Coexistence – Page 9 – Planting Roots Bearing Fruits

A Muslim pluralist

One of the great frustrations I’ve faced when dealing with dialogue here is that some people aren’t pluralists. Being a pluralist, as I see it, is about saying “I have one way of doing things, you have another, let’s co-exist.” It means legally allowing people to do things you don’t agree with. It’s not about getting into a war of whose tradition is better, it’s just accepting that we’re all in this together with some right to autonomy.

In the Jewish World, this is a frequent dilemma. There are Orthodox Jews who see Reform Jews as inadequately Jewish (hence why my movement is not recognized by the Israeli government). There are secular Jews who think Orthodox Jews are overly superstitious, conservative, and backwards and should just modernize with the times. While in the U.S. Jewish pluralism is stronger than Israel (perhaps because it’s not tied up with a government), there are still issues in places like Hillel and Hillel and Hillel.

That being said, you can’t even being to compare American pluralism with what goes on in Israel. Here, there is no separation of Church/Synagogue/Mosque and State. Which means progressive Jewish movements are put at a disadvantage financially, legally, and politically. The same could be said for people who feel Jewish and aren’t recognized as such and also people who just aren’t religious at all. Of any background.

I find that communities here struggle- on all sides- with the idea of letting someone else do something you disagree with. You’ll find militant vegans protesting Hasidic kapores rituals but not protesting the hamburger joint on their block. You’ll find Reform Jews railing against Hasidic intolerance, while making fun of their clothes, their language, and their religiosity. If you replace Hasidic with Hispanic, I doubt my fellow Reform Jews would make fun of their culture. Of course you also have the more well-known bigotry of Haredim who throw stones at cars and “immodest” women, etc etc.

These circles of intolerance extend to other religions here. I’ve met Greek Orthodox Christians who claim they came before the Catholics. I’ve met Catholics who railed against Evangelicals. I’ve met Evangelicals who told me I’m not being a good Jew. I’ve met Muslims who said Arabic was the world’s first language, as uttered by God. And couldn’t believe I didn’t convert to Islam after reading the Quran. I’ve met Arab Christians who don’t particularly like Muslims. And Arab Muslims who don’t believe Jews have any connection to this place- and told me this to my face. And I’ve met Arab Muslims who get ridiculed by other Arab Muslims for being half-Romanian or immodest or even for being Bedouin.

And of course, you have the Palestinians who want to wipe Israeli Jews off “their land”. And the Israeli Jews who don’t recognize Palestinians even exist.

It’s enough to make your head spin. Probably like yours is now.

So at times like these, when people here just fill you with sadness and anger, I like to think of strong counterexamples. At a time when Islam is turning increasingly fundamentalist- or at least its fundamentalist elements are growing in prominence- I met the most unlikely Muslim pluralist.

I visited the Arab village of Tira, which you can read about here. I briefly mentioned my interaction with Jamila. Jamila is a high school student. She works at a toy store. I had never been to an Arab toy store, so I wanted to see what it looked like.

She was super sweet. While I came in trying to show my deference to her culture, all she wanted to talk about was Israeli and American culture. She really wants to visit Tel Aviv more. She loves American movies. Hebrew is her favorite subject, Harry Potter- not the Quran- her favorite book. Nothing wrong with liking the Quran- I personally love parts of it. Just that Jamila is not who you might expect to say this.

Because Jamila wears a hijab. A headscarf. Generally a sign of religious conservatism or perhaps devotion to tradition. And a bone of serious contention in Western Europe.

When she kept talking about how much she liked Jewish culture here, I asked why. Her answer contains a grain of truth we all should pay attention to.

She said: “what I really like is that when you go to the beach here, the Jewish women can wear whatever they want.”

Before you launch into a Western-style approbation of hijabs, that’s not what’s going on here.

I asked her: “so you mean you wish you didn’t have to wear a hijab?” After all, I have met Arab girls here who have told me that.

She said: “no, I wear a hijab because that’s my tradition. I’m Muslim. What I like is that they don’t have to. The Jewish women have the choice. I like riding my bike, but some people here don’t approve because I’m a woman.”

In other words, Jamila is a pretty awesome example of a pluralist. She wears a hijab- and would continue to do so- she just likes that Jews here tend to have more choice. That she could wear a hijab but maybe her sister wouldn’t. Or would change her mind according to her views over time.

Jamila, surprisingly, is a good example for all of us. We do not have to agree on many things. I admire the Hasidic community for keeping Yiddish alive, for preserving certain customs, and for their birthrate to be honest. I see other things in the community, such as homophobia or gender politics, as quite problematic. And people ask me: “well Matt, you’re a queer Reform Jew, how could you possibly like Hasidim? They won’t accept you.”

To which I say: “I’m a pluralist.” I can like what I like about certain communities and not like what I don’t like. I can accept that both aspects exist. And I’m entitled to my feelings on them. Unlike some of the more militant secularists here, I don’t want Haredim to abandon their traditions because they’re “backwards”. I do want more of a separation of religion and state. And there are things I like about their community. The things I don’t- well, sometimes you have to find other avenues for making your case rather than imposing laws. And- this is the tough one for many people- sometimes you just acknowledge that it’s there, whether you agree or not. And that it’s maybe not my role to change everything about how someone else lives.

Like Jamila and her hijab, I don’t want everyone to be like me. I want people to be free to choose their own path, even when I don’t want to follow it. It’s important to remember coercion can flow in all directions, left and right. Muslim and Christian. Orthodox, Reform, and Secular. Israeli and Palestinian. My respect for conservative traditions is not necessarily at the expense of my progressive values.

Lehefech, as we say in Hebrew. “To the contrary”. It is because of them.

Gaza, Indian Christians, and Passover

A whole lot more happened today, but that’s what I could fit in a title.

Last night was Passover. Passover in Tel Aviv was amazing. It was my first time celebrating it in the Holy Land and I loved it. As a child, Passover was my favorite holiday (though this year’s Purim in Tel Aviv is giving it a run for its money). It’s a holiday about freedom and especially growing up with abusive relatives, it always had a special meaning for me. About my own potential for freedom one day and all the other oppressed people in the world who I would make that journey with.

Here in Tel Aviv, I went to two seders: one Reform and one LGBTQ. Perhaps one of the few places in the world where you can genuinely “Seder hop”, I walked from one to the other in 10 minutes.

At the first Seder, I met a fellow gay Jew, Oscar, who was Spanish and Swiss and spoke French, Spanish, Gallego, English, and some Hebrew. Pretty amazing to kind of meet a European me! We agreed to meet the next day for lunch in my neighborhood, the “other side” of Tel Aviv.

I had planned on walking him through the refugee and foreign worker neighborhood of Neve Sha’anan, which we started to do. Then we looked at the Central Bus Station, arguably one of the grittier buildings in the world, and he said “ugh, it’s so ugly! I hate that place.”

I quickly changed our itinerary to show him the hidden beauty of this chaotic space. Since it was Passover and Shabbat, most things were closed. The most interesting things were still open. An entire area of Filipino restaurants, cafes, and grocery stores was open. Homemade food filled the air with delicious smells. We sat and got some food, including my first-ever Halo Halo, a delightful dessert drink with a million types of toppings and fruit. The woman behind the counter, like most Filipinos here, speaks amazing English and opened her Halo Halo machine just for us 🙂

Passing by a store, I noticed something curious. Inside was a Sri Lankan flag!!! I know this flag because in Washington, D.C., once a year, they open all the embassies for visitors. I had been to the Sri Lankan one and eaten this delicious coconut rice with spicy red sauce. Turns out the woman inside was indeed Sri Lankan! And she told me the name of this delicious dish was Miris and Hal Bat, a name I’d been searching for for years!

The woman was so kind. She’s thinking of opening her own Sri Lankan restaurant in Tel Aviv (friends- keep your eyes pealed!). She grew up Buddhist and then converted to Christianity in Israel. Her husband is from Darfur and I presume Christian (perhaps explaining her conversion). He was super nice and we talked about my favorite Sudanese music.

