Next Year in Manhattan

Each year we end the Passover seder by expressing our hope that we will be celebrating Passover “next year in Jerusalem.”  Last year, I had the unique opportunity to recite these four familiar words and actually mean them—I knew with complete certainty that I would be celebrating my next Passover in Jerusalem. 

The end of the seder this year was bittersweet for me.  I recited those words with a twinge of melancholy, knowing that next year’s seder will be in Manhattan.  In fact, I have no idea when I’ll be back in Israel.

In many ways, these four words symbolized the end of the year for me, shaking me out of the slump that had been plaguing my mind about how to fill my time.  Suddenly, I did not still have four weeks left, but rather, I only had four weeks left.  Between volunteering, babysitting, visiting family and friends, and accompanying Andy on his tiyuls, how would I possibly have time to do the things I wanted to do?  The things that wide-eyed, optimistic Michelle who landed at Ben Gurion had hoped to accomplish, but which cynical, exhausted Michelle who has obligations and commitments had forgotten about.

In ulpan many months ago, we read a short story about a cobbler who works well into the evening, after the end of the work day, after everyone has gone home.  The Mayor of the town, making his rounds to the townspeople, stumbled upon this man working well into the night, by the diminishing light of a candle he had lit.  When the Mayor asked him why he was still working, the cobbler replied “All the while the candle is burning, there is time to work”.  (It’s cooler in Hebrew).  Essentially, it’s never too late.

I may only have a few weeks left of my time in Jerusalem, but as long as I’m here, there is time to do, see, learn, explore, experience.  I must take advantage of every opportunity, because next year, I will not be in Jerusalem.

The ULTIMATE staring-contest

Living in Jerusalem this year is a painful reminder of how I interact with people who are different from myself.  In fact, pretty much everywhere I have gone this year—to the zoo, out to eat, to the supermarket—I am reminded that I need to be more kind and considerate towards others.  Wherever I go, I don’t just feel that people are staring at me, I see them staring at me.  It’s not only children who do the staring, but also adults.  Sometimes they will stop what they are doing and stand, open-mouthed, watching me pass by.  And no, it’s not some weird back-handed compliment.  I’m being stared at because I’m dressed differently than the people staring at me.  The truth is, I’m not the only woman in Jerusalem who wears pants, short sleeves, shorts, or even a cute sundress from time to time.  For some reason, though, it seems like many children and adults are seeing these fashions for the first time when they see me.

Twice a week, I dress more modestly (not that what I usually wear isn’t modest), in order to volunteer at two religious institutions.  When I’m wearing long skirts, long sleeves, and have my hair covered (the mark of a married woman), no one stares.  No one bothers me.  And random men on Ben Yehuda Street certainly do not approach me and ask if they can take me for drinks in the middle of the afternoon (yes—this really did happen).

In the midst of my frustration at being made to feel like a social pariah, and despite the fun I sometimes have experimenting with how to respond (everything from staring back, to saying “hi” or “can I help you,” to simply ignoring them, depending on my mood), I am often reminded of times when I have been guilty of the same interactions towards others.  I am not a perfect person, and I don’t pretend to be—there have been times when I have judged someone based on what they are wearing, or stared at someone who looked or was dressed differently.  After having been on the receiving end of it, I am more aware of my actions and will make a conscious effort to stop.

The ironic thing is I’m not so different from the people who are staring at me.  I, too, am an observant Jew.  I am shomer Shabbat and shomer kashrut.  I try to live my life ashalachly (abiding by Jewish laws) as possible, and I try to incorporate middot (Jewish values) into everything I do.  Although we may have different interpretations of what it means to be a halachic Jew, or what it means to live a life full of Jewish values, we’re still trying to do the same thing.  There are those who would take one look at me and determine that I am not Jewish, regardless of what I say, do, or what laws I observe, and I would be happy to have a conversation with anyone who is curious about why I call myself an observant Jew and still dress the way I do.  But, people fear things they do not understand, things that are different from themselves, so the only people I have spoken to about my wardrobe choices are Andy (quite reluctantly) and some friends.  Dialogue is important for understanding—staring is counter intuitive and accomplishes nothing. 

