Gad Asher haLevi A"H

My father died 17 years ago today. In this picture of us together, he was four years younger than I am now. When this picture was taken, we didn't yet know it, but his tragedy had already begun. I have more recent pictures of him, of course, but the later ones are too hard for me to look at. I can see the disease in his eyes. Here, although the symptoms had already begun to surface, he still looked relatively normal.

My entire adult life, until his death 17 years ago, my father suffered from bipolar disorder, more commonly known as manic-depression. Although there is no known cure, some people with this diagnosis can, with long-term treatment, live relatively normal lives.

My father was not one of those people. His mood swings were huge, his depressed periods were prolonged and his manic stages were known to be destructive. When his disease was full-blown, it was not easy to be with him.

This is an understatement.

In the end, he died from pancreatic cancer, just weeks from diagnosis until death.

The last time I saw him, I was 10 weeks postpartum. I flew from Baltimore to Florida with my newborn daughter, today a senior in high school. I laid her down on the bed so my dying father could meet her. She was pink and wriggly; his skin was jaundiced from cancer. The memory of that contrast remains strong. Except for his voice, he was unrecognizable to me. Always a hearty man in life, he lay on what was literally his death bed, his body a fraction of its former self.

Ironically, my father, who was more than once picked up by the police in his manic phases, who spent time in psychiatric wards, heavily medicated and strapped to the bed lest he hurt himself or others, who called me at 3 AM with delusions that he was at the Kotel (which he always called the Wailing Wall) was utterly lucid in the last days of his life. As we sat talking, a Chanukah menorah at the window, I was able to ask him everything I always wanted to know about him and about our family. He sometimes waxed philosophical with me. "Don't be afraid," he advised, "Death is a part of life."

Although his bipolar disorder eclipsed the last decade and more of his life, I always knew, from my earliest childhood, that my father loved me.

Once, long ago, just before a birthday, I spotted an unfamiliar carton in the trunk of our car. My father told me it was a tire. How old was I at the time? Seven, maybe 8 or 9? Knowing my father was in the auto repair business, his answer made perfect sense. But the box actually held a doll house, a fantasy gift for a little girl.

That story is my father to me. He created worlds, for what is a doll house if not another world? Sometimes he did it with words. Sometimes with gifts. He created worlds when he decorated our homes. In the house of my childhood, there was a game room with a built-in wet bar. In our adolescent rec room, we had black-light posters and the special bulbs that made them pop. My sister and I shared a room where everything was matching shades of green and blue. I had already moved to college by then, but I remember a room in another house with an African jungle theme. And I remember the Jewish theme, the symbolism of which I neither understood nor appreciated at the time. My father constantly created other worlds. Perhaps he was always trying to escape the chaos in his mind.

Once, when he visited me in Baltimore after I was already religious, he came to shul on Shabbat morning. Although we sat separately in the small Orthodox shul that was my first spiritual home, I recognized that the men had called him up, as a guest in the congregation, for an aliyah. Gevalt! What did my father know about getting an aliyah? They were going to have to feed him the words of the bracha slowly, one at a time.

I was startled to hear him make the bracha, as loudly, clearly and confidently as if he had just done so the Shabbat before. Walking home later, I asked him how he pulled that off.  "Didn't you know?" he answered with a sly smile, "My bar mitzvah was in an Orthodox shul. It's like riding a bike. You never forget how."

My father was too sick to ever really discuss my return to traditional Judaism, but I have often imagined that, had he been well, he too might have done teshuva and been living as a Torah Jew today. He might even have retired and come to live in Israel near us - me, my husband, children and my brother, his only son.

When I lit the yahrtzeit candle for him last night, I thought of how, when I see him again, he will be well. My father's disease was a force in my life for a very long time. But his love was even stronger.

When I first met my husband, his physical resemblance to my father spooked me. We married in the late afternoon on the 7th day of Chanukah and, though we didn't realize it when we set the date, that night was my father's second yahrtzeit. My brother, sister and I, uncharacteristically together on that date, lit yahrtzeit candles for him in the wedding hall.

Newly divorced with two young children, I met my husband almost 18 months to the day after my father died. Eighteen is a pretty significant number in Judaism. It's the numerical value of the Hebrew word chai, which means life. Once the disease infected his essence, my father could no longer take care of me. But he had a hand in sending me someone else who could. And he sent someone who resembles him, so I wouldn't miss the gift.

Fifteen years later, my husband, who never met my father, and I celebrated our Chanukah wedding anniversary in Jerusalem. I often think that my husband embodies all the best parts of my father, a reflection of what my father might have been, without the calamity that was his disease.

I got the message, Dad. Thanks for looking out for me.

Thank You Hashem

When an awareness dawns, fully formed, we are sometimes blessed enough to perceive it as the Divine gift it is.

When I was a newly-minted religious woman, Hashem sent me an insight about the role of women in Judaism. There is no way this understanding was my own because, at the time, I had precious little Torah knowledge. And, in fact, I came to question it over the years, since I had no source for it.  But I remember exactly where and on what occasion I first said it out loud, in front of some equally recent ba'alot teshuva and a much respected rebbetzin in Baltimore. 

The idea was a simple one: that the way women are treated in normative Orthodox Judaism is not God's original intention. And that someday, things would align again with His original intention.

In 2006, a book came into my field of vision that basically made the same argument, this time deeply sourced in Torah, with 192 endnotes.

