Modesty on Display: ‘Veiled Women of the Holy Land’ at the Israel Museum

Last Wednesday afternoon, I found myself with some free time and an urge to explore Jerusalem. As somewhat of a history and culture nerd (hello, fast-approaching PhD!), I decided to head off to the Israel Museum, a place I had last visited at the age of eight and which I remembered very little of except an ancient olive press on display, which apparently made a lasting impression on me. As it turns out, walking to the museum campus uphill in 90-degree heat (which took decidedly longer than the online prediction of 20 minutes) may not have been the wisest idea. However, I eventually found myself at the expansive, air-conditioned museum entrance, where a friendly security guard, on spotting the Hebrew language textbook in my bag, informed me that he himself was a Hebrew teacher and that it was a very fine publication. Thus reassured, I proceeded to look around the museum.

I should point out: the Israel Museum is HUGE, covering everything from ancient history to art to contemporary Israeli society, and since I arrived only an hour and a half prior to closing time, it’s fair to say I was at a loss as to where to begin. After a few minutes involving wandering around in confusion and falling over on an escalator (not necessarily in that order), I gravitated towards the displays on Jewish life-cycle events, where I retroactively questioned my choice of wedding dress on seeing a particularly beautiful example from the Old Country (in this case, Baghdad), and learned about some Yemenite post-birth rituals. I then headed up another flight of stairs to visit an exhibition whose title had intrigued me; ‘Veiled Women of the Holy Land: New Trends in Modest Dress.’

As some of you may know, there was a period in my life where I chose to cover up to express my religious identity, and I’m still interested in learning about the feelings and motivations of those who choose to do so. This particular exhibition focused on women in Israel and the Palestinian Territories – Jewish, Muslim, and Christian – who had chosen particularly ‘extreme’ forms of ‘modest’ dress, including the many-layered black habit of Russian Orthodox nuns, the face-covering niqab, and the all-encompassing veils favoured by a small but growing number of Chassidic Jewish women. The exhibition aimed to explore the significance of such clothing to its wearers and questions surrounding women’s liberation, societal change, and the reactions of others.

Walking into the exhibition gallery, I came face to face with three groups of white-faced mannikins clad in an array of stark blacks and browns. One group displayed the habits of Catholic and Orthodox nuns, one differing degrees of Islamic (and Druze) religious dress, and one the long cloaks, skirts and shawls worn by a few women in more conservative sections of the Chassidic community in Israel. It was a somewhat eerie sight, maybe because of the conformity within each group despite subtle variations, or maybe because it was possible to imagine how the concealing nature of the garments might have a depersonalising effect on an individual wearer. Looking closer at the display descriptions, I was immediately struck by the fact that the number of layers was listed for most of the outfits – up to eight for some Chassidic women and Orthodox nuns. My attention was also drawn to the smaller, child-sized mannikins among the ‘Jewish’ and ‘Muslim’ groups, covered head-to-toe in baggy, floral material, with only hands and faces exposed. While there were some explanatory panels – one for each religious group – with accompanying photos, as well as a book filled with more photos for visitors to peruse, I kept returning to the mannikins, gazing with a mixture of awkward fascination and sadness.

The second and last exhibition gallery contained a short film looking at the role of such ‘modest’ dress in the lives of those choosing to wear it. Since the very ethos behind their all-covering outfits meant it was not possible to show the ‘real’ women, actresses playing an Orthodox nun from Poland, a young Palestinian Muslim woman, and a Chassidic ‘returnee’ to Judaism delivered monologues based on a number of interviews. Throughout, the three women were shown in side-by-side individual shots, encouraging viewers to notice the similarities not only between their physical appearances, but also between their stated motivations for adopting their distinctive styles of dress. All three mentioned yearning for a close, personal relationship with God, a feeling that despite ‘having everything’ in life – education, successful careers, independence – something was missing. All of the women also saw their clothing choices as an essential part of God’s ‘purpose’ for them. The film did suggest, however, that societal as well as individual concerns played a part in these decisions. The actress playing the Muslim woman described an incident where her character, stopped at an Israeli checkpoint, refused to lift her niqab when requested, asserting not only her own bodily autonomy, but the autonomy of the Palestinian people. The Jewish character, meanwhile, described her experiences on a visit to the mall, where she felt horror at the ‘cruel’ focus on women’s bodies as displayed in shop windows. The women came across as both conformist and counter-cultural, describing both the positive and negative reactions of those around them, and calling on others not to judge them by their modes of dress despite being to some extent defined by them in their everyday interactions and viewing them as key pillars of their identity. Maybe this was an inevitable effect of basing characters’ experiences on those of multiple women, but these tensions also rang true for portrayals of women for whom conservative dress is also a radical, and highly visible, statement.

A particularly interesting artistic choice was the way the actresses in the film are shown dressing and undressing (albeit not completely) throughout, peeling off veils, gloves, and layers of cloaks, skirts, and shirts, only to start the complex processes of draping, buttoning, and tying over again. To me, this felt uncomfortably voyeuristic, with the suggestion that audiences had the opportunity to view the ‘hidden’ parts of the women’s bodies, particularly their faces and hair, but it also highlighted the daily efforts that go into maintaining all-covering dress, as well as the extent to which women conceal themselves from the gazes of others. This was helped by the film’s switching between black and white backdrops – towards the end of the re-dressing, the backgrounds behind the women faded to black, and they, too, as their black outer garments were fully replaced, disappeared into darkness.

Another aspect of the film’s appeal was that it allowed viewers the opportunity to gauge the reactions of others in the audience. I was struck, but not overly surprised, by the fact that many apparently Jewish viewers listened quietly to the Christian and Muslim monologues but expressed shock or even wry amusement at some of the Jewish character’s statements – after all, while it may have been more common for some Middle-Eastern Jewish women to cover their faces in past centuries, this is no longer a normative part of even the most stringent standards of modest dress, and has never been mandated by Jewish law. For me as a Jewish woman, although I had previously read about and seen pictures of Jewish so-called ‘Taliban women’, seeing the obsessive attention to the layers of clothing that formed the ‘Tent of Sarah’ separating such women from the world around them did evoke feelings of anger and frustration at a practice that seems deeply unnecessary to me, particularly when I was confronted with the clothing that seemed to sexualise little girls through the very act of covering them up.

