry preacher) then another (beautiful Quranic chanting) and two Indian music stations from Dubai and then I visited Jordan.  The Jordanian radio station was playing something oddly familiar.  The beat- it wasn’t Arabic- it was…reggaeton.  That’s cool, I thought, it’s not just Israel that 20 years after the fact discovered reggaeton music I grew up on.  Our neighbors like it too.

In fact, they like it so much, they’re now mixing it with Arabic music!  A quick YouTube search for “Arabic reggaeton” will reveal a boatload of songs.  It is catchy and fun and I highly recommend trying it out.

People love to hate on technology.  It’s ruining society.  Young people don’t know how to socialize.  It’s no replacement for human interaction.  Yada, yada, yada.

Some of the critiques are valid, others are the same stupid stuff people said when the printing press was invented.  The point is technology is like anything else in life- it’s about how you use it.

For me, I’d love to be able to go to Syria and Saudi Arabia.  And I hope to visit Jordan sometime soon, although if we’re totally honest it can be challenging both as a queer person and an Israeli.  I’m sad that for political reasons I can’t- and I’m sad in particular for the people of Syria who are suffering.  I’m also sad because Saudi Arabia doesn’t look like it’s headed for a lot of long-term stability either.  I’m sad because in every country in the world there are good people I’d like to meet- and who’d like to meet me.  Of course there are fire and brimstone clerics (we have a few in Israel) and mean people and bigots, but there are good people out there too.  Complicated people.  People I can learn from- and teach.

So this is what I have to say: I’m not going to wait until the borders open between Israel and countries like Syria and Saudi Arabia.  I’m going to use technology to get to know my neighbors as best I can.  Why shouldn’t I enrich my life with the treasures their cultures have to offer?  I’m sure somewhere in Riyadh there’s a kid secretly listening to pirated Mizrachi music.  If you think that’s naive, you need to do your homework.  As the phrase goes, “we’re all in the gutter, but some of us are looking up at the stars”.

As I walked down the streets of South Tel Aviv, I’m sure there are people I passed by who would utterly disapprove of me listening to Saudi Quranic chanting or Syrian pop.  That’s the music of Arabs, of the enemy.  Those people hate us.

But I bet there are more than a few people who have held on to their Middle Eastern roots.  Who if I pumped up the volume loud enough, might join in and even dance.  Because the beauty of South Tel Aviv is that the people who live here- the music they blare every morning when I wake up.  It’s so utterly and deeply Middle Eastern that you don’t know where the Umm Kulthum starts and the Omer Adam ends.

All Middle Eastern countries are more diverse than you might suspect.   I speak Arabic so I actually know what my neighbors are saying- and it’s interesting.

I live in a country built on a miracle, on a 2,000 year old pipe dream that came true.  And while people are reading and re-reading Ha’aretz and Yisrael Hayom and the New York Times, I’m practicing my southern drawl.  Because one day, by the grace of God, I’m going to hop on a plane, get my passport stamped, and listen to Kenny Chesney play Riyadh.

Ken yehi ratzon.  May it be so. 🙂

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.

Haredim speaking Arabic, dabke, and air raid sirens

Yesterday, I was sitting on a bus.  In front of me, there are two Haredim, a man in a black hat and his wife.  But they weren’t speaking Yiddish- they were speaking Arabic!

I listened closely to make sure it wasn’t just Hebrew with a Mizrachi accent, but no, sure enough it was Arabic.  I then, in a first for me, spoke to Haredim in Arabic.  Turns out the man had been born in Egypt and moved to Israel at a very young age.  And his wife Miriam- now this is interesting- is Jordanian.  And, in her words, Arab.  Very, very few Mizrachim would identify as Arab- especially today, but even historically- many were simply Jews who lived in relative peace among their Muslim and Christian neighbors.  The chaos of the modern era changed that, before nationalism, including pan-Arab nationalism (or modern Zionism) existed.

Therefore, given that a Mizrachi Jew, even who speaks some variety of Arabic or Judeo-Arabic, would likely not identify as an Arab, I wondered about this woman.  Just a few days before, I had been reading about Jordan and while it has a rich ancient Jewish history, it hasn’t had a stable Jewish community for quite a long time.

Which got me thinking- I believe Miriam is a convert.  In her own words, she is proud of being Arab and thinks there are good Arabs, Jews- good everyone everywhere.  But she thinks Jews are nicer than Arabs.  I responded that I wasn’t so sure based on my interactions with real estate agents here!  We laughed.

