Coexistence – Page 12 – Planting Roots Bearing Fruits

My Druze, Muslim, Orthodox, Reform Rosh Hashanah

Tonight, Rosh Hashanah ended. As a Reform Jew, I observe one day of the holiday, which you can read about here. I had amazing meals with friends, went to services for a taste of home, was greeted everywhere with Shanah Tovah, and even ate sushi 😉

This evening, I decided to go Israeli dancing. Anyone who’s known me for a while knows that I love Israeli dancing- it’s one of the first things I did in Israel.

I go to this marathon event (it goes till 6am!) and there are hundreds- I mean hundreds- of people. All ages, all attires (I even saw a bustier), and tons of enthusiasm. There’s even a guy I know from dancing in DC. Because, Jews 🙂 The music was booming- there was even a live band to accompany the music! They had a screen that showed a picture of each singer, the name of the song, and a running clock of how long the marathon had gone on! I recognized so many of the songs I danced to at home- it was fantastic.

During couples dancing (which I tend to avoid unless I’m with a friend- some of the middle aged women can get frisky!), I stepped aside to rest. I saw this cute guy so I started talking to him. I wished him “chag sameach”, a happy holiday. He said “what holiday?” I said “oh are you not Jewish?” And turns out, he wasn’t. He was just working the event. In fact, he’s an Arab Muslim from Nazareth named Muhammad Abbas. Poor guy’s name is so, so close to the name of the leader of the Palestinian Authority that pretty much nobody, Arab or Jewish, really likes.

He’s a student at Tel Aviv University studying English literature. He only listens to American music and he loves dark, intense American novels. We talked in Hebrew and Arabic about American film and literature (I recommended he watch Office Space for a clever satirical movie), and he stepped outside to work.

Then it hit me- I owed him an apology. Growing up as 2% of the American population, I was constantly barraged with “Merry Christmas” for a two month period every year. I don’t begrudge anyone saying Merry Christmas- I just don’t want it said to me because it’s not my holiday. I stepped outside and I apologized to him for assuming he was Jewish. He took it totally in stride and laughed it off. We also both knew that this year, the Muslim New Year falls on the same day, so I ended up being right in wishing him a Happy New Year 🙂 . In the end, I do feel like I owed him an apology because I made an assumption about him and it wasn’t the way I like to treat people (or be treated). Just goes to show that you can’t assume a cute Semitic-looking boy here is Jewish!

At this point, a man selling food in Hebrew with an Arab accent starts talking to me saying not to worry about my holiday faux pas. That we’re all people and it’s good to wish each other blessings. This man, Ramzi, is from the magical place called Daliat Al Karmel. This place entrances me. If you’ve followed my blog, you know that in the course of 2 months in Israel, I’ve been there twice. That it has a special magic- the people, the trees, the view- that I have seen in few places in the world. And this man, just for this event, happened to be selling Druze pita in Tel Aviv! He lives up North!

We switch over to Arabic (and back and forth to Hebrew and English) as we talk about life and his village. He invited me to come visit him. You ready for a real twist? He owns a Matah – an orchard. My Hebrew name, which I chose when making aliyah and is extremely unique, is also Matah מטע. He invited me to come up whenever I want and we’re going to hang out on his orchard.

As if my night couldn’t get any more fabulous or diverse, on my way home I see an Orthodox family by an ambulance. In America, you’d pretty much say a prayer for them in your head and move on- not wanting to invade their space. Since this is Israel, I did the exact opposite. I walked over and asked if I could help. One woman said she couldn’t ask because I was Jewish (Orthodox Jews believe that it is not permissible to make another Jew work on a holiday). The other woman, perhaps in an act of pragmatism, simply told me they needed a cab, so I ordered it. I’ve spent enough time in pluralistic Jewish circles to know that even if Orthodox Jews can’t ask me to do something on Rosh Hashanah, if I just do it, it’s acceptable.

I ordered a cab but just in time, another one came by and they got in. Luckily it was nothing life-threatening, but it looked like their little girl had a wound on her head. I hope she’s feeling better.

As I walked away, I wished them a Shanah Tovah. I knew they were celebrating my holiday 🙂 . They shouted back with a smile “ktivah vechatimah tovah” – may God write you a good year in the Book of Life.

On my way home, I realized just what an amazing holiday I had had. In the course of one day, I went from Reform services to Israeli dancing to hanging out with a Muslim friend to talking with Druze and helping Orthodox Jews.

This is my country. Where every fiber of my being is filled with meaning. I couldn’t be prouder to start a new life and a new year in Israel. My diverse, caring, and wonder-filled home.

Shanah tovah from the place where miracles aren’t on 34th street- they’re on every corner.

