Rebellious Thoughts of a Woman

It’s not that I expected everyone in the “Antisemitism, Islamophobia, and Christian Nationalism” group at the multi-faith potluck to agree with me, but I didn’t expect to be confronted with an antisemite and a keffiyeh-wearer whose presence were—now I get the term—triggering!

Where’s my silo?!

A friend, who lives in Israel and is 19 months into living in a war zone, suggested that I leave the group, that sometimes there really is too much for a person to handle.

A friend in New York suggested that IF I stay in the group, I would need to develop a thicker skin. She also commented that perhaps I was put there by HaShem (The Name, G!d) for a purpose.

A third, very new, friend, who was there, tried to convince me that the way forward is to have a Muslim speaker at the next event. That was too much. I’ve read and learned enough to know that appeasement and ceding to the other is not the way forward. Why step aside and give the stage to someone who doesn’t respect you? Why not have them hear Jews speak or have a conversation as is the stated intention at a dialogue group? While they were at this meeting and in this group (at a different table from me), which is positive, their very aggressive stance (why wear the keffiyeh?; why say “Zionism is the problem”) I did not feel that I need to be gracious, but rather that I need to graciously take a stand.

To listen and be heard. To learn and understand. To share and connect. To not be strange strangers. To me these are the goals of interfaith dialogue. I wonder if I can do it now.

*****

After we moved to the States from Israel in 2000, I tried to establish a dialogue group with a Palestinian woman. We didn’t get anywhere, beyond the not inconsequential realization that our ex-husbands, my Israeli and her Palestinian, were very similar in the ways they were verbally abusive and aggressive, and we were similar in having pushed against convention and the “he’s a good provider” thoughts to divorce them.

Before Covid, I was a member of a local chapter of the Sisterhood of Salaam-Shalom, a group for building connections between Jewish and Muslim women. We had been meeting for about a year, becoming friends, uncovering similarities and differences between our religions (and sometimes learning more about our own religions) and the home countries of most of the Muslim women, and, of course, eating delicious foods. We were just starting to think about what to do for the betterment of our community when Covid put an end to everything, and then I moved.

Through that experience, though, I saw the value in going out of my way to meet people I wouldn’t normally meet, to work on correcting inaccuracies in how I and my people are perceived, and in how I perceive others. It’s not necessarily that knowledge is power, it’s that knowledge may lead to compassion.

*****

Now that I’m a retired, middle-aged woman who has never done any moving and shaking, what is it that will not let me rest (or nap), will not let me accept my past ineffectiveness? What am I looking for in these groups? What do I want to happen?

I wonder if I should accept that the talking—the exchange of experiences and time spent together—is the essence? Should I stop diminishing in importance what I do because it’s not what I deem to be important work (that others are doing—stop the comparing!)?

In our small group conversations at the multi-faith meeting, I talked to a woman who is Baha’i, who extolled her religion and its basic tenet of acceptance, and a Christian woman who talked about her work in El Salvador helping physically improve lives. I spoke of the negative way Islam views Jews and how harmful it has been—is. We each shared our hearts, using this opportunity to say what moved us, things that we don’t get to share in our everyday interactions.

*****

At last night’s potluck, there was a speaker from Our Children’s Trust which “represents young people in global legal efforts to secure their binding and enforceable legal rights to a healthy atmosphere and stable climate.” After that, we got into small groups and talked about our faith traditions’ teachings on the environment. We all care. We all see ourselves as stewards of the earth, whatever being or entity breathed it into being. That connection felt like a strengthening: we are not alone in caring and wanting to protect the earth.

After that the “Antisemitism and Islamophobia” group got together to talk about when to meet again. Walking out of the meeting, I was deflated (and not just because hardly anyone took my pasta dish), until I saw my friend who is trying to keep the group together. Her insistence that I need to care about Islamophobia may be correct, but at this moment, I can’t take it on as my concern. When antisemitism and anti-Zionism are so immediate, critical, dangerous, resurgent, and when Israel is attacked and Judaism maligned, I want to stay focused. So while this group may offer some worthwhile interactions, it will not replace the work I need to do.

On my way home, I passed a pickup truck with a Palestinian flag and a life-size replica of a missile in its truck bed. Doesn’t seem like Islamophobia is the problem.

It is Day 576: there are still hostages suffering in Gaza. We are each our brother's keeper. I'm focusing on my hurting family first.

I was warned that my new hometown in the Pacific Northwest is not very Jewish. This was not just in comparison to New York City or Israel or southern Florida, the very Jewish places where I have lived, but in comparison to northern Virginia, where I also lived, which is not very Jewish.

On the first day of school, just weeks after we moved from Israel to Virginia, I introduced myself to the mothers at the bus stop, as my daughters shyly looked at their potential new friends. Upon hearing that we moved from Israel, one woman pointed to another mother and daughters coming towards us and said, “Look, there’s Leslie, she’s Jewish, too!” Which was a welcome, and a warning that things would be different from what I was used to.

Growing up Jewish in Queens in the ‘60s and ‘70s was to feel like any other group; we were in enough numbers to be an integral part of the city, and there were enough bagel places and delis to back that up! Our holidays were school holidays. New York was (is?) a salad bowl, but prepared by someone who doesn’t like their vegetables to touch, yet each of the different veggies were needed to make it delicious.

In Virginia, I understood what it meant to be a minority during the December “Holiday” party in the high school where I taught. There were years that I didn’t go, not wanting to be a Debbie Downer with my sour expression at the Christmas stuff, abundantly aware that this is not my holiday. Other years I went, following up the festivities with an email to the principal protesting the “our Lord was born” song that the school choir sang beautifully. Some years I let the dreidel song appease me. Not that anyone did anything wrong; it was an annual unable-to-ignore acknowledgement of what it feels like to be a minority.

When my daughters were in high school, I had to argue against their fear of missing a day of school and my insistence that honoring our holidays (Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur!) was more important. (Even teachers understand priorities.)

Which all goes to say that it’s not easy being a minority, and that a person who is a minority, but doesn’t necessarily look it, continually perceives how much she is or wants to be separate or integrated into the larger society. At this point in my personal history (where I see myself as a woman who is Jewish, American, and Israeli) and history itself with the rise in antisemitism, I have no intention of hiding my identity or only being it in my home or specific public spaces, like my synagogue or at multi-faith meetings in churches, or my writers’ group where I always talk about the latest Jewish-themed blog post I’m writing.

Since October 7^th, the feeling of being fully accepted and part of this country has been severely damaged. There is no way to watch what Jewish students are facing on their campuses and the excuses that are made for the violators, and not know this. It is heart-wrenching. It motivates me. It is to realize some responsibility for them and their plight, and to want to help them fight what has been wrought by previous generations, including my own.

On a recent Thursday afternoon, I was in the local pharmacy, wearing my new Jewish star (made by an artisan in Israel). The clerk said to me, “Good Shabbos.” I instinctively reached to touch my necklace, my statement, and looked at him and saw his name plate said Jonah. Jewish? I wondered. I said, “Thank you. Shabbat Shalom to you.” At that moment, I realized that, while this is not a very Jewish town, there are enough Jews around to not feel alone. It also made me realize that wearing my necklace was not just to proclaim my Jewish identity and pride, but to show other Jewish people that they are not alone. We are here.

