Tag: love

Love is… being together

There is something somewhat intimate about being woken up in the middle of the night by rocket sirens. Feet and arms lightly intertwined with my wife’s, feeling a slight tug of the cover to her side in the never-ending battle-of-the-blankets, I am startled by the sound. I am slow to make sense of the sirens, which are coming both from outside and my cellphone, the latter also providing a strobe-light effect. I look to my wife, nudge her and say in a most loving but rushed tone, “Let’s go! Missiles!”

Remember those Love is… comic strips of the 1970s by New Zealand cartoonist and love culturalist Kim Casall? Well, how about Love Is… waking up snuggled together to a missile alert? Not the free love and innocence of the hippie generation, but for sure love!

And what about Love is… ensuring your wife enters the safe room first. How’s that for being a gentleman? As the sirens go off and we rush to our safe room, my wife goes in first, then I rush in after her, slamming shut the heavy iron door behind us. Actually, if our kids are home or we have guests, I will make sure everyone is inside – including our dog – before entering. Just seems like the right thing to do, danger be damned. How’s that for bravado?

***

Speaking of love. Returned from Tel Aviv with my wife the other day. Incoming missiles and a known routine. Pull over. Exit car. Move away from the vehicle. Crouch down on roadside. Cover your head with your hands (though I don’t know how that helps if a missile strikes you). So, there was my wife, huddled next to me, while the Iron Dome chased and intercepted its overhead target. In a chivalrous act of protection, I hovered over my wife, giving her a second layer of armour. I hugged her. Amazing how adrenalin works. Love is… shielding your wife from incoming missiles.

In a similar spirit. Love is… being alone with your wife in the safe room during missile alerts. It’s not for no reason that births spike during wartime.

***

Then there’s our morning routine. Prewar, it was pillow talk about the chores ahead. Now, the first thing we cross-check is Code Red missile alerts received on our cellphones overnight. Where were the sirens? Where did the missiles land? Or almost land? Other carnage or near-carnage? Other military developments? Not the most romantic of topics but that’s where our minds are these days – from the moment we wake up until we fall asleep. Love is… lying in bed together comparing missile alerts and military actions.

***

The other week, during Iran’s second cruise missile attack on Israel, where more than 180 missiles were fired at our little shtetl with the intent to exact maximum, indiscriminate death and destruction, there was significant news chatter about the attack. Under the fog of war, not fully clear what to expect. 

My wife, who works in Tel Aviv, just completed her shift and was taking a bus home. She called to advise me that her bus was late and that her cellphone battery was running low, so I shouldn’t worry if she’s delayed and doesn’t answer. Shortly after our conversation came the news flash about a mega-casualty terrorist attack in nearby Jaffa and another attempted attack in Tel Aviv. I tried calling my wife back. No answer. Wishfully and optimistically, I attributed it to no battery.

Then the news flash that Iran had fired several hundred cruise missiles at Israel. Expected to arrive in our airspace within the next … 12 minutes. Not 10 minutes, not 15, but 12. This was for real! Where was my wife?! There was no way to call her, to learn of her whereabouts.

If she were on the bus during a missile barrage, what would happen? Would the driver follow Homefront commands? Would the bus pull over? Would the passengers get off the bus? Would they crouch down away from the bus with their hands covering their heads? Would someone hover over my wife … protect her?

Time is ticking – three minutes from the expected cruise missile impact. Anxiously pacing the living room, I keep looking to the news for some insight about something. Then, I hear the elevator. I run into the hallway, watching the red digits slowing climbing to my floor. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. The door opens. There she is. In all her beauty. Somewhat frazzled-looking. I give her a giant, protective bear hug. Immediately, sirens go off throughout the city and our cellphones buzz and flash with missile alerts. My wife arrived literally in the nick of time. 

We quickly make our way to the safe room. My wife enters first. I slam the door shut behind us. With her tension unravelling, my wife begins to cry – from exhaustion, from stress, from survival. Again, we embrace.

Love is… holding your wife near in the safety of your safe room during a missile attack.

***

Please continue donating to the Israeli war and revival efforts, or buy Israel Bonds. Twelve months after the Oct. 7, 2023, Hamas terror attacks, the war is still raging, and on several active fronts. Sderot and Metula – and even Tel Aviv and Haifa – are Israel’s front lines. And Israel is the diaspora’s front line. 

