Who Thought This Was A Good Idea?

While out doing some errands, we stopped into a grocery store in a neighborhood in Jerusalem that we often pass on the way home.

This grocery is tucked away. The entrance is off the main road and it is, seemingly, always, always packed.  It's known for low prices and they have a selection of American products that are hard to find elsewhere. People with large families shop here often and they buy household staples in truly majestic quantities. So the checkout lines, and the wait, are unusually long. It's not the kind of place a person would pop into for a loaf of bread or a liter of milk.

We've been to this grocery store a few times, but today I saw something there I've never noticed before. We were ready to check out and I noticed a very short line, with just a few men in it.  I assumed it was an express line, perfect for us because we only had a few items.  Pointing, I joked to my husband, "Hey, here's the guy line."  Then I looked up and saw this sign:

The sign says:
CASHIER FOR MEN ONLY. The public is requested to guard this rule.

Since my husband was with me, I went outside and let him check out by himself.  We got out in record time.

And I am nauseous over it.

Guest Post: Thumbs Up on Simchat Torah

This year, Batzion BenDavid experienced a spiritual, involved and emotionally potent Simchat Torah.  I received permission to share her account of it with you.

A year ago I wrote a frustrated note about my Simchat Torah experience. Since this year was so different, I felt the right thing to do is write about it again.

I had already decided weeks ago that I wouldn't accept a repeat of last year. This year I was going to Yerushalaim in search of a real simchat torah, and ended up bringing my family with me.

In the evening we went to daven with a wonderful kehila called "Ve'ani Tfila". Usually located in Nachlaot (and also known as "Rav Raz's shul"), the kehila rented out a larger space on Usishkin street, close to where we were staying in Rechavya. This is a good time to thank the kehila for providing a service and doing huge hachnasat orchim- they paid for a larger space because they knew so many guests would like to join their special community.

And "special" is really the only name for it. I've never seen so many different types of people in one place, singing together. All types of kippot and mitpachot and skirts (and lack thereof)- it was a wonderful lesson in Ahavat Yisrael.

The announcements before davening were made at the end of the mechitza in a way that both men and women could hear and see the speaker. the "rules" were set- one song nigun per hakafa, and every hakafa was 15-20 minutes. 

The dancing was incredible- so much energy from so many people in a relatively crowded place. Those who know me know that it's definitely out of character for me to dance with people I didn't know at all, but thats exactly what I did on Simchat Torah. At that time and place, t seemed like the most natural thing to do. 

and then, there is the matter of the Sefer Torah. 

The Sfarim were brought out and the women started dancing with them. It was as simple as that. When it was my turn I was overcome by emotion, and something in me was surprised by the simplicity of it- yes, I am allowed to hold the Sefer Torah. Just like that. This whole thing brought tears to my eyes and had my tearing well after I had past the Torah on to someone else. When I thought about it, it almost felt wrong to get so emotional. I mean- my little brother, age 11, held a Sefer Torah. my husband and father and grandfather all did it without it being so emotional. Im not saying emotions are bad- I hope to have such a powerful experience in every future contact I have with a Sefer- but I have a feeling I won't, just as my male family members didn't. because ordinary things aren't emotional. and for men, this is ordinary. for me, for all the women- it wasn't. which was wonderful and upsetting at once- because it made it special, but it highlighted how unfair things are all year around, and more importantly- on simchat torah in most shuls in the country.

so the evening was an incredible experience. but we had a feeling that we weren't prepared for such "Hardcore" Karlibach in the day as well. 

So for the day the family split up, and I went with my mother to Yakar. 

After a beautiful Shacharit we were told that before kidush and hakafot there will be 15 minutes of learning- 

because one must prepare for the mitzva of simchat torah, which includes learning torah. A shiur was held, and for those who prefered otherwise source sheets were passed around on different topics (including "women and sifrei torah"- for all those who doubted that women can hold a Sefer at all times). after learning and a modest kiddush the hakafot began.

And again- the Rabanit of the shul walks over to the mechitza (the most comfortable one I've ever seen, by the way), and takes two sifrei torah. 

And again- so many women, of all ages and backgrounds, are dancing with a lot of energy and yet pretty slowly since the shul can hardly contain all the guests.

Last year I claimed that the dancing isn't as vigorous because there is no Torah in the womens section- no Kallah, so to speak, for us to be "Mesame'ach" and to celebrate. I don't know if I can claim to know what started the chicken-egg issue here: is the dancing more energized because of the sefer torah, or are energetic women drawn to shuls where the opportunity to hold a Sefer is offered? Either way, I think the case for giving women a sefer is made- because these aren't women out to change the orthodox way, they are just women who want to celebrate the wonderful gift of the torah.

after hakafot, a version of aliyot was available for women who were so inclined (a woman read the Parsha and girls were called up to say a יהי רצון, without a bracha) and then the people recommuned for the reading of Zot Habracha and Bereshit and- with the shul completely full with guests- continued to daven musaf and tefilat geshem.

Overall, absolutely the most meaningful Simchat Torah I ever had. not only because I got to reach out and touch the Sefer Torah, but because I experienced the beauty of a diverse, colorful, accepting Judaism. because I danced with absolute strangers, without knowing anybody. Because the communities of Yerushalaim, the holy city, have a message for the rest of the country- don't be afraid to accept more than one type of person. don't be afraid to move forward- cautiously, wisely- but move forward nonetheless. 

כי מציון תצא תורה, ודבר ה' מירושלים.

Feeling Something I Cannot Name

Today was a fine day - relatively quiet at work - a good day to learn new things and plan for the future. My mind was active, exploring new resources and researching new information.

On the way home, the weather was noticeably cooler.  I caught a bus that doesn't take me quite as close as my usual bus, but it was a good day to walk a little, so I didn't mind.  During the ride, I thought about how I often feel the most Israeli when I'm on the bus.