In a grocery store the next day, I saw a man wearing a kippah (yarmulke). “Chag Sameach” (Happy Holiday) I said to him since it was Purim (a Jewish holiday). He looked at me, nodded, and said “Chag Sameach.” Another simple exchange. I am not alone.

Since October 7^th, when I wear either a Jewish star or Chai (חי) necklace, people often say that they like my necklace. To me this is code: I’m Jewish too. Or, I see you, you are not alone in the negative whirlwind that has descended.

But there is also this.

Before I brought my laptop for service last week, I pulled off the Jewish & Proud sticker that I got at the recent BBYO convention. A small part of me feared that an antisemite would be assigned to repair my computer, and, seeing the sticker, would infect it with a virus. I’m not pleased with myself, but I don’t know if I would do anything different going forward. I put it back on my laptop as soon as I got home—and it is here, back on my laptop. This, too, is what it means to be part of the Jewish minority, especially since October 7^th.

Perhaps the take-away point is that we are part of the continuum of Jewish history, not separate from it—there is never separate from it—this is how it has always been, unfortunately. This perspective may help each of us figure out what that means to us, and how we can ensure that our history continues (or help it to continue if you are not Jewish), still hoping, though, for shorter downturns and decreasing in intensity.

Naivete is no longer an option. Neither is ignorance.

What does it mean to be Jewish? This is the question. How has this changed and how will I change going forward?  

Parents Moving to Live Near their Adult Children—It’s a Thing!

I’m on the mother migration trail (on which I’ve noticed quite a few fathers too). There are no covered wagons to hitch, nor stakes to claim then settle for the coming generations. No, this migration trail is forged in the heart of mothers (especially the single ones) who see the empty nest as a diminishment, an unwanted interruption in her motherhood role, and for whom family needs to be held together by more than an occasional holiday visit or weekend phone call. We’re on the move, kids! Watch out!

We’re driven to reach the people who are home: to collapse distance and complicated scheduling. Calls and zooming are no longer sufficient, especially once children’s lives became steady, dependable—imagine that! Migrating to be near the people who will sit around my kitchen table, enjoying my cooking as a comfort and reminiscence—even bringing to-go containers knowing that leftovers for them are a given. People for whom talking about this and that, scheduling a walk tomorrow, and not saved for a visit that involves planes and Airbnb’s, is meaningful in a natural, this-is-everyday-life, way. This is the new promised land.

Once, the next generation would return home, to be near their parents who were moored in place. But not now (or with so many of the people I know), not with family homes sold because of divorce or relocations for better jobs or any job, or retirement to warmer climes. So many of us did not stay put, but, amazingly, our children are starting to settle down. They are not tempted to come to where we ended up; they have no connection to our new places. They are determined to find the perfect balance of work and life style. If we want them to live near us, we need to adopt their hometowns.

My brother, who stayed near the home base and whose children have done so too, seems to be the outlier amongst my friends. They are the people who stayed in the old country while the more adventurous, or desperate, relatives joined those westward trails, seeking new opportunities and different possibilities. This journey is more than about being a mother (or father) living near her children; it’s about being the type of person who pushes herself out of her comfort zone, who doesn’t want to settle with what has been, who still believes that what will be can be different, guided by internal and external discoveries.

Many mothers and fathers (alone or together) are on this unmapped trail. Our guides are love and connections: people-as-place. The compass points are not grounded in the earth, but in our hearts. More on this journey as I make this new place home.

What are some of the places, figurative and literal, that your path brought you to? Who or what did you follow?

I’m branching out! I just started a Substack called Sharing Insights . This will be another home where I plan on sharing insights, as well as providing support, empathy, consolation, and lighthearted moments that show our hearts are made of/for compassion and love.

I plan to continue posting here, generally the same posts because there’s just so much that I can do and think and feel and write.

So please, either continue subscribing here or, if you’ve gotten comfy on Substack, I invite you to subscribe to my newsletter, Sharing Insights, there.  

Thank you thank you thank you for being a reader. Thinking of you helps me write.

The main topics that will continue to write about include: being a woman, a mother, and soon! to be a grandmother, retirement, single living, caregiving, elder care, Judaism, and Israel.

“Move up. Don’t sit alone.”

That was not me whispering to myself when I got to temple on Friday night, the night after the Bibas boys returned dead, murdered in Gaza, and the day that their mother, Shiri, finally, returned, murdered as well. That was the rabbi, gesturing to me, encouraging me to join the congregation.

I moved up one row.

She came over to me, and asked me to move even closer to the front, to where people were sitting. “You look like you could use fellowship tonight.”

I moved up some more, to behind a new friend. Rather than staying on my own, pretending I hadn’t noticed her, I moved to sit next to her. When I turned around, I saw a man I met a few days earlier at a temple event and encouraged him to sit next to us. So, instead of being by myself in the back, I was now in the second row between two new friends.

At the beginning of the service, the rabbi tearfully called everyone to join her on the bima (raised part of the synagogue). She said that many of us were there that night because we were devastated by the deaths of the Bibas family, and that trans people and those who love them were fearful for the future, and there were researchers whose funding had just been cut off. Then she stopped, as if overwhelmed by the sheer amount of pain in and around her. So many of us were in tears, barely holding it together. After the introductory prayers, there was hugging.

Returning to my seat, I could feel that something within had moved. My sadness was still immense, but it wasn’t a solitary burden. Now, it felt like being within a communal pot of pain and compassion.

I have attended synagogues where intellectual discussions were the way to connect to and be inspired by Judaism. Sometimes the singing and music were how I engaged and rose above quotidian thoughts. Occasionally, the words of the prayers themselves made the connection between past and present. Rarely, though, do I feel G!d or the Divine Presence or the Spirit that connects me to beyond me—but that night I got what I needed without words and analysis. Perhaps I needed it so much, perhaps I pushed myself to feel beyond thinking, perhaps it is about wanting something and not preventing it from occurring.

A religious gathering that brought together people in pain, in fear, in solitude—needing to discover/uncover sustenance for the soul. To find that which aches and to realize it can be lessened, that there can be moments of entry of the connecting tissue. To acknowledge that I need more, whatever that may be, is to accept a level of unknown and unknowingness. It is not to make demands. I am one vessel. It is to keep being who I am and not close off myself. Knowing that to be open, to not seal myself off, mentally or physically, is the way into what may be.

This phrase from Psalm 92 is ringing in my ears: It is good to give thanks to the Lord, and to sing to Your name, O Most High. To declare in the morning Your kindness and Your faith at night.

https://www.jpost.com/israel-news/article-843061

Maybe We Can Smile Tomorrow, as an Act of Resilience and Affirmation

“Smile,” the woman said to me when I told her that no, she can’t take a chair from the table where I was sitting in this busy coffee shop. I had already given one of my tables to them and told a few people in her group that they can’t take any chairs from around my table, which I needed for my own group that would be meeting soon.

