Planting Roots Bearing Fruits

South Tel Aviv is the Best Tel Aviv

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Warmth.

Be a good Israeli and learn Arabic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saudi Country Music

Yes, that’s right- tonight, I heard country music on a Saudi radio station. It took me by total surprise. It just goes to show that the Middle East is a whole lot more diverse than you might think- and a whole lot more interesting that you’ll find out by reading the news!

Today I had a very productive day. On my way back from the mall (man is it cool to see a mall all in Hebrew! Never had that as a kid!), I switched on an app on my phone and started listening to Arabic music. Last night, I listened to Syrian radio- to an entire evening of the majestic Fairouz. The host’s greeting in Arabic was adorable: “Masa’ Fairouz, Masa’ al kheyr” – A Fairouz evening, A good evening! Listeners even called in from all corners of Syria. It was surreal to be listening to the radio station just north of the border- of a country in the midst of a horrifying civil war and a country I cannot legally visit.

Tonight, I decided to give the Saudi stations a try. At first, there were the typical and beautiful rhythms of khaleeji music– music from the Persian Gulf. Gulf Arabic music sounds quite different from Egyptian, Lebanese, or Moroccan music. Each one has its beautiful elements.

Then I started to get nervous. The announcer said in a grave tone in the Saudi dialect: “once upon a time, we were great. We were revered and respected. Now what?” Holy shit, I thought, this is going to be a depressing news story about the latest political intrigue in Saudi Arabia. But instead the next sentence shocked me and made me giggle: “a few days ago we were defeated by Portugal 3-0. What are we going to do about our soccer team?”

Just goes to show that things aren’t always what we expect 😉

Speaking of which, I switched to another Saudi station. Expecting more Arabic jazz, I instead got some American country song filled with y’alls and drawls. In complete shock, I continued listening as pop songs followed rap songs followed, both male and female artists singing.

Curious what else I’d find, I hopped on another station (found an angry preacher) then another (beautiful Quranic chanting) and two Indian music stations from Dubai and then I visited Jordan. The Jordanian radio station was playing something oddly familiar. The beat- it wasn’t Arabic- it was…reggaeton. That’s cool, I thought, it’s not just Israel that 20 years after the fact discovered reggaeton music I grew up on. Our neighbors like it too.

In fact, they like it so much, they’re now mixing it with Arabic music! A quick YouTube search for “Arabic reggaeton” will reveal a boatload of songs. It is catchy and fun and I highly recommend trying it out.

People love to hate on technology. It’s ruining society. Young people don’t know how to socialize. It’s no replacement for human interaction. Yada, yada, yada.

Some of the critiques are valid, others are the same stupid stuff people said when the printing press was invented. The point is technology is like anything else in life- it’s about how you use it.

For me, I’d love to be able to go to Syria and Saudi Arabia. And I hope to visit Jordan sometime soon, although if we’re totally honest it can be challenging both as a queer person and an Israeli. I’m sad that for political reasons I can’t- and I’m sad in particular for the people of Syria who are suffering. I’m also sad because Saudi Arabia doesn’t look like it’s headed for a lot of long-term stability either. I’m sad because in every country in the world there are good people I’d like to meet- and who’d like to meet me. Of course there are fire and brimstone clerics (we have a few in Israel) and mean people and bigots, but there are good people out there too. Complicated people. People I can learn from- and teach.

So this is what I have to say: I’m not going to wait until the borders open between Israel and countries like Syria and Saudi Arabia. I’m going to use technology to get to know my neighbors as best I can. Why shouldn’t I enrich my life with the treasures their cultures have to offer? I’m sure somewhere in Riyadh there’s a kid secretly listening to pirated Mizrachi music. If you think that’s naive, you need to do your homework. As the phrase goes, “we’re all in the gutter, but some of us are looking up at the stars”.

As I walked down the streets of South Tel Aviv, I’m sure there are people I passed by who would utterly disapprove of me listening to Saudi Quranic chanting or Syrian pop. That’s the music of Arabs, of the enemy. Those people hate us.

But I bet there are more than a few people who have held on to their Middle Eastern roots. Who if I pumped up the volume loud enough, might join in and even dance. Because the beauty of South Tel Aviv is that the people who live here- the music they blare every morning when I wake up. It’s so utterly and deeply Middle Eastern that you don’t know where the Umm Kulthum starts and the Omer Adam ends.

All Middle Eastern countries are more diverse than you might suspect. I speak Arabic so I actually know what my neighbors are saying- and it’s interesting.

I live in a country built on a miracle, on a 2,000 year old pipe dream that came true. And while people are reading and re-reading Ha’aretz and Yisrael Hayom and the New York Times, I’m practicing my southern drawl. Because one day, by the grace of God, I’m going to hop on a plane, get my passport stamped, and listen to Kenny Chesney play Riyadh.

