Category: Coexistence

It’s midnight in Kafr Qasem and I feel fine

The story of this story, as Perd Hapley would say, is that there is no story.  Tired of apartment hunting in Tel Aviv, I decided to go to dinner in Kafr Qasem, an Arab village in Israel abutting the West Bank.  I can’t think of a single Jewish Israeli I’ve met in Tel Aviv who has ever been there, even though it’s only an hour bus ride away.  Even though they’ll travel thousands of miles and wander alone in India.  Yet I’ve had the good fortune of making friend with several Arabs who live there.  In need of a new canvass to paint on, I hopped on the bus.

I walked to the village and found a delicious restaurant where I ate- and I’m not exaggerating- the moistest most delicious chicken of my life.  The waiters were enthused with my Arabic and we had nice some nice conversations about where I’m from etc etc.  They kept offering me free tea and coffee too.  It’s a large restaurant and I only overheard one person speaking Hebrew.  Otherwise, this was really a village establishment.  Tomorrow they’re hosting a village party, but they told me they could sneak me in 🙂

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After dinner I strolled around.  It was almost 10 o’clock at night and I was alone and I felt totally fine.  I got to an ice cream shop where they had run out of ice cream and chatted with two young ladies- one in a hijab and one without.  They recommended I keep heading uphill.

Realizing most of the town was closed, I headed back towards the bus stop, but then I came across this stand that was making fresh corn something-or-rather.  I still don’t know exactly what it is- it started with a d- but it’s like a cup of seasoned corn kernels (not popped).  I talked with the guy who owned the stand and his 20-something absolutely gorgeous male friend Ahmed.  Thumpa.  Thumpa.  He had the smile to match.

We talked about how I learned Arabic and where I was from.  When explaining about the corn, he actually had to rely on his Hebrew for a bit- and asked me if I spoke it!  So cute!  I said I was a Jew so of course I did!  We had a good laugh.  We gave each other a few bro-ish handshakes and said goodbye.

I headed down the hill and was having trouble finding the bus.  Person after person directed me the right way, often with a smile.  Including some Turkish workers who live in the village as carpenters and don’t speak Hebrew or Arabic- we used Google Translate to talk about my love of Turkish music like Tarkan!  After missing the bus and walking back and forth, I finally got on one headed towards Tel Aviv.

The driver was Arab and we spoke in Arabic.  I asked if he’d put Arabic music on and he agreed- it should be noted that beforehand (even though the bus was empty) he was listening to Hebrew radio.  He mentioned the classic singer Umm Kulthum and I mentioned I heard one of her hits (which I love) in the restaurant tonight.  And how I had seen two Mizrachi Jewish men listening to Fairouz, another classic Arab singer, in Tel Aviv.

I told him that I felt that the best music unites us.  He nodded strongly in agreement: “When you hear Umm Kulthum it doesn’t matter if you’re Jewish or Arab- it brings us together.”

I couldn’t agree more.  Before I went to the village, all I knew about it was that it was the site of a tragic 1954 killing of 49 villagers by Israeli border police.  That, and that it’s the hometown of Israel’s Islamic Movement, an Islamist political organization.

And that’s exactly what the news media and the politicians want you to know.  Know the fear, know the pain, know the anger, know the conflict.  Blood + blood = $$$$ .

There are reasons behind all of those things, but in the end, I just want to get to know my fellow human beings.  My neighbors.  Jews and Arabs.  Israelis.  Friends.

If you want to live in a warped universe where your only source of information about people who walk by you every day is a news app or a piece of paper, then you’re missing out and you’re messing up.

Kafr Qasim isn’t just a news story.  It’s not just a historical event or a political movement.  It’s a town.  With real people- who ply you with free coffee and tea.  Who effortlessly mix Hebrew into their rural Arabic dialect.  Who put up trilingual posters about a cosmetics shop underneath one about Muhammad.  Who give you a friendly smile when you’re lost.

Nothing happened in Kafr Qasim tonight.  Just a nice Jewish boy who went to dinner and escaped the cut-throat bubble of Tel Aviv.  Who caught the bus home at midnight and found a new place where his soul can breathe.

 

A tale of two Jews

Peki’in is a beautiful Druze village in the north of Israel.  Or, should I say, a Druze and Jewish village.

This picturesque town is filled with delicious Syrian-style food you can literally eat out of a family’s kitchen.  The Arabic of the villagers mingles with the Hebrew of the tourists.

What you might not know is that Jews are not just visitors to this town.  Peki’in is the site of a Jewish community that has continuously lived there- since the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem 2,000 years ago.  It’s something I knew little about when I arrived- and learned a lot about when I visited.

My first glimpse into the Jewish past of this town was that there’s a rabbi’s cave.  What is a rabbi’s cave?  Well Rabbi Shimon Bar Yochai (Rashbi) was hiding from the Romans in 70 C.E., who forbade the study of Torah.   So he came to this cave and hid to keep his traditions- our traditions- alive.  It’s utterly fascinating how every corner of this land is filled with my history.

