Born a Rhode Islander of two parents who were first generation Americans, I always felt very American, but also very something else. Both sets of my grandparents came from Russia as immigrants, as did thousands and thousands of Jews at the end of the nineteenth and beginning of the twentieth century. Yiddish was used often in both families at home, usually in an attempt to hide something from the kinder. All of my grandparents had died by the time I was five or six, but great aunt Fanny would often speak Yiddish with my mother who often said "Fanny, English, Irene doesn't understand!" As I got older and the eldest family members died, it was used less and less. When my mother died at 91 in 2008, it had probably been three decades since she had held a conversation in Yiddish. When she was in her sixties, she had a job as a sales person in a boutique and often took the owner's small poodle to lunch with her. Bubala, the poodle, listened for the sound of my mother's conversation with her boss to hear the magic words "I think I'll take the dog with me". Once the pup heard those words, she would start jumping up and down so much that it was hard to get the leash on her collar. My mother thought that if she said it in Yiddish the dog would not get so excited; that worked for a couple of weeks and then Bubala figured it out. My mother got mileage out of the story about the little poodle who could understand Yiddish.
Growing up Jewish in Rhode Island was probably no different than growing up Jewish in the fifties and sixties any where else in the United States. Rhode Island had, and still has, a majority Roman Catholic population with a vibrant Jewish presence. When I was a kid, I really did not know many Protestants and thought there were only Jews and Catholics in little Rhody. Even with many Jews visible in the community, my parents were part of a generation that wanted assimilation. I remember overhearing my dad once making a dinner reservation for he and my mother; he used the name Roberts to make the reservation. When I asked my mother about it, she said it was because Rabinowitz was too hard for people to spell. Even at ten years old, I knew this to be a dodge and that for them, having such a Jewish name was difficult.
There was no discussion about the Holocaust in my household, even though for a few years in the late fifties or early sixties we lived next door to a survivor. She kept to herself mostly, but was very kind when the inevitable ball landed in her yard or, when I was in my early teens, transistor radios blasted and loud laughter was the norm. She once got upset on the Fourth of July when a marching band with loud drums went by on the main street two blocks away. When I asked my mother about why the neighbor was upset, I was told because she had bad things happen to her in Europe. I was probably no older than eight at the time.
There are memories of my parents and friends or family talking about the war and what happened to Jews, but they are confused in my memory with so many other things. When the Rosenbergs were executed in 1953, I was five years old. Somehow in my mind, I had them jumbled up with Jews being killed in Europe and remember being afraid that all Jews were going to be killed. I never spoke with my parents or older brother about those thoughts; those might not have been words that would come easy to a five year old. We did know about Israel, from Hebrew school, and I began to wonder why we all were not just moving there since if the Rosenbergs could be executed in the US, if Jews could be killed in Europe, then we were all at risk. Naive, yes, but it still feels as unsafe to me as it did when I was very little and did not even understand what had happened. As a youngster, I fantasized about going to Israel, planting trees, living on a kibbutz. We sang Hatikvah in Hebrew school. After my dad died when I was 14, I knew that it would be a dream deferred. It made perfect sense to dream about a place where Jews were in control. If Birthright had existed then, it might have been possible.
My mother and I spoke about a lot of things before she died in 2008. She always was very protective of us and admitted that she wanted to shield her kids from knowing about horrible things that happened to Jews. When I was married to a child of survivors, I remember a Thanksgiving in the Bronx when she and my then father-in-law, both widowed by then, spoke non-stop about a a range of life experiences. Their worlds were so different. While he was in a camp or on a forced march near the end of the war, my mother was a young mom living in Rhode Island with a baby boy on the path to the American dream. American Jews have always had a wide range of experiences and differences in their expressions of Judaism. The one thing I believe we have all had in common is denial of our collective vulnerability that flies in the face of reason but protects us from living in fear.
