Rabbi Jesse Paikin

And Though The News Was Rather Sad

Yesterday, we were learning with Dr. Paul Frosh, Professor of Communications at Jerusalem’s Hebrew University. We were discussing Israeli media coverage of Second Intifada terrorism, and the media’s role in constructing a national identity around the conflict. He introduced us to his thesis that Israeli news media has the ability to create “civic and national solidarity through… depictions of catastrophic events (especially terrorist attacks).” In Israel, television news has the ability (either inherently or deliberately) to bring people directly into events, addressing them (us?) in a way that assumes they (we?) are a part of the story from the very beginning. We were asked to question how nationhood in Israel is built and reinforced through coverage of collective trauma.

Interesting concepts for a group of North Americans who have little-to-no connection to collective trauma. I asked myself: “In the intersection between traumatic events and the discourse prompted by news outlets, is there a parallel in Canadian society?” I cannot think of any. Those who accuse Canada of being a boring place may be blissfully right in this respect. Things are pretty quiet in the Great White North.

So I moved to thinking about American society. Of course, the immediate inclination is to hold up news coverage of 9/11 as the obvious American mirror to Israel. But I would actually argue that this is not an exact parallel; it’s more of a simulacrum. While the news coverage of 9/11 depicted trauma on a national scale, it was a singular event. While the event remains a touchstone of supreme importance, after a while the story – at least on a national level – was able to be “wrapped.” Contrast this to Israel, where coverage of intifada terrorism never truly wrapped up; you can hear this in the language of newscasters at the time, who opened their broadcasts with phrases like “This time, it happened…”and “A particularly bad day of attacks.”

So is there a more direct parallel in American society, and if so, what are we to make of it; how can it help us understand the intersection between media and trauma?

I think the closest phenomena you can get to in the United States is mass shootings. While the spate of shootings in recent history are not as common as terror attacks in Israel, they are more frequent than you’d think, with the death toll often higher than in past suicide bombings. In their coverage, many news outlets have used language similar to that of the Israelis, establishing a patchwork connection between attacks. It’s actually gotten to the point where officials are searching for new language just to describe such shootings:

“The growing number of mass killings over the past five years left the country in search of a term that would distinguish mass murder by gun from those using other weapons.”- Huffington Post

And yet, outside of anti-gun advocacy groups, there does not appear to be a narrative on a national scale linking these events together through the media. While dismay is certainly conveyed at another attack, most appear to be treated as tragic, local events (with notable exceptions such as Virginia Tech and Sandy Hook – though I would argue this is due to the unique child-oriented character of each trauma). I’m curious as to why there is no national trauma evoked at the senseless murder of American citizens and subsequent ongoing national conversation. Shouldn’t there be?

Traumatically, mass shootings in America and terrorist attacks in Israel appear different, as the motives behind the attacks are not the same. In America, they are not necessarily directed at a population solely based on their collective identity. But should this negate a collective response on a national scale? Couldn’t American news media adopt a sense of national responsibility and direct itself towards mobilizing responsible civic nationhood?

Ultimately, the question we were presented with by Dr. Frosh – and the one which I believe should be directed towards the leading American national newsrooms – is this: How does a country comes to discuss with itself how to move past trauma? In Israel, this has meant searching for ways to overcome the national trauma of terrorism and move forwards in support of peace negotiations.

In America, this question is different, since the discourse is not yet taking place in a substantial way on a national scale. America needs to ask itself: How do we discuss with ourselves how to respond to a gun-oriented culture that makes mass shootings possible?

As Dr. Frosh argued, the ability for a country to have a national conversation is built upon a great deal of national consciousness. Without the ability to consider or express these concepts, the trauma can’t be dealt with. As a result, America is bleeding-out from thousands of open gun wounds.

Stephen Harper’s Canada: Israel’s Cheerleader

Originally published at The Times of Israel.


: Photo Credit: Government of Canada

There is an apocryphal story that in the 1980s, when my High School was built, they were offered a million dollar choice by the Board of Education. The school was to receive $1,000,000 earmarked for one of two options: either the school could finance a football team, or they could landscape the entire property for decades to come. The two towering maple trees in the school’s atrium attest to their choice.

As a result, I’ve never really been acquainted with the institution of cheerleading. Lacking a football team at school, we had no cheerleaders. My university’s mascot – the Yeoman – didn’t really lend itself to a popular cadre of cheerleaders (though York’s women’s sports teams were somehow referred to as “yeowomen”). And they are (thankfully) mostly absent from professional hockey.

That said, I’ve recently been introduced to a new type of cheerleader. This is particularly fortuitous given the upcoming Super Bowl. As the lone Canadian at my school in Jerusalem, I have needed to brush up on some NFL particulars. Thanks to Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, I’m now up to date on what it means to be a cheerleader.

Harper’s recent visit to Israel has been something of an anomaly to me. With US Secretary of State John Kerry conducting monthly shuttle diplomacy here, the US-brokered nuclear talks in Iran, and a daily focus on America’s lack of involvement in the situations in Syria and Egypt, it has been a largely American-centric year here in foreign affairs news.