While the experiences of women of my own religion may have felt closer to home, the feelings of disquiet the exhibition raised in me were not limited to Jewish practices alone. The exhibition explicitly calls on viewers to note the similarities between the different styles of religious dress, pointing out how it can be difficult to distinguish a black-robed nun from a Muslim or even a Jewish woman. (As it happens, I did see two Orthodox nuns in the Shuk later that evening, and while their habits definitely had a distinct ‘look’, it was possible to see how they might be mistaken for hijab-wearing Muslim women.) If anything, I found these similarities more disturbing, as they reflected a phenomenon I had previously observed and talked about, but which now seemed clearer to me: the more ‘religious’ a group wishes to appear, the more covered the women of that group are. This is not to say that women who dress conservatively do not actively choose to do so, nor that appearing more religious is the only motivating factor in such decisions. However, as a religious person, I do find it upsetting that in some circles, a woman’s closeness to God is equated with the amount of skin she covers. That this phenomenon is present in multiple religious groups suggests to me that patriarchal societal factors, not just spiritual feeling, are at play. What’s more, while the examples of ‘modesty’ the exhibition shows seem extreme, I struggle to find the line where conservatism in dress becomes ‘excessive’. Is it when the whole face is covered? How about the hair, or the wrists, or the elbows? Again, I’m well aware that women choose to cover up to different degrees for a myriad of reasons, many of which may in fact be linked to a desire to subvert patriarchal objectification of female bodies, but I can’t quite shake the feeling that on a fundamental level, all these forms of dress – from habits to headscarves, sheitels to ‘Sarah’s Tent’ – suggest that women’s bodies are objects of sexual temptation and serve as a means of control.

This post isn’t meant to be a screed against ‘modest’ dress, nor to suggest that women are free from objectification in secular society. What I think it does show, however, is that I definitely found the ‘Veiled Women of the Holy Land’ exhibition thought-provoking and disquieting, and if you have the opportunity to see it, you should! I, for one, plan on returning to the Israel Museum before the end of my visit to see more of its vast collections – although maybe I’ll take the bus next time.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Shuk

Shalom from Jerusalem! I’ve been here about a week and it’s safe to say things have been intense but fun. It’s been great to get back to studying Torah full time, not to mention having the opportunity to improve my Hebrew on a daily basis and see some pretty cool stuff (but that’s for another post). Today is Friday, and I was going to channel my inner Jewish feminist by going to a women’s study day, but I am lazy and decided to have a more relaxed day instead, which among other things means I actually have time to write a whole blog post. As it happens, I am living in the beautiful neighbourhood of Nachlaot, right by the famous shuk (market) centered on Machane Yehudah street, and it’s there that I chose to head this morning to buy some treats for Shabbat. I’d like to give you a small taste of Jerusalem by describing the craziness that is the shuk.

I arrived in Jerusalem early last Friday afternoon. I was hot, sweaty, tired and, given the eight-hour time difference between here and the Midwest, not entirely sure what time it was and whether I should in fact be asleep. However, Shabbat was coming and I had no food, so, after a quick change of clothes and high on Israel-related adrenaline, I set off for the Shuk.

Having visited Israel several times, I know that the Shuk is a bustling and crowded place, most of all on a Friday afternoon, when Jewish Jerusalemites of all stripes are preparing for the Day of Rest. Although I was excited to explore, I was also a little apprehensive given my previous experiences. Being English, I am generally pretty useless in crowds, a trait exacerbated by my tendency towards public awkwardness. And while I intellectually knew that I had definitely managed to get around and buy things before, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I would not be assertive enough, my Hebrew would fail, and I would return to my apartment defeated, which in turn would be one more sign that I just didn’t belong here (thank you, anxiety).

Sure enough, the atmosphere at the Shuk was overwhelming. The air was filled with shouts from stallholders all around and the smells of sweet, savoury, and spicy delicacies. Bright colours flashed from mounds of spices and garishly patterned clothes. Chassidic Jews in black hats or headscarves rubbed shoulders with secular Israelis in T-shirts and tank tops and long lines of young American tourists. The streets and passageways seemed never-ending, and there was very little choice except to keep up with the one-directional flow of humanity. It was, as they say in Hebrew, a balagan. But at the same time, surrounded by heat and noise, I found the atmosphere electrifying. Here, back in the country I had missed for so long, the whole of Israeli society seemed to come together, in all its chaotic glory. So I embraced the chaos. And gradually, I managed to navigate my way through the warren of passages, take a good look at the stalls and restaurants, and even purchase fruit, salads, and pastries for Shabbat. (To be fair, this was facilitated by the stallholders, who definitely waste no time once they discover you are interested in their wares.) I returned home tired but triumphant.

I headed back the following evening and found a different kind of vibrant chaos. At night, the Shuk is filled with music, both live and recorded. The bars overflow with both Israelis and tourists, and I even saw a group of people dancing on tables! Although I reckoned drinking alone in a bar was not quite my scene, I still soaked up the atmosphere, and have returned to the Shuk nearly every evening since, either alone or with friends or family.

This morning, my second pre-Shabbat shopping expedition felt almost relaxing compared with the rush of the previous Friday afternoon. The stallholders are no less pushy, and I’m pretty sure one guy ripped me off, but I feel strangely proud that I am getting to know the local area – maybe I’m more assertive than I thought, and I might just get by fending for myself in this incredible country.

Shabbat shalom (Have a peaceful Shabbat)!

I’m off on an Israeli Adventure!

Hello! It’s been a while! I’m writing this in a rather sleep-deprived state at Newark Airport, growing ever more bored at the fact that there are still a good 5 hours to go before my flight leaves, but also excited because, for the first time in 8 years, I am headed off to Israel! I’ll be spending the next 6 weeks studying Hebrew and Torah at a traditional, egalitarian yeshiva (institute for religious learning) in Jerusalem and hopefully seeing friends and family before returning to the States to start my PhD. I can’t wait to return to the country that, on a deep level, feels like home, but am also a little nervous about coming back after such a comparatively long time, having to re-familiarise myself with my surroundings and adapting to everyday life in a culture very different from the one I grew up in and the one in which I live now, one in which I will always, in some way, feel like an outsider.

I’m also both excited and apprehensive about having the opportunity to present myself as someone very different to the passionately Orthodox 19-year-old who came to study at a Hassidic yeshiva all those years ago. I feel both more mature and confident and less certain of my beliefs and how I want to express myself religiously, and I’m looking forward to re-engaging with Jewish learning in a formal context while hopefully learning something about myself along the way. I’m prepared for the possibility that I might feel both inspired (hopefully!) and conflicted, both religiously and in terms of my Jewish identity more generally. So I’ve decided to share some of my thoughts with you, dear readers! I can’t promise this visit to the Holy Land will turn out as eventful as the last, when I came back to the UK with the man who would later become my husband in tow, but I hope I can provide you with food for thought and, who knows, maybe some entertainment.

I suppose I really will have to get this blog back up and running now, or this post is going to look a little silly…

See you on the other side!