Heading out, I let Oscar go on his way and I strolled towards Yaffo. There, I bumped into some lost tourists from Belgium. One of whom was exceedingly gorgeous. I gave them a free tour of Florentin and we decided to sit down to coffee. They have two weeks in Israel so I chatted with them for a couple hours and helped them plan their trip. We spoke in a mixture of French and English.

After being so kind as to treat me to my tea, they headed to their hostel and I walked home. On my way home, I saw women…dressed in saris. While this might not be such a strange sight in Suburban Maryland where I grew up (with a lot of Indian friends), it felt kind of random in Tel Aviv. I’ve met Indian Jews here, but there aren’t many in Tel Aviv and I haven’t seen many in traditional clothing.

Because it’s not weird to talk to random people here (like it is in much of America), I went up and asked where they were from. They said they were Indian Christians. They were in Yaffo celebrating Easter. I wished them a Hag Sameach, definitely the first time I’ve used that phrase to wish someone a blessed Easter.

Arriving back in my neighborhood, I saw something strange. A clean store. For those of you who’ve spent time near Hatikvah, you’ll know that my neighborhood has many virtues. Delicious ethnic food, cultural diversity, rare Jewish languages, and a certain warmth to the people. But nobody would say the virtue of my neighborhood is its cleanliness. When I come back from a trip abroad, it takes me a day or two just to get used to the smell again.

I walked up to the store and saw beautifully arranged fruits and vegetables. Seeing as how I was hungry and most restaurants were closed for Passover, I decided to buy some produce.

Turns out it’s a brand new store. Owned by Sudanese Muslims- from Darfur. It’s probably rare for someone in the U.S. (or pretty much anywhere outside of Darfur) to bump into both a Darfuri Christian and a Darfuri Muslim in the same day, blocks apart. Unless they happened to be working with refugees.

I was blessed with the chance to speak Arabic with them, for a few reasons. One, because I love languages and the chance to hear Sudanese Arabic outside of Sudan is pretty rare. It’s a really neat dialect. Also, I wanted to share a message.

I told him: “batmanna inno al-pesakh al-jay, ra7 itkoon 3ankoon 7urriyeh. 3eid al-fisi7 huwwe 3eid al-7urriyeh.” That I hope that next Passover, they will have freedom, because Passover is the Holiday of Freedom. We talked about how I’m working with other olim here to support refugees. And you could see his smile grow by the second. I know where I’ll be shopping more- and it’s a 5 minute walk down the street.

On my way home, I couldn’t help but think about my fantastic Pesach experience. This was undoubtedly the most diverse Passover I’ve ever had. And I grew up in a county that has 4 of the 10 most diverse cities in America. I’m starting to wonder if in some ways, my corner of Tel Aviv is even more diverse.

I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity to celebrate this Passover in freedom. Freedom to do it how I want, with whom I want, and where I want. Freedom is a blessing every day you can enjoy it.

I pray and will work for the freedom of the Darfuri men I met today and all refugees. Here and around the world. There are few causes more dear to my heart or so morally clear. Whether these refugees continue to live in Israel, are blessed with a secure country to return to, or move elsewhere, I pray that they are able to live in safety. Nobody- nobody- should be sent to their death. I hope that next year I won’t need to write this blog again because refugees will be given what they need: refuge.

And now to return to the title of this blog. As you may have noticed in the news, many thousands of Gazans, along with some Palestinians in Israel, the West Bank, and Lebanon are protesting. Are they doing it to coincide with Passover, due to its message of freedom? I don’t know, though it would represent perhaps a welcome recognition of our shared existence, even if the timing might serve to stiffen Israelis’ spines rather than inspire empathy. Even if the cause is just, I’m not sure I would choose Ramadan as a time to protest Islamic anti-Semitism. Just like if I’m angry at a friend, I wouldn’t yell at him while he’s studying for a stressful test. Part of communicating is understand when the other person is ready to listen.

I’m not suggesting there’s a particularly ideal time to make the powers that be listen. I’m just saying that if any part of your goal is to reach the Israeli heart, making a Jewish religious holiday a time for protest is going to backfire. Especially when I remember as a teenager, a Palestinian terrorist blew up a Passover seder killing 30 people and injuring 140 more. Even I felt angry about the timing of these protests and I’m rather empathetic to the cause.

I have little doubt that it is miserable to live in Gaza. Unemployment in Gaza, as of 2016, was 42%. For youth, 58%. Child labor is on the rise. The Hamas government is an abysmal filth pit of extreme religious conservatism. At various times, it has banned Palestinian women from dancing, from riding behind men on motor scooters, from smoking in public, from getting haircuts from male barbers, from running in marathons. It even banned New Year’s Eve celebrations in the name of Islam. It has banned Palestinians from reading certain books, from holding hip-hop concerts, and from going to the water park. Already feeling geographically penned-in on both the Israeli and Egyptian borders, I have to imagine that Hamas’s extremist steps only escalate the tension that Gazans feel on a daily basis.

What’s the solution? I’m not honestly sure. Marching to the border with names of their former villages and demanding to “liberate Palestine” is only going to make most Israelis angry. And scared. I’m personally scared for what is happening and what may yet happen. The loss of life, which has already begun, will likely continue on both sides.

I empathize with the anger of many Gazans. Their life sounds suffocating and if we’re totally honest, no government in the region is totally innocent here. People, including children, are suffering.

I also feel that the Palestinians striving for their own freedom need to remember that I, along with my fellow Israelis, have worked hard for our own. We’re not going anywhere. You can come back to Salameh, the Arab village I live on top of, and maybe we can build a life together. That’d be a miracle and maybe it’s not possible due to the hatred all around.

What you cannot do- or at least what I will stop you from doing- is kicking me out. The Palestine of 1947 doesn’t exist anymore. Pieces of it, perhaps. Just like the many Jewish communities around the world destroyed or cleansed by both Muslims and Christians. Which is why we’re here. Just this week, a Muslim man in France stabbed an 85 year old Holocaust survivor to death while shouting “Allahu Akbar”. Stabbed 11 times.

Does this man represent all Muslims? Of course not- and to suggest so is bigoted. But the thing it doesn’t need to be all Muslims for Jews to feel scared. We’re scared.

You’re scared. You don’t like it when Israeli jets bomb your houses. To get terrorists, but ultimately killing innocent Gazans along the way. Inevitable. And sad. And how does the average Palestinian, who only knows Israelis in an army uniform, build a relationship with our culture beyond warfare?

And for Israeli Jews, while we’re blessed with having Arab neighbors in our own country (who frankly we should get to know better), the only image we have these days of a Palestinian is of a terrorist. Or of a more “peaceful” person waving a flag, storming the border fence, claiming to liberate Palestine. From us. Presumably, to kick us out. Back to the world that murdered us over and over and over again.

This blog could continue endlessly. The torment of people here, on all sides, is so, so sad. My friend Hekmet teaches me dabke, a Palestinian and Levantine folk dance. The other day I told him how sad it was to learn about how some Zionist militias destroyed Arab villages. He told me something that both eased my conscience and gave me hope: “Matt, it is sad. And it’s also sad that Jews were kicked out of Middle Eastern countries. In the end, we just have to live together. We can’t only focus on the past.”

The past matters. And so does the present. My sincerest hope is that while knowing our past- as Jews, as refugees, as Israelis, as Arabs, as Palestinians- we can live together in peace. Because re-litigating or liberating or invalidating or denying on any side will just kill and kill.

I don’t want a war here this summer. I’ve come to a point where I like living in Israel. And I want to meet Palestinians who want to build a future of hope together.

If I can take away one message from my Passover today, it’s that it’s possible. Today I spent my holiday with Muslims, Christians, and Jews. And I had a blast.

And not the kind that kills innocent people.

—

My cover photo is me eating Filipino chicken wings. One day maybe me, refugees, and Palestinians can all eat them together and make a delicious mess 🙂

Why Israel doesn’t always suck (and is sometimes good at things)

This is perhaps my most Israeli blog title yet.

I’m writing you from a hostel in Barcelona, an absolutely stunning city. It’s my first visit back in Catalonia in 10 years, and unlike my last visit, I also speak Catalan in addition to Spanish.

My experience here has been fantastic. I visited the medieval city of Girona, the absolutely phenomenal and peaceful gem of Perpignan in southern France, and am now in the throbbing yet relaxed metropolis.