The Moon's Lost Light: A Torah Perspective on Women from the Fall of Eve to the Full Redemption by Devorah Heshelis is a book that comforts me every time I feel a twinge arising from being a woman in a traditional Jewish life. I summarized the book and taught its principle points to groups of religious women on two separate occasions over the past year.

The first time was my very first teaching experience since making aliyah. And I left that evening thinking that I will never teach in Israel again.

The ideas in the book, which I believe are original and brilliant and astonishingly comforting, were not well-received. I felt emotional walls going up as we discussed the book. I was told, "We've all dealt with the 'women's issues' decades ago. We've moved on and we don't want to hear about that stuff anymore."

I, who had often received encouraging feedback when teaching adult women for over 20 years, walked away from that experience in shock. I knew my presentation was solid - well-organized,clear and interactive. The only thing I could conclude was that I was not meant to teach in Israel. The very thought devastated me.

I was invited to teach an entirely different text a few months later by a different group of women.  With trepidation, I agreed.  That series of talks turned out to be much more typical of my teaching experiences. So, in thanking them for the invitation, I told this group of women the story of how the last talk had gone horribly wrong and they persuaded me to teach the ideas in the book to them.  That was my second presentation of the ideas in The Moon's Lost Light.

I've read the book a few times, and am in the middle of yet another reading.  This time, it was prompted by meeting the author at a shiur.

There is a woman from Brooklyn named Evelyn Haies who, passionate about the message of Rachel Imenu, bought a building near Kever Rachel and started an organization called Rachel's Children Reclamation Foundation (RCRF).  RCRF sponsors Torah talks in a hall very close to the kever.

Every since my husband spoke there about a year ago, I have been on their mailing list.  When I saw the announcement that the author of The Moon's Lost Light was speaking, I committed to attend. In the book, the section called ABOUT THE AUTHOR says:

Devorah Heshelis is the pen name of a Bais Yaakov graduate who presently resides in the Jerusalem neighborhood of Kiryat Tsanz. In addition to being a wife and mother of eleven children, she has been teaching women Torah for over twenty-five years.

I wanted to meet this woman.

Her talk, entitled "The Essence of the Greek Exile", was fascinating. I took copious notes and came home and excitedly told my husband and one of my daughters the highlights.

But she was even more fascinating to me. Here was a woman who, under normal circumstances, I would never have met. We don't exactly live in the same weltanschauung.  But Torah, and the RCRF, brought us together.

As it happened, I went to the shiur with a friend who volunteered to drive the author to her bus stop in another part of Jerusalem.  So we got to talk more during the car ride and now we have begun a personal email correspondence.

I don't know what lies ahead in our correspondence, but I have already benefited. The whole experience, meeting the author of a book that touched me deeply, learning Torah about exile and redemption in very close proximity to Kever Rachel and beginning a correspondence with a chassidish woman whose life experiences are so different from mine have already been spiritually nourishing.

So I was feeling pretty blessed by the opportunities life in Israel provides when we went to a wedding in Jerusalem a few nights ago. Upon walking into the wedding hall, the first thing we heard was the sound of women singing. It caught my attention because it was loud.  But also because it was so novel. Walking toward the joyful sound, I saw a phalanx of young women, arm-in-arm, singing and dancing in front of the seated bride.

It's common to see this among young men who are friends of the groom's, both in the moments before the chuppah when guests approach to bestow good wishes on the bride and groom and later, at the chuppah, especially if the groom is a yeshiva student or in the army and has a lot of young, energetic male friends.  But in my experience, it's rare, and quite delicious, to see young women do this for their friend, the bride.

And when a couple of hundred Jews sing Im Eshkachech Yerushalayim at a chuppah IN Yerushalayim, my eyes well up.

My heart is full. Thank You Hashem for the many spiritual opportunities, large and small, that nurture my soul. Thank you for the blessing of allowing me to live my life in the Land of Israel.

I Hope You Liked My Country

Thursday night, we drove  to Ben Gurion airport with a family member traveling to the US for a few weeks.  While waiting for her to check her bag, I saw a somewhat raucous group of American college students, joking around while waiting for their turn through security.  They were tossing around kitschy souvenirs from Israel and making jokes about what things cost in shekels.

Since Taglit: Birthright Israel season has begun in Israel, it's not unusual for me to see groups of college students clustered together in touristy places in and around Jerusalem as I go about my daily errands. This time, in the airport, I had such a wildly novel thought.

I know these young people came from a US college campus and just spent 10 days exploring Israel. I know many, if not most of them are Jews with Jewish identities that are still in formation. I know that many of them came to Israel, in large measure, because it was a free trip.

I felt a new level of responsibility for representing Israel.  I felt compelled to go over to them, let them know that our family lives here now, that we are normal people, that we are Israelis, and that we hope that they had a positive experience here and, if there is anything we can do for them, please contact us. I so wanted to go over to them and say, in my American English, "I hope you liked my country."

Did I do it?

No.

But I thought about it.  And in that thought, I realized how much I identify as an Israeli now.

Chanukah in the White House

About five years ago, when we still lived in America and my husband was a synagogue rabbi with a prominent community profile, we were invited to attend the annual Chanukah celebration at the Governor's mansion in Annapolis.  I remember it especially because it fell on the night of our wedding anniversary.  We went to Annapolis and hobnobbed with politicians and leaders of the Jewish community and later, we enjoyed a more private celebration back in Baltimore.

