I AM A JEW.

I am a Jew.
I strictly follow every rule.
My life is guided by the rules.
I don’t even know the rules.
I rule myself.

I am a Jew.
I clothe myself in modest dress.
My skin is covered more or less.
I choose to clothe, or if to bare.
Who cares what I wear.

I am a Jew.
I strictly guard each bite I take.
I read each label, on food or plate.
I’m kosher at home; it’s enough for me.
I eat the food that I see.

I am a Jew.
I do what I do because I believe it.
It hurts to see others just take it or leave it.
Respect them I must, let them do what they do.
Because, I am a Jew.

© 2012 Laura Ben-David

]]> http://blog.aliyahbook.com/2012/01/29/i-am-a-jew/feed/ 0 http://blog.aliyahbook.com/2012/01/08/if-we-work-together-we-can-get-it-done/ http://blog.aliyahbook.com/2012/01/08/if-we-work-together-we-can-get-it-done/#comments Sun, 08 Jan 2012 08:00:52 +0000 Laura http://blog.aliyahbook.com/?p=511

Disagreements and even clashes over religion is nothing new in Israel. Despite a majority of the citizens being Jewish, the vast differences in observance, culture and even politics have created seemingly infinite subgroups and subcultures including a number of unfortunate societal rifts with religion at their root. Hot button topics vary widely from issues such as army service, women in the public sphere and the power of the Rabbinate, to name but a few.

Unlike Jewish life in the Diaspora, in Israel life IS Jewish. It’s incredible to be a Jew in the Jewish Homeland. But define ‘Jewish Homeland’. Ask five Jews, you’ll get six responses. At least. We’re a colorful lot, we Jews. You can find the color in our hair, our skin, our clothing and our yarmulkes. Often these colors say something about who we are, where in the Diaspora we came from, how we practice – or don’t practice – our religion. It doesn’t have to, but it does anyway. We can wear our colors with pride, shining forth with our heritage and our choices, while graciously welcoming those of our neighbors. We could. Often we do. But sometimes we don’t.

Jewish people are a stubborn lot. Our stubbornness has served us well over the millennia. Enabled us to stay together as a people; held us to our traditions; retained for us our customs; preserved for so many centuries our dream to someday return to our Land. Look where we are today. Whoever heard of such a concept of a nation of people, a religion, a society, dispersed for 2,000 years, then coming together to found a state in their historic Homeland? As if they were long lost family members. Well, they are. A big, spread-out family with a strong, stubborn streak.

All these stubborn Jews, with their different opinions, have come to the melting pot that is Israel. Except, let’s face it, it’s not really a melting pot at all. More like a chulent pot. Yet lately it’s been more like a tempest in a teapot. Instead of ‘live and let live,’ it’s ‘my way is the RIGHT way to live.’ The thing is they can be right. In fact, I’d go so far as to say they ARE right. With the exception of illegal, abusive or anti-social behaviors, how one chooses to express himself is right for him. Full stop. You want to be a secular Jew? Your Judaism is cultural. Or maybe not even. Perhaps you fast on Yom Kippur, maybe you don’t. That’s your choice. It doesn’t work for me, but I would never judge you.  You want to be haredi? Separate men and women to whatever degree you wish, dress extremely modestly even on the hottest days. I admire your total sense of commitment, but it doesn’t work for me. And I would never judge you.

Recently a number of particularly burning issues have percolated to the top. Some issues have to do with lifestyle choices amongst particular sectors of Judaism. Lifestyle choices. We must open our minds and make every effort to be sensitive to the sensitivities and sensibilities of our brethren. Other issues have to do with behavioral aberrations by fringe elements, disguised to blend in with their pious neighbors, whose actions are in the ‘illegal, abusive or anti-social’ category. Put simply, acts of criminals.

We must – MUST – condemn these thuggish actions in the strongest terms, and we must do it with one voice. We can. But we must be able to clearly differentiate between that which is wrong, and that which is simply not one’s cup of tea. Abusing or harassing women is criminal. Choosing to maintain separate spheres of life for men and women in one’s own domain is a lifestyle choice. You may not like either. You may even wish to protest all of it and try to impose your worldly life’s view on a society that is insular by choice. I will tell you, it’s a pointless venture to try and change people, but do it if you must. On a different day; in a different venue; in an entirely different way, than the full-force, no-holds-barred, utter rejection of the ‘illegal, abusive or anti-social’ malevolence that is currently threatening our children, our women, our society, even our standing in the world. Because we can only fight it if we are unified. And we can only be unified if we can accept each other’s differences like the brothers – and sisters – that we are. At least for a few hours.