Arab by association

Today, I went to a settlement. Ariel is a beautiful city of 20,000 a little over an hour by bus from Tel Aviv. It’s located beyond the Green Line in Samaria (Hebrew: Shomron). This area is called Shomron because that’s the name of the ancient Jewish capital of the Northern Kingdom of Israel that was in this vicinity. To most Israelis, this is Israel (larger settlements like this tend to be part of the national consensus). To international organizations, this area is often known as the West Bank. And to most Palestinians, it’s part of Palestine.

This is not a typical tourist spot for Reform Jews or part of the Gay Pride Circuit, so I had never been here before (as a queer Reform Jew). I’m a curious guy and open to new things, so I hopped on a bus.

The most interesting thing about Ariel is that it’s not interesting. I don’t say that to be mean- there are actually some attractions in the area like stalactite caves and an archeological site of a 3,000 year old Jewish city. Unfortunately, because this is a small town, none of that was open or easy to get to.

What I mean is that it’s very normal. I think the image me (and many progressive Jews and non-Jews) have in our mind of a settlement is an Orthodox family of 16 living in a trailer on a hilltop beating up Arabs. Just to be clear- there’s nothing wrong with an Orthodox family of 16, it’s just that I think many people think about settlements as a caricature, not realizing their diversity.

Ariel is possibly the most (Jewishly) integrated city I’ve been in in Israel. There are loads of secular people, there are Russians, there are Ashkenazim, there are Mizrachim (blasting some cool Mizrachi music I stopped and listened to). There’s a Kosher Mexican restaurant and a non-Kosher restaurant with Thai food. There are men in yarmulkes and women in tattered jeans with purple hair. There are judo lessons and piano concerts and even a mall. There are Palestinian workers and there are Arab-Israeli students at the local university.

It’s also beautiful:

The truth is, in a lot of ways, Ariel is like any other city. I think it’d behoove people of all backgrounds, particularly from the progressive world I come from, to understand there are many reasons people might live in a settlement. For some people, it’s just about affordability. Other people might like the view. And for some people, it’s a religious statement. For religious Jews, this is the land God promised us. And the West Bank/Shomron was an integral part of Jewish history for thousands of years and is still home to many sacred sites. I’m not interested in the politics, I just want people to understand that if you can’t put yourself in the shoes of a religious Jew who wants to live in the land of their ancestors, you’re not going to do a great job of figuring out how we can all live together. Empathy is about understanding where other people come from even if you disagree. People are complex and come in all shades of good and bad- including settlers.

As I prepared to catch my bus back to Tel Aviv (the West Bank is really, really close- you can see Tel Aviv from Ariel), I started to well up. I wasn’t sure why at first, but I figured it out. I snuck over to some bushes and just started balling. As much as I liked exploring Ariel today, I just couldn’t help but think about the Palestinian villages I could see on the hilltops. What was life like there? First-hand- I don’t really know. If we were elsewhere in Israel, I could just hop on a bus and go find out. But reality here is a bit starker. Due to the complicated situation (on both sides), I can’t just hop on a bus and visit a Palestinian village. I’m not even sure if/where it’s legal to do so. Or safe. The situation made me so sad and the tears came down. I hate seeing the world broken.

I told myself that whenever I’m feeling despondent here, something magical happens to lift my spirits. And I was right. As I was waiting for the bus, I saw a familiar face. Sarah is a Muslim Arab-Israeli I met through a Hebrew-Arabic practice group in Tel Aviv. What are the odds that my first time visiting a settlement I bump into an Arab friend when I’ve only been here for two months? There are coincidences and then there’s bashert.

We hopped on the bus and I asked if I could sit next to her (important detail). We got to talking about Arabic dialects in Israel (I’m trying to figure out which ones to study- I already speak Syrian which is intelligible but want to get more local too). We spoke in a mixture of Hebrew and Arabic. She told me about her work at Ariel University (that’s right- she works at a college in a settlement) and her work with promoting Hebrew language studies for Arabs in her town of Kafr Qasim.

Then we pulled up to a checkpoint. I’m glad there’s security to make sure everyone is safe. That being said, something fishy happened. Two guards came on board and walked around, but the only person they asked for ID from was the Muslim Arab woman in a hijab next to me- my friend Sarah. There wasn’t even the illusion of not profiling her. Then they looked at me sitting next to her: “Are you with her?” My answer (as I sat there fairly scared shitless): “We’re friends”. At that point, the guards requested my ID. After some skeptical glances, they gave us our IDs back and left the bus.

I asked Sarah if they always asked her for her ID. She said yes. She also said that if I hadn’t been sitting next to her, they wouldn’t have asked for mine either. I said that I knew. It was kind of a scary experience for me, and I’m sure it’s upsetting for Sarah too even if she has resigned herself to it. Sarah is a full Israeli citizen born and raised. I’m not sure why a terrorist would be dumb enough to put on a hijab, but I’ll take at face value that anyone could be a threat and the guards have a stressful job. That being said, check everyone’s ID, keep people safer, and stop being racist. It’s a win-win.

