A Conflict of Loyalty

Years ago, when I first became an American citizen, I had to take the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag. I remember how disturbed I was then when the thought of “What if the U.S. and Yisrael ever enter a political conflict,” occurred to me. I decided to push that thought away as far as possible into the creases of my sub consciousness.

Fortunately, it laid dormant for a long time until several years ago.

Comically enough, though, it was not so much the actions of America or the U.S.  government and its policies vis-a-vis Israel, Medinat Yisrael that served as the catalyst or the wake-up element for its disturbing resurgence. Rather, it is the American Jewish community that has brought that troubling thought of conflict of loyalty back into life.

As many here know, I care about my fellow Jews, first and foremost, wherever they are but I can only speak about those who live in the US. I have been following the American Jewish community for many years, first as one of its members and later as an outsider who had strong connections to it through family and friends. I was unhappy with the way those ties unfolded themselves to me.

I initially saw some cracks in Jewish unity and loyalty to our Jewish culture and heritage when I worked as a Hebrew and Sunday School teacher at one of the northern California synagogues. As part of my duties, I instructed a course entitled “Jewish customs and traditions.”

One day, I decided to dedicate the lesson to “Jewish Contributions to World Civilization.” Listing all the achievements and major contributions of Jews to the world was a good way, I felt, to start as I was hoping to instill great pride in young American Jews. “So, you see,” I concluded, “Jews have given many gifts to the world.”

“And so have Catholics,” answered one very outspoken student.

I was taken back by that response. “That is true,” I did not hesitate to say. I chose my words very carefully as I was trying to decipher the reason behind this unexpected comeback. “Of course, Catholics have contributed much to world civilization,” I continued, “but this is a Jewish class in a synagogue. “ I could feel my blood temperature rising. “Let Catholics discuss and teach their contributions to the world in their churches, in their Sunday schools. Do you think they bother to discuss the gifts of the Jews in their Sunday schools?” I calmly said, still trying to control myself.

I was proud. I was even more proud when I walked uprightly into the Rabbi’s office to meet with some angry parents.  Though I knew I had a job to keep, I was ready to face them and defend my position.

“We teach our children to be universal,” the head of the PTA started.”

I did not linger with my response. “How can we and our children be supporting the contributions of others if we are ignorant of our own?” I challenged them. “Dear Rabbi,” I said as I turned to face him, “you lost your eye as you were walking alongside Dr. Martin Luther King in Montgomery Alabama when you joined their fight for civil rights. Where are you and your loyalty to our people when they need the support for their rights to educate their youth to be proud of their heritage? How can we support the good fight of others when ours is still raging?” He smiled and ,lowered his eyes.

That was forty years ago. Little seems to have changed.  Now, as then, some of our Jews feel the need to fight the battles of others while neglecting the future of their own. Moreover, that support, on more than one occasion, is done while sacrificing our own on the altars of justice and universality.  

Why are Jews so keen to be like everyone? When will our fellow Jews realize that their loyalty should be primarily to Jews and Judaism, our heritage and our essence? After all, are not these values the ones that have kept us going for over two millennia? So why are we struggling so hard to, seek approval and recognition? Should the world not love us and be grateful to us for some of our gifts, ones that we shared so readily with it?  Why are Jews so eagerly  willing to give slices of our own in return for that approval, for that love, for being accepted and supported? Why are some of us so ready to betray the memory of those who died while protecting those values? What will it take for our fellow Jews to understand that we are not like everyone else, that we cannot be like other nations?  

We cannot, not because we are better, not because we are worse but because we are different.

A free People is a People free of conflict. As long as the internal conflict of loyalty in Judaism continues, we will never be free. We may well have physically left the Diaspora but the Diaspora, as it seems, has not yet left our souls.

Shabbat Shalom.

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” ?

Yizkor

                                                                             
                                                                              

Yizkor is the Hebrew word associated with the command to remember (זכור).

Am Yisrael has a long memory. Am Yisrael needs its long memory for memory is synonymous with its history. It is one of the pillars of its foundation.

Last week Jews were commemorating the holy day of Yom Kippur. Part of its services include the  “Yizkor” prayer which is dedicated to the memory of all who have passed away in the history of Am Yisrael. During that prayer we remember our parents, relatives and friends who are no longer with us. We remember all Jews who died through history, those who died in fire, those who expired during torture for remaining loyal to their heritage, and those who died during efforts to forcefully convert them. We also remember those who perished in the Shoa, all the women, the children and all the innocent victims. We remember our brave soldiers, all of the Israeli soldiers who died in the defense of our Jewish Homeland.

The decree to remember not only laces through the Yiskor prayer. Yom Kippur services are sodden with the recurring reminder of our forefathers, Avraham Yitzchak and Yaakov and foremothers, Sarah, Rivkah, Rachel and Leah. The machzor (High Holiday Prayer book) repeatedly refers to our duty to fulfill our obligations in their, and through them, our, unbreakable covenant with G-d.

