Coexistence – Page 13 – Planting Roots Bearing Fruits

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.

What America can learn from Israel

Tonight, in the span of 5 minutes, I saw what Israel has to teach the world about tolerance and diversity.

Walking back from an outdoor movie in Yafo (which overlapped with the Islamic call to prayer halfway through), I heard a man on a microphone.

The man was talking to a crowd at a restaurant on the roof of a building. He started to sing. I figured it was just a guy playing music for tourists.

Then I started to recognize traditional Jewish wedding music, saw a chuppah, and realized it was My Big Fat Jewish Wedding. People started to dance and shimmy as the music blared. Definitely the only time I’ve ever walked by a rooftop restaurant and discovered it was a Jewish wedding- on a Wednesday!

Then I headed to a great spot where you can look out at the sea, just meters away. And there I saw a group of Korean Christian tourists with a guitar singing their songs of praise. A crowd of secular Jews, Orthodox Jews, and Muslims watched with great interest. Women in hijabs swayed back and forth as the Koreans sang their hymns. Everyone applauded at the end while the song leader said “God bless you” to all of us. It was beautiful.

As I headed over to a dessert shop, I could hear the ululating (in Hebrew “kululu”, in Arabic “zaghrada”) from the Jewish wedding.

The dessert shop is run by Arabs. For the first time, I tried malabi, a creamy Israeli pudding dessert likely of Turkish origin. It was de-licious.

As I chowed down, I noticed the shopkeeper, Zidan, was blasting “Shav El Admati” (I return to my land), a famous Zionist Mizrachi music song about Jews returning to Israel. So this was an Arab man singing at the top of his lungs a Jewish song about returning to Israel. While I, an oleh chadash (new immigrant), am singing all the words with him because I learned them while pining for Israel in America.

As the song ended, Zidan gave a Haredi (ultra-Orthodox) Jew directions to the nearest Kosher restaurant. When the man didn’t understand, the gay Reform Jew (me) showed him the restaurant.

All of this happened in a one-block radius in 5 minutes. It was the best part of my day.

At a time when America is suffering, I can’t help but think that perhaps my former country has something to learn from Israel. I’ve often spoken of ways Israel can learn from America, but I think it’s time to turn the tables for a moment.

Tolerance and coexistence don’t just happen at big elaborate ceremonies or through proclamations.

They happen in our day-to-day lives, when people least notice or expect it. Organically, not by way of grandiose announcements or gestures. If you put yourself out there in your own surroundings, you’d be surprised what you can find.

In some ways, Israelis are much better at this than Americans, probably better than Israelis even realize. I’d love to see my fellow Israelis appreciate the miracle we’re living in.

At a time when Americans are struggling, understandably, to figure out how to repair their society, my advice from Israel is this: living your values in your day-to-day life is the best way to make change. Forget the speeches and the rallies- there may be a time and a place for them, but their impact is temporary and can’t sustain long-term change.

Be the Korean Christian singing for Israelis. Be the Muslim woman swaying to their music. Be the Haredi guy asking directions from an Arab shopkeeper. Be the new immigrant exploring new foods and new cultures.

There’s a lot you can’t control in life, but what you can- enjoy the hell out of it. Look around you, there’s miracles happening everywhere. Just look.

Hebrew, Yiddish, and Arabic in “occupied” Akko?

Thursday I had a fun, frustrating, and complex experience in Akko.

Akko is a 4000+ year old city continuously inhabited since the Bronze Age. It has been home to Canaanites, Phoenicians, Jews, Greeks, Byzantines, Arabs (Christian and Muslim), Crusaders, Ottomans, Brits, and most recently, Israelis of all stripes. It also has a Druze and Baha’i population, being home to the resting place of the founder of the Baha’i religion. So basically it’s diverse and historic as f*ck.

My initial intent was to write about my experience on a boat. I was exploring the historic city and noticed something curious- almost everywhere around me, people were either Arab or ultra-Orthodox (Haredi). From now on, I’ll use the term Haredi since that’s preferred by people in that community.

It was interesting to see women in hijabs flowing by men in black hats. Very Jerusalem-esque, but at least in this part of town, absent any other secular or traditional Jewish communities that you’d find in the capital.

Honestly, I didn’t feel particularly uncomfortable. You might expect a gay Reform Jew to head for the hills at this point, but frankly I found it more interesting than threatening.