Then all of a sudden, and with great fanfare, the streets of Jerusalem were draped with Canadian flags, welcome signs were rolled out at the hotels, and an entourage of 220 Canadians arrived in Jerusalem accompanying Prime Minister Harper on his first official visit to the country. (For those interested in the intricacies of foreign relations, Google has informed me that 220 Canadians works out to approximately 198.79 Americans.)

But Harper’s speech before the Knesset, along with the messaging of his entire trip was largely nothing new. It lacked nuance, gave scant attention to Israeli-Palestinian relations, did nothing to advance Canada’s role as an international peace broker, and left little room for growth in this international relationship. Harper wanted Israel and the entire world to know how much Canada loves Israel, how we’re the best of friends, and how nothing can tear us asunder.

Yes, it was nice to hear about the deeply ingrained mutual respect our countries have for each other. Yes, it was wonderful to hear Israel spoken of in such a positive light from a foreign dignitary. Yes, it was exciting to hear my home and native land spoken of so highly from abroad. The Israeli press ate up the entire week-long spectacle, with Harper repeatedly gracing the front-pages of Israeli dailies. People were fawning over Canada. As the token Canadian amongst my circles, I suddenly became the expert on all-things Canada.

But something was missing. Depth. Nuance. Relevance.

I found Harper to be mostly superficial in his description of the substance of Canada’s relationship with Israel. Couched in language of “light vs. dark,” “fire and water” and “good vs. evil,” Harper presented a rather simplistic understanding of Israel and the Middle East. It lacked the complexity, depth, and nuance that one would expect from a supposed international leader when it comes to supporting Israel. Jeffery Simpson, at the Globe and Mail, observed this about Harper’s worldview when it comes to Israel and the Middle East:

[It] leaves no room for nuance, balance or understanding of complexity, just a dualistic clash between good and evil, progress and darkness, stability and danger. Of course, this is not how other Western countries behave in the Middle East, including those who strongly support Israel. But it is now Canada’s way.

That said, there is room for someone who has this paradigm. There is a place for this type of player on the international stage. We need look no further than the upcoming Super Bowl for the model of this figure par excellence: The Cheerleader.

The entire worldview of the cheerleader is limited to two and only two potential outcomes: a win or a loss. What cheerleaders want most of all – more than dialogue, more than depth, more than nuance, more than constructive discussion, more than engaging international activism – is for their side to win. Yes, there is a role for the cheerleader, but it is not one of great substance.

: Photo Credit: Government of Canada

Harper’s Mideast is a football game, with Canada newly enshrined as Israel’s cheerleader, jumping around wildly on the sidelines. Yes, there is certainly a role for the cheerleader, but it is confined to the sidelines.

Harper offered no substantial commentary on the main issues confronting Israeli society today that Canada might play a role in. Little of consequence was said about the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the African refugee crisis in Israel, matters of religious pluralism, or environmental crises facing the country.

The sad reality facing Harper was not missed here in Israel. Ha’aretz noted this, with a steely grasp of the ultimate reality of Canada’s role:

With all due respect to the Prime Minister of Canada, his relevance in the international community, his influence on what goes on in the Middle East and his ability to help Israel in matters of life and death are inversely related to the size of his country.

Harper’s love for Israel may come from the depths of his gut. It may be a very real and true part of his identity and what he wants Canada to reflect. But in viewing Israel and the Middle East as a football match, with a zero-sum outcome of a win vs. a loss, Harper has overestimated Canada’s role. We are not the Quarter Back. We are no longer the internationally respected honest brokers of peace. Instead, Canada is dancing wildly from the sidelines, cheering and screaming, yet somehow inexplicably feeling as though we’re contributing to the outcome of the game.

Stephen Harper seems to have forgotten that cheerleaders don’t get to win the Super Bowl.

The Bedouin of Anatevka

Originally published for Jewschool and crossposted at The Times of Israel.

Israel’s Negev Desert is not a hospitable place. Vast, dusty, and scorching hot, it takes a great deal of effort to live on this land. Yet it was out of this very land that the Jewish people emerged, and from which the modern State of Israel was birthed. Anyone who has walked its canyons can attest to the feeling of ancient history pulsing out of the stones. Anyone who has laid their head down on the rocky bed and gazed up at the bowl of stars has felt the awe-inspiring power that emanates here. This is the place of the still, small voice.

bedouin-village-300x200 — Unrecognized Negev Bedouin Village, October 2013

David Ben-Gurion said that it is in the Negev that the creativity, vigor, and spirit of Israel will be tested. He prophesied that it would be there that the standing of Israel in the history of humankind would be determined (The Significance of the Negev, 1955)

Perhaps he was more correct than he knew. Today, close to 60 years after Ben-Gurion presciently spoke of the relevance of the desert, Israel faces a monumental test in this place. Israel’s treatment of its Negev Bedouin population is a trial that has the potential to unravel the dream Ben-Gurion envisioned over half a century ago. The Negev is not only the place where the creativity, vigor, and spirit of Israel are tested; it is the place where the conscience, values, and social values of Israel are being tested today.