Originally posted in The Jerusalem Post at Taming a tempest in a teapot

Much more important than size is the material the kippah is made of. After all, what better way to show your allegiance to G-d, than by wearing a kippah made of velvet? I mean of suede? Oops, I really meant of crocheted string.

Obviously these silly distinctions have no bearing on me. I have proudly taught my sons that they should wear the kippah that they like best – that day. And if the next day finds them in the mood for a huge, straight-sided, embroidered Bucharian kippah, so be it. Or if my girls have anything to say on a given day, the boys inevitably have on flat, crocheted discs, or neat, colored suede ones, carefully clipped to their hair.

It was thus to my complete astonishment that I experienced the phone call I had today. In a frantic attempt to find my son a high school, after the one we had planned for fell through, I got the number for a recommended place and called. I introduced myself, told them we live in Neve Daniel and are interested in their school for our son. The principal right away tried to explain to us that this may not be the school for us, and I was baffled as to, A.) Why he would even say this and B.) How could he possibly know anything about my son when all I had done was introduce myself?

Realizing that I wasn’t getting what he was getting at, he presented me with the bottom line: what kind of kippah does your son wear? After all, apparently if anything is telling about someone, it is certainly their kippah. Ah, but he does not know my son. What kind of kippah would you like him to wear? I innocently asked. He is flexible and would wear any kippah you like.

The man was beginning to get exasperated with me. I couldn’t understand why. I finally realized that I had actually called the wrong school. Then it hit me that, so what that I called the wrong school? Why can’t my son who lives in Neve Daniel stick on a big, black kippah, or whatever kind of kippah this school espoused, and be accepted like anyone else?

I hung up the phone feeling unjustly accused of, of what? I didn’t know. Of living in the wrong neighborhood? Of mixing with the wrong people? Of selecting the wrong way of life? No, that wasn’t it at all. I thought about it some more and realized that there was nothing more to it than that we wear the wrong kippahs – and everything that the wearing of wrong kippahs implies.

Upon further thought, I suppose it wasn’t unjust at all. I am guilty as charged. Guilty and proud. Proud that I feel no need to place myself or my family in a box, neither a ‘right’ box nor a ‘left’ box. Proud that while I am unshakably devoted to my religion, I encourage my children to find their comfort zone. And their comfortable kippah. After all, if the kippah fits, wear it.

(Originally published August 2008 in Arutz Sheva and Five Towns Jewish Times)

One morning, fully loaded with a computer bag on one shoulder, a purse on the other, and my variety of can’t-leave-home-without-’em gadgets in my hands, I was heading toward a Jerusalem bus stop for the last leg of my journey to work. I clipped my iPod onto one of my pockets, stuffed the earbuds into my ears, and sauntered up the street to Duran Duran, while browsing my Android phone for any emails that may have come in the past five minutes and that surely couldn’t wait the additional five minutes for me to get to the office.

Almost at my bus stop, I looked up from my phone surprised to see my bus pulling up to the stop just ahead. Never one to miss an opportunity to run like an idiot so that I don’t miss a bus, I dashed forward, clutching my bags close to me, Duran Duran cheering me on with their rousing 80s rhythm. As I pushed forward, almost there, I felt the plug of my earphones disconnect from my iPod. Simon LeBon was rudely silenced, but I was undeterred as I leaped onto the bus just before the mechanical doors pivoted closed behind me. I was thrilled! Another challenging race against a bus with me coming out the victor!

I rummaged through my purse for my bus ticket, presented it to the driver, and gathered up my things to find a place to sit for the short ride. As I began making my way to a seat, I noticed a very religious-looking man seeming to be approaching me with purpose from further back on the bus. If you don’t know Jerusalem well, you may not realize how unusual it is for a haredi man to be approaching a random woman – non-haredi, no less – on a public bus. He was holding something out to me, further perplexing me, as I vaguely wondered if he thought I was someone else. But no. He looked directly at me as he was getting closer and then deliberately handed me the object in his hand, telling me to keep it securely in my pocket. Thoroughly bewildered, I stared at the object in confusion until I realized it was my iPod! There was no doubt about it as I saw the display screen counting down the final seconds of ‘The Reflex,’ playing silently to no one.