Through the window, I looked around at the somewhat unfamiliar route and thought, for about the bajillionith time, how astonishing it is that I live in Israel now.

With both earbuds in and the volume pretty high, I listened to unfamiliar music by a familiar singer and, I can't say why, I started focusing on her voice.  Just her voice.  It was so breathtakingly beautiful.

As I walked the path home, the sun was setting and Wynonna Judd was singing a sentimental song in my ear about saying goodbye to people we love. And I felt a bit weepy.  Blessed, despite its undeniable frustrations, by the opportunity to live here.  Blessed by the ability to carry myself home on my own two feet.  Blessed by the ability to hear and appreciate music. Blessed by the astonishing scenery that is part of my daily life. Blessed by the weather, which suits me. Blessed by the fact that I have lived long enough to have said goodbye to people I love, but that I was not likely to be asked to do so tonight.

It was completely dark when I arrived home.  No one else was home yet, so I sat on the mirpeset, felt the Jerusalem breeze on my neck, felt my tears well up, concentrated on a few more songs and tried to name what I was feeling.

Focus on the Light

On Tuesday, I sat glued to the Internet, along with most of Israel and many Jews and others from around the world, as I watched what I feared, deep down, might never happen - Gilad Shalit walking away from his Hamas captors, alive and in reasonably good condition after 5 years and 4 months in captivity.  More than 99% of Gaza, an area controlled by Hamas, is Muslim.

On Thursday, Muammar Gaddafi, the former dictator who ruled Libya with a deadly fist since 1969, was killed by opposition forces in Libya. Libya is 97% Muslim.

And on Sunday, a 7.2 magnitude earthquake hit Turkey, killing hundreds and injuring over 1000. So far.  The death toll is expected to rise much higher. Turkey is 99.8% Muslim.

When I heard about the quake in Turkey, I was reminded of two rabbinic voices that warned us to expect such a thing.  


In mid-September, 2011, Rabbi Nir Ben Artzi asserted that, "The leader of Turkey said what he said - and will receive a mighty blow from the Creator!"

The same week, just 6 weeks ago, Rabbi Nachman Kahana wrote these words: "I am waiting to hear a news bulletin that an earthquake of unprecedented force has swallowed up half of Turkey..."

History is speeding up.  Three major events in our region in a single week.

So what do I make of all this?  


In his book The Ishmaelite Exile (which gets more potent each time I read it), Rabbi Yechiel Weitzman writes:

"Bil'am revealed in his final prophecy that the last stage in the process of Israel's perfection will be characterized by the alliance between Ishmael and Esav, an alliance aimed at tormenting the entire world and the Jewish people in particular. This will be followed by the downfall of Ishmael and Esav, a downfall that will usher in the redemption." (p. 143)

Who are Ishmael and Esav today?  Ishmael today are the Muslims.  Esav today are the Western, Christian countries.  Muslims are very busy lately killing each other.  Western countries are suffering from significant economic woes.  And both are being hit by earthquakes and other extreme forms of weather-related disasters.  

We live in a time of extreme darkness, but also of extreme light.  I'm not suggesting that there are no innocent people who are getting caught up in what I believe is Gd's vengeance against the enemies of Israel. Nor am I suggesting that there are not dark times ahead for all of us.


These may both be so.  Nevertheless, I'm choosing to stay  focused on the light.

Simchat Torah Redux

Over Sukkot, my husband and I went to the private home of a venerable rabbinic couple for a meeting. The wife, whose name I can't reveal because I don't have her permission, is around 80 years old.  She was raised in the US and came to Israel as a very young woman, many years before I was born.

I was startled to discover, in her, a worldly, open-minded rebbetzin who, when her husband referred to her an Orthodox feminist responded, "There's nothing wrong with that."

While our husbands talked about rabbi business, she and I spoke about many things - becoming religious as an adult, life in Israel, learning and teaching Torah, the status of women in Judaism and the place of women in shul.

A day or two after we met, she forwarded me a Torah article she thought I would enjoy and offered this private comment on my recent blog post about how difficult Yom Kippur had been for me.

I have long ago come to the conclusion that by and large, Synagogue is not the best place to commune with G-d. But it’s wonderful for socializing. After all it is called a Beth-Knesset, a house of gathering, coming together, which is also the literal meaning of the Greek word Synagogue. And one of the important aspects of Judaism is togetherness – so there you are.

I love how refreshingly unapologetic she is.  It's like she's giving me permission to daven at home and go to shul for the kiddush if that makes me more contented.

Interesting to have had this discussion with her just a few days before Simchat Torah, a day about which so many Orthodox women, myself included, feel conflicted. Last year at this time, I wrote about my complicated relationship with the day.

Even though men sometimes tell me it doesn't actually feel that way, Simchat Torah always looks like an enormous spiritual opportunity to me. So, rather than opt out completely, this year, I tried something different. Very different.

In our neighborhood, there is a women's Simchat Torah celebration.  It's explicitly not a minyan, so it's not a full davening, but it includes many of the traditional elements of Simchat Torah - Hallel, hakafot (circle dances with the Sefer Torah), aliyot and reading from the Sefer Torah, honoring two people with special aliyot, a group aliyah for those too young to get an actual aliyah, prayers for the sick, for those serving in the Israeli army, for the State of Israel and for agunot, the Yiskor prayer for victims of the Holocaust and deceased family members, the prayer for rain, a festive kiddush and more.

Although I don't know how long this group has been getting together, I did know about this option last year. Three main circumstances pushed me to attend this year.  First, I knew I wasn't going back to our regular shul for Simchat Torah.  Second, the group moved to a location much, much closer to me. And third, since making aliyah, I opt, as often as possible, to try new things rather than decline them. In Israel, I often feel rewarded with singular experiences just for showing up.

Since I'm so outspoken about my shul-related angst, a lot of people seemed curious about what I thought of the women's Simchat Torah service.  Here are some of my impressions.

