safe spaces safe places

Last year in my class on Leviticus we talked about the distinction between a holy place and a holy space. I spent a good chunk of the summer and fall here in Israel thinking about those concepts, writing poetry about them, exploring them physically—Mosques, Synagogues, Churches. Lately my attention has turned to questions of safe space and safe place.

Safe space:
I find it difficult to disagree with other people openly. It can feel alienating, lonely and scary. What if I find myself without friends or without community? The point of creating a safe space is not to create a space in which everyone agrees with each other. That actually is not a safe space, because inevitably someone will disagree with someone about something—whether they admit it or not. A safe space is one in which people can have open, honest conversations in which they share their differences of opinion without threatening their relationships with those who disagree. It is one in which everyone agrees to respect other people’s right to think differently. In a safe space you look at someone with a different perspective as equally intelligent. Just because you came to different conclusions doesn’t mean that you both don’t have the intellectual capacity to think critically. I think people often assume that differences of opinion are a question of quantity or quality of information or about the person’s ability to reason. Sometimes they are, but more often they are about our values. I can look at the same exact piece of information as you, see exactly the same thing, understand what I’m seeing and place a positive value judgment on it while you place a negative one. That does not mean one of us is not intelligent. We just care about different things.
Recently I have been part of, been around or heard about many confrontational conversations about the war in Gaza. The stakes are high—these are matters of life and death and people act as if the discussion also has the power to kill. Some try to avoid political discussions, while others make their views known openly. In two of the institutions in which I am studying, I have heard a lot from individuals who have very nuanced views of the situation here. There are those who are critical of certain aspects of what the Israeli army is doing if not totally against the war. There are those who feel badly about the impact of the war on Gaza civilians, but believe that Israel has no choice. Despite the myriad views represented by the students, the rhetoric used publicly by students and faculty at these institutions often sounds like the standard, uncomplicated view that we must support Israel no matter what—and the resounding silence that follows might be (mis)taken for approval. I am not saying here that I think one way or the other about whether to pray for Israeli lives or pray for Palestinian lives or both. What bothers me is the lack of open conversation about these questions. I am used to participating in a community where discord prevails. This experience of feigned conformity masking an underlying rumble of disharmony strikes me as unhealthy at best and destructive at worst. I also do not blame any particular person or institution for this. We all participate. I too have sat and listened and silently acquiesced. This, however, is now what I want to put into the world.
I would like to work towards creating safe spaces for people to talk about their opinions. I do not mean a space where everyone agrees and certainly not a space where everyone pretends to agree. I mean a space in which we honor the discord. In that vein, I am working on a project. If you would like to know more about it, contact me.

Safe place:
I have written about holy places. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed by the obvious sanctity of a place that I cry. Sometimes I have to work hard to discover the holiness of a place, as I have on this particular stay here in Israel. The problem now is that I can’t even think about holiness. I am worried about safety. I stay home a lot. I used to do most of my studying and writing in coffee shops. Now I stay in my bedroom. Part of this is due to a recent bout of illness which prevents me from drinking coffee and eating dairy or wheat. Since coffee shops mostly serve coffee, sandwiches and pastries, I am better off staying home. But the other reason is because I don’t feel safe. It’s not that I am not safe. I probably am. But I don’t feel safe in the crowded places on Emek Refaim street which has been bombed in the past, once at Café Hillel only a week after I had sat there drinking my coffee and chatting with a friend.
Here’s the irony: one of the major justifications for the existence of the Jewish State is to provide a safe place for all Jews, a place where Jews can come and live freely, escaping the rampant Antisemitism in the rest of the world by having a Jewish majority and special protections for Jews. Yet, America feels a million times safer to me. Sure, at any moment the American people could start to have hostile sentiments toward Jews, elect an Anti-Semitic president, and even justify discrimination under the guise of Homeland Security. However, I don’t think that is very likely. Nor is it happening right now. In fact, right now I would be significantly safer in Brookline, MA than in Jerusalem.
I am probably going to go back to American soon. The headaches, sleeplessness, and intestinal chaos I am currently experiencing feel connected to the violence going on around me. Even if I do know that I am probably safe here, like I’m in the eye of the storm. At any moment things could shift. Not only that, but I am incredibly heartbroken by the loss of life and the shadow this war casts on any hope for reconciliation in the near future. It’s agonizing to know that people are dying and hurting each other not only while I sit here snug in Jerusalem, but so that I can be here. That thought makes we want to vomit, except that I haven’t eaten anything.
The thought of leaving this tropical war zone to go home to a New England winter sounds incredibly boring and also amazing. Right now I would welcome a huge dose of boring. I want to look out my window, see snow falling, make myself a cup of hot cocoa (the Nestle packet kind) and read the New York Times. Not online. I mean the newspaper. I want to trek in through the slushy Boston snow in my boots to get to Trader Joe’s and then pick up a free sample of coffee in the small cup to warm my hands, grab some chocolate covered pretzels and Fage and feel the snowflakes melting on my eyelashes just in time to head back out into it. None of this sounds anywhere near as exciting as hiking through the huge crater in the Negev desert and watching the sun set over the ridge. Or having intense conversations with Palestinians in Bethlehem about their lives. Or just hopping on the bus to Tel Aviv to see the sea, some friends, smell the salty air. But boring is safe. At the beginning of the semester my friends Josh and Sara and I made a toast on beer to adventure. I’m tired. I've had a little too much adventure. Now I’d like some peace and quiet—which is certainly not in great supply in this region of the world.