Here’s his digs and a taste of the town:

After this delightful Jewish surprise, my friend and I headed to eat Druze food out of the backyard of a man’s home (the guy in my cover photo).  This is not a restaurant- there is no menu.  There is delicious food that they bring you from their home kitchen, you eat, and then pay for.  And mostly you moan in pleasure the whole time as you devour delicious salads, fresh pita, and meat.

I had a great time talking with the Druze family in Arabic.  Not only is our Arabic very close (I learned the Syrian dialect and most Israeli Druze migrated to present-day Israel from Syria), but I feel very affirmed by them Jewishly.  For example, an old Druze woman (in Hebrew) wished me a Rosh Hashanah sweeter than apples and honey.  The Druze people know the Jewish holidays, they respect Jewish holy sites, they frankly just love Jews.  Given all the traumas that Jews have experienced- and the subsequent sectarian bitterness that can come between us- I sometimes feel safer as a Jew with Druze than as a Jew with Jews!

Thinking I had finished my adventure, I came across two elderly women.  I thought both were Druze.  But one woman- in Druze Arabic- tells me she’s Jewish.  Say what?  She then tells me (again, this is all in Arabic) that there is a synagogue in the town built at the time of the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem 2,000 years ago.

She grabbed her keys and said she’d open it for me.

At this point, Jewish tourists start crowding around us as I explain what’s going on in Hebrew.  We head to the synagogue and lo and behold- there is one.  And inside, she explains, are fragments from Jerusalem at the time of the Temple- maybe even from the Temple itself.  I didn’t take pictures because it was the Sukkot holiday and even though nobody was praying, I felt it was disrespectful.

But man was it awesome.  I gingerly asked her if I could touch one of the menorah-shaped stones from the time of the Temple.  She said of course.  And so I touched the stones my ancestors carved 2,000 years ago.  I’ve never felt so connected to my past- or to the reasons I came to live here.  Judaism is not a metaphor in Israel- it is both past and present.  I brought my soul home to where it came from.  I think my ancestors would be proud.

Still in awe of this experience (and having had the chance to climb to the roof of the synagogue, which was also cool), I strolled down the street.  A man sat on his porch and we started to talk.  At first we talked in Hebrew, and then in Druze Arabic.  Turns out he’s from the same family as the elderly woman who let me into the synagogue.

And, of course, because “two Jews, three opinions”, they don’t talk!  The man’s family had left the village for a few years because they were uncertain what might happen in Israel’s War of Independence.  They feared that the Arab armies might kill them.  So as a child, he moved with several other Peki’in families to the Israeli city of Hadera.  He told me how as a kid, since his native tongue was Arabic, he often felt afraid to talk lest the other kids think he was the “enemy”.  So he learned Hebrew in school and spoke Arabic at home.

As an adult, he chose to return to Peki’in to look after his family’s lands.  And due to who knows what kind of internal politics involving the Jewish Agency and the village synagogue etc etc, he and the old woman down the street- the only other Jew in town- don’t talk.

Sometimes there are valid reasons not to talk to others.  I know this from having dealt with toxic relatives myself.  That being said, there’s something about this story that just disturbs me.

You’ve got a community of Jews who despite invader after invader after massacre after persecution managed to remain present in the land of Israel for 2,000 years.  And yet, the last two Jews there just can’t make it work.

Here’s my thought.  Peki’in is a beautiful town.  If you haven’t gone, stop going to the same goddamn bar in Tel Aviv and get off your ass and visit your past.  The air will fill your soul and you can just be in the moment.  No yoga needed.

And if you’re a Jew, remember the lesson of Peki’in.  Diversity is good, survival is crucial, and so is tolerance.  If we get to a place where we’re so few yet so divided, how will we ever move forward?  Extend the olive branch, step outside your bubble, and show your neighbor some love.

If we can’t learn it from ourselves, then learn it from the Druze.  Love your neighbor as yourself.  Always with kippah, sometimes with one, or without one.  Secular, Reform, Orthodox.  In Arabic.  In Hebrew.  In your heart.

 

 

Why do so many Israelis know nothing about each other?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coming out to a (hot straight) Arab Catholic guy…in Arabic!

Ok so I’m going to make you wait a bit to get to the title story, but we’ll get there soon 🙂  First, I want to tell you about Tarshiha.

I decided to wander around the Arab village of Tarshiha alone.  Having talked to several Jewish Sabras here afterwards, they were a bit surprised- and none of them had done it themselves.  This seemed bizarre to me- Tarshiha, half of the mixed Jewish-Arab municipality of Ma’alot Tarshiha, felt much, much safer than at least half of my hometown of D.C.  And it’s historic and beautiful:

As I like to do, I wandered around with pretty much no agenda other than exploring and meeting cool people.  And speaking a ton of Arabic 🙂  As my new favorite self-made motto goes: “if you’re cool, I’m down”.

