GUEST POST: From My Mirpesset #9 - Sweet and Ripe, June 2013

I step out into the early morning, before the sun peeks over the rooftops and washes my salon it its brilliance. The plums are ripe and dangling over my mirpesset, the tree reminds me of a childhood book illustration - the sugar plum tree always held fascination.  Ripe fruit for the picking, like life's opportunities, will shrivel on the branch if not enjoyed at the right time.  I fill my bowl.  I will share these with my neighbor, my shabbat host, I will cook plum chicken and let the purply juice sweeten the sauce.  I will taste the sweetness of life and dance like a sugar plum fairy.

Summer is here and up the street in Bustan Brodi the ripening pomegranates hang covered with bakery bags for protection, like some sort of bizarre cheese danish tree.  

How did it get to be summer so fast?  Spring was a blur of apartment hunting activities, days bookended with internet searches, peppered with realtors and punctuated with architects and building engineers.  I barely remember Pesach and spent lots of time looking up while walking down streets - for the perfect mirpesset to buy, an inviting building, a peaceful setting.  After ten weeks of intensity, a deal was made but fell through at the last minute.  Now wiser and far more educated about the whole process, I look forward to resuming the search in the fall.  It's a whole new way to tour the neighborhood - from the inside out.

It was our fourth year of aliyah, but a year of many firsts.  My first time appearing in billboard advertisements on Emek Refa'im, a total surprise after the August photo shoot with fellow teachers and Studio 6 students.  What a surprise to cross Tzomet Oranim one day a few weeks later and look up to see myself smiling down at me, character shoes and all.

 

Michelle is the second from the left, holding a sign.

 

Our first election, voting for the 19th Israeli Knesset; our first European vacation together -  to the south of France.  Our first succah in Israel, purchased on Rehov Palmach and slung over our shoulders like giant skis for the three minute trek home.  We managed to nab the prime garden spot in front of our building, just below our mirpesset.  

Oh yes, our first gas masks.

One message of Succot is G-d's ever-present protection, but attending a lecture from the Home Front Command couldn't hurt either.  The "Pikud HaOref" - literally "the command for the back of the neck" - instructed us on staying safe during a missile attack.  We learned more than we ever cared to know about the physics of shock waves and shrapnel.  A few weeks later there were a two air raid sirens in Jerusalem.  During one we got to meet neighbors from the next building in our shared bomb shelter; the second siren was mid-day, mid-week and I never heard it through the thick walls of my modern office building where our physical therapy practice is located.  Marty, out on a bike ride, got prone on the ground until ten seconds after the siren ended as we had been instructed to do if out in a place where there is no shelter.  Fortunately no damage was done by the missiles, may they be the last ones.

All of this was quickly forgotten when my attention turned back to the myriad choreography and dance projects of the year.  "Anything Goes", the Jerusalem Speakeasies Cabaret, the One Billion Rising flash mob. I studied ballet and tap and I found myself teaching up to five classes a week, including a Pilates Dance Lab, a private class of bereaved mothers and ninth graders at the Hartman Girls School.  

Teaching in a mirror-less temporary classroom, with dusty floors and walls lined with posters of Chemistry Nobel Prize winners from the Technion, I push aside the desks and chumashim and spread out my Broadway Jazz CDs. The girls come bouncing in and together we became "One Singular Sensation". Fourty-five minutes later they are singing their way to their next class.  The burly school guard bids me shabbat shalom even though it's only Thursday and I step out onto bougainvillea-lined Rehov Elroi.

A passer-by might be surprised to hear "Hot Honey Rag" coming from that temporary classroom.  Jerusalem is full of surprises.  Was it my imagination or did I hear a cat meow "Oy", a baby babble "Dayenu"?  

You don't have to get drunk to become confused on Purim, reality is confusing enough.  From the Arab children getting their faces painted at the Mamilla Purim festival, to the "grogger" smart phone application one woman used at Shir Chadash's megilla reading.  

In early spring we munched our way down Mount Gilboa dotted with its famous purple irises and red calaniot, tasting white garlic flowers and hyssop, wild sage and sugar flowers.  Another time we plucked ripe figs from a grand old tree. Yum.  

We cycle on the new bike path through the village of Beit Safafa exchanging "boker tov"s with Arab women in hijabs and Nikes, mutually admiring each other's six-in-the-morning determination.  The new path is a welcome improvement in the urban landscape.

Le'at, le'at.  To my amazement, the Jerusalem Light Rail has actually hired workers to instruct the populace in the correct way to get on and off a train.  Standing at the train doors, handing out brochures and little candies with a simple picture and a simple message, "Kodem yotzim, v'achar cach nichnasim". "First people get off, then you get on."  Yes, it is pathetic that this kind of education needs to be done, but it really has made a difference.

They say that Israelis are like sabra fruit - prickly on the outside, soft on the inside. Strangers look out for one another and acts of kindness are everywhere.  I watched one woman get up from lunch with her family at a shopping mall eatery to carry packages to the parking garage for another mother struggling with a tantrum-y toddler. My own good samaritan efforts on-the-street: alerting novice cyclists when their bike seats are too low and gesturing wildly to motorists who forget to turn their headlights on at dusk. Tikkun olam, bit by bit.  