Yom Kippur, however, is not the only time during the Jewish year in which we are commanded to remember.  During Passover, we are told not only to remember but also to remind others, to educate others about our history. “You should tell your Son (והגדת לבנך),” the Passover Hagaddah directs us. We are commanded to share the story of the Exodus from Egypt.

Likewise, we are commanded to circumcise our sons so that they bear on their flesh the constant reminder of the Eternal Covenant G-d made with Avraham. In the Ten Commandments, we are commanded to remember the Shabbat and keep it Holy. Shabbat is the sign and reminder of the Covenant G-d made with Am Yisrael at Mount Sinai. 

It is not only the good, though, that Am Yisrael, is instructed to remember. "זכור את אשר עשה לך עמלק בדרך בצאתכם ממצרים"  (“Remember what Amalek did to you when you came out of Egypt.”) Deuteronomy 25;17 is an important tenet in the history of Am Yisrael, a principle of which we are reminded a few times in our Tanach. We remember the destruction of our Temples, of our cities and of our Land. We remember our various exiles, the pain we incurred, the suffering and the pledge to return to our Homeland. We remember our saddest moments as a nation at the peak of our joy, and continue to pledge our loyalty to our Jewish collective memory as we unanimously and solidly repeat, “Never Again!”

Last but not least, Am Yisrael will never forget those who have been kind to it throughout history. We remember those who saved us and truly and sincerely advocated for us. Remember the story of the spies that Moses sent to tour the Land before conquering it? We only remember the names of two of them, Calev Ben Yefuneh and Yehoshua Bin Nun. Why? Because these were the only two spies who spoke favorably about the Land. They are the ones who entered the annals of history because of their advocacy for Eretz Yisrael.

We also auspiciously remember those who were kind to the Jews during some of our hardest and most horrific periods. All one has to do is go to Yad Vashem and see the Avenue of the Righteous to realize that.

Yizkor, the act, the practice, is the key to ensuring that past mistakes are not repeated, provided that the proper lessons are learned and internalized. Let us hope that in the coming year Am Yisrasel in particular, and the world in general, will re-read its memory book and save our children  from the need to relive some of the sad episodes of our joint past eras.

Shana Tova and Chag Sameach

How far will we go to be loved?

                                                                                 

Don’t you just love it when after sixty seven years of not merely existence but of growth, thriving and great contributions to world civilization, the legitimacy of Israel, the Jewish state, is still a subject open for debate?

Let me ask you this, would you still dispute that the earth is round? Would you still debate that the it goes around the sun, or would you sink back into the dark ages of human development and question these issues? Why is it that despite historical, legal and political facts and truths, some people still feel a need to question and craft narratives when it comes to Israel, a sovereign nation that was re-established, first and foremost, by virtue of its own historical, religious, and natural rights  that was also later acknowledged by the international community?

Furthermore, why, despite the ingrained basic tenet of democratic societies where one remains innocent until proven guilty, do some Israelis and Jews rush to breast beatings and admit guilt or wrongdoing?

But above all, have you ever asked yourself why is it that Jews and Israelis are among the leaders of such debates, the first to issue immediate and uncalled for admission of guilt and the spearheads of such smear campaigns? What happened to the people described in Numbers 23:9 : "הן עם לבדד ישכן ובגוים לא יתחשב" (A People that is secluded and does not consider what the other nations think), I keep asking myself.

I always come back to the same answer. It has haunted me for many years. Whether we like it or not, two thousand years of Diaspora are, in my view, part of the roots of that. I would venture to say that this flawed characteristic of some part of our Israeli society is one symptom of it. Living at the mercy of others for so long, being a plaything in their hands, leaving their lands when they ordered us to and coming back to them when they needed us and lured us with promises only to eventually be kicked out of them again would shape the low self image for the sturdiest and the mightiest. Always being defined and redefined by others and mostly in a non-favorable demeanor predisposes the eventual fragile texture of the fabric of one’s collective sub consciousness both on individual and communal levels.

Members of a nation who have an ongoing dialogue with G-d, a dialogue where the main questions are: “Why me?” “Why us?” “Where is G-d now?” or “where was He then?” are bound to engage in polemics surrounding their self worth regardless of whether those that engage in it believe in G-d or not. It is already part of their national, cultural and ethnic genetic blueprint. Surely, logic dictates, if we are hated so much, despised so much, the reason must be within us. This, unfortunately, is the prevalent attitude among many Jews especially the “bleeding hearts” kind. After all, is it possible that so many could be wrong and Jews and Israelis, a tiny albeit a bright spec among the families of the earth, are the righteous ones?

Hence, the “We sinned” syndrome. “We did it!” “We are the guilty party!” “We are the illegitimate state!” “We are the invader!” “We are not like them!” “Go ahead, debate our existence,” “Question our desire to survive and our means to defend ourselves.” “After all, we are still your raggedy toy, so throw us, tear us apart and continue to do with us as you wish.”

Now world, will you please love us?