Why Should We Celebrate Chanukah?

What Is Our Chanukah?

Why did I celebrate Chanukah as a reform Jew for 25 years? Why do non-Orthodox Jews, celebrate Chanukah at all? It completely undermines everything they stand for.

Chanukah was about some classic, good versus evil fight. We were outnumbered, and miraculously enough, we won. Somehow, that was tied to some amount of oil that was only supposed to last one day and miraculously enough lasted eight days.

But that’s not what it’s about. Chanukah is about being with your family, spinning dreidel, eating potato latkes, singing new-age Chanukah music with tunes comparable to Christmas carols, and of course giving and receiving just enough presents to out-do the Christmas shoppers. Right? Isn’t this why Chanukah is the most-anticipated holiday in modern Judaism? Isn’t this why so many Jewish kids in the US grow up wishing the oil had lasted even more days—so they could get even more presents?

As I got older I tried to block out the commercialization of the holiday and focus on what it meant to me—being with my family.

Do we really need a holiday to be with our family? Do we really need an excuse to be together? What about Chanukah made it so special? If you look at every official US holiday, including Chanukah and Christmas, Valentine’s Day, etc. you will notice a pattern. They all share the same basic foundation: being with friends, family, and loved ones. That’s besides all the gift exchange, commercialization at the root of all the holidays. So isn’t Chanukah the same? Isn’t the whole point to have a holiday near Christmas so Jews wouldn’t feel left out?

Ironically enough, it couldn’t be more the opposite. Now, for my first time ever, I have celebrated Chanukah in Israel, in Jerusalem. And after 25 years of celebrating Chanukah in a reform Jewish household, in a secular environment, I am finally beginning to understand and appreciate what the holiday is truly about.

Our Story

The name "Chanukah" derives from the Hebrew verb "חנך", meaning "to dedicate" or “to consecrate.” On Chanukah, the Jews regained control of Jerusalem and rededicated the Temple. So what? What’s the significance? As Rabbi Meir Kahane explains (in one of his less-controversial articles):

What happened in that era more than 2000 years ago? What led a handful
of Jews to rise up in violence against the enemy? And precisely who
was the enemy? What were they fighting for and who were they fighting
against?

For years the people of Judea had been the vassals of Greece. True
independence as a state had been unknown for all those decades and,
yet, the Jews did not rise in revolt. It was only when the Greek
policy shifted from mere political control to one that attempted to
suppress the Jewish religion that the revolt erupted in all its
bloodiness.

When the Temple, the Holiest of Holies, in Jerusalem was looted and desecrated, and the services stopped, Judaism was effectively outlawed. To make matters worse, in 167 BCE Greek leader Antiochus ordered an altar to Zeus be erected in the Temple—an idol to be erected in the heart of the Jews’ Holiest site. He banned circumcision and ordered pigs to be sacrificed at the altar of the temple.

In the book, “A History of the Jewish People” authors Max Margolis and Alexander Marx outline the chain of events:

[The Greeks] entered [Jerusalem] on a Sabbath. The unresisting inhabitants were butchered; the soldiers pillaged at will and carried off women and children to be sold as slaves.

They add that the Greeks demolished the walls of Jerusalem. They then found favor in the “apostate Jews,” who supported the Greek’s destruction and outlaw of Judaism, and assimilated them, moving them to live with non-Jewish residents so they would inter-marry and lose, piece by piece, their Jewish heritage.

A royal edict was proclaimed suspending the practice of the Jewish religion on pain of death. […The Greeks commanded] the fusion of all nationalities in the realm into one people and the acceptance of the Greek religion by all. […] It was unlawful for anyone to keep the Sabbath and festivals ordained in the Torah, or to profess himself at all to be a Jew. Torah scrolls were [torn] in pieces and burned; their owners were put to death. Women, who had their children circumcised, were led publicly round about the city and then cast headlong from the walls. Eleazar, an aged teacher, who refused to eat swine’s flesh, was tortured to death. A group of pious people who had fled to a cave near Jerusalem in order to keep Sabbath secretly were surprised and committed to the flames; they chose to die rather than to desecrate the Sabbath by offering resistance.

