לא שלום, עבל להתראות

I've been back in the US for 6 days, and my life has begun returning to "normal". I've been caught up on all of the drama, seen my friends, and I even start back to work at my synagogue's Torah School today... but it feels weird. When I was going through passport control at JFK last week, the man at the booth said "welcome home", and I just kind of looked at him for a second, thanked him, and as I was walking away I just kept thinking, "that feels wrong".

Birdy, one of my favorite musicians, says in one of her songs "to belong is the feeling of home", and walking away into the American airport that morning I couldn't get that line out of my head. I just couldn't, and still can't, figure out how I feel about both places, Israel and the US alike.

Looking out the window as I fly back to California

As a modern, liberal person who is also queer, I feel like I belong here on the West Coast of America. Here, especially in California, there is so much liberalism and acceptance of differences, and a much more vast and diverse community that can really help me find my niche. I can marry whoever I want, however I want, and I don't always have to be afraid that someone is going to act out against me. However, there's a problem when it comes to my Judaism. Although the Reform communities in America are thriving, there is still a lot of antisemitism, and even more anti-Israeli sentiment, particularly on college campuses and within many LGBT+ communities. The fact of the matter is that many of my LGBT+ peers dislike organized religion, because it is often one of the factors that leads to people rejecting us for being queer. Many of us spend a great portion of our lives fighting the prejudice that comes from some religious people, and protecting ourselves from their hate-speech. That being said, it can be challenging for some to want to listen to people like me, who have found a balance. As for college, well that's just scary. Going into college within the next year or so terrifies me because I am a proud Jew, and a proud Zionist. I know that Israel has it's problems (refer to my previous post), but it is my homeland, and being a Jewish American, I feel like many people don't understand and can't accept that. The media WILDLY warps the events of the Middle East, and because of this, there are so many people who hate Israel because of false or biased information.

Me, a Reform Jewish "woman", wearing a yarmulke
while playing a guitar that has a
"Jewish Rock Radio" sticker right under ones for the
Human Rights Campaign and Ventura County Pride

So a Jew, I feel as though I belong in Israel. Jewish state or no, the land itself has so much history that connects me to my people. I could choose to move there right now, and the government would give me money and other resources to help me because I am a Jew, and the law says that if I want to be an Israeli citizen, I can be, just like that. Israel is the place where I don't have to feel bad about missing an event on Shabbat, because there are no events on Shabbat. It's the place where I don't have to worry whether the dishes at a restaurant are Kosher, or if the sticker on my car that says "שלום" is going to make people hate me. But Israel is also the place where there is no equal, or even civil, marriage, and where the fact that I present androgynously could make me a target. The queer community in Israel is not nearly as publicly accepted as it is in The States. Unless you're in Tel Aviv or Eilat, being a queer person can be dangerous, especially for someone who, like me, is also religious. Additionally, Reform Judaism in Israel is not thriving. Finding a Reform synagogue is very challenging, and many people do not even recognize Reform Jews as Jews at all.

Some of EIE's young women and their mothers protesting for the right of women to
pray openly at the Kotel in Jerusalem, which is still not accepted
in Israeli society

So what do I do after college? Do I stay in America, when I feel free to express myself as a queer liberal, or do I move to Israel, where I feel free to be a Jewish Zionist? These two parts of me shape my identity, and are relevant to the morals and values by which I live my day-to-day life. Where do I belong, and where is my true home?

I don't know. I miss Israel every second of every day, but being back in the US really is amazing. I have absolutely no idea what I'm going to do, but I do know that these last 4 months were just the first of many trips to Israel, and that I will forever be learning and questioning. I'm not making any decisions yet; I guess time will tell, but for now, לא שלום, עבל להתראות (not goodbye, but until I see you again)...

My classmates and I with our madrichim, standing at a statue that depicts
the Jewish past and present, across the street from the Israeli government building. 

To Be, Or Not To Be: The Jewish State

This past week in Jewish History, NFTY EIE has been starting to explore modern Israel, and therefore the Arab/Israeli conflict. We have heard testimonies from both sides in an attempt to gain an understanding of the issue. We have seen videos, listened to speakers, and read articles explaining the events of the Intifadas, of the Israeli occupation of Palestinian territories, and of the conflict as a whole. This, along with my previous work in the interfaith community back in the USA, has solidified two very important ideals for me: I am a Zionist, and I do not believe in a Jewish state.