Ken yehi ratzon. May it be so. 🙂

The hardest part of making aliyah

When I moved to Israel, I anticipated many challenges. Israeli culture is very different from even American Jewish culture. The directness, the sometimes harshness of people’s words can really catch an American off guard. As can the practically non-existent social boundaries. I knew I’d have to make adjustments to my career and make new friends. I’d also sorely miss some of my favorite foods and cultures that are omnipresent in the diverse area I grew up in. I’d be far from my existing support network and would have to build a new one- practically from scratch. All this in a country I hadn’t visited for 12 years.

But the single hardest part of my journey, by far, was finding a home. Not a metaphorical home, but an actual house.

Before arriving, I had reserved an AirBnB for a month to give me time to search for an apartment. Little did I know that even though the woman advertised having air conditioning, she claimed that she was “allergic” to the machine so she wouldn’t turn it on. As my Sabra friends told me, she was allergic to the electricity bill. So there I was, a freshly minted Israeli arriving after 15 hours of travel (with only 1 hour of sleep on the plane) and a bedroom at 87 degrees Fahrenheit. The final straw for this apartment was when I got food poisoning at four in the morning and rather than offering some words of consolation, the host complained about me waking her up.

After having received a refund for the remaining three weeks from AirBnB, I scrambled to find a place. Still hung up on jet lag, I managed to find a generous lesbian couple who had also made aliyah from the States a year ago. I slept in their office for a while while I searched for an apartment. But as I think we all discovered, having three people, a dog, and multiple cats in a small apartment just doesn’t work. And from the beginning, this was going to be a temporary place.

So I ran around trying to find a new place. I found a sublet in the middle of the city. I had a roommate- not ideal, but fine for a temporary stay. My landlord, on the other hand, stole money from me that required endless hours of mediation and legal threats to be returned. It’s not worth going into a ton of detail, but let’s just say that that’s one among many examples.

Needless to say, I was tired of hopping around apartments. I wanted my own place- no roommates, no pets, no thieving landlords. With a long term lease. A home.

This is when I really discovered why Israelis protested en masse in 2011. In particular in Tel Aviv, there is a massive housing shortage. Most Israelis want to live in the Center of the country but the building hasn’t kept up. As a result, demand is high and so are the prices. Although prices are significantly lower in Tel Aviv than in places like Washington, D.C., San Francisco, and New York (which Israelis should realize- this is not a uniquely Israeli problem), there is a unique competitiveness to the market here. When you show up to view an apartment, there are often multiple people viewing at the same time. I can’t think of anything more awkward. Everyone is trying to woo the all-powerful landlord while somehow pretending to like each other. It’s super uncomfortable.

Then, the landlord will tell you there’s an extensive waiting list. And to be honest, there usually is (although of course some lie). The landlord can ask you any friggin question he wants. In the U.S., there are extensive rental protections. Where I lived in Maryland before aliyah, there was even a free service offered by the local government to investigate unscrupulous landlords. Of course there were still bad apples, but at least there was legal recourse.

Here, the legal system is basically a load of crap. When it comes to housing, the landlords know they run the show. I was asked invasive questions about my salary, my family’s salary, my job, my religion, my national origin, my sexuality, my politics, and more. What Israelis need to understand is that while this is par for the course in Tel Aviv, it is illegal in the U.S. and most civilized countries. If you have the money and pass a background check, you can legally rent wherever you want in the U.S.

Could I have chosen not to answer these questions? Sure. But why would the landlord choose me, then, when she can simply pick someone else from a list of 30 people? One guy, after grilling me for 30 minutes, ended by saying “you seem like a nice guy, but I have a whole list of people who work for the army and get great bonuses and benefits, so I’m just not sure we’ll choose you.” With a smile.

I had landlords ask me to pay 6 months rent- up front. I had landlords ask me to pay rent- in cash. Leaving me with no paper trail of having paid the rent at all in an almost non-existent legal system. I was offered one apartment that I’m pretty sure was tied to some sort of mafia. I was told over and over again that the apartments were quiet- only to find construction projects (both existing and planned- there is a database) all around.

Trying to fix this situation, a new law was passed in the Knesset this past year to provide more rental protections. What I then encountered were multiple landlords (illegally) inserting clauses into the leases stating that the new law did not apply. Of course a lease doesn’t supplant the law of the land, but it certainly spoke to what kind of landlord they’d be. One woman, when I asked her to revise the lease, said “but I’d never hurt anyone!” And she refused to change it.

At the end of my rope and having seen literally dozens of apartments in person, I turned to the hated real estate agents here. Real estate agents in Israel are nothing like real estate agents in the U.S. Here, I don’t hate Arabs, I don’t hate Haredim (these are the usual targets). No, who I absolutely detest in this country are real estate agents.