She reminded me of men in NYC whose lewd hoots and howls would often include demands to smile. It is not a positive connection. Her comment was annoying; though, I know it was not meant that way. My basic suggestion is if you don’t know someone, don’t tell them to smile. And my next suggestion is that if you do know someone, don’t tell them to smile—unless it’s for a picture.

Sorry, not sorry, lady, but I’m not in a smiling mood. I’m wearing a bright orange sweater today for, what I fear is in memory of, Shiri, Ariel, and Kfir Bibas. I chose to envelop myself in this pain and to declare it; though, I assume that I’m the only one here who knows what it represents.

It’s hard to be alone in your specific awareness of the world. This is a time when it is especially hard to live outside of Israel, where the Bibas babies are at the forefront of people’s minds today. But it shouldn’t be. This should be everyone’s awareness. How are we enabling such monsters to continue terrorizing Jews and the non-them world?

Yesterday morning, I was at a social event at temple when I received a text from a friend confirming (we now have final, forensic confirmation that Ariel and Kfir were returned in coffins, their mother is still unaccounted for) that they had been killed. I went to the bathroom to cry in a stall. I didn’t share the news with anyone. Even in Jewish circles, my focus on Israel makes me an outlier. This is not a regret; in fact, I’m proud of this. It pushes me from what could be self-centeredness. But, still, it is always to be aware of a separation.

What do I live for? What do you live for? What would make you wear your broken heart publicly?

Today, I craved a sufganiyah (jelly donut). As I walked to Voodoo donuts, I realized that Kfir Bibas was too young to have ever had one, which is such a staple of Israeli childhood—and adulthood, too. This is for Kfir and his brother Ariel, who won’t be able to compare whose donut had more jelly in it.

******

And to those who continue to support and encourage the monsters who kidnapped and killed entire families, and young people from a peace festival, and today—today!—planted bombs on buses in the Tel Aviv area (thankfully they exploded when no people were on them—were they planted by newly released terrorists in this deal, ready to resume trying to kill Jews?)—you are monsters, too. This is not about politics or policies or politicians. This is about humanity. Find yours!

The former Emmanuel Shearith Israel Synagogue in Denver

For 501 days and nights (which is 43,286,400 seconds, each of which the hostages feel intensely; and we, empathetic humans are still counting, tearfully) the Israeli hostages have been held by savages in Gaza.

For 501 days, I have consumed and been consumed by news of seemingly non-stop attacks against Israel and vile acts of antisemites around the world.

Since this ceasefire started a few weeks ago and hostages have been released—with visible signs of having been tortured for being Jews—the horror has seeped even deeper into my moral being and my Jewish soul.

October 7 should have been the day on which the evil that erupted was promptly stopped. The outrage that should have reverberated should have ripped off the mask of false resistance and should have brought forth a reckoning with terrorism and its attempt to deny Jewish rights in Israel and around the world. But it didn’t.

What did happen is that too many people (in universities, the media, international “human rights” organizations, the UN, in governments) doubled-down on hate and support of a terrorist regime: one that is genocidal, apartheid, and colonialist.

For 501 days I have seen darkness in the guise of indifference: darkness that is accompanied by morally bankrupt words.

But for a few days last week I took a break from thinking of dank, hollow, twisted cavities within seemingly human bodies for whom life is about death.

I spent time at the BBYO conference where thousands of Jewish teens from around the world gathered in joy where their Jewish identity was a sign of friendship, purpose, connection, and continuity—and that has entered my heart.

My Israeli colleagues/friends, for whom this was a break from the constant pressure of war, and news, and demonstrations, and lack of confidence in leadership that constantly test their inner strength, could, for a few days, breathe air that is not infused with pain, fear, worry, sorrow, and anger. Their momentary relief, perhaps, gives them space to remember what normal life looks like, and to wonder—hope!—that it is possible again.

With one Jewish friend, we always talk about the eruption and infestation of antisemitism, pinpointing and then circling around how we have lost our naivete that the world had moved on from its own history, its allegiance to antisemitism. But now, talking to these teens I feel a strengthening in my core, in my DNA. To be Jewish is not just to experience the violence of antisemitism, it is to be defiant and proud of our Jewish identity.

Recently, I heard a rabbi say that Jews are not victims, meaning that we don’t wallow in our victimhood, but move on with life. (On a personal level, I believe in the need for some wallowing and self-pity, but I get what he means.) One teen seemed to exemplify this. She said that the antisemitism in Montreal wasn’t as bad as it has been. A realistic lioness.

Over our history, Jews have been victims of repeated violence and expulsions. Not everyone wants to deal with that. Apparently, historically, only 20% of Jews have remained Jews, going all the way back to the slaves who left Egypt with Moses. The others, for whatever reason—usually because they were forced to or made the calculation for themselves and their families—took the “let’s join the majority” route. This explains why so many people in Europe, the Middle East, and North Africa have Jewish DNA.

But those of use whose families stayed the course, didn’t lean on their victimhood, as painful as it was, because to be Jewish is to live, to move forward even when your heart is leaden, to try to be better—in whatever situation life brings your way. It feels like we are at a moment like this now where the world has erupted against us. It’s so clear that this is not the time for appeasement. For what? For whom? For those who think killing Jews is a cleanse?

In a conversation with two Jewish friends the day before flying to the conference, we talked whether we wear our Jewish identity in public. One woman puts the tape with the number of days the hostages have been held on her phone. I said that I generally wear my Jewish star. But now I commit to making it even more of a habit. Showing that I am a proud Jewish person will be my base-line. Writing here is another. Now I need to think about what else I will do.

What are you doing or will you do to not be a bystander or witness who lets evil against the Jewish people happen unchallenged?

The difference was stark: the best of humanity and the worst of humanity on a stage in the middle of Gaza. Four young women, Israeli hostages held by terrorists for 477 days in darkness and deprivation, overcoming whatever new fears arose as they were finally out in the open, but now surrounded by hundreds of masked, armed terrorists still chanting for their destruction, smiling, supporting each other, giving a thumbs up—which seemed to me to be a glorious middle finger—to the assembled horde. 

Humanity vs. inhumanity. Love vs. hate. Hope vs. destruction. Light vs darkness. Good vs. evil.

How does “the world” give validation to these terrorists, all men, in new uniforms, faces completely covered, standing shoulder to shoulder, lacking in individuality or signs of humanity for whom intimidation and brutality—in displays and actions—are their essence and existence. The scene felt like a thin veneer covering the flames of hatred bred from birth. Not a drop of remorse for what they made these women endure. An entire society raised to hate with their putrid intentions aimed at Israelis and Jews, for now. These women survived that. What will they see when they close their eyes, trying/crying for sleep, for the rest of their lives? My heart continues to ache for them.

So much light coming from the four young women who survived hell and were about to return to the heaven that is home: family, friends, and a community that cares for their well-being. They seemed to reflect the light that hearts have been sending to them for 11,448 hours of prayers.

Watching them on that stage, alive!, in pain and joy, is to know what it means to love someone you will never know. A pure love. One soul, somehow, connecting to another. This is what it means to be part of the Jewish people. It must be an essential part of the Jewish survival instinct.