Then, I found a boat. It was a 10 shekel ($3) boat tour. The boat was being driven by an Arab man and was blaring Hasidic pop music (which I happen to like). On board were two Haredi families…and me! The scenery was exquisite. Here are some pictures from the ride:

I started talking with Haredi family #1 in Hebrew. They were super sweet and congratulated me on my aliyah. They live in Bnei Brak, a Haredi city right next to Tel Aviv. When I said I lived in Tel Aviv, they said “oh we’re neighbors!”. They also helped me find a legit Ashkenazi restaurant in their city so I can get my fill of the foods I grew up on. He even said I could just come to their house some time for a home cooked meal! Falafel is great, but I miss my whitefish salad and kugel.

Then I overheard Haredi family #2 but they weren’t speaking Hebrew- their girls were laughing and taking selfies…in Yiddish! Whoa!! This got me very excited! I started talking to them in Yiddish and it turns out they’re Vizhnitzer Hasidim from Borough Park in Brooklyn and were in town for a wedding.

They were polite but a little less warm than the other family. I think it’s because they thought I might be ex-Hasidic (seeing as so few non-Hasidic American Jews speak Yiddish anymore). The father kept asking me for my Hasidic lineage, to which I kept replying that I don’t have any (that I know of). At first, I was kind of annoyed for having to repeat this over and over again. Then, I realized he was playing the timeless game of Jewish geography. Turns out, he knows some Adlers and was trying to see if we were related.

Before I got off the boat, I made some chit chat with the Arab driver in Arabic. But he was too busy taking pictures of the other boats (should you be doing while driving?) for anything too in-depth. But a friendly guy.

So there I was, on a boat, speaking Hebrew, Arabic, and Yiddish. The progressive gay Jew hanging out with Haredim and Arabs. While to a number of secular Israelis and even some Modern Orthodox Jews, a city teeming with Arabs and Haredim is their worst nightmare for Israel’s demographic future, I actually found the experience fascinating and rather benign. I’m not saying there aren’t legitimate concerns for Israel’s future, but in the end we’re all people. Among groups that, at least if all you do is read The New York Times, you’d think would be ripping each other’s throats out, there was a pretty basic coexistence that was refreshing.

Then, I made the mistake of the internet. On my way home from Akko (Israel has a pretty clean, efficient, and cheap inter-city train system, something America might get around to one day), I opened Youtube to find dabke music from Akko. Dabke is an Arab folk dance found in Lebanese, Syrian, Palestinian, and Jordanian culture. It sometimes has nationalist overtones. Overall, it is fun.

There are videos of dabke in Akko on Youtube, but several of them had (in my opinion) inflammatory titles like “Dabke in occupied Palestinian Akko”. There was even a video from neighboring Haifa, which has a recorded Jewish history going back to 200 C.E., about 450 years before Arabs conquered the area. The Haifa video was entitled “Palestinian dabke in ‘Haifa’ in the heart of Israel”. I’m not sure exactly why Haifa was in quotes, but if the angry back and forth in the comments section was an indication, the title was meant to be provocative. Side note: never read the comments section of anything ever.

I then read an article that said an Arab man in Akko claimed Jews were pushing his people out so they would go live in Europe instead of Akko. He said Jews were given preference for new housing. The first sentence seems specious because if Jews are trying to push Arabs out of Akko, they’re not doing a very good job because there are a lot of Arabs everywhere. Unlike in everywhere else I’ve seen in Israel, I even saw signs with Arabic on top and Hebrew on the bottom. That being said, it’s true that during Israel’s War of Independence, many Arab communities including Akko were displaced- sometimes voluntarily and sometimes under pressure from Israeli troops. It’s also true that there has been discriminatory housing policy, so even if this man was exaggerating, there may be truth to what he is saying.

Then, for things to get more depressing, apparently there used to be a larger Jewish population in Old Akko, going back a long time. However, due to demographic changes they moved to other parts of the city. Then, apparently the Islamic Movement, an Islamist organization, removed the signs to historic synagogues and replaced them with quotes from the Quran. If this is true, this is truly depressing.

I began to feel deflated. Was the coexistence I was seeing everywhere just a facade? Do Israeli Arabs really just see me as an occupier like the videos on Youtube indicated? Do they know nothing about Jewish history in this land (or elsewhere)? Were Jews really pushing Arabs out of Akko or discriminating against Arabs in housing?

