Tag Archives: English

Poking through my Bubble

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Decisor.

dcsrI’ve been familiar with this word for a while, and thought it was simply a sophisticated way of saying ‘decider’.

Today, I was editing an article for work, and I realized that Microsoft Word didn’t recognize ‘decisor’ as a word at all. Interesting.

So I Googled it. And then I checked it on Wikipedia. I even checked http://translate.google.com/

dcsr1

And I realized that I’d been living with a false assumption – I’d thought that ‘decisor’ was a universally known term… but it isn’t! It’s not an English transliteration of a Hebrew or Yiddish term, so it’s not obvious that it’s a Jewish term; but the facts speak for themselves – I should definitely get out more.

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Three Words

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A story from my Cowbird:

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On the sidewalk H squints at the passing buses, trying to read their destinations as they motion quickly towards the places they will go. I pretend to help, but the combination of foreign characters and moving vehicles spins my head. “You’ll learn the language soon,” H says to me smiling. I don’t believe him, but I keep this quiet.

On a bus too wide for these streets we sit side by side. Our knees touching, and the quick turns push us closer. We don’t resist it. “Do you know the word seder?” He asks me. Of course I do, and I think of the twenty-two Passovers speeding past in the rear-view mirror: bowls of salted water, dead Aunts waving. This is H’s favorite Hebrew word: Seder, a noun, an order of things. He tells me his favorite word in English: Mind, a noun, a thing that thinks, that makes order, that remembers the right words, acts the right actions, so the person whose leg is touching yours can know exactly how you feel. It was Ramadan, but still that morning in his kitchen he dropped falafel dough in hot oil, dabbed them each on a napkin, ate twice as much as me, and said “I love you.” He tells me his favorite word in Arabic was the hardest to choose, since it is his Mother Tongue and its cognitive reservoirs reach back through every thought he can remember. I notice his eyes are the brightest black I have ever seen. That his mouth goes up without effort. “What’s your favorite word in Arabic?” I ask. “Fahima,” he said. A verb. To understand.

Cheese bourekas and falafel stands. My mind is swimming in cooking oil. Outside the bus, we pass posters promising war with Iran. We pass signs in Hebrew I do not understand. We pass sidewalks and fences of barbed wire. Inside the bus there is order. Two hands touch. Two eyes meet, and they do not look away.

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Week 26: Making a Lasting Impression

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When I woke up to a snowstorm this morning, I was so happy I could dance. It wasn’t just snow, it was big-flaked, sticky snow, the kind you could make snowballs out of were there enough of it, and it looked for all the world like there would be before too long. I grabbed my camera, bundled up and headed outside to find a bizarro Jerusalem as much as a bizarro snowstorm. Unlike the procedure I’m used to, they are so unprepared here,

no one has shovels or salt or snow tires or parking chairs. In lieu of a plow, a construction vehicle drove down main streets with its shovel to the road, accomplishing absolutely nothing since there was no accumulation there.

And who uses an umbrella in the snow?

 

(Photo Stolen From: Shanee Michaelson)

 

On the ground, it almost instantly became piles of slush, the kind that splatter like a puddle when you stomp on them. By the time I finished running my Friday morning errands, it had almost all melted.

 

 

Far more lasting in the world is the effect left by people. We all fall to Earth in some time and place not of our choosing, and in the grand scheme of things, no one’s stay on this Earth lasts appreciably longer than a snowfall in Jerusalem. Really, the biggest difference between us is that, as people, we can make our worldly impact permanent, for good or for evil. This week at Pardes, we remembered two students who, though they were taken far before their time, didn’t just melt away but rather left legacies that continue to positively impact Pardes, the Jewish People, and the world. Marla Bennett and Ben Blutstein were alumni of the Year Program and current students in the Pardes Educators Program studying to be Jewish day school teachers when they were murdered in the terrorist bombing in the cafeteria of Hebrew University July 31, 2002 during the Second Intifada. Each year since then, Pardes has sponsored a Yom Iyun shel Chesed (a day focused on kindness) in their memory, a day when we take a break from our normal class schedules to go out in the world and do good.