Before I got off the bus, we passed by what I presume was a left-wing demonstration.  Yesterday was the anniversary of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, the former Prime Minister of Israel.  He had tried to forge a peace agreement with the Palestinians and was murdered by a fanatical right-wing Jew.  The protestors blocked the intersection and started slapping the bus.  I was kind of concerned, but mostly I was pissed off that these people were keeping me from my destination.  I’m all for peace demonstrations, but I’m not sure what you accomplish by scaring a bunch of innocent people on a bus.  I once thought only right-wing people could be fanatical, but I’ve found that people of any political stripe can be utterly intolerant and invalidating.

Annoyed by the demonstrators and extremely excited about the Haredi Arabic conversation I just had, I hopped off the bus and headed north to a dabke workshop.  Dabke is a traditional Levantine dance popular among Palestinians, Jordanians, Lebanese, Syrians, Kurds, and Iraqis.  For years, I’ve loved this dance.  It just looks so fun!  I’ve watched YouTube clips and listened to the music on my iPod.  In Arabic class in college, we got a brief introduction to it, but I never really had the chance to dance it.

Until last night.  I found an amazing workshop and danced my pants off.  It was so much fun and the people there were at least as fun as the dance.  Being the only Jew- the only non-Arab- in the room, I aroused a lot of curiosity.  And frankly, mostly a bunch of friendliness.  People gave me their numbers, invited me to hang out with them, asked me about America and even Israeli folk dancing (which I also do).  I even met two separate women who wanted to practice Spanish with me!  And the whole session- before you ask if you can join me- is in Arabic.  This is their space, as it should be, and they were generous enough to allow me to enter it and enjoy their culture.  So unless you’ve got some pretty strong Arabic, you’re going to have to take a language class before you take the dance class 🙂 .

If you want to take a look, this is what our dance looked like last night!  (I’m the guy in the blue shorts and teal shirt).  So much fun!

I returned home feeling buoyant.  As I got ready for bed, I started hearing a loud noise.  This was my first night in a new apartment, so I thought it might be the sirens from the hospital nearby.  And then I heard what sounded like airplanes.  Getting louder and louder.

My first thought was that my landlord ripped me off by giving me an affordable apartment that constantly has flyovers from Ben Gurion Airport.  What a jerk!

But then I realized- the sirens kept going.  This isn’t an ambulance.  This isn’t a plane.  This is an air raid siren.

Having absolutely no idea what to do in this situation (luckily I never experienced it in America), I googled it.  And thank God somebody took the time to write it.  Go to the ground floor, avoid windows and doors, and pray.  And at 3:30am, that’s exactly what I did.  Alone and in the dark.

I was scared absolutely shitless.  I prayed and prayed and messaged a couple friends who were equally confused.  After a while (which seemed like a very long while), the news published that it was a false alarm.  But I’ll tell you, it didn’t sound so false when I heard plane (projectile?) after plane (missile?) overhead over and over again.  I envisioned my building collapsing to the ground.  Would I survive?

Thank God I did and thank God everyone is OK.  I’ve truly never experienced something like that in my life before.  And I hope you don’t either- it’s scary.  And having read that earlier today, the terrorist group Islamic Jihad was threatening revenge because Israel destroyed one of their weapons smuggling tunnels.  And that there was an armed confrontation between Israel and Syria in the north.  That basically it wouldn’t have been a shock if the air raid sirens had been accurate.

Being someone who has already suffered trauma in my life, it was hard to get to sleep- it pushed a whole bunch of triggers.  Finally I was able to lie down and get some rest.

I wrote to my friends on Facebook last night that if you don’t have the dedication and faith to keep you here, you simply won’t make it.

Everyone has a stake in this society and we must work together to make it the best place on the planet- which I think it is and has the potential to be.

I understand the rage that people can feel here- when you’re scared, when you’re scarred, you just want to lash out.  There are productive ways to do this and harmful ones and I hope we can strive to do the former more than the latter.

To anyone outside of Israel who has any doubt as to what terrorism does to the Israeli psyche, I invite you to crash at my place next time there’s an air raid siren.  All the Ambien in the world won’t help you sleep and it will haunt you after you wake.

And to the “peace” activists who slapped my bus- I get you.  You’re horrified, you’ve been hurt by someone, somewhere in this Holy Land.  But get a therapist.  Do some yoga.  Pray.  Take some anti-anxiety medications.   Whatever works for you.  But stop taking out your anger on your fellow man.

