Category: Mizrachim

Dugri: Lost in Translation

There has always been a yawning communication gap between Israelis and Americans- and between Israelis and the world.  Every country and culture has a unique communication style, and in my case, this often leads to challenging interactions with Sabras.  Sabras are Jews who were born and raised in Israel, whereas I’m an oleh- I chose to live here.

The sabra communication style most well known is “dugri”.  Dugri, from an Arabic word (itself of Turkish origin), means “straight talk”.  The word in Arabic means “straight” (like when giving directions), “fair” (like an arbiter not choosing sides), or “honest” (truthful words).  In Hebrew, the word means “direct”- but not in the sense of “honest” in Arabic (which is focused on presenting correct objective facts), but rather directly expressing your subjective emotions and opinions, regardless of how they are perceived.

In Israel, this means less pleasantries, less consideration, less politeness, more tough love, more controversial statements, and more blunt judgments.

There are ideological roots to this communication style that have been well-researched.  I highly encourage reading Professor Tamar Katriel’s study, which I’m still working through.  Going back to the early Zionist pioneer days, ideological olim wanted to rid themselves of what they perceived as a “Diaspora mentality” of formality, nuance, and passivity.  Again- this is their perception, not necessarily the facts.  The answer, especially for their sabra children, was to be found in a new, astoundingly direct and informal communication style, itself ironically rooted in German enlightenment philosophy.  I can empathize that building a new national identity was hard and I also think their attitude towards the Diaspora was pretty hateful.

This style, before I deconstruct the hell out of it, has its advantages.  For instance, I’m a very informal person so I like that dugriyut- or speaking dugri- allows me to speculate, to dream, to ponder.  I don’t have to cross my i’s and dot my t’s- I can just roll with it.  It fosters creativity in me.  I also like that I don’t have to think through every word I say for fear of literally losing friendships.  Here, an occasional offensive comment is not going to lose you anything.  When used properly, speaking dugri can reduce some of the feeling of “walking on broken glass” we face in America when communicating.  Also, hearing people’s deep-seated personal prejudices, while valued in Israeli society, for me actually serves as a defense mechanism so I can avoid someone who is actually toxic.  I rarely have to guess what people here think.

Now the flip side.  First things first- I’m a proud Israeli and I’m an American.  My family has lived in the Diaspora for 2,000 years and while I’m glad to be back, I’m not ready to give up the wisdom gained over centuries.  I’m a firm believer that it is not only possible, it is desirable to have more than one culture.  This is an issue Israel has struggled with from the beginning– as do many countries.  I understand- and will continue to learn about- dugri communication but that doesn’t mean I’m going to “negate” my other cultures.

In Hebrew, the ministry that deals with olim is called the “Ministry of Absorption”.  I can’t even imagine a more Orwellian phrase, but let’s work with it.  Yes, to a degree, I came to be absorbed into Israeli society.  But a funny thing happens when your body absorbs something- it changes your composition.  And so much in the same way, I intend not just to be changed, but to change this place.

So what does this mean for dugri talk?  First off, we need to see some of the negative aspects this style can present.  For example, when sabras interact with foreign cultures, including Americans, they often struggle to perceive cultural differences.  Just this week alone, on three separate occasions, Jews here made (what I consider) offensive remarks to me about Americans being “fake” etc.  This is a common sabra complaint- Americans are polite, but insincere when they compliment you.  All the while, I’m sitting there talking with them as an American with ten times better Hebrew than their rrrrresh infected mouths can mumble in my language.

This is endemic of the problem.  Because Israelis are sparse- but quite genuine- with their compliments (as befits dugri talk), anything other than that is seen as insincere.  What they don’t realize is that it’s simply a cultural difference.  When Israelis move abroad and don’t know how to say “please” or “thank you”- or try to say something unacceptably blunt- they lose friends and often struggle to make non-Israeli friends.  This is well-documented by a study done among Israeli migrants to Canada.  Boy if they think Americans are polite, wait till they meet Canadians haha.

The truth is there are fake people and genuine people in every society.  For me, for instance, I encounter some Israeli communication as incredibly insincere- even though it’s just likely just a cultural difference.  For instance, especially in Tel Aviv, when people promote upcoming events (or compliment someone for leading an event), a whole litany of “mehamems” and “madhims” and “nehedars” and “merageshs” come out.  Basically, just a list of how everything is the most amazing awesome best coolest most wonderful thing ever.  It’s enough to make me, as an American, nauseous because it sounds like they’re lying.  But what I’ve come to realize is that there’s probably a cultural component to it.  Rather than calling all sabras fake, I chose to read hours of academic articles and confront the issue meaningfully.