קול ישראל ערבים זה לזה

Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh.

All Jews are responsible for one another.

(I thought I should talk about the masked men brandishing their weapons, directing the red cross and these four young women, and last week the three young women who were transferred in the middle of a mob that was barely tempered by civility, coming out of tunnels to chant for death, proclaiming that this is victory. But I decided that I don’t have to think about them or the people who think they are heroes. No. This is all they get. Perhaps the next generation (of both), or the one after it, can be saved from barbarity?)

“What three words describe how you feel now?” was the prompt in an online Havdalah service for women that I attended Saturday night.

“Relief. Anger. Hope.” My response. I wasn’t surprised to see that many of us included “anger” in our trio.

Relief for the hostages who have already been released (exchanged for terrorists, murderers, but that is another discussion).

Anger that the Jewish people are again/still suffering from antisemitism, and that there are those who see Jews as less than.

Hope, Tikvah, תִּקְוָה. The sentiment that binds us, that the Torah inspires in us, that our history demands of us.

My fourth word: community. I am not alone. You are not alone. We are. We are here for each other. We will be.

Fiddler on the Roof on Christmas Day. Great idea. Connecting to my traditions on a day when everything closes for other people’s traditions. I bought tickets as soon as possible.

When I taught Hebrew school, I showed the movie to my students, explaining that it depicts what life was like for most of our ancestors before coming to America (most of us were Ashkenazi Jews). Often, they had no idea that their roots traced back beyond Virginia (where we lived) or New York (where so many grandparents lived).

The movie theater was full, with people (me!) ready to sing-along. But as soon as the fiddler’s soul sounded, so achingly mournful, I teared up. Then, when Tevye ruminated about Tradition (see below) as images from around the shtetl appeared, silent tears fell. If I hadn’t been in a crowded movie theatre with my mother next to me, I might have bawled.

In the past, I saw this movie as an homage to our ancestors, honoring a way of life they lived for generations, amidst economic and physical challenges simply for being Jews. It recreated the life that the Holocaust destroyed. Images of the wooden shul, a sacred place, made me anxiously sentimental, imagining it going up in flames a few decades later.

Now, in the aftermath of October 7, with surging antisemitism (Jew-hatred, Israeli-hatred, Israel-hatred) it feels too real. Less story and history, more future possibility.

The state-sanctioned pogrom that drives the Jews from their homes in Anatevka is frightening in a new way. I’m more aware of the process by which pogroms prepared the ground for the Holocaust, when six million Jews were killed, and millions more were displaced and haunted, living with pain even as most managed to overcome and live new lives in new places. It is also to remember the neighbors who watched or participated.

Hatred of Jews—for whatever imagined, scapegoating reason—is a stain on humanity, generation after generation. It never went away, as we, I ! , had thought / hoped it had / would in this era of universal human rights. This failure of humanity is another source of anguished tears.

This movie is not only a glimpse into life before the Holocaust incinerated it, it is a warning shadow cast long into the future. I didn’t pay attention to that before.

In that art house cinema, I felt no joy, even as I sang familiar songs and reconnected with the past embedded within me.

Why did our ancestors have to leave the Land of Israel, most to live in the diaspora for thousands of years? Why did they have to flee their homes in Jerusalem, Tiberias, Tzfat, Hebron, Gaza, to then live in and be expelled from Italy, France, Germany, Russia, Poland? Why did they have to seek protection and do jobs no one else wanted to do, as they rebuilt their lives? Survival would not be denied.

Watching that movie filled me with sadness and anger, mixing with determination, commitment, and love. Traditions give strength despite having been punished for holding onto them, believing in them, continuing them. They are what sustains us—and we deserve sustaining.

Tonight is the 8^th night of Hanukkah. I will light the candles with my mother, younger daughter, and her boyfriend. We will eat latkes (traditional and vegan), brisket, vegan cholent, and vegan sufganiyot (jelly donuts). Old and new. Adapting traditions to keep us and strengthen us.

What drama or musical will come from the experiences of this past year and two months, and the continued torture of the hostages?

There are the rips to the fabric of our daily lives. But there will be—there must be—a new version of “Tradition” to sing, as painful as the memories it summons.

A defensive person creates community by changing. That’s the facile answer, though one with lots of truth.

Both the change and the community may take time to develop, and the shape they take is influenced by the other, but time and need can do magic.

Recently, I participated in a community event at my synagogue where we practiced having conversations on divisive topics with no talking over, no disruptions, and lots of “I hear that you’re saying’s.”

Me, with my master’s degree in Conflict Analysis and Resolution and mediation certificate, should have done so well. Yet, I got upset when a woman in my conversation triad said to me, “I hear that you’re saying you want more control over immigration [the topic we were discussing].” If I was a porcupine, my bristles would have been up! A red button was pressed. I was about to turn her off, not listening to her rephrasing of my points and then her own points. But I wasn’t just there for the potluck, I was there to grow in my interactions, to be a better practitioner in my daily life of the skills I had studied (clearly, the learning was still in-progress), and to grow in applying them, as well as learn some new ones.

Control. A trigger word for me.

A few years after my divorce, I briefly lived with a boyfriend. In one of our first conversations, we talked about what we needed from the other that we hadn’t gotten in our marriages (he was twice divorced). For him, it was not to be walked out on during an argument. For me, it was control: not to feel that he is telling me what to do. I had enough of that in my marriage, which was a key reason why I’m no longer married.

So, one day, when he said, “I’d like you to wear dresses when we go out,” I didn’t feel his appreciation of how I look when I get dressed up. No, I heard “Do this.”

Had he been paying attention? This was telling me, even if through a compliment, what to do. Also, I rarely wore dresses. Between having to wear them when I was growing up (parental control and a bit of rebellion when I could get out of wearing the dreaded dress and torturous stockings) and feeling that I look like a barrel in a dress. It didn’t matter how I looked: I was uncomfortable. Why did it matter to him?

Sometimes defensiveness protected me, helped me stick to my decisions. At other times it closed me off from realizing what was bothering me or how I was being a bother.

We will never know all a person’s triggers, or even our own, which is why it’s so important to learn how to do a better job at having conversations. Bitterness and defensiveness aren’t building blocks. How to transform them? The why is clear to me, because I have come to value interactions as much as solitude.

Thinking of the “how,” I realize that I need to stand still within myself, noticing my reactions to what other people say, and their reactions to what I say. We all react through the filter of our experiences. Which means that I need to not expect more understanding from anyone than the moment gives. They don’t see into me and I don’t see into them. We may be creating a relationship, but that could only happen if walls aren’t up, and ears and hearts aren’t blocked with histories. I need to want this moment to exist, to breathe, to not let triggers overtake me.

“For me, ‘control,’ is a trigger word,” I said, willing myself to speak up, not to embed anger or frustration into the moment. And with that, we talked about how a conversation could be diverted so easily. Underlying every conversation is the connection itself, because without it, topical conversations can’t move forward.

For those 40 minutes of honesty, the three of us created community. I went home humbled, disappointed in myself, but also a slightly better version of myself. Community is not simply created by individuals meeting; it is created by individuals overlapping with purpose and respect.