At the Governor's mansion, where a large silver chanukiah was placed on a central table amidst Christmas decorations, kosher food was provided, in a separate room in the back, apart from the main celebration.  And I remember thinking that the whole thing was farcical. Although Chanukah was the theme, it was an entirely politically motivated evening and I was not impressed. I felt as if the government appropriated a private family celebration, dressed it in politics and paraded it in front of the Jewish community to show how "tolerant" and "ecumenical" they were.

I hadn't thought of that experience until yesterday, when I read this article about how the White House kitchen was kashered for the White House Chanukah party. 

The article was all about making the case that, "...watching the distinctly non-Jewish White House kitchen turn itself upside down, wrap itself up, and scour, boil and disinfect itself for a one-time event was to witness a hosting effort of astonishing generosity and thoughtfulness." [Emphasis mine.]


Clearly, a lot of people agree with that point of view. What a nice thing for the White House to do to show how religious tolerance reigns in the US!  How thoughtful to have a Chanukah party in the White House!  How they honored their guests by making the food kosher so those Jews who care about kashrut could eat comfortably!

In his radio show on December 9, conservative talk show host Michael Savage did not have anything positive to say about the event.  He accused the Obama White House of insulting Jews by having a Chanukah party two weeks too early, for lighting all candles in the chanukiah together and for the impromptu joke Obama made about being happy to kiss and hug everyone there,"except for the rabbis with the whiskers." Savage took issue with the rabbis who acted like court Jews, falling all over themselves to prepare the kitchen and attend the celebration.

I posted the New York Times article to Facebook along with this comment:  Having the American rabbi supervising the kashering of the White House refer to the White House as,"the most powerful house of our day," is incredibly disheartening.

Indeed, it hurts me to hear an Orthodox Jew make that kind of comment.  It hurts me to see that some Jews think this sort of event is a good thing.

Why are there Chanukah parties at the White House or the Governor's mansion in the first place? Because America is a Christian country and there is a common perception is that Chanukah is the Jewish Christmas. So already, I'm uncomfortable because, as lovely as Chanukah is, it's hardly the most important holiday in the Jewish calendar as we observe it today. So Chanukah gets raised to a level of significance it doesn't truly have, davka because it's being celebrated in exile, surrounded by Christmas. These celebrations have little to do with the meaning of Chanukah and everything to do with politics. 

This event struck me as particularly distasteful, given the hostility of the current administration to Israel. It reminds me of the status of Jews in Iran today. Ahmadinejad wants to wipe Israel off the map, but Iranian Jews are protected under Iran's constitution. Obama is often named the most anti-Israel president in US history, but American Jews can light the chanukiah and eat kosher latkes at his party.

From my perspective, the whole thing was nothing but a hollow PR event, farcical and vacuous. It gives me a stomach ache that so many Jews went along with it. Happily! Proudly! How polite and respectful of us they are! The feeling that some Jews sold out for a kosher latke hurts my soul.


But even more troubling than all this is the hostile feedback I get every time I mention something about the perspective of American Jews. I am often told, in a nutshell, "leave American Jews alone." Write about all the lovely little moments in Israel and stop judging us.

What I cannot seem to put across to some, no matter how often and in how many different ways I try, is how genuinely pessimistic I am about the future of the American Jewish community and the dangers that lurk there. It's a classic case of shooting the messenger.  

Like at a simcha, I miss having the whole family together here in the Holy Land, enjoying who we are meant to be.  I worry over those of my fellow Jews who clearly demonstrate, by their speech and their behavior, over and over again, that they are much, much too comfortable in galut. I fear that the price they will have to pay for that misguided loyalty will be great.

Who am I but a very simple Jew?  If it hurts me so much that so many refuse to see what God has asked of us and repeatedly reject the chance to come Home and build up Am Yisrael in Eretz Yisrael, I dare not imagine how devastated Hashem must feel.

As The Challah Burns

Largely due to the fact that there was amazing and readily available Rosendorf challah for sale in Baltimore, I only occasionally made challah in America. But for years, I dreamed of making challah in my own kitchen in Israel.  It seemed to tie together so many mitzvot.

After making aliyah, I didn't actually rush into it. Up until a few months ago, we were still buying challot every week. Not surprisingly, challot are even more plentiful, accessible, diverse and delicious here than in Baltimore.

Some months ago, I had an astonishing homemade honey-wheat challah at a friend's one Shabbat and decided to try to duplicate it the next week. Since then, almost every Thursday night, there's challah baking in my kitchen.

As every traditional Jews knows, the mitzvah of challah is actually in removing a symbolic piece of dough, making a bracha and, in the absence of the Beit haMikdash, burning it. During the times I made challah in America, I burned it in the oven, double wrapped it and threw it away with the household trash.  Here, I set it on a gas burner on the stove top.  Once it starts to char, its odor and smoke permeate the house.  If my kids are home, they grouse, "Eew, that stinks!"

A few weeks ago, I watched a serious Jew, a religious woman I know, put the piece of dough on which she had made a bracha into a plastic bag, pour dish soap on it, rendering it inedible, put it in a second bag and throw it away.  No mess.  No smell.

I checked with a posek and found that this is a valid halachic option.

But it doesn't sit quite right with me.  Not because it's not halachic. Historically, I tend toward adopting the more lenient halachic option.  But this one seems a bit too easy to me.

While the charring piece of dough does make for an unpleasant olfactory experience, it reminds me that this is what we have to do because we don't have a Beit HaMikdash with attendant kohanim to actually give the challah to.