The best parts of my visit here have been the nature, the serenity, the smiles at strangers, the cleanliness, the general respect for boundaries, and not having to answer millions of deeply personal questions only to be judged for your answers. Speaking languages I love. And the delicious food on every corner.

It’s also nice to take my air raid and terrorism alert apps off my phone for a while and not see 18 year old soldiers carrying guns in the street. It’s just more peaceful.

For the first time in a while, I found myself missing things about Israel. If you’ve read my recent blogs, you might find that as surprising as I did. Israel is pretty awful when it comes to human rights, to respecting diversity, to preserving Jewish culture, to living up to Jewish values, to treating people with respect, and to pursuing peace both within society and with our neighbors.

And there are some things Israel does well. One is helping each other. Today I found myself sick in Barcelona. Both physically sick and feeling lonely. I messaged a few Israeli friends and within seconds they were helping me figure out my insurance, cheering me up, and taking care of me. Thankfully I didn’t need a full hospital visit, but if I had, my travel insurance would have covered every expense above $50. Which brings me to something else. Israeli healthcare is leaps and bounds better than anything I experienced in America. Health is not just wealth- it’s survival. Everything else is details if you can’t live. Israel is a super stressful place to live and one stress I don’t have is that I’ll go bankrupt because I’m sick.

It speaks to a certain social(ist) value in Israel. And when I say Israel, I mean both Jews and Arabs. In Israel, anywhere you go you can charge your phone or refill your water bottle. For free- you often don’t even need to buy anything. In the places I’ve visited in Spain and France (and much of the U.S.) you need to buy something to charge up or you need to buy actual (expensive and wasteful) bottles of water. These examples are not anecdotal- when combined with Israeli willingness to host guests (and sometimes strangers) for long periods of time, you sense a pattern. When it comes to certain things, Israelis display a generosity found in few places.

While in Spain/Catalonia/France, I’ve met some people who reminded me why some Israelis are so nationalistic and racist. There’s the Dutch guy who told me he could probably understand Yiddish because “it’s just fucked up German.” There’s the researcher in France studying medieval Jewry who, instead of dialoguing with me, started lecturing me about my own people’s history. I appreciate his work and would prefer someone not pin me in a corner and try to teach me about…myself. There are also the formerly Jewish houses in Girona where you can see where the mezuzahs once hung. And the historic synagogue that now houses an architectural firm. I think I can understand how Palestinian refugees must feel about the remnants of their village in my neighborhood.

This is not to say that most people here are bigoted. Most people when I say I’m Jewish or live in Tel Aviv are either neutral, polite, or even show great interest. I’m grateful to cities like Girona that are preserving my heritage. And to their archives for preserving Judeo-Catalan documents I got to see first hand. And many of them were improperly labeled. To the archivist’s credit, I submitted some corrections and she gladly marked them down. It’s just an apt metaphor that even when some people are trying to get Jewish history right, it can feel uncomfortable. I don’t want to impose or discourage them and I also find it irritating that most of their archived documents are upside down. The documents of the people they expelled. Some of whom live in their veins.

That’s the complexity of Judaism in Europe. For 2000 years, we’ve called it home. To this day. And not just during the Holocaust, but over and over again throughout that time, we’ve been mercilessly expelled, burned, and murdered. Property robbed and now turned into moneymaking tourist attractions. That keep bits of our heritage on the map. When I visit the Jewish quarter of Girona, I’m not just visiting a tourist attraction, I’m a Cherokee visiting the Trail of Tears. It’s complicated, to recall the words of a Palestinian friend I talked with before moving to Israel.

Which brings me to what else Israel does well- it gives me a place where if people are ignorant about my tradition, they can learn on my terms. It gives me a place where I’m in a position of power- as fraught as that is. A place where if people want to expel us or lecture us or deride us, we don’t have to grit our teeth and put up with it. Some people take this power a bit too far- and spending a bit of time outside of Israel reminded me why they do so. Even if it’s not justified.

While in Barcelona, I went to Reform services. I’ve been pretty fed up with God lately, tired of Zionism, and not even really sure if I feel Jewish anymore. So I decided to see if maybe Diaspora Judaism, the Judaism I grew up with, still fit. The services were wonderful. They were in Catalan, Spanish, Hebrew, and English- a polyglot like me couldn’t be happier. And it adds a spiritual dimension to share our hopes in different languages. Hebrew alone bores me. The people of all ages were warm and welcoming and treated me to a free meal. As good Jews, there was tons of food.

I can’t say every part of the service spoke to me. There are problems with Jewish liturgy I’ve only fully understood while living in Israel. The idea that we’re the “Chosen People” or asking God to bless “His people”- that doesn’t work for me any more. It feels racist. I’m tired of the idea that religion should be supremacist- as pretty much every Western religion is in some sense or another. Our prophet is the best. Only our people go to heaven. God chose us above all other peoples. Try reading the words of your Friday night Kiddush in English.

And it’s my capacity to read Hebrew and my living in Israel that has shed light on these problems. Judaism is due for a new reformation. It has beautiful sparks as evidenced by the parts of the service and the dinner that lit my spirit again. The music, the poetry, the community, the evolving tradition.

Much like Israel, Judaism needs a revamp. No need to throw everything out, but the way it’s going isn’t working- at least not for me. As I watched two Israelis living in Barcelona learn the Reform liturgy Friday night- and engage in gentler, more peaceful ways than I usually see in Israel- I see a bit of light. Jews outside of Israel need Israel. Yes, it’s a deeply f*cked place and I would rather the world not have states at all. And I’ll keep fighting for that. And the reality is we don’t know the next time anti-Semitism will strike. Israel is the only state on earth, for better or worse, that cares about my healthcare- about my ability to live- simply because I’m a Jew. That formula is problematic and perhaps sometimes necessary. While we can’t live in paranoia that everyone is out to get us, the fact is some people are. And because we’re a minority easy to scapegoat, some people always will be.

At the same time, to return to the Israelis I met in Barcelona, Israel needs Jews (and non-Jews) outside of Israel. Judaism outside Israel is gentler. It’s more spiritual than secular Israelis and softer than much of the religiosity I see there. It can offer Israelis an escape valve. A reminder than life in the Diaspora can be hard due to prejudice and it can be enriching when it engages with the society surrounding it. It can remind us of our roots and the need to be sensitive and compassionate towards minorities. Including in Israel itself. As my cover photo says in French: “shared route”. Let’s lift each other up, Jew and non-Jew, Israeli or not.

When you go on a trip, you can buy one of those souvenirs that says “I went to Barcelona and all I got was this shirt”. I went to Barcelona and all I got was a complex textured view of the pluses and minuses of having a Jewish state- and Diaspora life.

More than I expected on a birthday trip abroad? You bet. But don’t worry, I’ll be having some chicken paella too 😉

An amazing day that can only happen here

Today, I had the most fascinating and fabulous day.

I started the morning in Shefa’mr (Shefaram) in Hebrew. Shefa’mr is the most pluralistic city in Israel. A community with Druze, Muslims, and Christians, it is one of the rare places in Israel where people of different faiths live next door to each other. As a matter of practice. Not like Jerusalem, where there are different groups largely in different neighborhoods. Literally side by side.

It’s one of the reasons I wanted to visit. The other reason is it, like the North, is absolutely gorgeous. Take a look at a slideshow of some of my pictures:

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Before walking around town, I needed some breakfast and got delicious hummus and pita and falafel from a Druze restaurant. According to the owner, apparently the town loves Argentina’s soccer team. Someone even went to the World Cup in Brazil to cheer them on. You’ll see from the pictures below I took today that he’s telling the truth, although you’ll also see there seems to be a (rival?) Brazilian fan club:

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Not what I expected to find when I came to live in the Middle East. Which makes it all the more interesting and fun to discover! I love finding things that challenge my assumptions.

In the village, I visited churches, mosques, and a Druze holy site. There’s even a synagogue. There’s even an ice cream shop that sells KNAFE ICE CREAM! If you don’t know what knafe is, it’s this. And it’s delicious, even as ice cream.