Be like the hundreds of young people I saw engaging in dialogue in Kikar Rabin yesterday.  Be like the Haredi man who married a Jordanian (convert?) and speaks Arabic.  Be like me and go dance Palestinian dabke with new Arab friends.

Or be like my Arab friend Lena who I met last night.  When I told her I was an American Jew who now lived in Tel Aviv, her answer was simple and touching:

“You are welcome here.”

That, my friends, is how you make peace.  One heart at a time.  A quiet and beautiful answer to the screeching of a siren.

As my cover photo says in Arabic: “life is sweet”.  Damn straight it is.  Because I’m alive.

And that’s how I learned the Arabic word for “terror attack”

In a horrific terrorist attack in New York, 8 people were killed and at least another dozen were wounded.  I found out about the attack while perusing Facebook in an ice cream parlor in Yafo.  Everyone around me was laughing and having a good time and I just froze and started checking in on all my friends.  My emotions welled up as I saw 37 friends were marked safe.  Thank God.  And then I was on the verge of tears as I noticed that 175 friends of mine had not yet confirmed their status.  I even noticed some people had had friends ask them if they were safe and had not responded yet.

I then started messaging friends frantically, trying to find out if they were OK.  This is the strange and challenging part of being a dual citizen- I’m feeling the pain of my friends in America while I’m sitting at a gelato shop and people are giggling.  Obviously not at what happened, but they just don’t know what’s going on.  It’s somewhat of a dual life.

I finally found out a close friend was safe- but her husband works very close to the attack.  Thank God he survived, but it’s scary to think about.  Unfortunately for Israelis, this isn’t a new concept, although it’s one Israeli experience I hope to never have to suffer.

As I write this blog, it’s still Halloween in America.  Halloween in Israel is weird- it’s almost non-existent.  Some of the things I love about the holiday, like picking pumpkins, hayrides, pumpkin pie, candy corn, seeing cute kids in costume, or going to a friend’s party- they just don’t happen that much here.  It’s not part of the culture.  Understandable, but I still miss it.  It’s doubly hard because one of my very toxic relatives has a birthday on Halloween so it brings up all sorts of mixed emotions.

Tonight, I didn’t expect a scary Halloween, but I got one.  Just like the Halloweens with my toxic relatives and just like all too many days that have scarred people in the Land of Israel.

Some people ask me how I get through the tough times, through the excruciating challenges that I face as an oleh chadash, as a new Israeli citizen.  You know how?  Everyday miracles.

Before I heard about the attack, I was talking with an adorable 17-year-old named Tony who worked at the ice cream shop.  He really likes American rap, so I suggested some artists (he had never heard of Common!).  We talk about how he wants to move to Canada or maybe go to college in Germany to become an engineer.  When it came up that I’m gay, his co-worker joked that he’s a homophobe or a closet-case (this is the humor here- this is not derogatory).  He of course denied it and said he likes everyone.  He even was a little self-conscious and asked me if he looked like a homophobe.  Of course I told him he doesn’t (is there a way to look homophobic?), and he smiled.  What a nice young Jewish boy with a goldene neshamah- a beautiful soul.

Wrong.  Tony is Arab.  And like not a small number of Arabs here, if you called him David Goldstein you’d think he’s an American Jew.  Once he shared that he was Arab, I switched from Hebrew to Arabic and we kept talking.  About music, travel, culture, you name it.  After every customer he served, he’d come back and keep talking to me.

After I found out about the attack, I was visibly upset.  I didn’t say anything because I was too busy checking in on my friends.  But eventually I needed to go home and sit in a quiet place where I could call people.

Before leaving, I wanted to tell Tony why I had to go.  Many Arabs here mix Hebrew into their Arabic.  The Hebrew word for terrorist attack is “pigua”, and it would not be strange for an Arab to speak in Arabic but simply use a Hebrew word in the middle of a sentence.  Much like American Jews sprinkle our English with Yiddish and Hebrew.  But I knew that if I spoke with Tony in Arabic and then said the word “pigua” in the middle of the sentence, the Jewish customers might flip out and I didn’t want to scare anyone.

So I looked at Google Translate to find the Arabic word: “hujoom”.  I told Tony about what happened in New York and that I needed to go home to check in on friends.  He looked shocked and then sad.  He came over and gave me a nice warm bro handshake.  I hope to see him again soon at the ice cream shop- he might not be a nice Jewish boy, but he’s certainly a nice Arab boy.  And while I hope he pursues his dreams to study abroad, a part of me will be sad that this country will miss out on the presence of a kind person.