This year’s Yom Iyun began with abridged morning classes themed around Chesed, חסד, translated by Rabbi Shai Held of Machon Hadar in New York, not as “lovingkindness,” a meaningless word often found in Bibles and prayer books, but rather more accurately as “acts of kindness done in love.” During the large brunch following morning classes, it became obvious just how much Marla and Ben exemplified this trait. While eating the big country breakfast: biscuits with butter, eggs and cheese with “sausage,” grits, home fries, “bacon” salad, and maybe the best peach cobbler I’ve ever had, I and most of the other Americans in the room were downright giddy. But once the presentation started, everything changed—the girl with the infectious smile who made a trip to the airport just so a friend could arrive in Israel to a friendly face, who regularly kept Rav Landes after school to ask questions; the tzitzit-wearing DJ and musician who never backed away from an intellectual challenge, both aspiring Jewish educators. The more I learned about them, the more I admired them, and the more I admired them, the more painful it became that they were stolen away. After only a few minutes, I felt like I’ve known them all year. They were are Pardes.

I have rarely been so motivated to go out in the world and do good as a Jew as I was following that presentation. Luckily for me, we all got that chance directly afterward. This year’s Yom Iyun featured three chesed projects: The first stayed in Jerusalem to prepare lunches for hospital visitors. The second and third went to Tel Aviv to either paint walls at a center for the children of Darfuri refugees, or to volunteer with the Jaffa Institute, an organization that runs various programs in the area to help impoverished children and their families. I chose to volunteer with the Jaffa Institute.

We began in their conference room with a presentation about the horrifying scale of poverty in Tel Aviv, then immediately got to go downstairs to the warehouse and do something about it. We split into two groups, one would pack boxes with food for the poor, the other envelopes with petitions for the rich. I opted for the boxes, but my group threw back 20 boxes so fast (thanks in no small part to my rugged brawniness) that we got to do both. Following this, we took a short bus ride to one of their after school centers to play with the kids. As much fun as stuffing stuff is, this was what we really came to do. All week we had been told to find a friend and plan getting-to-know you and English-learning games for groups of kids. When we finally got there, our plans for pedagogical versions of duck-duck-goose and rock-paper-scissors at the ready, the kids were so engrossed in their computer and video game screens that they hardly noticed us. Some people found some loose kids started trying to play with them, others found craft materials and began making things, hoping that some kid would see them out of his peripheral and decide he’d rather make stuff out of paper with white strangers than continue to shoot at bad guys, others just tried to look busy. A friend an I found a small group of boys playing FIFA soccer on a PlayStation 3 in the back and went to cheer them on.

Sometime while they were in the middle of their game, a woman came out of nowhere and started hugging and kissing the boy sitting next to me. When she got off him, she turned to me and said something like, “You see this kid here? He’s the best in the class at math! The best! He’s going to be a math professor someday, aren’t you?” The boy had just scored the first goal of the game maybe a minute before this and paid little attention. I assumed she was his mother, but then she turned to the boy on the couch opposite him who was definitely not his brother and began hugging and kissing him in the same way, then went on her way. I like to think she works there. But even if she doesn’t, her enthusiastic encouragement really drove home just how important this work is more than any formal presentation on poverty could have—it reminded me not only of how many of these kids probably don’t eat meals regularly outside of Jaffa Institute programs but also of how many of their parents probably work nearly all day every day and have little time or energy left to give them once the day’s through. As someone who’s never lived without every advantage in the world and then some, I can’t even imagine what this woman’s encouragement, the Jaffa Institute in general, and potentially even our being there, must mean for them.

After a few minutes of trying to play FIFA with them himself, my friend went to the shelf of games and got out Memory. No one seemed interested at first, but we eventually managed to cajole one boy into leaving the PlayStation to play with us instead. We soon had a group of four: Three Pardesians and him. We started a system where, after a card is flipped over, we say what the object it depicts is in English, and he tells us it in Hebrew. It was a ton of fun and we all learned a lot.