I was the only tourist in town today. Not sure how many come on other days, but I definitely didn’t meet another outsider- not even another Israeli Jew. And by and large, people were really nice. It’s important to remember there are toxic and kind people everywhere (and a whole lot of people somewhere in between). I’ve learned that people of all backgrounds live in gray space and nuance- it has frankly allowed me to see Arabs as people. Rather than exoticizing them as all good or all bad or “Christian ones are good and Muslims are bad” (as many, many Israeli Jews say)- I’ve worked really hard to get to the point where I just see them as people. Complex, like me. It has added a softness to my Arabic that makes the language gentler and even more fun to speak.

I met with all sorts of fascinating people today- the Muslim woman who keeps the keys to the synagogue, the zany ice cream store owner who couldn’t believe a Jew could speak Arabic like me, the Druze women who wanted me to explain Donald Trump to them.

There’s a gentleness to Shefa’mr. It’s kind of a preview of how this place could look with more peace and harmony. More mixing and less hatred. Or perhaps a view into a past here that once was. Like my cover photo of a Greek Catholic Cross in front of the mosque, Shefa’mr is about living together. In the words of a Druze woman: “one of our neighbors is Christian, the other Muslim. Yes there is racism like anywhere else. But we share in our sorrows and we share in our joys together.”

Before I visited Shefa’mr, when I was deciding whether to go, a Jewish Israeli told me: “why would you go there? What is there to see?” When you meet someone like this, ignore them. She’s missing out and it’s truly sad to live in such ignorance of the beauty at your doorstep. Shefa’mr is gorgeous and I did some amazing peaceful thinking there today.

After a thoughtful and inspirational morning in Shefa’mr, I hopped on a bus and then a train back to Tel Aviv. I hate coming back home to Tel Aviv these days. The city is loud, the people are often rude, there is an intensity to life here that just sucks sometimes.

Luckily a friend had invited me out for Purim, today’s Jewish holiday. In the U.S., we tend to eat hamantaschen, read the megillah, have carnivals for kids, dress up in costumes, and if you’re a young professional maybe go to a party. It’s fun and it’s decidedly low-key compared to what I experienced today.

Tel Aviv Purim is Jewish Mardi Gras. It’s Carnaval. It’s Jewish Sao Paolo going nuts- and it’s amazing. I don’t drink. I do dance. I do love to talk to random people, including shirtless Jewish boys who are feeling friendly. Purim is party after party- in the street, in the club. Everyone is happy. I have never, ever seen so many Israeli Jews smile and laugh at once. And it goes on for several days- today was just day one.

I’ve never been to a cooler Jewish party in my life. It’s huge. And fun. And for this one moment in time, Israeli Jews let go of the stress and basically don’t give a f*ck. They just relax and have fun.

I had such a great time. I suppose the intensity I hate in Tel Aviv has its occasional advantages. I can’t imagine a small town in Israel- Jewish or otherwise- putting together this level of festivity. It’s amazing.

I haven’t yet experienced all the holidays in Israel. I have experienced most of them. Purim is now my favorite Israeli holiday. It’s like New Orleans filled with cute Jewish boys, dance music, and silly (sometimes racist) costumes.

If I had it my way, every month, maybe even every week would be Purim. Israeli Jews need release. And perhaps if they had more of it, more of them would be nicer and relaxed.

My day started with Druze, Christians, and Muslims and ended with a street fair in Tel Aviv. Few people here live like I do. And I encourage more to do so in the way that they can. Cross boundaries. Speak Arabic in the morning in the hillsides and rock out to Britney Spears at night. Discover the secret Argentinean fan club in an Arab village and then flirt with half naked men in Hebrew as the sun rises.

I’m happy I found my way today. My way to a good day, a fantastic day. A day that even ended with flirting with a non-Jewish German I met while walking home to my apartment- he’s a nurse at the hospital around the corner!

This place where I live is both terrible and full of magic. As I drift to sleep after an incredible day, I’m glad I lived today the way I did.

May it inspire us to find the stars shining where we least expect them.

A Tale of Two Orthodox

Ok it’s really four Orthodox Jews, but you’ll get my point.

Last night, I was at a rally for refugee lives in Tel Aviv. It was exhilarating- over 20,000 people. Some estimate 30,000. Considering Israel has only 8 million people, it’s quite sizable. Although being from Washington, D.C., the capital of rallies, it still feels small 🙂 .

On my way home, I wore my yarmulke (head covering). Foremost, because last time I walked home from a rally I got shouted down and followed by hateful people in my neighborhood, which was scary. I have met neighbors for refugee rights and it’s probably a minority position where I live. Since Judaism is a source of privilege here, I felt wearing a yarmulke might afford me a sense of safety from some people who might otherwise be angry at me. People who can’t imagine why a religious Jew would even be at a refugee rally. I suppose once I decided to put it on, I was glad to do so because it made me feel a little bit connected to a religion I increasingly feel distant from. To put my yarmulke to good use for human and Jewish values.

Before I get to what happened on the way home, I’d like to share what happened the other day.

On my way to get kebabs, I heard English in my neighborhood. I was so astounded- I am definitely the only American for several blocks around my house- that I asked the people in Hebrew what language they were speaking.

Turns out, they were Americans from nearby neighborhoods coming for food. Both of them Orthodox Jews. We bantered a bit, they made some uncouth remark about refugees, but honestly nothing too grave considering what I hear in Israel. And other than that, it was fine. I told them I was gay and a Reform Jew, which aroused curiosity- but really nothing beyond that. When I said I was a religious Reform Jew- they simply pondered, asked a few questions, and said “OK cool, do you want to join us for dinner?”

Which brings us back to yesterday. On the way back from the rally, wearing my yarmulke, two Orthodox men approached me to say they didn’t like my signs. They said it was great there was a rally because finally there were enough police to keep the streets safe. They told me: “it’s so hard to raise children here with these Eritreans around.” Right in front of the Eritreans standing next to me.

I told them this: “I grew up with Eritreans in the U.S. and we get along fine. Unlike in Israel, where everyone lives in their little bubble, I’m glad I have friends of different backgrounds. That we learn and play together. Here you have four separate school systems based on religion and race. How many Reform Jews do you even know?”

And the man closest to me says: “None- thank God.”

My heart sunk- and I can’t say I was the least bit surprised because in Israel, I’ve heard this a lot. I said “well you’re talking to one now. I am disappointed by your hatred. In the U.S. I have friends who are secular, Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, and Hasidic.”

He said: “I’m not hateful. Anyways, all of your mixing in the U.S. is why American Jewry is disappearing.”

At this point, I felt the discussion was useless and went to talk to some absolutely lovely Eritreans who exchanged numbers with me. We live down the street from each other and are going to hang out. Our values are infinitely more intertwined than those of the Israeli I just finished speaking with.

If you want to understand in one anecdote the major difference between American and Israeli Jewry- it’s this. Are there open-minded Israeli Orthodox Jews (or Israeli Jews in general)- yes. I regularly do Shabbat with a gay Orthodox Israeli Jew who loves to learn about Reform Judaism.

And are there bigoted American Orthodox Jews (or American Jews in general)? For sure.

Do I believe there is a substantial difference between the two groups’ attitudes? Yes.

In America, by and large, Jews get along. Perhaps better than American Jews even realize. Only by being here in Israel have I realized the degree to which Judaism is different here- and far more divisive. And far too often hateful.

Where two American Orthodox Jews saw my queer and Reform identities as nothing more than curiosity and an entree to a dinner invite, two Israeli Orthodox Jews couldn’t even stand the thought of befriending me. To thank God for not knowing a Reform Jew (let alone an Eritrean)- that’s a true perversion of religion.

It’s important to remember people come in all shapes and sizes, both here and in Israel. I could have turned this blog into an opportunity to hate Orthodox Jews. And believe me, I was very angry last night and felt some of that hatred. Instead, my cover photo is my picture of a Hasidic kids book- based on Elsa from the Disney movie “Frozen“. Because I like to look for the unexpected and to try to speak with nuance and understanding.

For many American Jews, pluralism, diversity, and respect are key values- regardless of religious affiliation. And for many Israeli Jews, the idea of a school where an Eritrean, a Reform Jew, and an Orthodox Jew could learn together is so out of the norm, it can barely be imagined. Even if they agree with it.