I marveled at the depth and breadth of synagogue skills this group of 75+ women possesses.  I came in just after Hallel, as the hakafot were beginning.  I saw women reading the preamble to each hakafah aloud from a machzor and singing songs that were largely unfamiliar to me.  I saw gabbaot, one even wearing pearls, calling women to the Torah, women making brachot and reading Torah verses, chanting from a Torah scroll, chanting the Haftarah and reading and singing lengthy Hebrew prayers aloud.

Not from today, but you get the idea...

Although I have worked hard to fill the gaps over the years, today was one of those times when I most acutely felt my lack of a proper Jewish education.  Like most of these women, my daughters have been taught tefillah from the time they could walk and talk. My deficit in this area, coupled with the fact that, for so many years, decades even, shul attendance has been an irregular and largely passive experience for me, I felt particularly liturgically inadequate today. I acknowledge, and am not particularly threatened by, the superior synagogue skills of most men.  But when women do liturgical things I cannot do, the feeling that I will always be a bush-league shul Jew comes into sharp relief.

It was fascinating to be so close to the action, to see people rotating on- and off-duty to stand with the Torah, to watch the Sefer Torah being covered and uncovered with reverence, to watch the reader point out the exact place in the scroll from where she would read and to have women touch that place with the Torah's gartle and kiss it.

I was nearly as passive today as I generally am in shul, though this time, it was by choice.  I could have held the Torah while we were dancing. I could have had an aliyah and I could have decided whether or not to recite the brachot before and after. I could have taken the time, in advance of this morning, to learn to chant from the Sefer Torah. If 11 year-old girls and 12 year-old boys can do it, I'm sure it's not beyond my capability. I could have taken the time to memorize and then recite a prayer. I could have called out the names of the sick for whom I daven privately. In a women's service, all these options were open to me.  In the end, I chose to do none of them, but knowing I had the option was, in its way, electrifying.

Truthfully, as I danced with the women who held the Sefer Torah, some of whom held it like a baby, I felt more faux than joy.  Although the organizers did an amazing job coordinating, it was, unavoidably, a make-shift service. I knew about 30% of the women there, and I was acutely aware that this was something other than celebrating with my community. Did I feel Gd's presence there? Honestly, I didn't. Not because He wasn't there. I'm sure the lack is in me.

Having said all that, there were a few moments that touched me very much.

During hakafot, there were lots of little girls around. Much later, when it was time for all the children to stand beneath the tallit, there were only two girls, both pre-Bat Mitzvah age, left in the crowd.  When the women began singing Hamalach Hagoel, I started to cry, remembering the hundreds of nights I put my young daughters to bed with this song.  It's been so many years since I've heard it, but the memory of the funny way we used to pronounce the name Yitzchak made my eyes fill with sentimental tears. Definitely a highlight.  And an unanticipated one, because, as a result of the trauma of my very first Simchat Torah, when the gabbai announced, in Yiddish, that little girls were forbidden from standing under the tallit for Kol HaNe'arim, I have never actually been in shul for it.

Another highlight were the tears of some of the women who took an aliyah, perhaps for the first time in their lives. During the years I was deeply involved with issues of women and Judaism, I remember hearing a well-known older woman report that, after being called to the Torah for an aliyah in a women's service, she was startled to realize that, after a lifetime of being religious, that was the first time she had ever seen the inside of a Sefer Torah.

I know many women don't share this, but I always feel the need to kiss the Sefer Torah. I wasn't sure if the Sefer Torah was going to circulate among the women today.  So after hagbah, after the Sefer Torah was dressed and being held by the magbi'ah, I walked over to where she sat, touched my prayer book  to the Sefer Torah and kissed it. No one told me I wasn't allowed. No one said a word. And I reveled in having that kind of access.

Many years ago, an old friend told me that Gd requires men to gather in a minyan three times a day because, left to their own devices, they are not so good at making friends.

Watching, thinking, processing all that went on today, it's still not clear to me if this is the way Gd expects Jewish women to worship Him. I, myself, don't seem to have been built for communal prayer.

It was so worth it, in the end, to see and experience and admire the spiritual aspirations of committed, knowledgeable Jewish women who are reaching out to Gd in new ways.

Even if those ways are not my own.

The Invisible Jewish Woman

Quick!  Close your eyes and picture a Jew.

For close to 100% of us, the mental image we have will be of a Jewish man.  This despite the dramatic historical advances Jewish women have made in Jewish education, community service and other roles outside the home in the past 100 years.

Back in the Old Country, when I had both discretionary income and wall space, I collected images of Jewish women doing Jewish things.  It was an interesting hobby.  I was able to afford to buy almost everything I saw, because the artwork was so rare.  At the height of my collection, I had maybe a dozen pieces.  They included women baking challah, an old woman with a heavily-lined face, deep in private prayer, women lighting Shabbat candles (the most iconic image of Jewish women) and an unusual painting of a woman, her young son and teenage daughter making havdalah.

I should have held on to more of them, because, if the current trend continues, it may become a crime to produce such works.

There is a trend, certainly in Israel, and possibly in other Jewish communities as well, to eradicate the presence of women, or images of women, from the public eye.

ITEM: Mea She'arim to ban women from certain Jerusalem streets during Sukkot
Out of a self-proclaimed desire to avoid mingling of the genders during public ceremonies related to Sukkot, the men of Mea She'arim have declared that certain streets in their neighborhood, most notably the main drag of Mea She'arim Street, will be off-limits to women. Though blatantly illegal, Shmuel Poppenheim, an unofficial spokesman for the community recently told the Jerusalem Post, "It's not an extreme measure, it's a moderate way of ensuring that the spiritual nature of the Simhat Bet Hashoeva is maintained. There is no need to make a big drama out of it."

ITEM: Last year, a mechitzah was constructed in a public street in Jerusalem to prevent men and women from walking near one another on public streets.

