Where are YOU from?

It’s pretty embarrassing, but everywhere we go, people can tell that Andy and I are American.  Maybe it’s the way we carry ourselves, or that we’re New York-rude instead of Israeli-rude, or maybe it’s my heinous Israeli accent and the fact that only one out of every five words I speak is actually pronounced correctly (don’t worry, I’ve already started ulpan).  But it seems that where ever we go, we always get asked “where are you from” and “Are you from America?”  Well, of course we answer yes.  Sometimes we simply say we’re from Philadelphia, or sometimes we say we live in New York.  Sometimes we give the tremendously complicated answer of explaining that we grew up in Philadelphia but “currently” live in New York.  It’s a good thing Andy and I are from the same places because I can’t even imagine what that conversation would look like. 

That’s when the stories start coming—“oh, you’re from New York?  I’ve been too New York once!”  Or, “Oh, my cousin’s daughter’s best friend’s husband has family who lives in Brooklyn.  Is that near you?”  Or even “Philadelphia, is that near Los Angeles?”  Andy once had an argument with a cab driver about what state Washington D.C. is located in.  The driver refused to take “no” for an answer (as in, there is NO state in which Washington D.C. is located).  He told us, “Jerusalem is a city in the state of Israel, Haifa is a city in the State of Israel, Philadelphia is a city in the state of Pennsylvania (actually, he had just learned that during the cab ride as well), so what state is Washington D.C. in?”  We tried to explain to him the touchy situation that would have occurred had one state been blessed with the Capitol over another… To no avail. 

The other day, I got into a cab and the driver asked “where are you from, Philadelphia?”   Lucky guess.  Well, it turns out that the cab driver lived in Philadelphia for a number of years and owned a falafel store on South Street.

Andy and I are realizing that everywhere we go, everyone has a story to tell.  Everyone wants to find some way to relate to you, to get you to stay in the store just a little bit longer.  Even if we don’t really care about your cousin’s daughter’s best friend’s husband who has family who lives in Brooklyn, for some reason we still say “cool!” every time.   Living in Israel, and especially in Jerusalem, is like one giant year-long family reunion.  We don’t know how we’re related to you, we don’t even remember your name, but we’re hoping if we talk to you a little bit longer, we might figure something out.  And then there are the relatives who just talk too much, and the conversation never ends…

Nashot HaKotel

Michelle's Reflections on this past Monday--- 

Monday marked the 25^th anniversary of Women of the Wall, a women’s rights advocacy group protesting for the recognition of a woman’s right to wear tallit and t’fillin, conduct a collective, out loud minyan, and to read Torah at the Western Wall/Kotel.  Every Rosh Hodesh the dedicated women of this group gather at the Kotel and conduct services, singing out loud with a fierce ruach that is unrivaled.  And every month, throngs of seminary girls and ultra Orthodox women are bused in from around the city and charged with the task of preventing these women from completing their prayers.  What upsets me the most is that these young girls, who have no ideological basis for even understanding the irony of what they are doing, are actively preventing other Jewish women from fulfilling the mitzvot which they have chosen to accept.  It’s nothing short of a shanda.

I don’t wear tallit or t’fillin, although when I was younger I did wear a tallit.  I enjoy participating in services by counting in a minyan, leading t’fillot, reading Torah, or having an aliyah, although I don’t go to morning minyan everyday.  And I support a woman’s right to be able to choose to take on the mitzvot if she wants to.  Here’s how I see it: Women are not obligated to take on the mitzvot.  Some people say it’s because women are already on a higher spiritual plane than men are, and so to take on the mitzvot is unnecessary and redundant.  I think this reason came about in recent decades in order to placate confused religious women.  A more historically accurate reason that women are not obligated to wear tallit and t’fillin, to read Torah, or count in a minyan, is because in a traditional, heteronormative, patriarchal society, the women were home taking care of the children, cleaning the house, and cooking the meals.  Thus, women are not bound by what we refer to as time-bound mitzvot, because when would they find the time?? 