And that’s exactly the kind of school I grew up at. Eastern Middle School is where I spent my teenage years in Silver Spring, MD. To this day, I remember an Eritrean friend of mine there teaching me about Tigre. And I remember an Orthodox friend who was one of the popular girls bouncing to Backstreet Boys- and who now lives in a Haredi community in London.

And it’s not only “not a big deal”- it’s cool. Living together is nice. It can be challenging and mostly, it’s just interesting. And fun. And enriching. And I personally pray for the day when God will soften the hearts of the two Orthodox men who berated me. So that instead of complaining about their Eritrean neighbors, they might see they have something in common with them. Or even to learn from them.

May it be so. May it be soon.

Yiddish softens the heart?

Two weeks ago, I approached my friends at FluenTLV about starting a Yiddish table. FluenTLV is a fabulous event (my favorite in Tel Aviv) where people get together to exchange languages. I offered to represent the language and they were thrilled.

Last week, the first week we did Yiddish, probably 3 or 4 people came and it went well. One German guy, a couple Jewish Americans, and an Israeli. Given how stigmatized my heritage language is in Israel, I was pretty happy.

Last night, Yiddish came to life. At the beginning of the night, an Israeli came in and tried to take one of the three chairs at my tiny table. I said: “actually that chair is for Yiddish.” He said “well, nobody is going to come anyways, so I’ll take it.” I said: “nope, this chair belongs here, you can leave now.” I asked him if he wanted to learn something and he said “sure, teach me a word.” I did, he laughed, gave me one of those “everything is OK dude” Israeli high fives and left. Probably without a further thought about what he had said.

The best part of the evening is that this guy was totally wrong. Group after group came over to my table. We didn’t have enough chairs. When all was said and done, about 15-20 people had visited my table. A German guy and two Dutch men explained how Yiddish had made its way into their languages! A Brazilian Jew talked about Yiddish in her family. I met Israelis whose parents or grandparents spoke the language and remembered some phrases. Together, we read my copy of “Der Blat”, a Satmar Hasidic newspaper. And I could see the glow in their eyes when they realized they could understand some of it.

What was also astonishing was how willing people were to learn. I often find Israeli culture frustrating because of the bravado. So many people here feel the need to be right trumps all. Hence often endless debate, even when the facts used are minimal. I’ve even had Israelis try to correct my English- knowing I’m American. We often laugh that off, but after a while it wears on you. It’s tiring having to constantly defend yourself. Humility is not an Israeli value.

Yet at the Yiddish table, Israelis came to learn from me. And subsequently shared about themselves. Their families, their stories, their grandparents’ Yiddish phrases. For the first time, I actually felt in dialogue with Israeli Jews rather than a lecture. Or an argument. There was a softness to our conversation that made me happy. It warmed my heart and it gave me hope.

In a society where, as I see it, traumatized Jews faced 2,000 years of violent persecution with few options for safety and survival. Sadly, some of these Jews ended up traumatizing and displacing Palestinian Arabs in a bid for a homeland. Some of these traumatized Palestinians subsequently re-traumatized the Israelis. And now we’re stuck in a seemingly endless cycle of violence.

That’s how I see it on regel aches- or “one on leg” as we say in Yiddish. My Tweet-length version of the conflict here. The saddest part is the trauma on both sides continues. Anti-Semitism is not just the Holocaust. It’s a two-millennia phenomenon that continues to this day from America to France to Iran. I’ve personally experienced it in the liberal suburbs of Washington, D.C. When Jews are persecuted, we often have nowhere to go, which is why some people believe in a Jewish state. I’m not sure it’s the best solution and I completely understand why people feel we need it. It’s not by accident that there’s a lot of French people in Israel- they’re Jews fleeing violence and bigotry. Palestinian terrorist attacks on pizza shops and buses and schools only feed this narrative as we feel under attack yet again. Trauma piled upon trauma.

And for the Palestinians, you have those who are citizens of Israel yet continue to face discrimination, racism, and often poverty. Whose lands were robbed of them- and are still in the hands of the Israeli state 70 years later. You have those in the West Bank and Gaza Strip who live in immense poverty, have little right to travel, have few if any civil liberties, and often face violence from the Israeli military. And even some settlers who burn their trees, deface their houses of worship, and physically assault them. And you have Palestinian refugees in Lebanon, Syria, Jordan, and elsewhere who can’t even come back to the land they once called home. Who have no rights in the villages they come from and whose host states often extensively discriminate against them.

Sometimes its enough to just make you cry and cry and weep for humanity. With no end in sight. Ya Allah, God please send us all healing.

So in the face of all this sadness, what gives me hope? Yiddish. Because tonight, I saw the softer side of Israeli Jews. When they don’t have to be “tough”- not against Arabs, not against other Jews, not against their own heritage. Rather, by connecting to their roots- roots violently uprooted both by European anti-Semites and the Israeli state– they felt warmth.

I hope politicians can figure out a solution to this problem. Given their proclivity for narcissism and greed, I’m not sure what they’ll do. In the meantime, perhaps part of the solution is culture. When you feel connected to something bigger- especially something a part of your heritage- it puts things in perspective. Rather than having to show how “Israeli” you are, you can be the multifaceted Jew beneath the uniform. The Jew whose family was persecuted by Polish Nazi collaborators, the Jew whose family escaped to Israel, the Jew who lives on Palestinian land, the Jew who wishes to reconnect with his heritage. A complex one, of persecution and co-existence. Of perseverance and of trauma.

A little less prickly sabra and a little more soft kneydlach. Those fluffy yet durable matzah balls that comfort you when you feel sick.

—

Cover photo by Jonathunder – Own work, GFDL 1.2, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31812266

Jesus and Jerusalem

Jerusalem, despite what Tel Avivis say, is an absolutely fascinating city. This week I hopped on a bus for a day trip. My dear friend from college was coming into town from New York. And I’ve been itching to get to know a side of Jerusalem few people here talk about: the Christian one.

I love churches. The more beautifully decorated and historic, the better. In a foreign language? Gold. Some of the prettiest art I’ve seen has been in cathedrals and churches. And I love learning about other faiths.

Jerusalem is a great place to visit churches. While much of the world (and this country) likes to bicker about Jews vs. Muslims and Muslims vs. Jews and endless news clips that only feed the narcissism of both groups, the fact is this is a Holy Land for many peoples. Including Christians, whose religion also comes from here.

Here’s how one day in Jerusalem went down. Walking towards the Old City, I popped into a bookstore. I LOVE books and especially used books in different languages and this store had exactly that. I met a 15 year old Hasidic kid named Shmuel who was browsing the books. An extremely friendly guy, we chatted as we perused. Shmuel loves nature and knows every park in Jerusalem. He loves hisboydedus (Modern Hebrew: hitbodedut)- going into nature and talking to God. Something I find spiritual too.

He struggled with whether he should go to such a bookstore or not, since some of the books would be forbidden in his community. I tried to show him some kindness and encouragement. I hope he keeps reading 🙂

Then I came across a tall black man in a black robe with a cross. Knowing a bit about Orthodox Christianity, my guess was he was an Ethiopian Orthodox priest. And I was right 🙂 His name was Zion and we walked together to his favorite coffee shop. Run by a very cute English guy with an Irish accent- with coffee from all over the world. For those who don’t know, coffee was invented in Ethiopia/Yemen. After a nice chat, I got info about an Ethiopian church I can visit next time, and I headed towards the Old City.

Jerusalem’s Old City has four quarters: Jewish, Muslim, Armenian, and Christian. Armenians are Christian, so not sure about how that distinction came about, but that’s the way it is. I’ve visited much of the Old City but hadn’t spent much time in the Christian Quarter.

I wandered around asking shopkeepers in Arabic where the churches were. I made my way to a Catholic church…in the middle of a mass. The church was immaculate. Catholics know how to decorate 🙂 And the mass- the sermon, the music, the prayers- were all in Arabic. At a time when much of the Western World couldn’t imagine anything Christian being in Arabic, it’s a useful reminder that this language belongs to many people. And this perhaps can shatter some preconceived notions about the Middle East- and about Christianity itself.