Among a bunch of historic homes I noticed a door that said “photography studio”.  I talked to the man inside, a 30 year old man named Eli (short for Elias).  He is indeed a photographer and he invited me into his studio and immediately made me Arab coffee (think shot-sized coffee and much, much stronger).  Because that’s how things work here.

Since I happen to do social media public relations for a living, he asked me some questions about Facebook.  I sat down with him for about an hour and showed him tricks of the trade, because why the hell not?  He’s a good guy.  Plus his Fusha (Modern Standard Arabic, for writing) was a little rusty, so I helped him add a section on his page in Arabic.  Otherwise, he had written his page information, geared towards Arab clientele (weddings, etc.)- in Hebrew!  Somebody go write a PhD thesis about the American Jewish oleh helping an Arab-Israeli write in Arabic because he was publicizing his events to Arabs…in Hebrew.  Unpack that for a lifetime!  So much meaning here 🙂

As we sat and sipped our drinks, car after car of his relatives pulls by the door and everyone greets each other.  A cousin is a famous journalist, an uncle is a (Arab Greek Orthodox Christian) Mizrachi singer who performs for the Iraqi and Kurdish Jews in the neighboring villages (again- PhD thesis material).  I could go on and on, but this town is like a non-stop family reunion.  I feel like it’s My Big Fat Greek Wedding but an entire village.  And I love it.

Before making my way to another part of town, we exchange contact info.  He shows me his newly renovated church around the corner with great pride (even though he identifies as “Secular Orthodox”- a hilarious phrase in a Jewish context).  Then he did something extraordinary.  This man knows I’m an oleh chadash and that I know very few people in Israel.  He points his hand towards the door of the studio and says in Hebrew: “Tireh, bo matay sheba lecha.  Zeh habayit shelcha.”  Come whenever you want.  This is your home.  I came to Israel looking for family, I just didn’t expect it would be a Secular Greek Orthodox Arab man!  But why the hell not?  I can’t think of a more generous way to welcome me to Israel than what he said.  And you better believe I’ll be back- especially for the weddings he photographs!

I continued to wander about the village.  Most people were welcoming- a few stared.  I don’t think many Jews wander the residential neighborhoods of Tarshiha, so I might have looked like a bit of an oddity.  But frankly, I’m proud of myself for trying something new and I met a lot of kind and welcoming people there.  I find it absolutely embarrassing that not a small number of my fellow Jewish Israelis know more about South America, Germany, or India than about their own neighbors.  It’s not only problematic for the future of this country, it’s also a great loss for the people who don’t visit.  I literally stumbled upon an Ottoman mosque and administrative headquarters just when looking for a bathroom.  It’s true that it can be scary or disorienting to get lost in an unfamiliar town, but if you can handle trekking in the Himalayas, you probably have the instincts to manage Tarshiha.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a door and house covered in flowers.  It was gorgeous.  Clearly someone had put great effort into making it pretty.  There was a picture of a woman who had made the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca and then just tons of funky modern artwork and colors.  As I stood staring, I heard a voice from inside: “tfaddal” – come on in!

Meet Yasmin.  Yasmin is a spunky, artistic Bedouin woman who lives in the village.  As she’s literally doing her laundry in front of me, she brings me water and candies and invites me to sit.  We chat and chat.  She works at a factory with Jews and she frankly liked to speak Hebrew with me while I spoke Arabic with her.  To her, the North is a great place because “Jews and Arabs are brothers”.  She feels they work well together and have good relationships.  Like most Israelis of all stripes, she is very very fond of her hometown.  She has relatives in nearby Arab villages, but she doesn’t even like to visit there because home is where it’s at.  We talk about her mom who made the Hajj pilgrimage.  Yasmin was very proud, but Yasmin herself doesn’t want to do it.  She believes in God but not all the rituals and prayers- like not a small number of Jews.

Making my way down the hill to eat sushi with my kibbutznik friends who were hosting me (because yes, the Arab village has sushi), I couldn’t help but think how hospitable a country this is.  Both Jews and Arabs go out of their way to make you feel at home- with absolutely no expectation of something in return other than kindness and gratitude.  Very, very few Americans would invite a stranger into their home like Yasmin or Eli did- even generous Americans.  There is just a much greater sense of trust here and it’s frankly refreshing.  It even inspires me to be a more generous person.

Across the street from the sushi place, I saw a guy selling nargeelah (hookah).  I popped into his store and good lord if this is not one of the hottest people I’ve ever met, then slap me silly and call me a potato.  His muscles were bulging.  His face was gorgeous.  And he has the friendliest smile to match.  “I’ll have what he’s having.”