[The Greek leaders’] idea had been to liberalize [and reform] Judaism and to meet Greek culture half way.

Antiochus' actions proved to be a grave mistake as they were massively disobeyed, provoking a large-scale revolt. Mattathias, a Jewish priest, and his five sons Jochanan, Simeon, Eleazar, Jonathan, and Judah led a rebellion against Antiochus. Judah became known as Yehuda HaMakabi ("Judah the Hammer"). By 166 BCE Mattathias had died, and Judah took his place as leader. Starting with small victories and a company of 1,150 men, Judah grew support and beat the 47,000 enemy troops with only 3,000 men. By 165 BCE the Jewish revolt was successful. The Temple was liberated and rededicated.

[Rabbi Meir Kahane continues] It was not mere liberty that led to the Maccabean uprising
that we so passionately applaud. What we are really cheering is a
brave group of Jews who fought and plunged Judea into a bloodbath for
the right to observe the Sabbath, to follow the laws of kashrut, to
obey the laws of the Torah. In a world where everything about Hanukah
that we commemorate, and teach our children to commemorate, are things
we consider to be outmoded, medieval and childish!

["Down with Hanukah," Rabbi Meir Kahane, 12/15/1972.]

According to the Talmud, at the re-dedication following the victory of the Maccabees over the Seleucid Empire, there was only enough consecrated olive oil to fuel the eternal flame in the Temple for one day. Miraculously, the oil burned for eight days, which was the length of time it took to press, prepare and consecrate fresh olive oil. The eternal flame kept burning.

Why did the miracle of the oil last us eight days? One thought is that the number eight has special significance in Judaism. It represents transcendence and the Jewish People's special role in human history. Seven is the number of days that Hashem created the universe. Eight, being one step beyond seven, represents the Infinite. Bris milah brings a Jewish male into the sacred Covenant and is performed on the eighth day after birth.

What do we make of all this? How is Chanukah relevant to us today?

Our Lesson

Greek society at the time was the epitome of Hedonism. Greeks lived for the physical. Their deities, sacrifices, and subsequent lifestyle were surrounded by self-indulgence, sensuality, and physical pleasures. As such, Greek way of life clashed on a fundamental level with Jewish life. While Judaism does not ignore the physical world, it recognizes that physical things have their place; but they can only exist in relation to the spiritual world, not in place of it. Furthermore, our role as Jews is to “mkadesh” the physical world; to sanctify and make holy the physical world and to bring out the holiness that is already within the physical world. By sanctifying the physical world, we are able to connect with its source, our Creator.

The Greeks were rational people and we have all certainly benefited a great deal from their wisdom. But the Greeks also were a people who believed only in what they could see, touch, and feel. They had no concept of a spiritual world because they denied anything existing beyond the physical world. They were so closed-minded that they refused to accept anything that was not physically there. They could not comprehend the intangible. How did they know love, sorrow, and happiness, which are also intangible?

If we take the same approach and deny spirituality, and if we cannot connect the physical with the spiritual, we become completely cut-off from our spiritual source. And if we are completely cut-off from our source due to this self-indulgence, what becomes of us? We disappear.

The Jews who revolted against the Greek oppression knew this. They knew that if they gave into Hedonistic pleasures, they would lose their connection with spirituality. When a Jew loses his spiritual connection, he loses his identity as a Jew and becomes nothing more than a physical being with no purpose.

Our Identity

When the Greeks came to rule over the Jews, they had a vision of liberalizing Judaism. They began creating reforms to Judaism. The assimilation began with forcing Jews to learn Greek and continued with trying to instill Greek philosophies and cultural practices. The Greeks saw the strength of the Jewish identity, and while Jews were a small minority, our unique identity and spiritual connection posed a threat to the Greek concept of assimilation. The Greeks brought reforms to Judaism, and little by little they tried to take away the Jewish heritage and kill the Jewish identity. The Greeks were clever. They were aware that the way to eliminate a people is not to wage war—that only bonds the people together—rather they knew that if they could disconnect the Jews from the spiritual world, and gradually take away our religion, our ethics, our laws, our practices, our Torah, and our identity, there would be nothing left.