Selichot

I am asleep, but my heart is waking, slowly
To the sound of a still, small voice
My alarm clock, going off at 3:30 in the morning
I dress slowly, try to focus, but my body longs for cool sheets and soft pillows

The streets have an eerie emptiness
Like when I arrived here
At 5 am
While everyone here was still in bed
The usually bustling, no crowded, streets of the shuk
Are totally empty
A ghost town
Like on Shabbat
But different
I feel the pulse of building energy, of anticipation

On the small balcony where my knees barely fit into the small space between the pew and the wall,
I hold my cup of hot tea
I want to be sleeping, but the music pulls me out of a waking dream
El Ado-o-n Ha-se-lee-chot

I hold my fist over my heart
The voice of my beloved is knocking
“Open to me”
But how can I?
With all of my imperfections, flaws, mistakes I have made
So many, blocking the way

Then He cries, begs
Calls me loving names, tells me I’m perfect the way I am
Each shofar call arousing His compassion
Outside, the sun rises illuminating the dew drops on the buildings
The dampness of the night still clings in the air
As we wander through the empty streets
Looking for You among the borekas and cappuccinos

Teshuva part 2

I am stumbling from the dizziness
Of this calendar It keeps going in circles
As I try to walk in a straight a line
Like in “Pin the Tail on the Donkey”
I grasp blindly in some direction
Reaching for an unknown, unseen place
To pin down the end of the story, make a complete picture

I am in the same place I was last year at this time, or a few years ago
I am listening to the same song over and over again
Going back to familiar streets, but the storefronts have changed
It is only on these same streets that I recognize the difference in my gait

A man steals because he is poor
Later, when he has sufficient means, he stops
But he has not returned to himself, walked along the path of his poverty, looked at the same hole-ridden boots and chosen to go hungry
Only then, has he returned

I wonder if things are different now
Am I different
Are these new skin cells, fingernails, hair follicles?
Or am I just a more recent copy of the original
Having collected a few footnotes and smudges along the way?

A new approach:

She tells me that repeated behaviors make tracks in our brains
The neural pathways become worn and paved
That part of the brain dies, like a footpath where grass no longer grows
Changing behavior forges new neural connections
A new path is created
For skipping, playing hopscotch, wheel-barrel races, a hike
And the brain cells grow all around
Begonias in a well-tended garden, where the weeds have been picked to make room for them to come in this year,
And next year, and the one after that.

Teshuva

Return again, return again
Return to the land of your soul (2x)

Return to who you are
Return to what you are
Return to where you are
Born and re-born again

Return again, return again
Return to the land of your soul

schoolsickness

Every time I go away from home I expect to get a bit homesick. I miss Andy, my kitchen, my bed, my bathroom, the comforts, the Tivo, Coolidge Corner, my gym, etc. The thing I was most nervous about this time was missing my school. While I do feel some longing for home and Andy, the thing that can bring a tear to my eyes in an instant right now is thinking about HC having orientation, all the new students who I won't meet until December, the shabbaton, the elul term, the teachers, my classmates.

It began on Thursday when we used Pardes's video-conferencing to talk to our class back home. They were eating breakfast. Oh--and apparently there is a new caterer who is amazing and makes eggs and hashbrowns! no fair! Anyway, there was something about seeing the 6 people back home sitting in the classroom all together and not being there that really got me. They were telling us about their schedule and just trying to find a time to have another video-conference with them reinforced just how different our experiences are going to be this semester.

I am sad to feel like I am missing out on something really amazing even though I am in Israel supposed to be having all of these great experiences. The summer was awesome, but my transition to Jerusalem has been difficult. It feels meaningless and pointless. As I sit in Cafe Hillel using their free wifi to write this blog post, I can't help but think that it isn't any different that sitting at JP Licks in Brookline--except that the menu is in Hebrew. The people around me are mostly speaking English. I just ordered a hot chocolate--okay, they made it Israeli style by melting actual chocolate in milk, but other than that, not so different.

I feel like everything hinges on the learning here. I don't have the community I want, I don't have my boyfriend, I don't have my usual comforts, but if the learning is great than it will be worth it. Still, I am worried that the learning at HC is just as good (if not better) and that there really is no point to me being here. I need to find something redemptive. I also worry that when I get back it won't feel like my school anymore with all of the new students and the collective experience of the coming semester.