Now, I know that these two things are WILDLY contradictory; the definition of Zionism is "the aspiration of the Jewish people to establish a Jewish, democratic state in the Land of Israel". So, how can I be a Zionist, but also not believe in the Jewish state? Here's how.

I'm a Zionist. I believe that the Land of Israel is the homeland of the Jewish people, of my people, and that any and every Jew should be able to come here, whether for a visit or for a lifetime. I believe that this land holds importance for billions of people, past, present, and future. I believe that the Land of Israel is a part of every Jewish soul, and that we are each entitled to find a connection here.

But I also believe that this holds true for not only Jews. I recognize that this place also carries great weight for the Muslim and Christian communities. Because of this, in my opinion, the land itself doesn't "belong" to any one group. The land belongs to all of us, and the land belongs to whatever force there may be that is drawing us all close to it.

The border of the Gaza Strip and the Israeli
city of Sderot

In my ideal world, Jews and Arabs could live in the Land of Israel (not necessarily the State of Israel, but I'll get there later) and all would be well, but my ideal world is not the current reality. The current reality is that the existence of a state with a Jewish majority in the Land of Israel is a problem for some of our Arab neighbors, and we are constantly at war with them. The reality is that Israel has occupied Palestinian land on the notion that "we were here first", but the Palestinians also believe that they were here first. The reality is that too many Israeli and Arab lives have been lost due to a terrible, never-ending conflict. The problem, in my opinion, is not "who was here first", but "now that we're both here, how do we deal with it?"

Most people with similar ideals believe that the solution, the path to peace, is a "Two-State Solution": the creation of an independent Israeli state, and an independent Palestinian state. See, I don't believe in a Two-State Solution, because no mater where the borders would be drawn, they would isolate people from one another, and from their land. I believe in a One-State Solution, but not the state that most Jews, or most Zionists, also believe in.

I believe in the establishment of a state in the Land of Israel, where all Jews are able to make aliyah and build a life here if they choose, because it can't be denied that this land is, in fact, the homeland of the Jewish people. I believe in a state where Arabs are not confined to certain territories, and I believe in a state where all Arabs and all Jews are able to freely go to historical, sacred sites, and where we can live as neighbors. But I believe, more than anything, that this era of peace will never be achieved so long as Israel is "the Jewish state".

A bust stop memorial in
Jerusalem for those who were
killed in a terrorist suicide
bombing there

Historically, mixing religion with government is usually a bad idea. It is impossible to ensure that every single citizen of any country has the same religion, and to assume that everyone, whether aligning with the religious view of the government or not, is  going to accept the verdict of a faith-based establishment is simply outrageous, and downright stupid. The Arabs make up 20% of the Israeli population, and yet the government of Israel only caters to the Jews. I truly believe that a great deal of the conflict in Israel can be eliminated if the government ceases to be religiously affiliated.

Now, many argue that Judaism is not solely a religion, that it is also a culture and a people. To this, I completely agree. However, the fact of the matter that the backbone of Judaism is the Torah, and the basic laws of the State of Israel are based on the Tanach. and that there is a large religious control on every day life in this country. Public facilities and transportation are shut down on Shabbat, it most establishments are made hallachically kosher, and there is no civil marriage (here in Israel, if a non-Orthodox, secular, or same-sex couple wants to get married, they must do so in another country, and return with their marriage certificate to be recognized by the government...the only domestic marriages that are legal are religious Orthodox weddings). So, while religious Judaism doesn't dictate every aspect of Israeli life, it does bear a very strong influence on the laws and practices of the country.

The "Security Fence" between
East and West Jerusalem

So here's what I suggest: Take down the security fence. Demilitarize. When has a military strike in the Middle East ever proven to lead to peace? Create one country, in all of the historical land of Israel, in all of the disputed territories. Establish this state with no religious affiliation, whether Jewish, Muslim, or Christian. I know that, unfortunately, this will not happen any time soon. No government, on either side of the conflict, will be willing to relinquish their pride in exchange for peace.