I have to say I’m proud of myself. When I was asked if I was with Sarah, the easy way out would’ve been to say that I don’t know her or barely know her. But the words that came out of my mouth, under pressure, were “we’re friends”. If that makes me an Arab by association, so be it. I’m a human being and damn proud of it.

Sarah got off the bus and I headed back to Tel Aviv. I couldn’t help but thinking about what an overwhelming day I had. Full of meaning and also a lot to process. How I try to find humanity in every community- settlers, Arab-Israelis, Palestinians- everyone. And how that can be really hard.

Israel is a verb. It means “wrestles with God”. It would’ve been easier for me to sit static on the beach today (and frankly I might need that after this trip). But instead, I moved, I wrestled. I went by myself to a place where most people I know have never stepped foot. It was interesting, it was hard, it was brave. I’m proud of myself.

As I got off the bus, I thanked the driver in Hebrew, assuming he was Jewish. He responded back “ma3 asalaameh” – that’s Arabic for goodbye. He winked at me and I smiled back. Guardian angels come in all shapes and sizes 🙂 .

Hitchhiking on a Druze golf cart

Tonight was rough. I had an amazing Shabbat which included hosting American students, Reform services, Libyan food, the beach, and an Israeli techno party. After all that, I headed to the America Restaurant on Ibn Gvirol only to find all sorts of Trump-themed and racist paraphernalia. It was an unwelcome surprise for someone who came here to get away from that. I felt angry and typecast. The only good part was my excellent company and the mac n cheese. I headed home feeling deflated and wondering why I was here. It’s hard to be a Jew in America and it’s hard to be American in Israel.

After blowing off some steam, I decided to write about my trip to Daliat Al Karmel and Haifa. Because there, I felt the inspiration that can happen in Israel.

Let’s start in Daliat Al Karmel. A beautiful Druze village, I loved exploring every nook and cranny. I had heard there was a monastery nearby, so I made my way by foot. Each person I asked for directions told me it was 5 minutes away. I asked four people the same question, so needless to say it was more than 5 minutes away. After 30-40 minutes in the heat, I saw a golf cart heading towards me. I asked the man and his son in Arabic for a lift- and so I hitchhiked with the Druze family to the monastery.

This place is gorgeous. On top of the roof, you can see all of Israel’s North. It looks like this:

I felt at peace. Tel Aviv is a disgusting dirty city. It’s a fun place. It’s filled with youth and queer people and the beach and a million and a half cultures. But it’s gross. And loud. The North is peaceful. It is where I go to meditate and connect with God.

Realizing I was far away from the village bus and in need of a way home, I talked to the Druze guy who worked at the front desk. Since this is Israel, there is ALWAYS a solution. A priest from the monastery was headed back to Haifa, where I was staying.

I ran after his car and hopped in. The generous and kind Italian priest drove me the entire 45 minute ride. He spoke decent Spanish and I speak Spanish so we talked that way- in “Itañol” as he called it 🙂 . He works for a Roman Catholic church in Haifa that cooperates with Greek Catholics and Maronites- both of whom are also in communion with Rome. He loves life in Israel and wants to stay. He even did an ulpan- although he was frustrated that the teacher only explained things in Russian! 25% of Haifa is Russian so it makes sense. Kind of funny that the words he learned in ulpan were zdrastvootie and pazhalsta haha.

I then went out in Haifa to check out the nightlife. I connected with some Americans teaching English in Haifa, which was great. It’s nice to get a dose of the motherland once in a while 🙂 I was then headed home when I heard Arabic music blasting from a sushi bar. I immediately went inside and found an entirely Arab sushi restaurant singing and dancing. I joined in, started clapping and dancing. It is hands down the most fun I’ve had since arriving in Israel. And there’s wasn’t a Jew in sight. Because it would probably never occur to a Sabra to step foot in this place. I’m pretty fearless and open-minded, so I said what the hell.

The next thing I know, the music stopped and the bartender starts belting out some amazing Arabic tunes. And he. is. GOOD. Everyone starts swinging and swaying and banging on the bar.

It’s 3:30am and I head home. I can’t help but think now how my Americanness helped make these moments possible. My multilingual interactions. My trust of Druze and Arabs. My appreciation for all religious traditions.

Because my American identity isn’t a metaphor. And it’s not a Britney Spears concert or a goofy picture of Donald Trump or a selfie in Times Square.

It’s my appreciation for diversity. My willingness to listen. My open-mindedness and my love for my neighbors- Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, you name it.

When I made aliyah, some Sabras told me not to hang out too much with other Americans. Not to be too diasporic.

Bullshit. My American identity makes me a better Israeli. Quite a number of Jews here speak better German than Arabic and know more about Berlin than Kafr Qasem.