I remember long pot-infused discussions with other young Jews about whether we are a religion, a nation, a racial group, a whatever. Are we Americans first, or Jews first? Most of us never figured it out. But I have. Jew first. From my first visit to my dad's old Orthodox shul in Providence and then a visit to the posh Reform synagogue across town, I knew that we had class distinctions, religious differences, and all the other issues that separate us from truly being a nation. And we still do. From wealthy synagogues in the United States that sell memberships and high holiday tickets, to the Chabad Lubavitchers (who have a spirit filled with love), to the Women of the Wall and those who throw things at them, to Women for the Wall (who I admire for their steadfastness in faith), to those who believe that Israel is too rigid, to those who believe as I do: that Israel is our sole defense against what has happened in the past for thousands of years. We have differences, but we are all Jews and Israel is our home, no matter where we choose to live.
My joke for many years is that there are two things all American Jews need: a passport and a gun. No gun in my possession, but the passport is ready to go. And it shall, back to Israel where no one has ever said their name is Roberts when it really is Rabinowitz.
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
So when does it become important?
It's summer, it's Provincetown on Cape Cod, the locals are testy, and political meanness is everywhere. We can only be thankful that the undercurrent of political bickering doesn't seem apparent to the visitors who keep our economy humming. We can also be thankful that there are so many who are moving away from the fray and ignoring the silly lines drawn in the sand over issues that, in reality, are not earthshaking.
I was part of it once; a local elected official who liked the give and take as well as the opportunity to "make a difference." Local politics is always a full contact sport and I played the game. Hate mail (one piece actually included anti-Semitic language along with the regular homophobic drivel; twofer), people intruding on my privacy, unavoidable conversations about trash and traffic....all of this was part of it. It was time to walk away. Looking on from the outside, my sense of place and love of community is eroding, much like the erosion of the cliffs on the Atlantic side of Cape Cod.
But life here is good if you avoid the internecine foolishness of bickering over power and control. That public recognition so important to so many saddens me in that it leads to posturing and bad feelings. Fortunate enough to have a job that I am happy to go to each day, I know something is still missing. The recurring thought was "when does life become important?" When does it matter and what is it that matters? At 65, these thoughts gently open a door to what gives meaning to what is left of life. Here or there, risks or no risks? It is not easy to be disillusioned about a place you love, but that may no longer be right for the end game.
My tradition tells me that we are here for only one purpose...to serve G-d and to leave the world a better place, in whatever small way, than we found it. But I am thinking there's more. There's a connection to what came before and what will come after. The luck of the draw and genetic mingling led me to be born in Rhode Island, rather than in Russia where life would have been different for a Jew. In the American half-Jewish life that I have led, this sense of purpose was always present, but not manifested in a way that was truly Jewish.
I have always been envious of those who were so sure and secure in their faith that they would sacrifice for it. The rhythm and rituals of the week set by the sabbath makes so much sense to me. At the same time, I thought whether this was the wisest way to live these precious days, with rules that were sometimes archaic and hard to follow. And, most importantly, not really understanding what it was that could draw someone into a life of faith that requires a daily schedule that, at the minimum, is inconvenient and, at the maximum, just downright difficult.
Keep kosher, honor the Sabbath, say the prayers each morning and evening, and sometimes requiring compromise on issues in a way that seem inherently unfair. Women can't do this, can't sit here, can't touch this, etc. Never mind what some religious people think of gay folks. Judaism is filled with options, however. The challenge is to not denigrate those who believe that faith is expressed in a different manner than you believe. And that's where I used to get stuck. The glue of rigid judgements on others is loosening through experiences that I could not have had without having experienced Israel.
In Tsfat in 2009, I met an artist named Yaacov Kaszemacher. One of his photographs hangs on my wall at home in Provincetown. Yaacov was raised in Paris and moved to New York City as a young man. We spoke and realized that in the 60s we would spend time in the same places including a restaurant in the Village called the Cauldron. We laughed about what a nutty time it was for our generation. He told me that the previous owner of the Cauldron could be found daily at the kotel praying, sometimes for hours at a time. Yaacov took a path different than I did. A haredi man who lived in the holy city of Tsfat, made art, and raised his beloved family had also had a connection to the past when our generation pushed boundaries. We spoke about how some people did not survive, destroyed by drugs and bad decisions. When I returned a couple of years later, I learned that he had passed away the year after my visit. The short conversation with him will always be part of my memory of Tsfat and also reminds me that the direction of our lives can veer at any time. And that those of us who practice our faith in different ways have more in common then we think. Yaacov seemed to know what was important. Faith, family, art, and life in a place that exemplifies Jewish faith.