ITEM: The Jerusalem Light Rail produced print ads for certain neighborhoods that explicitly eliminated any images of women.
The Jerusalem Light Rail was trying to be sensitive to the values in certain neighborhoods which prohibit any images of women in ads and other printed materials, so they replaced the image of two women's faces in their safety ads with an image of two men's faces.

ITEM: A major Jewish book publisher had their graphic design team airbrush all the faces of women in their book catalog before it could be inserted in certain Jewish newspapers.

ITEM: Certain Jewish publications, as a matter of editorial policy, will not publish pictures of women, even to the point of digitally-editing news photos.

ITEM: I recently read an ad for a publication looking for a writer which explicitly said that a woman could write the article, but it had to be published in her husband's name. 


ITEM: The issue of Israeli buses which require women to sit in the back of the bus rages on in the courts.  

ITEM: Video and print images of Jews in Israel invariably include exclusively, or at least in the greatest preponderance, images of men - men at the Kotel, men building sukkot, men examining lulavim in the marketplace, men dancing in the streets, men lighting Chanukiot, male soliders, etc.

Of course I recognize that these things men do are captivating, iconic Jewish images.  And yes, I am aware that some women would rather not be pictured, out of a sense of maintaining their own privacy or for fear that men might have a sexually inappropriate reaction to their image.

However, what I see on a regular basis convinces me that this has all gone way beyond reasonable and proceeded deep into extremism.  I am a religious woman who dresses modestly and covers my hair AND it is my strong personal feeling that this trend of making Jewish women invisible has already reached a stage of pathological avoidance. 


There is no way I will ever agree that this sort of behavior brings kedusha. One simply cannot attain holiness at the expense of kavod habriot (the requirement to treat all human beings with dignity).

The Story of Yom Kippur and Me

What would happen if one woman told the truth about her life? 

The world would split open. 

– Muriel Rukeyser

This is a story of a Jewish woman who loves God.  This is the story of a Jewish woman who tries very hard, time after time, to pray in a synagogue and feel God's presence.

This is a true story of Yom Kippur and me.

Many years ago, I developed a discomfort with synagogue attendance.  I rarely attend synagogue without pain.  There are two primary sources of pain for me in the synagogue experience and both are, in essence, all about feeling left out.  

Occasionally, but especially on Yom Kippur, when the prayers are so lengthy and unfamiliar, it pains me when I can't find my place in the machzor.  Today, I was lost for at least 30 pages.  When that happens, I am bereft. On Yom Kippur, I am trying so hard to feel God in the tefillot.  Sometimes my machzor has a different nusach than what's being said.  Sometimes things are skipped that I didn't anticipate.  Sometimes I can't make out the words that are being said or sung or the tune is so unfamiliar that I can't participate.  Whenever I don't know what's going on, I cry.

Sometimes my pain comes from the difference between what is accessible to me as a woman and what I sense is accessible to the men in the same shul.  From where women sit, it's impossible to tell when the aron is open.  I can't see the Torah, unless I walk up to the mechitzah during hagbah and lift the curtain.  In the shul we attend most commonly, a man will carry the Torah to the mechitza, open the mechitza for a few seconds to give women a moment to kiss the Torah.  Only a few do.  Whether it's from personal preference, from early conditioning or from the inconvenience of trying to reach the Sefer Torah or something else altogether, I don't know.  But it always pains me that I am barred from nearly all visual and physical contact with the Sefer Torah.

In the shul we attend most frequently, there is much lively singing.  From over the mechitza, I hear and sense a potent energy.  The men dance around the bima, often several times, in nearly every service. Where I sit, there is mostly quiet.  Women fuss with their young children, or sing quietly to themselves.  Even if they do sing, there aren't enough women's voices to blend as a kahal.  So I sit, overwhelmed by the difference between the prayer experience for men and the one that is available to me as an un-man.
  
Today, at the height of feeling left out, I shouted and shook my fists at God.  "Is this what You want?"  I raged.  "Is this how You want it to be?"  I felt left out.  I am hurt that I don't have the same range of spiritual expressions in shul.  It seems a thousand times harder to connect because I can't rely on the energy of those around me to lift me.

This hurt is very, very old.  Many women, even if they felt something like it in the long ago past, have developed a way to deal with it.  My wound is still fresh.  And I still bleed from it.

Sometimes I think I should have evolved past this stage already. I've been living this life for so long and, although synagogue architecture varies a bit, nothing essential has changed from the very first time I experienced a traditional prayer service, decades ago.  In all this time, I have been unable to transcend this pain.  It never stops wounding me. It never stops making me cry. Shouldn't I be past it already?

But the rest of the time I know that I will never evolve beyond it... because it is fundamentally unfair.  It's unfair that men have visual and physical access to the Sefer Torah and I have none.  It's unfair that men circle dance with one another around the bima as an expression of their bond with one another and with God and that pleasure is denied me.  It's unfair that every single visual cue about what is going on in the service is hidden from me.  It's unfair that, a good percentage of the time, I simply feel left out.

I try, truly I do, to transcend this pain and focus on God.  I close my eyes sometimes.  I consider the immediate area around me to be sacred space and I try to keep my eyes in my machzor and not look around, avoiding distractions. I coach myself that it's only about me and God. I remind myself that most women aren't bothered by these things, for if they are, then an awful lot of women are holding it very close to their chests.

I tell myself that this pain, this tension, is a gift from God.  The very presence of my pain demonstrates how much I care, how much I long for experience of plugging in, connecting to the Divine.  If I didn't care, it wouldn't matter. The absence of the ability to connect in shul certainly wouldn't make me cry.  But it does, again and again.