I had real estate agents (who I told I wanted a quiet place) try to sell me on illegal apartments inside a carpentry factory. I had real estate agents tell me a place was too small for me only to call me frantically the next day and say we should go see it because it’s great.

I had a particular apartment I was ready to sign on. I had had my lawyer review the lease in Hebrew twice. I had prepared my checks (you have to pre-sign a year’s worth of checks here). I had prepared my 5000 shekel deposit and my 4000 shekel pre-payment of the last month’s rent in addition to the 4000 shekels for the first month. In addition to all that, I’d have to pay several thousand shekels to the real estate agent. But two hours before the lease was supposed to be signed (the day before moving day), the real estate agent told me the landlord wanted to add a clause. A clause that stated that if I left early, I needed to find a replacement (no problem, this was already in the lease), but also to give up 4000 additional shekels.

Of course I didn’t sign. Adding a last minute clause is already a huge red flag. Adding one that would rob me of 4000 shekels if, God forbid, I had a life emergency and needed to find a new renter- now that’s depraved. The real estate agent yelled at me, a lot. I told her I had to go. And she called- I counted- 6 times in 10 minutes and texted over and over. I wish I could say this was the only time, but I was also berated over the phone by at least two other real estate agents who felt this was somehow acceptable behavior.

The worst part of all of this is that based on the comments I heard from landlords and real estate agents alike, I knew I was being taken advantage of because I was an oleh chadash, a new Israeli. Even though I have fluent Hebrew. Nothing about this process is more revolting than that. I made the sacrifice to make Israel my new home and to see fellow Jews manipulating me made me sick to my stomach. And exhausted.

Tired of all the games, I decided that I’d look in South Tel Aviv. It’s cheaper and more importantly, less competitive to find a place. And when I say South Tel Aviv, I don’t mean the hipsters of Florentin- it’s also a mess to find an apartment there. And I don’t mean Yafo- it’s in such high demand (and gentrification) that I found it quite hard too.

No, I live where the music is Mizrachi. Which I love. Where the streets are filled with diverse refugees from all over the world. Where there are real, honest-to-God neighborhoods, not some sort of revolving door of young people trying to pay astronomically high rent. Is my community super queer-friendly and packed with Reform synagogues? No- although I haven’t gotten to know my neighbors yet and I know Israel can always surprise you. I do know there are Shas posters nearby, which I find both amusing and frightening. I’m thrilled that the food is cheap and absolutely delicious. I even found a sushi place- and the maki rolls cost 9 shekels! Try finding that in Dizengoff Center!

In the end, I come back to my name, Matah מטע. It means orchard and I chose it because I’m planting roots to bear fruits, to blossom. And what I realized is this- I was tired of the “no, no, no, no” I was hearing and wanted to get to the “yes”, like in my cover photo. More than being in a central location packed with young people, what I needed was a home. And what I started to realize is that having gone through so much in the States, this wasn’t really a new home so much as a first home. I needed some soil so I could ease my bark into the ground and find some stability. After four months here, I just needed a quiet, safe place to come home to at night and sleep.

And that is what I found. I’m grateful for the help of friends and my lawyer, who supported me emotionally and with advice. Was it easy? Absolutely not. If you’re making aliyah because you think it’s a piece of cake, you should immigrate to Ireland. Or Belgium. Or Japan. Because Israel can be really friggin tough. Not always for the reasons Sabras think, but it is hard. I have to admit my faith and my hope were tested repeatedly while finding a home. And I hope I can find some peace of mind by reconnecting to the Israelis who give me spirit, rather than the people who drained me of it.

On my way home Friday, I heard a song wafting through the air in my new neighborhood. I recognized the melody. And as I got closer, I sang along: “lecha dodi likrat kalah, pnei shabbat nekablah.” The traditional Jewish song for welcoming Shabbat, the Sabbath bride.

I couldn’t help but think that for all the challenges I’ve been through- and the unknown ones that may lie ahead- that I made the right choice. Because rather than hearing the boom boom boom of the middle of Tel Aviv, I’m hearing the songs of my people. Prayers I’ve said since childhood.

There may not be a lot of Reform synagogues in South Tel Aviv, but you don’t always need one when your prayers fill the air of the market and you’re singing along. With your new key in hand. When you move to a new home, you’re praying with your feet.

The biggest threat to Israel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haredim speaking Arabic, dabke, and air raid sirens

Yesterday, I was sitting on a bus. In front of me, there are two Haredim, a man in a black hat and his wife. But they weren’t speaking Yiddish- they were speaking Arabic!