 

Why we need to ‘politicise’ discussion of the Pittsburgh massacre

I hope I don’t need to tell you that the last few days have been filled with darkness for the Jewish community in the United States and around the world. On Saturday morning, my husband woke me up with the terrible news that, as congregants gathered at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh, PA, to celebrate both the Sabbath – the day of rest and peace – and a baby naming ceremony, an anti-Semitic terrorist had opened fire. In the hours and days following, Jews and allies in our current hometown of Kansas City, painfully reminded of the anti-Semitic shootings carried out here four years ago, have been coming together to process Saturday’s events and mourn the deaths of 11 innocent people – parents, grandparents and siblings, doctors and Holocaust survivors – slaughtered simply because they were Jewish. The American Jewish community has been shaken to its core, as we acknowledge that this could just as easily have happened in our cities, our synagogues, to our families. On a fundamental level, we are no longer safe here, if we ever truly were before.

Online, too, Jews and non-Jews have been coming together to comment on and try to come to terms with Saturday’s massacre. My social media feeds have been filled with words of condolence, names and stories of those murdered, and calls for unity and solidarity in the face of terror. But despite these calls for unity, two distinct and contradictory voices have emerged from this outpouring of grief. The first belongs to those calling for action – not just against the terrorist, Robert Bowers, but against political figures and social factors perceived as contributing to an atmosphere in which bigotry is encouraged and those seeking to harm others whose differences they cannot tolerate are empowered. The second belongs to those who say that now is not the time for such confrontational rhetoric, that they are disturbed and even disgusted by the ‘politicisation’ of such tragic events, that to point the finger of blame at anyone other than the perpetrator himself is to detract from the suffering of the Pittsburgh community and increase discord and division where togetherness is needed.

I can sympathise with those who espouse the latter view. In today’s increasingly polarised political climate, any discussion which touches on the actions of a particular party or ideology can rapidly devolve into anger and recrimination. However, it is precisely this polarisation which threatens to silence meaningful, necessary discussion on the factors contributing to the Pittsburgh shooting. Insisting that Jews and others refuse to engage with the ‘politics’ surrounding Saturday’s attack runs the risk of encouraging inaction in place of steps toward tolerance and safety.

To examine this danger in more depth, let’s look at some of the rhetoric surrounding other mass shootings in the United States. In February of this year, following the fatal shooting of 17 students and members of staff at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, Wayne LaPierre, the executive vice president of the NRA, condemned calls for increased gun control from members of the Democratic party as ‘the shameful politicization of tragedy’, claiming that for such advocates, gun control is ‘not a safety issue, it’s a political issue’. When, in response to the attack at a Las Vegas country music festival in October 2017, Hilary Clinton tweeted, ‘We must put politics aside, stand up to the NRA’, Fox Business host Kennedy responded angrily, ‘Don’t politicize this, you heartless hack’. Back in December 2012, in the aftermath of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, conservative activist and board member of the NRA, Grover Norquist, stated in a news appearance, ‘We have got to calm down and not take tragedies like this…and use them for political purposes’.

My purpose in sharing these examples is not to criticise those on the political right specifically, nor to debate gun control in the context of the Pittsburgh shooting. Rather, it is to point out a disturbing contradiction in certain calls to avoid ‘politicising’ moments of tragedy. On the one hand, ‘politics’ is placed in direct opposition to concerns such as safety, suggesting that those who advocate for policy changes do so out of the desire to push a particular ideology for its own sake rather than out of any actual desire for positive change. On the other hand, it is worth noting that all of those quoted above are condemning the stating of political positions to which they are themselves opposed. They dismiss ‘politics’ as detracting from the gravity of tragic events, but this dismissal of views with which they disagree can itself be seen as politically motivated. It is therefore possible to see how condemning calls to action as ‘political’ can in fact serve as a convenient way to silence uncomfortable points of view.

The rhetoric surrounding the Pittsburgh shooting has been no different. A cursory glance at Twitter shows that many of those railing against the tragedy’s ‘politicisation’, namely suggesting that President Trump’s rhetoric and policies might share the blame for creating an incubator for such acts of hatred, are themselves vocal supporters of the Trump administration, including Trump campaign advisor Jeff Ballabon and Rabbi Shmuley Boteach. Others condemn the Democratic party and left-leaning media directly for having disrespectfully ‘politicised’ the attack, going on to advocate for voting the Democrats out of power. This is not to say that there have not been legitimate concerns surrounding the political misuse of the tragedy across the political spectrum. In the UK, infamous formerly-Lib Dem peer Baroness Jenny Tonge has been the subject of heavy criticism for blaming the Pittsburgh shooting, and by implication other anti-Semitic attacks, on Israel’s ‘actions against Palestinians’, a despicable act of victim-blaming that showcases Tonge’s own anti-Semitism. In the US, presidential advisor Kellyanne Conway has drawn ire after suggesting that ‘anti-religiosity’, rather than anti-Semitism, was primarily to blame for Saturday’s massacre. Both of these instances are clear evidence of individuals willfully misinterpreting the events in Pittsburgh in order to advance their own, unrelated political agendas. But there is a difference between calling out such blatant disrespect and effectively telling someone to ‘sit down and shut up’ if they make any attempt at a ‘political’ discussion that seeks to determine the roots of the problem.

President Trump did not pull the trigger during Saturday’s attack. Neither is anti-Semitism confined to a single party or ideology (just look at the current crisis within the UK Labour party). However, when the President is slow to condemn violent white supremacy, when white supremacist groups such as the Proud Boys embrace the slogan ‘Make America Great Again’, when the names of wealthy left-leaning Jews are used as anti-Semitic dog whistles by supporters of the Trump administration, and when racist, xenophobic conspiracy theories espoused by an anti-Semitic terrorist are a normative part of Republican rhetoric in the US, that is indicative of a wide-reaching political problem, one that can only be challenged through political conversations. Supporting the ideology of a particular party does not mean refusing to hold that party accountable for its failings. The fact that calling political leaders out for contributing to and empowering anti-Semitic attitudes could be viewed as divisive points to just how polarised the American political system has become.

I don’t know how those slaughtered in Pittsburgh voted, and I don’t care. They were all my Jewish brothers and sisters, and our people are so much bigger than divisions between left and right, Republican and Democrat. But it is precisely because we are all one people, responsible for one another’s safety and wellbeing, that we must not be afraid to point out anti-Semitism in all its forms, even when it is uncomfortable for us to do so, even if it is coming from someone we might otherwise admire. To my fellow Jews, I say, take as long as you need to mourn, to process, to comfort one another. There is no single ‘right’ way to grieve. But, in the words of a Christian minister who spoke at Monday night’s vigil in Kansas City, another moving display of strength and unity, ‘According to Ecclesiastes, there is a time for silence, and my friends, this ain’t it’.

May the memories of those murdered in Pittsburgh be for a blessing.