At the very end of Neila, when I am all but drained from a 25-hour fast, from countless hours of physically taxing prayer, from being tossed about by conflicting emotions, from tears and fleeting joy, we shout seven times, in full voice, "Hashem Hu HaElokim" - God, He is God.  I also shouted, as loud as I could, seven times in full voice, just like everyone else.  And then we sing, "L'shana haba b'Yerushalayim," - next year in Jerusalem.  "L'shana haba b'Yerushalyim habenuyah," - next year in the rebuilt Jerusalem.  I close my eyes and imagine being at the airport, greeting the aliyah flights of everyone I love who still lives in America.

I cry again.  But for the first time all of Yom Kippur, it's a good kind of crying. 

In those final moments, something has been restored. My heart is open. I love God and God loves me.
  
Even if I almost never feel Him in shul. 

Life-Affirming Courage

This may be the first post I've written in a long while that doesn't have anything to do with Israel specifically, but as part of a Rosh Hashana message to family, our cousin sent a link to a powerful video. So far, over 4 million people have seen this video of a talented young man who has overcome extraordinary challenges.  The story it tells makes the spiritual work of the 10 Days of Repentance come to life.

The 8-minute video entertains while illustrating life-affirming courage.  The video is the audition of a young man named Emmanuel Kelly for The X Factor, the Australian version of "American Idol".  Trust me, it's worth the few minutes to watch this one.






Hat tip: E. C. Adler

Feeling Very Elul-ish

For how many years did I go through Elul thinking mostly (only) about the Rosh Hashana meals and the guests?  I have an old friend who used to ask me, as a chag was coming up, what I was doing to prepare.  What new thoughts did I have?  What had I learned?  How was I different?

I didn't always have a satisfactory answer in the past, but if he were to ask me this year, I would have lots to say.  This is our second Elul in Israel and I'm feeling very Elul-ish today.

A different friend introduced me to the music of Yosef Karduner some years ago.  One of his songs, Achat Sh'alti (Tehillim 27:4), has never left me.  And in Elul, when we say this chapter of Tehillim every day, its message resonates even more powerfully within me. There is only one thing to desire - to be close to Hashem.

Though regrettably, I can't remember the source, a short time ago, I heard an inspiring thought that has also taken up residence within.  If the actions we are engaged in bring us closer to God, we should continue them. But if they create or perpetuate distance, we should turn away and do something different.

So I have been trying to do more God-centered things.  Instead of reading novels, or reading novels exclusively, I started learning lengthy commentaries on Sifrei Navi'im.  More often than not, when I want to read, I'll pick up Me'am Loez. In this way, I've already been though about 1000 pages of Yehoshua and Shoftim and am about to start Shmuel Alef.

I've been saying eight specific chapters of Tehillim most days.  These chapters have either been recommended during times of personal and national challenge or have particular significance to me personally.  I've always found it hard, hard, hard to connect to God through liturgy.  Even though I know a good chunk of tefilla is actually Tehillim, I find that a Sefer Tehillim opens my neshama in a way a siddur just doesn't.

I make the effort to go to shul for Kabbalat Shabbat most weeks.  It embarrasses me to admit how desperately disappointed I feel if a certain part of the davening is skipped or sung in an unfamiliar tune that precludes my participation.  But when I am there, welcoming Shabbat, singing with my neighbors, I often enter the zone of transcendence, however fleetingly.

I'm not up to anything close to an hour of hitbodedut, though I admire and aspire to such a spiritual practice, but I'm consciously try to talk to God more during the day.

From an increase in the volume of email I get, I know that what I write is being read. That's very gratifying. Although I write largely for myself, I am also privileged to be in a dialogue with some readers. Sometimes they write to tell me how reading about my journey strengthens them.  Sometimes they write to ask my opinion about their own aliyah dilemmas.  And sometimes they write to tell me I've offended them.

I don't like to hear that I've offended people.  It's never my intention.  And, especially during Elul, as I try to remember to be kinder to others, knowing that I've made someone upset, however inadvertently, hurts me.

Sometimes I think I should just shut up.  Just write cute and uncontroversial "only in Israel" stories and never risk making someone else uncomfortable, angry or offended.

But I know that's not my truth.  I constantly remind myself that I have a message.  I totally understand why my fervent beliefs are distasteful to some and why they make me an easy target for being called judgmental.

This too is the work of Elul.  Should I be quiet and let my fellow Jews, especially the ones I know to be committed to Torah, swirl around in the muck of galut?  Does it bring me closer to God to live my life as I choose and to zip my lip regarding the choices others make, however misguided I believe them to be? Or, and this is the horn on which my dilemma always hangs, do I have a responsibility to sound the alarm?  To attempt to wake the slumbering souls of those for whom I care, whose lives, whose priorities, are so blinded by the darkness of exile that they lash out at me instead of trying to understand my message?

Even as I debate this internally, I know that I'm not going to shut up. The ringing in my own head is just too loud to ignore. Can I refine my approach? I probably should, though I don't know quite how. Can I cease urging my fellows to awaken from the spiritual indolence of life outside of Israel?

I might just as easily stop breathing.

These thoughts distract me from the other, more mundane work I have to do today.  I'm overcome with a visceral feeling, an awareness of my neshama calling attention to itself.

Indeed, I'm feeling very Elul-ish today.

Living with Economic Uncertainty

When we came to Israel on aliyah, I was absolutely mentally and emotionally prepared to make many sacrifices in the material realm - much smaller living quarters, less convenient transportation, more difficult shopping, tighter budgets, harder work for much, much less pay, and on and on.

This morning, as I prepared for Shabbat, I cut my way inexpertly through a whole chicken (which we buy because it's much, much cheaper than buying chicken parts).  I also had to defrost and then hand cut the frozen broccoli for the broccoli quiche because the 10 oz. boxes of chopped broccoli that were a staple on our US shopping list are not available here.  More than half the recipes in my recipe book are defunct now because I can't get the ingredients they require.

The transmission in our 2001 car (our only car, the one that I hardly ever drive because gas is the equivalent of $8/gallon or more) went up on Wednesday without warning and had to be replaced. Not a small expense.

