checking out checkpoints

“See? It’s supposed to be about security. But really, it’s about bureaucracy.”

This morning I went with Machsom Watch — an all-women, all-volunteer organization — to Qalandia checkpoint. The organization, as its name suggests, monitors the checkpoints between the West Bank and Israel proper, of which there are estimated by the Israeli human rights organization B’tselem to be almost 100 as of September 2013. As a volunteer organization, Machsom Watch does a variety of other anti-occupation projects as its members indicate interest and commit to supporting. Some members work to get Palestinians off of Shin Bet’s travel blacklist, while others monitor military courts. There’s even a group that takes Palestinian women and their children to the beach.

A lot of detail follows. The short version: Checkpoints are dehumanizing, and they serve to disrupt the lives of Palestinians more than to provide security for Israelis. Here’s one writer’s account of the Qalandia checkpoint from about a year ago.

I got picked up in French Hill at 5:15 a.m., and the volunteer whose shift I was joining — who I’ll call Lorna — drove me to the checkpoint about 15 minutes away. On the way we passed the Atarot industrial area, where many of the Palestinians crossing the checkpoint work. As soon as we passed the industrial area, she noted, the street lights were no longer working, rendering the two-kilometer walk from the checkpoint quite treacherous. “There are no sidewalks,” she elaborated. “During the summer I can see the people walking on the road at this time of the morning; during the winter, it’s terrifying.” The street lights haven’t worked in 10 years, she added. Machsom Watch has frequently appealed to the city to fix them, but the municipality hasn’t done anything.

We parked outside the wall and walked through the checkpoint to observe the people queuing up to cross. Walking in was effortless; no one stopped or even took notice of us.

The lines were short at 5:30 a.m., but by 6:00, and until 7:00, they reached out to the parking lot. The first step is for people to line up in one of three metal cages, each with a turnstile at the end controlled by a soldier in a booth. Only a few people are allowed to pass through the turnstiles at a time. And it’s never clear exactly how many people will be allowed to pass each time — it’s only when someone slams into the stopped turnstile that it’s evident that the line has come to a halt. (This happened to me when I passed through as we were leaving.)

When we arrived, the soldier in the booth had fallen asleep, and no one could get through. Lorna pulled out a coin and rapped on the fence near the booth to wake her up. She told me that she forgot her spoon: “The best way to wake up the soldiers is to take a spoon and run up and down the fence.” Last week, she said, even that didn’t work: Everyone in line had to start shouting wake her up. (I will note that it is clear that working a checkpoint is a shit job. I feel a lot of compassion for the soldiers, too, who are just kids tasked with a political mission.)

After the first turnstiles, people then line up in one of five lanes (if they’re all open) to pass through another turnstile, again controlled by another soldier in another booth. Once allowed through, bags are checked by an x-ray machine. Then people approach the window of the control booth and show both their ID and their permit — and get a fingerprint scanned to make sure it matches the person on the ID and permit. In some ways, the checkpoint is like airport security. But it’s required every single day.

There is what is called a “humanitarian gate” at the checkpoint — for women, children, anyone over age 60, teachers, and disabled folks. One of the reasons it’s especially important is so that religious women don’t have stand in close, crowded quarters with men. There are also frequent reports of women being groped in the queue. Soon after we arrived, a woman approached one of the soldiers and asked if the gate was open; the soldier replied in the affirmative, but it took another ½ hour before it was actually opened. Apparently, she didn’t have the key.

One of the aspects of this checkpoint that is especially infuriating is that the parts of the post-1967 municipal borders of Jerusalem extend inside the wall. For Qalandia, this means that residents of East Jerusalem who live inside the wall have to have a permit and go through the checkpoint to get to the part of East Jerusalem outside the wall. This includes many children who are separated from their schools by the wall.

When we were ready to leave, we got in the queue ourselves. It took a little over 30 minutes to pass. The family in front of us had permits to enter Jerusalem and appointments at the American consulate to apply for visas to enter the United States. The soldier detained the family for a long time, insisting that as residents of the West Bank they couldn’t apply for visas at the American consulate In East Jerusalem (even though the American consulate had approved them to do just that); they should go to a consular office in the West Bank, he insisted. There are no U.S. consular offices in the West Bank.

part of machsom watch map of the center of the west bank (showing qalqiliya, habla, nebi elyas, alfe menashe, elkana, and masha)

I first learned about Machsom Watch when I went on a tour with the group a few weeks ago. We first stopped at the (plant) nursery of a Palestinian man who is a resident of a village called Qalqiliya, in the center-west part of the West Bank. The wall almost completely surrounds the village, and while his house is inside the wall (i.e., in what Israel considers the West Bank), his business is outside the wall (i.e., in what Israel considers part of Israel proper). It should be noted that both his house and his business are inside the Green Line (i.e., what the international community considers the West Bank). Indeed, 85% of the wall is inside the West Bank.

To go to work everyday, he and the 500+ people he employs have to pass through a checkpoint, for which they all have to have a permit. That is, to reach his own business on his own land, this man has to apply for and be approved for a permit. Without a permit, he is considered illegally on his own land. Moreover, anyone in his village or in another part of the West Bank who wishes to shop at his nursery also has to get a permit, meaning that effectively he has no Palestinian customers.

sign on agricultural checkpoint gate near masha

Next we went to the agricultural checkpoint at the nearby village of Habla, a town also separated from its residents’ lands by the wall. Again, both the village and the lands are inside the Green Line. The checkpoint that separates the two is only opened three times a day (morning, afternoon, and evening) for an hour each time. Of course, this is only theoretical: Both the times and the length of the opening are changed without notice. We observed the mid-day opening, which was supposed to start at 1:15, but the soldiers didn’t even get to the checkpoint until 1:30, and it was at least another 10 minutes before they started letting people through. Our guide noted that a late start doesn’t affect the closing time: At 2:15, the soldiers would leave, not to return until evening. Those crossing on foot had their permits checked in a booth, while those in cars had them searched. And all of this was to move a mere 50 meters across a gate marked with a big red sign: “MORTAL DANGER — MILITARY ZONE. Anyone person who crosses or damages the fence ENDANGERS HIS LIFE.”