What is happening in the Negev? Here are a few facts on the ground – the desert floor, as it were:

Bedouins comprise more than 25% of the population of the Negev, yet have lived on only 5% of the land since before 1948.
In 1948, Israel forcibly created a confinement area in the Negev known as the Siyag (enclosure/fence). Bedouin who didn’t live inside of the Siyag were forced into it. Subsequently, the government zoned the area for military and agricultural purposes, and those living in the Siyag lost their legitimate land claims, even if they predated the founding of the State of Israel.
Israel upholds that many of the Bedouin lack deeds affirming their land ownership, but those who were moved into Syiag weren’t given any land claims. Furthermore, many have claims to land outside of the Siyag that predate the State’s founding, when ownership was traditionally based on oral agreements – these understandings were accepted by and predate Ottoman and British control.
In the 1960s, half of the Bedouin population was moved out of their rural communities and into seven urban towns set up by the government. Over 75% of the remaining villages were unrecognized by the government, and thus do not receive any public services – water, sanitation, or electricity.
Now, the Knesset is set to approve the Prawer-Begin Plan, which will displace 30,000-40,000 Bedouins and demolish their homes.

How can we respond to this situation? Like most things in Israel, it may be viewed from a number of paradigms. Politically, it is crucial to understand that this is not simply a matter of people alleged to be living illegally on land in unrecognized communities; Israel itself created the legal “status” of the Bedouin communities and imposed it on them. Much like the desert land itself, this is a rocky and precarious situation.

More importantly, this is clearly an issue of basic human rights. As a rabbinical student, this is the most pressing paradigm for me. There is no dearth of Jewish commentary on human rights and the paramount supremacy of protecting the rights of the strangers living under Jewish rule. Yet perhaps the most pointed call for the need for Jews to protect the rights of the Bedouin comes not from our ancient texts, but from a rather unlikely source…

Summoning the voice of the fictional Tevye, actor Theodore Bikel recently called on us to not forget the lessons of life in the shtetl. He passionately and poignantly shared: “What hurts is the fact that the very people who are telling them [the Bedouin] to ‘Get out’ are the descendents of the people of Anatevka. My people.”

With the pleas of Tevye in my mind, I have added my name to a petition to the Israel government from 780 other clergy members and clergy-in-training to protect the basic human rights of the Bedouin. The petition and letter from Rabbis for Human Rights and T’ruah: The Rabbinic Call for Human Rights, calls on Prime Minister Netanyahu to stop the Prawer-Begin Plan. In addition to my own signing, I am proud of the principled and courageous stand that my Movement has taken in standing up to this injustice.

Certainly, the Israeli government has the right to determine how to best respond to the needs of the land and its citizens. Yet the current proposal is one which disenfranchises a significant population, further reduces their access to basic human necessities, and only exacerbates a problem that the government itself created through misguided and inhumane policies.

It is incredibly painful to view this situation as a Jewish resident of Israel. With the recent decision to evict Bedouin residents of Umm Al-Hiran and replace the village with a religious Jewish community, it hard to not presume that the government is simply destroying the Bedouin communities to make room for new Jewish settlement of the Negev. Israel already has one demographic crisis on its hands (see: Israeli Arabs and the Palestinians) – why would it willfully create another?

Heeding Ben-Gurion’s charge, we must ensure that the Negev is the birthing ground of Israel’s moral vigor, not an ethically desolate and suffocating environment.

Toto, I have a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore

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When you’re an Israeli author looking to translate works from other languages, the Bible is as good a place as any to turn for inspiration for words that seemingly don’t have a translation. So when author Yemima Avidar-Tchernovitz first translated L. Frank Baum’s “The Wonderful Wizard of Oz” into Hebrew, a 2,500 year old book served as a great launching pad.

Having already looked at the Hebrew translation of the Wizard of Oz years ago, I had a moment of sheer delight last week in our Tanakh class as we started reading the book of Job. Job opens with the line: “אִישׁ הָיָה בְאֶרֶץ עוּץ אִיּוֹב שְׁמוֹ” (There was a man from the Land of Uz, his name was Job). We don’t know much at all about this Land of Uz, though there are theories that it is a generic term for an unknown, easterly place. Sound familiar? Perhaps a place you can’t get to by a boat, or a train. It’s far, far away. Behind the moon, beyond the rain…

Turns out that the Hebrew title of the Wizard of Oz is “הקוסם מארץ עוץ” – or, “The Magician of Uz.”

The Wizard of Oz is the Wizard of Uz. Not only are the English and Hebrew words phonetically related, there’s an awesome depth to what the Hebrew name evokes. The word choice is brilliant. It connects a book that examines the question “why do bad things happen to good people?” (Job) to another that examines the question “what are good and evil?” (Oz).

I wonder what Israeli kids who have studied Job in school think when they watch or read Oz – does it have a different connotation to them? Do they associated it with their religious/ethnic heritage? Or is it just a damn good story?

Parashat Vayishlach: Searching for the Vanished Jacob

This is the sermon that I delivered this Shabbat at HUC-JIR in Jerusalem. It was my first of the year, and my first official d’var torah at Rabbinical School.