Part of a "Protected Park"
in Sderot (a playground for kids,
equipped with multiple easy-access
bomb/missile shelters such as the
caterpillar above)

People may think I'm crazy. In fact, I know that many do think I'm crazy. They think that I'm a crazy leftist, that my vision of a future without this childish, territorial war can never be achieved. But it's those people, the people who refuse to see that human life is more important than a piece of land, that are dreaming.These people think that the world still lives in Ancient Israel, or in the Middle Ages. They dream of a time when religious tribes ruled over certain sections of land, and where everyone in that place was exactly the same. They long for a time in which there was no cultural diversity, no mixing of ideas or traditions. I personally think that it is this mindset, this unwillingness to accept the present circumstances, that created this problem in the first place.

So what the hell do we do about it? We talk. But more than talking, we listen. We listen to the other side, and try to understand what may be running through their thoughts. After all, aren't Jews supposed to "love thy neighbor as thyself"? Aren't Jews supposed to not only love the stranger, but welcome them? Aren't we supposed to understand what it is to feel exiled from our homes, and to do everything in our power to not allow another living being experience this trauma? So, as a Jew, I believe that the answer to stop the exiling. To stop kicking Arabs out of their homes and holy sites, to stop kicking Jews out of their settlements in the occupied territories. I believe, wholeheartedly, that the answer is being willing to finally value life over your own nationalistic pride, and accept that our neighbors are not our enemies... our neighbors are our neighbors.

So I'm a radical. I believe that people are able to be civil, and are able to respect one another's existences. So I'm a dreamer. I believe that humanity will somehow be able to find a way to live side by side, regardless of differences. So I'm insane... I believe in peace.

Me, a young Jew, smiling
at the hope that someday
my people will stop
going to war

Oh, Am I Glad That's Over

My last few days here at EIE were... interesting, to say the least. They had many downs, but a few ups, despite how negative they seemed.

This past Saturday, EIE left the comfort of our home here at Tzuba to embark on a very strange journey. The first night, we spent in a Bedouin village down south, in the middle of the Negev Desert.  We had havdallah around a campfire, and we slept in a giant (but heated) tent. Among the cuddling and back massages, there was way too much coughing in our communal tent due to the excessive amount of dust and the cold germs that have been floating around recently. One girl ended up having to sleep in the infirmary because she couldn't breathe, and another one threw up repeatedly throughout the night... yeah, it was pretty sad, but just wait...

Anyway, so on Sunday we woke up bright and early to eat breakfast then ride camels!!!!!! I hopped on a lovely camel with my friend Skylar, and we named her Fergie (after the song "My Humps"). We spent about 15-20 minutes wandering down a large desert trail, in a line with all of our classmates and their respective camels.

Me, with my new friend, Fergie, and my classmates riding
their camels in the middle of the desert

After having to leave my new best friend, Fergie, the group went inside a larger tent to learn about the Bedouin lifestyle, a nomadic culture that makes the desert thrive. Above all else, the Bedouins value respect, kindness, and hospitality. We learned all about traditions regarding how they pour their coffee, and how they place their shoes when they have guests, and so on and so forth. For example, when a guest comes into your tent, if they take off their shoes, that means they need a place to stay for the night; if they don't they're just there for a visit. If you offer a guest 3 mostly full cups of coffee or tea, that means you have a place for them for up to 3 days, but if you offer them only 1 cup, full to the brim, it means that you'll give them a refreshment but they can't stay.

Even though we were offered more than one cup of tea, we had to leave at about noon on Sunday. After visiting the grave of David Ben Gurion, the 1st prime minister of the modern State of Israel (and one of the most influential people in the creation of the state), the real "fun" began. A couple of minutes down the road was an IDF army base that was going to be my home for the next 3 nights.

Now, before I start talking about my experience in Gadna, the 4-day IDF boot camp program, I'd like to preface the rest of this blog post by saying the following:
I do NOT hate the military. I do not, in any way, shape, or form, believe that the military, especially that of Israel, is bad or wrong. I know how important it is, particularly in such a war-prone area, to have an army, and I greatly admire the brave people who participate in serving their (our) country in this way... I just believe in free will, self-expression, and freedom of speech, all things that aren't afforded to you if you serve in the army... so, I'd just prefer to not be a part of it.

When I told this to a friend of mine, she asked me, "So you want your rights, but you don't want to fight for them?" At first I didn't have an answer for her, but then I said, "I can fight for my rights to be who and what I am without being in the military. I think anybody who serves is incredibly brave and worth recognizing, but I'd like to stand up for myself and my community by speaking out, not by being silent in the masses of a war."