This, however, is not the case anymore.  So, if a woman, who is not obligated to (read: “not obligated to” not “forbidden from”) wear tallit and t’fillin, count in a minyan, or read Torah chooses to take on these mitzvot, despite being on some higher spiritual plane, then the woman should be celebrated for making that choice.  Men fulfill these mitzvot because they are required to.  How much more amazing is it that a woman who is not required to chooses to.  And that’s why, even if I don’t choose to take on all of the mitzvot, I support women who do, and support their right to be able to express these mitzvot in all of the same contexts as men.

Yesterday, I davened with Women of the Wall in honor of their 25^th anniversary.  Although I support their fight, I was mostly just curious to see what WOW was about, and to see if the horror stories I had heard were true.  I came away from the experience with two very conflicting views.  I arrived at the women’s section of the Western Wall, and headed toward the little corner in the back carved out for WOW.  The corner was surrounded by on-duty soldiers, who were there to protect the women davening from women protesting.  Both groups of women were Jewish women—it was upsetting to think that one group actually needed to be protected from the other group.  I watched as a seminary girl (dressed in the typical uniform of a long black pleated skirt, a blue button-down collared shirt, and a black sweater, with black tights and black shoes) tried to gain entrance into the WOW section.  Two soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, refusing to let her in.  Who knows why she was trying to get in—was she going to cause trouble or did she really want to daven—but I imagine the soldiers challenged her in some way, maybe by asking where her tallit was, and unable to answer the question, she left.

Everyone agreed that yesterday was a pretty calm day as far as davening in the women’s section goes.  Sure there were a few pissed-off looking religious women, but I think most of them just came to see what WOW was all about, as opposed to protesting.  There were a few whistles (women can’t shout because men aren’t supposed to hear their voices, lest they be aroused), and one woman even barked like a dog.  Before the davening started, one woman stood just past the line of soldiers shouting things in Hebrew, but I didn’t understand what she was saying.  I decided yesterday that the older women protesting make me even sadder than the younger girls.  The younger girls may be too scared of authority to ask questions, or may be too young to even recognize what oppression looks like, but older women ought to know better.  Like it or not, we are all sisters, and we are fighting their fight with them.

Davening with WOW at the Kotel was an amazing experience, and I was almost moved to tears.  I have never, ever, experienced a Hallel service quite like the one led by our talented shlichei tzibor.  When I looked at the Kotel, my voice raised in song with other Jewish women, I knew that I was part of history.  While it is not uncommon for many, many minyanim to be occurring at the same time on the men’s side, for many reasons including restrictions on women’s singing and the fact that women don’t count in a minyan in the religious community, all davening on the women’s side takes place individually.  I always say that my favorite part of being Jewish is the community—which makes it pretty hard to have a meaningful t’fillah experience when I am praying quietly by myself.  To have been a part of a women’s minyan, praying out loud, at the Kotel, is something I will never forget. 

Andy, for his part, stood in a special section in the Kotel Plaza, behind the women’s section of the Kotel, where the men supporting WOW were able to stand.  He said he now understands what it must be like for me when we go to services at more religious communities and I must sit behind a mehitza, a special section designated for women so they don’t distract men from their prayers.  He had no idea what was going on.  Andy did describe an interaction with a religious man which greatly upset me, even though I wasn’t there.  The man looked distraught and kept preventing other men from praying by yelling that they were crazy and were not Jews.  Last time I checked, my religion is one of love and acceptance, whose guiding principle is “love your neighbor as yourself”.  So maybe, the Jews spouting hate are the ones who need to reconsider whether they are following their religion.

About halfway through the service, I began to experience some conflicting opinions.  I agree that women need a place where they can daven out loud and together, and that the Western Wall should be one of these places.  This of course, assumes that women are able to be counted in a minyan, which is an ideal I was brought up with, but with which some Jews do not agree.  I was concerned, however, that the out loud praying of WOW might have been disturbing other women who were at the Kotel to pray on their own, and did not want to be counted in our minyan.  A person does not need to count themselves in our minyan, and should not be penalized for choosing to pray on their own.  If I were a woman who had gone to the Kotel to daven on my own, not wanting to be counted in an all-woman minyan, but not wanting to actively protest it, either, I would be very distracted and have a hard time focusing on my prayers if WOW was there at the same time I was.  Sure, WOW was in the back, and the other women could daven closer to the front.  Or maybe they could have come at a different time—I just don’t think that other women should have to suffer because of our decision to pray together.