And that’s how I learned the Arabic word for “attack”.  Not by, thank God, an attack on me here in Israel.  And not from the media.  But rather, from seeing my friends in pain in America and wanting to share my sadness with a new friend, an Arab friend.  A 17-year-old kid who loves hip-hop and scoops ice cream.  My neighbor.

There is nothing positive to take from a terrorist attack.  It’s murder plain and simple.  It’s deranged and it’s sad.  I hope we can make a world where this kind of hate doesn’t exist anymore and we can live in peace.  Like my cover picture from a mural I saw in Tarshiha says in Arabic: “no to violence”.

In the meantime, let’s live.  Look for the everyday miracles, like my interaction with Tony.  An interaction made possible by my decision as a 17-year-old to start learning Arabic at the Jewish Community Center in Rockville, Maryland.  And for three years in college in St. Louis.  And with Syrian refugees over Skype.  And by his decision to open up to me- to show me kindness, to respect my queer identity, and to show empathy in my time of sorrow.

Peace is not made through powerful men shaking hands.  That may be part of it, but it’s the opening of hearts that truly sustains it and makes it possible.  May we all find a way to do so every day, even just a little bit.  It makes our world a better place and it gives us hope to overcome great challenges.

May the memory of those who fell today be for a blessing.  May God bring healing to wounded.  And may we know the fruits of peace so that the scariest Halloween we have is when our kids sneak up on us and say:

“Boo.”

My first Haredi hug

Tonight started bad and ended amazing, so read to the end.

I had my first Yiddish lesson in Israel tonight.  I already speak pretty good Yiddish but I wanted to learn more and I specifically want to get accustomed to the Hasidic accent, which is distinct.  I love visiting Bnei Brak, a Haredi community next to Tel Aviv.

I headed there for a lesson with a young Hasidic man, perhaps not above the age of 25.  The lesson started off great as we got to know each other.  Yosef’s family is made up entirely of Holocaust survivors.  One of his grandparents actually grew up in the town of Auschwitz before escaping to Russia and then being forced by the Soviets to move to Siberia.  Eventually they made their way to the U.K. and U.S. after the war and subsequently to Israel.

We spoke about 70% in Yiddish, 20% in Hebrew, and 10% in English over the course of two hours.  We got to a point in the lesson where we were talking about music and I told him how I wrote a piyyut (liturgical poem) combining Hasidic words and melody with my own Arabic words.  He was impressed.  Then he asked me what kind of synagogue I go to.  And, being the Israeli that I am, I told him it was Reform.  Because hell if I’m not going to be myself in the country I worked so hard to come to- and now build.

His first response: “I would never go to a Reform synagogue if you invited me.”  Like a bullet through my heart.  I’ve worked so hard to protect my Judaism- from toxic relatives, from anti-Semites, even from Israelis antagonistic to religion.  And here I was, the bravest Reform Jew I know, in the middle of Haredi city of 200,000 people, and the teacher (who I’m paying) is insulting my community.  He proceeded to say all sorts of ignorant things.  I tried to appeal to Jewish unity and desire for mutual respect, but it just didn’t really work.  In his words, he practices “authentic Judaism” and I practice something “worse” than secular Jews.

You could probably draw a straight line from his grandparents’ Holocaust trauma to his rigid and judgmental attitudes, and I do empathize, but in the end I was pissed off.  And in the end, we all make decisions about how to live our lives, just like I have.  I did calmly explain to him how he hurt me and he apologized, but I’m just not sure I’d feel comfortable working with him anymore.

Feeling angry at Haredim, I started blasting music into my earphones and walking around Bnei Brak.  This jerk of a teacher- he takes my tax dollars to sit around studying Torah and then has the audacity to lecture me about how I practice my faith!

I felt distant from Judaism and hurt, so I stopped into a Haredi bookstore hoping to find some solace.  I love books and music and they really can heal.  I picked up a Hasidic Yiddish children’s book (they’re publishing new ones all the time!) and a CD.  It felt fine, but it didn’t really heal this kind of a wound.  Although I got a major kick out of seeing 15 black hats turn towards me in shock as I asked the cashier where the CD’s were…in Yiddish.

I then got to the restaurant I was looking for.  Home-cooked Ashkenazi food.  Just what I wanted.  The guy behind the counter, Yisroel, had a nice smile and a kind voice.  He gave me extra food (for free) as we chatted.  We talked about what it was like in Tel Aviv.  He was surprised to hear from me that there are a lot of Jewish things in the city including biblical graffiti and the guy playing hinei mah tov on an electric guitar in Kerem Hateimanim last week.