Bring them home now. 

Bruce Brown, a Canadian-Israeli, made aliyah more than 25 years ago. He works in high-tech and is happily married, with two kids. He is the winner of a 2019 American Jewish Press Association Simon Rockower Award for excellence in Jewish writing.

Love note across the divide

Eighteen years ago, when I lived in southern Israel, the region that is getting hammered by rockets as I write this, my boyfriend at the time – Muhammed – was a Bedouin Muslim, also living in the area. I went to visit my mother in Berkeley, Calif., for a month or so. During my visit, I was hanging out with a friend of mine, who had grown up a secular Jew, then married a religious Moroccan Muslim. She had been inspired by her husband’s religious devotion to explore her own religious tradition, starting to keep kosher, go to Orthodox synagogue, and so on.

She and I were driving through downtown Berkeley, when we got stopped at a red light. As it so happened, to the right of us was an anti-Israel demonstration and to the left of us was a pro-Israel demonstration. The crowds were shouting slogans, slogans that flew across the street, over our heads in the car, the two of us, Jewish women in relationships with Arab Muslim men. We turned to each other, held our gaze for a minute, then burst out laughing hysterically. When the light turned green, we took off, leaving the Arabs and Jews behind us, yelling at one another.

When we feel threatened, we can get into a defensive posture, Us-Them thinking, unproductive fact-flinging, conversations from the brain instead of from the heart. We can go around and around the same circle of thought and narrative, as, meanwhile, people’s lives are torn apart by trauma and tragedy. I believe that the path to peace is not through political conversations, but, rather, through emotionally intimate relationships with individuals – getting to know and care about them, listen to their stories, understand the complexities and nuances of their lives. So that there is no Us and Them, but rather, there is just Us, the human family.

Prior to my relationship with Muhammed, I was a very political person. I did not just attend rallies; I organized them. As an indigenous Middle Eastern Jew, the daughter of a refugee from Iraq, I certainly had a lot to yell about: I am a direct descendant of the people of ancient Israel, which was destroyed 2,600 years ago by the Babylonians, who took my ancestors as captives to Babylon – the land of today’s Iraq. My ancestors stayed on that land through the Arab-Muslim conquest of the region 1,300 years ago and up through the modern day, until shortly after the Farhud – the pro-Nazi wave of genocidal violence against Jews in Baghdad – following which, my family fled to Israel.

Despite the brutal violence, exile and traumatic uprooting my family endured, along with the material loss – all Jewish personal and communal property was confiscated and nationalized by the Iraqi government – and, despite the personal, intergenerational trauma that carried forward through the years, in Israel and the United States, my family story was invisible in public discourse about Arabs and Jews, in both the Arab and Jewish narratives. This was the case despite the fact that indigenous Middle Eastern Jews made up the majority of Israel’s Jewish population, and that there were 900,000 indigenous Middle Eastern Jewish refugees worldwide in the 20th century, with stories mirroring those of my family.

I spent 20 years of my young adult life devoted to getting these stories out there, with a mission of changing the way people think. I spoke at respected institutes, published in prestigious media, my work reaching the eyes and ears of tens of millions of people. Then, my thinking changed – not about the history or politics, which remained the same – but about what to do with the history and politics, how to interface with them.

Because Muhammed and I were together amid a volatile environment of Arab-Jewish enmity, we kept things apolitical in our relationship. Paradoxically, this led to what was perhaps the most political act of all: Arab-Jewish love, visible for others to witness. My neighbours went from cautioning me against dating Muhammed to asking if I was still with Muhammed, to asking how Muhammed was doing. They feared him at first, but then got to know him and care about him. Experiencing that transformation, in turn, made me realize that the simple things in life, the connection we feel in someone’s presence, can be more powerful and important than all the high-brow intellectual discourse in the world, the litany of things we may have to say, no matter how valid those things may be.

image - The author’s forthcoming album, Iraqis in Pajamas, includes songs in response to the violence in the Middle East
The author’s forthcoming album, Iraqis in Pajamas, includes songs in response to the violence in the Middle East.

