Tranquil Kibbutz

Fringes is delighted to publish an article by our good friend Daniel Ming, who studied abroad in Ramallah in the Palestinian Territories during his junior year of college. Dan maintained a blog throughout the experience and has continued to post since he returned. We highly recommend you go check out his blog here, and we are extremely grateful that he has given us permission to share this piece with our readers. More of his work will appear in our upcoming print edition of Fringes!

The tranquil Kibbutz, in context.

by Daniel Ming

originally posted October 7, 2008, at http://danielming.wordpress.com/2008/10/07/the-tranquil-kibbutz-in-context/

During my recent weeklong vacation, I spent a night visiting family friends in the Negev desert between the Israeli city of Beersheva and the border of the Gaza Strip. For the past three decades, they have lived in Kibbutz Urim, a socialist cooperative founded in the early 40’s by Bulgarian immigrants. A radical departure from the hustle and bustle of Ramallah, Jerusalem and Tel Aviv (where I have spent most of my time so far), the Kibbutz seemed to be an oasis of tranquility amidst all of the tensions, both commercial and political, of Israeli and Palestinian city life.

After returning to Ramallah, pulling out a map and realizing where I actually was, things seem a little different.

Less than a few hours away, residents of the Israeli town of Sderot have lived with the trauma of repeated rocket attacks over the past eight years. Although the accuracy and relative death toll caused by these weapons can be disputed, I cannot even begin to imagine the psychological damage that having thousands of rockets constantly falling on a city would have on its inhabitants.

Less than 20 kilometers away from the Kibbutz, over a million Palestinians in Gaza continue to live under economic siege in a man-made humanitarian crisis, described by Nobel Peace Prize laureate Mairead Maguire as comparable to “a ghetto, a huge prison, with Israel holding the keys to all the doors.” Another peace activist, Israeli professor Jeff Halper, described the situation to Amnesty International as “an absolutely illegal siege which has plunged a million and a half Palestinians into wretched conditions: imprisoned in their own homes, exposed to extreme military violence, deprived of the basic necessities of life, stripped of their most fundamental human rights and dignity.”

It’s haunting to think that so close to this peaceful Kibbutz there exists so much suffering, both physical and emotional. The only time that I was able to collect any tangible evidence that these places were actually real was at night on the bus, when the city lights made discernible unknown villages, towns and walls in the distance. They looked quiet to me – although at night in the desert, everything seems to have an illusion of calm.

Stuff Jewish Young Adults Like

The wildly popular blog, “Stuff White People Like,” has spawned a number of spin-offs, including, “Stuff Young Jewish Adults Like.” On this list of ninety-six you will find high scorers such as “writing for television” (#5), “Ultimate Frisbee” (#4), “National Public Radio” (#10), “having Catholic friends” (#25), “Jewish Geography” (#21) and “ordering ‘special’ meals” (#18). Like its forbear, this list is complete with photos and fairly lengthy explanations of how and why each of these items is beloved by JYAs (Jewish Young Adults), as the website’s shorthand reads.

“Stuff White People Like,” became a sensation in certain circles; you’d be bound to hear people proclaim, “that’s so true!” about such an accurate list. However, “Stuff White People Like,” might be more accurately titled, “Stuff Upper Middle Class People Like.” Certainly this isn’t always the case but more than being based on color, this list seems to be based on class. If you really press the question: what is it about white people that makes them like all these things, it is often education, a certain urban experience or sensibility, worldliness or cosmopolitan taste and, a certain socio-economic status. It seems not to be something inherent about whiteness itself that provides the basis for this list but rather a certain sub-population group that is, financially, fairly well off.

The same critical eye should be used to consider “Stuff Young Jewish Adults Like.” Does this list shed light on something at the core of Jewishness? And, when it says, “Jewish Young Adults,” should it really read “Jewish Young Adults living in a certain part of the country, with a certain degree of religious observance and a certain level of education and economic comfort?” How certain are we that this list is inclusive and if it’s not, does it somehow reflect on the un-hip-ness of what is excluded?