As we end this year of firsts Marty is already embarking on an unlikely repeat.  For the second time he is riding in Bike 4 Friendship http://sponsor.bike4friendship.org/mgordon555 

from San Diego to New York City with a bunch of cyclists at least forty years younger than he.  Kol Hakovod Marty!      

Doves coo and flutter outside my kitchen window.  They splay their russet and gray feathers and alight.  My senses are filled with Jerusalem and my soul is at home.  Soon I will alight and fly to my first homeland.  Hope to see you there.

Wishing you abundance and sweetness.  

From my mirpesset with love,

Michelle

Paradigm Shifts for Americans Banking in Israel

In April of 2012, I wrote a popular post about banking in Israel. It was based on tidbits I picked up over time and some advice from other olim. There's a lot of good info there, and I encourage you to read that post too.

I'm returning to the topic because tonight, courtesy of MATI, Israel's small business service center, I heard a lecture all about banking in Israel. The lecture was given by former banker and Financial Consultant Rifka Lebowitz. Rifka's first language is English, so she was able to clearly communicate things that many olim stumble upon and maybe, eventually, if they're lucky, figure out.

If you're new in Israel, or on your way here, the best advice I can give you is to forget all your assumptions about how banks work. There are certain paradigm shifts you need to make in order to understand the banking system here.

Paradigm Shift #1: FEES - Israeli banks think of themselves as service providers. Each service they provide has a fee attached to it. As an example, just as you pay for each can of peas you buy in a grocery store, so you pay for each transaction that occurs in your account. Transaction fees range from 1.35 NIS up to 2.90 NIS/transaction. Teller transactions cost more - from 5.50 NIS to 6.80 NIS.

There are fees for everything you do inside your account.

Once you've established a relationship with a banker (something Rifka highly recommends), you can negotiate these and other fees but you cannot eliminate them. There's no such thing as free checking in Israel. Kacha Ze.

Postscript: After this post was published, a few people mentioned that members of the Israeli teachers' union (and perhaps other unions) can get very significant reductions in bank fees.

Paradigm Shift #2: BRANCHES - The Bank of Israel is the government's regulatory bank. Beneath them are five main banking groups - Bank Leumi, Discount Bank, First International Bank, Bank HaPoalim and Mizrachi-Tefachot. There are some private banks that operate outside this system, but these are the major players.

You have to think of each branch operating like an independent franchise. Most transactions cannot be handled at another branch of the same banking group. When you establish your account at one particular branch, that becomes your bank. Bank branches are not interchangeable in Israel. Kacha Ze.

Paradigm Shift #3: PASSING CHECKS - In Israel, third-party checks are a kind of black market currency. Let's say you wrote a check for 500 NIS to the woman who runs the local preschool. Even if you made the check out to her specifically, she can use that check just like cash to buy groceries. And the owner of the grocery can use it to pay his mechanic. And so on. Your original check can be used like cash, circulating all over Israel for up to 6 months, before anyone actually attempts to cash or deposit it. Kacha Ze.

There are ways to avoid this happening to your check. You can get your checks pre-printed with two parallel black lines (called "cross") and the words l'mutav bilvad inside. This is a signal to the bank that the check cannot be transferred to a third party (or a 4th or a 12th).

You can draw the lines and write l'mutav bilvad on your checks. But the best protection is to have the cross and l'mutav bilvad printed on your checks from the very beginning. 

Paradigm Shift #4: ACCOUNT STRUCTURE - In Israel, each account has different sub-accounts. So you have one main account which might include sub-accounts for savings, checking, investments, etc. This one is not so hard to accept, but it is important to understand if you come from the US where each account has its own account number.

Paradigm Shift #5: KNOW YOUR BANKER - Bankers in Israel have a lot of discretion and it's important to have a good working relationship with one. Unless you're fluent in Hebrew, find an English speaking banker and make sure he or she knows you. Your banker can make a lot of things happen to your benefit - letting a check through when you have insufficient funds, raising your credit/debit card limit, extending overdraft, reducing fees, etc. Israel is the Middle East. Knowing your banker is your protexia (Israeli protection) for getting anything even slightly out-of-the-ordinary done at the bank. The good news is that decisions are not made by some anonymous bureaucrat who doesn't know you, but by a banker in your local branch who actually does. 

Paradigm Shift #6: CREDIT RATING - There is no national credit rating system in Israel. But your bank is keeping tabs on you, assessing your banking behavior and your general responsibility with handling your account. You'll be assigned an internal rating according to the bank's algorithm (which you'll never officially know about). Kacha Ze.

Paradigm Shift #7: CREDIT CARDS ARE REALLY DEBIT CARDS -  You have a monthly credit limit and you can charge up to that limit. At the end of the billing period, the entire balance is deducted from your account. There is no such thing as making a minimum payment and thereby accumulating credit card debt. 
 
Further, if you're really new in Israel and have no financial resources to speak of, you might be issued a direct card, which means that each transaction will be debited from your account (with a fee for each one) as you incur them. Kacha Ze.

I wish someone would have explained all this to me when I first arrived. It's not rocket science, but it does require you to make a few paradigm shifts.

Just remember Dorothy. You're not in Kansas anymore.