“Don’t you see how many of us there are, and there’s only two of you‽”

Thirteen years ago, late in the afternoon of a cool autumn day, I was waiting at a bus stop with a friend. A large group of teenagers approached us, asking if they could borrow some money. All that was in my pocket was an empty wallet and bus tickets. I said I didn’t have any cash. “Don’t you see how many of us there are, and there’s only two of you‽” Within seconds, my friend was on the ground, being kicked and beaten, and I was running for help from nearby strangers.

In the aftermath, there were some who thought it unbelievable that I ran, instead of staying to defend my friend. At times, I had my own guilt about the situation. But I was reassured that my reaction was the normal, human response to the situation, and very well could have saved us from more harm.

In 1932, Walter Bradford Cannon, an American Physiologist, coined the term “fight or flight response,” to describe the physiological reaction that occurs in response to perceived harmful events or threats to survival. This is our body’s way of protecting us when it senses danger. We give ourselves over to something more powerful than our consciousness to hopefully emerge safely.

This Shabbat, we read: “לו וַיֵּצֶר ,מְאֹד יַעֲקֹב וַיִּירָא – Jacob was greatly frightened and anxious”[1] and “לְבַדּו יַעֲקֹב וַיִּוָּתֵר – And Jacob was alone.”[2]

Confronted with an approaching force of 400 men sent by Esau who had vowed to kill him,[3] what does Jacob do? He splits his camp in two to protect his family,[4] sends envoys to Esau,[5] and prays to God for protection.[6] He doesn’t flee, nor does he prepare to fight. Perhaps, Jacob isn’t the wisest person.

We can forgive Jacob for not being familiar with the body’s Autonomic Nervous System, but how are we to understand his reaction to his fear and loneliness? This isn’t just a frightening situation that confronts Jacob; it is a dilemma of existential proportions. And there is a significant difference between fear and existential dread. Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks teaches:

A [moral] dilemma is not simply a conflict. There are many moral conflicts. [But] these questions have answers. There is a right course of action and a wrong one… A dilemma, however, is a situation in which there is no right answer… A moral system which leaves room for the existence of dilemmas is one that does not attempt to eliminate the complexities of the moral life… Judaism recognises the existence of dilemmas… we may be faced with situations in which there is an ineliminable cause for distress.[7]

Certainly, there are moral complexities confronting Jacob. He is faced with a potentially violent standoff against Esau, yet he wants to reconcile and make peace with his brother. Rashi teaches that the Torah says Jacob was both frightened and anxious to evoke the dread that Jacob must be feeling: frightened that he might be killed, and anxious that he might have to kill others.[8] Rabbi Jacob bar Idi, an Amoraic sage, elucidates this dilemma, noting that in his stunning vision of the ladder, Jacob was promised by God that his offspring would be as numerous as the dust of the earth and the sand in the sea,[9] but now he faces potential death and the destruction of that promise.[10]

How does Jacob reconcile this existential dilemma?

We read that as part of Jacob’s peace overtures, he sends messengers to Esau with messages of reconciliation. But the Torah’s word for messengers – מלאכים – may also be read as “angels”. The Rambam suggests that as angels are non-corporeal beings, they can be understood more broadly to refer to other non-corporeal phenomena, such as human intelligence and intellect.[11] The very name of this parasha, וישלח (and he dispatched / and he sent out), conveys the idea that when assessing and dealing with a potentially life-altering challenge, we must dispatch our own “non-corporeal” beings – such as intelligence and intellect.

Defying an instinctual fight or flight reaction, Jacob hatches an ingenious plan. Hopeful that peace will be reached, he is also pragmatic and protects his family – and through them, the realization of God’s promise. Jacob’s actions are a model of how to avoid reactionary extremism, and use our intellect to overcome existential dilemmas.

We know that Jacob’s life is one of great struggle. Many look up to him as a leader and father, but he is a complex man who spends much of his life searching for things seemingly out of his grasp. To be sure, struggle is something that is baked into Jacob’s essence from his time in Rebecca’s womb. He physically struggles with his brother even before they are born. He struggles for a birthright. For his father’s love. For a wife. With an angel of God. He struggles for his distant son. Jacob is not a comfortable man.

Rabbi Levi Lauer, Director of the Israeli human rights organization, Atzum, teaches us that in fact, “Comfort is not a Jewish value.”[12] While too much fear, struggle, and discomfort may be debilitating, these can also be forces of good when they keep us safe, when they expand our horizons, and when they open the doors to new journeys, as in Jacob’s story.

Jacob’s story is not the first in the Tanakh of a volatile, discomforting conflict between brothers. Nor is it the last. But his is one which offers a compelling vision of how to reconcile an existential dilemma of two competing truths. When the lines between good and evil are not black and white, Jacob forges a pragmatic, centrist path that avoids both idealistic naiveté as well as a hard-line, extremist reaction. His is a solution that results in life renewed.

We should know that this centrist approach has deep roots in Jewish spirituality. The kabbalistic teaching of tikkun olam is not merely a social-justice, “feel good” philosophy. It is an expansive cosmology, which teaches that at the beginning of creation, the world was in a spiritual state of chaos, called Tohu. This state of existence was full of Divine light and energy, but lacked balance and order, and ultimately collapsed in on itself in a cosmic shattering. But this collapse was part of a Divine order so that our universe could be rebuilt through humanity’s fixing of this shattering – through tikkun.