I listened closely to make sure it wasn’t just Hebrew with a Mizrachi accent, but no, sure enough it was Arabic. I then, in a first for me, spoke to Haredim in Arabic. Turns out the man had been born in Egypt and moved to Israel at a very young age. And his wife Miriam- now this is interesting- is Jordanian. And, in her words, Arab. Very, very few Mizrachim would identify as Arab- especially today, but even historically- many were simply Jews who lived in relative peace among their Muslim and Christian neighbors. The chaos of the modern era changed that, before nationalism, including pan-Arab nationalism (or modern Zionism) existed.

Therefore, given that a Mizrachi Jew, even who speaks some variety of Arabic or Judeo-Arabic, would likely not identify as an Arab, I wondered about this woman. Just a few days before, I had been reading about Jordan and while it has a rich ancient Jewish history, it hasn’t had a stable Jewish community for quite a long time.

Which got me thinking- I believe Miriam is a convert. In her own words, she is proud of being Arab and thinks there are good Arabs, Jews- good everyone everywhere. But she thinks Jews are nicer than Arabs. I responded that I wasn’t so sure based on my interactions with real estate agents here! We laughed.

Before I got off the bus, we passed by what I presume was a left-wing demonstration. Yesterday was the anniversary of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, the former Prime Minister of Israel. He had tried to forge a peace agreement with the Palestinians and was murdered by a fanatical right-wing Jew. The protestors blocked the intersection and started slapping the bus. I was kind of concerned, but mostly I was pissed off that these people were keeping me from my destination. I’m all for peace demonstrations, but I’m not sure what you accomplish by scaring a bunch of innocent people on a bus. I once thought only right-wing people could be fanatical, but I’ve found that people of any political stripe can be utterly intolerant and invalidating.

Annoyed by the demonstrators and extremely excited about the Haredi Arabic conversation I just had, I hopped off the bus and headed north to a dabke workshop. Dabke is a traditional Levantine dance popular among Palestinians, Jordanians, Lebanese, Syrians, Kurds, and Iraqis. For years, I’ve loved this dance. It just looks so fun! I’ve watched YouTube clips and listened to the music on my iPod. In Arabic class in college, we got a brief introduction to it, but I never really had the chance to dance it.

Until last night. I found an amazing workshop and danced my pants off. It was so much fun and the people there were at least as fun as the dance. Being the only Jew- the only non-Arab- in the room, I aroused a lot of curiosity. And frankly, mostly a bunch of friendliness. People gave me their numbers, invited me to hang out with them, asked me about America and even Israeli folk dancing (which I also do). I even met two separate women who wanted to practice Spanish with me! And the whole session- before you ask if you can join me- is in Arabic. This is their space, as it should be, and they were generous enough to allow me to enter it and enjoy their culture. So unless you’ve got some pretty strong Arabic, you’re going to have to take a language class before you take the dance class 🙂 .

If you want to take a look, this is what our dance looked like last night! (I’m the guy in the blue shorts and teal shirt). So much fun!

I returned home feeling buoyant. As I got ready for bed, I started hearing a loud noise. This was my first night in a new apartment, so I thought it might be the sirens from the hospital nearby. And then I heard what sounded like airplanes. Getting louder and louder.

My first thought was that my landlord ripped me off by giving me an affordable apartment that constantly has flyovers from Ben Gurion Airport. What a jerk!

But then I realized- the sirens kept going. This isn’t an ambulance. This isn’t a plane. This is an air raid siren.

Having absolutely no idea what to do in this situation (luckily I never experienced it in America), I googled it. And thank God somebody took the time to write it. Go to the ground floor, avoid windows and doors, and pray. And at 3:30am, that’s exactly what I did. Alone and in the dark.

I was scared absolutely shitless. I prayed and prayed and messaged a couple friends who were equally confused. After a while (which seemed like a very long while), the news published that it was a false alarm. But I’ll tell you, it didn’t sound so false when I heard plane (projectile?) after plane (missile?) overhead over and over again. I envisioned my building collapsing to the ground. Would I survive?

Thank God I did and thank God everyone is OK. I’ve truly never experienced something like that in my life before. And I hope you don’t either- it’s scary. And having read that earlier today, the terrorist group Islamic Jihad was threatening revenge because Israel destroyed one of their weapons smuggling tunnels. And that there was an armed confrontation between Israel and Syria in the north. That basically it wouldn’t have been a shock if the air raid sirens had been accurate.

Being someone who has already suffered trauma in my life, it was hard to get to sleep- it pushed a whole bunch of triggers. Finally I was able to lie down and get some rest.

I wrote to my friends on Facebook last night that if you don’t have the dedication and faith to keep you here, you simply won’t make it.

Everyone has a stake in this society and we must work together to make it the best place on the planet- which I think it is and has the potential to be.

I understand the rage that people can feel here- when you’re scared, when you’re scarred, you just want to lash out. There are productive ways to do this and harmful ones and I hope we can strive to do the former more than the latter.