Stairway in Vizcaya Museum

“They all want to kill us.”

They: The most obvious of them are in marauding mobs of violent young men and the pundits, academics, leaders—people—whose mouths and pens expel contorted words, encased in hate, racism, and ego. Bullets in disguise. They barely see through their blinders. Just because they think they are otherwise does not mean that they are. (Do they see that Israel continues to be bombed daily? Do they see that Jews are people? Alas, does it matter to them?)

A caring person—Jew, non-Jew—wonders who those people would be without the Jew to condemn. Living life as a negation of life is neither a fulfilling nor a good life. How does it feel to be contorted with hate for the other—an other who you may never have met? What would it feel like to live motivated by love and compassion, by being kind?

Us: Israelis. Jews. People. A family. A tribe. A nation. We have a 4,000+ year history in the Land of Israel. For half that time most of our ancestors have lived in the diaspora: forced from our homeland and prohibited from returning. Still, what a glorious thing it is to be a people connected to and guided by our ancient religion, language, and customs, while also committing to the places where we live, accepting their customs within our own. Adaptable. To be part and apart. But always cautious, fearing, that the time will come when they will turn on us. (My generation has been so very naïve: our naivete a gift that has been snatched from us.)

Scapegoated. Oppressed. Faulted. Robbed.

Their antisemitism against us. What is with the constant condemnation? Will we ever break free from the longest hatred? The ill-logic of those who are unable to accept an other while preaching for human rights.

Once again, they are trying to draw a shroud over us. Their twisted, twisting words that lie and mislead. Shouldn’t creativity be used for good?

Jews are stuck in a cyclone into which we were picked up and held within for more than 2,000 years. Speak of generational trauma. And yet, we move forward, always trying to improve, to better the places we live, the societies in which we participate, the world as it functions. 

How would you feel if this was you? How would you react to only being seen as negative?

Our answer is to keep working on bringing light, improving the world, and protecting our people.

October 7^th and its aftermath have become a new part of Jewish identity. This event seems to be within the canon of the stories of our honey-and-horseradish history. Will it join the “They tried to kill us, we survived, let’s eat” events of our past? I wonder how long it took for our ancestors to transition from a tragedy to a holiday for which we now use the word “celebrate”? It’s hard to imagine this loss being anything other than painful. But it also seems necessary to ensure commemoration of lives lost, injuries endured, trauma experienced, breaks on so many levels, and the uncompromising perseverance to overcome—together.

Meanwhile, we’re still fighting to live in peace in our homeland (and not be threatened by antisemites in the lands of our homes); and we’re figuring out how to experience the fall Jewish holidays when there are STILL 101 HOSTAGES being terrorized in Gaza, and Israel is being attacked from seven entities, and far too many Israeli citizens are spending more time on battlefields than playing fields or in the fields (literal and figurative) in which they live and work. While those left at home (and for far too many these are temporary homes), and these are mainly women, who are burdened with so much: it is as if they have become the national Stress Absorbers so that their partners can focus on their role as protectors and defenders. It means that the “I’m spent” that a friend recently expressed is part of the national mood. It also means that those of us not living there, especially Jews and Israelis—me—constantly feel our connection because, to rephrase Hillel, Who am I if I am not for my people? And if not now, when?

And while this painful situation—this war—results in more deaths in Israel, and Gaza, and Lebanon because hate is so powerful, it has also made the backbone of Jewish history upright and defiant. What do we need to move forward toward acceptance and empathy, leading to peace and not another round of war? We are determined.

One wish is for the morally deprived mouthpieces around the world to stop distorting reality and to start caring about living Jews. I know that this is a rhetorical question, though it shouldn’t be: How hard is it to care about everyone when that is precisely what you claim?

It occurs to me that this must be what it felt like to live within a bible story, wondering about the Light and from where it will come—and sometimes, in the darkest of nights, if it will come. Belief, emunah, as I am starting to realize, is something that you do, that you commit to, because you can’t bear the unfathomable pain that life can bring if it is only the finiteness of each of our lives. Existence—purpose and love and loss—must contribute to a unifying crescendo.

At a reading of the names of the victims of October 7^th at a memorial service, I noticed that so many Hebrew names relate to light. We, as a people, as a religion—as parents imagining our children—are always looking to create the light, to bring the light, to share the light. This as our intention: it could be a start if you let yourself see it.

Each time during the Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services and during the memorial service, when we sang the Acheinu* (Our brothers and sisters) prayer/plea, I was overcome with emotion. I wasn’t remembering a specific person I had loved, rather it was a profound moment of loss surrounded by others in similar pain, and being comforted by the energy and emotion emanating from each of us. A powerful moment of connection, making me realize that I am never truly alone.

Perhaps, at this moment when my religion and my people are being maligned, it is when I find most meaning and support within them. Not just in the traditions, observances, and learning, but in the people who connect now and in time and space for millennia.

I am not alone. I am not broken. I am strengthened.

* Acheinu: Our brothers, our sisters, the entire family of Israel, the entire world, all who are in distress or taken into captivity, whether on the sea or on dry land, may the Ever-present One have mercy upon them and bring them out from narrowness to expanse, from darkness to light, from subjugation to redemption, now, speedily, and soon, and let us say, Amen.

An Israeli town: people want to live peaceful lives.

It is relentless.

It is not new.

It is always shameful.

Century after century, there are those who want to kill Jews. Too many succeed. That is not a reason to forfeit anything, especially one’s identity. And for what alternative? To become one of the haters, one of those with no capacity for tolerance and compassion. Being Jewish teaches you many things, but it especially teaches you about other people and their capacity for self-centeredness, closemindedness, intolerance, and evil.

We are here. Hineni. I am here.

How absurd it is that our haven, Israel, the one place where we can live without facing the impositions of a majority culture, is so dangerous for that very reason. Why are acceptance and acknowledgement so hard?

How absurd that we cannot be allowed to live in our sliver of land uninterrupted by rockets and unending attacks that counter our flourishing life with noxious hatred. Which is preferable?

How absurd that the world cannot let this minority (15 million people, a mere 0.2% of the world’s population) live in peace, a people amidst people. Perhaps if we could be called a critically endangered species we would be protected.

How absurd that we face the old, repeatedly debunked libels because antisemitism still festers like an epidemic that is never fully defeated. Again, this says more about the antisemites than the Jews who have tried to adhere to whatever rules have been imposed upon us only to be used, repeatedly, as scapegoats and checkbooks, and then thrown out.

How absurd that compassion has been perverted to demonize one group while lionizing another? If you only seem to care about one group, is it compassion or hatred that is truly guiding you?

And, of course, there are those who see this happening, century after century, standing by, letting it happen. Are they afraid to be seen as different, to think for themselves, to care for the other? Does it matter? Complicity is still guilt.

There are pictures of people cheering on these deadly attacks on Israel—the deaths of people—calling for more.

Jews are being attacked for being Jewish, maligned for standing up for their lives, their people, their homeland. A barrage of all 3 Ds of antisemitism (as formulated by Natan Sharansky) daily in the media: demonization, de-legitimization and double standards pertaining to Jews. The media and politicians blame Israel for fighting back, telling Jews that their lives don’t matter. Why should anyone listen to their voices? Certainly not us.

