Straight talk about Israel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question is at what expense?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes.

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

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

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

pew

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Wherever I stand, I stand with refugees

As some of my long-time friends know, I’ve always been an advocate for refugees.  My very first internship in college was with Jews United for Justice, a DC organization promoting economic and civil rights.  I personally lobbied my boss to make our Summer “Labor on the Bimah” workers rights event about immigrants rights.  The year was 2006 and Republican Congressmen were pushing a horrific law that would’ve even punished Americans who helped undocumented immigrants.  Even pastors that fed them.

My boss agreed and we organized 30 events around the D.C. area on Labor Day to mobilize Jews- alongside Christians and Muslims- to support immigrants rights.

Part of my job was to find Jewish texts to explain why our tradition asks us to speak out on this issue.  This is what I compiled.

You may be familiar with the verse from Exodus 12:49: “There shall be one law for the citizen and the stranger who dwells among you.”  Or “you shall not abuse a needy and destitute laborer, whether a fellow Israelite or a stranger.” (Deut. 24:14)  Or any of dozens of similar commandments.

I spent much of my career in the U.S. fighting for immigrant and refugee rights.  In the government, at NGO’s, and as a private citizen.  The struggle there continues.  Even this month hundreds of thousands of immigrants and refugees may be deported if the DREAM Act isn’t passed and TPS isn’t renewed.  When I left for Israel, Donald Trump was pushing to ban refugees (and even entire countries’ citizens from visiting).  Not by coincidence, these countries were largely Muslim and the refugees increasingly Syrian.

I rallied and rallied for humanity.  I screamed till my voice was lost.  I was invigorated but also scared and exhausted.  In my favorite moment from one of the rallies by the White House, I met up with a Syrian refugee friend Remi who I had met on Facebook months before and we fought for justice together.

rally pic

This picture is what I believe.  All of us have suffered.  Few peoples more than the Jews.  Having been banished from country after country for over 2,000 years- and butchered along the way- we should be the most compassionate towards those fleeing suffering.  It’s a biblical mandate and it’s rooted in our history.

Many of the Jews living in Israel are refugees themselves- from the Holocaust, from Arab governments who expelled them, from the Soviet Union, from war and famine and anti-Semitism.  Sometimes when people experience trauma, it can be hard to empathize with others.  And there are some people who, after putting in a great deal of effort to heal, are able to see the humanity of the other.  To realize that the Jewish story, while unique, is not the only story of suffering.  And that our own pain must become a source of compassion towards others.

One of the reasons I made aliyah frankly was to get away from the refugee rights struggle.  I was tired.  It’s painful and the American government is eagerly attacking both the foundations of our democracy and of my friends’ human rights.  Since making aliyah, I’ve continued to talk to Syrian refugees in Arabic via Skype through a fantastic program called Natakallam.  Since moving to Israel, it’s now easier to schedule since I’m in the same time zone as my Skype partner Shadi in Iraq 🙂 .  One day, inshallah, we’ll be able to visit each other in peace, as we both want to do.

In the meantime, I thought I had escaped.  And then I met Sadiq.  Sadiq is a Darfur refugee living in Tel Aviv.  I had signed up to tutor refugees in English, but as a newly arrived oleh with my own stress, I didn’t realize just how hard it would be.  Sadiq was sweet and wanted to party at the beach and improve his English.  He worked twelve hour days every day of the week.  And he hadn’t seen his family in 20 years.  I heard about the relatives killed, the homes abandoned, and the pain.  He had survived a genocide.

Yet somehow he had a positive attitude and a beautiful smile.  And a willingness to learn.  I enjoyed learning some Sudanese Arabic from him.  I was just too overwhelmed to continue tutoring.  So I explained to him why I needed to pause our work together and I took some time to reflect and get my life in order.  He understood and I focused on finding an apartment and adjusting to life here.

About two months ago, I found some more stability when I got my own apartment.  I took advantage of some cheap flights and took my first post-aliyah vacation to Cyprus.  Cyprus is amazing and for all its historical problems, the area I was in was peaceful and relaxing.  I was away from the Middle East, from loud Israelis, and from conflict.

Then I saw a woman in a hijab trying to ask a Greek-speaker something.  I went up and talked to her in Arabic.  She was looking for a grocery store.  With my Arabic and my nascent Greek, I helped her communicate with some locals to find it.

We then started chatting.  She asked where I was from, I said Israel.  Turns out Fatima and her family are from Idlib.  They were excited to hear my Syrian accent.  She had a son Muhammad and I chatted with him for a bit.  And another woman, Jamilah, stood beside them.

After they thanked me for directing them to the grocery store, I asked if they were all family.  That’s when Jamilah started crying.  She told me, as she bawled, that she had lost all her family in a bombing in Idlib.  She came to Cyprus from Syria with Fatima and her son, family friends.  And they arrived two weeks ago.

Then everyone started crying.  And telling me about their injuries.  I didn’t know what to do.  I was sad for these people- my neighbors.  And angry at the people who had harmed them.