The prayers were beautiful- the priest even quoted the Talmud. I can’t say my Fusha (Modern Standard Arabic) is at a level where I can know word-for-word what he was quoting in his sermon (I’m not a Talmud expert either and it was echoey), but it was clear he was telling a story from Jewish religious literature. The sermon was something about all the latest news regarding sexual harassment- a rather forward topic for a Middle Eastern church based on my own preconceptions. I preferred, though, to look at the art and soak in the music. What a unique experience. Every religion has beauty to share.

Then I walked around the outside of a Greek Orthodox Church- closed but will visit next time. I did get to use the Greek I’ve been learning to read the signs- there’s a lot of Greek in Jerusalem! I wonder if the dad in My Big Fat Greek Wedding can prove that the word “Jerusalem” comes from Greek too 😉

I then used my Spanish to help two lost Christian pilgrims from Colombia find the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. According to Christian tradition, this site is where Jesus was crucified and where he was buried and resurrected. What’s unique about it is that the church is actually multiple churches. Every section of the building is controlled by a different denomination. There are Armenian, Greek Orthodox, Catholic, Coptic, Ethiopian, and Syriac Orthodox areas. Each decorated according to the traditions of the group and filled with beautiful artwork and quotes in their respective languages.

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In the course of an hour or two, I talked with a Coptic priest, Armenian priests, and Catholic pilgrims from Chicago. What a beautiful and awe-inspiring place.

On my way up the hill to meet my friend from college- who’s Modern Orthodox (kind of completing a day of almost every religious denomination imaginable)- I heard people speaking Spanish. They were from Costa Rica! Costa Rica is a very small country- I grew up with neighbors from there and my high school organized trips there. What’s even more crazy is that the Costa Ricans…had bumped into other Costa Ricans. In Jerusalem. Add in one Brazilian guy and an Arab shopkeeper with a few words of Spanish, and all of us were chatting and having a good time. I love Spanish- it was my major and I’ve used it in every job I’ve had since college, including as a Spanish teacher. I love going back and forth between languages so speaking Arabic, Spanish, and Portuguese was pretty neat 🙂

We even took a picture together:

After a heartwarming and laughter-filled dinner with my friends, I headed back to Tel Aviv.

The Holy Land is nothing if not complex. There is such a richness here- a density of meaning- that is hard to find anywhere else. It can lead to great strife. And it can lead to absolutely miraculous days where you realize you’ve spoken six languages and met people from all over the world.

Jerusalem in Hebrew means “city of peace” and in Arabic it means “the holy one”. In Tel Aviv, it’s used as a slur.

For me, Jerusalem is a fantastic place. It’s a place where with a little imagination, you can hear Muhammad riding on his Buraq, you can hear the Jewish priests on the Temple Mount, and you can hear Jesus’s footsteps.

Where you can hear a priest talking in Armenian and then find Dutch tourists dancing to techno in the shuk.

Jerusalem- leave your assumptions at home 🙂

Bedouin Yiddish

Yes, you read that right. We’ll get to it- read the whole way through 🙂

Today I went South. I’ve explored a lot of Israel’s Center and North- with plenty more to discover. And I’ve ventured a little south since making Aliyah to Ashdod. Now was the time to learn about another region.

I hopped on the train and headed to Be’er Sheva. It is a city actually mentioned in the Torah and there is a well there that according to tradition was dug by Abraham himself. I wanted to visit but it’s one of the very few places in Israel you need to call in advance!

I visited the city market which was cool. An amazing diversity of cultures that reminded me a lot of my neighborhood in Tel Aviv. Just with less traffic and yelling 🙂

I went into an electronics store and asked in Arabic where I could buy Bedouin music. For those who are wondering, Bedouin are substantially different in culture, language, and religiosity from many other Arabs in Israel. Therefore, their music is different as well.

The young man made me a deal and custom burned me a CD with MP3’s of dahiyye music. It’s basically happy Bedouin dance music- take a look. Somewhat reminiscent of the dabke I’ve learned- but in the words of the Bedouin man: “that’s fellahi music”. Fellahin were the villagers and farmers of the region- as opposed to the nomadic Bedouin. Most Arabs in Israel today are descendants of Fellahin and have distinct dialects from the Bedouin, who speak a bit more like Fusha, the standard Arabic which was likely modeled after them.

I was then peppered with questions about why I wasn’t married. Lest you think this is only a Bedouin phenomenon, it has been a frequent first question amongst Jews, other Arabs, even Samaritans here. It is extremely difficult for me- as a queer person, as an American (where this is considered invasive), and a survivor of partner abuse.

Eventually I shrugged it off by saying I was new to the country and needed time to settle in. Having gotten my Bedouin music, I decided to keep exploring.

I then came upon a bona fide music shack. A shack because it looks like one. And bona fide because this man knew his music. No CD burning here. He had hundreds of CDs.

I felt much more at ease here- Ahmed, also Bedouin, was gentle and friendly. And never asked me about my marital status. We bonded over Arabic music as he showed me tons of options. Eventually I bought an Israeli Bedouin CD (with songs from both the North and the South), Syrian dialect music (that’s the one I speak!), and another Bedouin CD from a town near Be’er Sheva. I personally find it miraculous to find Syrian-dialect music in a Bedouin shop in Be’er Sheva. First off, most Arabic music is not recorded in Syrian, even when the artists are from there. Egyptian tends to dominate. In addition, ten years ago when I took my Syrian dialect class, I could never have imagined this scenario. And I love it. When the stars align, language and culture bring me closer to good people like Ahmed.

Be’er Sheva’s Jewish community is also very diverse. Walking around, I found several Indian and Ethiopian Jewish stores. There were tons of Russian signs. I even found a sign publicizing a concert at a Tunisian synagogue from the famed isle of Djerba. Around the corner from the beautiful mural in my cover photo- showing how the ancient and modern co-exist and feed off each other in this beautiful land.

I toured a bit of the Old City, which I hope to return to- in particular to see the Grand Mosque/Museum of Islamic and Near Eastern Cultures. Like nearly everything in Israel, this place is not without its controversy. An Ottoman-era building, the mosque is no longer used for prayer, although local Muslims would like to do so. Instead, the city of Be’er Sheva wanted to turn it into a general museum. The Israeli Supreme Court, perhaps weaving between the two, decided it could be a museum but it had to be dedicated to Islamic history. I’m looking forward to visiting, being a fan of Islamic art and history, and would be happy to see it peacefully resume its role as a house of prayer.

Having the desire to see more Bedouin culture, I hopped on a bus and went to Rahat. An entirely Bedouin city, it is a fantastic place to go to experience their culture. Since it was already dark and my transportation options were dwindling to go back home (this can be a stressful part of spontaneous travel), I focused on my goal: food. Before I sat down to eat, though, I met a wonderful young man named Mohammed who is studying English. I had asked him for directions, one thing led to another, and we decided to stay in touch and exchange languages. In particular, I’m dying to learn his Bedouin dialect. And I can help him with English 🙂

I sat down to eat a feast. This is not an exaggeration. For 25 shekels, approximately $7.30, I got to eat this:

The picture doesn’t really do it justice- it’s huge. I didn’t finish half the rice (chicken is buried in it)- and I was very hungry. The bread is delightful- kind of like Druze pita i.e. nothing like the pita you’d find in a grocery store. The full bowl of soup that came with it was tomato-ey, a little spicy, and delicious. The rice kind of tasted like Biryani, for any of my fellow South Asian food fans. And it was covered in peanuts, peas, veggies, and delicious sauce. My doggy bag was enormous.

The people there were so kind. I have to paint this picture for you- there are 0 Jews anywhere. I can’t imagine many Jews come to Rahat to dine in one of the Arab restaurants that often sit at the footsteps of their villages for Jews to eat at without going “too far in”. I could be wrong, maybe some come. All I can say for sure is that when I was there, I was the only one around. And a totally novel figure.