These are all complex questions that deserve sophisticated and well-researched answers. I don’t have the expertise at this moment to answer them all right now. I do believe people are entitled to different narratives so long as they respect each other and empathize.

What I can say is this: Arab identity in Israel is diverse. Half of Arab citizens of Israel recognize the right to a Jewish state. Half don’t. 26% identify as Palestinian, 36% percent as Palestinians in Israel, and the plurality (37%) as Israeli-Arabs. Another survey found 64% believe Israel is a good place to live and 43% favor their Israeli-Arab identity over a Palestinian one. Perhaps surprising to the Western ear is that 24% of Arab Muslims in Israel vote for Zionist parties.

Do some of those numbers sound contradictory or confusing? Welcome to the complexity that is Arab-Israeli identity. There are anti-Semites, there are Islamists, there are people who volunteer to serve in Israel’s military, there are Zionists, there are secularists, there are communists, there are feminists, there are nationalists, there are pragmatists. And some people fit into multiple categories.

So in the end, is the coexistence I saw on that boat a facade? Are my conversations with Arab-Israelis merely window dressing to deeper prejudices?

Sure, I think that there are some prejudices here that are merely beneath the surface. When you read about Arabs throwing rocks at Jewish worshipers in Jerusalem or that between 32-48% of Jewish citizens would favor expelling or “encouraging emigration” of their Arab neighbors, you know there is prejudice here.

Was that Haredi man who invited me to his house really just a bigot against secular or Reform Jews? Was the Yiddish-speaking family that joked around with the Arab driver just faking it? Are my secular friends reading this blog rolling their eyes and thanking God they weren’t on that boat with me?

Perhaps- we’ll never know. But rather than stew in cynicism, I’d like to enjoy the moment I had in Akko. A moment where people pretty much got along. A gay Reform Jew, two Haredi families, and an Arab boat driver. Hebrew, Yiddish, and Arabic in Akko.

One Night in Jerusalem

Tonight in Jerusalem was the most jam-packed, exciting night I’ve had in Israel.

It all started with an act of startling generosity. I was checking out some artists’ studios in Jerusalem and found this particularly beautiful one. I talked with the artist about her work- including this amazing painting where at first you don’t notice there are people built into the painting and then as soon as she pointed them out, it became obvious. She said she was inspired by the Exodus from Egypt. When I told her I was an oleh chadash (new immigrant), she congratulated me and told me “you’ve already made your Exodus”, perhaps the nicest thing anyone has said to me about my aliyah. She told me she made aliyah from Russia when she was six years old and I felt an instant bond.

We talked about art- I told her I was a poet and a singer and we connected on Facebook so she can see my work. She asked if I drew and I said I have done a little bit but nothing serious because I hadn’t been taught the techniques. She said one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. She said when you’re looking for an art teacher, don’t look for technique. Look for someone who can help you deliver a child. That sounds strange in English but beautiful in Hebrew. “Leyaled” in Hebrew means “to midwife”. Her point was that the person who teaches you art is supposed to help bring something out that already lies within you and needs to be discovered and nourished. To help you give birth to a new sense of creativity. I love it!

On my way out, she gave me a free handmade notebook she had created so I could write my poetry. I made a new friend in the course of 20 minutes in a way that could take literally years in the U.S. If you’re reading this Dina, thanks for making my night great 🙂

Then, I asked for directions to the central bus station, but I noticed there were lots of police cars. I asked the security woman what was going on and she said there was a concert. I asked who and she said “Shlomi Shabat“, one of my all-time favorite Mizrachi singers. I bought a ticket immediately and headed to the concert with a new sense of energy and excitement. Also, the concert was held in a stadium inside a 2,000 year old pool called Breychat Hasultan (The Sultan’s Pool). So it pretty much doesn’t get any better than that.

Except it does. On the way to the concert, you have to walk downhill. On the way, I discovered there was some sort of international festival going on. There were vendors from all over the world- just off the top of my head, I saw artisans from Panama, Uzbekistan, Zimbabwe, Mexico, the Czech Republic, and so much more. I made a special point of stopping at the Spanish-speaking countries’ booths because I miss speaking Spanish and Latin culture.