His friend then walked in the restaurant and then started singing a niggun – a word-less melody – and then Yisroel, a Hasidic guy eating pasta, and I joined in.  It was a surreal moment that happens nowhere else in the world.

They asked me why I was in Bnei Brak and I told them I had a Yiddish lesson that didn’t go so well.  They asked why and I explained that the teacher was really judgmental.  Yisroel asked me if the teacher was Haredi, like him.  And I said yes.  I could see the look of embarrassment on their faces.  He said he could understand why I wouldn’t want to work with him and started asking around the restaurant to find me a new teacher.

Feeling lifted by Yisroel’s kindness, I told him this: “after my teacher hurt me, I could’ve just gone back to Tel Aviv and felt like all Haredim are mean.  I could’ve chosen to close my heart.  But instead, I decided to wander around and find someone to warm my heart, to show me that there are good people in this community too.”

Without skipping a beat, he grabs me by the neck and gives me the warmest, tightest, most generous hug I’ve received in my entire time in Israel.  It was so filled with love I was almost taken aback, especially given the way some of my relatives used touch to hurt me.  This man, who despite having to take the bus home to Ashdod, was keeping the restaurant open past 11pm just to keep me happy.  Yisroel may be the kindest person I’ve met in Israel.  And he is my first Israeli Haredi friend.

Lest you venture into the “oh but these must be less religious Hasidim” territory, you’re wrong.  Yisroel is a Ger Hasid and his friend is a Bobover.  They explained to me they don’t watch movies and they showed me they don’t have smartphones.  And they told me why.  And even though I practice Judaism differently, I listened respectfully and learned about their beliefs.  Like a human being.

What brought me back from tonight’s pain was love.  Every Shabbat in synagogue we pray the “ve’ahavta” – a prayer that starts “and you shall love…”.  Tonight, a young Jew in jeans and a t-shirt and a Hasidic man in Bnei Brak embodied that verse.  Because love wins.

Will I keep learning Yiddish?  You bet!  Because I want to know my Hasidic neighbors like Yisroel and it’s my heritage too, despite my teacher’s claims that he is the arbiter of Jewish identity.

It is said that Israel is the land of milk and honey.  Wrong.  Israel is the land of maror and honey.  Maror is the horseradish we eat on Passover.  The bitter people here are some of the bitterest you’ll meet.  And there’s years of trauma behind that but it doesn’t change their toxicity- or your need to sometimes avoid them.  But the honey- oh man.  The honey here is the sweetest you’ll taste anywhere.  The people here who love God by loving their fellow man- they are unparalleled the world over.

It can be so hard to remember that each person truly represents themselves first and foremost.  It’s tempting to paint with a broad brush to protect yourself.  To think that rather than an individual, an entire community hurt you- or will hurt you again.  But in the end, if you go too far down this road, you won’t be protecting yourself, you’ll be hurting yourself.  By denying yourself the chance to know some truly amazing friends.

Yisroel, perhaps aptly named, is now part of my chevreh, my “peeps”.  He’s someone who brought me back to life tonight.  So if you’re someone who likes to trash talk Haredim- I’m sure there’s a reason why.  Maybe someone hurt you like I got hurt tonight.  Or maybe someone taught you fear and prejudice.  But I will not tolerate that hatred in my life and you’d better believe I’ll call you out on it.  Because my tribe just got thickened and got its first Haredi member.  And as far as I’m concerned, if you’re messing with him, you’re messing with me.  Am yisrael chai.  The People Israel lives.

As for my teacher- I have this drash, this spiritual note to offer.  On my way to Bnei Brak I was listening to a Hasidic niggun on my phone, a melody from Vizhnitz.  I recognized the tune but couldn’t place it.  It reminded me of a secular Yiddish song I knew.  Hours later, with the help of a French Jewish friend I met at Yiddish camp last summer, we discovered it was a 1960’s song by the legendary Barry Sisters.  This kind of cultural overlap was once common when Jews truly lived together.  Folks songs, Klezmer music, pop songs, Hasidic niggunim- there was a beautiful interplay at work.  My hope is that this fluidity can be revived and we can enjoy the best of each of our communities while respecting our right to live differently.

Yisroel’s Bobover friend, impressed by my Hebrew, looked at my outfit and my flipflops and said “you look like a Sabra“.  Perhaps, as we say in Yiddish, it’s bashert that I got my official Israeli ID card today.  Because I’ve arrived.  And I’m doing mitzvahs every step I take.