The declaration of light

Looking at the endless rows of candles in my news feed. Outside. Candles in my own house.
So much light.
And I'm thinking that Chanuka is a celebration designed for the Exile. A holiday in memory of heroism, when our distant ancestors won on the battle field and earned the right to believe and practice as they they saw right. And all the later attempts to shift the victory into the world of spirit. It took 5 Roman legions to crush tiny Judea, same amount as Julius Caesar drafted for Gallic wars. But Jews have vowed to abstain from assuming the hands of Esav role ever again. Chanuka became a peaceful memory of a miracle of oil, with the battle background shoved aside.
But no.
Think about the dark, smelly and dangerous world of the Middle Ages. The enormous amount of daring required to declare out loud, I belong to the ancient persecuted religion. Yes, I'm one of those who crucified your god. Who rejected your prophet. Who poisoned the wells/drank blood.... or whatever they chose to believe about us. To stand unarmed, holding no rights, with only the faith at their side, opposing the vast numbers of locals.  Perhaps, at least as much as going out to battle on foot against heavily armored battle elephants. To remember our miracles out loud, to declare that God hadn't forsaken us just yet, to parade those candles in front of the whole world - demanded an unusual amount of bravery. Perhaps that's what our Sages intended, perhaps not...
Where do we hold today? Is it military heroism or the bookish memory of miracles of the olden days?  What do we declare today? What is bravery in our day and age?
 What do you say?

Don't be a xenos to me

Our society is so divided that it seems as if we are about to wander apart into another 12 tribes who do not even remember being related to each other. How is it reflected in the Israeli schools? Could the teachers, who also belong to a dozen different groups, prevent xenophobia amongst the students?

From my subjective experience – if the teacher can communicate in tolerable Hebrew, even if the accent makes your ears wilt – the students will listen and even help him get the point across when he is at loss for words. But in case of a conflict, the teacher’s community, race and country of origin will be brought in, with all the stereotypes possible.

I’ve once seen a Russian teacher confuse the grammar structure, and she ended up saying exactly the opposite of what was intended. The class simply exploded with laughter and comments about “those Russians”, which she ignored, and eventually they let it go as well.

Another time I watched an 11^th grader (girl) attack a Russian teacher with her firsts, while yelling out racist slurs. There was nothing much we could do besides offering the distraught teacher some tea. The student had been suspended, but the damage was done.

Another example – it’s a known fact that Russian teachers rarely get to teach English for the Bagrut. Even though I barely contained giggles at the sight of the mistakes the Israeli teachers leave on the board. A folder entitled “gremmar” in the teachers’ room… But one of my bosses, looking me straight in the eyes, said: “Why are you giving them grammar? Anyway they won’t know it. They don’t need it to pass the Bagrut. Only you Russians care for grammar, native speakers manage without it, somehow”. You do not say…

If you intend to teach in a regular school, you better grow some very thick skin. Every other word that comes out of their mouths is a swear, and the way to address a friend is “you, son of a *****”. They don’t even get offended, it’s a figure of speech.

One of the main causes of xenophobia – in my opinion – is that people usually have no clue about the life of people in other communities. In 6^th grade all students write a paper on their community and background. How wonderful… maybe we should make them research other communities?

Once, when I was teaching a group of Ethiopians, I overheard them discussing the Charedim, who live on the other side of the street. I said:

-have you spoken to them?

- no, - said the boy – we threw stones, and they spat at us. They think we are all murderers, haha.

-have you ever been to their houses? Even once?

-no, why would we ever?

- have they visited you?

-Are you kidding, teacher? We don’t visit them, they don’t visit us.

-but why do you hate them so?

- because they are black, - answered the kid, whose only white part is his sparkiling teeth.

When I got my words back, I told him:

-          If I give you guys bad grades, you call me a racist. And what are you, exactly?

That got him thinking…. But not for long.

Any class I had ever taught, assumed I was American. Any explanations about me being from the Ukraine were rejected outright. I don’t fit their stereotypical image of a Russian. The only thing they knew about Americans is that they eat gefilte fish. Yeah, that slimy stuff in a jar – that’s Americans. No questions about the Wild West, New York or anything else. Just the undead gefilte.