Murad is a 20-something Arab Greek Catholic man from a small village up north.  He works in Tarshiha selling supplies for nargeelah at his own shop.  As is the custom here, we talked all about life- where we’re from, our background, our hopes and dreams.  Because in Israel, you don’t wait until five coffee dates to get to know each other.  He told me about his girlfriend- he said he feels no pressure from his family to get married or have children.  That they’re having a good time.  And then it was my turn and I did something pretty brave and I came out to him.  In Arabic.  Alone.  And…it was absolutely fine.  I don’t want to minimize the challenges of homophobia in any community, but since I got a positive vibe from him, I had a good feeling about it.  He was very curious- he asked me how I knew, etc. etc.- the same kinds of questions I get even from liberal Americans.

When I explained that when people are attracted to the same sex, it’s totally natural and that you even find it in other species, he looked fascinated and frankly, just accepted it.  No pushback, no antagonism, just kind of a “hmm never thought about it that way” look.

We exchanged contact info, gave a nice bro hug, and sent each other some pretty big smiles.

Until I did sushi that night, I had spent my entire day in Arabic other than a few Hebrew words sprinkled in.  For all intents and purposes, I spent my day in the Arab world.  And guess what?  It was pretty cool.  I met a Secular Greek Orthodox man, a Sunni Muslim Bedouin woman, and a (super hot) Arab Greek Catholic guy with eye-popping muscles.  I saw funky murals and artwork alongside ancient architecture.  I even got delicious herbal melon tea at a cute cafe.

This is Arab Israel.  20% of the country.  If you haven’t visited an Arab village- do so.  You don’t really know Israel if you haven’t.  And if the extent of your visit is eating schwarma and going home- then you visited a restaurant, not a culture.  Get off your tuchus, as we say in Yiddish, and try something new.  Friends, food, and fun await you.  Tfaddal- come on in 🙂

Samaritans, Russian Puppet Cabaret, and Hasidim

Today I heard or spoke Hebrew, ancient Samaritan Hebrew, Yiddish, Russian, English, Arabic, and Ukrainian.  Today I danced with Hasidim, watched a Russian man dance with life-sized puppets, and davvened in a messianic Chabad shul.

Here’s how it went down.

I wanted to get out of the house and explore.  Missing the fun of trekking up north, I decided to explore Gush Dan, or Central Israel (near Tel Aviv).  I went to the decidedly not-so-touristy Holon and Bat Yam, both a short bus ride away.

I had no plans and really no idea what to expect.

I got off the bus in Holon and noticed a sign pointing to the “Shomronim” neighborhood.  That’s the Hebrew word for “Samaritans“.  Maybe you learned about the “Good Samaritan” in your Bible class.  Yes, that’s them.  They claim descent from the tribes of Ephraim and Menashe, who are in turn tied to Samaria (Hebrew: Shomron).  Hence their name.

I immediately asked around and found my way to their neighborhood.  To give you an idea of how unique this is- there are 800 Samaritans in the entire world.  They are keepers of pre-rabbinic Judaism and they use an ancient form of Hebrew, including an alphabet much closer to the original since rabbinic Judaism adapted an alphabet based on Aramaic.

Here are some examples from today:

Because this is how I roll, after knocking on four or five doors (all of which had Samaritan Hebrew on them!), I got referred to Benny Tsedaka, a leader in the community.  He was sleeping, but his brother told me to walk in and wake him up.  So, to the horror of my friends in America, I walked into a total stranger’s home and basically kept talking and knocking on the door till the old man woke up.

He invited me in and gave me quite the lecture about the history of the Samaritans and their “original Judaism” (a phrase, incidentally, told to me several times by Haredim, but this guy might have them beat).  He, along with the other older men on the street, wore a white robe.  He showed me their prayer books, still written in the Samaritan script that I recognize from ancient Jewish tablets.  I almost asked him who their rabbi was, but caught myself 😉  It was like peering into the past, even as he told me to grab my smartphone and take pictures.

He chanted Torah for me using the Samaritan pronunciation and their trop, or cantillation system.  And he did it from memory.  Incidentally he chose the first day of Bereishit, or Genesis- the parashah I used to chant at synagogue on Rosh Hashanah.  The reason he could do it from memory is that unlike rabbinic Jews, like myself, they don’t read Torah in synagogue.  Instead, people pair off and go read in people’s homes- both men and women.  That way, he said, everyone learns to read.  A nice idea indeed.

He is very proud of his tradition and he has every right to- his community has survived conquest after conquest for thousands of years.  Before there were Christians or Muslims or Arabs or Byzantines or Persians here, Samaritans were here- and they managed to survive.  Or perhaps better put, since we are all Israelites, we managed to survive.  When I told him I was an oleh chadash- a newly minted Israeli- he made a point of saying “welcome home”.  A long delayed reunion, indeed.