I intend to be part of the solution here as an American-Israeli. Instead of throwing shade, hop on the golf cart with me. We’ll climb atop a monastery in the middle of nowhere. We’ll stare out at the North and realize that anything is possible if you just let yourself dream. The American-Israeli dream.

How an Arab saved my Shabbat

Shabbat shalom! I don’t typically blog on Shabbat. I usually go to shul, have a meal, and chill with friends. But tonight, I had a very unique night.

First, I started off at Reform services. They were musical and fun. They start at 6 so that ended pretty early, leaving me with an empty evening alone.

To avoid feeling lonely (aliyah is hard and this has been a hard week), I did something I don’t typically do on Shabbat which was to go to a movie! It was my first time in a movie theater in Israel, so I said a Shehecheyanu and watched Logan Lucky, a film starring Channing Tatum (mmmm!) about some rednecks in West Virginia robbing a Nascar race. Dudn’t get more ‘Murrican than that! Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have seen it in the U.S. (although, Channing Tatum), but here it felt perfect. I laughed at all sorts of things the audience didn’t get and I relished hearing some southern accents, which you don’t hear much around here.

After I left the theater, my friend invited me to Arisa, a gay Mizrachi music dance party. I love Mizrachi music (it’s my favorite music in the world) and have been aching for months to go to this event. My friend was running later than me, so I showed up alone. The security guard patted me down and then asked me to empty my pockets. I’ve been to a lot of clubs around the world and I appreciate the need for security, especially in Israel, so I did as I was told.

He then noticed my circular pill case. Without my permission, he tried to open it. He was opening it the wrong way so that all the pills would fall out if he succeeded. I told him to stop and that I would open it for him. Again, I was already feeling really uncomfortable with this invasiveness, but I understand the need to avoid drugs getting into the club. I explained to him what the medications were for and the names of the prescriptions. There is also some writing on the pills, as is typical for prescription medication. At this point, the guard and his colleague, without my permission, start thumbing through my medications and grabbing the actual pills. I told them to stop but they ignored me. Meanwhile, I was having to explain my medical issues in front of other patrons who were waiting behind me. A female guard even told me that I couldn’t enter the club with my pills. Eventually they let me in, but I was so angry, embarrassed, and humiliated that I just left. This is a disgraceful way to treat a customer and to handle someone’s medical needs. If you can’t distinguish a prescription from ecstasy, you probably shouldn’t work club security. I plan on contacting them through their Facebook page because I was so insulted. I won’t complain if you join me 🙂 .

Feeling blue, I headed to Yafo, perhaps my favorite part of Tel Aviv. My friend got tired so we didn’t end up meeting up. I was just exhausted. After a long week, the last thing I needed was some random guy grabbing my very personal medications.

I headed to my favorite baklava shop to see my friend Seger, an Arab from East Jerusalem. He’s a wonderful, fun-loving guy in his early 20s. And when I entered the shop, by coincidence, he was blasting Mizrachi music- the same music I was supposed to hear at Arisa. He gave me free knafeh and we talked in Arabic and caught up. He showed me his favorite Arab singers and I taught him some English. I even came out to him and his immediate reaction was to show me on Facebook his gay Arab friend. I had been nervous about coming out to him, but not a split second passed before I felt comfortable again. It’s good to feel like you can be your full self.

The night was coming to an end as he closed up shop. As this is Israel, things went from sour to sweet. And not just because of the heavily discounted baklava he gave me.

Seger put on Sarit Hadad, whose first CD was my first CD when I was 13, and blasted the music. We started to dance. Then, people walking by start dancing. And before you know it, I’m having my own gay Mizrachi dance party.

I gave Seger a hug and we wished each other Shabbat Shalom. I told him my night really sucked before I walked into his store and that he made me feel happy. Since we’re now Facebook friends, he might even be reading this blog. Thanks man 🙂

Would it have been fun to dance in a room of 500 beautiful Israeli men singing to my favorite Mizrachi songs? I think so. And maybe I will find out one day if I’m treated with dignity there.

In the meantime, screw Arisa. I don’t need to pay 120 shekels to have a gay Mizrachi dance party on Shabbat. I just need to hang out with an Arab friend at a baklava shop.

You know you’re in Israel when an Arab saves your Shabbat. Eid Mubarak indeed.

Everything is Better in America

Israelis love, love, love to tell me how much better and easier things are in America. Aside from several seriously well-informed Sabras who understand the challenges of American healthcare, college education, crime, gun violence, public transportation (or lack thereof), and anti-Semitism, a lot of people here just don’t get it. On the other hand, a lot of Israelis (including some who say America is better, in an act of serious cognitive dissonance) like to tell me how awful the food is, how naive the people are, and how fake everyone is in the U.S.