I spent a good 15 minutes speaking with a Chilean woman who was really amazed at the cohesiveness of Israeli society. This is interesting because a lot of Israelis feel we have a very divided society. She pointed out that a lot of countries in Latin America feel unstable and on the brink of civil war. She talked about Venezuela and how she feared the country would descend into further chaos (a conflict Americans know little about even though it’s in their own hemisphere). That she felt there wasn’t any glue that bound that society together. It’s an interesting thought- that for all the conflict here, there is most definitely a strong social connection here that keeps things together despite the tensions. I think the United States would benefit from such a glue right now, because I had the distinct feeling when I lived there that there wasn’t really anything that united us. There are sociological reasons for it, but I hope that Americans can learn something from Israel which is that a sense of social solidarity- even with people you don’t always agree with- can help you overcome difficult moments in history.

Then, I headed to the concert. It was amazing! Thousands of people singing and cheering. Israeli flags waving. Song after song that I’ve sung- some of which I remember listening to on a CD in my living room as a 13-year-old- 18 years ago! Some Israelis like to hate on Mizrachi music. I can understand that everyone has different tastes, but for me it is literally the best music on the planet. It’s danceable, it’s full of religious imagery, it’s fun, it’s upbeat, and it’s full of emotion. Here’s a song I like by the artist I saw tonight to give you an idea of what it sounds like.

After the concert, I grabbed a cab to the Central Bus Station. The driver was Arab, so I spoke to him in Arabic, which made him very happy. Ahmed and I talked about dialect differences between Yafo and Jerusalem, his relationship with Jews (pleasant but not very deep because their neighborhoods are so separate in the city), and the importance of language in building relationships (he decided to learn Hebrew to learn about his neighbors). We talked about how crappy politicians are and that the real key to building peace is what we were doing- talking to each other. I tried to give him a tip but he wouldn’t let me. A truly kind and open-minded person.

Before getting on the bus to Tel Aviv, I heard loud music. Sure enough, behind me were a bunch of Breslover Hasidim dancing to techno music about their patron rabbi, Nachman of Uman. I started filming them and then just joined in. Because life is fun if you jump in!

I then headed to the bus. Now this part sucked at first. The ticket people oversold the bus- and this ride is over an hour long- so some people were standing or sitting in the aisle. I was one of those unlucky people. The bus was bumpy and it felt really unsafe. Frankly, it was the most unsafe I’ve felt in Israel. Which is interesting consider how the news media obsessively cover the Israeli-Palestinian conflict when really bad drivers are a way bigger threat to security.

Things in Israel often rapidly shift from amazing to awful and back to amazing again. My evening had been going great and then BOOM this was my plummet downwards. Once I got tired of my head banging against the seats as I sat, I stood up and started talking to the people in front of me. I chatted with one woman who, when I told her I was an oleh, told me her niece just moved here from New York. She said she is a soccer player and doesn’t know anyone here. Turns out she lives around the corner from me and I offered to show her around. A new potential friend. The woman also told me I had great Hebrew, which helped lift my spirits. Meanwhile, the young woman next to her was worried about missing her train back to Haifa at 1am, so the woman I was speaking with simply offered her a place to stay. They literally just met on the bus.

And just like that, my spirits began to lift as we approached the bus station. Any time I feel down in Israel (which, to be honest, happens almost every day at some point), I remember that things here turn on a dime. And that if I’m feeling sad or angry, things will turn for the better quickly and suddenly. And it works. It really happens.

This is a place with some serious sense of social solidarity, generosity, and kindness. Not words you’d typically associate with the Middle East, but they are absolutely true so please stop reading the New York Times and just come and experience it yourself.

A free notebook. A Mizrachi concert. Chileans. An Arab cab driver learning Hebrew. Dancing Hasidim. And new friends on a bumpy bus.

One night in Jerusalem.

Free baklava as the police sirens wail

Today, I had a stressful day.

I lost my debit card in the Golan Heights, my phone’s data plan stopped working, and I had a long bureaucratic meeting at the Ministry of Absorption. And that was all before noon.

It ended up working out, but I just felt exhausted and stressed. So, as has become my custom, I went for a walk by the beach. I called my friend Jack in Minnesota to wish him a happy birthday and made my way down the boardwalk to Yafo.

I miss Yafo. I’ve since moved to a new apartment in another part of town, but I used to live right by this beautiful 10,000 year old city. Every time I went, I just felt the stress lifted off my shoulders as I stared at the Mediterranean, listened to the waves, and talked with the people.