Davening is always better and more meaningful with ruach—I truly believe that.  But I wondered if the group I was part of yesterday morning was filled with ruach to make a point, instead of letting the ruach come from their souls.  There came a point where I wondered whether we were showboating to make a point instead of davening with our hearts.  For example, even before davening started, the women who were gathering began to sing loudly, so as to overpower the loudspeaker from the men’s side leading t’fillot for the men.  Maybe the loudspeaker was activated intentionally to overpower the women, but that didn’t mean that the women needed to sing loudly in order to overpower and offend the men.  In addition, at many points during the davening, women who were stationed at different locations within the group to help everyone follow along signaled to the group to sing louder, to give more energy and more ruach.  To me, davening is authentic—if we were at a sports game it would make sense to make a scene and encourage us to be louder, but davening comes from the heart, not from a desire to upstage someone else.  I suppose that this is what a protest is all about—making a scene to make a point.  But I don’t think that scene needs to involve the holy text of the morning prayer service, and I don’t think it needs to take place in the holiest place on Earth, especially when other people are there for their own, personal reasons. 

I think there were people from both sides (in support of and against WOW) who were at the Kotel yesterday morning just to make a scene, whose hearts were not truly invested in the service but, rather, in what the service represents.  And I think that there were people there who just wanted to egg on the other side, to see how far they could push it.  And these are the people that I don’t want to associate myself with.  I was overwhelmed at the ability to daven out loud, as part of a women’s minyan, at the Western Wall.  It’s not something I’ve ever been able to do before.  But I was there to daven, not to make a scene.  It’s a fine line, but it’s an important distinction.

Super-Jews!!!

Michelle's Drasha-- from this past shobbos at the Reshet Ramah Shabbat Dinner--

In 1933, two Jewish guys from Cleveland, Ohio, introduced the United States of America to something astounding.  It wasn’t a bird, it wasn’t a plane—it was Superman.   Also known as the Man of Steel, Superman has superhuman strength and can leap tall buildings in a single bound.  He arrived on Planet Earth as an infant, after being sent away from his home planet by his parents in order to save him from the death and destruction of his people.  He was discovered and adopted by an American farmer, and was raised among a foreign nation.  As his powers developed, Superman was encouraged to keep his identity a secret so he would not be discovered and persecuted because of it, so he took on the alter ego Clark Kent—a nerdy journalist who is weak and doesn’t have X-ray vision.   Superman becomes a liberator and champion of the oppressed, using his superpowers to defend and rescue the people of Earth.  Despite his amazing feats and the acclaim he receives from the public, Superman maintains his disguise as Clark Kent in order to avoid harm coming to him or the people he cares about. 

             If this story sounds familiar, that’s because it is.  The idea of traveling from our homeland to a foreign place for safety and protection is prevalent in the history of the Jewish people, as is the idea of concealing our identities.  In fact, the Jews of the 1930’s, when Superman burst onto the scene, were doing just that—many Jews were leaving their family’s homelands in search of a safer place to live, and immigrants in new countries were concealing their Jewish identities in order to avoid prejudice and persecution.

            The very history of the Jewish people begins with a story of travel and hidden identity.  God tells Abraham to leave the land of his father and to go to a place that God will show him.  Later, Abraham finds himself in a situation where he must lie about his wife, Sarah, for their protection. 