Despite my sometimes being curious about others around me, I have been fortunate enough to have interacted with a number of people whose experiences vary wildly from my own.  I know I need to experience more, to interact with even more people.  Growing up in what I call the “Jewish bubble” made it difficult for me to obtain these experiences, so I sought them out on my own once I was mature enough to realize their value.   Motivated by the desire to continue the Jewish tradition, we often seek out people similar to ourselves, settling in Jewish neighborhoods where parents send their children to Jewish day school, Jewish camp, and Jewish youth groups—some Jews grow up never knowing that Jews are, in fact, a persecuted minority.  Some Jews grow up never interacting with people different from themselves, never knowing that other people even exist.  As far as I can tell, there are people of all cultures who grow up isolated and insulated, but I’m choosing to focus on Jews because Jews are the ones staring at me, and the Jewish experience is one I know something about.

Despite the proven success of these organizations at creating Jewish marriages, and developing committed Jewish children, isolating ourselves has consequences.  Without exposure to other people, we fail to learn how to treat others who are different from ourselves.  We learn to fear, or hate, or resent them—and the only societies in which we can safely and comfortably function are those sheltered “Jewish bubbles”.  That’s not the way of the world anymore—no two people are the same, have the same narrative and experiences, the same wants and desires.  We need to learn to interact with all types of people, to treat all people with respect.  That’s part of what it means to be a human, part of the responsibility we inherited when we were born.

There are some, I would imagine, who cling to the idea of the Jews as the “chosen people” to justify their living as a separate nation.  I would offer this: what if the Jews were “chosen” to be an example of how to treat others, of what it means to give each other dignity and respect, of how to make the world your community?  Perhaps we’re not supposed to be separate at all, but rather, examples of the love and compassion that one person can have for another.  

But whose counting anyway...

I haven’t woken up before eight o’clock in the morning this entire year, but one day a few weeks ago, I dragged myself out of bed at the insane hour of 6:15 am.  After brushing my teeth and getting dressed, I left the apartment and headed out to morning minyan (weekday prayer service)—my first of the year.  As I walked down the middle of the empty streets, rocking out to my iPod, I noticed two Haredi men (ultra-Orthodox) walking behind me.  I figured they were probably awake so early for the same reason I was awake so early—to help make a minyan.  We would, of course, not be going to the same place, but our ultimate goals were the same.  I had a friend who needed to recite the Mourner’s Kaddish (an affirmation of belief in G-d after experiencing a loss) for a loved one, and I wanted to ensure that there would be a minyan (a minimum of 10 people required for a Jewish service) so that she would be able to do so. 

When services started, there were 11 women present, and only 9 men.  Had we been davening at a shul which does not count women as part of a minyan, my friend would not have been able to say Kaddish until at least one more man showed up to services, despite there being well over the needed 10 people present.  More traditional synagogues require 10 men in order to conduct services, not 10 people.  But then again, at a congregation that only considers men as worthy of counting in a minyan, my female friend would not have been able to fulfill her obligation of reciting Kaddish and honoring the memory of her loved one, because only men have that obligation. 

By the end of services, there were at least 30 people present; well over the needed number for a minyan.  And even though I wasn’t necessarily needed in order to ensure that my friend could engage in the traditional act of remembering a loved one each year on the anniversary of that person’s death, I felt good about being able to be there for her.  I knew that if everyone had the attitude of “oh, someone else will show up”, then no one would show up.  Requiring 10 people to be present during the recitation of the Kaddish is one of the ways that Jewish tradition reminds us of the importance of community.  During difficult times, like the anniversary of a loved one’s passing, Jews have not only the privilege, but also the obligation, to create a supportive community for each other.

But the issue of language is troubling, as more traditional Jews choose to understand the term “man,” as it is written in the Torah, as exactly a man, while more liberal strains of Judaism understand “man” as a gendered form of “person”, a word for which a gender-neutral option does not exist in Biblical Hebrew (or modern Hebrew for that matter).  The way a person chooses to understand this term has far-reaching implications for the treatment of all members of the Jewish community. 

A man, by virtue of his being a man, counts in a minyan in whatever setting he is praying, regardless of his intentionality, faith, or behavior in that situation.  A woman, on the other hand, could have all the devotion and intentionality in the world, but must seek out specific congregations in order to be considered part of the minyan.  For example, a man, by virtue of his being a man, could walk into any congregation and count in the minyan, even if he refused to wear a tallit (the traditional religious prayer shawl) and spent all of services reading a magazine.  Although he was not really participating in the davening, he was still considered part of it.  A woman, by virtue of her being a woman, may find davening to be spiritually rewarding and may feel that it helps her connect to G-d, but would not be counted in a minyan, regardless of her desire to participate.  Although she intends to participate in the davening, she is not considered an actual part of the community.  Furthermore, if she has chosen to take on the obligation of wearing the tallit each day, she must seek out specific communities in which she is welcome to do so—communities whose validity is often questioned by other, more religious sects of Judaism.