After eating some delicious schwarma, I headed to the Abouelafia bakery, site of my first in-depth Arabic conversation in Israel which you can read about here. I was in desperate need of a good talk with my friend Adnan but instead I found his much younger coworker Sager who I had met with him.

When I first met Sager a few weeks ago, he was quiet. I tried to engage, but Adnan and I did most of the talking and Sager looked uninterested.

When I came back this time, from the second our eyes met, Sager looked excited to see me.

He invited me in and we got to talking.

Over the past week, there has been rioting in Yafo. There have been Arabs protesting against the police, sometimes violently. I honestly don’t know all the details because I hate listening to the news.

Sager didn’t wait one moment to tell me his opinion. He is an Arab Muslim. He is from East Jerusalem. And in his experience, the police do ethnically profile here and it is quite unpleasant. At the same time, he is furious with the protestors, who are burning things and causing problems. He feels that they are unnecessarily damaging relations between Arabs and Jews, who he views as brothers. In addition, he is concerned for the livelihood of the bakery’s owners and his own job. If Jews and tourists are afraid to visit Yafo, then there won’t be any business. This pain will also hurt the dozens of Arab businesses in the area.

We talked about our shared hatred for extremism on all sides. How the rest of the world likes to obsess over every last problem between Israel and the Palestinians but the world is silent when hundreds of thousands of Syrians are butchered. I shared with him an Arabic poem I wrote in the Golan overlooking the Syrian border, which he loved. In his words, the Golan Heights it the most beautiful place on the planet and I think I agree with him.

We talked about what it’s like to be a minority. Most Jewish Israelis don’t know what it is to be a minority as a Jew. Part of that is a good thing- it’s a product of Zionism and it’s part of the blessing of having one small place on this planet where we are normal. Part of it is problematic- I think some folks here have lost sight of the Jewish experience and the sensitivity we’ve often had for other minorities. My minority identity, which was undoubtedly a burden in the U.S., is to my advantage here. I can enjoy all the blessings of a validated identity while showing empathy and kindness to the minorities I share this country with.

In between us singing Nancy Ajram and dancing dabke together (yes, this actually happened), Sager thanked me for speaking Arabic with him. Our whole conversation was in Arabic and while, like in any second language you speak, there were times I didn’t remember this or that word, we got our points across. My speaking Arabic has made living in Israel a much, much richer experience and frankly I think every Israeli should speak it. A fifth of the population already speaks it as a native language, not to mention our millions of Palestinian, Egyptian, Jordanian, Syrian, and Lebanese neighbors. You don’t have to speak it perfectly to speak it well- give it a shot. When you speak to someone in their language, their heart opens up. You will do more for peace by getting to know your neighbors than any lobbying effort or protest.

Finally, as we wrapped up, I wanted to head home and get some rest after a long day. I kept trying to pay, but he was attending to other customers. I was getting a little annoyed but he’s a good guy so I waited.

Then the sirens came. Firetrucks and police cars drove by, racing down the street and wailing. Sager told me they were dealing with the protestors again. Our hearts sunk for a moment.

Honestly, I felt pretty safe. In fact, I felt safer than in most areas of D.C. where I am originally from. Yeah I might choose to read the news a bit more, but also I might not. There’s some sense of tranquility with just being able to live in the moment and trust your instincts.

My instincts said that Sager was a good guy. I tried to pay for the baklava but he just nodded his head and told me to take it for free. We smiled at each other, gave each other a bro-ish high five, and I grabbed a cab home (better not to mess with buses when there’s rioting).

That’s Israel for you. Intercultural dialogue. Baklava. Racial profiling. Rioting. Sirens. Kindness. Brotherhood.

You can have your quiet suburb of Kansas City. I’ll take a place where a piece of baklava means so much more than Baskin Robbins.

Bombs during dinner

This weekend, I went to one of the most beautiful places on the planet, the Golan Heights. Please don’t bother reading the Wikipedia article, it’s a bunch of political nonsense and needs to be edited.

In short, the Golan Heights is the northernmost part of Israel. Once it was a part of Syria, but after Syria invaded Israel in 1967 and lost the war, Israel pushed back the Syrian soldiers and gained the Golan. The Golan is important strategically because it is high ground and for the first two decades of Israeli history, the Syrian Army used that advantage to pummel Israeli villages below in the Galilee.