In the US, we were often in a position to save money each month.  We live a much, much simpler material life here and money is,without question, much tighter.

I anticipated that.  Every day that I take two buses to work and two buses home for what would be a 15- minute commute if I drove in a private car, I am aware that we are called upon, in all sorts of ways, both significant and negligible, to sacrifice in the material realm to live here.

I'm probably not like the majority of olim, but I often feel that I would be willing to sacrifice nearly anything to live here. If I were forced to live in America again, I'm convinced I would shrivel up and die, right in the driver's seat of my brand new Toyota or in the living room of my 4-bedroom, 3-bath private home.

Frankly, it's very difficult for me to relate to olim and prospective olim who are drawn to the idea of aliyah but conclude that the material safety and security in America is just too hard to walk away from.

For starters, I believe it's illusory.  Hashem runs the heavenly treasury and can provide for people in Israel just as easily as He can in Indiana.  The material sacrifices I make to live here, I make with love. Ironically, while I'm intellectually aware of our diminished standard of living, I don't generally experience deprivation.

I also believe, as I've written many times before, that the easy material life outside of Israel is coming to an end as the Diaspora shuts down.

I do understand that college students who plan to make aliyah after they "finish their education" think they're making a wise choice, but I believe they are, in the end, choosing material goals over spiritual ones.

I do understand being nervous about making it here.  I do understand that some families have a harder time than others once they arrive.  I do understand that not everyone is willing or able to live in profoundly diminished material circumstances.

Please don't misunderstand.  We live a much simpler material life here, but thanks to Hashem's loving kindness, we are not living in anything remotely resembling poverty.  It's not what it was in America, but it's not the agony of being unable to put food on the table either.  While we do live with economic uncertainty more than ever before, I, like many others who successfully adapt to life here, choose to see it as an opportunity to rely even more on Hashem.

More than anything else, perhaps it is exactly the willingness to live with economic uncertainty that separates those who come, and stay, from the all the rest.

Blind to Spiritual Economies

Once a week, I go to a neighbor and speak with her in Hebrew for an hour.  Since my vocabulary is limited, our conversations have often been less than entirely scintillating.  However, she's a very patient woman and lately, we have tried to share Torah thoughts with one another in what, more-or-less, passes for Hebrew.

My Hebrew tutor is the daughter of Iranian immigrants, married to an American oleh.  Her English is excellent, so if I get stuck, I use the occasional English word to communicate an idea.

I was telling her about an email I received from someone who calls himself, "LOST IN NEW JERSEY".  I don't know his real name, but he is a young married man with two small children under the age of 3.  His neshama knows that he belongs in Israel, but he's afraid to make aliyah primarily because he's worried about how he's going to make a living.  In America, his wife has a job, though he does not. His American rabbis are not encouraging him.  The core of his question is this:


"Does HakbHu really expect me to just pick up move and believe that "don't worry everything will work out fine when I get to Eretz Yisrael"? Can I really expect Hashem to do that for me?"


My answer to him was lengthy and I don't intend to reproduce it here.  But I made one point that bears repeating, especially after what my tutor taught me today.


Unemployment in Israel stands at 5.5%, a figure that is historically low.  By comparison, unemployment in the US is above 9% - close to double.


A lot of American Jews are still operating under an old paradigm.  And this is how my tutor explained it to me (in the name of a Rav, a Mekubal, whose name I didn't quite get):


When the majority of Jews lived in America, Hashem sent a shefa, an overflow, of material blessing to the US.  However, since the majority of Jews now live in Israel, the direction of the flow has shifted. Israel's economy is strong and getting stronger. The economies of the US (and Europe and Russia) are in decline.  One doesn't have to be a Torah Jew to see how clear this is.  Just watch the news.


There was a time when it was a very legitimate question to worry about parnassa, about livelihood, when leaving the US and coming to Israel where material life was, without a doubt, much, much harder.  But now?!  Now it's the opposite.  


Unfortunately, some people are still blinded by the old paradigm.  They are blind to spiritual economies. They can't see that the direction of the bracha has changed.  But from here, it is so clear!


The economy of a country is based on spiritual principles.  Material abundance is received where Hashem sends it down.


The majority of Jews live here now, so we in Eretz Yisrael are benefiting from the bracha being gradually redirected - from America to Israel.  May it grow clearer and clearer to more and more Jews every day.

GUEST POST: From My Mirpesset #7

NOTE FROM BAT ALIYAH: I have long admired Michelle Gordon's lyrical prose about her new life in Israel.  She gave me permission to share her recent Rosh Hashana update, which I do here with great pleasure.

Red, ripe rimonim at Rami Levi

FMM #7: The Season of Pomegranates

I'm falling in love all over again.  It's the first day of school.  The radio plays back-to-school songs, songs about the aleph bet and being the smallest boy in the gan (and also "Don't Know Much About History" for good measure).  From my mirpesset I watch backpack-laden children head down Rehov Brodi towards beit sefer Evelina de Rothschild.  The sky is cloudy, the air cool.  I sip my coffee and feel the tiniest bit of nostalgia for my ulpan days. 

It's the season of ripening pomegranates.  Their delicate crimson petals have long ago dropped, making way for the shiny green fruit, now reddening, their crowns heralding Rosh Hashana.  I love to watch the seasons of the fruit trees - lemons in winter, plums in early summer.  Here in the Garden of Eden.  Chodesh tov, shavua tov, shabbat shalom - these words of greeting are now part of our lives. And our days are indeed tov.

After two years in Israel, life here is both more predictable and yet continually full of new discoveries - we discover new parts of the country with our hiking club, new pearls of wisdom with our Torah teachers, and new slices of life far from the tourist scene.  Such as my friend's high tech workplace in Har Chotzvim with two kosher employee cafeterias - one dairy, one meat - where I feasted on meat kreplach, savory sweet potatoes and lemony radish salad.  Adam and Eve didn't have it this good.   