Anyway, back to Gadna. So as we were on the bus, I thought, "You know, this program is supposed to make young Israelis more patriotic, more excited to join the IDF when their time comes. I know I'm a bit biased, but I'll go in and just see what happens. Positive attitude, Em, keep it positive!"... Little did I know just how much my bias was actually correct.

I got off the bus, and was ordered to stand silently in a line (in Hebrew, so I only kind of understood it) by a woman in a green uniform with an enormous gun. I wasn't a huge fan, but it wasn't so bad. We walked to a shady space where we were split into 2 teams of 15 EIE students each, and I got put with a great group, so I was fine. We spoke to our m'fakedet, our commander, about any physical injuries and/or dietary restrictions, and she was really sweet (well, as sweet as an army commander can be), and I was fine. Then we got our uniforms.

See, I don't hate the army, but I DO hate uniforms. In case it wasn't made apparent by my purple hair, my multiple piercings, my androgynous wardrobe, and my daily yarmulke-wearing, I'm a fan of a little thing called "freedom of expression". So I was put in an itchy, dusty uniform that had a button missing from the pants, and I immediately felt way less comfortable than before (but I won't lie... I did look pretty good in my uniform, no matter how much the idea of taking away my individuality and making me a machine bothered me).

Sydney and me, after just getting
our uniforms

So long story short, the next few days went a little something like this:

- M'fakedet: (in Hebrew) Do something I tell you to do in 10 seconds, stand in attention, then follow me silently in 2 lines!!!
- EIE Students: KEN HAM'FAKEDET!!! (YES COMMANDER!)
- Israeli Boys: (in broken English) Ooooh AMERICA!!! You're so sexy, my f***able American b****! F*** me, Ms. America! *throws rocks through bathroom windows and wont leave us alone*
- Me: *is forced to do some activity/cries because I'm in pain from pre-existing injuries and because I'm having an awful time*
- EIE Students: *half of us get sick with sinus infections and/or intestinal infections, and are vomiting everywhere (3 leave Gadna to stay at a youth hostel so they can rest)*

Throughout the 4 days of this program, 5 of us ended up at that youth hostel, myself included. Even though I knew the last day would not be very physically taxing, I had to leave. I could barely walk (I'm still limping now, 2 days later), I was exhausted from not really sleeping on our non-beds, still getting over a cold from Poland that never had a chance to go away, and completely hating every second of being subject to the Israeli delinquents who are forced to do Gadna and the restricting military ideology. I couldn't have gotten out of there fast enough.

To sum it up, those few days were a taste of my hell, with the exception of my camel ride and a few times when we made our m'fakedet laugh by being purposefully stupid. Now, that's not to say that EVERYTHING was 100% terrible. I even had some pretty cool educational experiences. I learned how to safely and responsibly shoot an M16 (which I didn't actually shoot because a. they did that part after I left on the last morning, and b. I really don't like the whole "gun" thing), I learned that the Israeli military never shoots their weapons on their automatic settings, so as to spare as many lives as possible, and I learned that I will absolutely, never in a million years, EVER join the army.

So thank goodness I'm back at Tzuba (again), and it feels so nice to be home after all the chaos of Poland and Gadna. It's raining like crazy, which I absolutely adore, and I'm finally getting over this dang cold (woohoo)! Now, as I begin my last month here on NFTY EIE, my days will be full of college applications, tons of homework, planning and leading Shabbat services as often as possible, and trying to make even more positive memories that will last me a lifetime. So for now, Shabbat Shalom, and shalom aleichem!

A photo of me prepping for tomorrow's Shabbat morning service,
snapped by my roommate, Evie

The Death, The Life, Hatikvah

Thank God. Thank God I don’t know how to be homeless, or how to cope with having all of my belongings stolen. Thank God I don’t know how to be ripped from my mother’s arms, or how to never see her again. Thank God I don’t know how it feels to be stripped of my dignity, or my humanity. Thank God I don’t know how to lose everything. Thank God I’m one of the lucky ones. I am one of the “2nd generation”, the child of the child of a Jew who lived during the second world war... but the original generation was not so lucky. 