 

Earning the Right to Kvetch About Israel: Guest Post by Alison Stern Perez

 

Alison Stern Perez

Aliyah, Redux: The end of my ‘Dark Age of Aliyah’
Blessed to bitch about the Holy Land

“[Living in Israel] is both such a gift and such an amazing accomplishment.”

This has been an intense month for Israel and her citizens, as we celebrated Yom Ha-Zikaron, Memorial Day, and Yom Ha-Atzma’ut, Independence Day, two weeks ago, and the week before that we commemorated Yom Ha-Shoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. It’s always an emotional and contemplative period and, as it does every year, it got me thinking.

I remember feeling elated upon first arriving in Israel, enthralled by the sights and sounds and fascinated by this people I had never encountered before and couldn’t begin to understand – linguistically, culturally or emotionally.  I was excited about the challenge and eagerly dug into the task of learning about my new country and integrating myself as best and as quickly as possible.  And I remember the feeling that the honeymoon was over, around the time that I was contemplating my own honeymoon – but I was being thwarted at every turn in my attempts to prove that I was Jewish “enough” to get married in an Orthodox ceremony in my new homeland.

And thus began a rather extended period that I am beginning to view as “the dark years” of my aliyah, in which I have felt disconnected, disenchanted, often discombobulated, and even more often profoundly disturbed by this people who I still barely understand. 

Yes, my life was going along relatively well, and I have never (yet) regretted making aliyah.  But my relationship with my first love, Israel, has taken some punches and become a bit worse for wear, a bit less idealistic. Over the past few years, the more I have come into direct contact and confrontation with Israelis, the more conflicts and clashes I have experienced, and the more I have come to dislike them.  These days, as you all may have noticed, I find myself complaining to no end, deeply ensconced in my own egotistical sense of injustice, lack of comprehension and utter frustration.

And then, two weeks ago, I came across one of those sappy Yom HaAtzma’ut Facebook posts, the ones that used to make me sigh affectionately and wax poetic about my love for Israel and yes, for the past few years, have only made me snort in derision and comment bitterly, “Just you wait until you’ve been here for longer than a minute!”  This post, titled, “65 Things I Love About Israel,” was written by Keren Hajioff, who had immigrated three years ago.

At first, I considered not even reading it.  I had been cut off not once, but four times that morning on my 10-minute commute to the university campus and I couldn’t even imagine coming up with one thing I loved about Israel, much less 65.  But I decided to click on the post anyway, hoping somewhere deep down that I could find something to restore my faith in Israeli humanity.

I definitely snorted through the first few items – “#1: I love that there are Israeli flags absolutely everywhere.” Yeah, yeah, so what. Waving a flag doesn’t mean the person is going to be nice to you – but then something in me began to shift.  “#7: I love that under a week of knowing someone, he invited me to his wedding.”  That’s true, Israelis really are like that.  And #6 really is true, and wonderful – we do stop what we’re doing at the sound of the Yom Ha-Zikaron siren, stand stock-still and come together as a people for those two glorious and exquisitely painful minutes.

And then #24 hit me like a ton of Israeli-made bricks:  “I strangely love that people here complain so much about Israel. For people to complain so much about this country, means that they have forgotten about how great of a miracle it is that we have it. Why do I love the fact that people have forgotten how great it is that Israel is ours? Because it means we are used to it. Why are people used to it? Because it has been ours for 65 years. That is something that I am very happy about. So, the more people complain, the more I am reminded that Israel is ours.”

And this, I do believe and tentatively declare, heralds the end of my “Dark Age of Aliyah.”  Because it is so, so true.  Because every bitter and whining complaint, no matter how completely justified or painful, that seeps out of my mouth really does both totally reflect and totally take for granted one immutable fact:  I live in Israel.  No, I feel I must say it again:  I live in Israel.

And I can say, without any hint of sappiness, this is both such a gift and such an amazing accomplishment.  Some days I still cannot believe it, and other days I am steeped in gratitude for my decision to make aliyah, my fortitude in pursuing this dream and my persistence in continuing to at least attempt to make my dream match my reality.

I live in Israel.  How many people in the world can actually say that?  And how amazing is it that Israel exists at all?  Yes, she may not be perfect, and yes, she may still have some growing (and growing pains) ahead of her, but she is ours – warts and all.  And those of us lucky, audacious and irrepressibly resilient enough to live within and love her must never forget how truly blessed we are to be able to bitch and moan every day of our lives here.


ALISON STERN PEREZ (alisonsternperez@gmail.com or alisonsterngolub.com), a native of Seattle, is a 2000 Brown University graduate.

The Aliyah Question

There have been a flurry of blog posts written this past week or two about the aliyah question. First, Hannah Dreyfus wrote about her ambivalence toward making aliyah:

....the pronouncement of aliyah as an unequivocal ideal is quickly followed up by a laundry list of buts. My career. The language. Money. The precarious way of life. The foreign culture. The school systems.

An ideal, yes. Am I going? No...

Immediately following came what I thought was a tragic piece, written by Aryeh Younger, in which he unabashedly declares:

For me and many other American Orthodox Jews, we proudly see America as our homeland. We believe that American culture is our culture...

To me and the overwhelming majority of America’s Jews, we have no reason to apologize for living in America. I am proud to be an American, and I don’t see Aliyah as that “unequivocal ideal.” 

