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June 9, 2006
Who stole my Judaism?
East European tradition is religious hallmark.
LOOLWA KHAZZOOM
I entered the study hall of the Iraqi synagogue in Ramat Gan –
the synagogue where I'd spent my childhood summers. Some of the
women sat on the outskirts of the hall, literally outside, and others
sat pressed against the right side wall, huddled together meekly.
The men filled up the rest of the room, with their grand physical
gestures, booming voices and uninhibited laughter. Disgruntled and
disappointed, yet not surprised, I joined the makeshift women's
section.
The rabbi was dressed in standard Ashkenazi garb – black suit,
white shirt, black hat – no surprise, considering that the
seating arrangements and overall energy smacked of eastern European
rigidity. Though he spoke of Yom Kippur customs through the teachings
of Hacham Yosef Hayim, the leading religious figure of Iraq, the
rabbi did so in a way far removed from traditional Iraqi practice.
Each time I asked a question, he put up his hand to the side of
his face, as if to block my existence from his reality, while the
men clamored in an uproar that a woman had the audacity to speak.
At first, I was not actually sure if the hand went up to hush the
men's clamor or to silence me. The first two times, after all, the
rabbi did answer my questions, once people quieted down. He spoke
facing straight ahead, however, refusing to look even vaguely in
my direction – as if doing so would sully his holiness. The
third time, however, when not only the men but also the women completely
freaked out about the fact that I was speaking, the hand went up
again and the rabbi refused to answer my question. After causing
one more commotion by turning to the women to see if they knew the
answer (they did), I picked up my belongings and left.
I considered creating a public ruckus – challenging the rabbi
and congregants on this clear turn against our heritage – instead
of leaving quietly. I also considered approaching the rabbi at another
time, to advise him that his behavior had chased out of the synagogue
a Jew thirsty for knowledge. But I'd been hurt so much as a girl
and young woman in what is supposed to be my community that I just
could not handle another confrontation.
I grew up observant and was a flaming Jew pretty much from birth
– willing to risk my life for my people and our beliefs. That's
why, weeks after a friend was nearly shot boarding a plane to Israel
from Los Angeles, days after a suicide bomber blew up scores of
students at the Hebrew University cafeteria in Jerusalem, amidst
a wave of terrorist attacks across the Jewish state and with Israel
and Iraq on the brink of war, I left my quiet, tree-lined street
in Berkeley, Calif., and made aliyah to Israel – settling in
Be'ersheva, a small desert city in the south.
Israelis repeatedly expressed their shock and confusion that an
American-born and -raised Jew would choose what is considered a
boonie town like Be'ersheva – seen by most as the transfer
point for a bus to Eilat – instead of the hustle and bustle
of Tel-Aviv or Jerusalem. A major part of my draw to Israel, however,
was having the chance to connect deeply with Jews of Middle Eastern
and African heritage. With Moroccan and Iraqi neighbors directly
across from me, Indian, Turkish and Iranian neighbors on the floors
below, Ethiopian neighbors across the street and a Tunisian synagogue
just at the edge of my balcony (eliminating the need to get out
of my pajamas to participate in morning prayers), I was exactly
where I wanted to be.
I had stopped attending religious services while living in Berkeley
and I had all but completely withdrawn from Jewish community life
in the area. The organized Mizrahi/Sephardi community was tiny,
a two-hour round trip away, and, for reasons I won't get into here,
not the community I wanted to be part of. In addition, there was
only one Ethiopian Jew I knew of in the area. With few exceptions,
the only multicultural Jewish experience I had was when I was teaching
or otherwise leading a program. I was hungry for the plethora of
Mizrahi, Sephardi and Ethiopian community options to choose from
in Be'ersheva.
As it turned out, there were many different synagogues to attend,
with the chazzanim at each following the liturgy of their respective
countries of origin, but every community was otherwise homogenous
in its practice. The ultra-Orthodox tenets of central and eastern
European shtetls, I discovered, have come to dominate that which
is defined as "religious" in Israel.
Traditionally, Middle Eastern and African Jewish communities emphasized
the concept of chesed, or compassion, over that of mahmir,
or strictness. Judaism was a vehicle for joy and celebration, not
an instrument of fear and condemnation. One wall around the Torah
was enough. We did not need a wall around a wall around a wall.
