Category: Zionism

It’s midnight in Kafr Qasem and I feel fine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

A tale of two Jews

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Why do so many Israelis know nothing about each other?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The diversity of (non-Jewish) Israel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tul Karm in Tel Aviv

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

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

So like I said, that really sucked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An Israeli wishes Catalonia shanah tovah

Today, Spanish police beat up and injured 844 people trying to vote.  After 300 years of conquest by the Spanish, including the Franco dictatorship which outlawed their language, some Catalans want independence.  Other Catalans don’t want independence or are unsure.  The only thing almost all of them agree on is their right to vote in peace- over 80% want the chance to vote regardless of their views.

As a Jew, and as an Israeli, I support the right of the Catalan people to decide their future.

As someone who grew up as a minority in the U.S., I experienced many of the slurs, the exclusion, and ignorance that Catalans face in Spain.  When I was in Spain, my hosts in Madrid would sing to me: “Puta Barça, puta Cataluña, no son españoles, son hijos de puta”.  It’s something akin to “F*cking Barcelona, f*ucking Catalonia, they aren’t Spaniards, they’re sons of b*tches”.  In fact, interestingly, a lot of Spaniards refer to Catalans as Jews- and not in a good way.

I can’t help but think back to the time of the Inquisition, when the Spanish state decided to expel, murder, and forcibly convert my people (and Muslims) simply because we were different.  What has Spain learned since then?  After expelling my people, conquering the Catalans, and pillaging the Americas- has Spain really learned to live with diversity?  Perhaps it is the Catalans’ insistence on speaking their language and preserving their traditions that so irks a Spanish state so insistent on conformity.  It’s that same insistence on preserving our heritage that often lands Jews in the cross hairs of hatred.

And then I view this conflict differently now as an Israeli.  Since making aliyah and moving to Tel Aviv in July (incidentally the 4th, which I made my own “independence day”), I have realized my dream of empowerment.  This is a country where I’m not tolerated as a minority- it’s a country where my customs, my language, and my culture are the norm.  Where they’re safe.  Where I feel at home.  Never have I felt this more than during the recent Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur holidays.  Everyone’s greeting each other, everything shuts down.  Rather than being limited to a synagogue or a few foods on the shelf of a grocery store, my Judaism is everywhere.  It’s a unique feeling.  It’s great to talk about minority empowerment- but majority groups tend to get weak-kneed when it comes time for the minority to take control of their destiny.

Which brings us to Catalonia.  I was talking to a Catalan friend before making aliyah.  I also happen to speak Catalan thanks to a program at my university and my insatiable curiosity for cultures and languages.  The picture for this blog is from a trip I took in college to do research in Barcelona, one of my favorite cities.  We were talking a few months ago about the independence referendum and he said “serà un bon moment, però al final, no passarà res” – it’ll be a good moment, but in the end, nothing will happen.  I told him to look at the example of Israel, where our national anthem is “The Hope”.  A state reconstituted after 2,000 years of persecution.  That miracles do happen.  And not to give up.  I told him I thought independence was possible, and he said he hoped I was right.

I think I am right.  Catalonia will become an independent state.  The brutal police response to a peaceful attempt to vote today surely botched any attempt of Spain to pursue an alternate route.  My hope is that the Catalan independence process is peaceful on all sides and brings about a new chapter in the history of the region.

The fight is not over and I’m not convinced the violence is either.  Yet I pray that the outcome will bring Catalans the sense of validation and warmth that I felt when I walked down the streets of Tel Aviv last week and heard “shanah tovah” – have a good year.  May it be a good year for Catalonia, and all humanity, too.

Norwegian-Persian Jews

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

My Druze, Muslim, Orthodox, Reform Rosh Hashanah

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mediterranean is my mikvah

Today, I really started feeling Rosh Hashanah.  I did some reflecting on the holiday and decided I wanted to adapt a Jewish tradition I learned about in the States.  Some people go to the Mikvah, the Jewish ritual bath, before the start of the New Year.  The idea is to cleanse yourself- to leave behind the sins, the hurt, the “shmutz”.

When I was in America, I would go to what most religious Jews would recognize as a mikvah- an indoor space where you disrobe and go through a series of ritual dunks and blessings.

Here in Israel, I tried something different.  I bought five rolls of old bread from the grocery store and headed to the beach.  I looked for something sweet to eat along the way for a sweet New Year and drank my first Israeli bag of chocolate milk (yes, that is a thing!).  I felt it was appropriate because as I’m keeping my Jewish customs alive I’m also adding to them.  A nice modern and Israeli twist.

I started by doing the Tashlich ceremony.  Tashlich is where we symbolically cast away our sins by throwing them into flowing water.  With the first few rolls, I hurled them into the sea as I thought about how I had hurt others or myself during the past year.  Then, I did something unconventional (I’m a Reform Jew and reform is a verb- so we believe in an ever evolving Judaism)- I threw a few rolls to chuck away the sins others had committed against me.  I asked God for forgiveness for the hurt I had caused and for justice to be served towards those who had hurt me.  I asked for healing for my body and soul from the pain and I asked God to send healing to those who I had hurt.

Then, I undressed (except for my bathing suit- a dunk in the mikvah is usually naked but I had to adapt since people were still walking along the beach- even Tel Aviv has limits 😉 ).  In an indoor mikvah, there are seven steps you walk down to get into the water.  So I simply walked seven steps into the Mediterranean, talked out loud to God about my hopes for the year, made the bracha, and took a dunk.  Each time I felt lighter and lighter.  I looked up at the stars, listened to the waves crashing, and thought to myself that really everything is bigger in Israel.  Instead of an aisle dedicated to your food at the grocery store, the whole store is your food.  Instead of holiday greetings being limited to the walls of a synagogue, you can say “shanah tovah” to any stranger on the street. Instead of a mikvah inside a synagogue, you’ve got the entire Mediterranean where your ancestors sailed.

There are things I miss about American Judaism.  For one, it took me two separate trips to grocery stores here to get ingredients for dairy kugel!  And literally one store didn’t even have sour cream- thank God the Russians here appreciate this food so I found it at one of their stores.  I miss the rituality of American Judaism- I even found myself watching Youtube videos of Rosh Hashanah services at Reform synagogues to hear my favorite melodies and prayers.

What is amazing about Israel is that you can take these traditions and, in a completely spontaneous fashion, riff off of them.  Theoretically, I could’ve done a mikvah dunk in the Potomac River (although it might’ve required a lot of showers afterwards!), but I never thought of it.  Here, this whole country is a Jewish playground.  The sky is the limit.  Especially when you’re staring at it from your planet-sized mikvah.