I have already explored, in a previous post, why the language of gender and obligation bothers me, and why I feel it is important for both men and women to have an equal opportunity to participate in mitzvot, so I won’t mention it again.  I will say, however, that it is counter intuitive to the entire idea of prayer (see previous post on self-reflection) when a man with the ability to be spiritually and emotionally present at a minyan chooses to exclude himself by his actions, but is still included as part of the community, while a woman who very much wants to be part of the community, and demonstrates this by attending services, and wearing tallit and teffillin, is excluded by others regardless of her more appropriate state of spiritual and emotional availability.  In my mind, services require the presence of a minyan, not just the existence of one. 

On another note, I also believe that denying the validity of a woman reciting the Kaddish has serious and far-reaching implications for her mental and emotional health, but that is for another post…

Yom HaShoah

Israelis never stop for anything.  They are constantly moving, yelling, pushing you out of the way so they can get to where they are going.  At 10:00am on Yom HaShoah(Holocaust Remembrance Day), a siren wails for one minute, and Israelis stop what they are doing, standing still for the entire time, in remembrance of the victims and in honor of the survivors of the Holocaust. 

At 9:55am on Yom Hashoah, I positioned myself on a balcony that overlooks a busy intersection of Jerusalem in order to witness the memorial for myself.  Many others had the same idea—from parents with little children, to teenage girls at seminary, to older adults for whom the ceremony might have a more personal meaning than it does for me. 

At 9:58am, cars were still honking at each other as they drove through the intersection.

At 9:59am, drivers began opening their car doors, standing beside their cars, in the middle of the road, in anticipation of the siren. 

At 10:00am, the siren sounded.  Traffic stopped.  Any remaining driver or passenger opened his/her door and stood solemnly next to his/her car, in a minute of quite reflection, thought, and prayer.  No one moved.  It was beautiful. 

I cried.

At 10:01am, the siren stopped, and the drivers got back into their cars and continued on their way.  When I finally gathered myself together and began to walk home, I noticed that my fellow observers had already left.  I crossed the street into my neighborhood, and life had resumed as usual, as if nothing had ever happened.  I was a bawling, snotty mess as I walked home, but no one stopped me to see if I was okay.  On any other day, I would not have expected anyone to, but I thought, maybe today… People just looked at me as I walked by, maybe in pity, maybe in empathy, or maybe just because I was wearing shorts and a T-shirt in what is quickly becoming a religious neighborhood.

I have never cried at a Holocaust memorial service before.  Growing up, I read a lot of books written about the Holocaust—memoirs as well as fiction.  When I was 15, I traveled with USY Pilgrimage to Poland, for a grueling and emotional 10 day tour of the ghettos, camps, and mass graves that litter the horizon.  After that, Holocaust museums and services never really affected me in the same way—how could they even compare to what I had seen?  (Which can barely represent the entirety of what actually happened). 

I had entered (and exited) the gas chambers, I had walked along the train tracks, feeling stuck as I tried to leave the Birkenau concentration camp, I had seen the pile of ashes of people who should have been, and I mourned their losses everywhere I went.  Worse than Majdanek, a camp which, it is well known, could be fully functional within 24 hours, were the camps of which nothing more remained than a large field with some bicycle tracks running through them.  For these camps, there is no marker of what once stood there, no proof besides memories and recollection of the atrocities that took place.  Camps like these fuel the fire of Holocaust deniers.  What will the future generations know of what took place here?  How can they possibly begin to understand, when no survivors are left to tell their stories, and all we have are fields of grass?

And how could I, after having seen all of these things at 15, possibly be moved by a museum or a memorial service?   But today I was.  There is something so powerful in the entire sensory experience of what took place today—hearing the siren, seeing life stop for a minute, feeling the way we do when we allow ourselves to really think about what happened.  It’s powerful and overwhelming.

Until today, the Yom Hashoah memorial services I had attended in the United States had always taken place in Hebrew school.  We lit candles, said the Kaddish (the one with the names of the camps inserted in between each word), and sometimes we wore gold stars in solidarity or watched the movie Paperclips.  I had never experienced a memorial on a national level, and if one even exists other than the museums and monuments littered throughout the country, I am unaware of it.  But today I witnessed an entire nation stop for one minute to remember—a memory that lives in the collective conscience of Jews and other persecuted groups not just in Israel, but throughout the world.

