Earlier this month, I went home to celebrate my grandmother's 80th birthday. On a frigid weekday in Manhattan during the trip, I walked through Times Square. "Don't take me here again!" I screamed at my boyfriend, as if I didn't know that we would be walking through Midtown. But I couldn't have predicted such a strong visceral reaction.
Jerusalem is a village of a city. You see the same people on the street all the time. There are no outdoor televisions. Times Square put me into a mild state of shock and anger. Because there is something that I want to preserve.
Last night, I went to the Jerusalem Cinemateque to see Rachel Getting Married, a tragicomedy about a dysfunctional family at a moment when joy and pain both rear their heads at once. It was set at a lavish home in Connecticut. One sister was getting a PhD in psychology and marrying a musician; one sister had come home from rehab the day before her sister's wedding. It seemed to fit into a genre of films about dysfunctional people and relationships--Igby Goes Down, The Royal Tannenbaums, Magnolia--there was a time in high school when I felt subjected to these films, all of which I had seen thinking that there would be more narrative, more character development, more inspiration, less tragedy.
The movie jarred me like Times Square. Why was everyone in the movie screaming at each other? Why were the characters fighting about who got to be the maid of honor? There is something, in stark distinction to this kind of life, that I want to preserve.
Today I saw this New York Times review about a trio of muezzins, describing their lives calling worshippers to prayer from their respective minarets in Cairo (http://www.nytimes.com/2009/03/19/theater/19abroad.html?8dpc). In three days, I will be going to Cairo, my first time to an Arab country. But I have heard the muezzin all year. The midday call to prayer rings out from across the street in Bet Zafafa during my gemara class at Nishmat.
It's a crazy thing to say, but despite all but a complete lack of connection with Muslim culture, my gut reacts to the idea of muezzins talking about their lives and work with familiarity and endearment. There is something that I want to preserve.
Last week, we had a group seminar called Palestinian Movers and Shakers. We went to Haifa. We heard from Palestinian community organizers, a rap artist, the director of the Palestinian National Theater in Haifa. We asked them about their lives, and they told us about their pain, about the slow progress happening their communities, and about a political vision that precludes the viability of our own. It is so raw, so real.
That is why I feel so alive when I am in Israel. It's so raw, and so real, for everyone who lives here. There is a lot of screaming. It's not behind a screen, and it's never too elegant.
For as long as I've written poetry, I've worried about trying to make my life imitate art. Now, finally, that paradigm seems wholly artificial. For living life well is the highest art. In some circumstances, living life merely with dignity is an art.
I will be moving to Manhattan this May, somewhere I always imagined NEVER living. It always seemed overstimulating to the point of overload. How can a reflective person handle so much information, so many colors, so many moods? Somewhat ironically, it is my love of wilderness and drive to work for healing the ecology of the land that will bring me there for graduate school. But its compactness is a blessing for its carbon footprint. The ratio of bodies to its relative peace impresses me. It is an impressive place. And to confess, I have not only called it the "epicenter of capitalism" since high school, but it has also been my baseline city, wherever I have traveled. I am a Jersey girl, if only by birth.
If I can preserve, for myself, a sense of raw and real...if I can preserve for myself a life of mindful striving simply for the life well-lived, I will prove to myself that I can carry the village mentality inside myself. I will have a new answer to the 'which superpower' question: the ability to turn a megatropolis into a village, knowing her neighbors in their raw and real.
So this is my hypothesis for Cairo. It will endear itself to me, because, like Jerusalem, it is a metropolis that will feel like a village. I will be convinced that Israel is indeed a Middle Eastern country, with more in common culturally, at least on the street, with Egypt than with the US. I will love being there, for the distinctness and vitality of it, and for the novelty of being a foreigner there, but I will be ready to leave at the end of my five days, because there is only so long that I can enjoy myself, while feeling like I am a foreigner keeping her identity a secret.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
Election Day 2009: poll observer, though not a citizen
I don't have an Israeli ID card. But I can affect an Israeli accent and a nice smile, and I think that's how I come into many opportunities. That's basically how I got to observe the polling station at the grade school on Kovshei Katamon in Jerusalem during the national elections this week.
I volunteered for the new Green/Modern Religious party on election day. The party, called Hayerukah Meimad, was recently formed on a platform of social ecology, wih a focus on education, social programs, and renewable energy. It's nearly as left of center as Meretz, and I became interested in it for a few reasons--I knew several of the candidates running on their ticket (who are leading environmentalists in Israel), the party includes secular and religious Israelis working together, they prioritize social and environmental issues, and, at least in Jerusalem, they seemed to have a blast of youthful energy going into this election.