 

The belief that rain in Israel is determined by the Jews’ righteousness dates back at least as far as the Book of Deuteronomy. After seven years of drought, this winter has been one of the wettest in Israel’s recorded history. The water level of the Kinneret (Sea of Galilee) is at a four-year high, but still at least 3.5 meters short of its optimal amount. I want to leave a lasting impact. I say we make it overflow.

 

Quote of the Week: “’Love your neighbor as yourself’ is not a Commandment, it’s a fact.” – James

Hebrew Word of the Week: שלג (“sheleg”) – snow

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Week 24: More Leftovers

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(Mostly X-posted from my home blog, Yinzer in Yerushalayim)

* For Tuesday’s group lecture, Robby Berman, head of the Halakhic Organ Donor Society came to give a riveting, inspiring, infuriating talk. I’ll sum it up in brief: There is no valid Jewish (or non-Jewish) reason to not save lives by being an organ donor. If you are reading this, you will die someday, and if you are not an organ donor, you are only contributing to the needless deaths of 6,000 other Americans or 100 other Israelis each year. Click here to sign up and get more information.

 

* It used to be that sometimes, especially at night, I would be walking in Jerusalem or even just sitting in school, when it would just hit me: Dude! There’s a Hebrew-speaking Jewish State in the Holy Land after 2,000 years. That’s nuts! This would usually be followed with: And I’m currently living there, in Jerusalem, studying Torah. That’s insane! I would then experience a rush of awe and gratitude and recommit myself to making the absolute most of every remaining second here.

I admit, however, that sometime around when the weather started getting colder and I started getting other things on my mind, I found myself experiencing less and less of these epiphanies. I’m ashamed to admit that I became guilty of that cardinal Jewish sin of taking Jerusalem for granted.

Then about two weeks ago I was at a Shabbat dinner at a family’s house through a new monthly program called Shabbat Connections that pairs foreign students from local study programs up with families in Jerusalem for Shabbat meals. The family hosting me and some other students also invited their upstairs neighbor over for the meal. No sooner did this neighbor introduce herself then did she ask if any of us were considering making Aliya. She then raved to us about how much she loves living in Israel generally and Jerusalem specifically. It’s not like she was some shiny-eyed new oleh, either, she has been here over 10 years but still speaks about Israel like someone who just got back from Birthright. When the host suggested we go around the table saying our names, where we’re from, and what program we’re in, she jumped in and added that we should also say our impressions of living in Jerusalem. When the circle came to me I said sometimes being here feels like living in Jerusalem, sometimes it feels like living in any other city. When the circle got to her, she said she was a professor at Hebrew U and an author. I acted surprised and said I thought she was a plant from Nefesh B’ Nefesh, the organization that helps Jews make aliya. I had to say it, her gung-hoedness was getting on my nerves. Of course I love Jerusalem, too, but…but…

 

Her stories of teaching Arab kids made it clear that she knew well all the problems this place has, yet it hasn’t tarnished at all her simple joy for just having the unbelievable privilege of being a Jew in Jerusalem. By the time I vented my annoyance at her, I was well-aware that it wasn’t really annoyance, it was jealousy—how could I have lost that spark after only a few months while hers was still going strong after so many years and terror attacks and wars and visits to the shuk on Fridays? As others shared their experiences, my jealous insecurity grew, until I released it through the Nefesh B’Nefesh remark. After I said it my heart skipped a beat, but she and everyone else laughed. This made me laugh, too, and as we laughed, I felt a pressure-valve release somewhere around my gut and all the anxiety and self-absorption inside my chest fly away, making room for something new to take its place. As we said good-bye at the end of the meal, I thanked her for reminding me of how special it is to be in Jerusalem.

 

Later that week, I was walking to school on a cold, windy morning, watching cats climb out of a dumpster, when I smiled and thought: Whoa! There’s a Hebrew-speaking Jewish State in the Holy Land after 2,000 years, and I’m currently living there, in Jerusalem, studying Torah. That’s insane! and a new, deeper sense of awe and gratitude soon followed. Thank God, this has happened many more times since, and I’m determined to make sure it will continue to happen until I leave.