Today, however, that foundational approach has been buried deep
in our past, and religious life is now a contest between who can
be the strictest, most intolerant of all – especially when
it comes to women.
In traditional Mizrahi and Sephardi synagogues, for example, the
women generally sat upstairs in the gallery, where they had full
view of the service led below, and where they were welcome to sing
at full volume along with the male congregants. I vividly remember
the passion of women with white lace head coverings and colorful
dresses, praying from the bottoms of their hearts and the depths
of their souls, closing their eyes while holding their hands open
and in front of them, as if to gather the energy being raised by
the congregants, then bringing their hands to their faces and kissing
them – as if they were kissing G-d.
Today, in most of the Mizrahi and Sephardi synagogues I have attended
in Israel, that image has been replaced by one of resigned women
silently crumpled in their chairs – some bored and staring
into space, others talking, still others holding out their hands
– this time behind an energetic layer of fear and a physical
barrier to the space below. Not only are women seated in the gallery
today (quite enough to keep us separate from the men, thank you
very much), but there is a wall blocking our visual connection to
the service – purportedly to keep us way, way out of men's
line of sight. Just in case that wall is not enough, there is also
a curtain hanging on top of it, one which must not be moved for
all but one part of the service. To top it all off, women's voices
must not, under any circumstances, be audible to the men below.
And so, as I ran open-hearted to the Tunisian, Algerian and Moroccan
synagogues peppering my neighborhood in Be'ersheva, eager to fully
reclaim my observant Jewish practice and to re-embrace communal
Jewish life, I found myself crashing into physical, energetic, spiritual
and emotional blockades. Unwilling to accept these barriers –
affronts not only to my feminist sensibility but also to thousands
of years of Mizrahi and Sephardi Jewish practice – I launched
a one-woman rebellion throughout the city and across the country,
singing out loud and pushing the curtains to the side wherever I
prayed. Synagogue attendance thus came to mean constant battles
between myself and, ironically, the women "gatekeepers"
of the congregation – whose sole purpose in life seemed to
be keeping all the ladies in check.
The experience became so unpleasant that, over time, I stopped going
to synagogue and, as the months and years rolled by, even stopped
observing traditions at home. A holier-than-thou, suffering-oriented
approach to Judaism – ironically steeped in the non-Jewish
mindset of Christian Europe – clearly had hijacked religious
Jewish practice in Israel, leaving me feeling frustrated, resentful
and alone.
While there are a few pockets of practising Jews who refuse to kowtow
to this narrow definition of "religious Judaism," most
observant and secular Jews alike, from every ethnic branch, have
fallen in step – to the point that people refuse to believe
that I am "religious" if I am wearing a pair of jeans.
What's more, the Israeli government enforces this ideology: While
at the Kotel, praying wholeheartedly to G-d, I have repeatedly found
myself surrounded by soldiers and police officers ordering me to
be quiet. Make no mistake: the Western Wall has yet to be liberated.
I wonder why those who promote rigidity, suffering and alienation
are willing to stake their claim to our 4,000-year-old heritage,
but those who promote flexibility, joy and inclusion are not. The
Torah specifically states that it is as wrong to overdo observance
as it is to underdo it: "You shall not add unto the word which
I command you, neither shall you diminish from it, that you may
keep the commandments of the Lord your G-d which I command you."
(Deuteronomy 4:2)
Until we recognize that a black-hatted, three-times-a-day davening,
super-extra-deluxe-kosher Jew can be just as much of an apikoros
(heretic) as a string-bikini-wearing, Nietzsche-loving, pork-scarfing
member of the tribe; until our understanding of "religious"
reflects this recognition; and until Mizrahi, Sephardi and Ethiopian
Jews refuse to let European shtetl ideology set the tone for our
Jewish practice, I will continue to feel that someone has walked
off with my religion.
Loolwa Khazzoom has published internationally in such
outlets as the Washington Post, BBC News, Cosmopolitan and
Marie Claire. She is also the editor of The Flying Camel:
Essays on Identity by Women of North African and Middle Eastern
Jewish Heritage.
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