He’s not a fan of Haredi Judaism because he feels it’s not traditional or authentic enough.  That it’s a product of Eastern Europe and interactions with Christians, unlike his authentic Judaism from here.  He also said he likes that in his community, women read Torah too and that if God didn’t want women to be front and center, why did Miriam sing as we crossed the sea?  An interesting point.  I won’t delve into the debate about what Judaism is best other than to say I think there’s something beautiful in all varieties.  I will say, though, that someone who wants to argue about what the most “original” form of Judaism is is going to have a tough time beating someone who prays in paleo-Hebrew script.

Still digesting my interaction with ancient Judaism, I hopped on a bus to Bat Yam to see the sunset.  I liked learning about Samaritan Judaism, but sometimes the conversation veered into (very) right-wing politics and religious debates that are less interesting to me.  Benny could certainly make Bibi (or a rabbi) blush.

As I made my way to the sea, I saw this ridiculous man dancing around with busty life-sized female puppets (and later, Jewish puppets with peyos!).  To disco music, to Russian music, to Mizrachi music, and even to Yiddish classics!  I can’t tell you how much this made me laugh and smile.  What a nice way to unwind after the meaningful but at times overwhelming experience I had in Holon.  Apparently his grandfather grew up with similar shows in the Soviet Union in the 50’s.  I was thoroughly entertained.  I gave him a nice tip and we exchanged words and smiles in Hebrew and a bisl Yiddish.  These are the people who make the world go round.

After some delicious kebabs, I grabbed a bus home.  Except that on the way, I heard Hasidic music blasting.  I hopped off the bus and ran and joined in dancing with a bunch of men in a circle.  Speakers blasted Hasidic hits (some of which I knew and are on my phone) as we oy yoy yoy’ed and danced.  Just when it couldn’t get any cooler, they started blasting Mizrachi music, including songs entirely in Arabic.  I swerved my queer Jewish hips and my hands suavely bounced around.  I felt a little out of place (I think some of the men just didn’t know what to think of me- it’s not every day someone like me is at a Hasidic street party in Bat Yam), but in the end, it’s my God too so I rolled with it.  And although I wish that the women and men could dance together, I had some fun.

Based on the signange, I knew it was Chabad that put on the event for Sukkot, the holiday currently being celebrated.  Chabad is a Hasidic group focused on kiruv, or outreach to other Judaism.  As Judaism is not evangelical, they only reach out to other Jews.  I don’t identify as Chabad, but I do appreciate some of the work they do.  Anywhere you go in the world, Chabad is there to give you a kosher meal, a place to pray, a place to do Jewish.  In my neighborhood, I frequently stop by to buy supplies for various Jewish holidays.  The best part about Chabad is whether it’s your style of Judaism or not, they’re always there.  And that is a mitzvah.

Now as my sweaty body prepared to hop back on the bus, a cute young Chabadnik asked me if I had davvened arvit (evening prayers).  I hadn’t (because that’s not usually how I approach Judaism), but I told him I’d join their minyan.  Jews are supposed to pray in groups of 10 (men only for Orthodox- men or women for progressive Jews).  I haven’t generally found the Orthodox prayer style meaningful for me (it feels too fast for what I’m used to), but I think it’s a mitzvah to help these people out so I joined in.

We went downstairs into a shtiebel (small synagogue) and prayed.  The cute guy helped me keep up with the pages (they move really fast!) and before you knew it, we were done.  By the way, when I say cute, he’s not a cute kid- he’s a cute adult.  He’s a “your kippah is super sexy I’d like to daven maariv and make a mitzvah” adult.

I digress.  As I’m leaving, another hot young Chabadnik starts talking with me.  He’s from Ukraine and the woman sitting next to us is half Georgian half Ukrainian.  They are both olim like me- new Israelis.  I’m starting to think I might want to learn Russian for an even richer Israeli experience.  I notice a sign in the synagogue about the former leader of Chabad, Rabbi Schneerson being the moshiach (messiah).  Not the typical generic “moshiach” signs, but much more direct and specific.  There are some Chabadniks who think he was just a great leader and others that veer into messianism, thinking this particular rabbi will come back as the moshiach.  Playing dumb, I ask the Ukrainian guy if the sign meant that the rebbe was the moshiach and he said yes.  I am far, far, far from an expert on Chabad, but I’m pretty sure I just prayed in a synagogue of the more messianic stream of the movement.

As I headed back to Tel Aviv, I couldn’t help but think what a messy, meaningful, and deeply satisfying day I had had.  I had been lectured about my progressive politics and rabbinic Judaism by a man who speaks ancient Hebrew.  I had felt kind of out of place as a Hasidic dance party as a queer person and a Reform Jew.  And I ended up praying with (maybe?) messianic Chabadniks when I absolutely never would have prayed with them if that’s what their synagogue was about.