As a Jew in today’s world, I am obligated to carry on the legacies of those unfortunate souls who endured the horrors of the Holocaust, so as to ensure that their struggles for life cannot be forgotten, and so the phrase “never again” never has to be said again. One of the ways I can fulfill this duty is through education; by going to the sites where these heinous atrocities happened, and by learning as much as possible about the lives and tragic deaths of these people, I can become the gateway between the past, present, and future generations... and I have already begun this journey.

I traveled to Poland last week in an attempt to learn about the deaths, the lives, and the hopes of Jewish communities in Eastern Europe around and during the time of World War II. Throughout the masa, I visited many sites. While, of course, I visited places of tragedy, warfare, and death, I also was able to bring life back into communities that used to bloom with Jewish culture. 

One of the most impactful and meaningful moments of this trip, and possibly of my life to date, was leading Kabbalat Shabbat services in the Cheverai Lomdei Mishnaot synagogue in the little town of Oświęcim. While each synagogue that I walked through told a story, this one told my story. It told the story of the Szmulewsky family, a Jewish family who lived in Oświęcim. It told the story of Bluma, David, and Gershon, my grandfather’s extended family. That synagogue, the holy place of my family, told the story of how their community was slaughtered in the Holocaust, how David and Gershon were sent to Auchwitz, and murdered in the gas chambers... but my voice, ringing through that sacred space, brought them back.

The memorial candle I lit in the
Oświęcim synagogue

Their ashes remained scattered where the Nazis left them, but their souls returned. When my grandfather, a first generation Samuels, created my father, he liberated them from that death camp. When my father created me, he brought them a step closer to home. When I, along with my own Jewish community, sang, danced and offered praise to the same God that they believed in, I was able to finally bring them home. They went home, not only to their town, but to their family that had so little possibility of surviving, but did. I survived... we survived. My family tree continued to grow, despite the horrors of the Shoah, but many did not. Too many families were ended before the gas chambers were even built. In August of 1941, Nazi volunteers took approximately 2,000 of these lives in the Łopuchowo forest, next to the neighboring shtetl, Tykocin. The murderers marched the population of Tykocin into the forest, and forced them to start digging three enormous pits in the ground. They then stripped these Jews naked, lined them up on the edges of the pits, and shot them into the mass graves that they had just dug. While some died at the moment of being shot, some did not. As they laid in the pits, surrounded by the bodies of their families and friends, they were buried by even more warm corpses, and they died gasping for air. We know for a fact that these massacres took place because one woman, Rivka Yosselevska, survived to tell of how she, after watching her daughter be slaughtered, mustered the strength to climb out of the grave.

The entrance to the Łopuchowo forest,
where thousands of Jews
were murdered in pits

Being in this forest, and recounting Rivka’s story, I had an out-of-body experience; in a way, I felt like I became Rivka. Her strength filled my steps and her courage guided my thoughts. As I walked through the trees just as she walked, as I headed toward the grave that she was shot into, I felt an overwhelming sense of pride. Pride in my Judaism, pride in my community, and pride in my life. I sat on a tree stump beside one of the graves, and I heard a group of Israelis singing Hatikvah. I looked up from my notebook, and clutching the flag of the modern State of Israel, I sang the hope of my people. When the anthem ended, I turned back to my notebook, and wrote:

Hatikvah

The hope of my people,

My family.

Their bodies lie in this pit,

But their hope...

Their hope will never die.

I am their hope.

I am the future

For which they lost their humanity.

I am the future

For which they lost their lives.

I am them,

And they are me.

We are one people,

One prayer for peace,

One cry for hope

That will never die....

Am Yisrael chai.

Am Yisrael chai... the people of Israel live. Through the atrocities of the Holocaust, Jews found ways to not only survive, but truly live, in even the worst of conditions. While at Auchwitz 1 later that week, the place where my grandfather’s family was murdered, I learned of a man named Ovadia Baruch, a Jew from Salonika, Greece, who was brought to the death camp. While being beaten by one of the guards, he cried out “Madre!” in Ladino, and a woman, Eliza, recognized his accent. She went searching for him, and through passing secret notes to each other, became friends, then fell in love. In one note, Ovadia asked her if, given that both of them survive the war, she would marry him. She agreed, and was soon taken by Dr. Schmuel, a Jewish doctor, to Block 10, a barrack known for performing surgical experiments on Jewish women and girls.