Is this not what is happening today, particularly in the US? There are clearly no forced reforms to Judaism—certainly not as there were with the Greeks. We are reforming on our own volition, and that is even worse. There is no oppressor threatening us to eat pig meat or die, no tyrannical laws forcing us to marry non-Jews, no army burning our Torah, no militia murdering us for observing Shabbat. And yet we are willing to give this up voluntarily. Is this not our identity?

We have survived as a people from generation to generation. We have survived the Greeks, the Romans, the Egyptians, the Nazis, and endless terrorist attacks. Israel’s mere existence is a miracle considering that it is surrounded by 21 Arab countries, with a total land mass 800 times the size of the Land of Israel, all of which live for the day they can wipe us off the map.

The only saving grace that has kept us from falling at the hands of the generations of oppressors has been our strong “emunah” (faith) and our allegiance to ourselves, to our People, and to our Jewish identity. The moment we stray off our destined path, we lose a part of ourselves. And for how long will we keep straying, until we reach the point of no return?

Our Dedication

Chanukah comes from the verb “to dedicate” because we recognized that our only way to survive as a people is to dedicate ourselves to our destiny, our Divine purpose. Our only chance of survival as a people is to maintain our identity; to perform the mitzvot, learn Torah, keep Kosher, keep Shabbat, and pass this on to our children.

For whatever reason, we are losing our identity, little by little, every day. We aren’t keeping Kosher because it’s “too expensive.” We aren’t keeping Shabbat because we’re “too busy.” We aren’t learning Torah because “it’s not practical.” We aren’t marrying fellow Jews because “it’s not a big deal.” Put simply, it’s just too hard.

Of course it’s hard! We’re Jewish! If being Jewish were easy it wouldn’t take several years just to prepare to convert. But that is what is unique about us as a people. We have such strong “emunah” (faith) that we push ourselves to do the impossible (like defeat 47,000 troops with only 3,000 men). We know that if we try our hardest, and give every ounce of our being, everything else will work out. Jews have made major contributions in every industry of every society we have ever lived in. We have overcome generations of persecution with a positive outlook. Instead of using oppression of our people as an excuse for failure, or preaching against those who discriminate against us, we use it to look at our own failures introspectively, find what we can improve upon, and use it as a fire to push our People further, to achieve more for ourselves and for all of humanity. Is it a coincidence that Jews comprise of less than half a percent of the world population and yet one fifth of all Nobel Prize Laureates are Jews?

It is statistically impossible and historically improbable that such a minute minority of the world population could not only survive but thrive for several thousand years, as we have done. We have outlived all the great empires. How is it, that such an insignificant population has been capable of such significant milestones? It all goes back to our identity as a people, our service to Hashem, and our divine purpose.

We are different from all people. And we can’t deny that. Denying our identity and our uniqueness is what has caused us all our troubles. The only thing that has preserved our heritage to this point has been when righteous Jews who stood up for what we believe in. Look at the miracle of Chanukah. Those who studied Torah were put to death, those who performed Bris Millah were put to death; there were even those who fled the city to observe Shabbat in caves, and, when confronted by Greeks, preferred to be slaughtered rather than break Shabbat by fighting back in defense. They showed the rest of “Am Israel” (the Jewish People) how important our heritage is and how nobody can take it from us but ourselves.

The amount of courage and devotion of our People is unfathomable. Jews have sacrificed their lives, l’dor v’dor (from generation to generation) all for the sake of keeping our Jewish faith and identity intact—so that we could one day inherit this rich blessing of a Birthright, and all the challenges that follow, in its pure form, its true form; as it was meant to be. For only through this will we remain bonded and intact in the face of oppression.

Our Purpose

The same verb, "חנך", also means “to educate.” It is our duty to educate our children about who we are and our purpose in life. That means marrying Jews, raising our children as Jews, and most importantly, teaching them what it means to be a true Jew. What we are experiencing today is a watered-down version of something really amazing, and the more we water it down with each generation, the more we lose; and once we lose it completely we won’t be able to get it back.