How did he get my iPod? Briefly contemplating the ridiculous notion that this man was a magician performing a trick on a rush-hour traffic Jerusalem bus, I realized what must have happened. Since he was approaching me from the back of the bus, the only explanation was that when my iPod came unplugged from the headphones during my mad dash, it had actually come unclipped and fallen onto the sidewalk. This gentleman must have seen me from the bus window when I dropped it, made his own selfless mad dash off the bus to retrieve it, and jumped back on. It was returned to me before I’d even known it was lost. How many people would care so much to make all that effort for a random stranger? I’d like to think many.  In a society perceived to be so religiously polarized as Jerusalem, it is delightfully refreshing to be able to share a kindness that crosses several sectors of society. This is MY Jerusalem. Jerusalem (of the hearts) of gold.

Who says we don’t have seasons? They just follow a unique time-frame. In fact, Gush Etzion winter is so short that before the last leaves have fallen, the first buds of spring have already appeared. In December.

I’m not giving up my hope for snow this year though. Stranger things have happened…

Israel is not, as Goldberg suggests, showing contempt for American Jews. Nor for America or any Americans. The Ministry is simply telling it like it is – take it as you wish. If you’re a Jewish Israeli and you leave Israel, something WILL get lost. Maybe now, maybe next generation, but it will happen. How many of us Americans originate from countries outside of the US? What’s left of THAT culture in our lives? Maybe it wasn’t important to us Jews. But being Jewish is. And being Jewish in Israel is unlike being Jewish in any other country in the world. Yes, including America. So yes, if you are Jewish and you live in Israel you WILL have the ultimate Jewish experience. And if you LEAVE Israel, you WILL lose something. These commercials are putting it out there.

If an Israeli goes to the United States and gets married there, whether he marries a Jew or a non-Jew, the chances of him returning to Israel drops that much further. He becomes that much more anchored to America. That is simply a fact.

Can a Jew celebrate Chanukah in America? Absolutely. But can you prevent your holiday from being overshadowed by the thoroughly national celebration of Christmas? Maybe if you live in a hole.

Goldberg finds it ridiculous that ‘Dafna,’ the girl mourning Israel’s war and terror losses on Israel’s Memorial Day, cannot adequately explain this to her American boyfriend. Come on: Memorial Day in America is about barbecues and shopping. In Israel there is hardly a person here who has not been touched by the losses commemorated on that day. Believe me, ‘the Josh-character’ can NOT relate.

Goldberg indignantly claims one who says ‘a Jew who is concerned about the Jewish future should live in Israel,’ is ‘archaic, and also chutzpadik.’  Archaic? Chutzpadik? I’m sorry, Mr. Goldberg, for being an archaic, chutzpadik Jew. Personally, I believe our chutzpah has served us well over the years. But really, do I have to explain that one? Jewish future in a  Jewish homeland vs. Jewish future in a vastly overwhelmingly non-Jewish country… Tough one.

This is contempt for America? No, it is reality. We love America. Yes, I left, but I love and appreciate everything America stands for and what it has given to several generations of my family. It was my home. But it is not our Home. There is no place in the world that can replace Israel in the heart of the Jewish nation. But if one stays long enough it can replace Israel in one’s soul. Isn’t that worth placing a few ads and commercials?

“Huh?” You’ve got what? I thought, vaguely wondering if it was something communicable…

“Shvushim,” he repeated, as if he were saying a word I could ever hope to say without immediately giving away my immigrant status. “Shavua yeshiva” he added, ever exasperated with my lack of Israeli with-it-ness. Just when I thought I knew it all, my life in Israel has thrown me a ‘new immigrant moment.’ On further assessment it would become clear that this ‘moment’ would actually last a couple of years…

“Aha!” I said as if it were all clear to me now. Shavua yeshiva…Yeshiva week? Nah, that’s Miami in January. Nope, still no clue… “Honey, what exactly is – er – shvus…shvushim and does this require any action on my part?” Busted. Can you fault me if my favorite type of parenting for teens is the parenting that takes place on auto-pilot?

“Not really, Mom.” (Phew!) “In twelfth grade the schools give weeks off here and there for the guys to go check out pre-army yeshivas and programs for next year.”

Pre-army…am I ready for this? Is one ever? “And they call this svush…er…shvusim…uh…?”

“Shvushim! Ah, don’t bother trying to say it, Mom…” he said with a smile.