Eliza survived the procedure that she believed had made her unable to conceive children, and both survived the war. Ovadia went looking for her, and eventually tracked her down. He asked again to marry her, and while she was unsure because of her infertility, she eventually agreed for the second time. The two married, and made aliyah, and soon, Eliza became pregnant with her first of two children. The couple later discovered that Dr. Schmuel had been executed for performing false procedures on other prisoners.

Sitting on the steps of Block 10

These people demonstrated true iberleben in the most heinous of the concentration and death camps. Eliza and Ovadia, two prisoners with no reason to expect a life longer than six more months, found motivation to live in their love for each other. Their secret notes, and their engagement was quite possibly one of the only sources of light in the darkness of their lives... but it was enough. They not only survived, they lived. Dr. Schmuel, unfortunately, did not live to tell his story. While being held captive in Auchwitz, this doctor, this Jewish man, knew that he would be executed if his false sterilizations were ever discovered by the Nazis. Despite this incredible danger, Dr. Schmuel had undying faith in the continuation of the Jewish people, and willingly sacrificed his future for that of the next generation.

My classmates: the future of
the Jewish people

The symbol of Jewish freedom,
made from bone fragments of Jewish
prisoners murdered at Auchwitz-Birkenau

As we look back to these stories of bravery and life during the Shoah, we, as Jews and as human beings, must comply with the statement of Rabbi Emil Fackenheim. He believed in the addition of the 614th commandment to those written in the Torah. He said, “Jews are forbidden to hand Hitler posthumous victories, they are commanded to survive as Jews, lest the Jewish people perish.” By this, Rabbi Fackenheim was stating that if thriving Jewish culture died with the 6,000,000 people, Hitler’s goal would have been realized. In order to continue the Jewish people, we must not be afraid of our identities. We must learn every bit of knowledge about our collective history. We must pass on the legacies of our ancestors to our children, and never cease to take pride in the strength of our people. We must exercise the same faith, the same hope, as all of those who endured these horrors, and ensure that this never happens again. We must make absolutely certain that Am Yisrael chai... the people of Israel live.

Majdanek concentration and death camp

Pieces of smashed tombstones, made into a large memorial wall
in the Krakow cemetery

Me, holding the Israeli flag
at the gates of Auchwitz-Birkenau

Am Yisrael Chai...The People of Israel Live

Today we visited Tykocin, a place that was once a shtetl that bloomed with Jewish life. Now they are all gone. Now there are no Jews, only the mass graves into which over a million were shot. 500 years of Jewish life, massacred in 24 hours of horror. These were my thoughts as I sat next to a small plot of land, one of the 3 graves with so many unnamed bodies lying beneath the ground:






I walk down this path
intended for humiliation
intended for dehumanization
intended for death

I walk down this path
their voices echoing
their spirits singing
their souls never truly dying.





Hatikvah
The hope of my people,
my family.
Their bodies may be here
in these pits,
but their hope...
Their hope
will never die.

I am their hope.
I am the future
they lost their humanity for.
I am the future
they lost their lives for.

I am them
and they are me.
One people,
one prayer peace,
one cry for hope,
that will never die.




Am Yisrael chai... the people of Israel live.

I Am

Yesterday I was in Israel, learning about the devastation of the Holocaust. Today, I am in Poland, visiting the places where the devastation happened... where my people lived and died. I wrote this poem today while reflecting on my time in the Warsaw Ghetto.

I am not myself.
I am 4,000 years
of perseverance and determination.
I am the continuation of a people
who have died
so I can be alive.


But I am not myself.
I am the memory
of exodus from Egypt
and the joy
of reaching the Promised Land.
I am the song of hope
for a future generation
that so many prayed for.


But I am not myself.
I am an exiled people,
a people that learned to thrive
and make any place holy.
I am the synagogue
that my ancestors built
to keep their souls above ground
while their loved ones went under.


But I am not myself.
I am one of the unnamed,
one of the many in a mass grave.
I am the hero of the ghetto
that history has forgotten
but whose great-niece
can never forget
because she would not be here
if not for my bravery.


But I am not myself.
I am the tears of joy
on my grandmother’s cheeks
when she realized
that her people had begun
an era of redemption.
I am her laughter
at the moment
when she first held my mother
and knew that she would be safe.