We can’t be liberal with our identity and our duty; especially not for the sake of assimilation. We can’t be like everyone else and we shouldn’t try to be—because we’re not. We have to be a light unto the nations. We have an incredibly profound key to understanding the universe, called Torah, which teaches much more than “halacha” (law), “mussar” (ethics), and “middot” (character development). The Torah’s legal system not only guides proper outward behavior, it also sets standards for emotional and psychological behavior. We have a duty to teach these values to our children, and our children’s children. How can we help the rest of the world if we can’t first help ourselves?

Our Soul

We have a Jewish neshama (soul), and it begs truth. The idea of “Jewish guilt” has nothing to do with guilt. It is a reflection of our “mussar” (ethics). When we do something we know is wrong, the feeling of guilt is just our neshama wanting truth, begging us to do what we know in our heart is right.

We want to act like everyone else, even though our neshama wants something greater. Do we really want to glorify, with blind adoration, cars, houses, musicians, Hollywood, athletes, and sports teams, like everyone else? Do we really want life to be about money, work, and “living large,” like everyone else? Do we really want to celebrate the same holidays as everyone else? Do we really want to feel fine with the same loose morals as everyone else? Do we really want to deny ourselves spirituality, like everyone else? Do we avoid talking about G-d, like everyone else, for the fear of sounding overzealous or evangelical? Do we really want to believe in only the tangible, like everyone else? Do we really want to be satisfied with the status quo like everyone else? Do we want what’s normal and accepted, for the sake of seeming normal and accepted? Do we really want to be satisfied with superficial relationships and friendships?

Why do we subject ourselves to emotionally scarring relationships and friendships, and morally damaging movies, television, music, and video games, for the sake of joining everyone else? Do we really want to believe that “doing the right thing” is good enough for being a good person? Why do we settle for less when we know we should be constantly searching for deeper meaning in every aspect of our lives? Do we really want to throw-out age-old traditions for new-age “innovations?”

We can’t assimilate into this kind of life because it’s not healthy, it’s not meaningful, and it’s not true to who we are. We have something much deeper than these superficial behaviors. We have a Jewish neshama, soul. We’re not made of the same essence as everyone else. Essence also means fuel. If we speak of essence and fuel as oil, it can be described as a slimy liquid that creates more mess and hassle than benefit. Oil by itself, as a physical entity, amounts to nothing. Just like the Hedonistic society of the Greeks, where the only purpose for life was for physical pleasure, oil too in a pure physical form on its own amounts to nothing. But when we place a wick in the oil and light the wick, we create a beautiful flame. When we connect the physical world with the spiritual world, we can create something beautiful through a relationship with its source. The entire nature of fire is creating something from nothing, and furthermore, creating something that is constantly connected to its source.

And even in the coldest, darkest nights of winter we light the menorah and sing hopeful songs that lift our spirits. Each night of Chanukah I spent here in Jerusalem waseye-opening and life-altering. Why should we assimilate? Why should we settle for a culture that promotes lust, violence, commercialization, and greed far more often than love, happiness, ethics, morals, dignity, honesty, righteousness, education, and spirituality? We have a rich heritage that provides deep meaning in every aspect of life. Why take a watered-down version of life when we can connect straight to the source?

Our Essence

When the Greeks tried to assimilate the Jews, it wouldn’t have worked because we are not of the same essence. We knew we were made of a unique essence when we had oil that was only meant to last one night and yet it lasted eight nights. Just when we thought hope was lost, in the midst of Greek assimilation, Jewish apostates, and the desecration of our holy Temple; just when we thought our people would be wiped off the map, erased from the Book of Life; just when we thought our eternal flame would be extinguished forever; the faithful few rallied, with trust in G-d and strength, courage and strong resolve in what it meant to be a Jew, they fought for their right to survive. They fought for our right to continue our rich tradition of creating a better world for ourselves and for everyone. The miracle of Chanukah showed what just a little Jewish essence can do. And we saw that oil burn for eight days instead of one, giving us time for a renewal of essence before the eternal flame went out.