As I read through the orientation materials, I couldn't help feeling like I would rather be studying with Jane and Jonah and Ebn and Or and Sharon and Allan and Natan and Dan and working on the tefilah committee and planning community time. I was really involved in a lot of the planning of orientation and shabbatonim in the past and now it feels like it is all going on without me. It is. And it sounds even better than the previous years. One thing I can say that I'm looking forward to is getting back and enjoying watching new people step into leadership roles and getting to enjoy the fruits of their labors. I just hope that my time in Israel has its rewards too.

Poems

I originally wrote these poems in Hebrew, so if they sound a bit contrived in English that's why. I'll try to upload the pdf's of the Hebrew for those of you who can read them that way

Shai (which means gift in Hebrew)

You were three when you returned to the States from Israel
I was so happy
And then it became clear to me that some things had changed between us
You weren’t “my baby” anymore
You didn’t want me to feed you a bottle and fall asleep in my arms
You had learned to speak, but in a language that I didn’t understand

So I too learned Hebrew
And you didn’t know it then, but it was a huge gift to me, Shai

You loved “boy things”
Trucks
Batman
And whenever we were driving in the car with your mom and we saw a tractor
She would say, “Shai, look what it is! A tractor!”
And you would be so happy, even if you had been crying the minute before

Now you are big, with a low voice, and if you wanted to, you could grow a beard on your face
And you’re starting university soon
And I am in disbelief

And now you are in the States
And I am in Israel
When I see a tractor, I am not happy, but scared
Because now “they are trying to push the Jews into the sea” with tractors
But after I pass it safely, I am happy, because I’m here, in Israel
And I wonder to myself: Would you be able to read this poem today?
Would you understand it?


Holy Place

They built the Tel Aviv Hilton on top of an old Arab cemetery
At least that is what our Jaffa tour guide told us
Now the tourists sleep on broken bones
But they can’t really feel them underneath the mattresses that were brought in from the U.S.

I see them, the tourists, off in the distance
But my eyes keep returning, returning
To the minaret that is in front of me
And the Arab houses that they have turned into galleries for jewelry and art

Across from the kindergarten that we destroyed there is another mosque
It’s not clear to me if people still pray there
But there is a sign next to the gate that says: “holy place.”
And if you look closely
You can see that they white-washed over the words “please don’t piss.”

I once wrote about the stones of Jerusalem--
How they are so slick from years of hands and feet on them--
Our Holy Place
And I wrote that if the tourists walk in just the right way
They will wind up with pieces of thousand-year-old souls stuck in their shoes

Today I am thinking about the souls of those whose graves lie under the Tel Aviv Hilton
I hear them screaming from inside the sewers
Mixed in with all of the piss and shit
Raging
Because someone decided that it is allowed to piss on a holy place

hirhurim (musings)

I especially love the pool at the "country club" that I joined here. I put country club in quotes, because even though that is what they call it, it's more like a cross between a really mediocre gym and a public pool. The pool is actually really lovely. The workout room (called the kosher room in Hebrew) is small and dinky. The guy who works there is hilarious. I can just picture him as a drill sergeant in the army. Every time I go there he says "tank you very much, nice to meet you" but it sounds like he's actually saying "why do I have to put up with stupid, wimpy American girls in my gym." Anyway, I like the pool.

On my way back from the pool, feeling cool and refreshed, I heard a minyan davening the kedusha. I looked up and there were about 10 men squished on a small balcony. The nusach (tune) was the same, but slightly more exotic sounding. I knew pretty quickly that it was a shiva minyan. Why else would they be davening at someone's house? Then I noticed that down on the ground level the patio was filled with people. One observation was that it must be nice not to have to worry about having a minyan of people who know how to pray. On the other hand, it was only men. In any case, I felt bad for the family and wondered who the person had been, what had happened, etc.

One interesting this about this summer has been the juxtaposition of emotions. I wouldn't call them mood swings, because my mood has stayed steadily happy. I feel like my life is going well, I'm enjoying my everyday existence and I'm feeling grounded. However, sprinkled amidst that happy mood is my recognition of the pain and suffering going on around me. The homeless men sleeping on cardboard outside the bus station, the refugees from Sudan and Eritrea who are seeking asylum in a country that doesn't really want them and is trying to segregate them into the northern and southern parts of the country, the crowded "kindergartens" of the foreign workers and just the general fatigue of the city. Noticing these things makes me sad and it's an interesting kind of sad, because it is a sympathy sadness. It is also shortlived. Again, I wouldn't describe this as a mood swing, but more as a peppering of sadness in an otherwise sweet kugel mood.

I must be getting tired. I really wanted to write about the rest of the Talmud classes with Ari which have now come to and end and the people who are leaving the program, who will be greatly missed, but that will have to wait for now. So I'll just say this: Jill, Ellie, Alissa, Billy and Meredith--may your journeys be blessed with continued learning, may you encounter people and things that challenge (makshe) you and may you have what it takes to respond to (mefarke) them. Please stay in touch.