And on the same day, I met an ancient relative of mine.  I saw ancient Hebrew script written on doors and flyers.  I danced to Hasidic music – for free – in public.  I saw a Russian guy dance around with ginormous puppets to Yiddish and Slavic dance music.  In short, I experienced thousands of years of history in the course of minutes.  I lived it up.

Sukkot is, in English, called the “Feast of Booths”.  It’s one of the few holidays that doesn’t commemorate an event.  Rather, by setting up sukkot, temporary structures, we remind ourselves of the fragility of life and of our wandering in the desert for 40 long years.  Wandering in search of a home, a more permanent structure than the ragtag hut of a sukkah.

This Sukkot, I’ve found my home.  A home where yes, things are sometimes complicated and messy and take a while to untangle.  And also a home filled with more meaning per square foot than anywhere else on the planet.

Some Israelis ask me if Americans make more money.  “You’re crazy!” some say, “you’d make so much more money there and have a bigger house!”.  So the f*ck what?  You can give me the biggest mansion on the highest hill with the best view, and I’m not interested one bit.  Because there’s no way in hell I’m going to spend Sukkot there with a Samaritan, a Russian puppet dancer, and Hasidim.

America has better air conditioning and cleaner toilets.  But I don’t really care.  I’ll be too busy out and about exploring thousands of years of history, dancing and laughing along the way.

The diversity of (non-Jewish) Israel

I just got back from an amazing trip up north.  The North is the most beautiful part of an already stunning country.  It is also the area with the most non-Jews.

When some foreigners think of Israeli non-Jews, perhaps they picture an old Bedouin man with a kufiyyeh sitting in the desert.  While that certainly exists, that hardly scratches the surface of non-Jewish diversity here in Israel.  For my previous post about Jewish diversity here, click here.

In one trip spanning less than a week, I personally met and spoke in Arabic with non-nomadic Bedouins, Greek Catholics, Maronites, Druze, Greek Orthodox, Copts (ok, they were tourists from Georgia, but still!), and Sunni Muslims.  I’ve even met self-identified “secular Druze” and “secular (Greek) Orthodox”.  The latter sounds hilarious in Hebrew because “Ortodoksi Hiloni” sounds like an Orthodox Jew who is secular.  I’m sure someone out there identifies that way, but man it sounds funny in Hebrew 🙂

In Yafo, for instance, on a brief walk around town, I even noticed the Church of Scotland (presumably Presbyterians).  In Jerusalem, I sat and talked with Armenians in a mixture of Hebrew and, believe it or not, Armenian-accented Arabic.  And both men were not big fans of their own church!

I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of Haifa, where there is the Bahai world headquarters as well as the center of Ahmadi Muslims, a small sect persecuted in many predominantly Muslim countries.  This sect has the unique distinction of having translated the Quran into Yiddish in 1987.  I’m sheppin naches that these people like the mamaloshn!

And we haven’t even begun to talk about lifestyles, language, or politics.  In Haifa, there’s an entire young Arab hipster culture.  There are also three different Arab parties in the Knesset (now under one umbrella): one Jewish-Arab communist party, one Arab nationalist party, and one Islamist party.  Just to be clear, if these parties were running against each other in any other Middle Eastern country, they’d be considered intense political and ideological rivals.  Regardless of your views on the parties, the fact that they now comprise a single unit in Israel is quite unique and shouldn’t mislead you into thinking there’s uniform thinking in this sector.  Oh also, 24% of Arab Muslims vote for explicitly Zionist parties.

Sometimes in the West people are tempted to view Middle Easterners, Jewish or Arab, as “stuck in the past”.  That if we’re keeping age-old traditions, we must be divorced from the modern world.  Rather, I’d like to posit that we live in a world where the beautiful heritage that brought us to this day is kept alive precisely by integrating it with the tools of the modern world.  That’s why the pictures below, all of which were taken in centuries-old (sometimes millenia-old) Arab communities, shouldn’t surprise you.  Because you can hold onto tradition and adapt.  My Arab friends aren’t caricatures.  If you really want to embrace all Israelis, including non-Jews, let go of the exoticism and realize that this is also the face of Arab Israel:

In the end, the best thing you can take from visiting non-Jewish communities here (not all non-Jews are Arabic speakers, but we’ll save that for another blog) is that if you try to speak about them as a whole, you’ve already missed the point.  These are extremely diverse communities- religiously, ideologically, and even linguistically (every village and even religious community can have its own dialect).

My best advice?  Pick up an Arabic textbook, find a good teacher (yes I do tutor 😛 ), and get to know your neighbors.  Move beyond the transactional nature of your favorite Arab hummus joint or falafel stand.  If your only source of information about Arab-Israelis is the newspaper, you’ve got a lot to learn.  And so do I, which is why I intend to continue visiting these communities and making friends.