I did my best to offer words of comfort and gave them information for aid organizations.  Then I handed them a bunch of Euros and got their contact info to pass on to my friends in the field.

In an astonishing act of gratitude, they asked for my phone number because they wanted to invite me to dinner.  Refugees fleeing war, only 2 weeks in Cyprus.  From Syria.  Inviting an Israeli to their house for a meal.  I tear up when I think of the incredible kindness.  What utterly generous human beings, an example for us all.

If our interaction brings some peace and understanding between our peoples, I’m all the happier for it.  And I hope with all my heart they get the help they deserve.  And a future their boy Muhammad can enjoy.

Because in the end, we are all people.  I was recently at a Shabbat dinner and I told a Sabra that I was upset when someone here made a racist comment about African Americans.  She said: “aval zeh lo pogea becha.”  But it doesn’t hurt you.  To which I said: “of course it does.  African Americans are my friends, my classmates, my neighbors.  We are all Americans.”

Which is the point.  We’re all Americans and we’re all humans.  It davka does pogea bi.  The question shouldn’t be “why does this offend you?” it should be “why doesn’t it?”

I live in South Tel Aviv.  Not Florentin, Real South Tel Aviv.  And in my neighborhood, there are a lot of refugees.  From Eritrea, from Sudan, from all over the world.  And despite the hubbub you hear in the news, not only is this neighborhood safer than any major city I’ve lived in in the U.S., but a lot of local residents get along fine.

I’ve met a Sabra girl who only hangs out with African friends.  I’ve met Filipino and Eritrean kids who speak Hebrew fluently- and to my dismay, not their families’ languages.  My elderly neighbors with pictures of Rav Ovadia all over there house love their non-Jewish caretaker.  I’ve met Sudanese Christians who could quote the Torah better than most Jews (in a know-it-all kind of way that suits them as Israelis).

So whether it’s Donald Trump or Benjamin Netanyahu trying to oppress refugees and migrants.  When they’re ignoring our Torah and abusing people fleeing tyranny.  And when the Prime Minister, in the name of my country and my people, is prepared to spend 504 million shekels* to deport refugees.

There is only one answer: no.  Refugees are the world’s problem.  I can’t explain human suffering.  I just know that when someone in is pain, when someone is fleeing death, we should open our hearts and help them.

Your Judaism may be only about helping Jews.  If someone insults or harms another group, you may not see it as your problem.  But my Judaism and my Israeli identity is about helping my people and helping my non-Jewish neighbors.

My own suffering and the suffering of my people is part of why I care so deeply about helping vulnerable people in need.  My Judaism doesn’t stop at the doors of my synagogue nor the borders of my country.

 


*The government announced a budget that will allot $3,500 dollars to each refugee deported.  And it’s about 3.6 shekels to the dollar.  There are about 40,000 refugees.

 

A New Year’s Resolution for Israel

Today is the secular new year.  In Israel, fittingly but quite strange for me, they say “shanah tovah”, the typical Jewish greeting for Rosh Hashanah- the Jewish New Year.  It’s a fun night of celebration and also a chance to think of what’s ahead.

For me, this week marks my 6 month anniversary of arriving in Israel.  I’ve learned so much in such a little amount of time.  I’ve visited over 35 cities.  I’ve been to Hasidic dance parties, Mizrachi concerts, dabke dancing, Israeli folk dancing, Yiddish theater, a Russian puppet show, and a Yemenite concert.  I’ve eaten Bukharian, Moroccan, Persian, Ashkenazi, Romanian, Druze, Arab, Kavkazi, Georgian, Indian, Iraqi, Lebanese, Eritrean, Filipino, and so many other types of food.  I’ve davvened with Haredim, Reform Jews, Chabad, and hippie vegan Jews.  I visited a Druze shrine and a Karaite synagogue.  I got to watch Islamic prayer up close and personal in a mosque and I went to an LGBT Orthodox Torah study group.

Not bad for the half year mark!  I’m quite proud of all my accomplishments- moving across the ocean alone, making friends, finding an apartment, adjusting to a new culture, and using all nine of my languages and starting to add Greek!

There has been a lot of stress along the way.  Israel is an extraordinarily hard place to live- or so say Sabras who grew up here.  And while sometimes they exaggerate because whining here is kind of a national sport (and they don’t know much about the challenges faced by people elsewhere), the truth is in many ways they’re right.  And it’s all the more difficult for someone like me who moved here at 31 without an extensive support network.

What’s hardest about life in Israel is also the source of my New Year’s resolution.  The hardest part of life in Israel is the people.  More specifically, the intense and mean-spirited prejudice I experience on almost a daily basis.  Towards me as an American and towards other cultures- especially within Israel.  Don’t get me wrong- there are some fantastic people here, who mostly join me in complaining about the awful ones.  But boy- there is a mean streak to Israeli culture that I haven’t seen elsewhere in the world.  It’s not because I haven’t seen prejudice elsewhere- I’ve experienced it in places like Spain (anti-Semitism), Argentina (homophobia), and the U.S. (all of the above).