There ensued on my Facebook Timeline a 109-comment (and counting) thread about whether or not having zero desire to make aliyah is, as I termed it, tragic. One brave and persistent commenter, writing from her materially comfortable life in the US, cited a long litany of reasons why she and other modern Orthodox Jews are not even considering aliyah. Some of her reasons are based on misinformation (e.g. "will the rabbis allow my children to get married because I wasn't raised religious?") but some are completely understandable for those making a strictly rational decision.

It's my contention that the decision to make aliyah is not a decision that can be made on the basis of strict rationality. In fact, I'm not sure that for many olim, it's really a decision that we make at all. It rather feels like a decision that was made for us. 

By the Big Guy.

Two years ago, I wrote a post in which I noted that:

I am often struck, when friends and new acquaintances tell their stories of how they came to live in Israel, about how we are all guided here.  It's as if God handpicks us, one at a time, and sets us on a path toward this place.  It has long seemed to me that a significant percentage of olim are either converts or ba'alei teshuva like me.

For years, I've dreamed of writing a book filled with stories of olim who came here from distant places, both spiritually and geographically. While that book gestates within for a few more years, I would like to introduce you to two families whose aliyah stories particularly inspire me.

Getting The Call

I know olim who experience ending up in Israel as a somewhat random outcome. But there's another experience many olim recognize. Others refer to it as having your aliyah switch flipped on, but I refer to it as getting the call. However you term it, the experience feels something like this. You get an idea in your head that somehow, someday, someway, you are going to live in Israel. And that thought never leaves you. Whether it takes 6 months or 6 decades, THE THOUGHT NEVER LEAVES YOU.

Take the Morgan family. They made aliyah just a few days ago, after living in places most East Coast Jews have never even visited, among them Idaho, Nebraska, Utah and Wyoming. I was told that Baruch Morgan was a cowboy but that didn't fully prepare me for our first meeting. They were our Shabbat guests this past week and all three Morgans walked in wearing white straw hats.

Photo not taken on Shabbat.

As new olim often do, we traded aliyah stories, and, in so doing, we spoke about getting the call. I immediately recognized from their story that, even though they had been living very far from major Jewish population centers, Hashem handpicked this family and brought them Home.

Jewish Ancestors Calling You Home

Yoel and Yael Keren started life in Oklahoma as faithful Christians named Joel and Tracy. Although Joel and Tracy married as Christians, they were plagued by theological questions for which they could not find satisfactory answers. Tracy's intermarried Jewish grandfather encouraged them as they pursued conversion to Judaism through the Conservative movement in Oklahoma. As newly-converted Jews, they married a second time, this time under a chuppah. Tracy's grandfather attended their Conservative wedding and encouraged their aliyah, saying, "You go, and be good Jews, not like me." 

Fifteen months later, they made aliyah and began to study for a second, halachic conversion (which I think of as Jew 2.0). In August 2002, they stood together under a chuppah yet again (for those who are counting, this was their third wedding together) and began their lives as Orthodox Jews in Israel.

Twelve years later, now known as Yoel and Yael, they are both fluent in Hebrew, which Yoel speaks using the Tiberian vocalization that dates back to Second Temple times. They have an Israeli-born daughter in addition to their American-born son. Yael teaches English in an Israeli high school and, in addition to teaching occasional Torah classes, Yoel works for an organization that reclaims the Land of Israel for the Jewish people. Their Oklahoma accents and fondness for smoking meat remain, even while they continue to make their daily contributions to the Jewish people in the Land of Israel.

Rabbi Nachman Kahana taught me that the reason why aliyah, as in being called to the Torah, and aliyah, as in immigrating to Israel are the same word, even though they are pronounced differently, is because Hashem calls to each of us, individually, by name, when the time has come for us to return Home.

For those who view the aliyah question as Hannah Dreyfus, Aryeh Younger and my Facebook commenter do, it seems plausible to me that, perhaps, they have simply not yet been called.

The Blessing of the Unearned Shekel

I have been among the lucky olim who, since finishing ulpan, has had work for most of the time I've been in Israel. Sometimes more, sometimes less. It's a blessing to have the ability to earn shekels and I never want to take that for granted. After I received it, I took a picture of the first paycheck I earned in Israel, skimpy though it was, to always remember my humble beginnings as a worker here.

So I have paid work, thank G-d, even though I don't yet have paid work that delights my soul.

More and more, I think that my real work is what I do for others. Kol haKavod to people who are, but I was never the "let me make you a meal and watch your children" kind of person. That didn't change when we made aliyah. But every day, Hashem sends me opportunities to help others in ways that are a better match for my skills and my nature.

Sometimes these opportunities are relatively small, such as answering questions about Israel for prospective olim or connecting one person to another or giving someone a phone number or lending new olim an air mattress until their lift arrives or teaching someone how to do a particular task on the computer.

And sometimes, they are as big as organizing an event that raises many thousands of shekels for tzedaka while helping the English speakers in my neighborhood find new books to read at very affordable prices.

As a major bookaholic, when we made aliyah, I came to Israel knowing I was going to have trouble finding enough English books to read. I did what most English speakers in Israel do. I bought a Kindle, borrowed books from friends and had family visiting from America bring books. But it wasn't enough to keep my book addiction fed. I went into a few used book stores in Jerusalem, but the books there were too expensive for me to consider that as a viable, long-term option.