So when does life become important? What matters? Right now and everything. The absolute pull towards the only place on the planet where I believe Jews are meant to be is strong.
I was part of it once; a local elected official who liked the give and take as well as the opportunity to "make a difference." Local politics is always a full contact sport and I played the game. Hate mail (one piece actually included anti-Semitic language along with the regular homophobic drivel; twofer), people intruding on my privacy, unavoidable conversations about trash and traffic....all of this was part of it. It was time to walk away. Looking on from the outside, my sense of place and love of community is eroding, much like the erosion of the cliffs on the Atlantic side of Cape Cod.
But life here is good if you avoid the internecine foolishness of bickering over power and control. That public recognition so important to so many saddens me in that it leads to posturing and bad feelings. Fortunate enough to have a job that I am happy to go to each day, I know something is still missing. The recurring thought was "when does life become important?" When does it matter and what is it that matters? At 65, these thoughts gently open a door to what gives meaning to what is left of life. Here or there, risks or no risks? It is not easy to be disillusioned about a place you love, but that may no longer be right for the end game.
My tradition tells me that we are here for only one purpose...to serve G-d and to leave the world a better place, in whatever small way, than we found it. But I am thinking there's more. There's a connection to what came before and what will come after. The luck of the draw and genetic mingling led me to be born in Rhode Island, rather than in Russia where life would have been different for a Jew. In the American half-Jewish life that I have led, this sense of purpose was always present, but not manifested in a way that was truly Jewish.
I have always been envious of those who were so sure and secure in their faith that they would sacrifice for it. The rhythm and rituals of the week set by the sabbath makes so much sense to me. At the same time, I thought whether this was the wisest way to live these precious days, with rules that were sometimes archaic and hard to follow. And, most importantly, not really understanding what it was that could draw someone into a life of faith that requires a daily schedule that, at the minimum, is inconvenient and, at the maximum, just downright difficult.
Keep kosher, honor the Sabbath, say the prayers each morning and evening, and sometimes requiring compromise on issues in a way that seem inherently unfair. Women can't do this, can't sit here, can't touch this, etc. Never mind what some religious people think of gay folks. Judaism is filled with options, however. The challenge is to not denigrate those who believe that faith is expressed in a different manner than you believe. And that's where I used to get stuck. The glue of rigid judgements on others is loosening through experiences that I could not have had without having experienced Israel.
In Tsfat in 2009, I met an artist named Yaacov Kaszemacher. One of his photographs hangs on my wall at home in Provincetown. Yaacov was raised in Paris and moved to New York City as a young man. We spoke and realized that in the 60s we would spend time in the same places including a restaurant in the Village called the Cauldron. We laughed about what a nutty time it was for our generation. He told me that the previous owner of the Cauldron could be found daily at the kotel praying, sometimes for hours at a time. Yaacov took a path different than I did. A haredi man who lived in the holy city of Tsfat, made art, and raised his beloved family had also had a connection to the past when our generation pushed boundaries. We spoke about how some people did not survive, destroyed by drugs and bad decisions. When I returned a couple of years later, I learned that he had passed away the year after my visit. The short conversation with him will always be part of my memory of Tsfat and also reminds me that the direction of our lives can veer at any time. And that those of us who practice our faith in different ways have more in common then we think. Yaacov seemed to know what was important. Faith, family, art, and life in a place that exemplifies Jewish faith.