The difference in Israel is the intensity and the degree to which many people here celebrate judging others.  I’m someone who deeply values multiculturalism.  I’m well aware that there are limits to it and questions about how far it should extend.  But the basic principle of respecting- at times embracing- parts of every culture to me is second nature and a fundamental way I live in the world.  The good news is Israel is chock full of interesting cultures.  Sadly, that most Israelis know nothing about- and don’t care to appreciate.  While some Israelis are curious about Berlin or America, few are particularly curious about their neighbors who look or talk differently from them.  Let alone their own roots.

The truth is when the State of Israel was being built, its founders despised (and that is not too strong a word) multiculturalism.  Yiddish, Ladino, Judeo-Arabic- these languages were vigorously and shamefully repressed by the state.  Kids grew up with shame about their roots.  And sadly some 2,000 year old beautiful Jewish cultures are going extinct as a result.

The un-rootedness of many Sabras fosters insecurity and prejudice towards those who maintain their heritage.  Just ask many a Sabra what they think of French Jews or Russians who continue to speak their languages here.

There has been somewhat of a resurgence in interest in cultural diversity, but it needs to be nourished.  And that’s where I- and you- come in.  There are Israelis like me who are proud of our origins.  There are Israelis- I’ve met them- who realize you can speak fluent Hebrew and still maintain (or re-learn) your French or Russian or Arabic or Romanian.  There are many who don’t realize that because they’ve been trained to revile the Diaspora.  And that’s very sad.

But in the end, I believe in multiculturalism and I’m convinced there are some people here who are ready to join me in this movement.  I want to celebrate the incredible cultural richness here- of Jews, of Arabs, of refugees, of everyone.  It is a gift that must be cherished to be protected.

It is no longer acceptable to me that when I tell my Sabra friends that I met Aramaic-speaking Christians or Samaritans who speak Ancient Hebrew or Eritreans with an awesome juice bar that their reaction is: “wow I didn’t know that was there- you’ve seen more here in 6 months than I’ve seen in a lifetime!”

Bullshit.  Time to get off your hummus-filled tuchus and get to know the richness of your country.  No- not the high-tech.  The cultural treasures right underneath your nose waiting to be discovered.

It’s time to leave behind the old-fashioned Zionist concept of the “effeminate”, “decadent”, “overly pious”, “cosmopolitan”, “weak” Diaspora Jew.  It’s 2018, time for a change.  It’s time to realize the “Diaspora” is The World.  And lucky for us, a whole bunch of people from all over the world have made this country their home.

Now it’s time to realize that if we understand where we came from, our cultures, our heritage- it doesn’t negate our Israeli identity.  It thoroughly enriches it.  Just like my delicious cover photo of Pringles, Russian sweets, Korean seaweed, and Israeli Bissli that co-exist at my neighborhood store.  Pluralism that begins with culture can increase respect between all sectors of society.  And instead of Jew hating Arab hating Zionist Orthodox hating Haredi hating Secular hating Mizrachi hating Ashkenazi- maybe, just maybe, we build just a little bit more understanding and a lot less hate.

Ken yehi ratzon – may it be God’s will.  Inshallah.  Ojalá.  Mirtsashem.

Let’s do this y’all. 🙂

My Queer Sarit Hadad Party

First off, who is Sarit Hadad?  Sarit Hadad is the queen of Mizrachi music, one of my favorite styles of music.  Perhaps my very favorite.

When I was 13 years old, as a typical American Jewish teenager, I had a Bar Mitzvah.  At this point, many a kid drops out of Hebrew school and doesn’t return to synagogue except for maybe Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.

I, on the other hand, loved Hebrew school.  I had several truly awesome teachers and I think my energy and passion for my tradition made me a favorite student.  Especially since so many kids hated it!

When I finished my Bar Mitzvah, I knew I wanted to keep learning at synagogue.  But I wanted something more- I wanted to learn the language of my people: Hebrew.

I approached an Israeli teacher and asked if she’d give me private lessons.  She did- and that’s why I speak pretty baller Hebrew for someone who’s lived in Israel for 6 months.  Because at age 13, I knew that’s what I wanted and I went for it.  It’s a unique and brave decision that changed my life.  Without it, I doubt I would’ve made aliyah.

I remember that my Hebrew teacher gave me a gift- I forget for what.  Maybe her sister had been in Israel or something.  In any case, she gave me a CD- one of Sarit Hadad’s first albums (the one in the cover photo- the rainbow is my addition 😉 ).  She herself wasn’t a fan (of the music or Mizrachim), but it didn’t matter- I loved it.

The CD moved.  It moved me physically- the rhythms were infectious.  I danced all over my room and blasted it in my discman.  It moved me emotionally- her songs were about empowerment and love and doing what you feel like.  Growing up with an inescapable bunch of toxic relatives, it was just the medicine I needed.  And it powered me through many hard times and gave me hope and happiness.

A couple years into my Hebrew lessons, I found out Sarit Hadad was coming to Rockville, Maryland- where I grew up.  She was performing at Montgomery College in a small auditorium.  And at age 14 or 15- I went.  Alone.