To douse it with dish soup and throw it away is a perfectly acceptable option in Jewish law.

It just doesn't feel quite right to me.  Can't say exactly why this practice, above others, makes me so desire authenticity, but I'd like to think it has something to do with the fact that, on every bus trip into Jerusalem, I pass Har HaBayit and silently say the "Yehi Ratzon" for the rebuilding of the Beit HaMikdash.

Donuts and No Dough

Yesterday, my husband and I spent a rare day-off together in Jerusalem, doing errands, but also absorbing the pre-Chanukah atmosphere.  I took lots of pictures of sufganiot (Israeli donuts for Chanukah)

and other signs of Chanukah's arrival in Jerusalem. I intended to write a light-hearted piece to contrast with the seriousness of some of my more recent posts.  Truly I did.

But then an issue keep nudging me from different directions and I thought that maybe this is what I was meant to write about instead.

I spend a lot of time in the geula world - the largely Internet-based world where people think and dream and learn and write about the Ultimate Redemption of the Jewish people and who search for signs of geula in headline news.

Yesterday, there was a whopper. A "Kristalnacht" in Highland Park where five Jewish-owned businesses in Highland Park, NJ had their shop windows smashed.  This followed a few days after the Hillel at Rutgers had a brick thrown through the window.  Most disheartening to me were the comments on the article urging people to, (I'm paraphrasing here) Stop making this sound like another Holocaust. This is America and nothing bad can happen here because our good non-Jewish neighbors will fight with us against this kind of violence.

There are a handful of rabbis who have been exceedingly influential on my thinking, teaching me to wake up and PAY ATTENTION to what's going on in the world, and especially in America. Rabbi Pinchas Winston was the first to teach me the idea that, in whatever Diaspora community we find ourselves, historically, we Jews miss the signs that it's time to move on.  We always stay too long.

Not only do I spend a lot of time thinking of these things, I also correspond with people around the world who are somewhere in the aliyah process.  And lately, I've noticed a trend, a distressing question, a heart-breaking dilemma coming up with ever-increasing frequency.

In a nutshell, the dilemma is, "Okay, I get it now.  I see where all this is headed and I'm ready to pack my bags and move to Israel.  But, there's a huge glitch.  I have no money.  I live paycheck-to-paycheck and I can't afford a plane ticket to Israel let alone an apartment there. Rabbi X is telling us to leave America and I'm ready, but I don't have any savings/haven't worked in months/can barely buy groceries here, etc.  What am I supposed to do now??"

What a sad question. What a harsh test. At this moment, the Jewish Agency considers aliyah from America to be aliyah-by-choice.  How far are we from the point where the Jewish Agency will revise its perspective and define aliyah from America as rescue aliyah? You may think it's far-fetched, but it's not at all difficult for me to envision the Jewish Agency sending in planes to rescue American Jews, setting up temporary housing here and feeding and clothing them until they can build new lives in Israel.

I asked Rabbi Winston what he thinks about this dilemma of people who finally want to leave but find they cannot.  His answer, "The truth? They're stuck, short of a great miracle, and they must work on creating a mini-Eretz Yisroel where they live to remain protected, b"H. This can open doors to aliyah they don't even know about yet, and bitachon and emunah is a must."

What I think that that means, practically speaking, is that people who are stuck in the US due to financial limitations must talk to Hashem and ask for, beg for, help.  I was listening to a shiur earlier this week by Rabbi Lazer Brody, about talking to Hashem and asking for what we need.  He told a story of a student in their yeshiva who went to his rebbe, Rabbi Shalom Arush, for help because he wasn't making enough money to pay rent.  Rav Arush sent him to the field to do six hours of hitbodedut, private, personal prayer.  He came back to Rav Arush shortly after and said that the situation was worse and now he was being kicked out of his apartment. Rav Arush sent him to do six more hours of hitbodedut. Shortly after, he got an inheritance from an aunt and is now living in a paid-off apartment three blocks from the yeshiva.

Rabbi Brody encourages 30 minutes of talking to Hashem and asking him for what we need for 30 days. This is emunah in action.

Short of a miracle, what else can be said?  If you're here already, praise Hashem for your good fortune and say chapter 122 of Tehillim for those who are not yet Home. If you're not here yet but can still afford to come, come now!  And if you're stuck, if you want to come but find your cupboard is bare, pray for God's help.

Hashem has no shortage of dough.

A Natural Progression

I have no actual data to support this, but I do have a long-standing gut feeling that ba'alei teshuva and converts are overrepresented among olim.  In plain English, I have observed that those who chose Jewish observance as adults, either Jews who were born into assimilated families and became religiously observant later in life, or those who were born into non-Jewish families and chose to become observant Jews, make aliyah in greater proportion than they exist in the general Jewish population.

My own experience certainly echoes this.  I was raised in a nominally Jewish household, one that had been tossing off vestiges of traditional Judaism for a few generations.  I always knew I was a Jew, but it meant very little to me. Until it started to mean the world to me.

In a very real sense, my relationship with Israel grew in exactly the same way.  At first, it meant very little to me. Until it started to mean the world to me.

There are many parallels between the processes of becoming religiously observant and making aliyah. When I became religiously observant decades ago, I had to integrate a whole new worldview.  There was a new idiom to master. New customs to learn. A new social circle within which to interact. New ideas to study.  New foods to eat. So many things I had to relearn. And, accompanying the process, the inevitable discomfort of being a newbie. There was so much I didn't know about being a Jew that others seem to understand intuitively.