It is time that we each renew our essence before our People’s eternal flame burns out. Chanukah isn’t about the latkes, the dreidels, or the presents. In the absence of a volatile oppressor we have been oppressing ourselves by assimilating in a Hedonistic society and forgetting about the spiritual essence that helps connect us to our source. We Jews represent more than that simple oil; we represent the wick and the flame as well.

Our Chanukah

Chanukah is about seeing past the self-indulgences and instant gratifications of the physical world. It is about finding something more lasting. Realize that everything physical expires at some point or another, but that which is spiritual is eternal.

This Chanukah let’s forget the commercialization and shallowness of pop-culture. Let’s focus on doing at least one thing to strengthen our Jewish identity; maybe it’s keeping Shabbat, maybe it’s keeping Kosher, maybe it’s keeping up with the weekly Torah portion and letting it enrich our life. Though we have assimilated more than the Greeks could have ever dreamed, we can nevertheless maintain a strong, true Jewish identity (by observing the mitzvahs) without removing ourselves from society.

Chanukah is about transcending. It is about dedicating ourselves to our true purpose in life. It is about educating each generation and following something much more valuable and meaningful than society’s status quo. It is about having strong emunah and being loyal to our Jewish neshama. It is about keeping an eternal light, even in the darkest, coldest days of winter. No matter how hard it is for us to be who we are, to keep the mitzvahs, to keep Shabbat, to keep Kosher, to be ethical, righteous, and have faith in G-d and in ourselves. We have to, because otherwise what is the purpose of being Jewish?

Chanukah 5770 - Kiryat Sefer

Exploring Tel Aviv

Tel Aviv Post coming soon! Until then enjoy the pictures of my trip to Tel Aviv



Some great beach shots. Yes, they have a gym on the beach in Tel Aviv. Yes, there is an older religious guy on the workout bicycle with his kippa. Also there's a guy in mid-flip on the pull-up bar.

My First Real Shabbat

This past weekend was my first Shabbat in Israel. I have never been “shomer Shabbat” (literally ‘guarding Shabbat’ – someone who keeps the mitzvahs of Shabbat), so it was a very new experience for me. I always thought the ‘day of rest’ was just meant for not going to work. I got the part about G-d creating the world in six days and resting on the seventh. The part that I didn’t know was that He sanctified the seventh day, making it the holiest day of the week. It’s meant to be the most spiritual day of the week, when we are closest with G-d. I’m embracing this in my quest for spiritual enrichment; and as such, I’ve decided to try keeping Shabbat while I’m in Israel (at least), and hopefully continue after I leave.

Being in Jerusalem for Shabbat was amazing. The entire city shuts down. Stores close mid-day Friday to prepare for the Friday sundown to Saturday sundown holiday. You can walk down the streets and see cars racing to get home on time, people hurrying around to prepare for Shabbat, everyone wearing their best clothes, all while the rich aromas of Shabbat cooking seep into the streets and leave you with anticipation of the celebration to come. Shabbat is considered a festive day, when a person is freed from the regular labors of everyday life, can contemplate the spiritual aspects of life, and can spend time with family.

I never made time for Shabbat before. I could only think of how unproductive I’d be; how much I’d have to catch up on; all the work, missed calls, and unanswered emails. Though I had no idea what I was missing. It’s amazing how completely unplugging from it all, even for just 24 hours, can change one’s entire outlook on the week. I can only imagine what impact keeping Shabbat might have on one’s entire outlook on life.

Sukkot in Yerushalayem

This is my first time really celebrating Sukkot. I was surprised to realize how little I knew about the holiday. Over eight days Sukkot celebrates the harvest and commemorates the passage through the wilderness. It is a particularly important holiday because we fulfill the important mitzvahs of building a Sukkah (a hut) and the mitvah of eating each meal under it. Throughout the holiday the sukkah becomes the living area of the house, and all meals are eaten in it. On each day of the holiday, members of the household recite a blessing over the Four Spices.