And I had the time of my life.  Me and mostly a bunch of Israeli expats shimmied and danced and sang.  It was freedom, it was love, it was my newfound identity.

Over the years as I learned more Hebrew, saw more Israeli films, traveled to Israel, made Israeli friends, ate the food, and embraced the culture- the Mizrachi music Sarit inspired me to love was there.  Every step of the way.

As Sarit became more popular, her songs got more and more poppy (and less and less Georgian/Arabic/Mizrachi).  Personally, I love her old stuff the most- the CD of her live show in France is one that I played over and over again in my living room as a teenager.  I also used to (and still do!) belt out her old version of Inta Omri.  It’s incredible- I watched it with my Syrian neighbors last Shabbat.

In addition, as I explored other Mizrachi singers (and I more and more associated Sarit with some of the tougher times in my life), I drifted a bit from her music, although it was never far.  Her songs were particularly popular at Israeli dancing, which I’ve done for some 15 years.

Which brings us to tonight.  On Facebook, I found a party that was entirely dedicated to songs by Sarit Hadad.  While not an explicitly gay party, it definitely had that vibe (both by featuring a female singer and the way it was advertised).  In Tel Aviv, many parties are mixed queer and straight.

I was ecstatic but unsure of what to expect.  I went alone- which is hard in any country, especially a new one.

And boy did it pay off.  Once the music started booming, I found fun people to dance with.  Over the course of about 3-4 hours of Sarit’s songs (and some other singers), I think there were 2 or 3 songs I didn’t know the words to.  It brought me back to the earliest days of my Israeli identity and to my teenage passion for it.  It brushed the dust off and brought them back into my heart.

And yes, there were a shitton of queer people, which only made it more awesome.

I shimmied, I swiveled my hips, I shook my bootay, I waved my hands, I shouted every single lyric.  And it was fabulous.

As I headed home, I thought about this amazing transformation.  How music I listened to 18 years ago helped sustain me, build me an Israeli identity, and bring me to this very country to enjoy it, against all odds.

Like Mizrachi music, like Sarit herself- I am a survivor.  I’ve done the unthinkable in making aliyah and building my Israeli identity from the 7th grade- pretty much on my own (and often with the opposition of toxic relatives).  And despite the cries of the loads of Israelis who hate Mizrachi music- often for prejudiced reasons- I love it to death.

Because sometimes Israel sucks.  Air raid sirens, bureaucracy, terrorism, racism, and not a small amount of difficult people.

But you know what?  Israel is also tonight.  Israel is the free-spirited fun of Mizrachi culture.  Israel is me looking back at 13 year old Matt Adler and saying- it’s going to be okay.  Because no matter how bad things seem now, you’re going to power through, you’re going to pray, you’re going to dance, you’re going to listen to beautiful music.

And you’re going to make it like Moses to the Promised Land.  To spend the night of your life dancing to your teenage tunes- the ones you chose to listen to.  Among queer people.  Among your people.

And nothing, my friends, is sweeter than that.  I’m here, I’m queer, kululu!

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 Satmar part of town

I’d like to tell you a story about nothing.  It’s kind of refreshing in a place where shit is constantly hitting the fan (although much less than someone from abroad might think).  As I write this blog piece, an Israeli plane bombed some military facility in Syria and air raid sirens went off in southern Israel.  I heard some loud noise in my neighborhood and so I checked the news and found out about these events- I have no idea what the connection is but it can be scary here sometimes.

And then life continues.

So right, the other day I went to Bnei Brak.  At this point, we can say that Bnei Brak- and Hasidic Judaism– is a part of my identity.  I don’t just go as a “tourist”- I go because it’s part of my heritage and my people and it’s absolutely fascinating to see a living, breathing Yiddish community.

After eating delightful gefilte fish and kugel and buying loads of Hasidic music, I headed to the Satmar part of town.  The Satmar part of town?  Yes.  In Bnei Brak, each Hasidic group has a yeshiva where people study and it’s kind of their neighborhood.  In a small way, it’s a way of bringing back their former towns in Europe destroyed in the Holocaust.  Because the way you get around Bnei Brak is to say: “where is Vizhnitz?  Where is Belz?  Where is Satmar?”  These are all Hasidic groups- all named after the towns in Eastern Europe where they were founded.  And there’s an eerie and beautiful ring to being able to ask where they are- still- as if you’re heading to the village itself.

So why did I go to the Satmar part of town?  First of all, what is Satmar?  Satmar Hasidim are one of the largest Hasidic groups in the world, with members in multiple countries.  This still makes them a small minority of Jews, but they are influential and growing.  While most Hasidim are not Zionists, they are very much in favor of the Jewish people, love the Land of Israel, and have varying degrees of affinity for the Jewish state itself.

For instance, there are Haredi parties in the Knesset- the Israeli parliament.  These parties are dominated by Hasidim and participate in the lively (and often chaotic) Israeli political process.  Secular Israelis often bemoan these parties’ political influence and that their voters sometimes get government stipends to learn Torah.  I’m not interested in the politics here, just setting the stage.