Abraham is not the only patriarch to lie about his relationship with his wife--in this week’s parsha, Toldot, when Isaac and Rebecca travel to Gerar, Isaac informs the men of the land that Rebecca is his sister, not his wife.   הַמָּקוֹם אַנְשֵׁי יַהַרְגֻנִי פֶּן אִשְׁתִּי לֵאמֹר יָרֵא כִּי הִוא אֲחֹתִי וַיֹּאמֶר (vayomer achoti he key yareh laymore ishti pen yahargoonee anshey hamakom) Isaac is scared that if he tells the truth about Rebecca, the men will kill him so they can be with her.  In this story, just as in the story of Superman and in the narrative of the Jewish people, we see an example of hiding who we really are for protection against persecution and harm.

            Of course, this parsha also introduces us to what is probably the most famous biblical example of mistaken identities—As Isaac lays sick in bed, Rebecca helps Jacob dress up like Esau in order to steal his father’s birthright.  Jacob puts on the clothes of his brother and covers his arms with animal fur so that he will feel hairy like Esau—and the trick works.  Isaac, though skeptical, exclaims ועֵשָׂ יְדֵי וְהַיָּדַיִם בקֹעֲיַ קוֹל הַקֹּל (hakol kol ya’akov v’hayadayim yadei eysav). “The voice is the voice of Jacob, but the hands are the hands of Esau”, and bestows his blessing upon his younger son.  Although it is possible to argue that in this story Jacob lies for personal gain, he also hides himself in order to ensure the continuation of the Jewish people—and that isn’t so different from what Abraham, Isaac, Moses, Esther, or the Jews of Europe or Spain have done.

         Twice in this parsha we see instances of our patriarchs, the founders of our religion, concealing their true identities. We see even more examples of hiding our Jewish selves to avoid persecution or harm throughout the rest of the Torah and throughout Jewish history.  Many of us in this room have probably had to hide our true selves at one point or another.  Maybe we had to hide the Jewish aspect of ourselves, or maybe it was a different aspect—maybe our involvement with Greek Life, or Science Olympiad, or our secret desire to be the winner of Iron Chef—or maybe, some of us in this room have, at times, been pressured to hide the “Ramah” aspect of ourselves.  We are all here tonight because of the role that Ramah plays in our lives and because of the importance we place on it, But how many times have we been sharing camp stories with non-camp friends, only to be met with disinterest, displeasure, or even the words “shut up” because our non-camp friends don’t get it and don’t want to hear it.          

            If we’re hiding parts of our identity, pretending to be something we’re not, or pretending not to be something we are, then that makes having meaningful Jewish experiences difficult.  Every summer, Ramah camps provide staff and campers with a safe space in which to be their true Jewish selves, a space in which it is not necessary to conceal our identities, but rather where it is encouraged to explore all of the nuanced aspects of ourselves in order to grow and develop into complex, proud, Ramah Jews.

            Many, if not all of us, in this room, spend 10 months of the year yearning for the safety of Ramah, because we aren’t our true selves anywhere else.  During the year some of us have to hide the Ramah aspects of ourselves, or even the Jewish aspects of ourselves, but when we get to camp in June, we don’t have to hide any more.  Many of us have long journeys to get to the safe haven that is our Ramah camp, but we make it each year because of the amazing community we have once we get there.  This group can be that safe space for us to continue to explore, grow, and develop our true selves while we are waiting to once again make the long journey back home.  In this space, we are safe to have conversations, and seek support—to explore all the aspects of our identities. 

Hiding our identities has been a common and important part of the Jewish narrative, from Abraham to present day.  My hope, my blessing, for this group of young professional Ramah alumni is that in this space together, we do not feel that we need to hide.  I hope that we are able to create together an intentional community where we can feel safe to be our true selves.  I hope that from this Shabbas onwards, Reshet Ramah will be a group of Supermen, and not a group of Clark Kents.  Shabbat Shalom. 

Keturah

Two weeks ago, Andy and I spent a meaningful Shabbat in the Negev desert at Kibbutz Ketura, a Kibbutz not far from Eilat.  The Kibbutz was founded in the 1970s by alumni of the Young Judea Year Course program, and is best known for its guest houses at which many Israel programs spend time, as well as for the tours it offers of the nearby region.  Andy was able to participate in programming during the day on Thursday, including a visit to a youth village and some solitary reflection time in the desert.  Because of my previous commitment to ulpan, I took a bus to the Kibbutz separately and met the group later in the day.