Rabbi Yanki Tauber teaches that “the Kabbalists see Jacob and Esau as the embodiment of this cosmic twinship.”[13] Esau is the chaotic energy of Tohu, while Jacob represents the opportunity for tikkun. The challenge is to bring together these twins and the forces they represent. As Rabbi Tauber argues:

The struggle to achieve this synergy is the life-history of the biblical twins, and the essence of human history as a whole. Esau and Jacob emerge from the same womb (where they were already fighting), and the rest of their lives is defined by the effort to bring them back together.

The quest to unite Esau’s Tohu and Jacob’s tikkun continues today. On a daily basis, we are confronted with realities of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. To be sure, this is a struggle based on an almost familial relationship. Israel – like Jacob – is faced with two competing truths. One the one hand, we long to heed the Psalmist’s call: “ורדפהו שלום בּקש” – seek peace and pursue it,[14] yet at the same time, Israel cannot be naïve about the threatening realities of life in this neighbourhood.

Can we turn to Jacob, the primordial political centrist, for some wisdom? Yossi Klein Halevi makes the case for such a paradigm. In a recent article, he writes:

I am looking for the vanished Israel. To be an Israeli is not like being a centrist in any other political context. There is nothing wishy-washy about being an Israeli centrist. An Israeli centrist embraces two strong, diametrically opposed conclusions about the Palestinian problem. One is that a Palestinian state is an existential need for Israel, and the other is that a Palestinian state is an existential threat for Israel. That’s what it means to be an Israeli centrist… I see the emergence of a political center as an expression of Israeli maturity.”^[15]

Klein Halevi’s moral charge is made all the more powerful when we read it keeping in mind Jacob’s other name. Klein Halevi isn’t just looking for the vanished Israel; he’s looking for the vanished Jacob, searching for a solution to a moral dilemma that stretches back thousands of years into the womb of our history as two peoples. Just as Jacob matured through his pragmatic, centrist approach to reconciling with Esau, Israel must mature through a similar paradigm.

There is a Chassidic teaching that Jacob’s name change to Israel marked this point of maturation from a childhood of struggle and strife to a more harmonious realization of his relationship with God. But this is also a mystery: even after he is named Israel, Jacob continues to be Jacob. The Torah continues to use his old name throughout the rest of his life.[16]

Leonard Fine, the preeminent MIT, Harvard and Brandeis professor, and profound Reform thinker, questions this peculiarity in the text: “How is it that Jacob, who is twice told that his name has been changed to ‘Israel,’ continues to be remembered in our liturgy by his former name?”[17]

It is a simple truth, yet often forgotten: when we pray the Amidah, we refer to “Elohei Ya’akov,” not “Elohei Yisrael.” I believe this seeming inconsistency recognizes the profound truth that Jacob continues to struggle and wrestle, even after he is transformed into Israel.

This remains true for us in our day, as well. As residents of Jerusalem, we don’t have to search far for cases where it appears that Israel has forgotten itself and is acting like the old Jacob. But can we look inward as well, and see the same struggle in ourselves? Certainly, Jacob did. HUC Professor Norman Cohen suggests that Jacob “was conscious of all the different forces in his life with which he struggled: God, Esau, the side of himself that haunted him like a shadow,” and that these forces manifest together as the being with whom he wrestled.[18]

So let us learn from Jacob – from Israel – someone with whom we can identify. Someone whom, as Rabbi Sacks notes: “…we understand. We can feel his fear, understand his pain…”[19]

We are all Jacob, struggling to find the holy space between the chaos of Tohu and the reconciliation of tikkun. When Jacob himself first finds that place, the Torah says “the sun shone on him.”[20] Rashi teaches poetically that this refers to the process of healing that was beginning to take place. So may we continue to search for the vanished Jacob, for his healing, and for the holy space between Tohu and tikkun.

[1] Gen. 32:8
[2] Gen. 32:25
[3] Gen. 32:7
[4] Gen. 32:8-9
[5] Gen. 32:14-22
[6] Gen. 32-12
[7] www.rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation-vayishlach-fear-or-distress
[8] Based on Gen. R. 76:2
[9] Gen. 28: 14-15, 32:13
[10] BT Berakhot: 41
[11] Maimonides, Moses: Guide to the Perplexed (2:10)
[12] As quoted by Rabbi Avi Orlow: http://www.saidtomyself.com/2012/11/30/achilles-heel
[13] http://www.chabad.org/parshah/article_cdo/aid/35866/jewish/The-Cosmic-Twins
[14] Ps. 34:15
[15] http://www.haaretz.com/culture/.premium-1.553443
[16] http://www.chabad.org/parshah/article_cdo/aid/246640/jewish/Double-Identity
[17] http://www.reformjudaism.org/welcome-questions
[18] Cohen, Norman J.: Voices from Genesis. Vermont: Jewish Lights, 1998. Pp 125.
[19] www.rabbisacks.org/covenant-conversation-5772-vayishlach-the-jewish-journey
[20] Gen. 32:32

Israel, the gorgeous klutz

With fiery and insulting rhetoric coming from Netanyahu about the Iranian nuclear negotiations, and firebrand (and sometimes racist) Avigdor Lieberman freshly reinstated as Israeli Foreign Minister stating that the US and Israel should hide their policy disagreements, it has certainly been an interesting 24 hours in Israel.