Now, the Golan is home to both Jews and Arabs, with a slight Jewish majority. Arab communities include Druze, Muslims, and Alawites. The Arabs often identify as Syrian, although a number of them have adopted Israeli citizenship. It’s a very rural area and extremely green and beautiful. It’s kind of reminiscent of a Middle Eastern Vermont or Switzerland. Before I get into my story, here are some pictures to give you an idea (I visited the picturesque Galilee along the way so I’ll throw in a few from there too):

Friday afternoon, my friends and I went for a hike in the Galilee. A park ranger told my friend Jordan to get out of the creek and then told me I was wondering too far away. As with almost all tense situations in Israel, the awkwardness immediately dissipated when I started to talk to the guy. Turns out Muhammad is a Muslim Arab from the Golan, meaning his roots are in Syria. I spoke with him in Arabic and he started to open up to me. Turns out, Arabs in the Golan are afforded the very unique opportunity to go to college in Syria (this is astonishing because Syria and Israel are technically in a state of war and Syria doesn’t even recognize Israel. But as with all things in the Middle East, you find loopholes). He studied medicine in Damascus for a year, but then had to flee because of the civil war. He decided he didn’t like medicine (despite his parents’ wishes that he become a doctor- does this sound similar, Jewish friends?) and became a park ranger and enjoys being in the peace of the outdoors. He definitely had some delusional ideas about how great life is in Syria for its meager remaining Jewish community (after all, there is a reason almost all of them have left). That being said, he was also clearly a very open-minded and tolerant person open to people of all backgrounds. He is a person forging his own path (pun intended), something I can identify with.

After our hike, we went to a kibbutz to spend the night. To say this place was magical is an understatement. It’s the most romantic, scenic, and peaceful place I’ve ever been. And I’ve been to the Alps. It is a rural, progressive Jewish lifestyle, something that is almost non-existent in the United States. Not only is most of rural America conservative (whereas kibbutzim have socialist origins and still lean left), but also Jews as a minority need to be around lots of other Jews in order to make for a rich communal life. This partially explains the high concentration of Jews in New York, Boston, DC, Chicago, Miami, LA, San Francisco, Atlanta, etc. The same could be said for gay people, which is a big reason why I, as a gay Jew, have stuck to major urban areas in the U.S.

This is not the case in Israel. You can enjoy a progressive rural lifestyle and feel at home. No rednecks here 🙂

I have a deep love for nature and tranquility so I found the experience awe-inspiring and thoroughly relaxing. I wandered around the kibbutz and nearby and just felt at peace. I have a strong inclination to raise my family in a place like this in the future- somewhere safe, Jewish, open-minded, and surrounded by God’s beautiful plants and animals.

After singing “Lecha dodi” by a lake as the sun set over the mountains much like the first kabbalists in Tsfat, I came back to the house for Shabbat dinner. As we laughed and relaxed around the table, we heard a boom. And then another boom. And many more. We realized that those were bombs being dropped in Syria’s civil war. The border is just a few kilometers away. It was a somber reminder of the violence raging oh so close by. It’s one thing to hear about the civil war and quite another to simply hear it. I prayed to God for the safety of my brothers and sisters just across the border.

We then had a lovely dinner and I wandered around alone afterwards exploring the kibbutz, praying, dancing, just unwinding. I looked up at the moon and talked out loud to God. “God, thank you for this beautiful Kibbutz. God thank you for Shabbat and for the beauty of nature. God thank you for the opportunity to visit the Golan Heights. God, thank you for the gift of being an Israeli. For the gift of living in this place, for bringing me here. Where despite the news and despite the booms off in the distance, I feel safer than I ever have in my life. Help me to grow stronger and heal and to make your name great. To strengthen your people and to bring peace. Amen.”

I went inside, talked to a really hot Lebanese guy Ameer on Tinder across the (other) border, and got the best night’s sleep I’ve had in Israel yet.

That’s life in Israel- radically accepting that there are some things you can’t change (war and borders), and then thoroughly enjoying all the amazing things in front of you (trees, lakes, mountains, Judaism, good food, friends, and more). Never taking life for granted and, while things can be sad or scary, rather than being paralyzed, just enjoying the hell out of the blessings you’ve got.

It was a little scary and sad to hear those booms in the distance. At the same time, I can honestly say that I actually felt safer at this kibbutz than in America. Here, I feel my identity is validated, that I’m a part of a big national family, and that I’m enjoying life to the fullest. It’s worth the risks because life here is so much better for me.