Beyond the Stereotypes: Should Jewish Roles in Film and TV Always be Played by Jews?

Hello, dear readers! For some reason, this post took longer than usual to write, but hopefully it’s not quite as convoluted as it seemed to me while I was writing it. Special thanks go to my very lovely husband for helping me clarify some of my thoughts. Agree with the post? Disagree vehemently? Let me know in the comments!

In recent weeks, fans of the DC universe received the exciting news that a new series featuring Batwoman in the starring role is planned for 2019 (although personally, I’m more of a Marvel girl). This is made all the more exciting by the fact that Batwoman’s character is described as both lesbian and Jewish, offering women from both communities the possibility of greater representation onscreen – in the form of a badass superhero, no less. Yet while the show’s developers, the CW, are said to be specifically looking for an openly gay actress to fill the role, it’s not clear whether they plan on casting an actress who is also Jewish, leading to some concerns that this part of the character’s identity will be overlooked. All of which brought to mind a question that I’ve been thinking about a lot over recent months – is it preferable for Jewish roles in film and TV to be played by Jewish actors?

Take a glance online, and you’ll see that the entertainment industry is no stranger to controversies over casting and actors’ identities. For example, Scarlett Johansson (who happens to be Jewish), has come under fire both for her role in 2017’s Ghost in the Shell, where she played a character who appears as East Asian in the manga on which the film is based, and for the recent announcement that she would play a trans man in the upcoming movie Rub & Tug (a role from which she has since withdrawn). In both these cases, among others, multiple concerns were raised over the failure to adequately represent marginalized communities: the lack of roles specifically for members of these communities, the dangers of portraying complex identities as ‘costumes’ that can be easily assumed and discarded by members of more privileged groups, and the conviction that those not belonging to certain communities are less qualified to depict these communities’ emotions and experiences. It is possible, too, to apply these concerns to cases where non-Jewish actors have been cast as Jewish characters. However, there are also elements of Jewish identity which, for me, complicate such concerns.

When it comes to casting, Jewish actors generally have a wider variety of roles open to them than members of some other minority groups. This is due to the fact that many Jews are able to ‘pass’ as white (i.e. Anglo-Saxon and Christian), and thus are not limited to playing characters written specifically as belonging to their own ethnic group in the same way as, say, an Asian or African-American actor might be. Leaving aside for now the problem that ‘white’ is still the default ethnicity in much of the US TV and film industries, Jewish actors’ ability to convincingly play non-Jewish characters raises an important point: there is no single way of ‘looking’ Jewish. While some Jews do have the archetypal dark, curly hair and pronounced noses, plenty of us do not. There are tall, blonde Jews, red-headed Jews with freckles, Jews of colour. So, if I find it somewhat jarring that, say, Elizabeth Banks’ very Jewishly-named Miriam Linky in Zack and Miri Make a Porno completely fails to trigger my ‘Jew-dar’, or if my internal reaction upon hearing that Rachel McAdams dons a wig and long skirt to play an Orthodox Jewish woman in this year’s Disobedience was ‘couldn’t they have found a Jewish actress?’, isn’t that my problem? After all, to quote the great Sir Ian McKellen, acting by its very nature requires that people ‘pretend’ to be things they are not. Wouldn’t requiring that Jewish roles are taken by Jewish actors, particularly actors thought to ‘look’ Jewish, risk perpetuating the dangerous stereotype that Jews are a homogenous racial group?

However, even if the range of roles offered to Jews in Hollywood suggests that stereotypes can be overcome, the range of specifically ‘Jewish’ roles suggests that such stereotypes are alive and well. Perhaps the problem lies not in non-Jewish actors playing Jewish characters, but in the kinds of Jewish characters played by Jews and non-Jews respectively. To take a classic example, let’s take a look at legendary comedy Friends. Out of the zany group of six BFFs, half the characters – Ross, Rachel, and Monica – are Jewish. However, only one of these characters, the nerdy, neurotic Ross, is played by a Jew, David Schwimmer. Of the main female leads, it’s interesting to note that only Lisa Kudrow, who plays Phoebe, has any Jewish background. However, there is one notable Jewish female character who is also played by a Jewish actress – Chandler’s insufferable ex Janice, played by Maggie Wheeler. Not only does Janice look stereotypically Jewish, with her mane of dark curls, she also has many of the characteristics of the stereotyped American Jewish woman – she’s loud, brash, annoying, and has a strong, New York accent. This isn’t to say that Ross and Janice are meant to be straightforwardly unlikeable characters. Nevertheless, it is telling that the Jewish ‘friends’ who are played by non-Jewish actresses, for all their quirks, are shown as attractive, desirable and, well, not terribly Jewish, whereas those with more typically Jewish looks are also the most ethnically stereotyped.

Lest people think I am singling out an old favourite to point out its problems with Jewish representation, this phenomenon is alive and well over a decade later. For example, The Big Bang Theory’s Howard Wolowitz, played by Simon Helberg, is a short, nerdy, dark-haired guy whose Jewish identity is largely shown as playing a negative part in his life, with plenty of jokes about overbearing mothers and digestive problems. On the big screen, Spencer, the nerd-turned-hero of Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle, is played by Alex Wolff, who has a Jewish father. Spencer’s character is clearly meant to be Jewish, but this is indicated mainly through his physical appearance, geeky persona and occasional use of ‘oy vey’, because apparently that is what our religious and cultural identity boils down to. Of course, there have been a number of well-rounded, proudly Jewish characters onscreen in recent years. To return to the DC universe, a notable example is badass computer genius Felicity Smoak (from Arrow and Legends of Tomorrow), who faces literal Nazis with defiance. Yet not only is the character played by Emily Bett Rickards, who isn’t Jewish, but with her wavy blonde hair, she doesn’t look recognisably Jewish either.

This might seem to contradict what I just said about Jews having diverse appearances, but it isn’t Rickards’ looks in and of themselves that are the issue. Rather, her casting seems part of a wider pattern in which characters whose Judaism forms a more positive (or at least less negative) part of their identities must conversely appear ‘less Jewish’ to be more relatable to viewers. Not to mention that even more positive portrayals of Judaism are fairly one-dimensional – characters are almost always white-presenting and Ashkenazi, and celebrating Chanukah often serves as the sole  benchmark for religious observance. All of which is to say that it is perhaps not so much the casting of Jewish characters that needs to change so much as how these characters are written in the first place.

Would the casting of a lesbian Jewish actress to play a lesbian Jewish Batwoman be an exciting development for both the Jewish and LGBT communities? Absolutely. But even if the person eventually chosen shares neither of these identities, I hope that the show’s writers create a character for whom both identities are equally important, and that they will take this opportunity to show a more nuanced and, yes, relatable, portrayal of what it means to be Jewish.