There are predictable characters - the Bedouin woman squatting outside Mr. Zol in her black embroidered kaftan, selling fresh parsley and mint yelling, "Bo-ee, na-na, bo-ee, na-na, petrozillia giveret"; the macho shuk vendor near Jaffe Rd. shouting a deep gutteral, "Aaaggggvaaaniot shalosh shekel" as if he's got uncontrollable Tourette's syndrome. And  the unpredictable - like the woman cooling her feet in a shop window fish tank, goldfish swimming around her painted toenails...

I have three jobs now and they're mostly in Hebrew.  That is until the end of the day when my foreign language skills disintegrate and I ask a patient to please remove her legs, and another to make an appointment with the picture frame.. (My Russian manicurist tells of once running into the street after a customer who had forgotten to roll his pants legs down, yelling "Sir, sir, take off your pants"). I enjoy my work, my colleagues and the little perks of employment in Israel.  Like getting a gift certificate to the grocery store before Pesach, a bottle of wine for Rosh Hashana and an invitation to my boss's Succah party.  We start our monthly staff meetings with a d'var Torah.  Then we have lunch.  Why?  Because in addition to being the people of the book... we are a people of food.

We are a people of food and Jerusalem is a city of festivals.  We are constantly entertained.  Even when we don't want to be.  The occasional heavy metal beat of a distant summer concert "rocks" us to sleep at night.  But it's not unpleasant.  Songs in the key of life, to quote Stevie Wonder. 

After spending a good part of the summer in the USA I managed to catch Jerusalem's post-Tisha B'Av burst of energy.  In less than two weeks I attended the International Puppet Festival, a Tu B'Av Dance Festival for women in ancient Shilo, the International Arts and Crafts Fair, an evening of Shakespeare in the Park and the Israel Wine Festival - dreamily wandering the gravely paths of the Israel Museum's sculpture garden, sipping Teperberg's bubbly Muscato and re-uniting with old ulpan pals while the evening breeze and the live jazz music wafted around us.  

Sometimes living here feels like being in summer camp, taking an afternoon rest before going out for the evening activity...

My small contribution to the arts in Jerusalem includes having my adult Broadway Jazz dance students, sequined vests and all, perform "Steam Heat" at the Beit Shmuel theater.  I'm preparing lesson plans for the coming year for "One Singular Sensation" (Chorus Line) and "Cool Boy" (West Side Story).  I love choreographing (Marty still runs the other way when I take over the living room and get into my creative zone) and I find it thrilling to watch my students learn a whole new movement vocabulary.  American Jazz music is one of Uncle Sams' best exports and we're taking it to the streets.  Earlier this summer we (Studio 6 students and teachers) entertained an evening crowd of pedestrians at Kikar Zion on Jaffe Road.  

Jaffe Road.  This is perhaps the greatest entertainment of the Summer of 2011 - the new light rail, the rakevet hakala.  Shiny, sleek and gleaming, it glides through the center of town in sharp contrast to the old British Mandate era buildings of Jaffe Road and the eldery shuk shoppers schlepping their wheeled carts filled with chicken, plums, zaatar bread and olives.  The light rail's first few weeks (coinciding with the end-of-summer-what-to-do-with-the-kids period) were free of charge.  Large families piled on, young and old, Jews and Arabs.  As expected, most natives had no concept of letting passengers off the train before they get on.  This train, this new animal is baffling to many.  But no worries, I aim to civilize the uncivilized, one at a time by loudly proclaiming "Slicha!" to train etiquette offenders and explaining proper train manners.  It's a tough job but somebody's got to do it...

We work, we play, we pray.  One of Marty's great joys is attending Kabbalat Shabbat services at Kol Rina synagogue in Nachlaot.  The neighborhood, built over a hundred years ago, is a maze of low buildings of stone and concrete, with water drainage channels in many of the streets, reminiscent of Roman cities.  Walking through Nachlaot is like time-traveling back several centuries.  The synagogue is in a windowless bomb shelter painted pink with wall fans that make a noisy attempt at keeping the air moving.  The davening style: sweaty Carlebach, and standing room only on Friday nights.  Lecha Dodi alone takes about twenty minutes and after that someone says "Letsgo" in English as if it were a new Hebrew word, the chairs are moved back and the energetic dancing and jumping up and down goes on for about ten minutes.   Marty says, "The room is jammed, so to use an engineering term - the energy density is very high."

In the men's section, Jews of many flavors. Turbans and streimels, black velvet hats, fedoras, white caps, black kippot, knitted kippot, a kippah atop rastafarian dreadlocks.  You'll find striped robes, bowling shirts, tie-dyed shirts and jeans.  And Marty in his REI shirt and pants, grinning and soaking up the sheer electricity of the davening, prayers fueled by achdut, brotherhood.

There's no denying that Jerusalem is a city of prayer. Citizens might catch up on their morning davening on the bus, or even in the waiting area of their physical therapy clinic.  Some street names have a holiness to them - each time I take a cab to my job at Rehov Gesher Hachayim in Makor Baruch, I am asking the driver to take me to "the bridge of life in the source of blessing".  Indeed.

With each passing day, month and year I more deeply understand the meaning of "L'heot am chofshee, b'artzenu, eretz tzion, Yerusalayim" - "To be a free people in our own land, the land of Zion, Jerusalem".  As the season of pomegranates leads us toward a new beginning, we wish you a life of abundance, bursting at the seams; a life of fullness, the way a seemingly full glass of pebbles fills even more when water pours in the spaces between the stones.  Shana Tova U'metuka.  M'chakim l'chem.  We are waiting for you.

Love,

Michelle

The Third Jihad

Feeling safe in America?  Forget about roller coasters. Watch The Third Jihad for free online instead. It will shake you up plenty.  It's not even about the Jews.  It's about the existence of radical Islam in America and their very explicit plan to replace Western society with Islamic law. 