People were so curious to talk to me. I was asked a million questions (fortunately nothing about marriage). All of them kind and welcoming. We mostly spoke in Arabic. I asked them to teach me some Bedouin- they said I spoke fellahi! 🙂 We used a few Hebrew words but they truly loved to practice their English 🙂 People knew I was American, Jewish, and Israeli. And I have to say, and this repeatedly shocks me, being American has been a huge plus to my travels in the Middle East. Despite the fact that the American government has a very long history of bullying other countries, so many people here still love America. Jews, Arabs- doesn’t matter. It’s fascinating and frankly really encouraging. It’s also a great way to disarm the people who are, in fact, suspicious of you, because I can play the innocent stranger. To be fair, I pretty much am one 🙂

Before my sated self headed to the bus (and then an exceedingly long train ride because I missed the more direct train- note to self for next trip), a man grabs my phone and insists we take a selfie. Apparently some concepts are universal:

As I headed to the bus, a man asked me what languages I spoke. One of them is Yiddish. And in a moment that you couldn’t even dream of in the wildest of scenarios, the Bedouin man tells me there’s a guy in their town…who speaks Yiddish. In shock and amazement, I asked why. He said that the man, back in the day when Yiddish was more widely spoken here, learned it just as he did every common tongue in the area. My grin, inside and out, could not have been bigger.

In pure cultural ecstasy, I headed home on a very slow train. With a lot of time to digest a rich and exciting day.

Intercultural exploration and communication can be very challenging. One does not come out of the womb with the skills necessary to make it happen- even if you may have some characteristics that help. I’ve spent my whole life communicating across cultures. From the my early years in Japan to my schooling in Maryland with so many immigrant friends to my work for refugee rights to the dozen or so languages I’ve studied (8 or 9 of which I can currently speak). None of this happened by osmosis nor just because I have “an ear” for it. I do have an ear for it- but just like a concert violinist doesn’t magically pick up a bow and play a concerto, I have honed these skills over years of practice and joy.

Today is the kind of day I’m proud to call myself a cultural explorer. One who learns, who tries new things, who makes people smile, who grows, who creates, who makes the world a better place.

If you’re looking for new adventure, the world is your backyard. And your backyard just may have a Bedouin Yiddish speaker.

Russian Jews 101

Depending on how you count, there are about 900,000-1.5 million Russians in Israel. I’ve explored many cultures in Israel and this one is next on the list. I was initially hesitant to explore Russian culture in Israel. First of all, I felt it was not particularly Jewish or Middle Eastern (we’ll explore how I’ve changed my mind). Second of all, I felt Russian was a language of oppression. I remember stories told in my family of ancestors who fled from there (because- and this is a crucial point- I’m also a Russian Jew just several generations back). Ancestors who felt the Russian language, Russian rule, and Russian anti-Semitism was forced on them. Because it often was. Most Russian Jews, several generations back, were Yiddish speakers- just like in the U.S.

So on some level I felt guilt about learning Russian. I knew that in fact Russian had become one of the most widely spoken languages amongst Jews – I grew up with many Russian Jewish friends. As a teen, I learned a bunch of their slang and unique sense of humor. My suburb of Washington accepted thousands of post-Soviet refugees. I also felt that Russian was a harsh language, a language of stern people with no smiles. And one with not so great cuisine.

These stereotypes are rooted in fact or personal experience. Russia has an exceedingly bad record when it comes to anti-Semitism, which is why many more Russian Jews live outside Russia than in. I also can’t help but wonder if the Cold War – which technically was still going on when I was a young child (I remember maps with the Soviet Union) – influences the way I perceive Russia. To this day, the U.S. and Russia are embroiled in conflict and it is actually one of the few countries where it is easier for me to travel on an Israeli passport than an American one.

So the conundrum of me learning Russian is this- the 1.5 million Israelis (largely Jewish or married to Jews, though some not) who speak it are the ones who also fled these problems. In other words, if I want to explore this culture (which is so rich- for many years I enjoyed exploring Russian art in D.C.), I need to learn the language that many of our persecutors spoke. And that many Russian Jews today speak as well. It’s the language of anti-Semites, it’s a language of Communist Jews (who were quite prominent), it’s the language of Tolstoy, it’s the language that influenced so much Yiddish and even Israeli folk songs. And it’s the language of millions of people I don’t know yet- and who maybe aren’t all as prejudiced today as I’ve been taught.

In other words, complex. So how did I get to a point where I want to learn Russian – and about Russian culture (here and in the Motherland)?

Oddly enough, Greek. Over Christmas, I went to Cyprus. I’ve long been a fan of Greek language, music, history, and food. So I started learning the language. And interestingly enough, once you can read Greek, you’re well on your way to reading Russian. You can thank Saint Cyril for that 🙂 . So when I got back to Israel and I noticed several identical letters in Russian on signs (because Russian is everywhere here), I started learning the alphabet.

Once I’m hooked on a language, everything else falls into place. I’ve started listening to Russian music, buying Russian books (there are a lot of them in Israel!), and ultimately meeting Russians 🙂 And it turns out, some of them smile, some of them are Jews, some of them are really cute!, some of them like to dance (like the woman in the bookstore who put on a CD for me and started wiggling!). In other words, the stern babushka who scolds and never smiles- I’m sure someone is like that, but like most images, this is merely a snapshot and not daily reality.

Which gets us to the word Russian. In Israel, what exactly does that mean? Well, it’s a bit complex (which will also bring us to the food question!). As Israeli Sabras are not known for their nuance, “Russian” here tends to mean anyone who speaks Russian or whose family came from a post-Soviet republic. Well, guess what? That’s Belorussians, Lithuanians, Georgians, Bukharians (Central Asia), Latvians, Ukrainians- and so many more. In some cases, Jews who have completely different cultures and delightfully delicious cuisines. In some cases, Jews who only speak Russian as a second language. In some cases, people who the Israeli government doesn’t even consider Jewish. And in some cases, people who the Russian government wouldn’t consider ethnically Russian. In short, the word “Russian” in Israel doesn’t tell you much. Which is why it’s important to learn about this community in more depth.

Much like Russian Israelis are actually an incredibly diverse array of cultures, so too is Russia. There are 25 *official* languages in Russia. Most people are Orthodox Christians or secular. And there are also about 10-14 million Muslims. 700,000 Buddhists. And 1.7 million are pagans or shamans! The latter a word I might associate with Native Americans more than Russians.

And importantly for me- there are a ton of direct flights to Russia from Tel Aviv. I hope to take one one day, perhaps with a new Russian-Israeli friend.

My ancestors who came to America from today’s Lithuania and Latvia/Belarus- they were listed often as Russian because it was part of the Russian Empire. Their relationship with the predominant culture and language were complex- sometimes a source of incredible hardship and also a source of richness.

What I’ve come to realize about Russian Jews in Israel (and I define the term broadly unlike the bureaucrats in the Chief Rabbinate) is that when I’m learning about their culture, I’m not learning about China or India or Bolivia. All places I love where my ancestors probably never stepped foot. When someone recently asked me if I was Russian, I paused for a second and said “yes”! Because I am. It’s just that my family had the good fortune of escaping to America. But we are from the same place. When I speak to a Russian Jew here, I’m speaking to a long lost cousin.

When I arrived to Israel and discovered the dearth of Jewish food I was raised on, I scrambled to find whitefish salad. In a land filled with falafel stands being eaten by people whose grandparents largely didn’t know what the food was, I couldn’t find a bona fide Jewish spread! Someone suggested I go to a Russian grocery store. I did- and the woman behind the counter smiled. She was Russian and her Polish grandma would prepare such a salad. She walked around the counter and brought it to me.

It looked like whitefish salad, with the same texture, yet it had a bit of a tang to it. Interesting- not quite what I was hoping for, but a good find. Similar, yet not quite the same.

This is how I feel about Russian Jews. We come from the same place, our foods are similar, our cultures are similar. And we’ve spent some time apart- them in the Soviet Union, me in America. And now we’re back together here in Israel. Getting to know each other. Sometimes over whitefish, sometimes over kebabs, sometimes at a Yiddish musical in Tel Aviv reminiscing about our shared civilization.

Perhaps to the chagrin of Israel’s founders, many of whom fled Russia and their Russian identities, coming to Israel is reconnecting me with mine. And who knows the amazing places it’ll take me spiritually, culturally, and physically.