On the contrary, Satmar are much more insistent on maintaining separation from the Israeli government.  To the surprise of some reading this blog, Satmar Hasidim do not accept any stipends from the Israeli government and do not even vote in national elections.  Say what you will about their politics, at least they’re consistent.  To those secular Israelis bemoaning Haredi “leeches” stealing our tax dollars- that simply doesn’t apply to Satmar.  You might wish they were Zionist, but they aren’t hypocrites.

Anyways, I don’t want to get sidetracked into messy political and ideological debates.  I’m clearly not a Satmar Hasid- I’m a queer Reform Jew- but I find the community interesting, especially since they are often a target for secular disdain.

One of the cool things about Satmar Hasidim is their love of Yiddish.  Most Hasidim in the U.S. both speak and read/write Yiddish.  I’ve discovered that most Hasidim in Israel speak Yiddish as a native tongue but write in “loshn koydesh”- or what we call Hebrew.  That in and of itself is a fascinating linguistic dichotomy worth a separate blog entry.

But Satmar, they speak and read and write and live and breathe Yiddish.  So, wanting some books in Yiddish, I headed to their part of town.  I found a bookstore (one of the cool things about Bnei Brak is the plethora of Jewish bookstores) and immediately noticed there were more Yiddish books than elsewhere in Bnei Brak.  I then asked the shop owner (in Yiddish) where I could buy a Yiddish newspaper.  Seeing I was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, he knew I wasn’t Hasidic even though I wore a yarmulke.  So he told me I could talk to him in Hebrew.  But when I told him “ober ikh hob lib yiddish” – but I loooove Yiddish – he grinned from ear to ear. And told me to go to the grocery store around the corner.

At the grocery store, I talked to a bunch of people to get help finding a paper.  Because the new papers come in on Friday morning before shabbes, there weren’t any left.  Although there were some interesting looking magazines.  Because I’m a creative person and an Israeli, I then asked if they had last week’s papers.  And sure enough, there were some.  I got a copy of Der Blatt, a Satmar newspaper printed in the U.S. and read around the world.

The two guys behind the counter shmoozed with me.  It was so fun!  One of them, when I couldn’t find the word in Yiddish, would revert to Hebrew.  But the other guy- he was a real mensch.  He would answer me- in Yiddish.  THIS is how you know a language is strong.  When the speakers stick to their guns- either out of ideology or monolingualism- those are the people to talk to.  Because that’s ultimately how I learn best.

They were really impressed that I came to buy a Yiddish newspaper to practice the mamaloshn- the smiles, the kind words- they were real.  Before leaving, I thanked the guy who answered me in Yiddish, saying I appreciated him helping me learn.  He gave me a wink and I was on my way.

On my way out, I noticed a sign (in the cover photo): “Satmar Market: a homey supermarket”.  For my fellow linguists, there’s something interesting here.  While Satmar Hasidim stick to Yiddish out of a desire not to use Hebrew (the holy tongue for prayer), the sign is actually bilingual.  The words “market” and “supermarket” are written like you would in Hebrew and the other words in Yiddish spelling.  Guess things are a bit more complex than meets the eye.  I love it.

A few days later, I sat and started reading the paper.  And I noticed the most fascinating headline.  On the front page was an article about the Zimbabwean dictator Robert Mugabe being deposed.  Based on my own preconceptions about Satmar- their opposition to the Israeli government, their intense and strict Judaism, and their focus on study- I expected a bunch of articles about Torah.

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But lo and behold, in a residential neighborhood of Bnei Brak, people are reading in Yiddish about Zimbabwe.  And Saudi Arabia.  And tax reform.  And the Warsaw Ghetto.  Just in this week’s edition.

So what’s my story?  I have absolutely no story.  During a stressful week, I took a bus to Bnei Brak, ate delicious food, bought good music, and found an interesting newspaper in the language my ancestors spoke for 1,000 years.  I felt at ease, I hopped on a bus, and met a gay Reform friend for ice cream in Tel Aviv.

Want to live in a bubble where you know more about trekking in Cambodia than about your Hasidic neighbors?  Your loss.  There’s a fascinating civilization down the road begging to be discovered.  Begging for you to rediscover it inside you.

It’s not about agreeing on everything- or much at all.  It’s just about being a curious, open-minded human being and finding sparks of light to illuminate your path- wherever you might find them.

How to fall in love with a language

Hey everyone!  So I’m a polyglot- a multilingual guy.  I speak English, Spanish, Hebrew, Arabic, Portuguese, French, Catalan, Yiddish- all well enough to hold multi-hour conversations and I can read and write.  I’m not putzing around- I wrote my 50 page senior thesis in Spanish and have been interviewed on Catalan TV, and have similar examples for all my languages.  In addition, I speak intermediate Farsi which I’m refreshing here in Israel and have taken some initial courses in Basque, Hindi, Chinese, Japanese, Irish, and Greek.

I learn quickly.  Although I’ve taken some group classes, I much prefer private tutors (I also am one if you’re looking to learn!).  I can go at my pace, with my questions, and don’t have to slow down my learning.  To give you an idea, my entire coursework in Modern Hebrew consisted of about 150 hours of private lessons and two college classes (90 hours total).  So, all in all, I formally studied Hebrew for 240 hours and I never did ulpan.