A few items pop out immediately as presuming a level of religious observance, most notably, “dabbling in religiosity” (#58). For one to dabble in religiosity, which the blog claims to be a rite of passage for any JYA, necessarily means one cannot be born into it, or maintain it. Depending on your definition of religiosity, this cuts out a lot of Jews, including those who have never “dabbled” in it, although, of course, there are always some exceptions.

On the other hand, there are many items that seem to, albeit with some more elaboration, actually touch on something unique and specific about Jews. For instance, “Jewish Geography,” a custom of name exchanges when you meet a new Jew (do you know ______, he lives in your town?) displays the connectivity and surprisingly small degrees of separation between Jews in America and around the world. A useful question to figure out how Jewish this game is would be: could another religious or ethnic group play this game with the same success? What about this game is distinctly Jewish?

One element seems to be that JYAs like “organizing themselves” (#6). Between religious minyans and congregations, youth groups, cultural groups, non-profit organizations, Jewish community centers, Jewish federations, social networking and the list goes on, it seems that Jews create spaces and opportunities to promote this interconnectedness and explore different aspects of their Jewishness together. This idea is intimately related to the Jewish Diaspora, which has spread the Jewish community to all corners of the earth so that you could go to Argentina or Mumbai and find Jews there with whom to try Jewish Geography, though how successfully I’m not sure.

Yet Diaspora also seems notable as the word refers to a spreading, a dispersion and, whether this desire is thoroughly accepted by all Jews, there is a sense that we were scattered from one unit and so, should aspire to eventually return to this one unit. Without going too deeply into the ideas of homeland, exile and Diaspora, a fruitful, but different discussion, that sense may account for the type of organizing and interconnectivity that leads to a startlingly productive round of Jewish Geography.
There might be a tendency to categorize this list as more precisely referring to “cultural” Jews, however this term is highly problematic as it begs the question, do non-cultural Jews, let’s say “religious” Jews, not have culture, and if they do, is it the same culture as the “cultural Jews?”

Still I want to balance my critique with giving some credit where it’s due; I do think many of the items on the list are fitting for most American Jewish young adults, and, as this blog is balancing humor with accuracy, I think it’s both funny enough and true enough to deserve notice. However, for a more serious, critical analysis I think it’s necessary to keep asking, why is this stuff Jewish, in the same way we should ask of “Stuff White People Like,” why is this stuff white? While the whiteness is mostly substitutable for class, I do believe that getting to the root of the whys in this newer blog may reveal some valuable insights about Jews and Jewishness today.

But check it out yourself and I’ll leave it here, having reliably confirmed another thing Jewish young adults like, “writing about themselves” (#13).

- Liz

My Intolerance

Women of the Wall

The New York Times recently published an article on the arrest of Nofrat Frenkel in Jerusalem. Frenkel, a 28-year-old medical student, is a member of the group known as “Women of the Wall,” which meets regularly at the Western Wall to sing, pray, and read Torah. She was arrested while wearing tallit – fringes – and carrying a Torah while in the plaza behind the Kotel barriers.

This story spoke to me for several reasons. For this blog post, I’ll set aside the implications it raises for the state of Israel, and focus on the personal. Visiting the Western Wall was a very exciting experience for me, but it was also a depressing one. I’d seen photographs before, and I’d known, of course, that there would be a mechitzah, but I had no concept of how little space was accorded to the women. The women’s side is so small that the women are bunched up, praying on top of each other, struggling for a touch of wall, while the men have a vast space in which to spread out or harmoniously congregate as they wish. As a feminist, I am very much in awe of the courage of the Women of the Wall, who retain their orthodoxy while claiming their right to religious practices they feel called to.

The Western Wall

I find this event to be relevant to Fringes because – apart from the literal involvement of fringes – it reminds me that the many peripheries of Judaism are not necessarily in accordance with each other. We have launched this project as if the fringes of Judaism stand together, united through some vague connection of marginalization. Of course, this could hardly be farther from the case. While we as a magazine would welcome the perspectives of a radical Orthodox feminist and a Haredi rabbi, it is probably naïve to expect that they would consent to be published alongside one another.