To anyone outside of Israel who has any doubt as to what terrorism does to the Israeli psyche, I invite you to crash at my place next time there’s an air raid siren. All the Ambien in the world won’t help you sleep and it will haunt you after you wake.

And to the “peace” activists who slapped my bus- I get you. You’re horrified, you’ve been hurt by someone, somewhere in this Holy Land. But get a therapist. Do some yoga. Pray. Take some anti-anxiety medications. Whatever works for you. But stop taking out your anger on your fellow man.

Be like the hundreds of young people I saw engaging in dialogue in Kikar Rabin yesterday. Be like the Haredi man who married a Jordanian (convert?) and speaks Arabic. Be like me and go dance Palestinian dabke with new Arab friends.

Or be like my Arab friend Lena who I met last night. When I told her I was an American Jew who now lived in Tel Aviv, her answer was simple and touching:

“You are welcome here.”

That, my friends, is how you make peace. One heart at a time. A quiet and beautiful answer to the screeching of a siren.

As my cover photo says in Arabic: “life is sweet”. Damn straight it is. Because I’m alive.

And that’s how I learned the Arabic word for “terror attack”

In a horrific terrorist attack in New York, 8 people were killed and at least another dozen were wounded. I found out about the attack while perusing Facebook in an ice cream parlor in Yafo. Everyone around me was laughing and having a good time and I just froze and started checking in on all my friends. My emotions welled up as I saw 37 friends were marked safe. Thank God. And then I was on the verge of tears as I noticed that 175 friends of mine had not yet confirmed their status. I even noticed some people had had friends ask them if they were safe and had not responded yet.

I then started messaging friends frantically, trying to find out if they were OK. This is the strange and challenging part of being a dual citizen- I’m feeling the pain of my friends in America while I’m sitting at a gelato shop and people are giggling. Obviously not at what happened, but they just don’t know what’s going on. It’s somewhat of a dual life.

I finally found out a close friend was safe- but her husband works very close to the attack. Thank God he survived, but it’s scary to think about. Unfortunately for Israelis, this isn’t a new concept, although it’s one Israeli experience I hope to never have to suffer.

As I write this blog, it’s still Halloween in America. Halloween in Israel is weird- it’s almost non-existent. Some of the things I love about the holiday, like picking pumpkins, hayrides, pumpkin pie, candy corn, seeing cute kids in costume, or going to a friend’s party- they just don’t happen that much here. It’s not part of the culture. Understandable, but I still miss it. It’s doubly hard because one of my very toxic relatives has a birthday on Halloween so it brings up all sorts of mixed emotions.

Tonight, I didn’t expect a scary Halloween, but I got one. Just like the Halloweens with my toxic relatives and just like all too many days that have scarred people in the Land of Israel.

Some people ask me how I get through the tough times, through the excruciating challenges that I face as an oleh chadash, as a new Israeli citizen. You know how? Everyday miracles.

Before I heard about the attack, I was talking with an adorable 17-year-old named Tony who worked at the ice cream shop. He really likes American rap, so I suggested some artists (he had never heard of Common!). We talk about how he wants to move to Canada or maybe go to college in Germany to become an engineer. When it came up that I’m gay, his co-worker joked that he’s a homophobe or a closet-case (this is the humor here- this is not derogatory). He of course denied it and said he likes everyone. He even was a little self-conscious and asked me if he looked like a homophobe. Of course I told him he doesn’t (is there a way to look homophobic?), and he smiled. What a nice young Jewish boy with a goldene neshamah- a beautiful soul.

Wrong. Tony is Arab. And like not a small number of Arabs here, if you called him David Goldstein you’d think he’s an American Jew. Once he shared that he was Arab, I switched from Hebrew to Arabic and we kept talking. About music, travel, culture, you name it. After every customer he served, he’d come back and keep talking to me.

After I found out about the attack, I was visibly upset. I didn’t say anything because I was too busy checking in on my friends. But eventually I needed to go home and sit in a quiet place where I could call people.

Before leaving, I wanted to tell Tony why I had to go. Many Arabs here mix Hebrew into their Arabic. The Hebrew word for terrorist attack is “pigua”, and it would not be strange for an Arab to speak in Arabic but simply use a Hebrew word in the middle of a sentence. Much like American Jews sprinkle our English with Yiddish and Hebrew. But I knew that if I spoke with Tony in Arabic and then said the word “pigua” in the middle of the sentence, the Jewish customers might flip out and I didn’t want to scare anyone.

So I looked at Google Translate to find the Arabic word: “hujoom”. I told Tony about what happened in New York and that I needed to go home to check in on friends. He looked shocked and then sad. He came over and gave me a nice warm bro handshake. I hope to see him again soon at the ice cream shop- he might not be a nice Jewish boy, but he’s certainly a nice Arab boy. And while I hope he pursues his dreams to study abroad, a part of me will be sad that this country will miss out on the presence of a kind person.