There are far worse humanitarian crises happening. And the world, as always, is silent about them. They only have the capacity to focus on one group. How intellectually and morally starved. A starvation that leads to real starvation around the globe—and in terror tunnels.

Why does our mettle, our commitment, need to be constantly tested? Those of us who are Jewish know that our ancestors resisted attempts at forced conversions throughout our history. Who are we—who am I—to give up now, and to barbarous regimes that are antithetical to everything we believe in. 

Perhaps you could ask us how we feel—and then care about the answer. I keep explaining how I feel because I need to be heard, because my soul craves connection to my people—and your people. My identity is a source of strength that I want you to see, not to overcome or challenge, but to accept and welcome.

These are the six murdered Israelis.

Another morning of waking up to news of murdered Israelis. This time, six of the hostages held by h-m-s, who were recently executed, were found by the IDF in a tunnel in Gaza. These are the faces of people who were simply living their lives 330 days ago, which is 10 months and 25 days, which is autumn, to winter, to spring, to summer, which is the time a baby could be conceived and born, which is the time joy can turn to the bitterest and saddest of emotions, which is more than enough time for the world to care about dead, injured, and captured Jews.

These are two articles about them: Times of Israel and Ynetnews.

At this time, Jews recite the Jewish prayer for mourners, Kaddish. It is usually recited for family members, but these are all our family members now.

https://reformjudaism.org/beliefs-practices/prayers-blessings/mourners-kaddish

Since October 7^th, Jews have been singing and reciting the ancient prayer for those held captive, Acheinu (Our Brothers and Sisters). Each time I sing it in temple or listen to it, there are tears. This version, created by the Hostages and Missing Families Forum includes an English translation and is especially poignant. May the rest of the hostages return alive to their families and loved ones soon!

https://opensiddur.org/prayers/collective-welfare/trouble/captivity/aheinu/

When learning of someone's death, Jews say, “Blessed is the true judge"; "Baruch dayan ha-emet,"

The entire blessing:

• Blessed are You, Lord our God, Eternal one, the True Judge.
• Bah-rookh ah-tah ah-doh-noi eh-loh-hay-noo meh-lekh hah-oh-lahm dah-yahn hah-eh-met
• בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה אֲ-דֹנָי אֱ-לֹהֵינוּ מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם דַּיָּן הָאֱמֶת

I have been quiet lately. I was/am disappointed that my voice is barely heard. But today, after hearing the news of the murders of these hostages, I decided that even if one person reads my thoughts, then I have created a connection—and I will be pleased with that. There is so much to be bitter about, so much Jew-hatred and institutionalized acceptance of Jew-hatred and anti-Zionism, and so much turmoil to be seen, that I cannot let it seem that I have accepted this current state of hatred and stereotyping to continue. I will join my voice to those calling out for real peace, acceptance of Jews and Israelis as people among people, for the return of the hostages, for the cessation of attacks against Israel, for acceptance of Israel as a country, as basic a statement as that.

I am proud to be a Jew, a Zionist, and an Israeli; and I am a grateful to be an American and a native of New York City.  

It shouldn’t be hard to care about each other and see each human as deserving of a free life. So simple. Have a heart for each other. Which gives me hope that the future can be better than the present.

The voices of good must be heard above the voices of hate. 

Since moving to Oregon, I’ve come to realize that I’m not as special as I used to think I am. I’ve met so many people here who have lived lives that require the telling of stories to explain who and what and where they’ve been, and what they’ve done and thought, that what made me special, now makes me one of the pack. I stand out less now that so many of the people around me have the qualities and experiences that make a person interesting.

Surprisingly, this makes me happy. Something lost and something gained.

There are stories that require a map to trace the physical journeys people have taken as they’ve moved to follow dreams, people, and jobs. There are the intellectual paths that show commitment to interests, as well as commitment to following every wisp of curiosity. Wanderers and wonderers. I willingly give up my talk turn to listen and ask questions.

And since I don’t know if any of these connections will develop beyond the moment, I’m also learning to appreciate each experience. There doesn’t have to be more, there doesn’t have to be the full story—there never will be the full story—there is simply the self that is presented.

I used to prefer reading over interacting; now I revel in characters who walk into my story, helping create a more fascinating, unfolding book. Not because of adventures we take together, but because we have interwoven our stories just enough to stimulate the imagination and find excitement in the flow of a life.

What is the purpose of life? The key question, still, always, to contemplate. For now, for me, being an agent of positivity, trust, and support, and receiving the same back. Perhaps the horrors that have been unfolding since October 7^th have made me realize the importance of listening to each other, and finding inspiration in living one’s life as honestly and fully as possible at each moment. And that is enough. That is the point.

May we each have in our lives people who inspire us and who we inspire. Who are those people for you?

The Israeli hostages are still in captivity. Bring them home now!

Walking along towering trees

Today is Day 241 that the Israeli hostages are in captivity. Bring them home now!

It’s nice to be nice. It might not seem to be a powerful message, but it’s one worth taking to heart—and action. To me, it’s up there, for self and society, to be among the most important and aspirational.

In a recent daily video, the rabbi of the Palm Beach Synagogue talked about kindness, proclaiming that it’s “the foundation of the world.” The book of Numbers (called Bamidbar in Hebrew, which means in the Wilderness or Desert) he said “is about kindness. God’s kindness to the Jewish people, the Jewish people’s kindness to future generations.” Then, he said that “the foundation of the world is built on kindness. Kindness is the foundation of our lives.”

Kindness is not generally thought of as a religious attribute or character trait of note. It’s basic and it should be easy. It’s not asking you to consider that you may have hurt people (intentionally or inadvertently) and then ask for forgiveness of yourself or anyone else. It’s not asking you to work on your anger-management issues or your patience, so that you don’t make yourself and the people around you uncomfortable. Can you imagine what the world would be like if people were kind to each other, both as individuals and as groups?

What does it mean for kindness to be foundational? It seems worthwhile to contemplate this on an individual basis, helping assess and learn from one’s own actions, always striving to be better—kinder. Why? Think about how we feel when someone is kind to us? My new neighbors brought freshly-baked cookies when they introduced themselves to me. A new acquaintance walked me partly home from an event at the temple that I will soon refer to as “my temple,” to show me a way to go that is not up and down a steep hill. That warm and fuzzy feeling, and desire to return the kindness to those people and others is tangible.

For many years, I was a teacher. I learned that if I didn’t quiet the part of me that was annoyed or frustrated at a student or students, the annoyance continued, and with it the uncomfortable feeling in the room. And lackluster teaching and learning continued. But when I focused on them—not knowing what a child was going through or how they were feeling or why they were acting in the way they were at that moment—I simply tried to be my best person. Remembering, too, that in addition to teaching content, I was there to be an example of how to act even when annoyed (perhaps purposely triggered by astonishingly loud purposeful pen-clicking), I could feel myself calm and my voice find a softer, brusqueless, tone, certainly better for teaching and mentoring.