In addition, after getting diagnosed with cancer and choosing to heal from it naturally, I radically shifted my values and priorities – with joy, peace and ease shooting up to the top of my list. As part of my transformation, I returned to my lost love of music and started writing songs that were deeply personal, from the heart, and, as far as I knew, entirely apolitical – leaving me surprised when, after a performance, a man told me not only that he loved my music but that it was very political. My music disarms people, he and others have told me, specifically because I have no agenda, no interest in persuading anyone of anything; rather, I am just sharing – my story, my life, my journey. The simplicity and space of it all allows people to open their hearts, listen and, ironically, after all those years trying to change people’s minds – transform the way people think.

I don’t know the solution to this conflict that has been raging on for decades, endangering the lives of my family and friends, Jews and Muslims alike. I do, however, know this: as individuals, we have the choice not to participate in divisive thinking, to instead use conflict as an opportunity to reach out to people across the divide and get to know one another, in the most basic human ways, whether playing basketball or playing music or going for a walk and enjoying the sunset. In our cynical world, putting love at the forefront of our consciousness may sound hokey or impractical. But, at the end of the day, I think it’s the only thing with the hope to effect change.

Loolwa Khazzoom (KHAZZOOM.com) is an Iraqi-American Jewish musician, writer and educator. Her work has been featured in top media, including the New York Times, the Washington Post and the Boston Globe. Her forthcoming album, Iraqis in Pajamas, with her band by the same name, includes songs in response to the violence in the Middle East.

Blessing of love

I must make the disclaimer that none of the letters after my name qualify me to opine on matters of this kind but, as I have done too often in the past, I “rush in where angels fear to tread.” I just feel it is so important for our well-being to have a little bit of this in our make-up. I believe we have to be lucky enough that someone has loved us unconditionally, whether that be a parent, God or a partner. It can arrive from siblings, but siblings are more often competitive than fully loving.

But why is this so important? Because a person who loves us unconditionally is one who is naturally inclined to forgive us for our transgressions. We are hardly likely to get through life without making mistakes. If others we respect are ready to forgive us our trespasses, we are much more likely to forgive ourselves as well. And that, I believe, is a very big deal.

If we can’t forgive ourselves for our mistakes, for our misbehaviours, then we probably don’t like ourselves very much. Indeed, we are probably angry with ourselves most of the time. If it’s true, it shows. Everybody knows the saying, “love thy neighbour as thyself.” If you don’t like yourself, well, look out below!

But suppose you understand that we all make mistakes? Suppose you understand that mistakes are learning opportunities and the great thing is that you can learn to not make the same mistake again. Mistakes are a necessary way to get smarter about organizing your life. You don’t have to beat yourself up about them. Learn your lesson and move on. You are still a person worth loving. And, because you are getting so smart about things, why shouldn’t you appreciate and admire yourself? Your heritage of love gives you strength, self-confidence.

But what if your mistake is unredeemable? Ouch! Those, you just have to live with. And shouldn’t that make you kinder about the mistakes of others, more generous, more forgiving? If you could do such a thing, well, then, it could happen to anybody, couldn’t it? Sure it could! Forgive them as you forgive yourself.

A belief in your essential goodness will aid you when you are confronted with all those essential decisions one has to make in life. How will what I am thinking of doing impact the lives of those I care for? Can I square this action with the kind of person I want to be? Will I still be able to love myself if I do this thing? If not, then I must find another way to accomplish my ends. Loving yourself can mean having that kind of conversation with yourself.

In the past, I often assumed that what advanced my interests would obviously be in the interests of those I cared for, those whose welfare I was responsible for. It was only with the passage of time that I grew to appreciate that I often missed a step in making that calculation. Most decisions turned out well, but some bore costs paid for by others, costs of which I had not the slightest notion. It was only with time that I would appreciate that I had paid a price as well.

In the end, I believe that those of us who have been blessed with a heritage of love are better able to love ourselves and are better equipped to bestow that heritage on others. I think that is a wonderful thing.

Max Roytenberg is a Vancouver-based poet, writer and blogger. His book Hero in My Own Eyes: Tripping a Life Fantastic is available from Amazon and other online booksellers.