Shake Off Your Attachment

Earlier this week, I got an email from someone in America who has hit a snag in aliyah planning.  They are on track to get here soon, but their house hasn't sold and they are beginning to panic. In the somewhat rambling email, the writer wondered aloud if the lack of even one offer on their very desirable home was an indication that Hashem does not want them to leave.  The email asked for tefillot for their successful aliyah and that they get an offer on their house at a very good price very soon. This was my response:


I'm so glad you reached out, because I have a LOT to say on this topic :-)  I hope I'll be able to communicate my thoughts clearly. First, let me review our experience for you from a bit more than a year ago.  We also had a house in a very desirable area. We eventually sold it for tens of thousands less than we might have expected. And we were very grateful.  Frankly, I was prepared to walk away, so strong was my desire to leave. 


Practically speaking, I made a donation to Western Wall Prayers and had a shaliach daven for the sale for 40 days at the Kotel.  We had a contract less than 48 hours after he started.  But I also applied a spiritual perspective to the whole situation. I have been blogging recently about the difference between how things look from chu"l and how they look from here in Eretz haKadosh. I would love to have you read this post. The two points from that blog post I most want to emphasize for your situation are:

that there is a finite, and rapidly diminishing, amount of time in which Jews outside of Israel will be able to make aliyah with dignity.

that we all, Jews the world over, must stop relying on anything (e.g., money, foreign governments, political machinations, military action, nature, etc.) other than Hashem.

I believe that Hashem is purposely collapsing the US economy in order to loosen the hold materialism has on the Jews who remain. I don't believe that the economy will recover. From the perspective of Jewish history, economic recovery will only serve to keep Jews in the US longer and that is counter to the path toward geula. For you and your family, that means that you're sitting on quicksand and the best advice I can give is to cut your losses and get out. 

Years ago, I saw a Holocaust-era movie, and for reasons that only became clear to me recently, one scene stuck in my mind all these years. At this point in the movie, Germany was already under siege and Jews were liquidating everything they could to escape before things got worse. In this scene, a wealthy German Jew was negotiating to sell his big, beautiful house for about 10% of what it had been worth the year before. He took the deal because he needed to raise cash to escape. 

Gd-forbid American Jews should face that situation, though one of my rabbis, Rabbi Nachman Kahana, says that if Jews don't get out soon, they will be lucky (and grateful) to be able leave with their pajamas and toothbrushes in a plastic bag.  I certainly don't have to teach you Jewish history; you know that has happened countless times before. 

Israel has one of the strongest economies in the world right now, and we are promised much more in Sifrei Navi'im. The Shechina has left chu"l. Get what you can and get out. Lower your bar for what you think you need, both to leave and to live here. Liquidate everything you can and buy shelkim while the dollar is still worth something. (Although who knows? We may not need cash in a post-Moshiach world :-) 

 The noose is tightening. People here feel it very strongly. We're thrilled that you're coming soon. Throw away the paradigm you have about what you think your house is worth and rely on Hashem.   

 You asked: Is Hashem trying to tell us to stay, or is this a nisayon about our commitment to the mitzvah of yishuv haaretz? 

For sure it is the latter! Who gets here without nisayonot? No one I know. Financial problems, health problems, problems with kids, housing instability, the list is endless.We have to EARN Eretz Yisrael and it's so hard because it's worth so much. The price tag is high because the merchandise is so valuable.* Do not be fooled by thinking a bit more cash in your pocket will protect you. Only Hashem protects. That's a lesson in emuna especially for our time, as the gates of Jewish history are closing. 

I believe everything I've said to you here in the deepest part of my neshama. You'll see. Hashem will decide what's to be with your house. And in a very short time, you'll be coaching others to cut their losses and come while they can. 

Hashem is calling your family to come Home. Shake off your attachment to your house and what you think it's worth, get on that plane and get here already. 

all the best for a klita kalah, 

Rivkah 

 * Hat tip to Rabbi Moshe Lichtman. This idea comes from his book Eretz Yisrael in the Parashah.

Everyday Life: A Photo Blog

I walk around Israel like a kid in a candy store.  There are Jewish messages embedded everywhere.  Sometimes, my husband sees them first and he points out what he knows will delight me.  Here are some favorite scenes from my everyday life in Israel over the past few weeks.

At Elon Moreh, we were greeted by this homemade sign on our cabin door:
"Welcome Rav Elan and Rivkah.  Shabbat Shalom."

While waiting at the Cellcom service center in Jerusalem,
a mother and daughter passed the time reciting Tehillim (Psalms).

The same day, there was an Arab woman and a haredi girl sitting side-by-side,
also waiting for service at Cellcom.  More evidence that Israel is definitely an apartheid country (kidding!)

 All over Israel, there are displays of small kitchen appliances whose chief marketing ploy is to suggest
 that they are American made. I always find this deeply ironic.

On a frozen drink dispenser at a street festival in Tiveria (Tiberias), there was a bumper sticker that says:
"In every Jew, there is Moshiach."

In Israel, people post Biblical verses outside their homes.  In this case, the words come from
Tehillim 102:14-15  "Rise up. Comfort Zion... Because her servants take pleasure in her stones and love her dust."  Especially apt because the house upon which these words appear was built in the middle of an undeveloped area.

This is the house on which the verses from Tehillim are displayed near the front entrance.
In context, they make a lot more sense.

My favorite!  This one reminds customers in this produce store not to forget to say "In honor of the Holy Sabbath" when selecting fruits and vegetables that will be served on Shabbat.

POSTSCRIPT: After this post was published, comments led to this - one more picture, taken on an Egged bus by fellow blogger SaraK, who shares my proclivity for photographing "only in Israel" images.

"To the soldiers of Israel: Go and return home in peace!  We love you.  From the Nation of Israel."