We next visited Nabi Elyas, a small village just to the east of Qalqiliya, the growth of which is being cut off by Israel’s construction. On one side is the wall and the settlement of Alfe Menashe; on the other is a settlers-only road, built on land confiscated from the village, and the settlement of Zufin. Nabi Elyas is in Area C, which means it doesn’t get permits for new construction, and even if it did, there’s nowhere to expand. The village is slowly being choked off.

detritus from regular protests in main road of the village of kfar qadum

After lunch we headed to Kufr Qadum. The settlement of Kedumim (also built on confiscated private Palestinian land) is just to the east of it, and at the settlers’ request, the village’s main access to the main road has been blocked for the last six years. The trip to the main road now takes an extra 20 minutes in order to ensure that Palestinians do not drive near the settlement. The villagers have protested every Friday since the closing; they are always met by the military with tear gas, skunk water, and or rubber-coated bullets. The village’s main road now looks like a disaster zone because of the clashes.

We finished the day at “the lone house,” the residence of the Amal family, which is inside an agricultural checkpoint between the Palestinian village of Masha (inside the wall) and the settlement of Elkana (outside the wall). There’s the settlement, then the wall, then the house, and then a fence, and then the Palestinian village. Once again, the village of Masha is separated from its residents’ lands by the wall. The Amal family has a key to a private gate in the fence so that they can get to the village from which it is now separated. The gate is monitored by a camera, and only the six members of the Amal family are allowed to move freely through the gate; residents of the village must apply for a permit to visit the family’s house. Machsom Watch calls this house, “the occupation in a nutshell.”

There is so much more about these two trips that I could share, but I’m guessing that getting through even this much information was a challenge. And these two trips are just a couple of the many trips and tours I took in the West Bank this summer, each horrific in its own way. As a bumper sticker I saw the other day notes:

The occupation is killing us all.

the way of peace

I gave this d’var Torah on July 1, 2016, in East Jerusalem as part of an Encounter program. 

When Erica called me earlier this week to ask me to give the d’var Torah today, I answered the phone from Nabi Saleh, a small village in the West Bank about 30 minutes northwest of Ramallah. I was standing on the rooftop deck of an unfinished and abandoned mansion, looking out over a vast landscape that included a nearby settlement, while a 20-year-old boy pointed to different houses belonging to friends and family: “This one is under demolition order, and this one, and this one, and this one . . .” When I asked him what he hopes for the future, he said, “A free Palestine,” and then gestured towards the west: “On a clear day you can see Tel Aviv from here. I’d like to go there someday.”

This week’s parshah, Korach, includes the story of the uprising of the eponymous villain against Moshe and Aharon. Korach challenges their leadership: He, too, is a Levite, and their first cousin — and therefore equally entitled to the priesthood. His charge of nepotism and dramatic protest actions are unsuccessful, to say the least, and he and his followers are either swallowed up by the earth or consumed by a fire.

hollyhocks at ocha in east jerusalem; photo by salem pearce

The Netivot Shalom, also known as the Slonimer Rebbe, a contemporary Hasidic commentator, offers an interesting diagnosis of Korach. I’ll just note that I am excited to share one of his teachings, as he is a favorite of my mentor and the rabbi at the shul at which I am the rabbinic intern. Our learning each week almost always centers on the Rebbe’s Torah commentary, and I’ve missed it this summer. Netivot Shalom means “ways of peace” — an orientation that feels especially relevant today.

The Netivot Shalom says that Korach has too much yeshut, too much sense of his own existence. He notes:

A person who is in the aspect of yesh, “existence,” who takes up space in his own eyes — it seems to him that his fellow is bothering him and standing in his way. Even if the friend has not done any harm to him in any way, because of his trait of yeshut, he has the feeling that his friend is bothering him and taking up his place, and out of this he comes into conflict.

Korach felt that Moshe and Aharon had what he should have. They were occupying his space, standing in his way, bothering him by their very existence — all because he felt too strongly the importance of his own self.

But the way of peace, the Netivot Shalom says, is the breaking down of the ego and the submission to something greater than oneself. Then we can know that no one is standing in our way, that this other person is not bothering us. Then we are at peace in the world.

The Torah makes clear that Korach’s attitude and action had deadly consequences for himself, his fellow mutineers, and for the whole community of Israel, many of whom are later struck down by a plague. But the Talmud alludes also to a different kind of damage that he did to himself. The rabbis puzzle over the strange grammar of the beginning of the parshah, ויקח קרח, “Korach took,” with no direct object. What? What did he take? the rabbis ask. They end up reading the words as an indication that Korach made a bad “purchase” (מקח) for himself. Refusing to step aside, to push our ego to the side, means becoming stuck. The world keeps moving around us, but we can’t join that movement.