My daughter, studying in an amazing school in Jerusalem, got teased for being American (which she isn’t), and not for being Russian, (which nobody knew, till she interfered in a conversation of some lost nuns ranting about Jews at some graveyard they visited with her class,  in Russian, but that’s another story altogether) and saw a certain amount of irony in that.

Once I found myself on the stairs of the Begin school here in Bet Shemesh, waiting for my son who was taking an exam inside. There were about 40 parents waiting, and they were distinctly divided into 3 groups – Israelis, Anglos, Russians. That got me thinking – where do I belong? Maybe all 3? And I decided to listen in in all of them.

The Israelis were talking about the latest scandal with the police. An obese man in a blue uniform was trying to persuade a woman in white trousers a la the 20s that Israeli police is not just a vast libido, but also… eventually they started talking about schools, teachers salaries, homework…

I wandered over to the Anglos. They were discussing hot lunches, trips, and how to get the kids to read in their mother tongue. The Russians were – you won’t believe it! – also talking about schools. But why can’t they discuss it with each other?

We all have so much in common. We all strive to teach our kids how to live in the society, we survive heatwaves and terror attacks, army and elections. But always alongside each other and never actually together.

 Dear Anglos, have you ever been to a Russian's house? (Not mine, a real Russian). What is our biggest holiday of the year? Or maybe you've been to an Ethiopian house? What's their bread called? Have you invited them over? What do they eat in the Yemeni community for supper? What's Mimuna all about? What do the Indian Jews call themselves? How do 'regular Israelis' address a random guy on the street? Which Israeli writer is known for his most poetic Hebrew? In which Israeli group of society do Americans constitute 15%? (research came out last week). Is falafel really Israeli or it comes from elsewhere? Why do Hungarian Jews shave their heads? Who are the Neturei Karta and why do they call themselves that? Which chassidut wraps their peot around the ears and which ones fold them under the kippa? What's a gartel? What language do the French Jews often speak to their grandparents? 

How convenient – Russians chew their salami,  Anglos enjoy their gefilte fish, Israelis – their matbuha, and we continue to be xenoses (strangers) to each other. Maybe let’s at least say hello? 

A bit of geometry from a maths idiot

I always kind of envied people for whom life is simple. When you ask them, what's your opinion on the conflict between religion and life? And they answer you, what conflict?

Of course, it's all so simple. If we all quickly do teshuva, kill all the enemies out, send away all the gentiles back to where they came from, delete all the sinners, and cover up all the women completely,  God will bring the redemption immediately. Like a computer game - one, two, three, pass the levels, and you win. Are you for real? Are you in the first grade? Or do you think God is in first grade?
I think each person is born very simple. Like a triangle. The world is very black and white, there is good and evil, and we choose to be on the side of what we consider good. You do good and you get good.
And then it's all shattered and the world becomes - say, a tetrahedron.    
When you see that some people might not be perfect, but they are on the side you call good. They might not wear a kippa. but they're still Jewish. A shock. And also, not all Jews "look Jewish", as you understand it. Some of them had no idea Jews could be white. Some of them are allowed to eat locusts and marry two women. Could you imagine? It's a reality-crumbling realization. Just like finding out that not all those who suffer are punished by God for terrible sins - usually we (and they) have no idea why they suffer. It has nothing to do with their deeds. And we shall never know why. And then we can choose how we believe and how we settle the conflict...
And then you graduate to be a cube. 
Another dimension: what about the people who are not on your side of things, not what you choose to call good, but they believe themselves to be right? Some believe in the right of women to wear tefillin, others believe in their right to remain childless, and yet others think it's not Jerusalem but Al-Quds. And could you imagine, to them it's the absolute truth. Wow. Could you come out of your comfy little world and try to enter their heads just for a second? Because calling them "wrong" will not help you grow, no, not in the least.
How about becoming an octahedron? If you are a thinking person and wish to dive deep.