Before making aliyah, I had only been to Israel twice- once on Birthright and a second time as a camp counselor for the Israeli Reform Movement.  I have no Israeli relatives and grew up in an English-speaking household- none of my relatives have ever even been to Israel.

And I speak the language fluently enough that the times where I don’t understand something, Sabras yell at me because they think I’m being obstinate.  They assume I’m one of them or have lived here for many years rather than five months.

So how did I learn the language?  And how did I learn my other languages?

I get this question a lot.  Sometimes, it’s frustrating to talk about.  I really just enjoy learning and using my languages without explaining myself or being asked to do party tricks like “how do you say ____ in _____?”  Sometimes this is even followed up with attempts to correct me- even when they barely (if at all) speak the language in question.  I once had an American Jew correct me on my “Palestinian Arabic”…only for me to tell him that I was speaking Syrian.   The point is I never wanted to participate in this game show in the first place.  I’m not here to entertain you- I’m a human being.

Then there are the real assholes who want to know why I’d learn a minority language like Catalan or Yiddish.  I think in this case it’s fair to say the issue is not with the language- it’s with the people who speak it.  And the people asking me this question don’t much care for them.  I’ve even had people tell me (after they ask me to list my 8 languages) that I need to broaden my horizons and learn Chinese or Russian.  Without even acknowledging the eight I speak- or that they only speak two.

Then there are the people who want to know why I’ve studied languages (a strange question- kind of like asking someone why they studied the violin).  I usually just say because I love them and because they enrich my life.  But for some people, that’s not an acceptable answer.  They want to know why I don’t work for the CIA or FBI or army or somewhere else they wish I worked.

All of us have talents- one of mine is languages.  But let’s just try to respect each other’s gifts rather than finding a way to “take people down a notch” or tell them how to live their lives.  It makes you look small, not me.

So here’s the truth: I love languages because they make me happy.  As my Catalan teacher once told me: “cada llengua és una riquesa” – every language is a source of richness.  When I learn a new language, I embrace new music, food, culture, history, sociology, and- perhaps most importantly- friends.  I also learn about myself and my identity.  I can’t tell you how much richer my Judaism is because I can read about it in French and Spanish and Arabic and Yiddish etc etc.  And I can learn from the experiences of other minority communities like Catalans and Quebecois.

I overcome my own (and other people’s) prejudices and I add a whole new dimension to my identity.  When you speak to someone in their language, their heart opens up.  It’s a completely different experience.  So again, fellow Jewish Israelis, stop resting on your (Hebrew) laurels and learn Arabic and you’ll see that your relationship with your Arab neighbors will change.  For the better.  It’s respect, it’s honor, it’s love, it’s kindness- it’s great.

So here’s the real key to learning languages: fall in love with them.  When you love something, you do it all the time.  Every chance I get to speak any of my languages- I take it.  Could be my Bedouin cab driver, a French Jewish tourist, Israeli friends back in the U.S., my Syrian Jewish neighbors, the Christian Arab photographer I met up north, a bunch of Latino Jews I met at a pub- you name it.  I love love love my languages so when I’m not in a classroom, I’m finding tons of ways to practice- while smiling and having a good time and always learning.

The best way to be great at something is to enjoy it.  Personally, I’m not a big fan of gyms.  So I don’t really go now.  But I love to dance- and it’s also great healthy movement.  So I do more of it and soon enough, you find yourself in a positive feedback loop and taking care of your body.  That’s how I feel with language- the more I speak, the better I get, the more fun I have, the more I want to learn.

Do I “have an ear for language”?  Probably- when I’m really “in the zone” speaking Arabic up north, Arabs ask me if I’m Lebanese or Syrian.  And I only took six semesters of Arabic.  BUT.  But speaking a language is not just some innate gene.  Just like a musician, even if they have a “knack” for music, must study and practice, so too must someone learning a language.  It’s just that I happen to like learning and practicing so it has become an essential part of my life- thank God!

So long story short- you want to learn a new language?  You want to explore new cultures and really connect with people as equals?  Awesome!  Find the things that attract you to that language and learn.  Pick up a history book (even in your own language).  Scroll through music on Youtube- even if you don’t understand.  Find something that animates you and run with it.

And seriously- stop asking me if you can learn a language on DuoLingo, it is an app not a teacher.  I suppose if you want to learn some new vocabulary words to supplement your study it could be helpful, but otherwise stop kidding yourself.  If you don’t think you can learn to play the cello on a free mobile app, then the same goes for languages.  DuoLingo is a tool- not a human being.  Human beings speak languages and if people aren’t somehow a part of your language learning, then you won’t learn.  You’ll make mistakes (as I have- and continue to do and laugh at and learn from).  The point is not to get everything “perfect”- the point is to communicate!

As Pablo Neruda said: “Conocer el amor de los que amamos es el fuego que alimenta la vida.”  To know the love of those we love is the fire that fuels life.