I arrived at the school at 8am, wearing my party t-shirt, and ready to pass out fliers. I stood 10 meters from the entrance to the school entrance, as prescribed by the law, in front of an Al-Jazeera news truck, whose team I got to watch and interact with all morning.
Their team included a British reporter, and a bilingual team, including one whose first language was clearly Arabic. They didn't do much, except describe how election campaigning had been "lackluster" and interview two good-looking voters. They wanted to interview me in English, but I was honest and told them I didn't have a vote. Gil Hoffman, the editor of the Jerusalem Post, ran onto the scene for a quick interview.
In contrast, a Brazilian news team went inside the fence surrounding the school, and interviewed many voters. They were less concerned with their appearances, but then, I guess Al-Jazeera has a lot more viewers.
On the day of elections, each party has the right to enter the polling place and observe to make sure nothing fishy is going on. I had an official permission slip from my party, so they let me through security. The poll workers seemed mostly to be high school students. They wore Adidas sweats, red boots, chatted on their cell phones, and smiled at everyone. I told them I didn't have an Israeli ID number in my best Hebrew, and they asked me to stand aside while they checked.
They said I was fine. I signed my entrance and exit times. In the meantime, I pulled up a chair and watched. Elderly husbands and wives stroll into the grade schoool gym, arm in arm. A mother photographs her three boys, all in blue sweatsuits, in front of the blue voting stall. The stall is embossed with the national seal: a silver menorah on a cobalt background, adn beneath it, also in silver, the word, "Israel." People are told to put their ballots in envelopes, but not to seal them, and then to slip them into what looks like the official blue "Israel" shoebox.
I spoke with a lot of people on the sidewalk that day. A lot of people yelled at me for not merging HaYerukah Meimad with Aleh Yarok, the legalize marijiuana party, and Yerukah, the standard Green Party. People yelled at me because Hayerukah Meimad was a party with religious candidates that supported the separation of religion and state, as opposed to legally mandating shabbat closures of businesses. Others smiled and told me they were voting for our party. I got to see a lot of people who live in my neighborhood, and go everywhere by car, so I never see them on the street. Volunteers from party headquarters delivered hot cider in compostable cups, since the weather was cold and rainy.
A few days later, it seems that the results of the good omen of rain on Election Day are not yet apparent. Where there was excitement before the election, especially in light of Obama being elected in the US, now there is a deflated feeling of everything going right back to stagnant normal. But I am clinging to my optimism, and hoping that rainy Election Day was truly a good omen, even if we can't tell quite yet.
I volunteered for the new Green/Modern Religious party on election day. The party, called Hayerukah Meimad, was recently formed on a platform of social ecology, wih a focus on education, social programs, and renewable energy. It's nearly as left of center as Meretz, and I became interested in it for a few reasons--I knew several of the candidates running on their ticket (who are leading environmentalists in Israel), the party includes secular and religious Israelis working together, they prioritize social and environmental issues, and, at least in Jerusalem, they seemed to have a blast of youthful energy going into this election.
I arrived at the school at 8am, wearing my party t-shirt, and ready to pass out fliers. I stood 10 meters from the entrance to the school entrance, as prescribed by the law, in front of an Al-Jazeera news truck, whose team I got to watch and interact with all morning.
Their team included a British reporter, and a bilingual team, including one whose first language was clearly Arabic. They didn't do much, except describe how election campaigning had been "lackluster" and interview two good-looking voters. They wanted to interview me in English, but I was honest and told them I didn't have a vote. Gil Hoffman, the editor of the Jerusalem Post, ran onto the scene for a quick interview.
In contrast, a Brazilian news team went inside the fence surrounding the school, and interviewed many voters. They were less concerned with their appearances, but then, I guess Al-Jazeera has a lot more viewers.
On the day of elections, each party has the right to enter the polling place and observe to make sure nothing fishy is going on. I had an official permission slip from my party, so they let me through security. The poll workers seemed mostly to be high school students. They wore Adidas sweats, red boots, chatted on their cell phones, and smiled at everyone. I told them I didn't have an Israeli ID number in my best Hebrew, and they asked me to stand aside while they checked.
They said I was fine. I signed my entrance and exit times. In the meantime, I pulled up a chair and watched. Elderly husbands and wives stroll into the grade schoool gym, arm in arm. A mother photographs her three boys, all in blue sweatsuits, in front of the blue voting stall. The stall is embossed with the national seal: a silver menorah on a cobalt background, adn beneath it, also in silver, the word, "Israel." People are told to put their ballots in envelopes, but not to seal them, and then to slip them into what looks like the official blue "Israel" shoebox.