My interactions with my ex-husband showed me how unkind I could be, and that was hard to acknowledge. Though it also showed me that I never want to relate to any one again when I was guided by anger, hurt, and tit-for-tat self-preservation.

Which brings me to watching the seething anti-Israel, anti-Zionist, Jew-hating, West-hating, Democracy-hating protestors. They show what it means to not have a shred of kindness directing one’s actions. No explanation can excuse or explain someone calling for the death of another person or people. Or for using rape to achieve anything. What is at the core of their interior world? Where has the kindness fled, if it was ever there?

I have read and heard plenty of insightful analyses of what is happening in our world right now and why, but I can’t stop focusing on the brutal visuals. The burning north of Israel that seems invisible to the world because Israelis are suffering. The pictures of the hostages before they were kidnapped, fearing what they look like now (those who are still alive), after 241 days in hell. And then across the world, the mob mentality that seems to suppress individual thinking and compassion (kindness on a higher scale). And the invisible bystanders, whose timidity belies their own thoughts of their goodness, unwittingly enabling the mob to fester and grow.

While there may not be a simple solution to any conflict between different peoples and religions and ways of life and claims to land, it does seem to come back to people not being kind to each other. But perhaps it’s more basic even than that. Can you be kind to yourself when you harbor hatred? What good can you share with the world if you condemn others to a life of fear?

In researching the butterfly effect, I read what Alessandro Filazzola, a community ecologist and data scientist, said about the impact that one’s individual actions can have; “The items I buy, the people I interact with, the things I say, I believe can each have their cascading effects that ripple through society. That is why it is important to try and be a good person, to create a positive influence. One thing I also think about is how these indirect effects are often not as small and removed as I believe many would think.”

This is my cry, my plea to each of us: to see each other as a good person—I am good and you are good—and act accordingly. I want to tamp down the animus I feel toward those who call for my murder because I am a Jew and an Israeli, and even an American. I cannot force anyone to see me assuming goodness, but I can be a butterfly flapping my wings, living my life with kindness as its foundation.  

A group of butterflies can be called a flight, flirtation, flock, flutter, kaleidoscope, rabble, swarm, or wing of butterflies. Pick the imagery that works for you. Then, imagine your goodness joining with others, fluttering in goodness together. This image will help me remember that my actions are not isolated, that they are part of a larger entity, working to create positive change for us all.

Baking dozens of bagels

Discovering paths near my new home in Oregon

Today is Day 236 that the Israeli hostages are in captivity.

Bring them home!

Life is beautiful, banal, and cruel. We have all experienced moments of each since they broadly cover the human condition. It’s the balance that makes life unfair.

This weekend, I watched the interview with four mothers of the five young Israeli women in the recently-aired video as they were kidnapped and brutalized by H-m-s. Another opportunity for more cracks to the heart because of casual evil, and an overwhelming sense of injustice and helplessness. Empathy for these women and their daughters is too hard to experience because how can I, a mother of daughters who are safe, who are living their undisturbed lives, even purport to comprehend what these mothers—and their daughters—are going through? But they are in me, which feels like a duty I have committed to.

A few hours later, my daughter and her boyfriend came over for dinner. It was early evening on a beautiful spring day in Oregon. We sat in the backyard around a big table, enjoying the food that I cooked over two days, eating and talking about our week, planning for the next week. During pauses we watched the occasional hummingbird feed on the flowering bushes in the back of the garden. Later, I realized that this was the first time that I had anyone over for a meal since before Covid. The last time was brunch with my Sisterhood of Salaam Shalom group. (SOSS is an organization for Jewish and Muslim women to meet as friends, learn from each other, and work toward acceptance and understanding.) I still have hope in connections made around plates of food, though right now that feels like a band-aid when heart surgery is needed.

With all the videos I’ve watched, and articles I’ve read, and essays I’ve written about antisemitism, Jew hatred, and anti-Zionism over the years, after October 7^th I decided that I need to do more—to be more. Learning and awareness are important, but I need to figure out how to stop feeling like an observer.

Almost eight months after that apocalyptic event, I’m acting in a new way: focusing less on me as an isolated individual, and more on me within a Jewish journey. In this space, I plan on sharing some of the lessons and ideas that I learn that resonate with me. To learn from a tradition, a people, a religion that has survived and thrived, in often intolerable conditions, is to honor those who came before, and to learn from the richest, soul-touching, thought-provoking ideas that can inspire me to be a light—to keep me focused on what is essential to continually work on myself to, as I recently read and am absorbing, “show that I am deserving of the Divine Presence.” This seems to be the worthwhile goal.

Trust the Divine Presence and do good; dwell in the land, and be nourished by faith. (Psalm 37:3)

I will miss the sights at the Wakodahatchee Wetlands

Today Is Day 212: Free the Hostages

I was supposed to fly to Israel on Saturday night, April 13. As I finished packing my bags, I heard that large gatherings were being cancelled and schools closed until further notice. Then, that the air space would be closing. Finally (substantiating the reason for the closures), that the Islamic Regime of Iran had sent a barrage of ballistic missiles and attack drones that would arrive sometime while my flight was enroute. Not surprisingly, I cancelled my flight.

That trip had meant so much to me. On a personal level, it was to be with friends in Israel and get a break from the aloneness of being in Florida. On the level of being a proud Jewish woman, one who used to live in Israel, it was essential to connect with Israelis—and the physicalness of Israel—at this moment. I wanted to be there, adding another pained soul calling out for the release of the hostages; to be there supporting those who continue to risk their lives for the safety and security of all Israelis; to be there absorbing some of the sense of loss that exists in the very air; to be there, too, as part of the power that is the Jewish people coming together for the continued strength and survival of our people in the face of yet another maniacal group of haters.

After the initial shock and fear, then relief that the attack was not destructive, I decided to change the order of my plans: move to Oregon first, then visit Israel. Not letting myself seep into wallowing or inertia, I quickly found a house to rent in the city where younger daughter lives. I move this week.

Which means that instead of being within the life and loss of Israel at war, I’m in the shock and horror of watching antisemitism in its ugliest forms on college campuses, spouting from the mouths and bodies of students, professors, staff, agitators, supposed intellectuals, and journalists.

A few days ago, I tried to work on the translation of a Holocaust survivor’s testimony as I have been doing for almost five years. It was too hard, and not just her Hungarian-accented Hebrew, but the fact that at this moment there are people dehumanizing Jews, calling for the mass murder of Jews, claiming that all the ills in the world are the fault of Jews—again.

After a few days, I was back at it. The mob of hate will not stop me.

Watching these hordes and then being told that they are peaceful is stunning, shameful. But more than that, to know that what they have been taught, what has swayed and twisted their minds to say “don’t kill these people, kill those people” as if that’s the greatest expression of human rights, is scary. There is no need for adherence to reality when it comes to hating Jews and Israelis and Israel.