Making aliyah requires the exact same adjustments. Just last night, my husband and I were taking a walk not far from our house. We ran into a neighbor who was so happy to see us because her car had just died and she wasn't sure what to do. In the Old Country, in the former lifestyle, we knew what to do. As newly observant Jews, and again as olim, we have to figure everything out all over.

In many ways, making aliyah is a natural progression on our Jewish journeys. We have already overturned so much of our lives in the process of  clinging to Torah, to God and to the Jewish people. When we became observant Jews, we reclaimed our connection to the God of Israel, Torat Yisrael and Am Yisrael.  So too, by making aliyah, we have reclaimed our connection to Eretz Yisrael.

Like any deep growth, it ain't easy. But it surely is worth it.

Do I Hate America?

When I write soft, fluffy, feel-good pieces about our new lives in Israel, I often get a heartwarming response.

That feels good.  I like showing people a side of Israel that may differ from their preconceived notions of what Israel is like. I enjoy pointing out the glory of life here and, because I blog, I'm always looking for charming, only-in-Israel stories that might translate well to blog posts or Facebook statuses.

But that's not the only thing I think about, nor the only thing I blog about.

A short time ago, I wrote a series of posts about how the gender issues in Judaism gnaw at me.  One indignant reader wrote a comment about how tiresome she finds my incessant harping about women's issues and, when I didn't approve her comment, she called me a hypocrite and let me know that she will never read another word I write.

Similarly, whenever I write about America from the perspective of one who couldn't wait to leave, I spark strong reactions from Jews who rush, sometimes in the same breath, to both defend America and to attack me.

I've been told that, by not celebrating Thanksgiving, I created a chillul Hashem (a profanation of Gd's name) in the eyes of non-Jews. By not celebrating Thanksgiving even while I was in America, it seems that I spit in the eye of the country that took in the persecuted, downtrodden Jews.  One reader drew an entire psychological profile of me based on the fact that I chose not to celebrate Thanksgiving. From this, the reader concluded that,"...you feel nothing towards it, and feel no obligation whatsoever to express that gratitude together with the rest of the citizenry, in a non-religious, non-sectarian forum."  By virtue of the fact that I didn't celebrate Thanksgiving, s/he asserts, "But to openly state that even when you lived in the US, you felt "nothing" towards the country in the way of appreciation?... Now, imagine the non-Jew who reads that. If that does not border on the chillul hashem, I don't know what does."

Just to be clear, I said no such thing.  What I actually said was, "Thanksgiving may not be a religious holiday, but it's certainly not a Jewish one.  I'm not declaring that it's wrong to celebrate the day. There are certainly worse things a religious Jew can do than celebrate Thanksgiving. But to me, it's totally irrelevant. It's someone else's holiday."

I see, in the accusations of this reader, an unvarnished galut mentality. What is s/he worried about?  That by skipping the turkey and football, I, as a Jew, seem ungrateful to America and that non-Jews might find out and then what will they think?  It's a shanda fur die goyim - something embarrassing to the Jews that non-Jews might see. Shush! They might hear you.


And that, my friends, is why I am so grateful to live in a Jewish country. I don't have to be concerned about accusations of dual loyalty because I have none. My loyalty is singular.


Tzvi Fishman, in his blog, Hollywood to the Holy Land, recently wrote Should a Jew Celebrate Thanksgiving? His take is brilliant and well worth the brief read.  In fact, Tzvi Fishman, who routinely writes about how Jews in America need to wake up and get their priorities clear, recently published a collection of his blog posts. In his true, unapologetic style, the book is titled "From Israel with Love: It's Time for Jews to Come Home"  For 350 pages, he pounds the point that Jews belong in Israel and anyone who tries to make the case otherwise is misreading Torah.


He gets a lot of hate mail.  

To his credit, Tzvi Fishman honors the writers of the hateful talkbacks by suggesting that, in their vociferous defense of America and concomitant attacks on Israel, they are actually playing out a deep attachment to Israel.  It's negative, no doubt, but it's spiritually superior to the wide swath of Jews in America who are utterly indifferent to Israel. 


I also received a different, lengthy personal comment from someone who identifies as American yeshivish: "You may think I'm crazy, but I am very proud to be a Jewish American. (And no, my thinking is not skewed because I live outside of Israel.)... why do you so greatly despise America? You are not here anymore. So why do you (seemingly) constantly comment negatively on things/customs/natural disasters/holidays/etc. pertaining to America? I often become very upset when I see your statuses and hate towards America. I know this country may be dirt to you, but its not for all of us (Jews)."

Since this comment came from someone I know personally, I took a long time to craft my response.  It's slightly edited here, largely because I deleted personal references.  Rereading it, I am pleased at how accurately it reflects what I think, feel and believe:

I don't hate America, but I do feel very, very detached from it.  I never felt like a true-blue American, even when I wasn't yet religious and I never much cared for Thanksgiving either. So when I became religious and had such a rich calendar of celebration and so many expressions of thanks to Hashem, Thanksgiving became pretty irrelevant to me.  I wholly identify as a Jew who came from the Diaspora community of America and I thank Gd every day that I live in Israel now.
 
My Facebook comment was about my confusion over why religious Jews would celebrate a holiday that is not ours, especially after they make aliyah.  It was not a general excoriation of America.
 