But I am not myself…
I am a Jew.

Now Matter How Hard They Try, They Will Never Silence the Voices of the Righteous

The last few weeks have been INSANE!

First we did "Yam L'Yam", the 4 day trek from the Sea of Galilee to the Mediterranean. Long story short, I got back 2 and 1/2 weeks ago and I still have bug bites left over, I have become an expert of relieving myself in the woods and I have discovered that I hate not showering and sleeping on a very thin mat without a tent for 4 days in a row... But hey! I climbed a few mountains along the way, so it was all totally worth it.

From the top of Mount Hermon

Me trying to stay warm by
squeezing in between
Jillian (right) and
 Hannah (left) 

NFTY EIE praying Kabalat Shabbat
by the shore of the Mediterranean

 THEN MY FAMILY CAME!!!!!!! My mother and my aunt joined a bunch of other families on what's known as the "Family Pilgrimage" here on EIE. While I still had all my classes (bleh), and they were out touring the highlights of where we've already been, being able to spend meal times and prayer services with my family was so incredible, and I didn't want them to leave... I guess this whole "being away" business just shows me that I love them so much more! But while they were here, we got to share one of the most incredible experiences together as a family...

My mother, aunt and I, eating dinner with
my friend Stephen and his parents

November 2, 2016...This day will forever be known as a turning point for Judaism, and for the State of Israel. NFTY EIE had the honor of joining Women of the Wall and leaders of Progressive Judaism from all over the world in a complete prayer service on the women's side of the mehitza. While WOW has conducted services at the Kotel before, for the first time in history, a whopping 14 Torah scrolls were openly, and with great force and determination, brought in to the women's section of this segregated prayer space. Given that it is not allowed to bring any Torah from outside, the fact that 14 made it past security, and into the women's section at that, is a monumental step in Jewish culture.

As a person who does not identify as simply "male" or "female", the idea of going to a single-gender prayer truly scared me, and seemed in no way holy, regardless of location. The last time our group went to the Western Wall, I stood back and cried for 30 minutes, because when I was confronted with the choice of a men's section and a women's section, there was no place for me. So, naturally, I was hesitant to go back. While I did start the day bawling my eyes out and feeling like I was in physical pain, given some time, I found that Rosh Chodesh morning to be one of the most empowering, spiritual experiences of my life.

The morning began with all of my peers and I walking through the integrated entrance to the Kotel. A woman with a baby sling got stopped on her way in, and it turned out that it was not a baby she was carrying, but a small Torah. This was the first clue that something big was going to happen that day. After a small delay, the whole group entered the main plaza of the Western Wall, and immediately the staff and parents started ushering the students to the side. I didn't know what was happening at first, but then I saw numerous security guards and Ultra-Orthodox people screaming and lunging at a common target: people carrying Torahs from the outside. I saw people spit at, scream at, and rip tallitot off of men and women alike. There were people on the ground, and cameras everywhere. All I could think in that moment was, "How can these Hareidi people, these G-d-worshiping, Torah-loving people be okay with ripping the scrolls out of peoples hands, risking dropping them, harming them? How can these people be capable of so much violence, especially in the presence of one of the holiest sights in all of Judaism?" Nobody around me could find an answer.

Women reading from the Torah at
The Western Wall

As the commotion continued, it came time for the boys and girls to split up. At this point I heard my mother, who was visiting for 10 days, say, "I know it's not ideal, but you have to pick a side. Pick now, and go there". I then started crying, not knowing which side to choose because both sides existed within me. Fortunately, the parent of another one of our students stayed with me, and the rest of my classmates split up into their respective single-gender sides. After a few minutes of having a major panic attack, a staff member took me and the other parent down to the side of the women's section. We did not sing or pray, but we observed. I was dumbfounded by the amount of ruach I heard coming from my family, my friends, and about 100 other women. My awe was then broken by the sound of shrill whistles being blown by young Hareidi boys who had found their way into the women's section and were trying to disrupt the prayers (later we found out that they weren't in school because their parents/guardians had known that our protest was going to happen, had given them the whistles, and had sent them to try to drown us out). The women did not stop singing, but only prayed louder to show that they could not be stopped.