We’ve Seen This Before: Trump’s Separation Policy and Jewish History

It’s been a while, but I’ve finally got my act together and started writing for this blog again! There’s a lot I want to write about over the coming weeks and months, but there was one issue I felt had to come first. I actually wrote this post yesterday, before the somewhat vague executive order in which the US President has promised to end the policy of splitting up undocumented families, but the crisis isn’t over yet and I still think it’s important to voice my thoughts on the issue.

By now, you have probably heard about the latest policy-related scandal coming out of the current US administration; children of undocumented immigrants crossing into the United States, including nursing infants, are even now being forcibly separated from their parents as part of a ‘zero-tolerance’ crackdown on illegal immigration. Much has already been said about the policy’s inhumanity, with journalists painting a vivid picture of terrified children kept in cages and screaming for their parents. But for me, the events of the past few weeks are chillingly familiar, as I look into my family’s own history of displacement and immigration.

My late grandfather, Sigi Friedmann z’’l, was many things; witty, eloquent, frankly spoken and, above all, loving. He was also a refugee, having come to the UK from Vienna in 1938 as part of the Kindertransport programme (thanks to the heroic efforts of Rabbi Dr. Solomon Schonfeld z’’l). It was this journey that saved his life as the horrors of Nazism spread across Europe. However, as the programme’s German name suggests, such lifesaving journeys were open only to children (Kinder). The British government at the time had agreed to accept a limited number of child refugees, but declined to offer sanctuary to their parents out of the fear that an influx of European immigrants would compete for British jobs (a fear that remains stubbornly persistent to this day). As a result of this decision, children, including my then 15-year-old grandfather, were effectively ripped from their parents’ arms and forced to flee to a foreign country alone. For many, it would be years before they would see their parents again, or even know if they were still alive. More heartbreaking still, many long-awaited unions never happened, as those lucky enough to have reached safety discovered that loved ones left behind had been murdered by the Nazis. My grandfather was no exception to this tragedy. Both of his parents had eventually sought shelter in Hungary but, whilst he was ultimately reunited with his mother, Basia, his father, Ephraim, was murdered in the Flossenberg concentration camp for the ‘crime’ of being Jewish.

Why am I choosing to share this story now? Precisely because of my family’s history, I am wary of drawing comparisons between modern-day events and the Holocaust lest the enormity of the Nazi genocide be trivialised. However, my grandfather’s story of separation and survival certainly demonstrates attitudes towards immigrants and refugees that we see influencing US policy today. First and foremost, the decision of the British government in the 1930s to choose fear of immigration over saving lives echoes the ways in which we see the humanity of undocumented migrants to the US denied in favour of racism and xenophobia. Just today, President Trump tweeted his fears that immigrants will ‘pour into and infest our Country’, evoking a nameless, verminous mass rather than individual human beings searching for a better life for themselves and their families (or just the chance to live at all). Even babies, toddlers and children are not exempt from this characterization. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that the current policy of separation treats them more as dangerous interlopers than innocents in need of the love and care of those closest to them.

In a wider context, we once again see racism and intolerance start to influence policies in countries that we take for granted as tolerant and democratic. The US government is by no means the only Western country to deny the fundamental rights of those considered ‘undesirable’. Again, as of today, the newly-elected far-right government of Italy has stated its intention to introduce a census of Roma people and to expel all non-Italian Roma from the country, plans with obvious parallels to 20^th-century racial policies. Across Europe, anti-immigrant and anti-refugee sentiment is being allowed to flourish even in mainstream political spheres. It has now become almost clichéd to point to the events of the 1930s and 1940s in illustrating where such contempt for one’s fellow human beings can lead, but it is a point worth making nonetheless. Even if racist and xenophobic policies do not end in genocide, the suffering that they cause to innocent people, as well as the cycle of hatred they help perpetuate, cannot be underestimated.

Which brings me to a question I have been asking myself repeatedly over the past few days; what can I do, as an individual, as a Jew and as a member of the wider human family, to combat the Trump administration’s inhumane actions towards immigrant children and their parents? I’m still searching for the answer. As a (relatively extremely privileged) immigrant whose own residency in America will soon be under review for the second time, I am concerned that certain forms of action would threaten my own family life – cowardly, maybe, but a genuine fear nonetheless. I hope that through writing this post, I can start to turn my own skills and talents towards fighting this injustice. Whilst I may be for the most part preaching to the converted (I’m proud to say that the Jewish community in the United States has shown an unusual level of unity in condemning the child separation policy) , I hope that sharing my Grandpa Sigi’s story will help all of you reading this to consider the humanity of each individual affected by these current events, and perhaps to feel more empowered to stand up for families under threat, regardless of their country of origin or the colour of their skin.

6 Culture Shocks in a Conservative Synagogue

Hello all! Hope those who celebrate Chanukah are getting excited! This is my first foray into a list-style blog post as seen on your favourite click-bait sites, but has somehow managed to be the longest post I’ve written so far. But don’t let that put you off – hope you enjoy!

Last Saturday morning, I stood at the front of the synagogue my husband and I attend here in Kansas City, chanting from the week’s portion of the Torah. It’s something I love to do, but just a few years ago this would not even have been an option for me. Whereas my current shul belongs to the Conservative movement, which encourages equal participation by men and women in services, I grew up praying in Orthodox synagogues, where men and women sat separately and only men were allowed to lead services and read from the Torah. Whenever I attend a Conservative synagogue, I’m still struck by the ways differences in practice and outlook such as this shape the culture of the services, even though much of the liturgy is identical to that of most UK Orthodox synagogues. In other words, while I may on the whole feel at home in my new community, there are times when I still feel like a ‘stranger in a strange land’. Here are some of the ‘culture shocks’ I have experienced:

1. On your Toes

As a spiritually-minded teenager growing up in an Orthodox synagogue, my usual spot in the women’s section was somewhere near the back, close to the wall. I liked to retreat into my own little world, concentrating on the prayers and trying to avoid distractions. I could do this with relatively little fear of interruption, because there was no possibility that I would be ‘called up’ to say the blessings over the Torah or receive other honours such as hagbah (lifting the Torah scroll to display it to the congregation) or gelilah (‘dressing’ the scroll in its decorative cover after reading). Because not much is usually expected of women in terms of participation in services, there’s actually a certain amount of freedom to do our own thing, whether that’s praying on our own or chatting with friends. However, in a Conservative synagogue, there’s always a chance, no matter how small, that I might be called upon in front of the whole congregation, so I get to feel that sense of slight nervousness and anticipation when the Torah service rolls around…

 