This is my first time really celebrating the holiday. What I am finding particularly meaningful in it is that Sukkot is centered on sanctifying the ordinary. Almost any other day, a meal is just a meal. But during Sukkot, we are completing a mitzvah just by eating our meals in the Sukkah. We even sanctify the water, and all of the sudden something so common becomes holy, with much more spiritual valor than normally. Eating and sleeping in the Sukkah; a make-shift temporary hut (that we each construct), makes you really appreciate what you have while also realizing that our needs are far less demanding than our desires. Simple food, simple drink, and simple shelter for eight days maintain us; and yet beyond the eight days would seem unbearable for most of us; especially considering how privileged and fortunate we are to live comfortably. Yet not only do we stick it out for eight days, we spend each day celebrating with friends and family under the Sukkah. It’s not a time for TVs, cell phones, computers; it’s all about making face time.

Last night all the guys from Machon Shlomo went to Rabbi Sigler’s house to have a Sukkot celebration in his Sukkah. It was a great experience. What came after was even more interesting. A number of us went to Mea Shearim, a neighborhood in Jerusalem that is one of the most ultra-Orthodox Jewish communities in the world. They are a very small population, some of which gets its news from posters pasted along the walls of the quarter (as most people there don’t want to have TVs, radio, or internet). It is often making news in Israel; primarily for their opposition to the actions of the Israeli government.

The below pictures and video are from a huge Sukkot celebration in Mea Shearim.

And this is the video:

What a Welcome!

I arrived into the airport yesterday to see a large Israeli flag planted in the ground outside the airport. I couldn’t help but smile looking at it, as it really sank in for the first time that from that moment forth, I didn’t have anything to be afraid of in being Jewish.

I arrived just in time to catch Sukkot (more on Sukkot later). I walked outside of the airport and I saw a few Orthodox Jews literally running around with the Four Spices of Sukkot (lulav, hadass, aravah, and etrog). Now this was just plain funny. Every time I’ve ever traveled to a foreign country, I saw scammers and dodgy people hanging outside the airport, preying on the tourists. Here I saw Orthodox Jews praying for the tourists. They were running around to people offering them blessings and lending them their Four Spices so they could make the blessings of Sukkot if they so chose. They didn’t want money or anything; they just wanted to welcome people and help people fulfill the mitzvah of saying blessings for the holiday. How about that for culture shock?

I jumped in a sherut and headed for Jerusalem. [Sherut, Hebrew for “service,” is an Israeli collective taxi equivalent to crowding 15 people in an 8-seater van; more accurately described in Turkey, as they call it a dolmuş, meaning “stuffed.”] I arrived at my Yeshiva in Jerusalem, Machon Shlomo, and was welcomed very warmly by my fellow Yeshiva Bochurim. Everyone offered to help me carry my things, get my room set-up and settled in, etc. The one person who couldn’t be there to greet me went so far as to write a thoughtful, one-page note saying he had heard about me and was looking forward to learning together this year. He added an apology for not being able to be there when I arrived. This should give an idea as to the caliber of the guys I am studying with here. All of them are from the US, so having made the trek out themselves they knew exactly what was on my mind: “You must be starved and exhausted.” So my choices were to go pass out or to leave immediately for dinner with a Rabbi in Kiriyat Sefer.

“Wow,” I thought, “I’m not even here 15 minutes and I’m already packing into a sherut and headed to a settlement in the West Bank.” [Sherut, Hebrew for “service,” is an Israeli collective taxi equivalent to crowding 15 people in an 8-seater van; more accurately described in Turkey, as they call it a dolmuş, meaning “stuffed.”]

Since it is the Jewish holiday Sukkot all week, we ate with Rabbi Lessen outside in his sukkah. Besides taking the opportunity to get to know the Rabbi and his family, I had a chance to chat with them a little about living in a settlement. I could tell we were coming from very different worlds. His children were particularly interested in the fact that I spoke Arabic; apparently they rarely meet Arabic speakers. The kids said they were interested in learning. I naively asked, “Don’t you have any Arab friends?” and one of the daughters gave me a petrified look [the type of look I imagine you would get from a flight attendant by saying ‘bomb’ on an airplane].