This article also challenges my own commitment to the fringes of Judaism. As I’ve said, were I to “pick sides” – and it is admittedly hard for me to avoid doing this – I would “side” with the Women of the Wall. However, I do believe very strongly in respecting religion and religious people; everyone should be allowed to practice in whatever way they find to be most important and true to them. Accordingly, I believe the Ultra-Orthodox who were offended by the women at the wall, and who desire a space to pray that suits their needs, should certainly be entitled to what they want. It seems that these two groups cannot coexist side-by-side without serious – and perhaps damaging – compromise. They, and I, are left with something of a conundrum.

What happens when elements of others’ religious practices or beliefs conflict with my core ideals? My rosy-hued “Live and Let Live” policy frequently contradicts my personal philosophy of pursuing what I think is right. I could use as an example my commitment to gay marriage. This is a cause that I feel deeply and, yes, righteously passionate about. I know that I am right, and I know that nothing will shake me of that. Am I no different, then, from the religious fundamentalists? It’s an easy way out to say that I respect beliefs as long as they’re kept private. That is, if you don’t believe that gays should marry, that’s fine, but don’t try to pass laws about it. Again, I contradict myself, as I am certainly doing everything I can to pass laws – and I also have to acknowledge that marching and protesting and activism are fundamental elements of religious practice for many people. What recourse do I have left?

I spoke with a friend recently about the difficulties of being tolerant of everyone, including the intolerant. I had to acknowledge that my commitment to tolerance is totally belied by my refusal to be passively accepting of those I deem to be intolerant. This article about Nofrat Frenkel and the Women of the Wall reminded me that I need to reassess my beliefs in my own tolerance, and perhaps begin to accept the intolerance I have that I cannot – perhaps do not want to – shed. How that will inform my work in Fringes and my relationships with other Jews remains to be seen.

- Leah

Who Counts?

Logo of the Jewish Free School

Some of you might remember the story that first emerged a few months ago about the Jewish Free School, a large Jewish high school in London, which was sued for refusing to admit a boy on the grounds that he was not Jewish because his mother’s conversion, performed by a progressive rabbi, was invalid. (According to Jewish religious law, or halacha, a person is Jewish if their mother is Jewish, or if they have converted to Judaism according to a complex ritual process sponsored by a rabbi. However, many contemporary Orthodox rabbis do not accept conversions performed by more liberal rabbis, and thus, the question of what constitutes a “valid” conversion has become a contentious political issue in the Jewish community.) The student in question – referred to as “M” – and his family initially lost their case, but that ruling was overturned this past summer by the British Court of Appeals. The appeals court ruled that the school – which receives funding from the government, as do many religious schools in Britain – could choose to admit students on the basis of “faith, however defined,” but could not discriminate on the basis of ethnicity or family ties. (The school, which still wishes to use Jewishness as an admissions criterion, has now instituted a somewhat ridiculous system in which prospective students are “rated” on various elements of their religious practice.)

I read this story when it first came out, and I was reminded of it recently when I saw a New York Times column by Roger Cohen, in which he comments briefly upon the JFS controversy and the court ruling. Cohen says that he finds the court’s ruling about what constitutes Jewishness to be “quaint,” for, he explains, “No one I know ever defined a Jew, or persecuted one, on the grounds of whether or not he went to synagogue regularly.”

Now, I will say that I, too, found the court’s reference to “faith” somewhat awkward, or perhaps just uninformed – no self-respecting student of religion would ever use the word “faith” as a synonym for “religion,” particularly when it comes to Jews. But, setting that aside, I take strong issue with Cohen’s appraisal of the situation. First of all, he is just plain wrong when he states that Jews have always been defined by others – and persecuted – on the basis of heredity and not on the basis of religion. In fact, there is a complex history of interplay between and development from anti-Judaism (religiously defined) to anti-Semitism (racially defined); just because Cohen has only directly experienced the latter does not de-legitimize the former.