In the spirit of shedding light and dispelling myths, here’s my take on what’s better in America and what’s better in Israel.

AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL

America is the most diverse country on the planet. 430 languages are spoken in the U.S. There are hundreds of Protestant denominations alone- not to mention Catholics, Jews, Orthodox Christians of all varieties, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, Jains, Sikhs, Bahai, Rastafarians, Mormons, and Native American religions. It’s extremely racially diverse- there are twice as many Asians in the U.S. as there are Israelis in the world. And seven times as many Latinos.
Much more so than in Israel, Americans of different backgrounds work, play, pray, and learn together. On my high school soccer team, white Christian kids were a minority (and somehow almost all of them were blond!). Just on one team, off the top of my head 13 years later, we had kids from El Salvador, Korea, Iran, Israel (!), Georgia, Bulgaria, Peru, Cameroon, Brazil, Uruguay, Bolivia, Turkey, Russia, and a bunch of Jews. There were no organized co-existence activities- this was just our normal life!
Pluralism. In the U.S., thanks to the separation of church and state, religion is a personal rather than a legal matter. This even benefits the Jewish community, where over the course of my life I became friends with Reform, Reconstructionist, Conservative, Modern Orthodox, and even Haredi Jews. Are there debates between Jews? For sure. But the relationships between communities are much deeper in the U.S. than here and there is far, far less vitriol.
Ethnic food. Yes, thanks to the tens of millions of immigrants from around the world, American food is amazing. I’m really sorry (not sorry) for my Israeli friend who posted about her office in Denver not providing her with suitable vegetables for breakfast (side note- nowhere I’ve been outside of Israel eats vegetables for breakfast). But the fact is, American food IS international food because we’re an international society. Don’t come to America expecting your (albeit delicious) Israeli cheeses, yogurts, and tomatoes for breakfast- that’s not what we do. But we do have immensely better, fresher, and cheaper Thai, Burmese, Indian (southern and northern), Vietnamese, Chinese, Mexican, Salvadoran, Cuban, Laotian, Korean, Nepali, Japanese, etc etc. Not to mention the best Jewish deli food in the world. The point is that unlike in Israel, where I grew up, these are not seen as exotic tastes of foreign lands. They become part of our diet and become American food. When I spent a summer in Spain, I didn’t miss hamburgers. I missed Chinese food.

ERETZ YISRAEL YAFFA – THE BEAUTIFUL LAND OF ISRAEL

Healthcare – I’ve already written a blog about this which I recommend reading. Israeli health spending per capita is $2910 and in the U.S. it’s $9403. The number one reason for bankruptcy in the U.S. is medical expenses. Just two years ago, I had to spend $20,000 on medical care in one year- in addition to the $500/month I spent on medical and dental insurance. Israel’s healthcare system is ranked 4th for efficiency- the U.S. is ranked 46th. My friend Dave is battling a brain tumor and has to raise $68,000 for treatment, something unthinkable in Israel. Please consider donating (and stop whining about Israel’s healthcare).
College education – in the U.S., college education ranges from about $9410-$32,410 a year. And that doesn’t include thousands more dollars for housing or food. Some schools like Bates are charging over $60,000. The better the school, the better the job prospects. Israeli tuition is about…$3000 a year. Pretty sweet.
Fresh produce – yes I just touted American food, which is amazing. Truth be told, the fruits and veggies here are better. Perhaps because Israel is small and doesn’t ship grapes from California to New York, the produce is super fresh and extremely tasty. Other than farmers markets, fruit in America tastes watery. In Israel, it is full of flavor, inexpensive, and delicious.
Weather – this depends on where you are in the U.S. (I’m looking at you beautiful San Diego), but at least compared to D.C., the weather in Israel is much nicer. Yes it can get very hot, but there is a beach. There are beautiful rural places to escape to with nice breezes. When there is three feet of snow on the ground during a D.C. blizzard, Tel Aviv is 60 degrees Fahrenheit on a February day.
Caring for one another – this might surprise Israelis, but I find Israelis to be much more willing to trust one another and to help one another than Americans. I regularly see people step up and help people who are sick, lost, in need of a place to stay, etc- even if they’ve never met them. These are things that would usually be met with suspicion in America, but here are totally normal. If you have nowhere to go on Friday night for Shabbat, just tell someone and you’ll be eating a warm meal before you can remember their name.
Judaism – yes, the U.S. is pluralistic with a much bigger Reform community than Israel, but the fact remains that the entire country here is a synagogue. When I walked down the street today, my friend and I heard a shofar. There is biblical graffiti everywhere- done by hipsters. My favorite Israeli dancing songs play on juice bar stereos. All of my holidays are government holidays. I can go to the Western Wall in Jerusalem in the morning and a gay Orthodox Torah study in Tel Aviv at night. There is also unparalleled Jewish cultural diversity (and food!) here- with Jews from dozens of countries represented. My identity is validated over and over and over again even in ways Sabras don’t recognize. Here, I am normal.