Sometimes it feels like I’m watching a bad romantic comedy, where one of the people in the relationship keeps messing things up and saying stupid things, even though they’re so close to having a meaningful and fruitful relationship.

I’m looking at you, Israel. Stop being the douchey guy. Stop being the gorgeous klutz.

Far be it from me to offer relationship advice to the masters of the house in which I live. But sometimes I just want to cringe.

If you want to be in a relationship with the United States (which, let’s be honest, you absolutely need to if you want to have any semblance of positive international relations), then perhaps it’s time to stop shooting yourself in the foot.

Israel doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It’s shocking to watch it’s leaders acting as if it does.

November 11

A great shot of my Zaidy, RCAF Squadron Leader (ret) Jack Cahan with his five grandkids from Remembrance Day last year.

A couple months ago we were learning about the creation of civil religion in Israel and how in the early days of the State, there was a need to create days of national importance to help forge a sense of nationalist identity. Our (British) teacher remarked how every country needs to do this in their nascent days, including the United States. Afterwards – in an attempt to stand my ground as the only Canadian in our class – I remarked to him (with that typical Canadian quasi-inferiority complex) that Canada is different, that we’re not an über-nationalist country, and that we don’t really have any national holidays of this import. At least not anymore in 2013.

He responded: “But you have Remembrance Day.”

After 30 years of living intimately close to the holiday, through ceremonies at school, parades with my Zaidy (a Royal Canadian Air Force Squadron Leader, ret.), and years of wearing poppies, this simply hadn’t occurred to me. I had aways felt the significance of the day, but didn’t realized its paramount place in Canadian culture until I was almost 10,000 kilometers away from home.

Rick Hansen writes today in the Globe and Mail that “Remembrance Day is one of the most important days we have on our national calendar.” I would go further and say that it is the most important day on the national calendar. Certainly, for most, Canada Day is simply a day off in the middle of the summer with fireworks at amusement parks and little nationalist sentiments. Victoria Day is an excuse to get drunk at the cottage. Most Canadians likely don’t know what the real meaning of Canadian Thanksgiving is.

But Remembrance Day is ceremoniously observed in schools, houses of worship, and national halls across the country. There is unity and solemnity in observing the day and remembering our national heroes together. We mark ourselves with a common symbol in our communal observance. We recite the same words of memory and memorial. To be sure, it may be the only day on the Canadian calendar that is on the level of civil religious observance.

Observing Remembrance Day from outside of Canada has taken on new significance for me. It has become much more intentional – requiring a special effort to mark the day and remember what it stands for, since it doesn’t just happen around me anymore. I suspect this might be akin to how Israelis feel about Judaism when they leave Israel and go down into the diaspora.

While I don’t write about family that much on this blog, keeping matters more to commentary on religion, philosophy, and other such boring matters, today, in keeping with the “religious” spirit of the day, I will break from tradition…

I am so blessed to have been raised closely by my Zaidy, who has imparted a deep appreciation of the role of the Canadian military in shaping the lives of Canadians – and specifically of Canadian Jews. Far from a hawkish or militaristic inculcation, he has taught me to understand and appreciate the personal way that Canadians have fought for each other, and how incredibly important it is to recognize, mark, and honour these commitments and sacrifices.

I am even more-so blessed that my Zaidy – RCAF Squadron Leader (ret.) Jack Cahan, will be turning 90 this December, and that I was able to see and talk with him this Remembrance Day, from 10,000 kilometers away. I am so proud to be his grandson, and I hope each day that I can carry just a fraction of his dedication and honour with me.

May you find yourself lost and stranded in a village of Palestinian Muslims

I haven’t revisited the Yiddish Curses for Republican Jews meme since its height during the US presidential elections last year, but an experience earlier this weekend prompted me to go back and scroll through them to find one in particular. On Friday morning, I boarded a bus and travelled deep into the West Bank for an olive picking and human rights tour with Rabbis for Human Rights.

Our first stop was the home of Jamil, a Palestinian olive farmer, who has had multiple interactions with the IDF and with settlers. Within moments of sitting down on the plush sofas in his living room, we were promptly served strong coffee and sweet tea, followed by pastries which his son described as “Palestinian pizza.”

Drinking coffee at Jamil’s (second from right) house

We heard much that was distressing – stories of the over 30 legal complaints Jamil had to file in response to attacks on his settlers. Stories of how settlers have repeatedly cut down, burned, and poisoned Palestinian olive fields. Stories of how after Israeli courts ruled in favor of Palestinian claims, Israeli settlers came in the middle of the night and burned down entire olive orchards. Stories of how there are olive trees that were planted by Palestinians decades ago, but now exist within the bounds of Israeli settlements; trees that Palestinians can still see, but cannot harvest. It’s like having court-supervised visitation after a particularly messy divorce.