But Cohen’s tunnel vision is not just historically inaccurate – it’s also exclusionary. When Cohen asserts that Jewishness has always been determined by family ties, he is implying that this is the only legitimate way to define it. I am troubled, however, by how easily he brushes aside the offensiveness of a system that can tell a boy who has been raised as a Jew and who has two Jewish parents (albeit one a convert) that, sorry, he’s just not Jewish enough. Does Cohen really think that this boy should be considered “less of a Jew,” and thus less worthy of attendance at a Jewish educational institution, than a child of (for example) two completely secular Jews with no interest whatsoever in Judaism? Cohen, evidently, comes from a verifiable maternal line of Jews, and thus his Jewish identity is halachically untroubled – no one has ever told him, or will ever tell him, that he doesn’t “count” as a Jew. In some ways, what bothers me the most about his comment is its off-handedness – he seems completely unaware of the privileged position from which he speaks.

I react to Cohen’s comment, and to the broader debate over what constitutes Jewishness, on a deeply personal level. My father is Jewish, but my mother comes from an Irish Catholic background and was not Jewish when I was born (though she later converted). Although some liberal Jewish communities now accept “patrilineal descent,” my parents – who planned to raise my brother and I as Jews – wanted to make everything as “kosher” as possible, and so we were both converted as young children by a Conservative rabbi. Nevertheless, according to many Orthodox Jews, my conversion is not valid.

As the rate of intermarriage increases, and also as converts continue to enter the Jewish fold, the number of people in my position – who consider themselves to be Jews, and who often have lived their entire lives as Jews, but whose genetic heritage is mixed and whose halachic identity is questioned by some – has grown and will continue to grow. Many issues arise as a result, some of which I hope to explore in future blog posts. For instance: Should we accept as Jews anyone who says they are Jewish, or anyone who believes certain things, or anyone who practices in a certain way, or anyone with a Jewish mother, or a Jewish father, or with such-and-such conversion – or some combination of the above? Is Jewish identity a strict either/or? What does it mean to be a half-Jew? (We recently had a fascinating evening of discussion here at Vassar on the latter topic.)

I’d like to finish with one last comment on the JFS case. I’ve written this post with the implicit assumption that, as the court ruled, it is acceptable for a school to discriminate among applicants based on religion, and that the issue at hand is how to define religious identity. But why is even this sort of discrimination considered acceptable? I understand that the JFS is a Jewish school, but why must that Jewish flavor be maintained through an exclusionary admissions process? Why not just have a school that offers a strong Jewish curriculum, and strong Jewish life, and let it attract whatever students it attracts? Those students will, in all likelihood, be mostly Jewish, and if there are non-Jewish students who choose to attend for whatever reason – well, more power to them, and more power to the Jews. I don’t think that the Jewish “character” of the school would be somehow diluted by letting in a few interested non-Jews. And, given how contentious and potentially exclusionary the question of “who is a Jew” is, an admissions policy that does not take religion into account may be the fairest path.

- Jessica

Twenty Minutes to Present Judaism

Over the summer I was a counselor at an interfaith, international conflict resolution camp. Teenagers from four regions came together for a two-week intensive program that challenged the participants to struggle with identity, conflict, difference and mutual understanding. My experience at the camp was filled with moments of beauty, surprising and painful moments and frustration too. One of these moments of frustration was with the intrafaith meetings of the Jewish participants.

Within the first few days the campers had the chance to interact with people from around the world sharing their religion; this alone was powerful to see not only American and Israeli Jews but South African Jews as well. The intrafaith groups were to design a presentation that they would give to the rest of the camp representing their religion in whatever way they saw fit.

It was not the disagreement on how to narrow down all of Judaism or Jewishness into a twenty-minute presentation that was the problem. And no, it was not just the Jews who argued – I heard later from my friends running the Christian and Muslim groups that their participants encountered lots of tension about who is “authentic,” what is the “real” religion. Valuing certain Jews as “more observant,” “more religious,” and then, inevitably, “more Jewish” is an unfortunate trend I’ve noticed. However, an interesting self-reflexive discussion arises from this: Why are these things seen as “more Jewish?” How can we define Jewish anyway? Who gets to judge who is or isn’t a Jew? Those sorts of questions offer a very thought-provoking insight into the multiplicity of Jewish experience today.