We won’t even get into the economics of things, because while Israelis decry how much more Americans make, the fact is things are a bit more complicated. The average Israeli household earns a net income of $56,892 a year. In the U.S., the figure is $55,775. For sure, there’s variation by region and industry, and there are different tax burdens. But the point is- not all Americans are rich (most aren’t) and especially when you consider that significant sectors within Haredi and Arab societies here don’t work, there’s not as much of a gap between Americans and Israelis as some people here think.

In the end, I’m not writing this blog to declare victory or to engage in endless debate. That feels a waste. There are beautiful things in America and beautiful things here. And shitty things in both places. And I could give many more examples of both.

I chose to be here not because it would be easy, although in some ways it is easier than America. I made aliyah because it would be meaningful, it would be validating, and it would be inspiring. In short, because I think it’ll make me happy. Much like this famous scene from Monty Python, let’s not bicker about who’s right. Let’s just respect each other’s choices, including mine to become an Israeli. Because in the end, I’m not asking for your approval or your advice. I’m here.

Hasidic Game of Thrones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kosher Curry in Ramle

This morning, I felt like crap. Making aliyah is hard. I’m far away from my friends and my D.C. Jewish community. I’m alone. I’m adapting to a new culture and country.

To shake off the blues, I decided to go on a tiyyul (trip) to Ramle (which can also be spelled Ramla). A small and fairly poor town, it’s not usually on Israeli or foreign tourist maps. I went several hours without seeing a single tourist. And that’s exactly what I needed- somewhere a little quieter and off the beaten path to unwind from the hectic and exciting energy that is Tel Aviv.

First off, Ramle reminds me of the D.C. suburbs where I grew up. It’s quiet, has about 70,000 residents (almost identical to where I lived before Israel), it’s calm, and it’s diverse. Much like Montgomery County where I’m from, there are mosques, synagogues, and lots of churches. I kind of miss seeing churches sometimes. Ramle is a “mixed city”, meaning there are significant Jewish and Arab populations (and even Karaites!).

I started my adventure at what American Jews might call a “tchotchke store”- odds and ends. What immediately caught my eye were tons of cheap CD’s- of music I adore. For 10 NIS a piece ($2.80), I bought Jewish music from Iraq, Tunisia, and Morocco. As I paid for my CD’s, I noticed all sorts of amulets knows as hamsas. Some were in Hebrew, obviously for Jews. Yet I noticed some in Arabic. I asked the store owners, who themselves were Russian Jews, whether the Arabic hamsas were for Arabs or Mizrachi Jews or both. They gave the most beautiful answer: “they’re for everyone. Jews, Muslims, and Christians all need protection from the evil eye.”

I then made my way to an Indian restaurant owned by Indian Jews. It’s vegetarian and closed on Shabbat, which makes it Kosher in my book, but I’m not sure if it has a teudat kashrut. I badly miss the ethnic cuisines of America- especially Thai (no, the Thai food in Tel Aviv is not that great), Chinese (cheap, delicious Chinese food of Rockville Pike), and Indian. As soon as I entered the place, I knew I had made the right decision. The smells wafted over me as I began to smile. I sat down by myself and ordered pakora, palak paneer, and naan. The waiter’s Hebrew wasn’t strong so I spoke to him in English.

At this point, a woman came over to me and asked if I was American. Turns out, not only is she American too, she’s a half-Persian half-Indian Jew from…Bethesda, Maryland! Exactly where I lived before making aliyah! And she knows one of my rabbis from D.C. The odds of this happening are infinitesimally small. She’s a tourist, I don’t even live in Ramle. There are 6 million American Jews and over 326 million Americans spread across 50 states. What are the odds! Reminds me of that famous Hebrew school song “Wherever You Go, There’s Always Someone Jewish“. It’s cool to be part of an international 3,000 year old club.

After this amazing coincidence, I walked through a bustling marketplace, where unlike in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv there are no tourist traps. Just lots of grapes and candy and tomatoes. I stumbled upon a Turkish synagogue and then a Tunisian one. Without asking permission (because that’s how we do in Israel), I just walked in and talked to the janitor who is also a congregant. His name is Zion and he grew up in the synagogue. He made aliyah from Tunisia at age 5. He showed me an original Torah scroll, hundreds of years old, brought from Tunisia. He also handed me a book which had all the traditional Tunisian Jewish piyyutim (liturgical poems). Everything in the synagogue was handcrafted and beautiful, including the stained glass. I told him maybe I’d come pray with them some day. What a treat.