In the end, the only way to really experience another culture is with your own two eyes, your feet planted firmly on the ground, and your mind open as wide as the sky above the Galilee.

Tul Karm in Tel Aviv

This story has a very happy ending, so read till the end.

Until 8pm today, my day sucked.  I went to the dreaded Israeli post office to pick up packages, saw a man screaming at a postal worker so loud he had to be escorted out, got swindled by a cab driver who tried to make me pay 50 shekels cash in addition to my fare, was shown three illegal apartments, and had to listen to a real estate agent bash Orthodox people (I told him I was religious too and I love all communities).  Then, I went to a baklava place where, when I asked the guy behind the counter how he was doing, he said “I don’t like to talk to people, tell me what you want.  This is business, leave me alone.”

So like I said, that really sucked.

Feeling despondent, I headed to the beach in Yafo.  First off, I love nature.  Also, I love Yafo.  And third, I know that no matter how shitty things get here, someone or something always help turn them around.

That’s exactly what happened, in the most unexpected way.

First, I bought tea from an old Bedouin guy sitting on a bench.  Bedouin tea is made with sage and it is delicious.  He invited me to sit and we chatted in Arabic as he went in and out of slumber.  Ibrahim, probably in his 70s, can’t be in the best shape.  After a nice chat (and helping him market his tea), I left him some extra money and continued homeward.

On the way back, I saw a middle aged man and his teenage son.  I recognized them because they had been talking to the Bedouin man.  The older man, Mounir, stalks talking to me in Arabic-accented Hebrew.  I was unsure at first if he was Mizrachi or Arab, but then I asked if he spoke Arabic and suddenly his son Basil joined in.

If this were America, the conversation would’ve probably lasted a minute or two and then ended with a “have a good night”.

But this is not America, so it instead lasted two hours and ended with exchanging phone numbers.

Mounir and his son Basil, 16 years old, work together in shiputzim, “renovations”.  I kept asking where they live and I couldn’t quite understand- something was said about Lod and something about Yafo.  I just basically tossed aside the question and moved on.

Basil is a cute kid.  Every time a Tel Avivi girl would walk by, his eyes would open wide with excitement.  He said he was tired of all the girls in hijabs at his school.  He saw one beautiful woman walking with a man and I joked with him that I would talk to the guy for him.  He laughed and said the guy would beat me up!

I noticed something curious.  The dad loved to talk in Hebrew and the kid would ask him to switch to Arabic.  I asked Basil if he spoke Hebrew and he said no, not really.  If this kid was indeed from Yafo, this is pretty out of the ordinary.  Seeing as how more than half of Yafo is Jewish, even an Arab kid educated in an Arab-language school would probably have some command of Hebrew.

That’s because they’re not from Yafo.  Perhaps sensing that after an hour or so of speaking to each other in Arabic about why I made aliyah, the attack in Vegas, the situation in America, and the beautiful women of Tel Aviv, I was trustworthy and kind, he told me they’re from Tul Karm.  Mounir and Basil have Israeli-government work permits that allow them to leave the West Bank and come to Tel Aviv.  Honestly, I was a bit in shock and for a moment, scared.  I had of course met Israeli Arabs and even Palestinians from East Jerusalem and a guy from Hebron while visiting Yerushalayim.  But never had I met a Palestinian right smack in the middle of Tel Aviv.

As we continued to talk, they told me how impressed they were that an American spoke Arabic and that the dad believes Jews are wise and built a beautiful city in Tel Aviv.  I said thank you and that while some Jews are wise, I’ve met some who are less so and that there are good and bad (and semi-ripe) apples among all peoples.  He agreed with a chuckle as my fear began to fade.

As the night drew to a close and they had to head home, I couldn’t help but think how this never- and I mean never- would have happened if I didn’t speak Arabic.  While the father spoke (some) Hebrew, the kid spoke none (other than an interestingly placed “hevanti” instead of “fahman 3aleyk” when he wanted to say “I understood”).  He didn’t speak much English either.  If the peoples of this region are to ever live in peace, we’re going to have to learn each other’s languages.  It’s a sign of respect and it’s the only way to truly understand each other and open hearts.  What good are propaganda posters and demonstrations if in the end we can’t talk to each other?

As Basil and I exchanged WhatsApp information, Mounir put his hand on my shoulder and said, “inte mitla ibni” – you are like my son.  I have no family in Israel and, as I wrote in a previous blog, the vast majority of my family in America is toxic.  The only family I have here is the one I make.  Who would’ve guessed that that would include Palestinian workers from Tul Karm?

I don’t know if you believe in God, but sometimes I just see signs of the divine in my everyday life.  I can’t think of something more spiritual and special than what Mounir told me.  That’s God’s love.

Walking alongside the sea, the tension of the day disappeared.  My heart lifted towards the sky as I thought about the little miracle happened in the most mundane place in the holiest of lands.  Between the crash of the waves, the sleeping Bedouin, and the lights of Tel Aviv.