 

* There is nothing in the world like Shabbat in Jerusalem. The entire city shuts down. One day in every seven there are no busses, few cars, and every store except Dominos Pizza and that convenience store on Derekh Hevron is closed. They are replaced by the sound of song echoing through the streets from every shul and dinner table all Friday night and by people walking at a relaxed pace—be they young families all dressed in their best clothes, pushing strollers and carrying tallit bags, the father’s bright white kippa with blue trimming bobbing up and down as the family’s personal flag bringing up the rear; groups of students huddling close together, laughing amongst themselves; or couples out on a walk holding hands—Saturday afternoon.

There is a wide-variety of shuls on every block, ranging from shuls where they sing a lot and you can understand what they’re saying, to shuls where they sing a lot and you can never be sure when they’re singing a niggun and when they’re singing the actual prayer, to shuls where they sing a lot, and clap and pound their siddurs, chairs, the wall, whatever they can get their hands on, even more. The shul I go to most Friday nights, Mizmor LeDavid is the latter kind of shul. I know I wrote about the experience there before, but what I didn’t mention is the diversity—if there really is to be a World to Come, it couldn’t be much different than Mizmor on a Friday night. The place is literally crammed with Jews—on both sides of the mechitza, there are Chasidic Jews in full garb sitting next to Religious Zionists, sitting next to secular Jews, sitting next to overwhelmed-looking tourists, sitting next to native Israelis, sitting next to Conservative rabbis, sitting next to Chabadniks, sitting next to Pardesniks, sitting next to flaming Ba’al Teshuvas, sitting next to vegans, sitting next to meat-eaters, sitting next to Reform rabbis, sitting next to soldiers—all singing, dancing, and praising together as one to welcome the Sabbath Queen to Jerusalem. I can’t imagine how this city could have prayed before the advent of Shlomo Carlebach.

 

* [WARNING: Do not read this section, it will cause you pain. You have been warned.] It is a fact universally acknowledged that the more Torah you study, the more prone you become to making really horrible puns. This phenomenon is why the best rabbis can clear a room with a single joke. Since coming to the “Pundes Institute,” my classmates and I have discovered that, after having studied enough Torah, even people who ordinarily have at least some shred of self-respect start making the worst puns then hating themselves for it, but it’s like they just can’t help it. Even I, who was already punny enough before getting here, have found myself getting so bad I Pharisee that I may never be able to fully reenter society. Even the people who aren’t so traditionally religious, it’s Sadducee what’s become of them. One day, some friends and I started trying to come up with reasons for why this could be, perhaps something about spending so much time analyzing the meanings and nuances of words and language, when my friend, JTS rabbinical student Jonah Rank, came up with the answer, citing the Rabbinic dictum, “יש שבעים פנים בתורה” (I would translate this, but it wouldn’t work.) There can be no doubt Jonah will make one “whale” of a rabbi someday!!!!!!!!!

 

* I never thought it would be possible that the name “Yehoshua” could be easier for someone than “Derek.” Yet, when I first got here and tried to order food using “Derek,” I had to repeat it several times, enunciate clearly, and spell it before Israeli cashiers, even ones who spoke English, had any idea what I was saying. Worse, nearly every Israeli I know pronounces it “Dewek” in spite of the fact that there’s not even a “W” sound in Hebrew. But when I use my Hebrew name “Yehoshua,” which is double the amount of syllables, and, I think (and since I am an American, all my prejudices are correct), just much harder to pronounce in general, all I have to do is just mumble it and they automatically get it. In America, I only heard my Hebrew name when I got called up to the Torah; in Israel I hear it when I get called to the Torah and when I get called to pick up a sandwich. This is why we call this the Holy Land.

 

*Speaking of puns and my name, if I hear one more person riffing on my name and its similarity to the Hebrew word דרך (“derekh”) meaning “way”…I’ll still be no less powerless to do anything about it.