This is what it means to be a Jewish State.

This, the act of remembering—as an entire unit, an entire nation—the narrative which tugs at the heart strings of everyone who lives here, the events which directly or indirectly resulted in the formation of this very nation; this is what it means to be a Jewish State.

At 10:36am I finished writing this blog post. 

Each Day is a Gift

There’s a synagogue near our apartment that is well known for its spirited Kabbalat Shabbat service.  The Kabbalat Shabbat service is a collection of psalms sung at sundown Friday evening to welcome in the Sabbath, often represented by the image of a bride.  One of the most popular melodies for the Kabbalat Shabbat service was composed by Shlomo Carlbach.  These tunes are energetic and upbeat, and lend themselves to dancing in the aisles. 

The shul near our apartment is little and unassuming—if you weren’t looking for it, you would walk right by it.  In fact, I had walked by it many times before finally deciding to give services there a try one Friday night.  Although I had arrived early, before services had started, I watched as the women’s section of the synagogue filled up—by the end of services, women were standing in the aisle, from the back of the building all the way to the door in the front.  The little shul came alive that Friday night with a ruach(spirit) I have never seen matched.  The closest thing I can compare it to is perhaps opening ceremonies for International Convention for USY, or a particularly joyous wedding.  Each psalm rang out, loud and spirited, and continued for five to ten minutes as the entire building hummed the melody even after all of the words had been said.  A peek through the mechitzah (divider) revealed the men dancing in circles, arms around each other, banging loudly on a table to keep the beat.

“Why aren’t the women dancing?” my mom asked me.  “Why can’t we have fun too?”

I was actually really enjoying myself, dancing or not, but I could see her point.  Although the women were singing with an unrivaled ruach, their dancing remained on a personal level, each woman bobbing alone at her seat.  And then, one woman, a large smile on her face, grabbed the women sitting near her and began to form a circle, singing, clapping, and dancing to the beat.  Andy would call this woman a Nachshon.  Nachshon was the name of the first man who walked into the Red Sea after the Exodus from Egypt—even before the Sea had parted.  Midrash tells us that it is because of Nachshon’s faith and leadership that the Sea eventually did part.

My mom and I did not dance with the other women that night, but we sang with them and joined in their spirit.

A few months later, I returned to the synagogue with a few friends.  We arrived early—after watching how quickly the little shul filled up last time, I did not want to risk not having a seat.  I was enjoying the upbeat melodies and spirit of the service when one of my friends turned to me and asked “When does the party start?”  (I had promised her a party for Shabbat services).  I was surprised that she had not considered the singing we had done so far a party.

Almost as if on cue, the Nachshon-ette from the last time, who happened to be sitting behind us that week, tapped us on the shoulder and encouraged us to join her and her friends in a circle.  We quickly cleared our chairs for room for a horah.  Slowly but surely, our circle was joined by some of the women around us—we even had the honor of dancing with a woman who would be getting married on Sunday.

“Where else in the world would you sing and dance around chairs on a Friday night?” asked Nachshon-ette.  Her smile radiated throughout the little room and her spirit was infectious.  She truly embodied the joy with which we are encouraged the greet Shabbat, the Sabbath bride.  The evening was beautiful, invigorating, and re-energizing.  After a stressful week of work and obligations, 10 women who I had never met before reminded me to celebrate life, and the joy that each day brings.  To celebrate the good that we are given.

“I couldn’t do this every week,” one of my friends said. “But this week, it was perfect.”

But what if—what if we did do that every week?  That little shul does, and I’m willing to bet Nachshon-ette is there each week, with the same energy and spark.  Better yet, what if we greeted each day the way we greet Shabbat?  Not with a mumbled Modeh Ani, thanking G-d for returning our breaths and souls to our bodies, but with sheer joy and elation.  With a true of feeling of celebration, greeting each new morning as the gift that it is.  What if we literally sang our praise out loud, and danced around the room, putting to use the ruach that was granted to us that morning?  Would Shabbat be any less special?  I don’t think so—each morning we can celebrate on our own, garnering spirit from ourselves and our gratefulness—and each Shabbat we can join together to sing and dance around chairs in a true display of joy and happiness.  What if we greeted each day the way we greet Shabbat?

I’m willing to bet that our days would be more positive and that we would be better people for it.

I don’t know if I’ll see Nachshon-ette again—I suppose I may attend services at that little shul at least once more before I leave Israel—but she’s got the right idea, and I think it’s an idea worth spreading.