The problem was not that the Jewish group got caught up in this discussion and so was unable to come to a consensus and create the presentation. I think I would have preferred if this were the case. There was loud discord for a while and then it seemed the group was moving in one direction – highlighting the major lifecycle events, bris, Bar/Bat Mitzvah, wedding, etc. through a skit about a multi-generational Jewish family. This seemed to satisfy most of a group where the vast majority were secular Israelis and Reform or Conservative Americans. Then the conversation took a turn and another voice began to dominate, that of an Orthodox Israeli male. He urged the group to focus the presentation on traditional Jewish rituals, events and values. He felt it was important to talk about things like wrapping tefillin, things that were important in his life. And that was the challenge right there: to incorporate diverse religious experiences and understandings from the group members. This new voice gained momentum, soon eclipsing the original plan.

By the assessment of the other groups, the presentation was a success. The Jewish group was so polished, and cohesive, they noted. They really gave a clear and straight-forward presentation about their religion and there didn’t seem to be too much argument. Well there certainly didn’t seem to be from the presentation – that was for sure. It was an informative, straight-forward day in the life narrative of an Orthodox male, more or less. In a de-brief to follow, I asked the Jewish group how they thought the presentation went and if people felt their voices were heard and their experiences were represented. Most thought, yes, it went well. People liked it. Yeah, I guess it was representative of Judaism.  To the outside it looked neat and tidy and what was initially a boisterous dialogue dissipated into monologue, into quiet consensus.

I don’t think that anyone felt personally slighted or silenced. I don’t think one person’s narrative prevailed just from his persuasion in favor of presenting this view. I think that the propensity to self-doubt, to rate people within a group in a hierarchy – the most Jewish to the least – crept in and won out. Who am I to say that this was the wrong representation of Judaism? It wasn’t a representation of my own Judaism but who knows what I would have done were I a participant?

In the end, it was a presentation on Judaism, it offered some good facts and information but it made into a monolith what is really a hodge-podge. Perhaps it is the nature of the beast, an inevitable result of the exercise, but I still want to believe that it could have been different. There’s nothing wrong with the group coming together to stand behind this presentation – maybe it’s a good thing. I just wondered why this picture of Judaism presented to non-Jews had to lose all the variety and color that I saw when the Jews were amongst themselves. An examination of that discrepancy and change I saw – that is the kind of Jewish presentation I’d like to see.

- Liz

The Invention of a Jewish Theory

The New York Times recently published a review of the new book, “The Invention of the Jewish People,” written by Tel Aviv University professor Shlomo Sand. The book debunks the myth that modern-day Jews are descended directly from Jews expelled from Israel after the destruction of the second temple by asserting that most Jews owe their heritage to mass conversions. Sand also asserts that current Palestinians are descended from Jewish farmers. I find this theory to be significant, even if Sand’s approach is problematic.

If it’s true that “modern Jews owe their ancestry as much to converts from the first millennium and early Middle Ages as to the Jews of antiquity,” then the contemporary relationship between Jews and converts needs to be radically restructured. Converts to Judaism are forced to go through many layers of rejection and examination before the actual mikvah immersion that emphasize conforming to a specific Jewish doctrine. The fact that this process of conversion is relatively recent in the history of the Jewish people further illustrates, to me, its inequity and irrelevance to contemporary Jewish identity. (I highly recommend the Fifty Percenters blog which movingly and articulately discusses the all-too-typical rejection of converts and the unfairness of the conversion process.) Because it throws our treatment of conversion into question, I find Sand’s work highly pertinent.

Unfortunately, Sand chooses to hinge his argument on a theory that has been thoroughly and consistently refuted by modern scholarship. He writes that the Khazars, a Turkic nation, converted en masse to Judaism in the eigth century. Both genetic and historical, textual evidence point to a very different reading of history. I say “unfortunately” because Sand’s analysis, if not his foundation, is commendable and, I would go so far to say, valuable. Not having read the book, it strikes me that Sand is targeting what I would call the myth of bloodline: that the maternal blood descent that counts towards a halakhic Jewish identity has remained untarnished since the days of the Holy Land, interrupted only by the occasional thrice-rejected Beit Din-subjected convert. While the Khazar theory has been disproved, it is true that the history of the Jewish people includes numerous conversions across wide geographic areas. (As the New York Times article points out, one must only look at the dark skin of some Mediterranean Jews, and the blonde hair of Jews from Eastern Europe, to realize that the Jewish people have considerably intermingled with their Diaspora neighbors.)