 

* Since Week 14: Things I Love about Israel, I have thought of some more important similarities between Jerusalem and Pittsburgh:

  • Both cities are defined by being made up of multiple and idiosyncratic neighborhoods. Just like how in Pittsburgh each neighborhood has its own characteristic feel and types of people, so too in Jerusalem: German Colony where I live is upscale and filled with tourists; Baka and North Talpiot where most Pardesians live are filled with wealthier Anglo and French olim; Nachalot is filled with mystics; the Jewish Quarter of the Old City is filled with English-speaking yeshiva students and their American-born rabbis; as anyone who’s seen the popular (and excellent) Israeli show Srugimknows, Katamon is filled with desperate Orthodox singles; Mea Shearim and Har Nof are filled with Cheredim; Abu-Tor is filled with tension, as it is a mix of Jews and Arabs; and the list could go on.
  • Both cites are famous for denizens who refuse to believe it’s not still the ’70’s—in Jerusalem it’s the 1870’s, in Pittsburgh the 1970’s.
  • The colors of Jerusalem’s most popular team, Beitar Yerushalayim, are black and yellow gold, and I think this explains all the rest.

 

*For those of you who keep asking what a Yinzer is, this video provides a fairly good tutorial.

 

Quote of the Week:

FIRST ETHIOPIAN CHILD IN THE ELEVATOR [To a friend and I]: Shabbat shalom!

SECOND ETHIOPIAN CHILD IN THE ELEVATOR: No, say, “Good Shabbos!”

 

Hebrew Word of the Week: כספומט (“kaspomat”) – ATM

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French instead of English

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When you watch the news and learn that something terrible has happened, it is easy to gauge the disaster by how many people were killed.  You can classify it even more by which people were affected.  Were they children or elderly?  Poor or rich?  Humanitarians or average joes?  In the back of your mind lurks the recognition that each life has infinite significance and the loss of any is tragic.  That is one space to confront atrocity.

I have to confess that oftentimes I operate under a different mindset.  When I learn about a life-stealing circumstance, I very often separate myself from the reality of what I face.  On a superficial level I do the math–the counting and comparing and assessing–but deep down the information hasn’t even touched me.

This year I am volunteering with an organization that (among other things) assists families affected by terror.  I was matched up with an 18 year old girl who lost her sister 8 years ago to a suicide bomber on a bus.  Every week I visit her under the auspices of helping her to prepare for an English exam.  Really I am there to learn.

In the apartment, a picture of a beautiful woman in a wedding dress hangs prominently.  She isn’t silent like other pictures, though.  She weighs in on conversations.  Her presence is wrapped around each family member as they go about daily tasks.  She draws you in.  When I am working with Sarah*, my student, I can feel her calling to me, wrapping herself around me too so that I can be a conduit of her love for her sister.

Sarah is bright and amiable and promising.  She catches onto things quickly and attacks her ignorance with a vengeance.  She is also chronically tired and a little forgetful.  Because of this, I have started calling and texting her before our meetings to remind her that I cam coming.  Still she often forgets.

Last night was an example.  I started by texting her at two.  With no response, I called on my way to the bus and then to let her know traffic was bad.  When her mom opened the door to me later, surprise was at the periphery.  Sarah was apologizing over and over again; she couldn’t believe she had forgotten and the whole family was over barbecuing .  I said all of the usual not-to-worries and suggested we could practice conversational skills or even meet next week.

Cosmetics were strewn all about and Sarah was in the middle of giving her aunt a makeover.  Her mom made me a cup of tea the way I like it and plopped me down by a table filled with food and dirty plates and cell phones.  Did I want to eat?  No thank you, I’ve already eaten but thank you for the offer.  My student is still being an artist and I’ve tucked my elbows away under the table and my tea and am tring to latch onto key phrases and words so that I don’t accidentally miss a social cue.  That’s pretty easy considering I don’t really speak Hebrew.

The conversation shifts into a Hebrish punctuated by lots of laughter.  In trying to introduce me to everyone, Sarah’s mother has accidentally referred to her sister as a distant relative who never visits.  When she tries to clarify, I am under the impression that her sister is actually her daughter-in-law.  Now everyone is laughing.  It’s good.  Everyone is included in the laughter and everyone is confused.