Having said that, I see that you are asking for a more complete response, so I'll offer one. You felt free to speak your mind and I respect that. What I appreciate about your challenges to my position is that it shows me that you are still questioning.  You want to believe what you're being taught now and I keep making you uncomfortable.  I think that's very positive.  You're still thinking.  Kol hakavod.
 
You asked if I've ever studied the non-Tzioni version of these issues.  I am well aware of the view that Jews are not obligated to come to Israel until Moshiach arrives and that there are people who feel that, until Eretz Yisrael is guided by Torah leadership, living in Israel is neither compulsory nor even preferred.  I know there are American rabbeim who refer to America as a medina shel chessed and who argue that we are obligated to express hakarat hatov to a country that allows Jews to live with religious freedom.
 
Just as you follow your rabbis, I follow mine.  I believe that the non-Tzioni version of geula, Moshiach, Eretz Yisrael question is dead wrong and, what's more, dangerous for the Jews who cling to the Diaspora at this time in Jewish history. I also find it highly ironic that religious Jews will not move to Israel because the government is a secular one, but they willingly celebrate secular holidays such as Thanksgiving, in someone else's country.  The truth is, I find it offensive that non-Tzioni Jews are loyal to a foreign government and feel that they are not obligated to come and help build the nation that Hashem, in His great mercy, gave back to Am Yisrael after 2000 years.  I find it offensive that non-Tzioni Jews feel that it's okay to wait it out in the relative material comfort of America while the rest of the Jewish people build and die for a country which non-Tzioni Jews plan to show up to after all the hard work has been done.
 
I also believe that, through world events such as extreme weather, economic crashes, social unrest and increasing antisemitism, Hashem is begging the Jewish people to leave the Diaspora. And the non-Tzioni world, encouraged by their rabbis, are deaf, dumb and blind to the call.  Religious people who know Jewish history are still building magnificent Jewish institutions in chutz l'aretz, buying houses there and, in general, behaving as if their future is there rather than here. I believe with all my heart and soul that it is a big, fat historical mistake.  I am hurt, for the kavod of Hashem, that so many of His people are turning their backs on Eretz Yisrael and choosing to dwell in a land that is not ours. Learn a little Eim Habanim Semeichah and you'll see how we've already made that tragic mistake in the past.
 
While there are many, many moments of joy here and I wouldn't want to be anywhere else, life in Israel is not a picnic.  It's hard work and Israel hasn't come close to reaching its potential.  If there were more religious Jews here, the work would go faster. The future of Am Yisrael is here, not in the US or France or any other diaspora community.  So yeah, even while I worry for the safety of the Jews I love in America, it irks me that so many non-Tzioni people choose to sit on the sidelines in America.
 
It may be possible that the resentment I feel towards the pull America has on non-Tzioni Jews who are ignoring Hashem's call comes across as hate. I don't hate America. But I believe that the time has come for Jews to leave, while the gates of Israel are still open and it's still possible to come b'kavod.

It's not fun to receive and read comments that are critical of my views. But, in the end, I find that they help me clarify my message.  And for that I'm thankful.

Maybe I should go grab a turkey sandwich.

No Turkey for Me, Thanks

 

Yes, I know I sound like a curmudgeon. But I seriously don't get the whole  "religious Jews celebrating Thanksgiving" thing. I didn't get it in America and I really, really don't get it in Israel.

This was the Facebook status I posted 18 hours ago. So far, there are 38 comments on my status. My pro-Thanksgiving Facebook friends, a good percentage of whom are religious Jews living here or back in the US, variously argue that Thanksgiving is:

• a holiday lacking religious significance and basically just an excuse to get together with family and friends, watch football and overeat.

• the time to appreciate that America affords religious freedom to Jews.

• an excuse to party with other American ex-pats.

• a national holiday that all Americans can share.

• a great time to get together with non-religious family because religious Jews can drive and cook and are off from work.

It's Thanksgiving in America and today, I went to work in Jerusalem and then came home and put up the challah dough to rise, pretty much like I do every Thursday. Personally, I have zero attachment to Thanksgiving.  I stopped celebrating it a long time ago and I haven't once missed any aspect of it.

The Jewish calendar is so full of special celebrations, and a Jewish life lived well is so full of opportunities to express gratitude multiple times a day, that I personally feel absolutely no need for the ritual.  And if I want turkey and stuffing, I'll make it for Shabbat.

Thanksgiving may not be a religious holiday, but it's certainly not a Jewish one.  I'm not declaring that it's wrong to celebrate the day. There are certainly worse things a religious Jew can do than celebrate Thanksgiving. But to me, it's totally irrelevant. It's someone else's holiday. I would no more make a festive meal for Thanksgiving than for Easter or Kwanzaa or Eid al-Adha.

One comment asked, "Why does aliya have to be all or nothing? First people tell them to make aliya with the assurance that they won't miss anything they have here, then once they do, they criticise them because they speak English too much, or have too many chutz-nik friends, or have a "golus mentality", or want to keep any traditions frum chutz laAretz. I think it should be enough that they made aliya... let them travel the journey at their own pace."

As I said, in recent decades, I didn't celebrate Thanksgiving in America either,so for me, the two things are not connected.  But since the point was raised, I'd like to address it.