For me, besides the nuisance of Israelis telling me my country (and implicitly perhaps me and my friends there too?) is fake, I have to wonder if there’s a broader cultural problem at work.

Israelis, unlike almost any civilized society I’ve lived in or visited, have completely separate school systems based not only on race/religion, but also what type of religiosity.  There are Arab schools, secular Jewish schools, Modern Orthodox schools, and Haredi schools.  These schools operate completely separately in state-sanctioned (and largely publicly supported) segregation.  There are social reasons for this- I’m not pretending it came out of nowhere.  But the end result is that Israelis rarely if ever interact meaningfully with people from drastically different backgrounds.  And they don’t learn how to understand intercultural communication.  Nor the value that sometimes, just because you think a thought doesn’t mean it’s best to say it out loud.

In 6 months in Israel, I have become a regular in Bnei Brak speaking Yiddish, I have visited half a dozen Arab villages in Arabic, I hung out with Samaritans, I watched Karaites pray, I talked with Armenians (in Arabic!), I blasted Eritrean music with refugees at a juice bar, I tutored a Darfur survivor in English.  And on and on and on.  I know this country much, much better than most of the sabras who’ve lived here their whole lives.  And it’s not because they’re bad people.  I have learned much from my sabra friends.  And they have much to learn from me about their own country.  This is one of the most diverse and exciting places on the planet.  A place I enjoy even more because of my diverse American upbringing.

Now it’s time for me to dish out some dugri talk (see I do like it sometimes!).  Sabras- you’re mostly racist or at best, unappreciative of the diversity that surrounds you.  Your difficulty in communicating across the cultures in your own country reinforces your prejudices- including towards olim.  I’ve lived all over the world, including spending lots of time in the Deep South in the U.S., and this is by far- by far- the most openly hateful society I’ve lived in.  Not just in terms of race, but also in terms of prejudice between different sectors of society (Secular vs. Orthodox, Ashkenazi vs. Mizrachi, etc.).  There are some of the most incredibly kind and hospitable people here too.  It’s just that the level of judgmental speech and behavior is mind boggling and frankly makes me appreciate my American upbringing- and question whether I want to raise my kids here.

In particular, there are times when the secular Ashkenazi liberal elite here sounds like a bunch of American tea partiers who long for the 1950s.  An era in which the government was basically run by a bunch of white men (them), when Holocaust survivors were told they went like “sheep to the slaughter”, when Arabs were under military rule, and Mizrachi Jews lived in impoverished camps.  But at least in the “good old days”, the government was more secular i.e. more like them.  Perhaps not coincidentally it is this same demographic that coined “dugri talk” generations ago.  Language is power.

The key is that every culture has its communication style.  It was hard for me to write a blog that was in English but appropriately non-judgmental for an American and appropriately dugri for an Israeli.  And I’m still learning about Israel even though I speak the language fluently.  I will always be learning.  I recommend all olim- indeed all tourists- learn about Israeli dugri talk.  And sabras- if you care at all about the millions of people living here born in other countries (or your own ability to travel abroad without offending people)- learn about yourselves.  You don’t have to give up your directness but you do need to learn how other cultures work.  Because it’s not that all Americans are fake.  It’s that you’re not self-aware.

Do your homework.  That’s my dugri talk for the day 🙂

p.s.- my cover photo is a paper I used to teach a Swahili-speaking Tanzanian in Holon about Hebrew vowels…via Arabic because she’s an Arabic teacher.  Intercultural communication isn’t a hobby- it’s a lifestyle.  Open your eyes and join the miracle 🙂

Yiddish and Farsi: Kissing Cousins

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The most diverse Israeli day ever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

South Tel Aviv is the Best Tel Aviv

Some of you may know that a couple weeks ago, I finally found a long-term apartment.  Everything about my identity- being Reform, being American, being progressive, and being queer- should lead me to live in the more secular center and north of the city.  But I feel utterly blessed that I ended up in the south.

When I first moved to my neighborhood (whose name I won’t reveal over the internet), I was apprehensive.  I knew absolutely no one there and there were posters advertising Shas concerts everywhere.  There are almost no young secular/Reform Ashkenazi people and I have yet to see a pride flag.  There are no pubs, nightclubs, cafes with WiFi- it is quiet.  Part of that is the beauty of the place and why I chose to live there.  Though at times, it was so quiet I felt lonely.