And so it happens. Bringing a family to Israel is like making Aliyah as many times over as the members of your family number. All the more so if you are the mother, not that I’m sexist. (Alright, maybe I am a bit, but I digress). All of the challenges and struggles, learning a new language, navigating the Israeli school system, learning the Israeli healthcare system by experience – hopefully not too much, new foods, a new culture, new expectations, social challenges – all this is experienced by the new Oleh mother multiplied by the number of children in the family plus the spouse. That’s a lot challenges! Luckily we women are up to the challenge.

Like any challenge, success is so sweetly rewarding. And like any really challenging challenge, success only brings you to the next challenge. So we keep on breaking our teeth at those parent-teacher conferences to advocate for our immigrant children. And we try to loosen up from our sheltered, protected, Old Country lifestyle so that our children will more resemble their Sabra neighbors rather than younger versions of ourselves (that’s a tough one…) We try to ‘get’ things that Israelis do so we can be there for our kids, but often find that we must have been sprayed with Israeli-proofing before we arrived here because some things we just don’t get…

And then, one day, it happens. It may take a year or two, or it may take a decade. But suddenly, somehow, our kids get it. And we still don’t. It is quite transformative, really. It is then that we know why we did it all. The challenges, the struggles; after all, what was the goal if not our children? We make such herculean efforts.  We feel like we are on a treadmill; no matter how far we think we’ve gone, we look around and we’re in the same place. Yet still we keep on. And then that day comes.

I moved to Israel thinking I’d ‘become’ Israeli. I couldn’t have been more wrong. My brain, at 33, was just too old to make such a huge cultural leap. But our children were not too old. They were going to be fluent in Hebrew by Chanukah, indistinguishable from their peers by Pesach. Uh, no. That, too, was a fantasy, created by someone who clearly did not make Aliyah with kids. As each successive Chanukah would come and go, and my pathetic academic Hebrew was still the best in the house, I started to wonder if my kids would ever surpass me. Slowly, slowly they crept up on me. Until with a whoosh! (or, should I say, a shvu”sh?) they left me in the dust. I may not have been ready. When are we ready? But I sure am happy – and proud – to take a seat in the stands and watch my Israeli children take off.

Mere minutes after we’d bought the tickets I was reminded of the reason I don’t buy from offers written in Hebrew: the fine print. Turns out there was a tiny schedule printed on the bottom of the web page indicating the event start time as 3PM on Monday. Who starts events that late? We thought it was odd, but figured we’d just go the 2nd day, but it was ending about noon. What kind of event was this? Then we realized the whole point of the event was to camp overnight. After berating myself for being nitwitted, I tried cancelling altogether until it suddenly dawned on me – why can’t we just camp overnight? Once we got over that hump we started planning for the trip. After all, we weren’t going to miss one of the “most spectacular things in Israel this Sukkot”.

We bought our disposable grill, gathered tents and sleeping bags, and a ridiculous amount of stuff that any ‘real’ camper would scoff at. Luckily we went to a place filled with pseudo-campers like us who were carrying mattresses on their heads and lord-knows-what-else, so no one bothered scoffing at us. One thing we noticed right away were the large signs posted everywhere eagerly welcoming Gilad Shalit home, as he was expected the very next morning.

We entered the site to discover a tent city that puts the recent social action movement to shame. The rules seemed to go something like this: If you see a postage-stamp-sized area of ground, quickly grab it for your tent before someone else does. You know the beautiful prayer, “Ma tovu ohalecha Yaakov (‘How good are your tents, Jacob’)” that extols the modest and discrete way that the early Hebrews’ tents were set up? Well these were not those.

We had a hard time finding a place for ourselves until the kids found a fairly spacious area and began to put our stuff there. A family in the adjacent spot protested, ridiculously attempting to stake their claim to the wide expanse around their tents. We tried to ignore them and go on, unperturbed, setting up our things. Apparently they didn’t find themselves ridiculous at all for they opened up their table on our mat and sat at it to make their point.