I live in Israel and, despite the considerable amount of time I've invested in learning Hebrew, I speak English 98% of the time. I read English books and raise charitable contributions in my community (more than NIS10,000 so far) through the sale of used English books. I have no Israeli friends, except those who also speak English. There are things I still import from the US, either because they are cheaper there or simply not available here. I miss Chinese food, WalMart, the Baltimore County Public Library and free shipping from amazon.com.  

I will always be an American immigrant and my kids, who came as teens, probably will be as well, albeit to a lesser extent. I am completely, totally and unapologetically okay with these realities and I am singularly uninterested in the criticism of anyone who thinks that I am not doing aliyah right.

And there is still no pumpkin pie in my oven today.

 

Blind Anxiety

In Holon, an Israeli city just south of Tel Aviv, I had a most unusual experience this past week.  On the grounds of the Children's Museum in Holon, there is an exhibit officially called "Dialogue in the Dark" but more commonly known as The Blind Museum.

I heard about it from my kids, who both went with school trips.

It's not a simple thing to get in as an individual because you have to go through the experience in groups of 10 and groups with English-speaking guides are less common.  So when I found that the OU Israel Center was organizing a tour for English speakers, I signed up immediately.

The exhibit puts a group of 10 people together in total darkness, led by a blind or visually impaired guide.  For an hour and a half, you have only your white cane, your wits and the assistance of your blind guide to get you through a maze of experiences, including visiting a park, a busy city street, a market and getting on and off a boat.

Our guide, Meir, was a calming presence in anxious moments.  At the beginning of the tour, Meir reminded us that we are all virtually addicted to sight, relying on it nearly to the exclusion of our other senses.

Especially in the beginning, I felt completely vulnerable just stepping forward.  I had no sense of orientation, no way to anticipate what was coming and a general, low-level anxiety about getting though the experience without getting lost or hurt.

Later, it occurred to me that this feeling was familiar.  Being suddenly unable to rely on one's sense of sight is a lot like being an adult olah chadasha and being unable to rely on one's language and one's familiarity with the surrounding culture. 

Frequently, as a new immigrant, I am faced with the need to do things that cause me anxiety.  Not paralyzing, but certainly uncomfortable. So many things are still so new and, because I don't understand the language well enough to be a confident communicator, some days, there is a near-constant hum of disquietude.

This experience, the necessity of frequently facing things that make me uncomfortable, is a truthful part of my klita story.  I didn't know to expect it when we made aliyah. 

To be certain, it's not every day that I feel it. And, as I get used to certain routines, the areas over which I feel a sense of competence increase. For example, I think I'm getting the hang of using the Rav Kav card. 

And tonight, I made cinnamon challah in my Israeli kitchen and they look and smell fabulous. 

So, for today, I've banished my low-level olah anxiety with the mitzvah of challah for Shabbat. In Israel.

And that about captures what my life feels like these days.

Letter By Letter

Back in the Old Country, when I was still a rebbetzin, there was a woman in my husband's congregation who wanted to study for an adult Bat Mitzvah.  She had wanted to do so for many years, but she was paralyzed from beginning because she thought she would have to learn to read Hebrew, and she didn't think she could do that.

I began meeting with her every week.  First I taught her the shape and name of the letter alef - the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet.  Then we went through a Hebrew prayer book and, moving her finger right to left on each line of text, she stopped at every alef she found and said, "alef".

The next week, we added the letter bet.  Then gimel.  Before long, she purchased, and was using, her own large print Tehillim. She would move her finger from right to left on each line of text, calling out the names of the letters she recognized.

I added a new letter or two each week, and at the beginning of each lesson, she would tell me how she had stayed up until the wee hours practicing.  When my husband and I went to Israel for two weeks, rather than missing any time, she asked me to teach her four letters before we left. And while we were gone, she practiced like a demon.

In time, very gradually, she learned the names of every letter in the Hebrew alphabet and, in her way, could "read" any Hebrew text.  She often exclaimed how things in the shul were opening up for her. She could distinguish letters on the yahrtzeit plaques, in the prayer book and on the aron kodesh. I had her "read" the chapters of Tehillim that Jews around the world were saying for the safety of Israel.  She always used to tell me that, in her next life, she would be born a sabra.

When we studied together, she was 80 years old.

After she mastered the letters, we tried to move on to vowels, but I could see that it was too much for her.  Instead, I taught her to recognize the shapes of a few common Hebrew words - shalom, Israel and the two ways that God's name most often appears in print.  By then, she could "read" her text, letter-by-letter. And when she got to one of the names of Hashem, she would stop her finger, point, and say, "Hashem!" and look up at me with a huge smile.

It was a rare privilege to teach and know a person who, though lacking formal Jewish education, possesses a neshama that is so wide open.

Sally, you are still my Jewish hero.

Little Tiny Moments of Joy

Periodically, I have little tiny moments of joy here in Israel.  They aren't necessarily big enough to blog about, so I usually dash off a line or two and update my Facebook status. I thought it would be fun to knit a bunch of these tiny little moments of joy together.

What follows are the 30 or so most recent nuggets, starting in early July, when we celebrated our first aliyahversary, and ending with the one I wrote just last night.

Today is our very first aliyahversary. We have been blessed with so many brachot during our first year in Israel. I have learned to accept, with emuna, the challenges that Hashem sends to me personally. Living here strengthens my awareness that the Master of the World is always looking out for me, even when it feels like maybe He's a bit distracted.

Shop Wednesday. Cook Thursday. Play Friday. Just realized how much better this system is.