I thought perhaps I would organize a small book swap. I imagined getting together about 20 women with 100 books so that we could trade with each other. Everyone would get something new to read and it could be a fun evening. I put out a call for people who had English books to donate to the swap.

In the first hour, I already had 100 donated books and I realized that this idea had much more potential than I had, at first, imagined.

The idea has grown to a major community event that takes place twice a year. I call it the Great Ma'ale Adumim English Book Swap and Sale. We collect book donations (we had 3000 books at the last swap), organize them by category and charge just a few shekels for each book. All the proceeds go to tzedaka.

But even more, as the event has grown, more hands were needed. There are now dozens of volunteers who help along the way - collecting book donations from those who don't have a car, bringing boxes from the local grocery to pack the books in, schlepping hundreds of cartons full of books, setting up tables, sorting the books into categories, cashiering and breaking down the displays. It's a great event that attracts a high percentage of the English speakers in our city, so it becomes a social outing as well. And everyone finds great bargains while raising thousands of shekels for tzedaka.

The night of the Book Swap, people always thank me and my partner for organizing it. But it's impossible for the Book Swap to happen without help from literally hundreds of people in our community - book donors, book buyers and the dozens of volunteers - working together to make it happen.

I don't earn a shekel from the work I do to make the Book Swap happen. But it's a blessing nonetheless. 

The blessing of the unearned shekel. 

A Spiritual Spin on Anti-Women Nonsense

Lately, there has been a huge amount of tension regarding the role of women in Judaism bubbling up around me. I haven't been so caught up in this issue since I first became religious a few decades ago.

I spent the first year of my observant life in tears - drawn to the power of truth in the Torah and in living a God-centered life, and repelled by the constant reminder that my status as a woman defined and confined nearly every aspect of my Jewish experience.

Over the years, I made a kind of uneasy peace with my role as a Jewish woman. I know well that we, as a community, are not where we are meant to be regarding equal dignity for men and women. And there are still too many times when I am struck by the lack of derech eretz, of respectful human behavior, towards women by my community.

Lately, the list of indignities against women in the Orthodox community seems, against all logic, to be escalating. More and more aspects of women's behavior are being categorized, in certain circles, as immodest and thereby newly forbidden. I thought about listing all the recent examples here, but I decided not to put any energy into cataloging the insanity.

There's also a tremendous backlash against the Women of the Wall, a group of women who are seeking "the right for Jewish women from Israel and around the world to conduct prayer services, read from a Torah scroll while wearing prayer shawls, and sing out loud at the Western Wall." Their goals are not mine. Nevertheless, I am horrified by the way their detractors speak of them.

In the comments section of a recent Times of Israel blog post where the blogger expresses her inability to understand why some Orthodox women are not content with our traditional role, one woman calling herself Orthodox commented:

I daven in an "orthodox" shul following certain practices such as having a mechitzah. I was raised to view the mechitzah as "evil" and making women "second class" and in fact discovered that the opposite was so: I found a sisterhood where each woman was valued on her own merits versus the Reform "I'm Mrs. Doctor" where your merit is what a macher your husband is.....I found far more respect for women in my "orthodox" shul than I'd ever encountered in the neighborhood Reform temple, where women were derided, joked about and made to feel unimportant. Now, WoW doesn't want an "egalitarian" section -- they want orthodox practices ended altogether; the Kotel should be open at all times to their style of prayer service and the separation of men and women ended--because THEY don't like it. Well, I DO like it. And I want to KEEP that tradition. So who are these creepy once-a-month-media-circus-pretenders to come to the Kotel where the majority of Jews are "orthodox" of one stripe of another and have their temper tantrum in the name of "equality." That's not equality--that's oppression when you force the majority of people to adopt your prayer style over their objections.

To which I replied:

You have exactly illustrated the precise thing of which so many critics of Women of the Wall are guilty. You claim to indisputably know their motivations and you judge and malign their intentions. You call them "creepy once-a-month-media-circus-pretenders" and refer to their attempt to secure what they believe is their right as Jews a "temper tantrum in the name of 'equality.'" This is not talk befitting an Orthodox woman. You disagree, fine. But where's your derech eretz?

So far, in the cholent pot, we have:

• The ongoing small and large indignities that I and other Jewish women (some, not all) feel occasionally - but most acutely in synagogue-based interactions.
• The escalation of strictures meant to keep women out of the "public" (code for male) eye.
• The backlash against Women of the Wall.

Add to this cholent a recent, personal, excruciatingly painful episode of being forced to beg for the right to do something holy in a synagogue setting and being turned down, not for reasons of Jewish law, but for reasons of gender bias.

Why is all this anti-woman nonsense escalating davka now?

In a book that forever changed my view of the tension between men and women in Judaism, Devorah Heshelis assures us of the Torah’s promise that gender equity and the balance between masculine and feminine spiritual energy will ultimately be restored. 

As we approach geula and the ultimate redemption of the Jewish people, the dominant masculine spiritual energy, knowing its days are numbered, is thrashing around and whacking everything in its path with its death throes. 

That's why I'm suddenly assuming the duck and cover a whole lot more.