And that’s how I learned the Arabic word for “attack”. Not by, thank God, an attack on me here in Israel. And not from the media. But rather, from seeing my friends in pain in America and wanting to share my sadness with a new friend, an Arab friend. A 17-year-old kid who loves hip-hop and scoops ice cream. My neighbor.

There is nothing positive to take from a terrorist attack. It’s murder plain and simple. It’s deranged and it’s sad. I hope we can make a world where this kind of hate doesn’t exist anymore and we can live in peace. Like my cover picture from a mural I saw in Tarshiha says in Arabic: “no to violence”.

In the meantime, let’s live. Look for the everyday miracles, like my interaction with Tony. An interaction made possible by my decision as a 17-year-old to start learning Arabic at the Jewish Community Center in Rockville, Maryland. And for three years in college in St. Louis. And with Syrian refugees over Skype. And by his decision to open up to me- to show me kindness, to respect my queer identity, and to show empathy in my time of sorrow.

Peace is not made through powerful men shaking hands. That may be part of it, but it’s the opening of hearts that truly sustains it and makes it possible. May we all find a way to do so every day, even just a little bit. It makes our world a better place and it gives us hope to overcome great challenges.

May the memory of those who fell today be for a blessing. May God bring healing to wounded. And may we know the fruits of peace so that the scariest Halloween we have is when our kids sneak up on us and say:

“Boo.”

My first Haredi hug

Tonight started bad and ended amazing, so read to the end.

I had my first Yiddish lesson in Israel tonight. I already speak pretty good Yiddish but I wanted to learn more and I specifically want to get accustomed to the Hasidic accent, which is distinct. I love visiting Bnei Brak, a Haredi community next to Tel Aviv.

I headed there for a lesson with a young Hasidic man, perhaps not above the age of 25. The lesson started off great as we got to know each other. Yosef’s family is made up entirely of Holocaust survivors. One of his grandparents actually grew up in the town of Auschwitz before escaping to Russia and then being forced by the Soviets to move to Siberia. Eventually they made their way to the U.K. and U.S. after the war and subsequently to Israel.

We spoke about 70% in Yiddish, 20% in Hebrew, and 10% in English over the course of two hours. We got to a point in the lesson where we were talking about music and I told him how I wrote a piyyut (liturgical poem) combining Hasidic words and melody with my own Arabic words. He was impressed. Then he asked me what kind of synagogue I go to. And, being the Israeli that I am, I told him it was Reform. Because hell if I’m not going to be myself in the country I worked so hard to come to- and now build.

His first response: “I would never go to a Reform synagogue if you invited me.” Like a bullet through my heart. I’ve worked so hard to protect my Judaism- from toxic relatives, from anti-Semites, even from Israelis antagonistic to religion. And here I was, the bravest Reform Jew I know, in the middle of Haredi city of 200,000 people, and the teacher (who I’m paying) is insulting my community. He proceeded to say all sorts of ignorant things. I tried to appeal to Jewish unity and desire for mutual respect, but it just didn’t really work. In his words, he practices “authentic Judaism” and I practice something “worse” than secular Jews.

You could probably draw a straight line from his grandparents’ Holocaust trauma to his rigid and judgmental attitudes, and I do empathize, but in the end I was pissed off. And in the end, we all make decisions about how to live our lives, just like I have. I did calmly explain to him how he hurt me and he apologized, but I’m just not sure I’d feel comfortable working with him anymore.

Feeling angry at Haredim, I started blasting music into my earphones and walking around Bnei Brak. This jerk of a teacher- he takes my tax dollars to sit around studying Torah and then has the audacity to lecture me about how I practice my faith!

I felt distant from Judaism and hurt, so I stopped into a Haredi bookstore hoping to find some solace. I love books and music and they really can heal. I picked up a Hasidic Yiddish children’s book (they’re publishing new ones all the time!) and a CD. It felt fine, but it didn’t really heal this kind of a wound. Although I got a major kick out of seeing 15 black hats turn towards me in shock as I asked the cashier where the CD’s were…in Yiddish.

I then got to the restaurant I was looking for. Home-cooked Ashkenazi food. Just what I wanted. The guy behind the counter, Yisroel, had a nice smile and a kind voice. He gave me extra food (for free) as we chatted. We talked about what it was like in Tel Aviv. He was surprised to hear from me that there are a lot of Jewish things in the city including biblical graffiti and the guy playing hinei mah tov on an electric guitar in Kerem Hateimanim last week.

His friend then walked in the restaurant and then started singing a niggun – a word-less melody – and then Yisroel, a Hasidic guy eating pasta, and I joined in. It was a surreal moment that happens nowhere else in the world.