I am also skeptical of Sand’s political agenda. It may be of scientific or intellectual interest to ruminate on the shared ancestry of current-day Palestinians and Israelis, but I think this has little relevance for the situation at hand. Perhaps I am indulging my idealistic side, but in my opinion this information should not change Israelis’ opinions of the conflict or their treatment of Palestinians. (I use “Israelis’ opinions” in this case because I feel it is safe to say the book is primarily directed at an Israeli/Jewish audience.) Rather, Israelis should alter their perception and treatment of Palestinians based on compassion and a common understanding of humanity, not because a loophole was suddenly discovered in the supposed ancestral separation that has arguably been supporting the current conflict. If anything, this upholds the idea of bloodline and ancestry reigning supreme, something it would appear Sand is attempting to discredit, and this weakens his commentary on conversion and the fallacy of the immaculate bloodline theory. It would be better if Sand used his analysis as a springboard for a proposal to do away with the idea of bloodline altogether, and instead called for Jews to embrace Others and Other Jews regardless of spiritual or genetic background. At least, that is what I call for.

- Leah

Introducing Liz, Fringes Co-Editor

I grew up in New York City, my Jewish capital of the world. I had certainly learned about the age-old persecution of Jews in all places and times but, for most of my life, I never had even a sense of Jews being a real minority group. Maybe they were in backwards places in the South, I’d thought, but all around me Jews were not only present (and considered cool from that classification) but Jewish life was part of the daily fabric – whether in trips to Second Avenue Deli, a class visit to a Jewish museum or Hebrew school at the Village Temple in downtown Manhattan.

Last fall, I studied abroad in what most people, Jews and non-Jews, consider the Jewish capital of the world: Jerusalem. For many American Jews around me, it was positively revolutionary (and perhaps a revelation, too) that so many Jews could be in one location. Here, Jews could experience their identity as part of the mainstream as opposed to “other” than the norm, as is felt in America. But that wasn’t so simple for me coming from a home that not only accepted my Jewish identity but nurtured and developed it. One person’s Diaspora is my center and this seeming contradiction encourages me to interrogate the paradigm that places Israel at the center for Jews where everything else is galut, or exile. That has never been my experience and, I find, it’s an inadequate framework to address Jews’ experience in different parts of the world.

This, of course, was not the only part about being an American Jew in Israel that wasn’t so simple for me. I had observed, and experienced to a lesser degree, the socialization of American Jews to not only see Israel as the ultimate for Jews, a safe haven, but also to align themselves with the country and people as sharing a deep connection with all Jews. As my opinions on Israel grew more informed and so more nuanced and discerning, I faced rebuttals (usually from myself) that such opinions were not considered Jewish. The challenge was to understand that the critical lens through which I view Israel (and hopefully everything else around me) does not negate that my voice is a Jewish one, as well as a female voice, a New York voice, and all the other composites of my identity.

There’s no question that my experience abroad was extraordinary and formative and unforgettable, but I am most grateful for how it has opened me up to let go of a sort of rigidity in my approach to Jewishness. I could finally ignore the incessant desire of others to label my experience in and thoughts about Israel as making me a sympathizer or critic of the country, of making me more or less Jewish. This is on what measure of Jewishness, I wondered. What may be seen as a betrayal of my Jewish heritage to some, could be seen as an embrace of the deeply Jewish value of wrestling – with God, with injustice, with oneself and one’s surroundings – to others and, most importantly, to me. What I do know is that through my time living abroad I became more myself and more the person that I am today, which is firmly and deeply Jewish. Take it for what you will.

My co-editors, Jessica and Leah, and I titled this publication, Fringes, not only to represent and include Jewish perspectives that have been relegated to the fringes of mainstream opinion but also to redefine what the fringes are. Just as my Jewish capital is in New York City and not the Middle East, we can highlight the stories of Jewish experiences that are pegged as being less Jewish or not Jewish in the way certain people are used to, and understand them as being just as valid and interesting and vibrant as any other. Ideally, there would be no margins, no “fringes” in any discourse and all opinions from all individuals would be respected as equal. I don’t know that this will ever become a reality, but what I’ve learned is that what is normal or correct for one person can be just the opposite for another or somewhere in between. Jews share many common ties but it is in the variety which lies the color, richness and tenacity of the Jewish people all over the world.