Today, I had no plans for Shabbat.  I had plans Saturday night, but during the day I figured I’d wander around and get to know my neighborhood.  And then I heard a boom.  And a tap tap.  Boom. And a tap tap…it was a darbuka!  I stepped outside and heard loud clapping and drumming and singing coming from across the street.  Not the utterly depressing slow moan of westernized Israeli rock (sorry guys- I do like some of it, but mostly it makes me want to cry!).  But rather the boom boom and ululating of Middle Eastern music.

I’m an outgoing guy, so I simply stood outside and listened- and as seems to be the Israeli custom, they immediately invited me inside.  When I say invited- I don’t mean a polite “how do you do?” and offering a cup of tea.  No- I was ushered into a room of 20 people, given a Mexican sombrero, plied with food and drink- all while I danced with people I just met to beautiful, soul-stirring Mizrachi music.

It was amazing and overwhelming all at the same time.  While I danced, the uncle tried to get me to drink whiskey (I don’t drink), then the cousin handed me pitas with hot dogs in them (which I shook while I danced), then the grandfather told me over and over again to keep eating!  I was living my dream of being in My Big Fat Greek Wedding.

Then, the most amazing thing happened.  The family asked me what song I’d like to sing.  I am an avid Mizrachi music fan.  This music is, hands down, the most unique cultural product to ever come out of Israel, although many (sometimes racist) Israelis wouldn’t realize that.  This music was born out of a fusion of the traditional Arabic, Turkish, Greek, Ladino, and Persian music brought by Jews to Israel in the 40s and 50s.  It then used the best of the West- drum sets, synthesizers, and electric guitars to imitate traditional instruments.  Add in a dose of Israeli folk tunes along with elements of Ashkenazi melodies and voila, you have the first “world music” before “world music” even existed!

So as I stood there, the first song that came to mind was “Mabruk aleek”.  It’s an Arabic-language wedding song.  And there I was dancing, having an absolute blast.  As with most things in Israel, life can go from quiet and lonely to exciting and heart-warming in the matter of seconds.

I was told I could sit and eat now- as relative after relative brought me food and water and food and water.  But things only got better- I discovered my new adoptive family is half Syrian and half Iraqi.  And with the exception of the youngest generation- everyone in the room speaks Arabic!  I specifically studied Syrian Arabic in college in the U.S. with a professor from Damascus- and now with Syrian refugees on Skype.  It was a dream come true!  Everyone’s smiling with each Arabic word I say.  And I’m spending Shabbat with Jews- in Arabic!!  For an American Ashkenazi Jew, this is a surreal experience, and one I’ll never forget (though I’ve been invited to come again over and over- so I doubt it’ll be the last!).

Then we moved to another room so I could meet the other 15 relatives.  I was asked at least three or four times if I was married, but the final time it was because they wanted to set me up with someone’s daughter.  The first few times I laughed off the question, but now I had a choice to make.  In the living room where we were banging on darbukas and recording videos on cell phones (things Orthodox Ashkenazi Jews don’t do on Shabbat), there were also at least half a dozen pictures of a rabbi who I presume was Rav Ovadia, who founded the Haredi Shas party.  Let’s just say the party isn’t generally a big fan of gays, Reform Jews, or really most of the things that people in the north of Tel Aviv support.

So I debated internally and did something brave: “you can set me up with her daughter, but it won’t work because I’m gay.”  I looked around and asked: “are you in shock?”  And without skipping a beat, one of the aunts says to me: “oh no, we have that in our family too.”  I started to smile as relative after relative starts thinking of men to set me up with.  One of the younger relatives actually pulls out her phone, calls her friend, and gets me the number of a gay guy to help me make friends in the community.

After helping one of the men download an app on his phone to turn YouTube videos into Mp3’s (he loves everything from Eyal Golan to Umm Kulthum), I hung out with the youngest kids- two 10-year-old girls.  We danced to Justin Bieber on the street and made funny videos.

Before I left, I was of course given a full container of homemade Iraqi kubbeh and rice.  They told me to come by whenever and one of the little girls even said, “come every Shabbat!” at least three times.  They took my number and said they’d introduce me to the neighbors, show me where I can volunteer, and feed me a lot.