POSTSCRIPT: A few thoughtful readers have pointed out that my use of the phrase "duck and cover" implies that I have chosen to take a passive approach to the increasing chauvinism in the Orthodox community. I'm happy to have the chance to correct that impression.  What I meant was that I'm noticing more anti-women nonsense flying around. I understand that Hashem gave me, personally, a combination of sensitivity to these issues and a particular set of resources with which to address them. This post is an example of my approach.

Thank you, Janis

NOTE: I originally wrote this after a friend was killed in the bombing at Hebrew University on July 31, 2002 (22 Av 5762). I was still living in Baltimore at the time. Today is Yom HaZikaron 5773 and today, I stood outside and heard the national Yom HaZikaron sirens from my home in Israel.

Whenever I read news from Israel that includes the names of victims of terror, I force myself to slow down and actually pronounce the names. I know that each name represents a whole world – a person who had a life and a family and all that goes with it.

To most people, reports of the death of Janis Coulter, who was killed when a bomb exploded in a cafeteria at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, was just another in a long, tragic list.

But not to me. Janis was my colleague. We both recruited American students to study in Israel at our respective universities. More than that, Janis and I were in the midst of that blurry transition between being colleagues… and becoming friends. I genuinely liked her and looked forward to seeing her on occasions not dictated by our mutual work schedules.

A few months ago, I told Janis about a position in Baltimore I thought would be perfect for her. In deciding not to pursue it, she said, “Part of me wants to stick it out here [at the Hebrew University] until the matzav [situation] turns around so that I enjoy the thrill of sending students to Israel again. I don't want to remember this job mainly as a string of crises... ” I was disappointed because I knew I would enjoy having her in Baltimore.

She had a different destiny.

News of her death, which was suspected the whole day of the bombing, but not confirmed for me until late in the evening, hit me hard. I was aware, as I cried for the loss of Janis, that I was also crying the pent-up tears that I was never quite able to summon for other victims whose names I had forced myself to pronounce. Paradoxically, her death freed me to mourn more deeply for all the others.

Any shred of detachment from a bomb in Jerusalem that I still felt, as an American Jew, imprudently at ease in my host country, was torn away. More than ever, Israel commands my full attention. I know I’m not alone in this. Totally counter-intuitively, the day after the bombing, three new students applied to study in Israel. Despite everything. Because of everything.

A few days ago, Janis was my colleague and friend. Now her face and her life story is international news. How bizarre. The circumstances of Janis’ death caused me to wonder. Is it a merit, or a curse, to die because you’re a Jew?

The first night after her death, I had a dream that Janis and I were on a crowded bus together. We both knew she was already gone, but she appeared to me, sitting by a window of the bus, just as I remember her. Even in my dream, it was clear that our time together was brief, because she had to return to the Next World. But as a kindness, she came to me, just so I could talk with her one last time.

When I think of Janis, I think of her humor, which was bursting with silly puns. I think of the significant conversations we had while sitting together at Israel Program Fairs, in between talking with students about studying in Israel. I think of her Boston accent. Her dimpled smile. Her role as a doting aunt. I think of the way she was so filled with personality that her cheerful life force always shot out at me, even from her ordinary emails, the text of which was always blue, like the flag of Israel.

Janis Coulter died as a Jew in Jerusalem. And we are left behind to mourn her.

Thank you, Janis, for touching my life. I miss you already.

The family has asked that donations be made to the Janis R. Coulter Memorial Fund, The American Friends of the Hebrew University, 11 East 69th Street,New York, NY 10021

Feeling Israeli

One of the experiences of being an immigrant, and I believe this applies to all immigrants everywhere, is that, at least initially, you lose the ability to pick up on subtle environmental cues. So you either see things but don't really understand their significance, or you just don't see them at all, at least until you become more acculturated.

Walking down the hill yesterday afternoon, my visual field was overwhelmed with the multitudinous Israeli flags that have popped up recently. I know Yom HaAtzma'ut is coming, so my immigrant brain was able to process this change in the environment.

I also saw a group of preteen girls walking around with a purloined grocery shopping cart filled with sticks and scraps of wood. I know Lag B'Omer is coming, so I deduced that they are collecting wood to make a traditional Lag B'Omer bonfire.

Then I saw this flag with homemade addition of a bit of orange tape. I discerned that the owner was imploring us to remember Gush Katif. That touched me the most. And I was gratified to be sufficiently culturally attuned to grasp the message.

For immigrants who have been here a long time, this will seem like no big deal. But for newbies like me, it helps me feel more at home in Israel when I understand even things that are not spoken.

Yes indeed, I'm feeling very Israeli today.

Doublelife: A Book Review

I received a copy of Doublelife: One Family, Two Faiths and a Journey of Hope by Harold Berman and Gayle Redlingshafer Berman in the mail the other day. I had heard of the book through various social media channels, but I didn't remember ordering it. This, in and of itself, is not that unusual for me since I have a very bad case of book addiction. When we made aliyah, my husband (who is also a book addict) and I brought well over a thousand books with us. And that was after we sold off at least an equal quantity.

Turns out, I was sent a review copy by the book's publicist. I cracked it open and, despite the escalating pace of Pesach preparations going on in my home, no less than in Jewish households across the world, I finished the book over Shabbat.