Introducing Jessica, Fringes Co-Editor

I’ll tell you a little secret: I can’t stand Jews.

This might come as something of a surprise to those of you who know me and know that I’m deeply involved in both Jewish Studies and Jewish student life at Vassar College, that I’m very attached to the synagogue where I grew up, and that I tend to do a lot of Jew-y stuff in my free time.  I know, it’s misleading, isn’t it?  Little would you know that, most of the time, Jews make me want to scream.

There’s only one problem: I also really like Jews.  I was raised Jewish, I’ve been involved in strong Jewish communities throughout my life, and as hard as I’ve tried to ditch all that, it’s oddly impossible.  I can’t do it.  I’m stuck.

But, as I’ve realized, sometimes being stuck in this way – in a position of conflict and ambivalence, of standing within-yet-without – is the most interesting, creative place to be.  Before I explain that, though, let me elaborate on how I got into this position.

I grew up in a heavily Jewish suburb of New York City, in a not-very-observant but still Jewishly-connected family.  We belonged to a Reconstructionist synagogue, called Bet Am Shalom, and I went to afternoon Hebrew school and had a Bat Mitzvah.  I was very lucky in that Bet Am was (and still is) a warm, welcoming, vibrant place – not like the uninspired, institutional American synagogues that many people complain about.  I suppose it was that strength of community – especially in a suburban environment that often lacked it – that first established my deep emotional connection to religion.  Through middle school and high school, I spent much of my free time finding excuses to hang around Bet Am, and in many ways it became a symbol of my comfortable, mostly untroubled relationship to Judaism.

But, as I got older, a variety of factors made me increasingly uncomfortable with the way I had identified with the Jewish community.  After a series of upheavals that I won’t detail here, I decided I didn’t believe in God.  The world just didn’t fit together properly, just didn’t make sense in the way that I’d thought about it before.  I found that I no longer knew how to relate to religion, which had always been a simple comfort to me, and which had always given me a sense of cosmic justice – justice in which I could no longer believe.  I began to gain a political consciousness as a physically disabled person, and as I came to understand myself as marginalized, I was increasingly troubled by the marginalization of others, particularly by and within the Jewish community.  I had once felt at home among Jews – or at least, among the Jews with whom I’d grown up – but now I looked at the Jewish world and saw a great deal of parochialism, exclusivism, and religious and political orthodoxy with which I could no longer align myself.

And so, I told my friends, I “hated Jews.”  I wanted nothing to do with them.  Upon my arrival at college, I had myself pretty well convinced that I’d left the Jewish community far behind – that it belonged to my childhood, but that as an adult, I had moved on.

But I still felt some tug, some inexplicable attachment, and it was that tenuous connection that, in the end, sabotaged my plan to be finished with Jews.  My second semester at Vassar, I tentatively enrolled in a Jewish Studies class; in my third semester, I signed up for another, and then another.  I wasn’t quite sure what I was doing – I thought you hated Jews!, I kept telling myself – but then, the things I was learning in my classes were so delightfully subversive, so wonderfully contrary to the stories I’d been told all my life, that I just couldn’t resist.  In class, I found a place where I could argue fiercely, where I could be “difficult” and express my profound misgivings about many aspects of Jewish tradition – but where those misgivings were welcomed, where they were part of the new, multi-vocal narrative we were trying to weave.  In short, I found that my ambivalence about Jewishness didn’t mean that I had to leave Jews behind.

That’s all a long way of saying that projects like Fringes – our new publication in which we hope to feature a broad diversity of Jewish voices, all challenging the “status quo” in different areas of the Jewish community – are not optional for me.  Fringes is deeply necessary; in a fundamental way, I can’t be Jewish without it, or at least not without things like it.  I hope, both on this blog and in the pages of our publication, to channel my Jewish ambivalence into a creative energy that will enable us to celebrate and learn from uncertainty and contradiction.  Thanks for reading!