My neighborhood is a lot browner, a lot more Middle Eastern, a lot more Arabic-speaking, and a lot more working-class than North Tel Aviv.  And you know what?  That’s not only “OK” by me- it’s fucking amazing.  Because the 14-year-old me who went by himself to a Sarit Hadad concert in Maryland is smiling from ear to ear.  Mizrachi music- Mizrachi culture- isn’t something new for me.  It’s something that, from the first days of when I learned Modern Hebrew after my Bar Mitzvah, gave me hope in dark times and energy and smiles.  It connected me to my Judaism and to Israel itself.

Unfortunately, there are many Israelis now and back in the early days of the State who are avidly racist against Mizrachim.  Even Mizrachi music was banned from the radio by the government in its early days.  And to the surprise perhaps of some of my fellow progressive American Jewish friends- this racism largely comes from secularized “progressive” Jews of Ashkenazi origin.  The kind who write for Haaretz or sit on the Supreme Court- two of our favorite institutions.

But let’s move beyond the politics.  What I’m trying to say is my neighborhood- this is not where the tourists are.  This is not where the wealthy people are.  This is not “trendy” and it’s not French-Vietnamese vegan fusion food.  These are people who have fought for their cultural and economic existence- and are here to tell the tale.  These are people whose Sephardic Judaism has a remarkable fluidity- even queerness- to it.

God bless them.  Because when a lonely newly-minted Israeli stumbled outside his house today, he didn’t just meet his neighbors.  He met family.

Because for all the beautiful luxury penthouses in North Tel Aviv, there’s one thing money can’t buy.

Warmth.

Be a good Israeli and learn Arabic

Today I had some phenomenal experiences in Israel- only because I speak Arabic. Rather than write a post with facts and figures about why my fellow Israelis should learn the language, I’m going to simply share my story.

This afternoon, I stopped by a sandwich shop.  While the chef made me a chicken in pita sandwich, I asked him where in the neighborhood I could buy a notebook.  He said he was new to the area so he didn’t know.  I told him I was new too.  He lives in North Tel Aviv but happens to work at this restaurant a couple days a week, only as of recently.

After explaining I was an oleh chadash, a newly-minted Israeli, he welcomed me and asked where I was from.  I then asked him what his family’s origin was.  Turns out he’s Moroccan and moved to Israel when he was very young.  Not looking more than 35 years old, I was stunned.  Most Moroccan Jews in Israel moved during the 1950s.  He even grew up speaking Moroccan at home- something rare among young Israelis.  We switched to Arabic.  I told him how cool it was to talk to a Jew in Arabic.  In America, where 90% of Jews are Ashkenazi, it’s almost unthinkable to find a native Arabic speaker in your synagogue.  And yet here I was talking with a 35 year old Moroccan Jew in Arabic.

Wrong.  Amir (pseudonym) is Moroccan but, to the surprise of probably everyone reading this, is Muslim.  And not a convert- a Muslim by birth.

How did we get here?  So first off, Amir tells me he grew up in Tira.  I’ve heard of Tira before and I did some googling to double check- yes, in fact, it is an Arab town.  It’d be quite out of the ordinary to find Moroccan Jews living in the middle of an Arab village here.  In addition, while many Moroccans can get by in Levantine Arabic (the dialect I speak along with Arab-Israelis/Palestinians), he had a strong facility with the language and didn’t revert to any Moroccan-isms.  I’m familiar with some because several of my college Arabic professors were Moroccan.

So finally I asked him: “Tira is an Arab village- are you Jewish?”  I figured maybe, working in the neighborhood we were in, he might be afraid to reveal his identity.  He then told me he wasn’t Jewish but was most certainly Moroccan.  So then the obvious question- how on earth did he get here?  For those of you unfamiliar, Israel and Morocco don’t even have mutual embassies, let alone coordinated immigration policies.

At this point, there’s a Jewish Israeli sitting in the cafe too.  Moshe is of Moroccan descent, but barely speaks the language.  But of course, even though Amir had told me over and over how great my Arabic was, this other shmo had to tell me I don’t speak like an Arab- which is bullshit because I have a great accent.  Like most insecure people, he chose to take his own identity issues out on me (look for a future blog on Mizrachi identity).

Noticing the other patron, Amir turns away from him and leans in to tell me: “It’s a secret, but my family worked with the Israeli government and that’s why we were able to come.”

Wow.  First of all, I have absolutely no way to verify it.  But in the interest of protecting his privacy, I did use a pseudonym and will not reveal the restaurant.  I do have to say though that after having talked for about an hour, he seemed like a legit guy and I don’t have any reason to question what he said.