Love your language.  Love the people that speak it.  And let them love you.  And soon enough, you’ll find yourself like I did- speaking Catalan, Spanish, English, and Hebrew to a Russian Israeli Jew.  In a cafe at Orthodox college.  Aren’t you curious? 🙂

Yiddish lives

One might be surprised to hear this, but Yiddish lives in Israel- and not just among Hasidim.  Yiddish is the traditional language of Ashkenazi Jews like me.  Before someone says something stupid, let me clarify something- Yiddish is NOT a “mixture of German and Hebrew”.  It is also not only a Hasidic language- it has existed for at least a thousand years as a distinct language, whereas Hasidism has been around for about 400.  On the eve of the Holocaust, 13 million Jews- socialists, communists, Zionists, anti-Zionists, Hasidim, secularists- spoke the language.

Yiddish is an archaeology of the Jewish people and linguistic proof of our ties to the Land of Israel.  About 2000 years ago, Romans expelled Jews from Israel and destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem.  The Jews who weren’t executed were expelled or enslaved.  Many eventually made their way to other parts of the Roman Empire, where their Aramaic and Hebrew vocabulary became enriched with Latin words.  For instance, a famous Yiddish word (still said today even in Jewish American English) is “bentsch”.  To bentsch is to say the special prayer after eating a meal, coming from the Yiddish word “bentschn”.  This word comes from the Latin root “benedicere” meaning “to bless” like “bendecir” in Spanish.

As was the custom of European Christians for the 2,000 years of Jewish existence on their continent, time after time Jews were expelled as we were scapegoated for various social problems.  Other minorities today can probably relate.  And so with each expulsion and migration, Yiddish was enriched with new vocabulary- Italian, French, and eventually Germanic languages.  To be clear- at the time Jews started settling in present-day German speaking areas like Switzerland, Germany, and Austria, there was no such thing as the German language.  There were a variety of Germanic dialects (some of which are still spoken), but no unified language.

Yiddish borrowed heavily from their neighbors’ lexicon, although in some cases developing new meanings particular to their community.  For instance, while in German “shul” means “school”, in Yiddish, it can mean “synagogue”.  Hebrew and Aramaic also interplayed with the Germanic words.  For instance, “froynd” in Yiddish is a “casual friend” or “acquaintance”, similar to the Modern German meaning.  But in Yiddish, there is another level of friendship- a “chaver” (or “chaverteh” for a woman- that’s a Hebrew word with an Aramaic suffix).  That’s a real close friend.  And it says something about the value still placed on Hebrew (known often as “loshn koydesh- holy tongue”) even in the Diaspora.

As German-speaking peoples decided to butcher Jews during the Crusades and expel them from their cities, Jews went eastward.  Believe it or not, initially Polish and Lithuanian rulers (these countries today are more well known among Jews as places we were massacred) welcomed Jews.  Jews became merchants and built communities in Poland- and then all across Eastern Europe, down to Romania and Ukraine.  Name a country in Eastern Europe and we made our way there.

Of course the Slavic vocabulary lent a new angle to the language.  While the Jews that remained in Germany, Holland, and France continued speaking Yiddish- a new dialect developed: Eastern Yiddish.  Bubbe, Zayde, Tate, Mame- grandma, grandpa, mom, and dad- are all derived from Slavic roots.  The first two are to this day used by many American Jews to talk to their grandparents.

Meanwhile, Hebrew and Aramaic maintained a strong presence- perhaps also due to the fact that these languages were used extensively in prayer and in study.  They maintained such a strong presence that when Zionists aimed to revive Hebrew as the main spoken language of Jews, they looked to Yiddish for both Hebraic words and for Yiddish expressions to translate.  The modern Hebrew words B’seder, mamash, b’tachlis, chutzpah, and so many more are of Yiddish origin.  Which is to say- they are Hebrew (“holy tongue”) words that made their way into specific usages in Yiddish- and these usages were copied into Modern Hebrew in a way they didn’t necessarily exist in the Torah or other Jewish languages.

Speaking of translated phrases, did you know the Hebrew greeting “mah nishma?” is literally a translation of the Yiddish phrase “vos hert zach?”, meaning “what is heard?”  Even the famous “mah pitom?” is a translation (calque) from Yiddish.  If you speak Modern Hebrew, you speak more Yiddish than you thought!

Which brings us back to the language.  After the Nazi Germans and their anti-Semitic collaborators murdered 6 million Jews, most of them Yiddish speaking, the language was devastated.  Ashkenazi Eastern European civilization was brutally brought to an end after 2,000 years of life on the continent.  The language itself was feared extinct as the only remaining centers- the U.S. and Israel- were encouraging linguistic assimilation into English and Hebrew respectively.

In particular, in Israel, the government actually forbade non-Hebrew newspapers and theater performances.  Feeling Yiddish (and languages such as Ladino and Judeo-Arabic) was a threat, there was an actual “brigade” of volunteers who would go around shutting down Yiddish events.  I can’t think of something more horrifying to experience than for a Holocaust survivor to have a fellow Jew attack them for speaking the mamaloshn- their mother tongue.

