Yiddish, anyone?

It was not easy growing up speaking Yiddish in the nascent state of Yisrael. The language evoked memories of the Diaspora and its recent tragedy of the Shoah, an experience that has forever changed the Jewish people.

It was my first language, the only one I could communicate through with my grandmother who never spoke Hebrew. It was also the language that drew much mockery, contempt and disdain by many. “That is the language of the Ghetto,” some suggested. “That is the language of those who went like a lamb to the slaughter house, without any resistance,” others yet never hesitated to contribute their two cents. I was called a “vusvus.” (what, what in Yiddish). I was called a “soap” since, after all, Yiddish was the language spoken by those, some of whom were targeted to become soap by the Nazi killing machine.

These condescending remarks, however, never deterred me. They had the opposite effect on me. “I am a daughter of two such ’lambs’,” I always came out in defense of Shoah victims. I saw their existence as a triumph. “It is the language of survivors,” I retorted. “in fact, Yiddish is the culture of survivors.” I was proud to speak it, to hear my grandmother’s Yiddish stories about shtetl life, to sing its songs and to laugh at its humour. “If not for Yiddish and its humour,” my late mother told me on more than one occasion, “I doubt that even those who had come out of the inferno would have. אז מעז הונגעריק זינגט מען אונד אז עס טוט ווי לאכט מען  (When you are hungry, you sing and when you hurt, you laugh) was our motto when we were in the Nazi camps,” she repeatedly told me. I adopted this motto.

Years later, when I lived in Texas, I taught a Yiddish course in one of the synagogues as part of an adult education program. I always started the lesson with a humourous anecdote about life in the shtetl. On one occasion, I had to travel out of town and asked another teacher to cover for me. “Why have you been teaching them only about the wonderful aspects of shtetl life?” she asked me upon my return. ”Why don’t you teach them about the hunger, the poverty, the anti-Semitism?” I did not need time to think of an answer. “That, they can read about in any encyclopedia,” I told her. ”The purpose of my course is to teach them how the Yiddish language and culture helped Jews overcome some of the darkest chapters in our Jewish history. This is what Yiddish is for me, this is what Yiddish was for many, a survival tool.”

Unfortunately, not many are aware that the Yiddish culture which nearly became extinct since so many of its members were brutally eradicated, was also blessed with great writers, poets, philosophers and thinkers. My daughter and I had the honour to have had a glimpse at it when we attended a two month Yiddish course at the University of Vilna, in Lithuania.

Vilna housed one of the largest Ghettos during the early years of WWII. The Ghetto library, full of Yiddish books, was one of its busiest centers. One hundred thousand books, per month, were checked out at one point of its existence. The Yiddish culture was the residents’ sustenance, their elixir and sliver of hope during those difficult years.

So yes, Yiddish it is for me. I still learn it, read it, speak it and sing it. I vowed that as long as I am alive, it will live on with me and through me. My parents taught it to me, I taught it to my daughter and I intend to teach it to my grandchildren. After all, isn’t remembering, keeping our heritage alive one of the tenets of Judaism? Is it not what Exodus 13,8 commands us where it says, “And you shall tell your son. וְהִגַּדְתָּ֣ לְבִנְךָ֔” ?

Russia and Yisrael

Last night I attended a concert of the Red Army Choir. It brought fond memories of an early childhood in Yisrael, memories of a home where the Russian culture was an integral part.

My parents who moved to Yisrael in 1949 were born in Belarus and Lithuania. Russian was one of the languages spoken at my home. We listened to Russian songs and we sang them. I will never forget how at the age of seven, my mother, who was a brilliant singer, taught me “Under Moscow’s Nights” (which I can sing in Russian until this day). I used to sing it on family celebrations such as weddings and Bar-Mitsvahs when I had to reach up to the microphone which was always much taller than me. We also sang Russian songs, in their Hebrew translation, during my youth movement days. Those were happy songs. Those were happy times for me.

Unfortunately, however, Russia does not evoke only doting memories in me.

It was the Russian Gulag where my late grandfather, Ben-Tsion, (after whom I am named) was deported to and where he eventually perished for no crime other than being a wealthy Zionist Jew. His legacy drove me to visit Siberia in my desire to trace his last footsteps. That was a hard experience. There was no comparison between the conditions under which I visited the place and the ones he experienced. I learned about those settings through avidly reading books written by Solzhenitsyn and others, hoping to learn as much as I could about the last phases of his life. I could not even begin to fathom what he had to face in that horrible place.

It was not, though, the only visit I made to Russia. Something drew me to that place, some unexplained call from the unknown and painful parts of my Jewish being - a call to go visit that part of the world. As hard as it might be to admit, I loved every minute I spent there.

I know, some would be quick to point out all the ugly aspects of Russia, its regime, its bloody history of anti-semitism and violation of basic human rights. Despite these, I could not help but be fascinated by its wealth of culture and great contributions, Jewish and other, to world civilization.

Listening to the Red Army Choir with its perfect performance, vocal and visual, triggered a resurgence of my admiration for that culture. I was so proud when I heard the choir chant Hebrew and Yiddish songs, songs of my happy childhood in Eretz Yisrael, songs of a culture that shaped me into who I am. I was dancing in my seat to the sounds of a wonderful amalgamation of my past, present and future.

As the lump was growing in my throat and my eyes were welling up, I could not help but express a silent wish that the coming days will see a growing cultural exchange between our two countries. I was praying for the building of bridges that would melt the political barriers and divisions and help improve the lots of both the Russian and Jewish People.

I hope you will all join me in this vision and in unison say “Amen!”