Shortly after, other boys, and even some older men made their way to the Wall, pushing, shoving, and scolding the women for praying. When I heard one man tell a woman that she was disgusting for showing her arms, I then stood up and took my jacket off, showing my bare arms and accentuating the fact that I was wearing "men's" clothing. Then my mother walked up to this man, standing in solidarity with this other woman as she held her own against the offensive man. The women praying had just begun to sing a prayer of peace, so I stood up, started singing, and walked over to my mother. We stood there together, praying for peace, as this man started saying that we were turning into Catholics because our actions were so un-Jewish. This is when I couldn't keep my mouth shut.

One of our students, Zoe, smiling as she
dances with the Torah

"I am not a Catholic, I am a Jew," I said. He then started arguing with me about how a Jewish girl should not be wearing pants or a yarmulke, how I should not have piercings, and that if any of us had learned what Jewish women had learned for thousands of years, we would know that we are wrong, disgusting, and crazy. I let go of my mother, looked this man in the eye and proclaimed, "I am modern, I am the future! I am the new generation, and I am the future!" This man then gave me a disgusted look and told me that I was not modern, but simply wrong. My mother told him that that was his opinion, and that his opinion belonged on the other side of the mehitza, so he could pray the way he wanted to and we could do the same. He asked us, "Does G-d really hear your 'prayer'?", to which my mother and I responded, "G-d hears all prayers. G-d hears the prayers of righteous people". As he was yelling at us about how blasphemous we were, one of our madrichot came to fetch me away from the conflict. The woman standing with us shooed him away, and my attention was drawn back to the crowd of women.

Female Orthodox protesters,
 wearing signs that read,
"I am sorry that the clowns
are desecrating this place."

I couldn't help but join the crowd. I still refused to pray, but I could not help but feel moved by the history that I knew I was a part of. After a few minutes of watching these women, including some of my classmates, dancing with the Torahs, I found a unique solution to the 'single-gender' thing. I took the chair I was standing on, placed it right up next to the mehitza, and stood up again, this time with my arms draping over the segregating barrier. Part of my physical self was in the men's section, just as part of my identity was (and is), and I felt content... until I saw little boys ripping siddurim and stomping on the pieces, while still bowing their whistles as the female protesters among them yelled and spat at us. My first thought was, "How can these little children, who can't be older than the age of 7, be capable of so much sinat chinam, so much senseless hatred?"

 

      Me standing in front of
the women's side of
the mehitza
     (with Daniel, Steven, and Evan)

I then saw a woman holding the Torah not 10 feet away from me, so I stepped down from my chair, walked over to her, and asked to hold the holy text. One of my female classmates and I each took a side, and lifted the scroll over our heads. Some cheered, some spat, but we smiled at each other, knowing that in that moment, we were making history. Then one of our staff members came over to us in a hurry, telling us to bring the Torah to the middle of the group to keep it safe, seeing as the Hareidi protesters were beginning to get more violent. She then took the women in our group (and me), off to the side and prepared us to leave, so as to avoid the worst of the violence and because the service was almost over. Just then, the leader of the prayer service started singing the Israeli national anthem, and we all grabbed hands and sang along.

The service ended, the women dispersed, and my classmates, our families and I began singing again, standing in a circle with our arms wrapped around each other. We sang another song of peace, making a statement about why we were there and what we had been praying for all morning. As the staff quickly had us stop singing so we wouldn't attract more violence, we stood in a clump and were quickly surrounded by a circle of young boys who had grabbed hands and were now shoving into us, spitting directly at us, and screaming things such as "Nazis!" and "whores!" We pushed our way through their tiny arms and made it back to the main plaza, where we met the men of our group.

They immediately began hugging all of us who had come from the women's side, declaring how proud they were and how they wish they could have joined us. As the principal of our school explained why we couldn't stay for the egalitarian prayers (because the crowd would inevitably become even more aggressive at the sight of men and women praying together), I held onto my mother and I thought, "No matter how hard they try, they will never silence the voices of the righteous".

Top Left: Yael, one of our staff members, getting her hair pulled after being spat in the face

Bottom Left: Me, holding the Torah at the protest

Top Right: Anat Hoffman, the chair of Women of the Wall, holding the Torah (with me in the background!)

Bottom Right: 8 of our female students and 3 mothers praying for peace