My cover photo is of a 1986 book- from the year I was born – “A Dictionary of Cybernetics and Applied Mathematics”. Published in Communist Russia at a time when our countries were still at odds, it’s a bilingual book to help Russians learn English vocabulary. I bought it (for 3 shekels!) because of what it represents. Sometimes, changes are happening that you could never imagine. And someone, somewhere, is learning about you in a place you’d least expect. That conflict is neither interminable nor inevitable.

And that one day, an American Jew would renew his hope via an old book in a Tel Aviv bus station because he’s starting to learn the Russian his ancestors spoke. And that his neighbors speak now.

To recall a phrase an old Russian friend from the U.S. taught me: Отлично. Awesome 🙂

Straight talk about Israel

This may be my most dugri blog ever. We need to talk about Israel and Jewish culture.

After 2,000 years of exile, idealistic pioneers started to resettle the land. There had already been some Jews here – even some with continuous presence since the destruction of the Temple – but they were a small percentage of world Jewry.

The new pioneers, eventually called Zionists, set up all sort of agriculture and economic development and cultural enterprises. For the latter, one of their best known accomplishments was the revival of spoken Hebrew. It is an enterprise unmatched by any other linguistic revival movement.

A great deal of the pioneers’ energy was motivated by a desire to escape the “Diaspora” i.e. Jewish life anywhere outside of the Land of Israel. It wasn’t just a physical escape (which is quite understandable- life was pretty rough for Jews being butchered across the world for 2,000 years). It was also a psychological and cultural one.

In their minds, especially the Sabras (i.e. the pioneers’ Israeli-born children), the Diaspora Jew was weak, effeminate, overly polite, wordy, deferential, and too religious. All words which if said by a non-Jew would probably be considered anti-Semitic.

Clearly they had been through trauma across generations and perhaps instead of resolving their pain, they passed it on to others. In this case, other Jews (although perhaps in another blog I’ll explore how this affected relations with Arabs).

Sabras were largely of Ashkenazi extraction (i.e. their families immigrated from Europe), but their culture was not. Over time, they rejected Yiddish, the Jewish religion, even changing their Ashkenazi pronunciation of Hebrew. These were the blunt, masculine, secular pioneers building a state.

When it comes to meeting their goals, one cannot deny their effectiveness. They established a safe haven for Jews for the first time in 2,000 years. They won war after war after war- at great cost. They changed Jewish culture not only in Israel, but also across the world.

The question is at what expense?

When Jews came to Israel from across the world (and continue to do so), they were often escaping anti-Semitism, economic devastation, and war. From Morocco to Yemen, from Poland to India.

Jews in most of the world are quite accustomed to being persecuted by non-Jews. Coming to Israel, we thought, would finally protect our Jewish identity.

But the sad truth of it is that when many Jews arrived (and indeed, arrive) to Israel, Sabras greeted them with hatred. Iraqi Jews were shamed for speaking Judeo-Arabic. Ashkenazi Holocaust survivors were not only attacked for speaking Yiddish, they were also called “sabonim” or “soap”…because of the rumor that Hitler made soap out of their families’ bodies. To many Sabras, Ashkenazi Holocaust survivors were weak Diaspora Jews who went “like sheep to the slaughter“. Religious Jews arrived to Israel and some Sabras even cut off their peyos– their side locks. I’ve seen videos of this from the 1930s…in Germany. Did not expect that to have happened here.

While respect for diversity has certainly increased since the early years of the State, it is still an enormous problem.

For example, I live in a largely Mizrachi neighborhood- Jews who came to Israel from the Middle East. There’s an Iraqi bakery and the Jewish woman there and I speak in Arabic. Which is pretty friggin awesome.

A young man comes up, also presumably Mizrachi, and talks to the woman because they know each other. She tells him: “look he’s American and he speaks Arabic better than me!”. He gets a puzzled and angry look on his face and says: “What do you mean Arabic? You’re Iraqi.” The woman then explains to him that when her parents moved to Israel, they spoke Judeo-Arabic. He wasn’t interested in the details: “Iraqis aren’t Arab.” He bought his pitas and he left.

This is a guy who presumably has a similar story in his family. With Judeo-Arabic, with Persian, with Bukharian- with something. With his roots. That he doesn’t understand.

When a person becomes un-rooted- as the Sabras did- they lose their sense of self. One need only look to many million of Americans whose ancestors were shamed for speaking Irish, German, etc.- and now have no cultural bearings. And take that hatred out on immigrants who keep them.

Culture evolves- that’s fine. In fact, it can be good. Not all of the Sabras’ ideas were bad. God, YHVH, in Hebrew is a verb. Spirituality and culture need to change but they also need a starting point. You don’t need to throw the baby out with the bathwater.

The sad thing is that the Sabras’ initial behaviors have became Israeli cultural norms. While Sabra once meant the first generation of Jewish pioneers born here, it now applies to any Jew born in Israel. The ideology of the first generation of Sabras has now became fairly mainstream and so with each passing generation, the new cohort of Sabras passes the pain along. And the pressure to conform.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard “French olim are so annoying with their ‘hon hon hon’, in my neighborhood you’d think we’re in France! Why do they come here?” Or “Russians are lazy and don’t learn Hebrew. Most of them aren’t Jewish anyways.” Or “You speak Hebrew great! Not like those Americans who live here 20 years with their terrible accents and can’t get a word out in our language.”

Are all Sabras like this? No. I’ve met some people here with a great respect for cultural diversity and a curiosity about the world. Even their own roots, despite what they’ve been taught about them.

But is it more prevalent here? It is more rooted in the ideology? It is in fact a cultural value?

Yes.

And it’s not only from my observations. As a barometer, let’s talk intermarriage. Not because you have to marry someone from a different background to not be prejudiced, bur rather it’s a question of whether it’s accepted. It’s a reasonable point of data for understanding tolerance for diversity.

In the U.S., which has its own extensive history of racism (which sadly continues), only 9% of the public disapproves of interracial marriage. To the folks who say this is simply a product of American “PC” culture and unwillingness to tell the truth, they’re wrong. Three times as many elderly Americans are against interracial marriage as young Americans. There is a definitive positive trend as time goes on. Thank God.

Now let’s look at Israel. Let’s put aside interracial marriage- upwards of 80% of both Arabs and Jews disapprove. Every single sector of Jewish society here disapproves- by alarmingly high margins- of their children marrying someone from at least one other Jewish community. Secular Jews, Hilonim, have almost identically high opposition to the phenomenon as their “menace”- Haredim.

How does this connect? Diversity. The predominant Sabra ideology (which by the way is not uniform and there are many alternate visions of Zionism- I’ve personally taken a recent interest in Judah Magnes) is vehemently against it- at least when it comes to Jews. This helps explain both Israel’s struggle to accept cultural/linguistic diversity and to accept religious pluralism (or religion at all).

The sad thing is that Israel is one of the most diverse places on the planet. Just in my neighborhood, I hear (or speak) Arabic, Tagalog, Cameroonian French, Turkish, Tigre, Amharic, Chinese, Bukharian, Russian, and so much more. In the right neighborhood, Israel is a polyglot’s paradise. Which is part of what I love about it.

It’s hard because what I love most about Israel is what the system itself tries to annihilate. While I’m accustomed to Jews being diminished by non-Jews, I’m alarmed by Jews doing it to our own people.

Jews have arrived to Israel with the riches of thousands of years of civilization. Culture, music, traditions, languages, religion. So much unique richness- some of which cannot be found anywhere else.

And I’m glad that Sabras built a place to save Jewish lives. Because no one else has.

The question is what does it mean to save a Jewish life if you can’t live Jewishly? Why can’t someone be Israeli and speak fluent Hebrew and also insist on teaching their kids Yiddish or Kavkazi or Haketia? And their grand kids. And insisting these languages be taught in the public schools we fund? And preserving multiple identities in addition to being Israeli?

I’m grateful Israel has amazing archives which I plow to learn about these ancient and precious communities. But I’m not interested in being archived. I’m interested in living as a free Jew in my land. According to my traditions- evolving and ancient.

Because every time an Israeli sings Hatikvah, they’re singing a Romanian folk song in the Hebrew cadence of my forefathers in Poland.

That’s the thing about roots- they’re hard to undo.

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