I generally like books that are first-person accounts and Doublelife falls into that category. The book is written as a series of letters between Harold, a secular Jew from New York and Gayle, the Minister of Music in a mega-church in Texas. Herein lies my major criticism of the book. I found the format much too contrived, particularly after the couple married and began living together.

Having said that, I was struck with the self-congratulatory tone that the couple expresses as the book opens about how they are not going to fall prey to the difficulties of intermarriage. Through the years (and it's important for the reader to note the dates of the "letters" in order to understand the passage of time in the story), religion becomes a central issue in their marriage, and that's where the story becomes much more interesting.

First Harold, in response to his inability to answer challenges from a Christian colleague about why Jews don't believe in Jesus, begins to learn about his own Jewish heritage. Later, the obvious spiritual sensitivity of the child they have agreed to raise as a Jew, pushes the family closer to Torah observance. Indeed, these are some of the most moving passages in the book.

The reader is carried through the inevitable hurdles - finding the right community, the challenges of Gayle's conversion, the need for careers that are compatible with a Torah life - that the family faces. I found this the most interesting part of the book.

I knew, from before I opened to the very first page, that Gayle and Harold made aliyah at some point and are raising their children in Israel. But there is not a hint of that part of their story in this book.

I'm anxiously awaiting the sequel. I love hearing people's aliyah stories. And this untold part of the Bermans' story adds support to my contention that ba'alei teshuva and converts make aliyah out of proportion to our numbers in the general Jewish population.

The awkwardness of the format aside, it's an engaging story and one that has a happy ending for the Bermans and for the greater Jewish community. Another Jewish family finds their way home. What's not to love?

Not Exactly Kisei HaKavod

Item: In an Orthodox shul I attended while visiting friends in another community for a simcha, the men sat in beautifully constructed synagogue furniture from Kibbutz Lavi...

http://furniture.lavi.co.il

...while the women sat in Keter chairs that had been stacked in a corner.

Item: I attended a lecture on Derech Eretz held in an Orthodox shul. Separate seating was set up for men and women. The men sat in the regular men's section and the women were seated in rows of folding chairs that began behind the end of the men's section. I arrived on time and paid the same price for admission to the lecture as men were charged, yet the very best seat I could get was further away from the speaker and less comfortable than the seating available for men, including those men who came late.

Did I mention the topic of the lecture was Derech Eretz?

Item: Praying in a certain Orthodox shul for Yom Kippur, it is impossible for me to see when the aron kodesh is open. The only way I know to stand is from the scraping of chairs and the rustling I hear coming from the men's section.

Item: In an Orthodox shul I attended while visiting family in another community, the men's entrance was through decorative double doors in the front of the building. The women's entrance required me to pass by the shul's dumpsters, enter an unmarked door on the side of the building and climb two flights of stairs.

Item: The blogger A Mother in Israel recently hosted a guest photoblog by photographer Rahel Jaskow which chronicles the many ways in which the space for women at the Kotel is compromised.

Item: Though my husband and I were the first ones at a concert of Jewish music being held in an Orthodox shul, and despite the fact that I was charged the same ticket price as the men, I was told I must sit in the cramped women's section behind tables two rows deep and to the left of the performer. Men had their choice of  seats facing the performer and had plenty of room to dance. A man who came 45 minutes late was able to sit two rows from the performer.

I could continue with similar examples of a lack of derech eretz I've experienced as a woman over the years, in different communities and in different countries, but I believe the point is clear. We in the Orthodox community have a derech eretz problem when it comes to women in synagogue spaces.

I'd like to assume that it's a problem of oversight rather than of intentionality.

Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not suggesting that I want to wear tefillin or serve as a ba'al tefilla or be called for an aliyah. I'm not inherently opposed to separate seating for tefilla. Please don't conflate and thereby dismiss what I'm saying because my point is based on gender. I'm not revealing my disdain for being a Jewish woman and I have no secret desire to be a Jewish man. I'm a committed, faithful Orthodox woman, married to a former pulpit rabbi, who would like to be treated with dignity whenever I enter an Orthodox synagogue.That hardly seems like a controversial expectation.

I'm speaking here about derech eretz and kavod habriot - the simple human dignity of women that is often violated in public Jewish spaces. No woman should have to feel diminished because of thoughtless spatial planning.

I imagine that most people involved in making decisions that lead to these sorts of circumstances are not intentionally hostile toward women but are rather unaware of the consequences of their actions. I believe these are, in the main, sins of omission rather than of commission. My intention here is to draw attention to the issue in the hope that, by sensitizing more people to the unintended consequences of careless synagogue design, things can change for the better.

Haveil Havalim #401: The Pre-Pesach 5773 Edition

Founded by Soccer Dad, Haveil Havalim is a carnival of Jewish blogs -- a weekly collection of Jewish and Israeli blog highlights, tidbits and points of interest collected from blogs all around the world. It's hosted by different bloggers each week, jointly coordinated through our Facebook Group. The term 'Haveil Havalim,' which means"Vanity of Vanities," is from Qoheleth, (Ecclesiastes) which was written by King Solomon. King Solomon built the Holy Temple in Jerusalem and later on got all bogged down in materialism and other 'excesses' and realized that it was nothing but 'hevel,' or in English,'vanity.'