2. Shake on it

And so, we find ourselves on the bimah (‘stage’ for leading services at the front of the synagogue). Whilst I’ve been participating in egalitarian services for a few years now, I still feel a little uncertain whenever I’m up there, because on some level, it’s not a space in which I am used to belonging. Take, for instance, the Ashkenazi custom of congratulating someone on being called to the Torah with a hearty handshake and the words yashar koach (basically wishing someone strength). As a child, this always seemed a very ‘masculine’ thing to do, enforcing the idea of the bimah as a sort of boys’ club where women had no place. So much so that later, when the opportunity presented itself, it did not even occur to me that the polite thing to do would be to shake the hand of the person who had been called up before me. When this was pointed out to me, I felt like I’d made a faux pas to say the least. And while we’re on the subject of shaking hands…

 

3. The Magic Touch

Many Orthodox Jews follow a practice known as shomer negiah (‘guarding one’s touch’), which means abstaining from physical contact of any kind with members of the opposite sex apart from one’s spouse or close relatives. This means that I would never offer to shake hands with an Orthodox rabbi (the vast majority of whom are male), as doing so might cause embarrassment or offense. In communities where many congregants are not actually ‘shomer’, this can also lead to a kind of game of chicken after services in which two people have a matter of seconds to try to work out if each can shake the other person’s hand! The synagogue I attend now leans towards the more traditional, ‘Conservadox’ end of the Conservative spectrum, and the rabbi could easily pass for Modern Orthodox in his appearance and observance. Imagine my surprise, then, when upon meeting for the first time, he offered his hand straightaway! Whilst initially this felt strange, I’m now more used to being in a religious environment where a handshake, to paraphrase Freud, is just a handshake.

4. A Woman’s Voice

If ever you should find yourself in a synagogue that follows traditional Hebrew liturgy, chances are you’ll be struck by the melodious (or not so melodious) chanting and singing of congregants as they join in with the prayers. In Orthodox synagogues, since men and women sit separately and men generally take a more active role in services (coupled with the traditional prohibition on men hearing women singing for reasons of modesty), the voices you hear are more likely to be male. Growing up, this gave services a distinctly masculine flavour. In services where men and women participate equally, and where often women are more likely to turn up than men, it follows that you’re more likely to hear women’s voices as part of the ‘soundtrack’. This subtly alters the general feel of the services (or at least it does for me), reminding me that my voice, too, has a place there.

 

 

5. To Cover or not to Cover?

What people choose to wear to synagogue varies greatly even within denominations, and even within individual communities. That said, most shuls have a basic standard when it comes to dressing, whether that means black hats or jeans. In the UK, it’s very normal for married ladies to cover their heads in Orthodox synagogues for reasons of modesty, even if they don’t do so every day. In the USA, this is less common across the religious spectrum, and is definitely a rarity in Conservative synagogues; you’re more likely to see a woman in a kippah (skullcap traditionally worn by men) than a hat, wig or headscarf. I grew up expecting that I would cover at least part of my hair in synagogue once I got married and today, doing so helps me to feel like a grown-up, married lady (or at least the married part). While I try to keep my head coverings stylish and modern-looking (Saturday’s sparkly headband was greatly admired by a four-year-old), the air of being frum (very religious, usually in an Orthodox way) that they give me can sometimes make me feel like I’ve just stepped out of a production of Fiddler on the Roof. Not that I mind being seen as different; it’s just that covering my hair serves as a further reminder that the religious culture in which I was raised is no longer the norm here.

 

6. Just Drive

I grew up in the United Synagogue, the main Orthodox denomination in the UK. Orthodoxy is the largest Jewish denomination in Britain, so if people go to synagogue at all, even if it is only once a year, it will usually be to an Orthodox synagogue. Within the United Synagogue, this means that most members aren’t especially observant, even though the organisation itself is run according to a strict interpretation of halachah (Jewish law). For example, driving on the Sabbath is traditionally prohibited as a form of work, but many members of Orthodox synagogues don’t see it as such and have no problem driving to synagogue. However, many are still embarrassed lest the more observant members of the congregation (particularly the Rabbi) notice their transgression, leading to the widely observed phenomenon known as ‘parking round the corner’. In the USA, there’s generally less anxiety over not appearing observant. I’ve even heard a Modern Orthodox rabbi in Baltimore assure his flock that everyone walks to synagogue – it’s just that some people walk from their homes, and some walk from the parking lot! I’m still getting used to the size of synagogue car parks over here, and am still slightly amazed at how people at my shul just rock up to services in their cars like it ain’t no thing.

 

So there you have it. In some ways, moving to a Conservative Jewish community has been as much of a cultural shift as moving to the United States. To all you lovely readers out there, have you ever experienced culture shock when encountering a different religious denomination from the one you were raised in? What differences did you notice? Feel free to comment below!

‘Jai Hind’: Being a Baghdadi Jew on Indian Independence Day

Today, 15^th August 2017, marks a historic date – 70 years since India and Pakistan became independent nations. On social media, friends with origins on both sides of the border are celebrating the birth of their countries, their beauty, their diversity, their achievements so far. As a Jew looking forward to next year’s festivities in honour of 70 years of the State of Israel, I can certainly relate to the pride and happiness felt by my Indian and Pakistani friends. What’s more, as the granddaughter of a Calcutta (now Kolkata) native, India especially has held a special place in my heart for as long as I can remember. I dream of the day when I will be able to visit, to soak in the sights and sounds, to see where my grandmother spent the first 20 or so years of her life. Yet it’s precisely this connection that makes me hesitate to ‘like’ my friends’ celebratory statuses, that makes me question whether I should view the commemoration of India’s birth as a cause for rejoicing.

Let me explain. My grandmother is a member of India’s ‘Baghdadi’ Jewish community, composed of Jews of Middle Eastern origin who came to India to trade and ended up establishing a culture that lasted for centuries. The Baghdadis flourished in India, establishing schools and synagogues. They developed a cuisine that was a unique mixture of Indian and Iraqi flavours, spoke both Hindi and Judeo-Arabic. My grandmother relates how she grew up in a multi-ethnic neighbourhood, where Jews, Hindus, Muslims, and Christians lived in harmony, visiting each other’s homes and celebrating each other’s festivals. In other words, Baghdadis played an integral role in the society around them, forming one of the many diverse strands of Indian culture.