-Jacob chimed in, “Don’t you realize people here are scared to death of Arabs?”
----I lifted my eyes brows and said, “Do they really think all Arabs are out to kill them?”
-“Yeah, they do. You might have had a different experience because you’ve met Arabs from all over the world. But realize the only Arabs people in the West Bank interact with are the Palestinians throwing stones and blowing up buses.”

I naively thought to myself, “I’m sure people here would be much less afraid of Arabs if they actually met them.” My idealism got the better of me and I suggested to the Rabbi’s young daughter that she make some Arab friends. She seemed genuinely perplexed. She took my advice to heart but wasn’t sure how to act on it. “So I just go to an Arab town and try to make a friend?” –at which point someone interjected, “Whoa! What are you telling her? Are you trying to get her killed?! Now she’s going to think it’s safe to just run around and try to make friends with any Arab.”

I’ve tried to stay far away from the Israel-Palestine debate for as long as I can remember. On my first evening here I received a jolt of realization that there’s no way to avoid it here. At least here I can bypass the intentionally misleading “reporting” that we are hand-fed all over the world (and especially in the US). I am finally going to get a first-hand perspective from both sides and see the truth behind what’s really going on without the veil of the profit-driven, pop-media.

Just the Beginning

I left my country, my birthplace and my home. After a long journey, I arrived in Israel today. I wasn’t ready to leave.

I rushed to get to the airport, only to find that the airlines would delay my flight by 2 hours. The awkward feeling I got from the 2 hour wait in front of the gate was an interesting metaphor for where I’m at right now with my (Jewish) identity. I was wearing jeans and a polo shirt. As a rule I never wear a suit for a long flight unless I’m 99.9% sure that the ‘I look more important than I really am’-look will score me an upgrade to Business Class as it has in the past.

My shirt bore the logo ‘US Embassy Abu Dhabi,’ where I had worked through the State Department four years ago. This is only worth noting because UAE does not recognize Israel’s right to exist and as such does not, for example, allow any maps in the country that do not have Israel crossed off the map—something I noted upon seeing maps, even in the US Embassy in UAE, with Israel crossed-off in pen. A poor choice in shirts to bring to Israel one might say, though very reflective of the fact that I have had more exposure to Arab/Muslim communities than Jewish.

I was carrying a backpack in one hand, my black hat in the other. My attire likely marked me as secular, yet my black hat was undeniably Orthodox. I saw the puzzled looks from the other passengers waiting for the plane. The Orthodox Jews, dressed in black suits with white shirts (along with black hats), saw my hat and looked at me as if to ask where my black suit and white shirt were. The more secular Jews looked at me and eyed the hat, maybe under the assumption that I was holding it for some Orthodox Jew who left for the restroom.
Alas, I answered all these imaginary questions by putting the hat snug on my head. People stared at me for a good 1-2 seconds. Then the moment was over and people went back to being concerned with their own matters. Nobody said anything—until our descent into Israel. Sitting next to me was an older Israeli woman, who was trying to chat with me in Hebrew, to which I smiled, nodded, and said the only Hebrew I knew, “אני לא מבין עברית” (I don’t understand Hebrew). She returned the smile and spoke to me in perfect English, asking what I was doing in Israel.

I informed her that I would be attending a Yeshiva in Jerusalem, to which she replied, after nonchalantly looking me up and down, “You sure don’t look religious to me.” I laughed and told her that I was curious and interested in learning more. She looked at my black hat and said, “Well, at least you’ve got the right hat.” I immediately thought about my black hat story, and everything that has brought me to this point. I chuckled a bit and agreed with her. I watched out the window as we landed into Israel. This is just the beginning.

A New Year’s Resolution from a Closet-Jew: And the Story of the Black Hat.

“We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.”

--T. S. Eliot

I just discovered this quote last month, but I feel like it has been waiting for me my entire life. I’m leaving the country in less than a week. This particular voyage will be far different from my countless adventures around the world in the past eight years. I’m going to Israel for my first time. All my family and friends ask how I've managed to travel all over the world and somehow I've never made it to Israel. So what, right? If I could skillfully articulate why I’m going and what I’ll be doing, the quote and the hype might make a little more sense. Allow me to give it some context.