They asked me why I was in Bnei Brak and I told them I had a Yiddish lesson that didn’t go so well. They asked why and I explained that the teacher was really judgmental. Yisroel asked me if the teacher was Haredi, like him. And I said yes. I could see the look of embarrassment on their faces. He said he could understand why I wouldn’t want to work with him and started asking around the restaurant to find me a new teacher.

Feeling lifted by Yisroel’s kindness, I told him this: “after my teacher hurt me, I could’ve just gone back to Tel Aviv and felt like all Haredim are mean. I could’ve chosen to close my heart. But instead, I decided to wander around and find someone to warm my heart, to show me that there are good people in this community too.”

Without skipping a beat, he grabs me by the neck and gives me the warmest, tightest, most generous hug I’ve received in my entire time in Israel. It was so filled with love I was almost taken aback, especially given the way some of my relatives used touch to hurt me. This man, who despite having to take the bus home to Ashdod, was keeping the restaurant open past 11pm just to keep me happy. Yisroel may be the kindest person I’ve met in Israel. And he is my first Israeli Haredi friend.

Lest you venture into the “oh but these must be less religious Hasidim” territory, you’re wrong. Yisroel is a Ger Hasid and his friend is a Bobover. They explained to me they don’t watch movies and they showed me they don’t have smartphones. And they told me why. And even though I practice Judaism differently, I listened respectfully and learned about their beliefs. Like a human being.

What brought me back from tonight’s pain was love. Every Shabbat in synagogue we pray the “ve’ahavta” – a prayer that starts “and you shall love…”. Tonight, a young Jew in jeans and a t-shirt and a Hasidic man in Bnei Brak embodied that verse. Because love wins.

Will I keep learning Yiddish? You bet! Because I want to know my Hasidic neighbors like Yisroel and it’s my heritage too, despite my teacher’s claims that he is the arbiter of Jewish identity.

It is said that Israel is the land of milk and honey. Wrong. Israel is the land of maror and honey. Maror is the horseradish we eat on Passover. The bitter people here are some of the bitterest you’ll meet. And there’s years of trauma behind that but it doesn’t change their toxicity- or your need to sometimes avoid them. But the honey- oh man. The honey here is the sweetest you’ll taste anywhere. The people here who love God by loving their fellow man- they are unparalleled the world over.

It can be so hard to remember that each person truly represents themselves first and foremost. It’s tempting to paint with a broad brush to protect yourself. To think that rather than an individual, an entire community hurt you- or will hurt you again. But in the end, if you go too far down this road, you won’t be protecting yourself, you’ll be hurting yourself. By denying yourself the chance to know some truly amazing friends.

Yisroel, perhaps aptly named, is now part of my chevreh, my “peeps”. He’s someone who brought me back to life tonight. So if you’re someone who likes to trash talk Haredim- I’m sure there’s a reason why. Maybe someone hurt you like I got hurt tonight. Or maybe someone taught you fear and prejudice. But I will not tolerate that hatred in my life and you’d better believe I’ll call you out on it. Because my tribe just got thickened and got its first Haredi member. And as far as I’m concerned, if you’re messing with him, you’re messing with me. Am yisrael chai. The People Israel lives.

As for my teacher- I have this drash, this spiritual note to offer. On my way to Bnei Brak I was listening to a Hasidic niggun on my phone, a melody from Vizhnitz. I recognized the tune but couldn’t place it. It reminded me of a secular Yiddish song I knew. Hours later, with the help of a French Jewish friend I met at Yiddish camp last summer, we discovered it was a 1960’s song by the legendary Barry Sisters. This kind of cultural overlap was once common when Jews truly lived together. Folks songs, Klezmer music, pop songs, Hasidic niggunim- there was a beautiful interplay at work. My hope is that this fluidity can be revived and we can enjoy the best of each of our communities while respecting our right to live differently.

Yisroel’s Bobover friend, impressed by my Hebrew, looked at my outfit and my flipflops and said “you look like a Sabra“. Perhaps, as we say in Yiddish, it’s bashert that I got my official Israeli ID card today. Because I’ve arrived. And I’m doing mitzvahs every step I take.

Reform is a verb

I grew up as a Reform Jew active in every possible aspect of the movement. When I made aliyah, I was certain to connect with Reform communities- I would never live in a city without one.

Another reason I chose to live in Tel Aviv was because of the queer community. It is a city that is arguably gayer than anywhere I’ve ever lived- and I’ve lived in Washington, D.C., Fort Lauderdale, Madrid, and Barcelona.