I spoke with a lot of people on the sidewalk that day. A lot of people yelled at me for not merging HaYerukah Meimad with Aleh Yarok, the legalize marijiuana party, and Yerukah, the standard Green Party. People yelled at me because Hayerukah Meimad was a party with religious candidates that supported the separation of religion and state, as opposed to legally mandating shabbat closures of businesses. Others smiled and told me they were voting for our party. I got to see a lot of people who live in my neighborhood, and go everywhere by car, so I never see them on the street. Volunteers from party headquarters delivered hot cider in compostable cups, since the weather was cold and rainy.
A few days later, it seems that the results of the good omen of rain on Election Day are not yet apparent. Where there was excitement before the election, especially in light of Obama being elected in the US, now there is a deflated feeling of everything going right back to stagnant normal. But I am clinging to my optimism, and hoping that rainy Election Day was truly a good omen, even if we can't tell quite yet.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Don't Be Afraid! A Tribute to Rabbi Alan Lew
"I have not found serenity. Serenity is nothing other than prophecy."
- Baruch ben Neriah, Shir haShirim Rabbah on 6:10
Today Rabbi Alan Lew, the rabbi emeritus of Congregation Beth Shalom, and a beautiful teacher of Jewish meditation in San Francisco, died unexpectedly. He was one of the people responsible for the fact that I am writing this entry from my room in Jerusalem, after having spent the day in a traditional beit midrash, a house of study. I am shocked to hear of this loss, and I am moved to tell the story of how his teachings helped orient me, in subtle ways, toward Judaism, toward meditation, and toward California.
Once when I was home on a break from my freshman year of college, I went over to a friend's house, and after talking for a while with my friend's mom, I walked away with a signed copy of One God Clapping, Rabbi Lew's autobiography about his years practicing Zen meditation in northern California, and his decision to leave the monastery for rabbinical school. I was to major in religion, looking thematically at world religions to explore how they provide ethical norms, inspire people to the highest forms of art and wackiest forms of transgression, and at its core, why religion always has and always will exist in every human culture. I took something essential from this book-- certainty and loyalty. Whatever I learned in my religion classes and my travels, however attractive the ideas and adherents of Buddhism and Rastafarianism and the mystical traditions, after college, I knew that, like Rabbi Lew, I would return home, to my Jewish path, having experienced and better understood all sorts of rituals, beliefs, and spiritualities, knowing that Judaism could fulfill all my spiritual expectations and desires, if I could look deeply enough and in the right places.
Fast forward a few years. College. A year in Israel. Five years after I tore the cover of that signed copy of One God Clapping on a bike ride across town, I found out that Rabbi Lew was teaching an evening class in Jewish meditation at the San Francisco JCC. I had just moved to the Bay Area a couple weeks earlier, supported by an entry-level job at a law firm in San Francisco, and this was exactly the kind of experience I needed to integrate my previous year in Israel with my first-ever daily grind.
He explained the technique of meditation. We learned a teaching from Rebbe Nachman. One of the leather biker guys or a financial-type yuppie or someone who had already told me about his experience in rehab would ask a question. I'd notice the colors of everyone's socks. Then we'd sit in silence on our cushions for 45 minutes, meditating. That was the class. My first foray into Jewish California. It tasted simple. And sweet.
Rabbi Lew gave thoughtful, loving answers to questions. He had followers, who went wherever he taught. Perhaps this was the first time I ever saw people who were so normal and easy to talk to venerate a rabbi. I didn't feel I knew him well enough to venerate him. But his class helped me transition from my life in Israel, where I had spent most Shabbat afternoons meditating in a celery field in a small town in the Negev, to negotiating how I would observe Shabbat, practice meditation, and find a Jewish community in California, where I had moved on something of a whim. I also know that when I passed on some of his words of Torah at my first Shabbat dinner in San Francisco, my life changed forever. But that's a story for another day.
I went home to NJ that December, and met with the rabbi of my parents' synagogue. I like to check in with him, and I was impressed with his attempts to offer meditation evenings at the synagogue, and his own serious meditation practice. He asked me if I would review Rabbi Lew's other book for him--Be Still and Get Going: A Jewish Meditation Practice for Real Life. I made my way slowly through this book. I savored it on weekend retreats that I helped lead for high school students, when I could steal some time alone in my cabin. It was on one of these retreats that I got to Chapter 4: Don't Be Afraid! A few pages into this chapter, I felt a sudden conviction: this was my truth! I would not live my life afraid of what could happen, or afraid I would make a wrong decision. I wanted to live with this conviction: to remain fiercely or change fiercely, but to commit to each moment. As a result, I let myself fall in love.