As the laughter continues, Sarah gathers up her shadows and her mom starts bringing out cookies from the kitchen.  Sarah comes to the table and reminds her mom that I am allergic to cookies.  It’s ok.  I am truly grateful for the offer and the energy she has extended me.  I ask Sarah if she would like to learn.  I feel out of place without a function.  She asks me if I would like to have my nails done.

Sure.  I feel like a sorry tutor.  After all, I am not motivating my student or even teaching her really.  And now she’s brought out bottles and bottles of nail polish.  Do you want pink or red or flowers, or ooooo French!?  I want to let her pick, but some of the pinks are shocking.  How about a French?  Now I am aiding and a-benefiting from my student’s unfocuse.

It turns out that this is Sarah’s passion.  She went to cosmetology school.  And she’s really amazing.  And she loves it.  Between nails and bottles and Hebrew nouns she tells me that one day she’ll open a salon of her own.  Family members flit in and out, chatting with us at intervals.  It feels nice to get to know Sarah as a person, and to meet her dreams.  So often I feel trapped by language and my “function” into formality and productivity.  And I like getting to see her for who is is rather than what happened to her and what she needs.

My nails are done and I ask her if she wants to learn or save that for next week and thank her and remark about how beautiful my nails now are.  She insists her head isn’t in the right place to learn, but maybe she could just read to me and I will check her pronunciation?  She retrieves her books and a fancy nail dryer and we start reading about the “Lone Star Motel.”  In the article, a night at the hotel is advertised as $28, but really the cost is much higher.  Isn’t that the truth!  The article is full of grammatical mistakes I don’t want to tell her about.

We start to chat slowly in English.  Her English is really quite good.  I tell her so and she blushes.  We chat some more; make a plan for next week, and I get up.  The evening has gone by, most of the family members have left by now, it seems like it’s time to go.  Could you stay five more minutes?  My heart swells and I feel totally consumed with joy and love for this bright soul and gratitude.  Of course I can stay!  I sit back down.  Her sister smiles from the wall.

Later, as I am riding back home on the bus, I can’t stop smiling.  I am so honored by our friendship, so touched by the way her family has taken me in, and so inspired by the way they constantly transform loss into love.  When I started visiting Sarah, I knew that there is no fixing the loss of a dear relative.  I knew that I wasn’t there to be a band aid or a distraction.  When I visit Sarah, I enter a very different world from my own.  There pain is raw even eight years later.  Her sister is very much gone, but her absence is very present.  I realize that I am not there really to teach her English.  Really I am there for make-overs and nails and dirty dishes and cookies and love.  I am there to watch Sarah shine and cheer her on.  I am there in honor of the beautiful woman in the picture on the wall.  English is just a subtext.

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Olive Harvest

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I recently had the pleasure of joining Rabbis for Human Rights on an olive harvest in the Shomron Valley. I didn’t attend the trip to make a political statement, but simply saw my presence as an opportunity to help a farmer make an honest living. Anyone who knows me knows that rustling through olive trees isn’t exactly my forte. The sun was hot, the leaves made my skin itch, and after 20 minutes my hands were caked in dirt. But as I stood rustling the leaves (and quietly bemoaning the fact that I had hours of work ahead of me), I realized how lucky I am. I get to choose what I do and when I do it. I get to decide how I want to earn a living and know that in times of trouble, my parents will always support me. I suddenly viewed this experience, not only as an opportunity to help someone else, but as a day-long reminder to be grateful and appreciative of my life.

After having this epiphany, I shook each tree with a little more vigor and finally embraced my inner olive-harvester. The farmer must have noticed because he motioned to me to follow him. We trudged down a hill until we came to a small patch of land. He began giving me orders in Arabic. Since I don’t speak any Arabic, I relied on his body language, and my intuition. We broke twigs and made a fire. Then he pointed to a small shrub. On it sat an ancient looking kettle. I brought it to him and we made tea. Then he pointed to small bags scattered around the land. As I collected each one, I found bread, vegetables, and water. I brought them to him and he began to slice and dice, rambling in Arabic as he went. I’m not exactly sure what he was saying, but I responded in English. Despite speaking different languages, our conversation flowed nicely. After preparing one of the most simple, yet beautiful meals I’ve ever seen, we called the group over and had lunch, then returned to work for a few more hours of olive picking. When reflecting on this experience, I realize that human interaction doesn’t need to be based on a shared culture, political ideology, or even common language. Instead, it can be the mere result of someone desiring to give help and the other grateful to receive it.