So when does life become important? What matters? Right now and everything. The absolute pull towards the only place on the planet where I believe Jews are meant to be is strong.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Here we go again
It is an August post-namesake-hurricane day in Provincetown. Blue sky, tourists ambling about and I am taking time from writing a report to think about vacation in December. Back to Israel with my trusted traveling companion for two weeks. The pull is extraordinary and when I thought about Paris or London or anywhere else for vacation, those cities were swept out of my head by a vision of Jerusalem as a first saw it....gold and stone glittering in the sun. I know it is not always wise to tie yourself to a dream of what you believe a place to be. The sense of place I often feel in Provincetown is sharper in Jerusalem.....more mysterious and less understandable since I am a New Englander at heart. Born and bred Rhode Islander, but also a believer that certain places give us a stronger sense of being alive than others. Just a short musing on a perfect Provincetown day, but a day on which I feel pulled to somewhere else.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Born in the USA
We have been back from Israel since Thursday night, after a 24 hour trek (thank you, American Eagle, for not having a pilot ready and getting us back 2 hours late, and then losing luggage). The El Al flight was great and the security at Ben Gurion inspired confidence. Lessons learned at airport security: taking shoes off is silly; asking questions again and again is not silly; screening luggage and checking passports more than once is smart. The Israelis have it right and I appreciate that, although time consuming and repetitive, it is safer and wiser to ask questions again and again. I spent part of the flight wondering which passenger was the Mossad agent; my image of Mossad has been affected by the character of Ziva David on NCIS, so I think I wouldn't have guessed it even if the guy/gal was sitting next to me.
Life is getting back to normal: laundry, cats, work on Monday, dinner with friends. I joked today with my traveling companion that I'm starting to save for my next trip to Israel as I put 3 quarters in the change dish on my bookcase. Biggest lesson in all of this for me: do not delay joy, even if you believe, as the Druse do, that you die and come back immediately. If you are called to do something, do it. Life is to short not to.
Life is getting back to normal: laundry, cats, work on Monday, dinner with friends. I joked today with my traveling companion that I'm starting to save for my next trip to Israel as I put 3 quarters in the change dish on my bookcase. Biggest lesson in all of this for me: do not delay joy, even if you believe, as the Druse do, that you die and come back immediately. If you are called to do something, do it. Life is to short not to.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
PS to journey's end
If our guide Isaac Dorenbush is reading this, I want him to know that he is also part of our Israeli experience. His sense of humor, patience, and graciousness went a long way to make the first week here a joy. We will be happy to recipricate if he ever wants to return to visit Provincetown!
Last thoughts on Israel
We just watched the sun set over the Mediteranean from the boardwalk along the beach in Tel Aviv. Sad to be leaving, but I will be happy to be home, of course. And what did I learn today (or the past 2 weeks)? I learned that you have to experience life on someone else's turf to truly understand them and that security in the defense of survival is a necessary sacrifice (something Americans learned in a lesser context after 9/11). This country of amazing landscapes, a legacy for Jews that goes back thousands of years, and probably the most determined people on the planet has taught me so much. Things I didn't write about before include the great physical beauty of the people and their love of fresh, locally grown food (we didn't have a bad meal here....food and wine are appreciated and agriculture is a national pride). As opposed to what I was told before coming here, the people are friendly, gracious and make great attempts to speak English (and laugh at their own mistakes!).
This is a country I hope to come back to at some time, but if I am not able to these memories will stay with me forever. From Tel Aviv to Haifa to Safed to the Golan Heights to Jerusalem to Eilat, this country is a marvel. Tomorrow, home to another marvel.....Provincetown.
This is a country I hope to come back to at some time, but if I am not able to these memories will stay with me forever. From Tel Aviv to Haifa to Safed to the Golan Heights to Jerusalem to Eilat, this country is a marvel. Tomorrow, home to another marvel.....Provincetown.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
And you thought Massachusetts drivers are bad
Yesterday was a lesson in patience and bladder control. At a lovely Thanksgiving dinner at Sally and Joan's, I mentioned to Alix that I was going to Israel, including some time in Eilat on the Red Sea. She told me that I should go to Petra in Jordan, that it was a must see. She was surely right, and I am so glad we went. My only complaint is about the journey. First the good news; Petra is a site in Jordan where the Nabatean culture (2000 years ago) carved a city into the cliffs. There were approximately 50,000 people living in this area at the time. The carvings included a huge treasury building, altars to their gods, and a huge amphitheater. Petra (just Google it) is one of the man-made wonders of the world. On the appoximately (this is being written after 2 glasses of fine Israeli merlot), 1.5 mile walk into the site you walk through canyons of rock that have altars carved into it and simple aqueducts for water to run into the city. One can rent a chariot with a horse or a camel to get you into Petra, but the Romans (them again) paved the way in with large stones, making it treacherous for the horses and camels. Walking in is down hill, walking out the reverse. It's a hard trek, but well worth it.