Looking out over that vast landscape from the highest point in Nabi Saleh, a tiny village of 600 people, what flickered across my thoughts was, “There’s enough.” In addition to a problem of ego, Korach seems to me to be, not unrelatedly, reacting to a fear of scarcity, that there wasn’t going to be a place for him. But we know from the beginning of Bemidbar that each person was counted in the census, that the tribes were all arranged around the mishkan, and that there were land provisions made for everyone. Korach’s sense of his own importance, combined with erroneous analysis of his own position, leads to the tragedy described in this week’s parshah.

My hope for us today is an orientation of abundance, that we have enough capacity and compassion to hear what is said. That we can put away our own sense of importance and our fear that there is not enough, in order to be moved, even just a little. And so may we all be blessed with the peace that can result from this shift.

the wall(s) of Jerusalem

Last Sunday, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. and got dressed in preparation to walk to the Old City to participate in that morning’s shacharit service. By all accounts I probably shouldn’t have been sleeping at all that evening, since it was Shavuot, and traditionally on this holiday Jews stay up all night learning Torah and then go to morning davvening. But I’m a morning person (generally of no use to anyone after 9:00 p.m.), so Shavuot’s marathon study sessions have always been challenging for me. I prefer just to eat cheesecake in celebration of the revelation at Sinai.

Along with my mom and my roommate, I headed towards the Western Wall, walking in darkness with many dozen others from the neighborhood. We reached the Dung Gate and entered Ezrat Yisrael, the egalitarian praying space at the Wall. Well, not exactly at the Wall — or not at the Wall’s main plaza, the one that is always shown in photographs of the prayer and pilgrimage site. Instead, we walked down a long set of wooden steps and across a wooden bridge to a temporary platform erected near the remains of what is known as Robinson’s Arch, which once supported a massive staircase that led up to the Second Temple.

The schatz had just begun birkot hashahar when we arrived. As I settled into the space, I looked around at the attendees: lots of Americans (I ran into someone I knew from D.C. on the way down the stairs), lots of what seemed like secular Israelis. Everyone looked tired, resulting in pretty quiet and lackluster singing — especially in comparison to the very loud davvening a little up and over on the main plaza. The sound of men’s voices threatened to drown out our service.

To my surprise, occasionally walking through the service, to get closer to the wall accessible from a staircase at the far end of the platform, were a number of Orthodox Jews — men, women, and children. They just passed by, prayed at the lower platform, and then passed back by again. The logical extension of an egalitarian space, I guess: everyone is welcome. 

view of the walls of jerusalem from the ramparts walk; photo by salem pearce

By the time the Torah service started, I had moved to the front of the platform, partly to see what the davvening crashers were doing. I also turned around in a circle to really see where I was, continuing to sing the prelude to taking out the scroll.  As we got to the line tivneh chomot Yerushalayim, “build the walls of Jerusalem” — our plea to Gd each time we read Torah on Shabbat or holidays — I happened to be looking at the sun rise over the actual walls of Jerusalem. In spite myself, I was moved.

I say “in spite of myself” because I don’t feel particularly invested in prayer services at the Western Wall. For one, I’m actually glad the temple cult in Jerusalem of the 1st century CE became the current diasporic system of symbolic remembrances of the temple. I question the holiness ascribed to the remnants of the ancient sacrificial site. What’s more, many of those who revere the Wall actually want the temple to be rebuilt, on the Temple Mount, where currently stand the Dome of the Rock and Al-Aqsa Mosque, sacred Muslim sites. The Third Temple can’t exist without starting the Third World War. This fact doesn’t stop various Ultra-Orthodox rabbis from making provocative statements to that effect from time to time. And even more, when the Israeli army captured Jerusalem in 1967, a Palestinian village was razed to widen the plaza for increased access to the Wall — for Jews only. But the folks fighting for the right to hold egalitarian prayer on the Wall’s main plaza, in the name of justice, don’t talk about that.

The Torah service was followed by the traditional reading of the book of Ruth. Or at least traditional for Ashkenazi Jews; Sephardim don’t read Ruth, so as a compromise we read just the first and fourth chapter of the book. As a convert, I love the book of Ruth. I say the famous line from the first chapter when I put on my tefillin in the morning: Where you go, I will go; where you lodge, I will lodge; your people, my people; your Gd, my Gd. My friend Rachel was leyning the book that morning, and she has a beautiful voice. I stood mesmorized as she sang, all the way to the end of the book, which traces the lineage from Ruth’s child to King David, whose son Solomon . . . built the First Temple.

All right, Western Wall, you got me this time.

may you be free

Today was Hebron, a place I’ve been hearing about for a long time. It’s cited as one of the worst examples of the effects of the occupation on the Palestinians. And that’s just the everyday conditions: When parshat Hayei Sarah comes around each fall, it is somehow able to get worse, when thousands of right-wing, fanatically religious Jews make pilgrimage to the area and there are inevitably clashes between and among the settlers, visitors, Palestinian residents, and Israeli security forces. In response, a couple of friends started Project Hayei Sarah, using the Torah cycle to raise awareness about what is happening in the city that is the supposed burial place of Avraham, Sarah, and their descendants. 

The trip started with visits to the Tomb of the Patriarchs and the Ibrahimi Mosque. I decided not to enter either: The latter because Jews aren’t allowed inside (I could have entered by lying or under cover of the rest of the delgation, whom the guide identified as “a Christian tour group,” but didn’t want to do either) — and the former because I don’t want to ascribe holiness to a place that has been violently wrest from the Palestinians and used to justify military and settler violence. (Plus, I’m pretty sure that “the patriarchs” aren’t buried there.) I am clear about my reasons, but it was a hard decision to make, and I was feeling overwhelmed with emotion. So while most others visited both places, I sat on a bench in the sun and meditated, doing a blessing practice I learned from one of my teachers. I repeated in my head, “May you be happy. May you be healthy. May you be safe. May you be free,” sending the mantra to all the residents of Hebron. 