Blessings of love, religion

Once a month, my husband (a secular humanist Jew) and I (Roman Catholic) join the Fraytik tsu Nakht at the Peretz Centre for Secular Jewish Culture. At the Friday night secular humanist Shabbat celebration, we sing songs, light candles, eat challah bread, and sing in Yiddish and Hebrew. But what I am also learning is the humanistic approach to Jewish cultural heritage.

At the celebrations, they give a great deal of importance, as it says in the text that we read, “to human dignity and the human power to make a better world … and gratitude for the wonders of the world.” Being from a Latin American country, I do not know Yiddish or Hebrew, but I have memorized the lyrics to songs like “Daylanu Shalom” and “Hineh Ma Tov,” so I can sing along with the other people.

When I married Carl, I enjoyed imagining that I was married to a relative of Jesus Christ, since I am practising Catholicism and Jesus is Jewish. We found out that we have more things in common than we imagined. We really enjoy seeing all the similarities and sharing them. For instance, I go with Carl to his Jewish events, where we light candles “to reflect on our own light and the light of others, we praise the healers, the builders and the dreamers. We celebrate the peacemakers, those who teach, who nurture, who love, who share, and those who create for humanity.” At the same time, I have an altar in our room, where I spend time praying the rosary, lighting candles and meditating. Carl comes with me on Sunday to listen to Mass, and is curious for something new, like listening to Mass in Latin, hearing the sermon or just listening to the beautiful music from the pipe organ at Holy Rosary Cathedral, where I belong. Our relationship is based on respect and acceptance, so we can both learn from each other without judgment. Together, we discover that hope is bright and love fills our hearts.

This past year, like every year, we received a phone call from one of Carl’s friends inviting us to his home to celebrate Passover. For me, this means learning more about his culture and imagining how was the Last Supper that Jesus had with his disciples. I love the prayers, the singing and being with good friends who accept me and welcome me, even knowing that I am Catholic, but, above all, I enjoy it because I’m taking part with my husband, who I love.

Carl and I married in a civil ceremony, a Jewish ceremony and in the Catholic Church. We learned that celebrating our differences has made us closer and that religion, far from being a barrier, is a blessing from our Higher Power, however we understand It.

Delta Vazquez Leon has worked part time for Holy Rosary Cathedral for almost four years as an administrative assistant-receptionist. Her mother tongue is Spanish, and she helps Spanish-speaking parishioners in their needs. Some Sundays she assists in the distribution of Holy Communion, and participates in any way she can in Cathedral activities. In her spare time, she likes to write, draw and paint.

The Jewish holiday of love

Since it takes place in summer, Tu b’Av has become popular for open-air events. A local example is the JNF Future’s annual Summer Sail, for which guests are encouraged to follow the tradition of wearing white.

Picture this potentially risqué scene: “… the daughters of Jerusalem used to go out … and dance in the vineyards [and] whoever did not have a wife would go there.”

Surprisingly, perhaps, this description is in the Babylonian Talmud, Tractate Taanit, 31a. In the days before internet dating sites and apps, speed-dating or singles bars, this was how Jewish singles met up at least once a year, on Tu b’Av. Welcome to the Jewish day of romance, Temple-times style.

Maybe it didn’t go as far as the cliché “clothes make the [wo]man,” but even back then, it apparently mattered what you wore to the vineyard. The bachelorettes decked out in white. If a single woman didn’t have white clothes, she’d borrow from someone else. In fact, the tractate describes this nice touch – everyone borrowed, so that no one felt embarrassed if they didn’t have something.

Presumably, wearing white at night had its advantages, too, as it made the women stand out in the moonlit vineyard. Moreover, when we think “white,” most of us think purity and, associatively, virginity, which brings us to this: wearing white underscores the next step, the Jewish wedding. At this ceremony, both the bride and the groom traditionally wear white – the groom (chatan, in Hebrew) puts on a white robe (kittel) or a prayer shawl (tallit) and the bride wears a white dress.

The writings of medieval Jewish scholars like Rabbi Aaron ben Jacob ha-Kohen and Rabbi ben Solomon ibn Abi Zimra (the Radbaz) suggest that wearing white at Jewish wedding ceremonies is a very old custom. They write that one’s wedding day is like a personal Yom Kippur, when the bride and groom’s sins are forgiven. Thus, the wearing of white becomes a proof-text for the line from Isaiah 1:18: “If your sins prove to be like crimson, they will become white as snow.”