On the other hand, actually getting to the entrance is a pain in the ass. Going from Eilat in Israel, you get driven to the Jordanian border, get your exit approved on the Israeli side, walk through a strange DMZ kind of area and then meet your Jordanian guide, who has a guy take all of our passports and disappear for awhile. Our guide was Hassan, who clearly was phoning it in. Odd thing about him was that he wore ear muffs the whole time; it was about 60 degrees when we started, sometimes warmer. The Jordanians have cops with the title of "Tourist Police" at the border and have a cop on the busses taking tourists to Petra. All very strange. After our group of 17 (we were 2 of 4 Americans; the rest were Israelis, South Africans, and 2 Argentinians on their honeymoon) got on the bus, we went for a nightmare ride of hairpin turns that tested our nerves. Hassan was droning on in unintelligible English (he's also supposedly fluent in Greek, but I don't buy it). Since only a few of us have English as our first language and he wasn't particularly good at speaking English, most of what he said wasn't understood by any of us. We get to Petra and what should have been a 1 hour walk in took forever. Petra is a little chaotic; horses, camels, old guys selling fake ancient coins, and little kids selling postcards. Still it was worth it all. Incredible site and a tribute to the creativity of humans in tough circumstances.
We trekked back up, got on the bus, and were taken to lunch at what Hassan said was a 5 star restaurant: if that was a 5 star restaurant, I'm King Hussein. Then we went back through the mountains to the Arava desert valley, at breakneck speed with hairpin turns that were truly scary. Most of the folks closed their eyes and prayed for sleep. After all this speeding, which included passing every other tourist bus on the road, we stopped 20 miles from the border so Hassan, the driver and the cop on the bus could smoke. THEN we went on an unscheduled tour through the town of Aqaba. By then, we were all almost begging to get back to the Israeli border. When we did, the process to get back into Israel was long and complex: questons, xray machines, metal detectors, more questions. And not one of us was annoyed by this. The necessity for these tight controls is obvious to anyone who spends more than one day in Israel. I was glad that the process was so efficient and thorough.Petra is a must see for anyone traveling in the Middle East. It is worth the money (with the $45 charge for a Jordanian visa and the $150 pp for the guide) and the hassle.
Today Yehuda the guide (who Michele referred to as Yoda after a glass of wine tonight) picked us and our little tour group up to take us to Timnor, the site of Egyptian copper mines during the reign of Ramses II. Very cool site. I struggled with the climb up some steep rocks, but again it was worth the hassle. We also visited the undersea aquarium in Eilat which was lovely, but (not to be a jaded American) was not up to the quality at Sea World (sorry, folks for being so American). We then went off to a Bedouin village for lunch. Our itinerary mentioned that we would learn about Bedouin culture, have lunch, ride camels. Well, the Bedouins gave us a serviceable lunch of hummus, olives, bread, and vegetables, but the only thing we learned about the Bedouins was from Yehuda who told us that they run drugs, don't pay taxes, and suck resources from the Israeli government. Probably all true, but it felt a little odd eating their food and riding their camels (I did not ride a camel, but Michele did and she has pictures to prove it) while listening to someone say how horrible they are. Then the ride to Tel Aviv.....Yehuda drove like the Jordanian bus driver through the mountain pass after the Arava desert crossing. So, 4 times in the past two days we have been driven through the Arava desert and over the mountains by nutty drivers. Twice on the Israeli side and twice on the Jordanian side. I think I'm done with it.