One of the biggest thrills of making aliyah is hearing about newer olim who are coming to join the family.

The Google home screen has big red hearts where the "oo" goes. Is Google aware that it's Tu b'Av, the Jewish Day of Love?

Just had a young Israeli man deliver a contract for me to sign. I asked if he wanted something to drink. Before drinking, he took a piece of paper from the contract, held it over his head and made a bracha. Man, I love this place!

Attended a beautiful outdoor Jewish wedding ceremony last night, high in the hills overlooking Jerusalem. Warm breezes. Great music. How did I get so lucky to have such an authentic Jewish experience?

I love Fridays in Israel. My daughters and I alternate cooking. My husband goes out to the makolet to pick up the ingredients we forgot and later, he sweeps and mops. Quality family time :-)

A year ago this week, I started the 5-month long intensive ulpan (conversational Hebrew class) for new immigrants. On the bus this morning, it occurred to me that the reality is, I can learn Hebrew. Just a lot slower than I would like.

So holy is the produce grown in Israel that, after I eat Israeli grapes, I make the after blessing with different wording than what I used to say in America. Same for olives, dates, figs, pomegranate and wine.

On Friday, while preparing for Shabbat, I spilled very, very hot zucchini soup on my arm. Every day, the burn it looks a little better and I marvel at the fact that Hashem made it possible for skin to heal itself.

Fun with Hebrew: I texted my Hebrew tutor about setting up our next meeting and she texted back כן בעזה. I was confused. We should meet in Gaza?! What she meant was, "Yes, B'ezrat Hashem," meaning, "Yes, with Gd's help."

‎9/11 changed my life. I was in Baltimore and didn't witness it firsthand. But on that day, I heard Hashem tell me it was time to make aliyah. In a moment, my whole perspective on the issue shifted

Today, I shopped for a new wallet, in Hebrew, all by myself. I am inordinately proud of myself.

On my way home from work, I saw my bus already at the stop from across the street. Crossing the street, I said, "Hashem, if You want me to make that bus, you're gonna have to hold it for me." Not only did I make it onto the bus just before it pulled away, but my daughter was on that exact bus. She gave me her seat and she stood the whole time while we planned our Shabbat menus.

In the mornings, as I stand in my kitchen packing lunch, I see and hear men walking to and from shul, children leaving for school, neighbors tossing their recycling, city buses passing by and, you know, life.

My brother just texted me: "Rain in jlem... G-d loves us." How can I not love this life?!

My new mantra: "Thank you, Hashem."

Every day on my way to work, I think of how much I love being amidst the bustle of a Jerusalem morning with somewhere familiar to go.

Yesterday, I saw a sign in Hebrew that seemed important to understand. At first, my eyes glazed over and I was tempted to ignore it, but I gave it a try. To my surprise, certain words were clear. I understood it was an announcement of a ruling in Jewish law. I understood that something was being forbidden but I didn't understand exactly what it was. So, in a few simple Hebrew sentences, I explained to someone working there that I needed help understanding the sign. She didn't speak any English, but she understood what I needed and called a bilingual friend to explain it to me in English. Epic success!

As I was getting off the bus just now, my bare-headed bus driver said to me, "Gmar chatima tova." Man, I love this place!

I just returned a library book that was 22 days late. The fine? Wiped out because of where we are in the Jewish calendar. There's no place like Home!

STOLEN FROM AVIVA ADLER (no relation): My biggest "WOW! I'm in ISRAEL!" moment so far (I arrived Rosh Chodesh Elul) is the radio announcer on the classical music station who announces the SHEMA every morning just before 6:00 a.m., and who, erev Yom Kippur,
wished all his listeners a Gmar Chatima Tova!

STOLEN FROM SHIRA YASHIN: My son knew a rabbi who was in a bank, and when he went to leave, the guard stopped him and said he couldn't leave. He turned around and saw that they were gathering a minyan for mincha, so he went and joined them.

An ad in the Jerusalem Post for the Land Rover features five recommended mountain sites in Israel where the Land Rover can take you to help you appreciate beauty of Eretz Yisrael.

I put my Uggs on for the first time this season so I could sit more comfortably in the sukkah. Feels Shehecheyanu worthy.

In my dream last night, I ordered a cab to take two women from our apartment to the local mall - in grammatically correct Hebrew.

I am not naive. I know how complex and untenable the options were. I understand the perspective of those who think we made a deal with the devil. But in the end, I feel proud - proud of the values of my country, proud of my Prime Minister and so, so grateful to Gd that I got to experience this day as an Israeli.

Today, as we were leaving the pharmacy, a young clerk handed us a box of Trident Tropical Pineapple gum from her basket of goodies and wished us a Chag Sameach. This moment of integrated Jewish life was brought to you by aliyah.

Just started raining in Jerusalem! Is there a bracha for this?

Reason #86,367,851 that I'm grateful to live in Israel: The Baltimore Jewish Times cover story this week asks, "Is celebrating Halloween kosher?"

This morning, I told my Hebrew tutor a short dvar Torah in Hebrew. I didn't know she was going to ask me to do that, so I wasn't prepared, but I did it anyway. Amazingly, she seems to have understood what I think I said. Somedays, I think I might eventually tame this beast. Other days, not so much.

Getting a seat on a crowded bus - just one small pleasure of life in Jerusalem.

I just opened a box of Israeli-made sandwich bags. On the box, in plain English, it said, "Produced without fear of Desecration of the Sabbath."

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.