Jewish scholars actually connect Yom Kippur and Tu b’Av. Unexpectedly, the Talmud claims that Tu b’av is as important as Yom Kippur in at least one way: “Rabbi Shimon b. Gavriel said: There were no days as joyous in Israel like the 15th of Av and Yom Kippur.” (Taanit 26b)

Chag Haahava, the Holiday of Love, or Tu b’Av (the 15th day of the Jewish month of Av), falls just six days after we mournfully recall that, on Tisha b’Av (Ninth of Av), both the First and Second Temples were destroyed, and numerous other Jewish catastrophes occurred. Here again, we link Tu b’Av to another Jewish wedding custom – the breaking of the glass, recalling the Temples’ destruction.

According to Tractate Taanit (30b-31a), the 15th of Av also joyously commemorates a number of other events in early Jewish history:

(1) This day marked the end of the “wilderness” generation; that is, the end of G-d’s punishing with death the Hebrews who had been the contemporaries of the spies who lacked the requisite faith for conquering the land (Numbers 14: 29-35). The 40 years of desert wandering ceased at this point and the children of the exiles entered Canaan.

(2) On 15 Av, G-d lifted the restriction on intermarriage between members of the 12 tribes.

(3) G-d reinstated the tribe of Benjamin, which He had banned for the tribesmen’s gang rape in Gibeah of a visiting concubine, who subsequently died.

(4) During the Temple period, the task of providing firewood for sacrifices ended on 15 Av, when the woodcutters would ceremoniously break their axes.

(5) Hosea, son of Elah, the last king of the Northern Kingdom, permitted travel to Jerusalem’s Holy Temple for the pilgrimage holidays.

(6) This day also marks when permission was given to bury those killed by the Romans at the Betar fortress.

While the Shulchan Aruch (Code of Jewish Law) doesn’t specify any particular customs for Tu b’Av, it does indicate that, as with other joyous days in the Jewish year, Jews should skip reciting tachanun (confession of sins) on this day.

Given the injunction to “be fruitful and multiply,” it is not hard to understand why this ancient holiday was judged to be so important. Indeed, one could make the claim that the holiday’s timing is hardly coincidental. It comes when the moon is full, reminding us that its cycle parallels women’s 28-day reproductive cycle.

Moreover, on a spiritual level, the sun’s illumination of the full moon suggests a cosmic union of the masculine and feminine – a kesher (Hebrew for connection) between G-d and His Divine Presence (Shekhinah). Rabbi Dr. Jill Hammer writes: “In the Zohar, the full moon signals the time when the

Divine womb creates pure and blessed souls. It is the time when the moon and sun, which, in kabbalist thought, represent the feminine and masculine faces of G-d, are most in contact. The Zohar [notes] that, at the full moon, the Shekhinah is called a field of apples, while at the dark moon, she is called field of anatot [poverty].”

It is somewhat ironic that this great holiday was not celebrated in Israel until recently. But Israelis seem to be making up for lost time. As Tu b’Av approaches, articles on the true meaning of love appear on a variety of websites, in ultra-Orthodox through to humanistic Judaism posts. Moreover, the day has evolved into a favorite Jewish Israeli wedding date – to get married on this day, couples must make their wedding arrangements far in advance.

As Tu b’Av falls in the summertime – this year, it starts the evening of Aug. 18 – it is ideal for outdoor events. Hence, the holiday has become popular for open-air evening concerts and all-day festivals.

As we become more of a global community, it is not surprising that modern Tu b’Av rituals have been influenced by Valentine’s Day accoutrements. Indeed, Tu b’Av art often mimics Valentine’s Day graphics, Israeli magazines guide people to romantic getaways, Israeli newspapers recommend places to feast on heart-shaped ravioli or splurge on rich chocolate mousse desserts or get tipsy on Pink Monica cocktails.

Anyone interested in learning more about Jewish rituals for celebrating Tu b’Av, however, can start their research at ritualwell.org.

Deborah Rubin Fields is an Israel-based features writer. She is also the author of Take a Peek Inside: A Child’s Guide to Radiology Exams, published in English, Hebrew and Arabic.