Introducing Leah, Fringes Co-Editor

Hi! My name is Leah and I’m one of the founders and co-editors of Fringes. I’m a senior at Vassar College in Poughkeepsie, NY, and I grew up in western Massachusetts.  I’m a Religion major and I’m writing my thesis on gender and sacred space in Islam. 

Last year Jessica and Liz, my Fringes co-editors, and I went “minyan hopping” in New York City. Minyan hopping is our term for visiting different minyans or shuls each week. The idea is to get a taste of what the city’s Jewish community has to offer, learn about what elements of Jewish practice click with us, and – ideally – find a community that resonates with us, aesthetically and spiritually. When I began visiting New York City the wealth of Jewish practice amazed me. In fact it still amazes me, and whenever I walk into the Jewish Community Center in Manhattan I still experience a little thrill – “There are so many Jews here!” I giddily whisper. Where I grew up, you went to the Conservative synagogue, which had its own building, or the Reform synagogue, which met in the sanctuary of a generous church, and there weren’t any other options for worship. By the time I was a teenager I had discovered Reconstructionism, but that’s another story!

When we minyan hop in the city, we tend to visit groups that are egalitarian, less strict in their observance, and fairly young (participants in their 20s and 30s). Usually, it’s a porridge too cold-too hot situation – one group has the right spirit but not enough Hebrew for our tastes, another has a wonderful liturgy but a lackluster rabbi. And I typically take from these experiences what I liked, and what I didn’t like, and keep on searching for that Perfect Minyan. (I may always search!)

Leah, Jessica, and Liz "minyan hopping"

One day, we visited a group for a Saturday morning service – unusual for us, since we typically prefer a Kabbalat Shabbat. The participants were much more observant than myself and did not use a standard siddur, and while I admired and appreciated their commitment to egalitarianism and the inclusion of women in service-leading, I confess to being largely lost. I let my mind wander and ended up studying the other attendees, and I noticed something that, for me at the time, was an unusual thing. All the  women were wearing tallitot – beautiful, tasteful tallitot that were suited to each individual style. Designs, colors, and textures varied dramatically and as each new woman arrived during the service, I would check out her tallis, picking out my favorites, and thinking about which style I would wear – if I wore a tallis during regular prayers, which I don’t.

I was inspired by these women but also a little scared – here was something subversive and empowering, women wearing tallitot, in an observant service that I didn’t understand. I was jealous of them, but too uncertain to even consider donning one myself. It still seemed like something that was off bounds to me – and even if it wasn’t, did I even have the right to wear tallis, as someone who isn’t shomer, doesn’t keep kosher, and whose Torah reading skills are slightly shaky?

This attitude is one that I’ve had Jewish Studies professors yell at me for time and again. I tend to create hierarchies of Jews; I think of Jewish observance as a pyramid, or a ladder, with strict ritual adherence on the top and secular life at the bottom, with my own conflicted self somewhere in between. I was raised in a quasi secular/ritualistic household, with an emphasis on practice (having seders, lighting Hanukkah candles), a casual attitude towards belief, and an outright disdain for the ultra-Orthodox. An interesting dichotomy to be raised in, given that my large and extended family includes several gaggles of Chabad-Lubavitch cousins, and the gap in practice between the Chabad half of the family and the Reform half of the family is one that is constantly being explored, re-negotiated, and argued over. So while I was raised proud of my Jewish practice, I always knew that some people were doing it “better” than me, even if I also knew that my family disagreed with their approach to religion.

Ultimately, what this means is that I do things like think myself unworthy of wearing tallis. When I compared myself to the women at that service, I found myself lacking, and I deprived myself of the opportunity to participate in something that might have been very meaningful to me.

So this is what “fringes” represents to me: the ability to be feminist and Jewishly empowered, subversive in practice but reverent of tradition. I hope that Fringes will be part of my personal journey towards legitimizing all forms of Jewish identity. My reactions to tallis have helped me to realize that those on the fringes of Jewishness cannot be characterized as existing on one end of any radical spectrum; there are diverse forms of practice and Jewish identity that evade all expectations and judgments. Mainstream Jewishness cannot afford to ignore those on the fringes, nor should they desire to. To that end, I hope that Fringes will challenge our assumptions, defy our expectations, and share the diversity of Jewish identity with everyone.