This trip marks the first time I have traveled by myself anywhere outside of Jerusalem, and although I was nervous, I surprised myself with my command of the Hebrew language and general knowledge of how public transportation works (thank you, New York).  The most unfortunate part of the trip (other than the person sitting next to me falling asleep on me), was that I had no one to share my thoughts and reflections with, so I will share them now.

As I was sitting in the Tachana Mercazit (Central Bus Station) working on some ulpan homework, a strange thought crossed my mind that both scared and intrigued me.  I briefly considered, for a very very brief moment, that it might be very rewarding to join the IDF (Israel Defense Forces).  As much as I love and support Israel, and will defend it with my words, I have never before thought about joining the army, so as I sat waiting for my bus, I explored my feelings a little bit, as all good social workers are trained to do. 

I had arrived for my bus an hour and a half early and had the opportunity to people watch.  As previously mentioned, a lot of the people in Israel are soldiers.  I thought I noticed that the soldiers walked around with a different air from the rest of the people in the bus station—it seemed to me that they held their heads a little higher than most others and exhibited a sense of pride greater than that of the average person.  My very fleeting desire to join the IDF stemmed from a curiosity about what it must be like to feel the pride that one can only feel when they know that they are doing something not just meaningful and beneficial for their country, but absolutely essential.  I thought it would be great, just for a moment, to have a taste of the pride that I imagined Israeli soldiers feel everyday while wearing their uniform.  Maybe I was projecting, or assuming, or imagining it, but it’s a feeling I hope to one day be able to experience through the line of work I have chosen to enter.

A few short hours into our very long bus ride, I found myself staring out the window at sand.  Lots and lots of sand.  Every once in a while, a bus stop would appear, out of nowhere, at the side of the road, and then it would disappear in the distance to give way for more sand.  And I found myself wondering, who uses those bus stops?  They definitely are not the closest bus stops to anyone’s home—there are no homes for miles.  How do people get there?  What is the point of a bus stop in the middle of nowhere?  I’m sure I could come up with some deeply profound symbolism for these middle of nowhere bus stops, but instead I think I’ll just wonder about them more…

I was fortunate enough to arrive at Kibbutz Ketura just as the sun was beginning to set, and the view was breathtaking!  From the Kibbutz, it is very easy to see the Jordanian border.  The Kibbutz’s date fields are located across from the Kibbutz itself, and just beyond them are the Jordanian mountains, behind which the sun was setting.  I have only seen a sky with pinks, blues, and purples like the one of the sunset I was witnessing in two other places—at Camp Ramah during the summer, and at the Grand Canyon.  I started thinking about the Grand Canyon, and it’s middle-of-nowhere-ness. It’s quite easy, while there, to commune with nature, but also to feel a little lonely.  Despite the throngs of tourists, there’s something deeply unsettling about how large the Grand Canyon is and how small we are in comparison.

Looking from within the Kibbutz out towards the Negev desert, I began to feel the same way.  The Kibbutz is surrounded on all sides by desert and mountains, and it seems as if it’s a little oasis of civilization in a giant crater of nothingness.  And while that’s deeply powerful and mesmerizing for a while, it’s also quite awe-inspiring in a way that makes you feel extremely lonely.  I began to wonder what else was out there—what is just past those mountains, or even in those mountains?  Are we really alone out here or are there animals, or even people, we don’t know about?  What is the meaning of life?

Spending a weekend on a Kibbutz in the desert reminded me how I feel when driving around camp—what is the draw for living in a neighborhood or community such as this, that is so far away from everything and so reliant on each other.  And I think Andy hit it right on the nose—it’s community.  Why do humans do anything, ever?  To be accepted by others and join up with a group.  Humans are social creatures and we need each other whether we like it or not.  The Kibbutz, like camp, is an intentional community of family and friends who are guaranteed to be there for moral and emotional support.  I guess living in the desert might not be so lonely after all.

I still don’t know what those bus stops are there for…