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The Barrier

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No, not the barrier you’re likely thinking of. Rather, the language barrier that exists for anybody who is praying in a language that is not their native tongue.

I remember during my religious school days that we struggled to simply pronounce the words well enough to be able to recite them in public. Eventually, we were bordering on memorization. The issue then became actually understanding the words, which I admit can be a significant barrier to meaningful t’fillah. However, there are some conceptual items within the traditional liturgy that some daveners find difficult. In cases such as those, perhaps a more limited understanding is preferable, although in general I do not side with that approach.

Halakhically (according to Jewish Law), almost all of the t’fillot can be said in a language that you understand, which means not necessarily Hebrew. I submit however, that there is something unique about saying the t’fillot in Hebrew. Therefore, given my aversion to prayer in English, and the need to have at least rudimentary understanding, what should be done? I have found it helpful to focus on two brachot, or even a larger section of the t’fillah, until I am entirely comfortable with the content, main themes, words, etc… This can be done by a slower recitation of the selected texts, or through additional examination outside the context of t’fillah.

Through a further understanding of the text, we enable ourselves to appreciate the magnitude of prayer, as well as open the doors to a more personal connection to God and our communities. Good luck.

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Volunteering

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On Tuesday afternoons a number of Pardes students volunteer with organizations throughout the Jerusalem area, and I’m working with a community called Yotzer Or.  Yotzer Or is composed of mostly immigrant families, many from Ethiopia, who are living in housing projects in the neighborhood of Talpiot directly across from the wealthy neighborhood.  They come to Yotzer Or for community, for help finding jobs, for after-school care for their kids, for bar mitzvah tutoring, for Jewish holidays, and much more – it’s really hard to label them as a synagogue in the traditional sense, but the rabbi, Uri Ayalon, is presenting a vision for how expansive Jewish community can really be.

Anyway, all of that background is to tell you about my particular experience today at Yotzer Or.  We’re tutoring kids ages 6-16 in English, one-on-one, and my student’s name is Batel (or Betty, as she likes to be called).  She and her four siblings are from Ethiopia, and they’re all involved in the tutoring program.  Many of the kids in the program have pretty minimal English speaking skills, but Batel’s English is amazing – she’s 12, and more or less fluent.  I help her with her homework (which she breezes through), and then we talk – about boys, music, annoying teachers in school, and of course, boys.

Today Batel asked me if I had ever been in the army, or if I would ever be.  When I told her that in America, high school grads aren’t required to join the army like they are in Israel, she was a bit shocked – how did they get people to serve if they weren’t required to?  I asked her if she would join the army one day, and she said “Of course!” and already knows what unit she wants to serve in – מגבניקות, or border patrol.  She’s already learning Arabic (in addition to her Hebrew, English, and Amharic), which she’ll have to master in order to serve in that capacity.  I thought back to the 12 year-olds that I know in America, and I’m not sure if I could find one with these same kinds of life experiences and questions.

Later on, Batel asked me what I was going to do when I got back to America.  I should be used to this question now – I’ve been getting it practically every day since I arrived here – but still, I stalled:

“Well, I’ll go see my family, of course…”

“And then?”

“And then…I’m going to start studying to be a rabbi.”

“A what?”

“You know, a rav.”

“Ohhh, you mean a rabbanit!  So wait…will you wear pants?”

(I was wearing pants today – it was pretty cold.  I do wear a lot of skirts though, here and at home.  But of course, I deflected with a question.)

“Do you think I should?”

“Well, I know a rabbanit who wears pants… but she knows EVERYTHING about the Torah, and can answer any question I ask her.  I think it’s more about the person you are on the inside, and if you’re true to yourself, that’s what matters.”

I’m beginning to think that I’ll be learning much more from her this year than she’ll be learning from me.

L’shalom,

Lauren

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