Some people live in an entirely different reality from yours. Fishermen in Burma and beer brewers in Ireland. Do you think they know God? The world is full of nations, and they have no idea about you and your chosen-ness. And yet their life rolls on for thousands of generations. I think it's both sobering and humbling for a Jew to know about them. We are so not running the world. We are so not the only ones here. We are very little indeed and the only reason we are still here is because we have a job to do. But it's not about just resisting temptation - that's Catholicism. Simplifying the task the way Christianity did. God is both in complexity and in simplicity- the living cell is both simple and infinitely complex. Just like our souls. Just like science. Like every sunrise and sunset we are lucky enough to see here. Just like our job in this world - both so simple and so complex.

And there are more dimensions, more shapes, more depth. Here is a dodecahedron.

I don't know where the fifth dimension is. .Maybe it's in seeing everything you see, and yet keeping your faith. Faith bound to knowledge and understanding, faith full of hope and curiosity.  But the world is infinitely complex, and by deeming it simple, we insult God. By pretending the conflicts do not exist, we cheat ourselves out of possible depth of character.
No, I don't really envy the people who are still a triangle by age 40 something.

How do I patent blintzes therapy?

There is animal therapy, horse-riding therapy, gardening therapy, art therapy, and today I saw an ad for sailing boats therapy. Oh, now I know what we did in camp in Kiev (Mahane Shuva, for those who remember). We did boat therapy.

This is not to undermine the vast body of knowledge and extensive research that went into those disciplines. Or the people who invest time and considerable amounts of money to study and qualify as whatever-it-is-this –time therapists. But rather to question the society I watch in my neighbourhood yet again.  Forgive me for exaggerating a bit, but here goes:

A baby is born. Mommy needs to go back to work… after 3 months he’s off to the mishpachton. Where the lady has him and 10 more babies aged 3 months to a year. She turns the prams face to the wall, props a towel under the chin, and places the bottle on it. Dear baby, get used to not crying, because there is no point anyway. Even if your little butt is smoking in that dirty diaper.  He will spend his early childhood without essential interaction babies need to form a secure attachment to a primary caregiver, a functioning language, ability to understand emotion, to empathize and intellectualize, to trust and expect love and safety.

Time passes and the kid grows. He is now 4. He’s about to have braces fitted for the teeth destroyed by those bottles, he can’t pronounce half the consonants because he’s lacking facial muscle, which simply never developed. His muscle tone is low. He learned to walk at 2, to say his first words at 3. His vocabulary is barely existent. Not a month passes without a bout of illness, with antibiotics, steroids, hospitalization. Every illness throws him back in his development. He will grow into an extremely limited adult, who will either fail to provide for his family, or work in menial jobs all his life, barely scraping by. The cycle of poverty perpetuated…

Shall I carry on?

And this is where therapies come in – one to help him walk steadily, one to address his emotional issues, one to help him speak in a way that people will understand… somehow the parents must find the time and the resources, even though usually have none. The system has got the conveyor belt rolling with those children. The stronger ones manage, the weaker ones roll from one knowing professional to another.

I’m an old cynic. I am of the opinion that if certain evils are allowed to exist, means someone is benefiting from them.

So, I would like to make a suggestion. Or rather, to patent a therapy. It’s not an entirely new kind, we had it growing up.

When I was a kid, I had a cream-and- blintzes therapy with my grandma, reading therapy with my mom… in other words – they gave me their time, presence, attention, what kids tend to interpret as love. I had art without therapy at the local kids’ club, boating at camp, swimming at the pool, dancing at the Jewish centre. We learned to read, sew, hammer nails and make up stories. We walked barefoot on the sand and rolled down the hill on fresh green grass.  It was called having a childhood. It wasn’t supported by volumes of research, but it seemed to work. Why doesn’t it work now? Have Jewish grandmothers run out of blintzes? Why can’t family give those kids the love and childhood fun they need, and instead they get it in limited doses, as a medication, through their health fund? From trained professionals, who are total strangers to them.  I don’t have an answer to that question… but seeing the empty eyes of those children hurts my heart anew every time. 

Do you think I'll be  a millionaire if I patent blitzes and cream therapy? 