As I walked by a Crusader monastery, I heard a car blasting Middle Eastern music. I thought it was Arabic music, since the town is 20% Arab. But as I listened more closely, I realized it was Mizrachi music, the music of Middle Eastern Jews. That’s Ramle for you- a town where you don’t know exactly whose culture the music belongs to. Where ethnic boundaries are blurred and mixed. Where Russians sell Arabic amulets, where Tunisian Jews pray next to Turkish Jews, where mosques and churches dot the landscape next to synagogues. Where Indian Jews prepare American olim kosher curry.

Some people might say there’s not a lot to see in Ramle. To which I’d say I suppose it depends on what you want to see.

As my bus headed back, all I know is my eyes gazed more towards the fields around the town than towards the skyscrapers awaiting me on the coast.

A gay Reform Jew goes to Bnei Brak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When God speaks through graffiti

Last night, I heard my first really racist comment in Israel. Some people might be surprised at this. Americans might think that people are way more racist here than they are. And Israelis might think I might be deaf. But the reality is, I have heard racist comments here, but this one felt more real. It wasn’t just a comment, it was a diatribe and it was backed by a lot of emotion.

The very long story short is I was talking to a young guy, around 30 years old, Israeli Jew of Middle Eastern descent. His entire point of view could be summed up in one comment he made: “Not all Arabs are terrorists, but all terrorists around the world are Arabs.”

There are variations of this phrase around the world. Some people replace Arab with Muslim. It is not a uniquely Israeli phrase, as any Google search will show you.

I was disgusted. I vigorously pushed back against his thinking but it didn’t change his mind one bit. It didn’t matter how many times I explained about non-Arab terrorists in America or Myanmar or Ireland or anywhere else. This guy was inconvincible.

Anyone who knows me knows that my Zionism, that my Jewish identity, that my very way of interacting with the world is predicated on finding something to love in different cultures, not trashing them.

Feeling thoroughly discouraged, today I hung out in Yafo. Yafo is a predominantly Arab town in the Tel Aviv municipality and it has an extensive multicultural history that includes everyone from Jews to ancient Egyptians to Greeks to Arabs. I needed to be with my people- and today, that meant Arabs.

I talked with a new friend Samir at my baklava hangout. A nice guy with mostly Jewish friends and an open mind. Also some delusional thoughts about whether ISIS really attacked Barcelona (because “who are they?”). And he didn’t believe that terrorists in the West Bank get paid for their acts (they do). At the same time, he is extremely opposed to Palestinian terrorism and all violence. And also radically not a radical- he said he won’t even go to Mecca in Saudi Arabia, even though his religion demands it, because he’s so disgusted by their extremist and corrupt government. I left semi-encouraged, though also feeling like there’s a lot of work to do here.

I wandered through Yafo eating Palestinian potato chips, hoping that eating a snack from Hebron would help me heal from the turmoil. I decided to head to the sea. I always find some quiet and nature calms my mind. I had been feeling distant from God and spirituality and kind of hopeless. The waves gave me some respite and a connection to the bigger things in life.

Then I noticed the most interesting graffiti. It said in Hebrew “Ramsey loves Natali”. To most people, this might just look like an ordinary graffiti. To me, it was absolutely beautiful. First off, Ramsey is an Arabic name and Natali is kind of a universal name, though my guess is this girl is Jewish because the graffiti is written in Hebrew. So most likely a Jewish-Arab romance, which is heartwarming.

And there’s much more to it. Almost two years ago, my friend Jad passed away. I grew up with him in Maryland and he was my first Arab friend. I had had other Arab acquaintances at school, but he was the first person I really connected with. I learned a lot from him about his Lebanese culture and seeing as how he grew up in a suburb that’s 30% Jewish, he learned a lot about my culture too. I remember him telling me he could understand a lot of the words at our friends’ Bar Mitzvahs because of his Arabic. I was so sad to hear of his passing. You can learn more about what his friendship meant to me in a blog I wrote at the time.

Jad’s younger brother, who I always remember hanging out with after our soccer games- his name is Ramsey, just like in the graffiti. At a time when I’ve found it hard to bridge the distance between my past life in America and my current Israeli life, I felt like this graffiti was a spiritual lifeline. A message from God and Jad that hope is found in the most unlikely places.

In my blog after Jad’s death, I wrote: “Just as Jad opened my eyes to his culture, I will make an extra effort to advocate for peace and understanding between Jews and Arabs.”

I love all cultures and all peoples. There are good and bad individuals (and many in between) everywhere. With every conversation I have, with every blog I write, with every song I sing I am keeping my promise I made to Jad. To find people of good faith, an open heart, and willingness to listen no matter what their background. To laugh with them and to make the world a better place.

I will be the hope this place needs. Join me.

Druze make the best Zionists (and kubbeh)

Who are the Druze? The Druze are an Arabic-speaking minority in Israel, Lebanon, Syria, and Jordan. They have their own secret monotheistic religion that was often persecuted by Muslim rulers.