As I headed out from the restaurant, we gave each other a smile and a hearty “ma3 asalaameh”.  Nice to make a new friend!

Still in shock and full of adrenaline, I walked through Tel Aviv until I found myself hungry again.  This time, I popped into a Cofix, a cafe here, and no joke, I hear my favorite Egyptian pop song.  It’s something that’s literally on my phone right now.

Seeing as how almost no Arabs live in the center of Tel Aviv, I was pleasantly surprised.  I went in and addressed the young man in Arabic: “hey, is this your music?”  He looked a bit confused.  So I switched to Hebrew.  And it turns out, yes this is his music.

I switched back to Arabic but found he only understood about half of what I was saying.  And not because, like Moshe thought, I “can’t speak like an Arab”.  Rather, it’s because he’s not Arab- he’s Jewish!

What?!?  Ok so this kid, Nir, his family is Syrian.  His parents speak Syrian Arabic at home- the exact dialect I speak.  He grew up with it and in his own words “is in love with Arabic”.  Which is why he blares the music in his cafe in the middle of Tel Aviv.

I asked him if he understood the song.  He said his Arabic isn’t so strong but he wants to learn.  I told him I could teach him.  He was confused- how does an American Jew become Israeli know Syrian Arabic?  And why not just Modern Standard Arabic?  I explained that I studied with a Syrian professor from Damascus in college- in the United States.  He thought I was kidding but then I started speaking to him in Syrian again and he realized I was the real deal.  He took my number- I hope he calls and I can connect him to his heritage.  You could digest that sentence for a lifetime.

Before I left I asked the second barista if he understood the song.  He could pass for Arab, but it turns out he was Jewish.  He said he thought it was about peace.  What a beautiful sentiment.  In a day and age when many Israelis and Americans would assume the worst of a song in Arabic, this young kid, smack in the middle of Tel Aviv, assumes it’s about peace.  It just touched my heart.

I told the kids the song was actually about encouraging people to vote in the Egyptian elections.  I explained some of the verses and they were eager to learn.

So here we were- three Jews, one Ashkenazi American, one Syrian, and one from who knows where.  Sitting in Israel, listening to Egyptian music, babbling in a mixture of Hebrew and Arabic.

If there’s one thing I can take from today it’s that where Jewish starts and Arab ends isn’t so clear.  Just like the bilingual script in my cover photo.  When coming to Israel, the absolute best thing you can do is to leave your assumptions at the door.  And the second best thing you can do is to learn a language so filled with love and art and history that you’ll be bursting at the seems making new friends from every race and religion.  And that language, my friends, is Arabic.

The biggest threat to Israel

There are many threats to Israel- terrorism, nuclear weapons, earthquakes, poverty, diminishing water resources.  You name it.  But for me, the biggest threat facing Israel is one word: invalidation.

First, let’s start with what the word validation means.  Validation does not mean agreement and it doesn’t mean love.  Validation means showing empathy and understanding where someone else is coming from.  How the conditions of their life have informed their views and even if you see the world differently, you can get a glimpse of why they are the way they are.  Even if, in the end, they may be too difficult for you to be friends with.  It’s a difficult skill and an extremely useful one for living an effective life.

Validation is useful for building healthy relationships.  And its opposite, invalidation, is how you destroy them.  All of us invalidate sometimes- we judge, we mock, we belittle.  Maybe other than Buddha himself, I don’t think there’s a single human being who never judges.  However, there are degrees of invalidation.  Invalidation is when we say harmful, hurtful things to (or about) people.  She’s ugly.  I’m fat.  My neighbor’s a dumb ars.  That Orthodox woman is frumpy.  That gay guy must be a pill-popping slut.  That Haredi man is a fanatical homophobe.  That Arab is only good for making falafel- he probably wants to throw us into the sea.

Israelis have a serious problem when it comes to judging both themselves and others.  Judging has been a part of Jewish culture since the Torah- the Bible isn’t exactly Zen Buddhism.  But I remain fairly convinced that the sometimes mind-numbingly intense judgments that I hear here are also a product of trauma.  When someone is traumatized or experiences intense pain, unless and until that person heals, it is common for people to pass that trauma onto others.  That is why it is so common to see families- generation after generation- experiencing abuse.  It’s also why I distanced myself from toxic relatives and broke a chain of toxicity to build a better life.