So, here we are in Tel Aviv for our last night and day in the amazing country. Dinner at Miguel's, where we ate our first night here. Tomorrow a little exploration and then off to the airport for a 1 am flight on December 24th to start the journey home. Very sad about leaving, although leaving with a new appreciation for the spirit of the Israeli people and the tragic history, from Massada to the Holocaust, that has made the survival of this little country so important.
On the other hand, actually getting to the entrance is a pain in the ass. Going from Eilat in Israel, you get driven to the Jordanian border, get your exit approved on the Israeli side, walk through a strange DMZ kind of area and then meet your Jordanian guide, who has a guy take all of our passports and disappear for awhile. Our guide was Hassan, who clearly was phoning it in. Odd thing about him was that he wore ear muffs the whole time; it was about 60 degrees when we started, sometimes warmer. The Jordanians have cops with the title of "Tourist Police" at the border and have a cop on the busses taking tourists to Petra. All very strange. After our group of 17 (we were 2 of 4 Americans; the rest were Israelis, South Africans, and 2 Argentinians on their honeymoon) got on the bus, we went for a nightmare ride of hairpin turns that tested our nerves. Hassan was droning on in unintelligible English (he's also supposedly fluent in Greek, but I don't buy it). Since only a few of us have English as our first language and he wasn't particularly good at speaking English, most of what he said wasn't understood by any of us. We get to Petra and what should have been a 1 hour walk in took forever. Petra is a little chaotic; horses, camels, old guys selling fake ancient coins, and little kids selling postcards. Still it was worth it all. Incredible site and a tribute to the creativity of humans in tough circumstances.
We trekked back up, got on the bus, and were taken to lunch at what Hassan said was a 5 star restaurant: if that was a 5 star restaurant, I'm King Hussein. Then we went back through the mountains to the Arava desert valley, at breakneck speed with hairpin turns that were truly scary. Most of the folks closed their eyes and prayed for sleep. After all this speeding, which included passing every other tourist bus on the road, we stopped 20 miles from the border so Hassan, the driver and the cop on the bus could smoke. THEN we went on an unscheduled tour through the town of Aqaba. By then, we were all almost begging to get back to the Israeli border. When we did, the process to get back into Israel was long and complex: questons, xray machines, metal detectors, more questions. And not one of us was annoyed by this. The necessity for these tight controls is obvious to anyone who spends more than one day in Israel. I was glad that the process was so efficient and thorough.Petra is a must see for anyone traveling in the Middle East. It is worth the money (with the $45 charge for a Jordanian visa and the $150 pp for the guide) and the hassle.
Today Yehuda the guide (who Michele referred to as Yoda after a glass of wine tonight) picked us and our little tour group up to take us to Timnor, the site of Egyptian copper mines during the reign of Ramses II. Very cool site. I struggled with the climb up some steep rocks, but again it was worth the hassle. We also visited the undersea aquarium in Eilat which was lovely, but (not to be a jaded American) was not up to the quality at Sea World (sorry, folks for being so American). We then went off to a Bedouin village for lunch. Our itinerary mentioned that we would learn about Bedouin culture, have lunch, ride camels. Well, the Bedouins gave us a serviceable lunch of hummus, olives, bread, and vegetables, but the only thing we learned about the Bedouins was from Yehuda who told us that they run drugs, don't pay taxes, and suck resources from the Israeli government. Probably all true, but it felt a little odd eating their food and riding their camels (I did not ride a camel, but Michele did and she has pictures to prove it) while listening to someone say how horrible they are. Then the ride to Tel Aviv.....Yehuda drove like the Jordanian bus driver through the mountain pass after the Arava desert crossing. So, 4 times in the past two days we have been driven through the Arava desert and over the mountains by nutty drivers. Twice on the Israeli side and twice on the Jordanian side. I think I'm done with it.
So, here we are in Tel Aviv for our last night and day in the amazing country. Dinner at Miguel's, where we ate our first night here. Tomorrow a little exploration and then off to the airport for a 1 am flight on December 24th to start the journey home. Very sad about leaving, although leaving with a new appreciation for the spirit of the Israeli people and the tragic history, from Massada to the Holocaust, that has made the survival of this little country so important.
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