Yet at the same time, this didn’t necessarily mean that all members of the community identified as Indian. Not only did my grandmother and her siblings technically grow up as British subjects under the Empire, but they also viewed themselves as British. They spoke English as their first language, had a British-style education, wore Western clothes. And, after Partition in 1947, they chose to become British, not Indian, citizens. However, in some ways, even prior to independence, the Baghdadis found themselves caught in the middle when it came to identity, not quite viewed as either British or Indian. It was from this ‘in-between’ position that my then teenage grandmother witnessed the horrors of the religious violence that preceded Partition. She remembers members of Hindu and Muslim groups shouting religious and nationalistic slogans before slaughtering one another, after which she would come out of her house to see bodies lying in dustbins. The situation became dangerous for her family too, as anyone perceived as ‘white’ or associated with the British found themselves under threat. My great-aunt once told me about how, as a young medical student, her Indian friends would help to dress her in a sari before she left university at the end of each day so that she would pass as Indian and thus escape harassment. Her brother grew his beard and would come to meet her dressed in traditional Muslim attire. Indeed, it was because of this increasingly hostile climate that my grandmother would eventually leave India. All of which is to say that when I hear the phrases ‘jai Hind’ (‘Long live India’/’victory to India’) or ‘Pakistan zindabad’ (‘Long live Pakistan’), what immediately comes to mind is the violence of Partition rather than the national rebirth that followed.

Yet I’m also unsure as to how I should feel about my family’s feelings of closeness to India’s colonial occupiers. From primary school onward, I learned (albeit in a rather idealised way) about Gandhi’s noble struggle, how he fought against hatred and helped found a free India. Growing up British two generations after the fall of the Empire, the unequivocal message from my teachers was that colonialism was wrong and based on racism, something I still believe today. But I’m also aware that, however indefensible its original premise, the British Empire helped to create an environment where my family could flourish. My great-grandfather, who had come to India to escape anti-Semitism in Iraq and who had fought for Britain during World War One, worked as an accountant for British Rail. One influential cousin, Sir David Ezra, even earned a knighthood. The British authorities certainly helped to keep the Baghdadi community safe and prosperous, even if they did not consider them to be fully ‘one of us’. My feelings about the British Raj are thus a strange mixture of appreciation for the fact that it no longer exists and a strong conviction that some of its achievements can serve as a source of pride rather than shame. Both elements are potential sources of guilt for me, just as they are both potential causes for celebration.

The British administration was not the only thing that disappeared from India following independence. Following Partition, the Baghdadi community started to leave, for England, the United States, Canada, Australia, and, eventually, Israel. While some did decide to stay and participate actively in their new country, for many, the newly independent India was not somewhere they felt they could continue to live in peace and prosperity. Today, out of a community of thousands, only a handful of Baghdadi Jews remain in India. The synagogues lie empty and silent, kept from falling into disrepair by devoted Muslim caretakers. I have met people who were born in Kolkata who had no idea that there was ever an Iraqi-Jewish community in India. Independence thus marked the dawn of a national narrative in which Baghdadis would play little, if any, part. The Calcutta that my grandmother knew still exists in memories, in quirky turns of phrase, nursery rhymes and lullabies, bites of sweet-sour food, old photos, the pages of history books. But in modern-day India, it is nearly extinct.

Indian independence day is a day when I both think about my family’s connections to a country that has fascinated me for as long as I can remember and, conversely, realise my distance from it, both physically and culturally. I hope that the day will come when I will be able to see India for myself and explore this seemingly contradictory connection further. In the meantime, I wish both India and Pakistan a happy Independence Day. May your futures be happy, peaceful, and as rich as your past.

 

On the ‘Dweck Affair’, the Chief Rabbi, and Baseless Hatred

Hello, one and all! I have recently emerged from the swirling chaos of wedding planning as a bona fide Jewish wife! I’m really looking forward to blogging about my big, fat, Jewish wedding in the not-too-distant future, but I want to start off my return to the blog by discussing a series of recent events that have been a source of conflict in the community I grew up in and beyond.

Back in May, Rabbi Joseph Dweck, Senior Rabbi of the UK’s S&P (Spanish and Portuguese) Sephardi Community, gave a class that would send shockwaves through the Orthodox world. In a discussion on the Jewish view of (male) homosexuality, he spoke out against homophobia within the community, going so far as to call the feminist and sexual revolutions of the last century ‘a fantastic development’ for humanity, because they paved the way for a greater understanding of love. Although he stressed the traditionally forbidden nature of the ‘act’ of gay sex, he did suggest the possibility of men forming meaningful, loving, physically affectionate relationships with one another (shock! Horror!). Flippancy aside, whilst this assertion might seem uncontroversial, or even reactionary, to many outside the UK Orthodox community, it marked the start of two months of vigorous, at times vitriolic, debate. Rabbi Dweck’s reputation as a religious leader was called into question, and his views were even branded ‘heretical’ by several prominent Orthodox rabbis. He has issued numerous statements clarifying his position and defending his commitment to traditional Jewish law, and has even offered to step down from his position in the S&P community.

As of yesterday, it seems that matters may finally be drawing to a close. A rabbinic panel has scrutinised Rabbi Dweck’s teachings and ruled that he should continue in his role as Senior Rabbi, whilst welcoming his decision to step down as a dayan (religious judge). Rabbi Dweck himself has apologised for anything ‘inappropriate’ he may have said in the course of his teachings. The Chief Rabbi, Ephraim Mirvis, has stressed the need to move on from the affair. In yesterday’s Jewish Chronicle, he eloquently condemned the growing ‘polarisation’ of UK Orthodox Jews, warning against the dangers of sinat chinam, ‘baseless hatred’, within the community. He advocated for civil discussion of ‘challenging’ issues, asserting that ‘the issues themselves are too important for us to do otherwise’.

But what does Rabbi Mirvis’s statement have to say about this controversy’s most important ‘issue’, the one that landed Rabbi Dweck in so much trouble in the first place; the persistent question of how best to include LGBTQ individuals within the UK Orthodox community?

Nothing. Klum. Gornishts.

Look, I get it. In a statement arguing for religious unity, the Chief Rabbi is understandably reluctant to take a strong stance one way or the other. And yet, his omission speaks volumes about the very problems that led to the ‘Dweck affair’. In my own experience, growing up in synagogues affiliated with the United Synagogue, the UK’s main Ashkenazi Orthodox organisation, of which Rabbi Mirvis is the head, LGBTQ issues were hardly mentioned, if at all. Even when the weekly Torah reading featured that infamous passage in Leviticus, the rabbis’ sermons either did not mention the prohibition on gay sex, or made vague references to Biblically forbidden relationships as a whole. It was as though, caught between halachic condemnation and societal celebration, mainstream Orthodoxy simply considered the issue of same-sex relationships (let alone bisexuality and gender non-conformity) to be too difficult to grapple with. Whilst I never heard homosexual relationships explicitly condemned, they were not presented as a viable way to live either. It was easier to treat them as though they didn’t exist.