If you think of the Jews who’ve come to this land, it hasn’t usually been for happy reasons.  Ashkenazim escaping pogroms.  More Ashkenazim escaping the Holocaust.  Holocaust survivors escaping post-war pogroms (yes, you read that right- Europeans continued butchering Holocaust survivors after the war).  A huge percentage of Ashkenazim here are descendants of Holocaust survivors- including almost every Hasidic Jew.

Mizrachim escaped their own pogroms from Morocco to Yemen- only to find their property confiscated by Arab governments.  And then, upon arriving in Israel, they were put into impoverished refugee camps.  Russian Jews fled the Soviet Union (where their religion was banned) and its chaotic aftermath.  The U.S.S.R. was a government so antisemitic it literally has its own Wikipedia article about how antisemitic it was.  Persian Jews fled the Ayatollah, French Jews fled (and still flee) antisemitic terror and discrimination, and even today there are American Jews like me escaping rising antisemitism and white supremacy in the United States.  The list goes on and on and on and on.  And it has a 2,000 year old antisemitic backstory.

And when these Jews arrived in Israel, while many were grateful for a safe haven, their cultures were often decimated in the name of Jewish cohesion in the nascent state.  Ashkenazim were told to stop speaking Yiddish (police even raided Yiddish theaters- an unforgivable thought when you think that the spectators were likely Holocaust survivors).  I even remember a survivor telling me that when she arrived to Israel from Poland after the Holocaust, Sabras would call her and her mom “sabonim”- “soap”.  That was to make fun of the “weak” Diaspora Jews who the Nazis reportedly turned into bars of soap.  Mizrachim were also pressured to give up their languages, their music, their culture- which to many Sabras seemed a bit too much like the (Arab) enemy.  To this day, they continue to have significantly lower average incomes than Ashkenazim.  And every single Israeli Prime Minister has been Ashkenazi, unless you count some recently discovered Sephardic genes in Bibi’s DNA.

With these examples, we’re literally just scratching the surface with Jews.  And it’s worth saying that the Arab population here has suffered its own traumas- of wars, of discrimination, of terrorism (yes, Israeli Arabs are also attacked by terrorists), of families divided across borders, and more.

Add to this 70 years of on-and-off warfare, and you can understand why Israel has three times the rate of PTSD as the United States.

So when a fellow Israeli is harsh to me.  When they say something mean and judgmental- about me, about another community, about themselves- I understand.  I don’t by any means justify it- I think it’s harmful and if we’re going to thrive as a society, this must change.  And sometimes I frankly have to protect myself by distancing myself from their toxicity.  And I get it.  Israelis have been through a lot.  And not everyone is healing.  It took me a while to get to this understanding- but this is the ultimate validation.  I don’t personally agree with being racist or hateful- I just know that if someone got to that point, there’s something causing it and I hope they choose a different path.

Many Israelis complain to me about American “politeness”.  They think Americans are fake- when they smile, when they say thank you, when they do a whole variety of quotidian acts that make up American culture.  On the one hand, I get it- there are times when Americans can be exceedingly formal.  It can be hard to gauge if someone really likes you- or what they think.

At the same time, I remember what one Israeli friend said to me: “I don’t like that in America they’re all the time worried about whether they’re hurting you.”  To this I say- you’re not talking about politeness anymore.  You’re talking about consideration.  You’re talking about kindness.  You’re talking about someone caring how you feel- and trying to respect your boundaries.  In a way that you never got growing up in a society filled with people whose boundaries have been crossed over and over again against their will.  Who have endured but in many cases, not healed.  And who all too often pass their hurt along to others.

To this I say- enough.  All Israelis, in fact all people, deserve the right to heal from their traumas.  And to not have new pain heaped upon them.  As a society, we can still keep our bluntness and our assertiveness without the spite and without the cruelty.  Find one way to heal yourself this week- and find one way to encourage a friend.  I’m not a psychiatrist or a PTSD expert, nor do I have the power to stop violence.  But I think that if we each find a way to bring some healing into our society, it will do us all a lot of good.

To borrow a bit from our Christian neighbors, my cover photo is from an Arab church in Haifa.  It says: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you“.  Amen.

Why do so many Israelis know nothing about each other?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Samaritans, Russian Puppet Cabaret, and Hasidim

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

Here’s how it went down.

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

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

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

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

Here are some examples from today:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Every sector of Israeli society in one day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Inta omri,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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