It came into my head while I was meditating last week: “There is enough compassion.” So I’ve been trying to remember and to act in ways that illustrate that compassion (particularly in myself) is not a finite resource. Compassion for the occupied does not preclude compassion for the occupier, and vice versa. That’s been hard to hold on to these past eight days.

Then began the walk with Issa, our Palestinian guide, who is from Hebron. He led us through about 10 blocks of what used to be a Palestinian occupied neighborhood. Well, not all 10 blocks: He had to leave us for about 3 or 4, to go around another way to meet us on the other side. As a Palestinian, he is not allowed in this part of the city, where he was born and grew up

The streets were almost completely empty of . . . everything. Empty apartment buildings, shuttered businesses, deserted roads, abandoned mosques and schools. There were only paths of egress blocked with stones and graffiti like מות לערבים, “death to Arabs.” Indeed, the Arab presence has been exterminated. 

Two Israeli soldiers asked to look at our passports as we continued. There’s no official checkpoint — just two kids with enormous guns blocking the street. As the delegate in front of me passed by, the soldier, recognizing his typical Jewish name and seeing that he was born in Ohio, asked him in perfect, American-accented English, where he grew up. He explained, “I’m from Columbus.” As he handed the passport back he added softly, “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

When we met up with our guide after walking down the three empty blocks that merited a passport check, the soldiers who just stood and listened as we began the tour were replaced by soldiers who followed us as we walked. They were a few feet behind, guns at the ready, talking on the phone or writing on their hands (?). I did not feel safer — which I guess was the point.

hebron: four jews, two very different purposes; photo by david kerr


Also following us were small kids (and not-so-small kids), begging for money and trying to sell “Palestine” bracelets and small embroidered bags. This hasn’t happened anywhere else we’ve traveled in the West Bank or East Jerusalem. Our guide noted, “I don’t approve of what they are doing, but families rely on them for income. The unemployment rate for Palestinians in Hebron is over 70%.” This was the first time in a really long while that I actually didn’t give change when asked for money on the street. I always give at least something when asked in the U.S. But I didn’t have any coins, and I was scared that I would be overwhelmed by kids. I sure didn’t hold on to that compassion for very long.

After our guide was harassed by the police and we were all turned away from continuing up the street, we entered the Old City of Hebron through a huge grey metal gate structure with turnstiles controlled by a guard. It completely filled the tight space that was the entrance to the narrow paths and low ceilings of the Old City, and it was completely incongruous with the dirt road that led us into it and the smooth cobblestones that met us as we exited. And that’s when the permanence of the occupation — and my complicitness in it — really hit me. It felt like walking into a prison in the U.S., and those seem to me immoveable. They only expand, never contract. For the first time on this trip, I began to despair about whether any of this can be undone. I think it’s a bell that can’t be unrung; for me it’s certainly something I can’t unsee. The destruction seems irrevocable. I heard in my head the question full of anguish: How can we ever make this right?

And what I’m terrified of is the possibility that Hebron, in all its extremity, is actually the logical result of the occupation. If Zionism is about the displacement of one people with another, then Hebron is a success story (albeit an incohate one). It is not an aberration. In Hebron, the state is doing exactly what its ideology dictates.

When we met with the IDF refusniks on Friday afternoon, the woman who spoke to us said something that was so revelatory and also so obvious: “The point of having a Jewish state,” she said, “is to have a Jewish army.” And so we do. And so here we are.

the sound of occupation

Every morning I was in East Jerusalem last week, I woke up, brushed my teeth, and then took a cushion and a blanket out to the balcony for half an hour of meditation. I recently entered the Institute for Jewish Spirituality’s Jewish Mindfulness Meditation Teacher Training (JMMTT), and I’ve been especially focused on my practice since our week-long silent retreat a few weeks ago. One morning I opened my iPhone meditation app, Insight, and the subtitle for the first time caught my eye: “Peace in Our Timer.”

I first missed the pun and read it as “Peace in Our Time,” but what strikes me as the naïveté of it stands, especially in this place. When I applied for JMMTT, I think I wrote in my application about how I thought mindfulness could lead to change in the world. But right now, to me, “peace in our time” seems very far off. After I finished meditating, I checked one of the features of the application, which allows me to see who else is practicing “with” me at the same time. A blank screen appeared: “There is no one else meditating nearby.” So much for mindfulness.

As I’ve meditated in the mornings, I’ve been concentrating on hearing, one of the techniques suggested by my teacher Jeff Roth. Paying attention to senses, a common practice in meditation, often leads people to turn inwards. But try focusing outward sometimes, he urges. That morning I heard birds chirping, and a cat meowing, and hotel workers speaking to each other in Arabic, and cars driving on the nearby street.

On this delegation, I’ve heard the microphone-inhanced voice of our Palestinian guide passionately declaim about the occupation; the squeal of the tires of a car racing around in circles on the constrained roads of the Aida refugee camp; young Palestinian men celebrating on the roof of a car the release from prison of one of their friends; the smack of a young Palestinian boy suddenly hitting an Orthodox Jew on the back of the head in the Old City; the construction of settlements in historically Palestinian neighborhoods; the scream of Palestinian women on videos showing their children being beaten by the IDF.

One of the trip participants recently had treatment for melanoma and has to almost entirely cover her face while she’s outside, impairing her ability to see. In Bethlehem last week she took me by the arm as I led her from the city center back to our bus. “You know, for a moment this street sounds like it could be in New York, or Rome, or Mumbai.” She paused. “Except it’s not. This place still sounds different.”