          If you're a Jewish blogger, please join our Facebook group and consider sending in your posts and hosting an edition yourself.

Life in Israel

A Mother in Israel, I am very jealous that I didn't get to host this extraordinary guest photo blog by Rahel Jaskow on my blog. Separate and Unequal at the Western Wall. Best not to record my blood pressure after I read this post. I'm a very calm and even-tempered person, but the appropriation of the Kotel by one group infuriates me.

Shlomo Skinner writes about the significance of the Hebrew month of Nisan and the custom of reciting Birkat Ha-Ilanot (the blessing on budding fruit trees)

Mrs. S photoblogs a visit to Hevron.

Real Jerusalem Streets photoblogs a whole different understanding of the BDS strategy (boycotts, divestment and sanctions) and, in so doing, shows the world what the streets of Jerusalem really look like.

What a week for photo blogs. Here, Batya photoblogs about lions in Jerusalem and here about an ordinary walk in Israel.

A mother and a son write movingly about the recent enlistment of the youngest of a crop of brothers into the Israeli Defense Forces. Their words make my heart soar with pride in the Jewish people.

Politics in Israel

Lots of Israelis are none too fond of America's interference in Israeli business. Batya and Esser Agaroth wrote on this theme a lot recently.

A none-too-flattering look at AIPAC by Esser Agaroth.

Batya wants to Keep Barack Hussein Obama Off Our Roads!

Batya explains why the 22 state solution is better than the Two State Solution. 

Esser Agaroth talks about what connects Obama, Pollard and Passover.

Pesach is Coming

Jacob Richman shares a huge number of educational Passover resources.

Esser Agaroth shares a surprising secret for single men making Pesach.

Inspirational Roundup

A Settler's Dream inspires with The Chassidic Approach to Joy

Mordecai Holtz writes 10 Lessons I've Learned From My Mentor, a moving tribute to the recently deceased Rabbi Dr. Stanley Wagner, A"H, his wife's grandfather, who had a profound impact on his life. My favorite was Tip #2.

Batya writes about a bit of hashgacha pratit on the Jerusalem public transportation system.

May you each be inspired by something you read here.

Chag Sameach.

GUEST POST: An Israeli-American Living in an American-Israeli City

This guest post was written by Anabelle Harari. Her bio appears below.

An Israeli-American Living in an American-Israeli City
(or it the other way around?)   

This past fall I signed up for a photography course. It was run by an American who was completing her masters in Art Therapy. The advertisement read as follows:

“Are you a new immigrant looking to gain some photography skills? Come learn how to use photography as a method for exploring aliyah and liminality.”

I was sold.

While technically, I am not a new immigrant to Israel, I certainly feel like one. You see, I was born in Israel and shortly after my family moved to America. I grew up like any other Jewish kid in northeast Philadelphia- listening to the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears, hanging out the mall on the weekends, and while at times I really wished I had blonde hair and my name was Ashley- I felt like I fit in.

However, there was one caveat- I was Israeli.

My family spoke Hebrew in the house, we never had goldfish or Doritos in our kitchen- only imported Israeli products, I listened to Eyal Golan on the way to school, and while all the other kids at my Jewish day school ate white bread sandwiches with peanut butter and jelly, I ate pita bread with chocolate spread.

Fast forward 15 years and I find myself in Israel once again. While I have been traveling in between Israel and the States for a while now- visiting friends and family, the obligatory birthright trip as well as a few other Jewish programs that bring wide-eyed Americans to experience Israel- I built a life for myself in America- not Israel.

However, when it came time for my boyfriend to study at a yeshiva- we knew the only choice would be to spend some time in Israel, specifically Jerusalem.

I arrived here feeling pretty confident. I speak the language- what more is there to really know about living in Israel? Turns out- a lot. Living in Israel has not only pushed all my boundaries, it has also made me realize how utterly American, I really am.

I enjoy my space, I enjoy central heating, but mostly I enjoy not being yelled at or being asked when I’m going to get married every other day. By American standards, Israelis are rude. They are loud, they are pushy, and they are extremely nosy (read: the married question coming from the guy at the grocery store).

And while this can become frustrating beyond words, I have come to actually appreciate this “rudeness.” The guy at the grocery store may be judging me, but he actually cares that I marry a nice Jewish boy. And the aggressiveness? After yelling at me about why I didn’t have a Tuedah Zeut card, the woman at the bank actually invited me to her home for Shabbat.

Does it make sense? No. Does it have to? Not really.

Being in Israel has made me value my American-Israeli upbringing. It has allowed me to take a critical look at the things I experience on a daily basis, and it also has made me appreciate this in-between state of being. Not quite American, not quite Israeli.

It seems that I have found the perfect place to be not quite this and not quite that- Jerusalem. Jerusalem is a liminal place in itself. It’s Israeli, it’s American, it’s everything in between jammed into one neatly packed city.

So now, when people ask me what it is like to live in Israel again, I give them my short yet complicated answer- it’s liminal. And I leave it that.

Anabelle Harari is a graduate of Mount Holyoke College. She is a sustainable food blogger and the community attache for BirthrightIsrael Experts. She lives in Jerusalem and you can connect with her @thelocalbelle.