Oftentimes, I felt like my sexual identity and my Jewish identity had to be separate. When I was in one community, I was almost always still a minority due to my other identity. While Reform Jews are largely accepting of LGBT people (in particular the NFTY youth group), I faced sometimes intense homophobia in my community. I once had a Reform clergy person tell me bisexual people don’t exist and a Hebrew school teacher who giggled about which person was the “real man” in a gay relationship. I even had another Hebrew school teacher posit that there was something strange that caused more Jews to be gay than non-Jews. When visiting a Reform synagogue in another city, a 30-something rabbi told me all about how he likes gays to help with his fashion because that’s what we’re good at. Not to mention my toxic relatives. And all of this isn’t even including those among the more conservative elements of the Jewish community who twist texts to guilt and harm people like me.

And in the gay community, I also at times faced anti-Semitism or felt excluded. I remember going on several dates with a non-Jew and everything seemed to be going well and then suddenly he broke off the relationship because I didn’t eat pork. At the time I didn’t really care if he ate pork, so it seemed rather odd and when I pressed him on it, it was clear there was an anti-Jewish sentiment behind it. One guy implied he couldn’t date me because I was “really Jewish”. A non-Jewish ex-partner’s father – to my face – defended the KKK as an organization supporting Confederate soldiers, not racism and anti-Semitism. His son, my ex’s brother, dressed up as a Hasidic Jew for a college Halloween party- peyos and all. In addition to the more recent political anti-Semitism in the LGBTQ community, I think it’s just hard to be a minority within a minority. Oftentimes LGBT events are scheduled without regards to Jewish holidays and people don’t necessarily know about Jewish culture. It’s not necessarily malicious, but it does make it hard. And sometimes, I felt like the gay community really prized white “straight-acting” gay men above other members of the community, including physically. Above blacks, Latinos, bisexuals, trans, and- in my experience- Jews. While I strongly believe that most LGBT people in the U.S. are not anti-Semitic, I can’t deny that at times I felt uncomfortable or out of place in the community.

Which brings us to tonight. Tonight, as usual, I went to Reform Shabbat services which were lovely. We had a communal dinner and then I went home. When I got home I realized it was only 9:15pm and I was bored as hell. It can be hard to make plans for Shabbat when you’re new to Israel and don’t know a lot of people. And it can feel lonely.

I found a friend going to a gay pop music party. I usually just chill with friends and eat on Shabbat and walk around. But having no great alternative tonight and having the itch to get out of the house, I made a move and I went.

What a great decision. First of all, it was my first Tel Aviv gay party. And it was fun. The music was also great. Hearing a bit of American pop music was a nice escape from the stress (even the interesting stress) of everyday life here. Also there were some cute guys- not the super muscle-y ones you see on the beach, more like cute nice Jewish boys. It felt comfortable. Also, pretty much everyone was Jewish- a completely unique experience. I really felt this when the music switched from Britney Spears to Israeli pop. Even to the first Israeli singer I ever got a CD from at age 13- Sarit Hadad. That felt powerful.

For Sabras – Israelis who grew up here – there is absolutely nothing novel about what I just said (which in and of itself is kind of cool). But I’d like to remind them of something. There is nowhere else in the world where a queer Jew can hear Hebrew on the dance floor all around him. There is nowhere else in the world where every weekend there are gay dance parties and most of the people in the room are Jewish. There is nowhere else in the world where when you take a picture with a drag queen (my cover photo) you say to them “todah”.

Only in Israel – only in Tel Aviv – do I feel my queer and Jewish identities meld. Not at a conference, not at an event, but rather in my day-to-day life. I don’t have to compromise on either important aspect of my self to live here. And that is a gift – one that I hope I can inspire my Sabra friends to recognize and my American Jewish friends to respect.

There are some beautiful things about being a minority. The solidarity, the awareness, the empathy you can develop for others. The secret codes we use to find each other and protect our culture. But honestly, a lot of the time it sucks. And being a double minority makes it that much harder to feel at ease.

On a Friday night, I’m almost always at Reform services. And oftentimes at a dinner afterwards, sometimes even with Orthodox friends. Frankly, I feel more at ease at a Modern Orthodox Shabbat meal than with a lot of secular Jews. I love zemiros and I love the many hours of chatter and fun. As I see myself, I’m an “all-Israel Jew”. I like to find the beauty in every community of the People Israel (and even the non-Jewish communities of the State of Israel).

And tonight I added a new community. The queer Tel Avivi community is also my community- and also a part of my spirituality. It’s a place I feel affirmed in every way and it’s a fun way to blow off steam after a long week.

I’m a Reform Jew because reform is a verb. When Judaism or any religion becomes too static, its vitality withers. Today I reformed my Judaism. And I realized that while some Shabbats I’ll want to do long meals with singing and just be in the moment, sometimes, after a good hearty sing at services, I might just want to slip out at one in the morning and dance my heart out till the sun comes out.

That’s my Judaism too.

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 🙂

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.