In this hub of Abrahamic religions I’ve also often heard the muezzin (the person who calls Muslims to prayer) and church bells. But I haven’t heard public evidence of Jewish practice. What does Judaism sound like here? I’m afraid to wonder. During our visit to the refugee camp, our guide told the story of taking his children on a trip to Haifa. As they ran around the beach, they came to him in confusion, “There are kids here speaking Hebrew!” Yes, he replied, they are Jewish children. For his children, “Jewish” is a soldier. 

palace in time

On Friday evening, I left the delegation on for Shabbat: The group was traveling and spending money the next day, neither of which fits into my practice. Plus, to be honest, I felt like I needed Shabbat (even more than I normally do). This past week has been so, so hard

I took a cab from our East Jerusalem hotel into West Jerusalem, to the neighborhood of Baka, where I’ll be living for the rest of the summer with two other rabbinical students. Before I joyfully reunited with them (I hadn’t seen either in about a year, since they’ve been in Jerusalem these past two semesters), I watched the scenery change outside of the window. The tight, crowded streets with buildings and business smashed up against one another gave way to wide roads with white stone buildings, tall green trees, and freestanding restaurants and coffee shops. 

After dropping off my suitcase, I ran a few blocks to meet a friend I also hadn’t seen in a long time (from another rabbinical school). We then walked just a few more blocks to the Baka Community Center, where the independent minyan Zion was meeting for Kabbalat Shabbat services. Later, after services, we walked about 15 minutes to dinner at the apartment of a friend of hers on the top of the hill in Talpiot. The next morning, I went to morning services at Sod Siach, another independent minyan about 15 minutes away from my apartment. Afterwards I went to lunch in Talpiot at the apartment of another rabbinical school classmate, and then it was back home for a havdallah/melavah malkah celebration at my apartment. 

photo by salem pearce

This is pretty similar to how I would spend my Shabbat in Boston — except I would be leading services or reading Torah, so it was pretty nice to have a break in that way. I give all of these details to underscore how those 25 hours really drove home for me my American Jewish privilege: With almost no effort, I was able to come to Israel/Palestine and find safe, welcoming, familiar, desirable, accessible community. As an example, a friend claims that this summer I am “living in the neighborhood with the single highest concentration of interesting davvening options . . . in the world.” 

It was a mad dash to my apartment on Friday evening: The group was meeting with two Israelis doing work with IDF refusniks, and I wanted to hear as much of that presentation as possible. And earlier in the day, we’d protested in Paris Square, near the prime minister’s home, with Women in Black (a longtime anti-war-cum-anti-occupation organization). Then the cab driver and I had some trouble finding my apartment, making me late to meet my friend before services. So by the time I sat down in the community center for Kabbalat Shabbat, it was the first time I had caught my breath all day. 

There was absolutely beautiful singing happening when we entered: A chanting of the first two chapters of Shir HaShirim, one of my favorite texts, to a sublime melody I had never heard before. But it was all I could do to just sit there: I wasn’t in a joyful, restful place. The moment and the music seemed discordant in comparison with the rest of my day. It just didn’t seem right to sing. All I could think was: “It wasn’t enough that you occupied the land? Now you are singing happily in it?”

I eventually found my voice, but the discordance came back a few hours later at dinner. My friend’s friend lives in a gorgeous apartment with a terrace twice the size of it. There was a view of the Old City, and you could actually see Al-Aksa Mosque. As I stuffed myself with delicious food and enjoyed interesting conversation, I remembered that a little over 24 hours before I had been walking in the Aida refugee camp outside Bethlehem. Established in 1950, shortly after the declaration of the Israeli state, this dwelling place of 6,000 Palestinians defies the definition of “camp” — which, to me, implies a temporary structure. Aida is now a conglomerate of concrete buildings and narrow roads along the separation wall. As my dinner hosts talked about their son and daughter, I kept flashing back to earlier in the day when our refugee camp host told us about his daughter. She once said to him, “I only want daughters. If I have sons they will just be jailed or killed.”

I rejoined my group in the village of Nabi Saleh after Shabbat ended. They’d had an incredibly hard day hearing from its residents about their clashes with the IDF, which enters the village with impunity even though it is designated as “Area A” and therefore ostensibly under the control of the Palestinian Authority. The power of Shabbat, and especially Shabbat in this land, came became to clear to me. For those 25 hours I had been in another world, one which, comparatively, Jewish Israelis inhabit all the time. Shabbat, what Heschel described so poetically with the metaphor of “a palace in time,” has been concretized. It seem that the palace exists now in time and space, and the Palestinians are not allowed in.

one of them

I step back into my hotel room from the balcony and turn around to put away my tallit and tefillin. I’ve just davenned Shacharit, the morning service, and ended my prayers with the traditional refrain: oseh shalom bimromav, hu ya’aseh shalom, alienu v’al kol Yisrael, v’al kol yoshvei teveyl, “may the one who makes peace above make peace for us, for all of Israel, and for all of the earth’s inhabitants.” As I turn I catch a glance of myself in the mirror, the thought flashes through my head: “I look like one of them.”

I’m in East Jerusalem, traveling with Interfaith Peace-Builders on a delegation to the West Bank, with a special focus on the effects of incarceration and detention on Palestinian society. This hotel is our home base for the 10 days we’ll spend learning about the occupation. There are 27 of us, mostly non-Jews from the States (with a Scot thrown in for good measure), plus a handful of Jews. 