But, listening to young Jewish leaders speak up and push back against the tsunami of lies and distortions from their classmates and instructors is inspirational. Their eloquence and clarity of thought is impressive. It makes me realize why we Jews are still here, after all these onslaughts. Though in each generation there are those who “drop out” and decide to not be Jewish, or to be so against all semblance of what a Jew is that they don’t count, some call these “as a Jew” Jews. The rest of us are going on with learning and studying, figuring out how to stand up in pride, improving each day as an individual, as well as a member of a people who pursue justice for others—though now seems to be a good time to get some help back—but if not, we will do what we need to for ourselves—and still look out for the other. Each of us needs to take on a bit of the burden: the fulfilling burden that is to be part of a people who, though maligned, continues to believe in being a light, for seeing the humanity in each of us for it is foundational to know that each person is created in the image of God; and to “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Now, it seems essential for those neighbors to see us this way, too.

Not a pity party

On my recent birthday, a friend asked what plans I had. I told her, breakfast at my favorite café (Aioli), lunch with my mother at a restaurant on the ocean (Latitudes), ending with a private pity party, perhaps paired with birthday cake. A realistic plan.

I haven’t done pity lately because of my preoccupation with Israel and the continuing brutal holding and who knows what horrors experienced by the 133 hostages; and the continued rocket attacks in Israel, especially in the north and feeling empathy for the stress that all Israelis are living with; and the parallel stress that Jews worldwide are experiencing because of the events in Israel, the resulting vile onslaught of antisemitism and the dangerous hypocrisy that it breeds. And the sadness at the tragedy in Gaza that a terrorist government, supported by another terrorist government, has caused and continues to cause, abetted by antisemites in high places.

The drive home from the restaurant was along the ocean on the A1A, with its occasional view of the ocean amidst luxury homes and lush tropical greenery. A true staycation feeling. For a moment, I forgot the human-created tragedies and noticed the beauty that there still is in this world.

When I got home, I listened to a new voicemail message. It was from my gynecologist. No, big deal, she said, but call before the end of the day to discuss the results of my annual exam.

The no big deal, turned out to be a slight chance of cancer. Ugh. Not the word you want to hear any day, especially on your birthday. But what surprised me was that the celebratory pity party I had planned was immediately replaced by thoughts of gratitude. Of course, I don’t want cancer, and I hope and pray that the follow-up test I took the next week shows that it’s nothing, but in that moment, and since then, I realized that I had no need to wallow in woe-is-me: I am immensely grateful for my life.

Sure, I’d like things to be different, and, yes, I’m working toward that, but all-in-all, my life is pretty darn good. No winter home along the A1A, or even a condo in Delray Beach, or a partner to make my birthday breakfast, but there are people who I care about and who care about me—and I’m retired! And there is purpose outside of myself.

It occurred to me, too, as I tamp down diagnosis anxiety, that the work I’ve been doing on myself, especially since October 7^th, probably has something to do with that. My focus has been more on the spiritual and religious, connecting to the wisdom and stories of Judaism and Jewish people: the long thread of life that has been at the core of my ancestors, and of wanting to be a better version of myself, growing from those traditions and accumulated wisdom.

A friend told me that children view people our age as old. We both laughed at the idea of being considered old in our 60s. But, now, sitting here, I kind of like that. Perhaps that explains where I am on my journey: this desire to focus on the transcendent, on being there for others and learning how to do that best, trying to elevate my soul (that which is essence), to keep being worthy of the trust people have placed in me as a person.

Praying for health and peace and compassion.

Follow-up: I'm thankful to say that the doctor said my test was negative. Breathing sighs of relief.

When people forget our shared humanity—and Israel becomes a pariah state and Jews are pariahed; and blood libels are once again all the rage; and when binary thinking condemns conversations and peaceful conduct—to whom do we turn for strength?

To the wisdom of the wise.

The following is an excerpt from a lecture that Rabbi Lord Jonathan Sacks, z”l, gave in 2011, titled, “A People that Dwells Alone.”

“In ancient times, Israel was a small nation surrounded by large empires. In the Middle Ages they were the most conspicuous minority in Christian Europe. Today in the Middle East, Israel is the most conspicuous country that is not Muslim. Jews are the archetypal other, we don’t fit into the dominant paradigm—the dominant faith, the prevailing culture—and that is what we’re there for. To remind ourselves [humanity] that there is such a thing as the dignity of dissent. That’s what we do in life. We challenge. We argue. We stand out against the crowd; we go against the trend. We are apart, but we are not destined to be alone.”

About the Tower of Babel, he noted that everyone was saying the same things. He quoted Naftali Zvi Yehuda Berlin who explained why the Tower of Babel needed to be destroyed: “If everyone thinks the same thing, there’s no dissent. That is not a free society.”

Rabbi Sacks continued, “We are there to be different, for the sake of everyone’s right to be different. We fight for the right to be, whether as a nation in its historic land or as a religious group in the diaspora, we fight for the right to be free to live as Jews, not just for our sake, but for the sake of every other minority in the world.… Everyone who seeks the right to challenge the prevailing culture or the dominant faith. That is why we are there.”

His words brought me the comfort of history. For a moment. It is discomforting to be in sync with history, and not beyond it—as we had hoped would one day happen. Why must we once again be a scapegoat for yet another angry group? Why must we be forced to stand, isolated to some extent, before the forces of evil that, unfathomably, seem so enticing? Why must our every action be scrutinized, manipulated, and twisted? Why must we always be seen as other, when our otherness is so very ordinary?

A few days later, I listened to the podcast Wondering Jews during their discussion of antisemitism. A key idea presented was that Jews represent whatever it is that the ruling or majority groups hate. So, “For today's anti-imperialists and anti-colonialists, Israel is the quintessence of imperialism, truth be damned.” Once again, Jews are being condemned by the antisemites for being what they don’t want to recognize in themselves.

Then, in an online lecture, the speaker said that the role of Jews is to crush evil.

And I thought to myself, that’s so much to put on one very small group of people. To be condemned for being different and to defend everyone’s right to be different. To be hated and to fight against hate for all. To be derided for something that they’re not, while the deriders feel stingily better about themselves as they try to oppress the other. To be accused of crimes that are done to us. To be the bulwark against the spread of evil that others think is still wise to appease.

Who are the Jews that so many other groups depend on them in such twisted ways?

It’s not as if we are born with super-human strength or intelligence or courage or wealth or any number of advantageous advantages.

We are a people held together by religion, faith, traditions, education, and values. We are also a people held together by our love, and their hateful actions.

Going back to what Rabbi Lord Sacks said about Jews being the archetypal other. It is ironic that in this era when we’re supposedly all about accepting everyone for who they are and what they believe, vile antisemitism is rampant.

While my voice is barely heard, it is still another voice calling out, standing up—dissenting. Proclaiming, too, that I am proud to be a Jew, as different and alone as we may be. I am also proud of those people (friends!) who are not blinded by the cacophony of twisted logic.

This battle is not new. It is as old as the Bible. A while ago, I told younger daughter that I didn’t want to study Torah, that I wanted to learn from new stories that I could relate to. Now, I see how wrong I was. Those stories, and the analyses of them that have been a part of our ongoing oral and written tradition, are the basis for understanding our world today. I see now that learning from history is understanding how a people reacted to unfolding events, over and over again, and what fortified them. This now gives me strength.