And who knows, one day maybe Ameer and I will be able to cross the border and pick up where we left off last night 😉

Nigerian Hebrew on Tisha B’Av

Today is Tisha B’av, a somber holiday where Jews recall the destruction of both holy Temples in Jerusalem According to tradition, they were both destroyed on this particular date of the Hebrew calendar. For some Jews, today is marked by fasting and reading from the Book of Lamentations. For others, it’s a day to contemplate the baseless hatred that supposedly brought about the destruction of the Temples, the infighting among Jews that purportedly gave our enemies the opportunity to destroy us. For some Jews, it’s just an ordinary day of the week, but where almost all the stores are closed for the holiday, making them frustrated that the Ultra-Orthodox Rabbinate has so much power in this country to impose their vision of Judaism on others. On the night when Tisha B’Av starts, the Rabbinate has the power to fine businesses that open. I’m starting to understand why secular Jews bristle at the power of this theocratic governmental institution.

That all being said, today for me was about moving. While I had planned to go to synagogue last night, I didn’t end up going because I was looking at apartments, scrambling to find a place to live. I successfully found a new place (yay!) and am now writing you from my new room!

To get my things to my new apartment, I took a cab. The driver spoke English with some sort of African accent that sounded familiar. I asked where he was from and he said Nigeria. Nigeria! I knew there were foreign workers here but never knew there were Nigerians! I grew up with several Nigerian friends, so we bonded over our love of foo-foo (a Nigerian food).

Then, we started speaking in Hebrew. I have spent my entire life doing Jewish things and have never heard someone speak Hebrew with a Nigerian accent. It was unique and beautiful and a sign of true respect for my culture like I have rarely experienced. To hear him say he was turning left on “Rechov Yud Lamed Peretz” (a street named after a famous Yiddish author) gave me the tingles. I realized that my culture really is the dominant force here- like it is in no place on the planet. Something that both excited me and make me kind of curious what life was like for this man. I can’t imagine being a foreign worker in most places is particularly hospitable and I know the Israeli government doesn’t have a great track record with guest workers or refugees. I felt empowered and privileged and fortunate and I also felt confused and uncertain. All valid feelings. I’m proud to see my identity validated after a lifetime of pain and discrimination. And I am concerned about the fate of this man, my neighbor, considering he has lived here for 20 years and may not even have citizenship.

As we pulled up to my new place, I heard something curious. The man was speaking in Ibo, a Nigerian language, but I recognized some of the words. Not just the English words, but also Hebrew ones! He’d slip in “balagan” (a mess), “chashmal” (electricity), and other Hebrew words into sentences he was speaking in Ibo. It reminded me of how American Jews sprinkle our English with Yiddish sayings or how Latinos in the U.S. do likewise with Spanish.

This place is a melting pot. Judaism has always been a place where different cultures come together. Long ago in the days of the Temple it may have been Moabites and Canaanites. Today in Israel it’s Polish Jews and Russian Jews and Moroccan Jews and Ethiopian Jews and American Jews and yes, even Nigerians.

As I got out of the car, I heard a politician on the radio say “today, our Temple is the Knesset, it’s modern Israeli society.” An interesting thought. Rather than waiting for us to rebuild the Temples of old, perhaps we should consider that we live in a time where we once again control our own destiny. What should that look like? Who belongs to our people? How do we want to contribute to the world?

As it says in Leviticus: כְּאֶזְרָח מִכֶּם יִהְיֶה לָכֶם הַגֵּר הַגָּר אִתְּכֶם, וְאָהַבְתָּ לוֹ כָּמוֹךָ

“The stranger that sojourns with you shall be unto you as the home-born among you, and you shall love him as yourself.”

If the State of Israel is in some ways our new Temple, then can we make space for those who tie their fate to us, for those non-Jews who join us in peace along the journey? Can we give them a holy space in our house?

I very much hope so.

Alabaman Arabs and the Western Wall

Yes, that is what happened to me today.

Today, I took my first trip outside of Tel Aviv since making aliyah and went to Jerusalem. I decided to go to the Kotel, known in English as the “Western Wall” or the “Wailing Wall”. It’s the last remaining wall of the Second Temple built in Jerusalem for the purposes of Jewish worship. Basically, it’s the most sacred site on the planet for Jews.