For me the difficulty started as soon as our bus drove out of the airport: “This is the Jewish neighborhood of [x],” the guide intoned, “built on the Palestinian town of [y]. It was called [a], but now it’s called [b].” This has been a constant refrain over the past three days.

“One of them,” of course, has become Jewish Israelis, and specifically religious Jewish Israelis, whose racist government continues to systematically oppress the native Palestinian population. As has been said more than once, the Nakba, the Palestinians’ word for what Israelis call Independence Day — May 15, 1948, the day the state of Israel was established — is ongoing.

photo by Asher Emmanuel


I identify as a religious Jew. But what really brought me into my Jewish practice was social justice. I understand Judaism as requiring that I act in pursuit of the liberation of all people. All of my social justice work is rooted in Jewish values. And those values are antithetical to destruction of homes, and building of walls, and detention of children, and forcible removal of peoples, and use of Biblical names as a signal of colonization. To witness the devastation that religious Judaism has wreaked in this land has been . . . well, devastating. For the first time in my life, I have felt ashamed of being Jewish.

Yesterday, we visited the Palestinian town of Yaffa, now annexed to the city of Tel Aviv. (The latter is officially called Tel Aviv-Yafo.) Our guide told us about the private construction of an apartment building on municipal land: The religious Jew who won the bid declined to rent units to non-Jews, with the excuse that they would not “respect Shabbat.” When asked whether apartments would be let to secular Jewish Israelis who would respect Shabbat, the answer was affirmative. Just not to Palestinians — even if they agreed to “respect Shabbat.” The extensive litigation process by a Palestinian activist group was unsuccessful in preventing this discrimination.

Shabbat is sacred to me, essential to my survival as a Jewish seeker of peace and justice in this painful world. As Heschel said, “More than the Jews have kept Shabbat, Shabbat has kept the Jews.” To hear about the use of Shabbat as a tool of racism is heartbreaking. More than once I’ve felt like I literally cannot hear anymore the onslaught of the catalogue of Israeli crimes. And then I feel guilty, because Palestinians live this reality every day, and they cannot opt out of it.

I know this is part of my process of learning and of integregrating that new knowledge into my identity: What does it mean that these human rights violations are perpetrated in my name, as a Jew, and what is my responsibility in responding? How do I deal with the internalized anti-Semitism that I’ve been experiencing? I feel confident that I’ll eventually work it out. It’s been hugely helpful to have two Jewish leaders who have gone through this process — as well as being able to get and give support to and from the other Jewish participants on the trip.

I will note that this is just part of my experience. I have criticisms of this delegation and its speakers as well. There are things that aren’t being talked about (as there are in a Zionist narrative), but I also think this is not the trip for me to point that out. My job here is to listen to what Palestinian civil society has to say.

wendy’s serves the bread of affliction

salem at ciw rally

The Coalition of Immokalee Workers rally in New York City on March 3, 2016.

 

 

My fellow Hebrew College rabbinical student Mimi Micner and I wrote this OpEd for the Huffington Post about Passover and the Coalition of Immokalee Workers‘ boycott of Wendy’s. Chag sameach!

disagreement for the sake of heaven

I gave this d’var Torah at Nehar Shalom Community Synagogue on February 12, 2016. I share it today, the 9th of Adar on the Hebrew calendar, for reasons that are explained below.

A mishnah in Pirkei Avot tells us:

Every disagreement that is for the sake of heaven will continue to exist, but one that is not for the sake of heaven will not continue to exist.  Which is the [kind of] disagreement that is for the sake of heaven? Such as was the disagreement between Hillel and Shammai; and which is the [kind of] disagreement that is not for the sake of heaven? Such as was the disagreement of Korah and his entire congregation.

Today begins the Jewish Week of Constructive Conflict, so designated because of the holiday that falls in the middle of it, a Jewish holiday you’ve probably never heard of, on the 9th of Adar. One source tells us that the rabbis declared the 9th of Adar a fast day, because on that day several millennia ago, a longstanding, healthy disagreement turned destructive.

The mishnah records the divide between Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai. They disagreed about almost everything — but, the mishnah notes, they engaged in these debates in a healthy and constructive manner, via machloket l’shem shamayim, or “disagreement for the sake of heaven.”

Ironically enough — or perhaps completely fittingly — our sources disagree about what exactly happened on the 9th of Adar: Some say it was simply that Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai disagreed in a way they hadn’t before, in an unproductive manner, while others report that they actually came to blows, and thousands died. One rabbi says he has never even heard of the fast. And then, alternate dates are offered for these events: the 3rd of Adar, the 4th of Adar, the 7th of Adar. It turns out, we can’t even agree on the details of this famous disagreement.

But the prevalence of the Hillel and Shammai debates throughout the mishnah attests the depth of their disagreement. Nonetheless, the mishnah  calls their relationship illustrative of machloket l’shem shamayim, “disagreement for the sake of heaven.”

Frustratingly, the mishnah never spells out the characteristics that made the Hillel and Shammai debate machloket l’shem shamayim. So later commentators hazard some guesses.

One notes that the houses of Hillel and Shammai maintained close relationships, their followers marrying each other and eating in each others’ houses. We’re also told that their motivations were beyond “winning” — they wanted to solve problems. And each listened to the other side and were open to admitting mistakes. Finally, it is said that each equally spoke “the words of the living Gd,” even though they held opposing views.

So this week, and especially the 9th of Adar, is dedicated to increasing public awareness around the values and skills of constructive conflict, modeled for us through the relationship of Beit Hillel and Beit Shammai — both in its brilliant success over generations, and in its utter failure on one 9th of Adar.