Later in the day, we would see with our own eyes an olive orchard that had recently been burned down by settlers from a nearby outpost. After running through the most recent offenses against his land, Jamil paused to reflect on the nature of his quotidian life, then shared: “When your enemy is the police and the judge, the system is stacked against you.” *

In response, our Rabbinic guide lamented: “It’s like seeing your family members cut down trees.”

We asked Jamil how he viewed the future. He responded: “No other country will accept us. We can’t leave.” His words struck me like a punch to the chest. They could just as easily have come from the mouth of a Jew around the time of the foundation of Israel.

A view of the burned olive orchard near the illegal “Aish Kodesh” outpost

Lest I become too despondent, I should stop and say that my point is not to put forth a litany of the offenses we saw and heard off. Rather, it is to draw a sharp distinction between how one might suspect we would be treated by those we met in the West Bank, and the reality of our experiences there. Here we were, kippot-clad Jewish rabbinical students from Jerusalem, as good a symbol of the Other as possible. Jamil and his kinsmen had every reason to be suspicious of, offended by, even angry at us. The reality couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Sitting in Jamil’s home, talking about the daily immense struggles his family faces with regards to accessing their land, freedom of movement, and threats from nearby settlers, I was struck by how warm, peaceful and welcoming our surrounding was. Which is why I was reminded of the modern yiddish curse:

“May you find yourself lost and stranded in a village of Palestinian Muslims, and may you be treated only with dignity, kindness and respect.”

One of the reasons the “curses” were so effectively humorous is that they brought to light many of the uncomfortable truths that we’re loathe to recognize in ourselves and others. Some of them were hilarious in their absurdity, while others cut a little too close to home. Consider this one as those of the latter disposition.

Later in the day, we trekked out into the orchards to help pick the last of this harvest’s olives. This was an un-arranged visit; we just dropped by a group of farmers and asked if we could help. While doing so, we were served more tea, along with fresh olives, pita, and olive oil. As we took a break to eat and drink, we played with some of the local Palestinian children. They, too, had every reason to fear our presence – the kippot on our heads symbols (unfairly so) of those people who have come to destroy their fields. To be sure, some stared from a distance, pointing at our heads with one hand while drawing a circle over their own heads. While much can be said about what stereotypes are being taught about the Other in both cultures and how this isn’t helping bring peace any closer, for now it was simply delightful to contribute to Jews and Palestinians having time to laugh with each other, clearly an important step on the path to dismantling some of these stereotypes.

As we boarded our bus to head back to Jerusalem, another group of our Palestinian hosts came out of their house, asking us to come inside to drink coffee with them. Unfortunately we didn’t have time as we had to get back home before Shabbat. So – and here’s the best part – they ran back inside, and quickly returned with small paper cups, so they could serve us coffee for the ride home.

Three times that day, we were welcomed in graciously as guests. Three times, our hosts went above and beyond what could be expected, in order to make us feel welcomed with dignity, kindness, and respect. For me, the juxtaposition between these acts of hachnasat orchim – welcoming the stranger – and the acts of sinat chinam – baseless hatred and cruelty we saw committed by our fellow Jews and Israelis – was the most impactful part of the day. Granted, what we saw and heard must be understood in terms of the larger context of the situation in the West Bank. Not all settlers burn down olive fields, and not all Palestinians are necessarily as welcoming as those we meet. That said, it was clear to me that the welcoming and openness we received was not an extreme example – it was the norm for these families. Yet this normative welcoming is being met with extremist violence by the settlers.

It is on that note that it must be asked: “Who wants to see these things? To believe that Jewish people are doing these things?”

Challenging us with this question, our guide prompted us to think about Sulam Ya’akov (Jacob’s Ladder) the famous episode in Genesis from that week’s parasha. After awaking from his dream at Beth El, Jacob declared “Surely God is in this place and I did not know it!” Similarly, we must acknowledge that we must awake from our own dreams and acknowledge the truths that are around us, as challenging as that may be.

Faced with the prospect of such a jarring awakening, it seems that there are a few dominant responses: Some people just ignore the problems and pretend that they don’t exist – a response that the separation wall/fence/barrier is exacerbating (it’s so easy to pretend that the Other doesn’t exist when you don’t have to see them). At the other end of the extreme are those who respond with rejection and hostility towards Israel en masse. This response is equally harmful, in that it also distorts the entire picture by trying to paint a new picture of reality with broad strokes that ignore the nuances of Israel.

There is a middle road, and it is incumbent upon me to walk that road. At the end of the day, the settlers belong to my people and my Torah. For this reason, I believe I can’t be ignorant or rejectionist, since my lot is cast with them. I must help others acknowledge the middle road between ignorance and hostility, that permits access to the more realistic – albeit more challenging – understanding of reality. Far too often, it’s incredibly easy to live in Israel these days in a dreamlike state ignorant of the harsh reality mere kilometers away.

After awaking from his dream, Jacob goes on to wrestle with an angel God. Some commentators suggest that he is actually wrestling with himself. Most certainly, it is time again for Israel to wrestle with itself.