The taste of Galut

It's the saddest night of the year, and Jews all over the world are sitting on the floor and crying for what we have lost as a nation almost 2000 years ago.
I know I'm supposed to feel sad... and I often do. But I don't really know how to feel sad on command, just as I don't know how to be happy on command in Adar, or love on command - I mean loving God. Or fearing Him, for that matter.
So, to get myself in the mood, I'm thinking of Galut. Not the endless dark night I know from books, but what Galut meant for me.
Galut is when somebody greets you with a "Jesus has arisen!" - and you have to answer, as their ritual demands, "indeed arisen", or they'll be offended, and that's really bad. We can't anger THEM.
The same THEM as march on your streets in brown shirts with shaved heads, even though it was THEIR grandfathers who have defeated the monster and saved the world some 70 years ago. THEY no longer remember, or agree - what does it matter anyway. We step into a shadow to let THEM pass. Before THEY can estimate the length of our noses and figure us out.
Galut means living in fear.
I did not know the word "galut" when kids with blond hair and blue eyes threw stones at me, or kicked me in the stomach, "to see a Zhid begging for air", or openly sneered when I had to name my nationality out loud evey 1st of September. Somehow, "Russian", or "Ukrainian", or even "Tatar" isn't funny. But a "Jew"?! That's hysterical. Because the word "Jew" is a dirty word. Look at this stupid girl cursing herself out loud, so funny.
For me the taste of Galut isn't the smell of the vast river in my beloved Kiev, or the taste of the first snow in October. The taste of Galut is when THEY threw rotten cloths we used to wipe down tables at the school canteen into my face.
That is the taste of fear. Fear of being recognized as one of the cursed ones. Of the authorities (police) laughing when you ask for help. Fear of being seen standing over the huge ravine called Babyi Yar and looking not at the mud down below - but up at the 30 meters tall poplars, growing so well on Jewish blood. And remembering the members of my family whose bones are in there. Imagining the fear they must've felt in the last minutes of their lives. Imagining being one of them...
Galut means stepping aside, hiding, hoping not to be seen, recognized, sniffed out.
I did not know I was a Jew till age 7- my parents didn't bother telling me. They thought it was self-evident. It was the kids who told me. No amount of mimicry could ever help us - THEY always knew. Whether it was in a line waiting to buy bread, and you heard "Jews fought in Tashkent", or at the department store "Jews always get the best stuff", there were always eyes watching, making sure Jews knew thier place. And if not, a hissing sound of "What a pity that Hitler didn't finish his job with you people" flew after you, sticking like a spit onto your back, reminding you who you were and where you were. When in Galut, you don't forget it for a second. It flows in your blood, and comes in and out with every breath you take.
I still don't know if I was stupid or brave for reading Tehillim on the underground, with the Jewish letters screaming out from the page :" we are still here". Am Yisrael chai.
Or singing Jewish songs on the dark streets of Kiev, so dark, that you can't tell if it's a human or a dog approaching you, for it's all shadows. (remember, girls?)
It was in those years that some of THEM would say, you're so lucky, you've got your own country to go to. Really? Nu, and isn't Ukraine YOUR own country? I guess they realized that by now.
I am so happy tonight. Quiet gratitude that no words could express. Because my children will never taste that sour, rotten fear. They will never feel cursed for just being who we are.  They will never fear for their lives just because the policeman thinks the blood in his veins is a different colour.We are Home...
May the beginnig of our redemption only grow and gain power. May we, indeed, wake up to Mashiach.
P.S. my mother lived in Kiev for 65 years, and never experienced ay anti-semitism. I still don't know if that's naive or lucky... but the majority of Ukrainains are very nice poeple indeed, figting for thier independence yet again, and I respect them whole-heartedly.

A ticket into adult life

If you had a magic wand in your hands just for one second, and could fulfill any wish in the world, what would you wish for? I know exactly what I'd ask.
I'd want all people to magically acquire the ability to judge others favourably. So when you're asked an innocent question, you won't assume you're being attacked. So when someone cuts you up in line, or on the road, or acts selfishly, you'd be able to see the child in them. To see their pain, worry, or at the very least imagine them. To see that they're doing all they can with their lives, their behavior, their connection with God and other humans. So that every person could see beyond themselves, even if it's only as far as the person sitting next to them on the bus.

Can everybody, please, lower the volume and thin their skin just a little bit?  And just live and let live? I call that being an adult.