By their creed, they are loyal to the state they live in. Druze serve in the Lebanese, Syrian, Jordanian, and Israeli armies. In Israel, they voluntarily signed a pact with the state for their sons to be drafted into the army. Other Arabic-speakers are not legally obligated (some choose to volunteer). It’s important to note that in Israel, many Druze simply identify as Druze and not as Arabs due to their Zionism, their previous persecution by Muslims, and societal pressure to distinguish themselves from the Arab minority.

Today I went to Daliat al-Karmel, a Druze village, to see what they’re all about. First off, this place is gorgeous:

I started off the day by buying local Druze music. Or as I like to call it, Druzic. (The puns are innumerable- just think, if Druze drank, you could have a “Druze booze cruise”!) At this little hole-in-the-wall shop, I got three CD’s by local singers in Arabic- two pop CD’s and one of wedding/folk music. I can’t wait to pop them in my iPod. If your only experience in a Druze village is eating hummus, you are an awful tourist. Go try something new that expands your cultural boundaries.

I did go eat amazing Druze food, including the best kubbeh I’ve ever had. For my American friends who’ve traveled in the South- it somehow tasted like hush puppies but better. My waiter was an 18 year old man who was very excited to hear me speaking Arabic and also told me all about how he’s going into the army in December.

Then I wandered around and ended up at a Druze holy site- the cave of the Prophet Abu Ibrahim. The Druze visitors kiss the doorway as they enter, much like Jews kiss mezuzahs. Everyone must take off their shoes and wear long sleeves, including men (some women put a long-sleeved shirt on me). I wandered into this stone cave where there were candles. I was all alone, so I spoke out loud to God. We had a good conversation. It was one of the most spiritual moments I’ve ever had. Me and God alone in a cave in a Druze village.

Then I came out and went to a memorial for Druze soldiers who were killed while serving in the IDF. I was so moved. These are non-Jews whose community chose to put their lives on the line to protect my right as a Jew to live here and their right to live in peace. 80% of Druze men serve in the Israeli military, a higher percentage than Jews. As I stood at the wall of names, I said Kaddish out loud for these brave men as the breeze swooshed by and you could almost hear their souls rustling in the trees. Another powerful spiritual experience.

The memorial is a reminder that not all Jews are Zionists and not all Zionists are Jews. I’ve met a number of Jewish anti/non-Zionists in Tel Aviv. Some are disaffected Israelis born here who are looking for a better life in another country or have political qualms. I can understand that to an extent even if I disagree- this place can be difficult economically and there are real religious and political issues here. Other anti-Zionists here are olim (new immigrants). Now this frustrates the hell out of me. You want to take advantage of the fact that you’re Jewish to receive money from the state, citizenship, and a free flight. Then, you want to go around telling everyone how you’re not a Zionist? You might not be a Zionist but you are a hypocrite. Criticizing Israel out of the spirit of bettering the country is democracy. Demonizing us is not. Our people didn’t die for you to have the opportunity to enjoy the privileges of being Israeli only to use that privilege to trash us. Against Zionism? Then don’t come to Zion. There are plenty of English teaching jobs in Korea.

Meanwhile, non-Jews like Druze put their lives on the line for us to survive. And at great cost. There are even some Druze who are pushing back against military service because of the tensions it creates with their Arab neighbors and because of poorly-funded municipalities. All Jews should become “Jews for Druze” (I’ve loved that name for years) and help our brethren feel appreciated for their sacrifices.

Before I headed off, I stopped into a store for some water. As often happens with me here in Israel, this became a three hour Arabic and Hebrew discussion with a local Druze family. Samir’s family runs the store. In his own words, he is a secular Druze (something I’ve never heard of but piqued my curiosity). His wife is a devout Druze woman. According to Samir, this is legitimate in their community, but if it were the other way around, it’d be perceived as problematic. He said this was very much “inside baseball” and I loved the insight he was sharing. All his children are secular Druze and are doing some combination of army and school. His daughter is studying to be an engineer.

I explained to him I was a Reform Jew (which surprisingly he understood- more than some Jews here I’ve met!). As we were talking about spirituality and identity, I actually did something very brave and came out to him as gay. In the middle of a rural Druze village. I was nervous about his response, but to be honest, he barely made note of it. We just continued our great conversation as his wife plied me with walnut-stuffed dates. We even exchanged numbers and he said he’d invite me to a local wedding sometime. Interesting things do happen here!

In short, we’re taught in the U.S. not to generalize about people. And usually I agree. But in this case, I’ll make an exception: Druze are awesome. I love them. They are righteous gentiles who support my people and my right to live in my homeland. And they make delicious food. I will support them as well. They’ve earned it. If you’re Israeli or Jewish or just a good person, support this fascinating minority. We should never take such friends for granted.

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