Self-Reflection

After many years involved in the Jewish world, I’ve been to my fair share of services.  Some are long, some are short, some are engaging, and some are… well, not.  As the regional vice president for religion and education programming in my high school youth group, I even timed the daily evening service to prove to my region we could do it in less than 10 minutes.  We got it down to eight.

Jews are supposed to pray 3 times a day, but not everyone does (I certainly don’t).  This year, many of the services I choose to attend, or find myself attending, have been completed quickly, almost rote, without much meaning or time to reflect built in.  It’s like we’re saying, “we know we have to do it, so we’ll do the bare minimum and just get it done.”  But services devoid of meaning don’t work for me—I might as well not be praying at all, if I don’t have time to make the service meaningful for myself.

The Hebrew word for praying is a reflexive verb—it’s something we do to ourselves.  I’m beginning to wonder whether we should be praying just to get it over with, or if we should truly be embracing the reflective nature of prayer.  Maybe it’s not that we’re supposed to pray three times a day by reciting the same old formula day in and day out, but maybe we’re supposed to truly check in with ourselves three times a day. 

We should ask ourselves, how am I feeling right now?  What do I need?  What do I want?  What am I thinking about?  I’m beginning to wonder if, instead of reciting prayers three times a day, the idea is to truly check in with ourselves and take time for person reflection three times a day.

We often hear of the benefits of mindfulness—of being in touch with our beliefs and thoughts—and it seems to me that G-d might have been aware of them too.  Many of the Jewish rituals have both physical and spiritual benefits—for example, washing our hands before we eat, and taking a full 25 hours each week to rest.  G-d seems to know what’s good for us.  I’m going to choose to understand praying three times a day not as praising G-d three times a day using words whose meanings have been so worn out by repetition, but instead as the self-reflective verb that it is.  By truly checking in with myself three times a day, I believe I can add meaning and spirituality to every day of my life, even if I’m not attending minyan.

The city we live in...

Recently, a lot of web pages have been surfacing about what to do if you are beginning to fall out of love with the city you live in.  And the truth is, they couldn’t have come at a more perfect time.  I remember seeing a graphic describing culture shock many years ago when I studied abroad in Martinique.  There’s the initial spike of absolute love and fascination with the country and its culture, then a sharp drop where your mind overcorrects and you begin to resent the new place where you are living—eventually the love plateaus and the magic of the new place wears off, becoming the simple ups and downs of everyday life in any culture.

I remember thinking, “that’s ridiculous, it won’t happen to me.”  And I also remember after about two weeks, beginning to resent many of the cultural differences between the United States and Martinique.  Although I recall my time there fondly, and would love to return one day, I remember that when it was time for me to go home, I was ready to go home.

Throughout the year, this blog has been a place for me to share my honest impressions and reflections of my time here.  In keeping this blog, I’ve discovered that I have opinions, thoughts, and things to say about issues that I had previously kept quiet.  And I’ve shared them here, to an extremely supportive and positive readership.  So if I’m going to be honest and share my opinion, the truth is—I’m ready to go home.

Ever since I got here, I’ve heard people repeat the same mantra: “Living in this country is hard.”  But in the beginning of the year, I wasn’t living here—I was exploring, learning, playing, experiencing.  After the High Holidays and a few wrong turns in my search for some paying work, I have fallen into a routine.  Granted, it’s a flexible routine that can easily be changed, manipulated, or overturn, but it’s a routine none the less.  And somewhere between waking up at the same time each day, and doing the same thing each day, I found myself with about two months left of this experience, exhausted, frustrated, and ready to go home.

There are days when I don’t feel like getting out of bed, or when I spend the whole day in my apartment, feeling sick.  I’m frustrated with many aspects of living here—the expenses, the healthcare, the culture of the people around me, the fact that I don’t speak this language.  I’m sick of the clothes I’ve brought with me, and I’m ready to get back home to the clothes I left in the States.  I’ve hit a slump, and Jerusalem, for me, has lost its magic.

Does it mean that I’m wasting my time here, if I’m not doing something new and exciting every day?  I don’t think so.  Andy and I did a lot of exploring in the beginning of the year—and now we, and our wallets, are worn out.  Jerusalem is no longer our playground; it’s our home.  We’re here, yes, to grow, to learn, and to explore, but mostly, we’re here to live.  And that’s what we’re doing.  We’re comfortable in our surroundings and our experiences—instead of being new and exciting, much of Jerusalem is just like any other city I’ve lived in.  A city I live in.  And living here is hard.