This morning I watched a secular bus driver get into a heated argument with a Chassid in the front seat over absolutely nothing, total trivialities, and I could almost see the bubbles of their thoughts:

-I had fought for you in Lebanon! What an ungrateful, selfish brat! Son of a %^&*)_!!!!
and the other one:
- I learn Torah day and night, and keep myself holy, to save you from Hashem's decree! What an ungrateful selfish brat! Unholy chiloni, sheiketz!

And all I could see were two little boys shoving each other, saying , my brother is bigger than yours! or something else equally powerful. Can't they SEE that the other one also has a point?! That the other one isn't a parasite, or a shekietz, but just  a human?

Treating others with respect, just because they're human is perhaps the only subject we really need to teach, to make this world perfect.
Somebody wants to marry a person of the same gender? Sure. You know why? Because it's not hurting me in any way whatsoever. Or anyone else, for that matter. They are adults, and I'm not God's representative. And if someone sees themselves as one, here is a Russian joke for them.

"A man, sitting on a bed in a psychiatric ward, keeps on screaming out," I'm Jesus! God sent me to save you"! A voice from another room answers, "Crap! I didn't send anyone!"

So, if you think God has sent you, please check if you could be admitted. The only person whose behavior you can control is - that's right! - you. And absolutely nobody else. Not your spouse, your grown up kids, your neighbors or anyone else. Or the gay community, the workers Union, or the boy scouts. Their issues are between them and God, and nothing to do with you. Let them be. Become an adult, own your life and no one else's.
When I walk on the street, it looks as if every person is encapsulated in their own glass cube. When they try to communicate, half the time they can't get the message across, because it gets lost or distorted on the way. The walls between people are just too high.

Can we please teach communication skills in schools? So my students stop throwing chairs at each other for lack of words and ability to get the message across? If not in schools, then a chug, a course, anything. In college, in the matnas. Don't give them a ticket into adult life without it.  Gosh, how we need it. I think it could even lower crime rates, because if people were trained to talk instead of pulling out the knife on the spot, lives would be spared. How can we possibly talk to Arabs when we can't even talk to each other?!

Fishing for little things

Our Sages have defined suffering as reaching into your pocket,  thinking you have 10 coins, and pulling out only 5. As in, little scratches in life are no less real than the big things. A cut on your finger isn't a severed arm, but it still hurts. It's valid, it's real.
Let's do an exercise of "on the contrary". I heard Jews are really good at that.
Happiness is in the little things. If you don't train yourself to see them, you might miss the "big fish" when it comes along.
Happiness is having coffee from your favourite mug. Bitter chocolate and sweet memories.
Biting into a fresh crust of bread after a long walk.
Having food at all is a very happy thing, too.
A hot shower. Music that speeds up your heart and makes you run faster.
Finding some shade on a hot sweltering day. 
Happiness is curling up with a good book, with a night light, in a warm clean bed.
It's when you have someone to call when you're hurting.
Walking on the street with someone you love, and noticing how their step matches yours, and imagining life path ahead of you, full of big and little things to celebrate and share.
Happiness is when you wake up and nothing is hurting.
Happiness is when your little one wakes you up claiming there is a crocodile in her bed, and you start laughing so hard that she ends up laughing, too.
Stretching out on the grass, with the infinite sky above your head, and knowing that you are free.
Free to travel, study, grow, come and go as you wish. Talk and say what you think out loud - it's a free country.
It's lighting candles and thanking Him that you can thank Him. Address Him.  For the connection. For life. For the fabric woven from mitzvot and community, the smell of chala on the stairs and rogalach at the kiddush. Soap in the spring and dusty bamboo in autumn. The taste of Home.
Happiness is having a house to clean, and having people who will dirty it for you again and again. Sitting down on a Lego piece - ouch- and thinking of the little hands who left it there. And having that little hand in yours, crossing the street.
It's in knowing that the fighter jet flying over your head is piloted by an Israeli. A good Jewish boy, maybe a former student. Don't be afraid, kiddo, it's OUR army that's guarding us this time.
Happiness is looking in the mirror and realizing you've got quite a few more years left - hopefully.
It's in having hope. That things will work out, or get better, or that help will come form somewhere.
Happiness is being able to concentrate at work, and having a boss who appreciates you.
 And finally - for me - happiness is in being able to put it all into words, so it doesn't explode my heart from the inside.