Recently I joined the Community Hevre Kadisha of Greater Boston. Hevre Kadisha is generally translated as “Holy Society.” It’s a group of volunteers who are on call to prepare a deceased person for burial according to Jewish tradition. The Hevra Kadisha’s ultimate concern is to care for the deceased with respect and kindness. I have been privileged to assist a team of women a couple of times over the past month in what is called tahara. There are several principles involved in this purification ritual that have felt deeply meaningful to me, and especially relevant to this week as I learn these ancient rites and commemorate this Jewish Week of Constructive Conflict.

The ritual of tahara begins and ends with the attendants asking forgiveness of the deceased person (meyta in Hebrew) for any indignity that we might inadvertently cause. We declare that all that is about to happen, or that has happened, is for the sake of her honor. A main consideration during tahara is not to turn our backs to the meyta, as well as not pass anything over her body, as we move around the room to prepare her for burial. All of these practices remind us that death has not diminished her essential value as a human being, as one created b’tzelem Elohim, in the image of Gd.

As I recently stood at the head of a meyta — a position that is always meant to be occupied — I thought about applying these standards to our interactions with each other. What if we always attempted to engage each other with an intention of dignity? What if we strove never to turn our backs on each other? What if we tried never to pass each other over? What if we committed to remaining present with each other? What if we treated the living as we do the dead?

This week, parshat T’rumah seems to encourage just that. It describes the ideal of being truly present for one another and hints at how to achieve this presence. We find this model deep within the detailed instructions for building the mishkan, or tabernacle, which the Israelites built at the beginning of their journey in the desert and that would come to be the meeting place between them and Gd. Amidst directions for the poles and the curtains and the rings and the clasps, there is the blueprint for the golden keruvim, the winged creatures that are meant to sit on the cover of the ark. Their wings shield the cover of the ark, and they are placed, we are told, p’neyhem ish el achiv, that is, with “their faces toward one another.”

Rabbi David Jaffe, whom I had the opportunity to learn from a few weeks ago, teaches this about the keruvim: Their wings spread over their heads and almost touch at the top. From the space between the wings, Gd says to Moshe, “I will be known to you there and will speak with you…” (Exodus 25:22). A place of knowing and being truly known stands at the center of this structure. This ark is the centerpiece of the mishkan and central to achieving a connection with the divine. Gd speaks from above the keruvim, who face each other in a gesture of genuine relationship.

The rabbis pick up on this powerful metaphor. They teach that the keruvim faced each other when the Israelites behaved well — and turned away from each other when idolatry and oppression reigned. The implication is that it’s only when the keruvim are p’neyhem ish el achiv, “their faces towards one another,” when the Israelites are in productive relationship with each other, that Gd can speak.

Millennia ago, Hillel and Shammai were sitting in the beit midrash p’neyhem ish el achiv, “their faces towards one another,” and both spoke the words of the living Gd. In the following thousands of years, Jews have continued to observe the rites of tahara, its practitioners standing p’neyhem ish el achiv in relationship to the dead, and affording them a last and ultimate act of dignity. And this week in parshat T’rumah we read about the keruvim placed p’neyhem ish el achiv, allowing the presence of Gd into the midst of the Israelites.

During this election year, this ideal of constructive conflict can seem like a mere fantasy. Winning is most definitely the goal, and no one admits mistakes. And there are some candidates whose words are so repugnant that I don’t believe they could belong to any living Gd.

Speaking a little closer to home, I feel similarly when the larger Jewish community tries to talk about Israel/Palestine, or questions of personal status, or the role of women in ritual, or the many other things about which we disagree. So maybe we can’t realistically hold the American political system to this high standard — but I believe we can start this work in our own communities. And that constructive conflict can have ripple effects.

The turned faces of the keruvim on top of the ark are a beautiful metaphor for the conditions of both intimacy and estrangement. This idea has powerful implications for our connections with people and with the divine. When we face each other in relationship, we allow the divine to speak.

of superheroes and soothsayers

I gave this d’var Torah at Nehar Shalom Community Synagogue on December 11, 2015.

Over Thanksgiving I was able to go home, to Texas, where all of my family lives. The most precious time was with my two nephews and my niece. The day after Thanksgiving, Archer, the four-year-old, pulled me upstairs to play. He decided he wanted to wear his Halloween costume, and so he showed me the basket for his dress-up clothes. He begin pulling out his pink tutu, cowboy hat, green dress, etc. He finally got to his firefighter costume. He carefully donned the hat and coat and asked me what I thought. When I suggested he might need shoes to be a firefighter, he obligingly strapped on his pink sandals. Ready? I said. Not yet, he replied. He pulled out of the pocket of his coat a laminated card with four illustrations. Okay, he announced. This is what we have to do. These are the different things that can happen, he said, pointing to the card. And so we went from room to room, first putting out a house fire; then a forest fire that spread from a campfire; and finally a kitchen fire that started from a pot left on the stove. And then we rescued a cat in a tree. What else can we do?, I asked. That’s all there is, he replied. Let’s do them again!

My brother is an engineer — and my grandfather was an engineer — and Archer has certainly inherited their exactitude and penchant for following directions precisely. So I know that it’s not just a child’s assurance of safety that encompasses his approach to make-believe. For Archer, the card that comes with the jacket tells you what to do. These, and only these, are the threats that firefighters face. They are circumscribed, and they are predictable.