Once at university, and struggling to understand the Torah’s perspective on homosexuality myself, I did encounter a wider variety of Orthodox views on the subject. I remember helping to organise a panel on ‘homosexuality in Judaism’, which included both Orthodox and Reform rabbis, as well as Christian theologians. But looking back, even the Orthodox rabbi’s ‘very liberal’ stance seemed somewhat strained, not going much further than the old adage of ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’. It is precisely this dearth of discussion that made Rabbi Dweck’s statements so important. Here was a prominent Orthodox rabbi trying to make sense of the role of Jewish law in a rapidly changing society, not only acknowledging the existence of same-sex relationships, but even suggesting ways in which such relationships might be seen as a positive force within the Orthodox community.

It therefore seems to me that, in summarising the Dweck affair as a cautionary tale about communal discord, in which both those for and against Rabbi Dweck’s viewpoint were, in attacking each other, equally at fault, the Chief Rabbi’s statement is, intentionally or not, missing the point. Yes, there are certainly growing divisions in terms of religious observance within the Anglo-Jewish community, Orthodox or otherwise. Yes, it is a tragedy when Jews vilify each other instead of engaging in productive discussion. But the problem goes far deeper than this. Rabbi Mirvis illustrates the dangers of sinat chinam with the Talmudic story of how a dispute between two men at a feast eventually led to the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem. This is particularly relevant as many Jews are currently observing the period known as the ‘Three Weeks’, when we commemorate the destruction of Jerusalem and the start of the exile from the Holy Land. However, whilst Rabbi Mirvis rightly points out the absurdity of how ‘we came close to total annihilation over an argument at a party’, the sinat chinam shown by the Dweck controversy has more grievous origins. Jews were willing to tear down other Jews because they disagreed with attempts to make a particular group within the Orthodox community feel welcomed and safe. The whole argument lies in a disagreement over basic human respect. Surely, this – the continued hostility in some sections of the Orthodox community towards LGBTQ individuals – is the real sinat chinam?

Rabbi Mirvis, in failing to see the woods for the trolls, so to speak, relegates the question of LGBTQ inclusion within the Orthodox community to the margins of the debate. He refers vaguely to the ‘issues’ that led to the recent controversy, but neglects to mention the human suffering of those seeking acceptance. I very much hope that the Dweck affair has, at least, prompted Rabbi Mirvis and other Anglo-Jewish Orthodox leaders to hold more open discussions on the subject, something that has already begun in some sections of the community. As someone who is no longer either living in the UK or Orthodox, I realise that my own ability to take part in these discussions is limited. However, my prayer for the Three Weeks is that we should see the strengths in our differences, and that the time will come when we will be am echad b’lev echad – one people with one heart – speedily and in our days.

‘Keyn Eyne Hora’: Superstition, Judaism and Mental Health

Hello and happy 2017! Between a trip to England, planning a wedding, and moving halfway across the United States (more on that soon), this blog has been somewhat neglected. This post was actually written a couple of months ago, but (ironically given its subject matter) I was too nervous to post it at the time. Hope you enjoy and stay tuned for more fresh, juicy musings!

I am not a superstitious person. That is, not intellectually. I don’t believe that human beings can magically bring good or ill upon others, nor that there are mysterious forces of evil at work which must be warded off. I don’t believe that any mundane act, whether knocking on wood or walking under a ladder, is inherently good or bad. And yet, on some level, I do.

Growing up, superstitions were part of my family’s cultural DNA. Several miniature rituals were geared towards warding off the ‘Evil Eye’ – a somewhat nebulous negative force believed to be transmitted through feelings of jealousy. Whilst some were relatively innocuous, such as swiftly following particularly positive statements with ‘keyn eyne hora’ (‘without the Evil Eye’ in Yiddish), others, particularly those from my grandmother’s Iraqi-Indian tradition, were a little more out-of-the-box (think saliva and burning chilies). As a child, I found these slight eccentricities entertaining. My rationalist, Austrian-born grandfather dismissed them as ‘bubbe meysers’ (Yiddish for ‘old wives’ tales’) and, on the whole, I agreed. Yet the roots of belief still took hold. Even today, I stay vigilant. When my baby nephew is crawling around on the floor, I avoid stepping over him lest he not grow. Whilst I often wear a Hamsa, a hand-shaped amulet, in celebration of my Middle-Eastern heritage, it also comes out for exams, interviews, flights, and any other times I feel in need of a little extra protection. The reason? It’s better to be safe than sorry.

All of this seems pretty harmless and, most of the time, it is. There’s just one problem; if the Evil Eye, or Ayn Hara in Hebrew, can be ‘given’ to someone through jealousy, then my own jealous thoughts can be dangerous to others. For me, as someone who suffers from anxiety, this fear takes on a new dimension. I am prone to constantly examining my own actions, magnifying their impact out of all proportion. I can’t send an email without obsessively re-reading it for fear of it being received badly. Over the years, I have also been plagued by intrusive, often disturbing, thoughts. The result is that I have come to see my thoughts as somehow dangerous, having an effect on others as well as myself. So if I am jealous of someone’s success or characteristics and they suffer a tragedy (which has actually happened), who is to say I haven’t unintentionally ‘wished’ it upon them? Whilst I realise the absurdity of this, in my mind, I am capable of causing calamity simply by thinking.

In an essay for Tablet magazine about her experiences with Jewish superstitions, Paula Derrow writes that fear of the Evil Eye prevented her from taking risks as she felt that disaster would inevitably follow good fortune. My own superstitions have little outward impact, but the desire for control is the same. I take steps to ‘protect’ others from my feelings. Terrified of wishing harm on people, I go overboard in repeating more positive thoughts about them, in a silent ritual. Like Derrow, the phrase keyn eyne hora (or at least one of its equivalents) has become a ‘mantra’ to me, a prayer to keep harm away. Yet even as my ‘positive’ thoughts provide momentary relief, they reinforce the ‘magical thinking’ from which I struggle to escape.

So, if superstition can be so oppressive, why don’t I just drop it altogether? Why not stop myself from using ‘magical’ formulae in everyday conversation, refuse to worry about ‘tempting fate’, embrace only the rational side of Jewish tradition? After all, it’s not as if I actually believe I’m powerful enough to wish harm on someone. The immediate answers are fear and force of habit – certain superstitions are so ingrained that they are difficult to disregard entirely. However, I also see these practices as part of my cultural heritage. Whilst some Jewish scholars, such as the great 12^th-century Rabbi Moshe ben Maimon (Maimonides), voiced their opposition to superstition, these ideas have held a fascination throughout Jewish history, from the Talmud and Kabbalah to folk tales and modern literary works. Whether or not one believes in such concepts as the Evil Eye, to forget the existence of these beliefs would be to forget an important, if contentious, part of Jewish tradition. I’m trying to take steps to look after my mental health, and hopefully my ‘magical thinking’ will not last forever, or at least become less frequent. However, when I next fly home to the UK, there is a good chance I’ll be wearing my Hamsa.