*These offenses are well documented. Just this year, over 2,000 trees have been cut down, poisoned, or burned. Flocks of sheep have been killed after grazing on the land and eating poisoned crops. We learned of the deliberate or de facto coordination between settlers and the IDF, as the army frequently declares nighttime curfews on Palestinians, which allows or enables settlers to come into Palestinian farmland in the night and commit offenses such as we saw. And we learned that the IDF and the Israeli police often cannot or do not help the Palestinians who live under their security control, as they are equally afraid of retribution against them from the settlers. Moreover, there is a sense amongst these Palestinian farmers that even the Palestinian Authority is lament to help them, since they are largely funded by the USA, which affects their priorities.

Crossposted at The Times of Israel here.

There is a Wall in Your Way

At the Wall, all anyone can do is look at the Wall.
From all her angles.
At the Wall all you can do is close your eyes because there’s nothing to see there.
There is a Wall in your way…

– From “Along the Wall” by Rabbi Joshua Bolton

I had the joy of joining with Women of the Wall this evening to help kick off the group’s 25th anniversary. A few of us from school were asked to songlead during the opening ceremony, and I welcomed the opportunity. Tomorrow, I will join their Rosh Chodesh service at the Kotel (from the men’s side of the mechitzah), in support of my peers, colleagues, and friends.

My visit to the Kotel tomorrow will only be my second since arriving in Israel over four months ago (the other being on Tisha b’Av). I have a tenuous relationship with the Kotel, and as of late, I do not find it spiritually conducive to my Jewish practice. As an aside – is it absurd to speak in terms of having a “relationship” with a pile of old stones?

In commemoration of the Women of the Wall’s celebrations, a group of girls from NFTY came to Israel to represent the Movement. Speaking about the history and significance of the Kotel, one particularly wise teen said to me – “but it’s just a retaining wall!” That’s a pretty concise yet accurate statement of where I’m at these days. This statement is indeed true, but there is much more to this truth. Certainly, I recognize the immense historical significance and symbolic relevance of the Kotel, and this is something that I do connect strongly with. But as a symbol of Orthodox hegemony and oppression of the rights of women and Jews, I find it to be an incredibly challenging and emotionally draining place. Which is why I don’t go much these days, even though I live and study steps from its ancient stones.

While discussing the challenges at the Kotel, a friend of mine remarked that she really values the unique roles Judaism ascribes to each gender, and finds deep meaning in what she is empowered to do as a Jewish woman. And that it is precisely for that reason that she, too, finds the Kotel to be a challenging place, since the imbroglio takes away from her ability to pray there as a woman, in a Jewish environment surrounded by women who aren’t trying to silence her.

For me, alongside my deep commitment to a fully egalitarian Judaism, I also identify strongly with the various ways that Judaism welcomes men and women to access their Judaism in different ways, at times using different language. I have no problem referring to the shekhinah any more than I do speaking of Avinu Malkeinu. To be sure – not withstanding the historical bias towards a male-oriented language that Jewish history has had – I relish the different metaphors and allegories we use to talk about God and our relationship with Her/Him.

It is for that reason that the Kotel’s hijacking by the Orthodox disturbs me the most – precisely because it is being done by my fellow Jewish men, in the name of a Judaism to which I – and the majority of both Israelis and Jews around the world – don’t ascribe. When I go to the Kotel and bask in the vastness of the men’s section, I can walk freely up to the ancient and holy stones without having to push my way through a crowd, as the women do. I don’t have raw eggs thrown at me for wearing tallit and tefillin, and I can pray the words of the Shema without fear of being arrested. For me to do these things, while other Jews cannot, requires immense cognitive dissonance; that these offenses are committed by fellow Jewish men towards women because they are not men causes me great distress.

Yet tomorrow, I will join thousands of other people in recognition of the ongoing struggle to make Israel a better place. Surely, I can’t just sit on the sidelines whenever the fight gets dirty. Often, it’s important to get a little closer to the things that make us uncomfortable, to get a better perspective, and to push ourselves to right the wrongs we see in the world. As we sang tonight, overlooking the gates of the Old City: “Open for me the gates of righteousness, I will enter and give thanks to Adonai.”

Parashat Lech Lecha: Get on with you!

With Lech L’cha just completed, here are some thoughts on the parasha that I included in my application to rabbinical school:

…I recently read a d’var Torah on parashat Lech L’cha that explored why Avram was commanded in a triad to “Go forth from your land, from your birthplace, from your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” In his drash, Art Grand shares the Nativat Shalom’s question of why three places are mentioned. Wouldn’t one suffice? His teaching is that while they are often sources of support, each of us can be limited and held back by the expectations and assumptions that come from our communities, our personalities and our parents…

…Mirroring the Nativat Shalom’s teaching, I had to leave my parents’ house by moving to Montreal to pursue my studies in theatre. I then had to leave my Canadian birthplace by moving to New York to pursue a career in experiential Jewish education. And to complete this phase of my journey, I literally had to leave my land by traveling to Israel – much like Avram did – to discover my true purpose in pursuing my studies in rabbinical school….

…It would be disingenuous and conceited to compare myself to Abraham; I make no attempt to elevate myself to such levels of import. Yet the centrality of his physical and spiritual journey resonates deeply with me. There is no doubt in my mind that arriving at the place I am in now, ready to make a profound and lifelong commitment, required three distinct journeys through three different countries…