Not wanting to make a scene, I was ready to move but my kids were horrified that I would wimp out like that. So I put on my ‘don’t-mess-with-us’ face on, rolled up my sleeves, and started to get into it with them. It got nowhere and may have made it worse. So I switched gears, put on my more natural smiley, ‘we-can-work-out-anything’ face, went on about how we are here all together, celebrating chol hamoed, and can’t we all give a bit for each other? It felt a heck of a lot better on me. And whaddya know? It worked! We moved a bit, they moved a bit, and to be on the safe side we avoided them like the plague the rest of the time…

Not long after dawn the thousands of us who had camped all night for the event were awoken for the main attraction. It was a truly incredible spectacle to see these gorgeous, massive balloons inflate and launch majestically into the perfect morning sky. All the while, the incredible excitement of Gilad Shalit’s imminent release was never far from our minds. In fact, the emcee of the program had one ear to the news and was bringing us updates as he had them. I had tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat when the announcement was made that “soon we will hear the news that Gilad is in Israeli hands!” I looked around at the other spectators. You could see the emotion on people’s faces. We may have come for the show, but certainly the most spectacular event of the morning was to be Gilad coming home.

We stopped in a store for ice cream. There was a wide screen television up on the wall and we caught the first glimpse of Gilad after he was freed. We were mesmerized. We sat down and found patrons and workers alike all crowded around the TV. The owner brought us all a plate of chocolate-covered nuts for free. We were ‘those strangers in the store crowded around the TV’ that you’d see in a movie at a climactic moment. We were living that moment.

It was then that it dawned on me. Here we were, a veritable sea of Israeli humanity, and with all the stupid bickering over camp sites, or pushing to get the best view of the hot air balloons, what was most important was the ‘humanity’ we demonstrate in caring so much about each individual that we would make such an outrageous deal to save one of ours.

As I watched and waited impatiently for every little tidbit of news, for another glimpse of Gilad, anything and everything, I looked around me at the Israelis of every stripe, all united for Gilad. As we all looked at the screen, focused on the most spectacular event in Israel this Sukkot, I felt myself tear up yet again as the emotions bubbled up within me for someone else’s son. Yet they are ALL our sons. That is our humanity. And that is truly spectacular.

Over 1000 of the most despicable people on the planet are about to be released from jail, for one lone Jewish soldier.

Worse than that, say many, these 1000+ can kill and injure many more Jews, both soldiers and civilians.

May we suggest a Sukkot perspective. The words below are based on ideas derived from beautiful words of Torah, heard by “co-incidence” only this week from my Rabbi.

Sukkot is the festival of faith. At the beginning of the winter rainy season we leave the comfort and security of our homes for the Sukkah, a temporary dwelling covered in Schach.

The rickety Schach represents our faith in the protection of the Almighty. We have done Teshuva over the last weeks and now we have come to realize that we cannot change what was, nor can we control the future. As human beings, we are limited to the “now”. We just have to do what is right NOW.

Moreover, the Torah commands us on Sukkot to be “be’simcha”, grateful for the NOW, for the opportunities of the NOW. We must understand that what we have at any given moment is what we need to have. It is what is right for us, what is good for us. As with medical treatment – each person needs a different prescription; if you had someone else’s, it could kill you.

And so to Gilad.

We cannot bring back the Victims of Terror – if only we could!! We feel the acute pain at this time of those left behind.

Right NOW, we now have a mitzva available of Pidyon Shvuyim, of releasing a prisoner, a Mitzva of the highest level. The danger of paying the price we all know.

Or do we?

We know that we can get Gilad back; we don’t know whether any damage will result. That is called ברי ושמא ברי עדיף – where there is a certainty versus a possibility, we choose the certainty. The future – let Him take care of that.

As for the timing….

What is Schach, the essence of Sukkot? According to our Rabbis it is “פסולת גורן ויקב”, the waste material from the silo and the winery: in modern parlance, garbage. We take the garbage and do a mitzva. And not just any Mitzva, but the Mitzva that shows our absolute faith in Him.

Moreover, for Schach to be kosher, the shadow it casts must be greater than the light it allows to enter. The inference for Gilad’s return is clear.

This year on Sukkot, the Jewish people have a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to perform 2 mitzvot with “garbage”; we will cover our Sukkot and we will use “פסולת” as currency to buy back one Jewish soldier.

May the Almighty repay our absolute trust in Him with peace for our people.
May He know that we genuinely believe that what we are doing is the right thing in the HERE & NOW, the only time-frame in which we can operate.
May those whose dear ones were killed or injured by those being released take comfort in the thought that this פסולת that caused so much pain is being elevated לעילוי נשמתם to save a Jewish soul – as if they are saving a whole world.

May he take care of our future because…

“אין לנו על מי להשען ,אלא על אבינו שבשמים”

Chag Sameach