Every sector of Israeli society in one day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Inta omri,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

A 2:00 am Arabic lesson

I spent all day looking at (five) apartments and was exhausted!  I treated myself to a stroll along the beach until I found myself in Yafo, my favorite place to get away.

I grabbed a delicious melon ice cream, served in a frozen melon, and grabbed a seat outside.  Nearby there was a young Arab kid named Muhammad.  We struck up a conversation in a mix of Hebrew and Arabic and I asked if I could sit with him.

Muhammad is a 25 year old tow-truck driver from Kfar Qasem, incidentally the village where my friend Sara is from from a previous story I shared on my blog.  Much like my beloved Daliat Al Karmel and Yafo itself, certain towns seem to find their way into my heart over and over again.  American Jews would call that bashert.

He’s a sweet kid- he speaks fluent Hebrew and Arabic…and Turkish!  He’s gone on a half dozen trips to Turkey and is going for a month again this year.  He was even recommending resorts and cities for me to visit there.  He learned his Turkish from soap operas.  It’s nice to know that both Jews and Arabs do that here (so many Jews here speak Spanish thanks to telenovelas).

Because this is Israel, things quickly got personal.  Nice to know that intense sharing about deeply held opinions when you first meet someone isn’t just a Jewish trait here!  Muhammad says that when he first talks to Jewish customers over the phone, they are so relieved that their car will get off the road and back to safety that they offer to make him tea and invite him over.  Then, when he arrives to help them and they see his face, the conversation freezes and he feels they are afraid of him “cutting off their heads”.

I told him I thought that was sad, and then his response was even sadder: “I’ve gotten used to it, it’s always been that way.”  You know there’s some real toxicity to heal from here when a young man like this feels resigned to the mutual distrust that exists between so many Jews and Arabs here.

At this point he leans over to pull up something on Youtube.

While he’s pulling up the video, his friend Mamdooh tells me about his family.  His family arrived from Libya during a war with Italy and lives in Ramle.  Yes, re-read that sentence about 10 times.  His Muslim Arab family arrived to present-day Israel 100 yeras ago from Libya.  I was baffled.  I had heard some about Arab labor migrations from neighboring countries to Ottoman (and Mandatory) Palestine, but never had I heard of his family’s 6,000 person Libyan clan in Ramle.  Apparently, his family and a neighboring family (keep in mind “family” means thousands of people) engaged in a several year blood feud resulting in 40+ deaths in the 1990s.  He said a sheikh intervened to end it, but even to this day it’d be too difficult to try to marry the other family.  I told him that sounded sad and he agreed with a gentle nod of the head.

As we munched on loads of malabi (which they of course gave me for free), Muhammad came back to show me the Youtube video.  It was an Arabic-subtitled Hebrew video (kind of like an Arab MEMRI) of a Haredi classroom talking about the Temple Mount.  Honestly, I couldn’t hear the video that well, but it was clear that racist things were being said about Arabs.  I told him that that video sounded offensive and that it’s also important not to judge entire groups of people based on one video.  I even had the chance to teach him about Reform Judaism.  I reminded him that there are closed-minded and open-minded people in every community.

“Like you” he said as I mouthed the words “open-minded”.

My heart swelled.  I’ve had a lot of powerful moments here in Israel.  Tonight may take the cake with this one comment.  I saw that I had made a difference in this one man’s life and it made me feel hopeful- and proud.

The conversation turned back to fun things- because in Israel, life fluctuates rapidly between the bitter and the sweetest of the sweet.  Muhammad showed me Youtube videos of techno dabke music from Nablus.  In a sentence that would suffice for a linguistic anthropology thesis, he said: “shoof al-dabke min Shchem”.  Look at the dabke from Shchem.  Which is to say, in an Arabic-language sentence, he used the Hebrew word for a Palestinian city in the West Bank/Samaria.

Before I headed home at 2am, Muhammad invited me to visit him in Kfar Qasem and we exchanged numbers.  He said he hangs out with his friends in Yafo pretty much every night- and told me to come back.

Some of you might know I speak eight languages fluently.  I speak a few more to varying degrees.  Throughout my life, there have been people telling me what I should do with them.  That I should work for the CIA or the FBI.  That I should be a translator.  That I should do this or that.

Guess what?  While you’re pondering what you think I should be doing with my life, I’m using my languages to enrich mine – and others’.  What do I do with my languages?  I do what I did tonight.  I make friends, I explore the world, I learn from others, I change minds.

Want to wring your hands about what I should do?  I’ll be too busy to notice.  I’ll be hanging out in downtown Yafo, as the lights go dim, eating malabi, and laughing with friends as the Arabic blends into Hebrew back into Arabic.  And the sun rises on another life-changing day in the land I call home.

Norwegian-Persian Jews

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

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

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

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

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

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

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