I came to Texas for Thanksgiving with the heavy weight of the brokenness of the world. I continue to be sickened by the terrorist attacks at home and abroad, whether by knife-wielders in Jerusalem — where many of my classmates are now studying — or gun-toters here. The sense of insecurity that I feel on a daily basis is profound, and as I took part in Archer’s highly circumscribed set of crises, I wondered whether I will be able to give him — and my other nephew and niece — anything other than a world of out-of-control unpredictability.

I felt this again on Wednesday night, when a small group of us from Nehar Shalom went together to the Boston Candlelight Vigil Against Gun Violence, part of a week of similar events nationwide. The event took place in what I assume was the small sanctuary of the very large First Church of Boston in Back Bay.

There was a modest crowd, at least in comparison to my expectations — which provided a marked contrast to the number of victims of gun violence who were remembered. A candle was lit for each of the victims of gun violence this year in the Boston area. And then attendees were invited to light candles for their own loved ones who had been victims of gun violence. And then the pastor lit a candle for each of the fifty states and the District of Columbia while the number of victims of gun violence in each place were read aloud. I worried we might burn the church down with all of that fire. (And this was not one of the scenarios on Archer’s card!) Even the presence of the large Boston police officer who spoke briefly was diminished in the shadow of the flames. Before and after the service, on a large screen at the front of the sanctuary, a tribute video played, with pictures of victims of gun violence — a name, date, and location with each. The dates ranged back as far as 1990, with the dead all over the country. The enormity of what we face overwhelmed me, and I felt helpless and scared. I don’t mean to criticize the organizers of this important event — I mean only to share my experience.

In that moment, sitting in a small chapel memorializing the victims of this seemingly unending, volatile scourge, what we call “Gun Violence in the United States,” I flashed to an episode of my favorite TV show, Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Yes, you can laugh. What, you thought I was going to say the parshah? Themes of Chanukah? Words from our venerable rabbinic tradition? In my world, there are at least two Torahs, and one of them is Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The show is about a superhero in Southern California who fights the forces of darkness — but on a metaphorical level, it’s also about what we do as human beings when the monsters come. In Buffy’s world, as in ours, the monsters always come. Of course, in Buffy’s case, it’s because the town of Sunnydale also happens to sit on the hellmouth.

The episode “The Wish” explores an alternate reality: What would the town be like if Buffy weren’t there? The vampires have taken over, but most of its human residents have adjusted to the constant fear. They have curfews, avoid the bright clothing that attracts vampires, and have weekly memorial services for the ever-accumulating dead. They can’t take on the vampires directly. Horrific death is a matter of when, not if. This is just how things are.

Throughout the episode, we see Buffy’s would-be mentor begin to realize that they’re living in an parallel universe. He came to the town to help Buffy, but she never showed up. And in the meantime, the town of Sunnydale surrendered to the darkness. He finally figures out that this reality is the result of a magical spell — and that he can break the spell by destroying the amulet that was used to cast it. As he prepares to smash it, the demon who cast the spell taunts him: How does he know the other world is any better than this one? “Because it has to be,” he says. With that leap of faith, he rights the world — monsters still exist, but does the person who fights those monsters.

Sitting in that sanctuary, I felt like the residents of Sunnydale. I don’t want for us Americans to accept gun violence as they do vampires — but we don’t have a superhero, and we don’t have a magic amulet. We do, however, have an example in the Jewish tradition. (Yes, now we’re getting to that Torah!)

Parshat Miketz also contains a looming menace that threatens death. In this part of Genesis we see the long-forgotten Yosef finally remembered by Paro’s cupbearer and called to interpret Paro’s dreams of fat and lean cows and of full and withered ears of grain. Like Archer’s firefighter card that precisely delineates scenarios, Yosef accurately predicts seven years of plenty followed by seven years of famine. And then he recommends preparation. The job is given to Yosef himself, who successfully executes his task — and then some, as he’s ultimately able during the famine to feed more than just the people of Egypt because of his careful planning.

As an activist, there is so much that I like about this story. I think we can see it as the beginning of community organizing in Jewish tradition. After the cosmology of the story of creation at the beginning of Genesis, the Torah focuses narrowly on family narrative: Avraham and Sarah, Yitzchak and Rivka, Ya’akov, Rachel, Leah. When Yosef’s brothers sell him into slavery down into Egypt, the scope begins to widen. With Yosef’s eventual rise to power, the actions of our ancestors begin to have national and historical implications. What we do matters to others.

Importantly, Yosef doesn’t just tell Paro what his dreams predict: He proposes a solution. And the solution, significantly, does not assume deliverance: Gd may have enabled Yosef to know what was coming, but Yosef suggests what to do about it.  The text attributes the idea for action to Yosef — not Gd. לֵאלֹהִים פִּתְרֹנִים, “interpretations belong to Gd,” Yosef says — but the story shows that action belongs to human beings.

I imagine that the prospect of famine, of the potential starvation of the people of Egypt, was quite frightening. Knowing the threat is coming doesn’t blunt fear. The famine looms, but Yosef isn’t cowered by it. He doesn’t accept it. He sees a different world, and he works to bring it into being.

Like Archer’s fires, and Buffy’s monsters, and Joseph’s famine, there are and will continue be destructive forces in the world. We create them in these fictional forms to manage our fear. We can also do it in this world. We can and we must end gun violence. Let’s change this era of daily gun deaths so radically as to make it seem like it was an alternate universe. I want our moral imagination in this area to be as vibrant as our creative imagination.

Like the Maccabees of old, who defied the culture of their time that said that destiny could not be changed and instead, jumped in to write a new story, my hope for us is that we dare to dream of a different world — and then work together to bring it about. It’s not a superhero or a soothsayer — we are the ones we’ve been waiting for.

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