It’s been at least 12 years since I was at the Wall and I was very excited to go back. My anticipation was building as I made my way through the markets of the Old City. This was the place my ancestors came from, the site that informs all Jewish spirituality. Even today’s Jewish rituals and prayers are modeled after the Temple rituals. The cruelty of the Roman Empire that destroyed the Temple couldn’t defeat our faith.

As I thought these powerful thoughts and felt these deep emotions, I came upon a sign that said “Alabama, the heart of Dixie”. I had to re-read the sign a good two or three times before I realized yes, I was staring at a trilingual sign that said “Alabama” in English, Hebrew, and Arabic. I felt like I was in some dystopian novel. On what planet is there a University of Alabama store in the middle of the holiest city on earth?

Sure enough, it was an entire store dedicated to the University of Alabama owned by Arabs. I met the kids running the store, who were sweet. I spoke with them in Arabic and it turns out one of the kids’ dads studied at University of Alabama and became a huge fan. I asked who exactly comes to their store, given the small number of Alabamans in Jerusalem, and they said lots of people came by. I have to give them props for marketing because it obviously drew me in!

They had mugs and signs that said “Roll Tide” in Hebrew and Arabic. For especially my Israeli friends who don’t understand this, watch this video. Alabaman fans are particularly fanatical (about their team) and unabashedly southern, so even as an American it was a total curiosity to see a Palestinian store dedicated to probably the most Republican place in the country.

And there it was. I had a great conversation with the kids and their uncle- they’re very funny and friendly. And then I walked to the Western Wall.

When I got to the wall, I tried praying once and it was pretty good but didn’t feel super powerful. It ended up being a warm up.

I chatted with some German tourists and then went back for round two. I grabbed a tallit from some Chabad guys (I was smart enough to tell them from the get-go that I didn’t want to lay tefillin, but of course they tried anyways, and of course I said “no thank you” and did what I wanted).

I then headed back to myself and enshrouded myself in the tallit, giving me a sense of privacy and direct connection to God and my inner spirit. It was like my own personal synagogue. I now started to open up. I noticed a kid next to me. He was probably in high school. I had talked to his group earlier- they were Reform students from the U.K., from the same Jewish movement I belong to. It felt powerful for us to pray next to each other given the Israeli government’s recent rejection of Reform prayer spaces at the Western Wall.

After a few moments, he stood there by myself and just started crying. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. And one of the most sincere.

As I peered through the hole in my tallit at him and heard him wailing, I started to well up with emotion and sob. I thought of all my ancestors who walked this land. That their hands built this Temple and this very city. That it’s because of the sacrifices of millions upon millions of Jews who were butchered mercilessly for over 2,000 years by Babylonians and Greeks and Romans and Catholics and Klansmen and Spaniards and Portuguese and Germans and Poles and Russians and Protestants and Arabs and Muslims and on and on and on. They laid down their lives for me. Most of them could only dream and pray for the day when they would be able to return to our homeland and pray at our holiest site. And I carry their prayers in my heart.

When I decided to make aliyah, some of my friends asked me questions like “do you know anyone there?” and “have you ever been there?”. Yes I do and yes I have. If you’re a very active Jew, you almost certainly know people in Israel and you’ve visited. Totally innocent questions, but ones you might typically ask someone moving somewhere far and exotic like Vietnam or Zimbabwe.

Israel may be Zimbabwe for you, but it is not for me. Even though before making aliyah I had only been here twice, it is not a strange and foreign place. While there are for sure cultural differences that I continue to learn about, this is not a colony. This is not a destination. This is not a stint abroad.

This is my homeland. It is the source of my religious beliefs and my cultural heritage. It is my people whose traditions gave rise to both Christianity and Islam many generations later. Its stones cry out with the tears and laughter of my forefathers and foremothers.

It is a place that belongs to me as a right that my people have fought long and hard for. The right to pray at our ancient holy sites free of violence or discrimination. As recently as 1967, I could not have prayed at the Western Wall because Jordanian troops wouldn’t allow it.

The point is this: I am a Zionist because I believe I am not “moving to a new place” but rather because I am returning to the place I come from. A place that has room for me to pray in peace at the Western Wall, for my Christians friends to visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and for my Muslim friends to pray at the Al-Aqsa mosque. And even to own an Alabaman t-shirt shop.

Amen.

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