Over the years, the remnants of Yiddish faded both in America and in Israel as Jews were told (either by Christians in America or fellow Jews in Israel) that their language was “lame”, “ignorant”, “backwards”, and (in Israel) “Diasporic”.  For all of Israel’s renewed interest in multilingualism and greater tolerance for diversity, I experienced this attitude myself when I posted my English blog in an LGBT Israeli group (with a description in Hebrew) and someone berated me saying I needed to write my blog in “the holy tongue”.

In particular, people have called Yiddish a “dialect” or “jargon” over the years.  This goes back hundreds of years in Europe- it was a deliberate effort by ruling Christians to demean Jews by insulting their language.  And sadly, some Jews internalize(d) this thought even though Yiddish published its first dictionary before German and tens of thousands of books, 12,000 of which are preserved digitally here.  Yiddish is a language with many influences, just like English.  It is a storied and beautiful language.  As a famous Yiddish linguist Max Weinreich said: “a language is a dialect with an army and a navy”.

When my ancestors moved to America in the late 1800s and early 1900s to escape anti-Semitic violence in Eastern Europe, they spoke Yiddish (one of them also spoke Romanian!).  I even found the Census records to prove it.  With each subsequent generation, a bit more of the language was lost, but it is still present today in my dialect of English, where words like “schlep”, “shlemiel”, “shmear”, and “oy gevalt” are omnipresent.  And sometimes need to be explained to non-Jews!

Yiddish has always acted as a storage device for Jewish culture.  There are certain things that just can’t be expressed in other languages.  And while Germans can understand much of it- there’s a lot they can’t.  And Jews can change their register (by adding more Hebrew and Aramaic, e.g.) to make it harder for them to understand- which is the point.  It was a clever way for Jews to understand their neighbors but speak more secretively if needed to protect the community.

Yiddish, as we saw, also stored a lot of Hebrew.  In some ways it kept the language alive over the course of 2,000 years.  I dare anyone who says Jews aren’t tied to this land to explain to me why Lithuanian Jews were speaking a language 20% made of Hebrew words.

In the end, Yiddish shows that Judaism is not just a religion, it is also a culture- a people.  It’s not coincidental that a few hundred years ago, a Jew in Poland could communicate better with a Dutch Jew than with a non-Jewish Pole.  Jews’ primary relationship was with other Jews.  There is no such thing as Presbyterian cuisine, literature, and language- because that’s a religion.  The word religion is a foreign concept to Judaism- we are a tribe.  You cannot fully separate the culture and the spiritual nature of our people- although many a secularist (and Haredi) have tried.  They are inextricably tied together just like natives living in the Amazon.  Where one starts and one ends is unclear- and there’s no need to clarify it.

Growing up speaking Jewish American English, I was always exposed to Yiddish.  All of my grandparents spoke it or understood it to varying degrees.  And it peppered my conversations.  It’s a very expressive and fun language with a soft side to it.  Despite some of the efforts of Hebrew purists to rid the language of Yiddish, I actually see a lot of it reflected in Israeli culture and language.  It feels comfortable.

A few years ago, I found a private tutor to start learning the language in earnest.  I then was blessed with the opportunity to go to the Workmen’s Circle “Yiddishland” program in New York.  There I learned not only the language, but also the culture- the music, the traditional dancing, so much.

When I made aliyah and moved to Israel, I wasn’t sure how much yiddishkayt- Yiddishness- I would find.  I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how vigorously Hasidic communities here are preserving the language- my cover photo is a bunch of newly printed Yiddish books for children in Bnei Brak.  With Hasidic Jews’ high birthrate, the language is about to make the comeback of a lifetime.  At the same time, I personally wanted to find a more progressive setting for my Yiddish too.

I’ve been pleased to connected with organizations in Tel Aviv like Yung Yidish (a library and concert venue in the Central Bus Station), Arbeiter Ring, Yiddishpiel Theater, and so much more.  I even got the chance to see a Yiddish musical based on the Barry Sisters last night!  The subtitles (which I was proud that I only needed occasionally) were in Hebrew and Russian.  Not a small number of Russians here also speak the mamaloshn- tribute to how international and cosmopolitan this language is.

To conclude, I’d like to share a story about how Yiddish lebt- how Yiddish lives.  I went to the library here to try to find Yiddish books.  I was disappointed when the librarian said their branch had none.  Feeling despondent about the future of the language, I asked what other languages they had.  She mentioned French, which I also speak.

I headed back to the French section only to find something curious.  A French book- almost a hundred years old- by famed Yiddish writer Sholem Asch!  In other words, a Yiddish book…translated into French!  I shared my excitement with the librarian, who was astonished.  I may very well have been the only person to discover this.

This is how Hebrew survived in Yiddish- and how Yiddish now survives in Israel.  Little fragments of a prior world integrated into a new form.  An immaculate metaphor for Judaism itself.  And I’m telling you- don’t count Yiddish out.  Because those sparks of Yiddishkayt are being rekindled- in Bnei Brak, in Mea Shearim, and right here in the most secular place of all- my home, Tel Aviv.

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.”