Rabbi Lew conveyed the deepest, most universal truths. He handled them delicately, but never seemed distant or untouchable. His openness and honesty, and the simplicity and profoundness of the teachings he passed on inspired me to believe that my journey could be something like his. I might discover beauty in foreign places, find my way back to Judaism, do some serious Jewish learning, and one day become a teacher who could convey profound teachings and articulate a path toward serenity with utmost humility and lovingkindness. Any teacher who can inspire such a desire is someone we will continue to learn from despite losing him from this world. May his memory be for a blessing. May his family be comforted among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.
- Baruch ben Neriah, Shir haShirim Rabbah on 6:10
Today Rabbi Alan Lew, the rabbi emeritus of Congregation Beth Shalom, and a beautiful teacher of Jewish meditation in San Francisco, died unexpectedly. He was one of the people responsible for the fact that I am writing this entry from my room in Jerusalem, after having spent the day in a traditional beit midrash, a house of study. I am shocked to hear of this loss, and I am moved to tell the story of how his teachings helped orient me, in subtle ways, toward Judaism, toward meditation, and toward California.
Once when I was home on a break from my freshman year of college, I went over to a friend's house, and after talking for a while with my friend's mom, I walked away with a signed copy of One God Clapping, Rabbi Lew's autobiography about his years practicing Zen meditation in northern California, and his decision to leave the monastery for rabbinical school. I was to major in religion, looking thematically at world religions to explore how they provide ethical norms, inspire people to the highest forms of art and wackiest forms of transgression, and at its core, why religion always has and always will exist in every human culture. I took something essential from this book-- certainty and loyalty. Whatever I learned in my religion classes and my travels, however attractive the ideas and adherents of Buddhism and Rastafarianism and the mystical traditions, after college, I knew that, like Rabbi Lew, I would return home, to my Jewish path, having experienced and better understood all sorts of rituals, beliefs, and spiritualities, knowing that Judaism could fulfill all my spiritual expectations and desires, if I could look deeply enough and in the right places.
Fast forward a few years. College. A year in Israel. Five years after I tore the cover of that signed copy of One God Clapping on a bike ride across town, I found out that Rabbi Lew was teaching an evening class in Jewish meditation at the San Francisco JCC. I had just moved to the Bay Area a couple weeks earlier, supported by an entry-level job at a law firm in San Francisco, and this was exactly the kind of experience I needed to integrate my previous year in Israel with my first-ever daily grind.
He explained the technique of meditation. We learned a teaching from Rebbe Nachman. One of the leather biker guys or a financial-type yuppie or someone who had already told me about his experience in rehab would ask a question. I'd notice the colors of everyone's socks. Then we'd sit in silence on our cushions for 45 minutes, meditating. That was the class. My first foray into Jewish California. It tasted simple. And sweet.
Rabbi Lew gave thoughtful, loving answers to questions. He had followers, who went wherever he taught. Perhaps this was the first time I ever saw people who were so normal and easy to talk to venerate a rabbi. I didn't feel I knew him well enough to venerate him. But his class helped me transition from my life in Israel, where I had spent most Shabbat afternoons meditating in a celery field in a small town in the Negev, to negotiating how I would observe Shabbat, practice meditation, and find a Jewish community in California, where I had moved on something of a whim. I also know that when I passed on some of his words of Torah at my first Shabbat dinner in San Francisco, my life changed forever. But that's a story for another day.
I went home to NJ that December, and met with the rabbi of my parents' synagogue. I like to check in with him, and I was impressed with his attempts to offer meditation evenings at the synagogue, and his own serious meditation practice. He asked me if I would review Rabbi Lew's other book for him--Be Still and Get Going: A Jewish Meditation Practice for Real Life. I made my way slowly through this book. I savored it on weekend retreats that I helped lead for high school students, when I could steal some time alone in my cabin. It was on one of these retreats that I got to Chapter 4: Don't Be Afraid! A few pages into this chapter, I felt a sudden conviction: this was my truth! I would not live my life afraid of what could happen, or afraid I would make a wrong decision. I wanted to live with this conviction: to remain fiercely or change fiercely, but to commit to each moment. As a result, I let myself fall in love.
Rabbi Lew conveyed the deepest, most universal truths. He handled them delicately, but never seemed distant or untouchable. His openness and honesty, and the simplicity and profoundness of the teachings he passed on inspired me to believe that my journey could be something like his. I might discover beauty in foreign places, find my way back to Judaism, do some serious Jewish learning, and one day become a teacher who could convey profound teachings and articulate a path toward serenity with utmost humility and lovingkindness. Any teacher who can inspire such a desire is someone we will continue to learn from despite losing him from this world. May his memory be for a blessing. May his family be comforted among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.
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