As Rosh Hashanah approached in mid-September, I already had a New Year’s Resolution in mind. Something simple enough to stay focused on, yet challenging enough that I’d have to work on it throughout the year: come out of the “closet” about being a Jew. In a nutshell, this story is about two things being in the closet, the Jew and the hat. Strangely enough, there’s a great connection between the two.

The Hat in the Closet:
I had a 5th grade project for Ms. Merriman’s class where we had to research our family tree and then do a presentation on the country and heritage of our ancestors. Since my grandmothers were the oldest living link to my past, I tried to get the information from them. Each time I tried asking them what country we were from, they said they didn’t know. I’d give them a hard time for not knowing, insisting that I needed to present on something for my class project. All they could tell me was that our ancestors were all Jewish. But that wasn’t going to help me for my project.
-“I told you dear, we’re Jewish.”
-----“Grandma! That’s not what I asked! What country are we from?”
-“What country? How should I know, we’re Jewish.”
-----“No grandma that’s not good enough! I have to know the country for my class project.”
-“We’re from Russia…or is it Poland?”
-----“What part of Poland?”
-“No wait it’s Germany, that’s right Germany. Or was it Hungary?”
-----“Is it Hungary or Germany, grandma?!”
-“Actually it might be Romania. It can’t be Ukraine, so it must be Romania.”
-----“So we’re from Romania then, grandma?”
-“Well I’m not, but our family is, I think.”
-----“You think? How do you not know what we are?”
-“But I told you, we’re Jewish!”
-----“No that’s not good enough!”
-“What do you mean being Jewish isn’t good enough?”
-----“No grandma, that’s not what I meant. I mean I can’t do a class project on being Jewish. I have to do it on the country of our ancestors.”
-“Oh I see. Well do your project on Russia then.”
-----“Russia? I thought you said Romania?!”
-“Russia, Romania, how do I know. Just pick a country and do your project.”

Shockingly, I had a similar conversation with my other grandmother. So I went to my mother and asked for advice. Knowing that I had to bring in food from the country, and her being the expert baker, she suggested I stick with saying we’re Russian so we could make Russian tea cakes.
-“Mom! I can’t just make up where I’m from!”
-----“Oh please, nobody will know the difference as long as they like the tea cakes.”
And so I became Russian.

By the time I hit middle school the Russian thing wore out. I started embracing my Italian “heritage.” I tried learning some Italian phrases with a computer program (to no avail), and became a chef in an Italian restaurant, after completing some culinary training. Then I discovered the pop culture Italian mafia. Movies like the Godfather, Goodfellas, and the Untouchables, plus the eventual debut of the Sopranos made me fascinated with this sense of community in the Italian mafia. Everyone belongs, everyone takes care of each other, everyone’s significant, and they “don’t take no nonsense from nobody.” This came at a time when the harassment at school continuously escalated for me being ‘the Jew;’ to the point where I couldn’t eat in the cafeteria without the frequent ‘heil Hitler’ salute from bullies.

Still not getting any further information from the grandmothers about our heritage, I began to embrace the ideals of La Cosa Nostra. In 8th grade I even bought a big black fedora to express my new-found heritage. This was my favorite hat in the world. I wore it alone in my room and felt like a million dollars.
The first, and last, day that I ever wore it in public was second semester, 8th grade. I figured if I wore it to school I would command the same type of respect and significance as everyone wearing fedoras in the mafia movies. I was a bit off. To be precise, I was made fun of to the point that I went home and threw the hat in my closet, swearing to never wear it again.

The Jew in the Closet:
I’ve been outwardly ashamed to be a Jew since I was little. It may have started when I was growing up in a Colorado mountain town of about 500 people, where supposedly there were only 3 Jewish families in the entire county (the county being about 10,000 people). Whether in the mountains or in Boulder, where my family later moved, I always felt foreign for being Jewish. Kids were quick to point out that I was in fact different. They teased me for being Jewish, all throughout elementary, middle, and high school; anything from name-calling, to harassment, to threatening me and even physically attacking me.

I never felt a very strong connection with my Jewish identity when I was growing up. It was more of an obligation and a tradition to me more than anything. Since I was always harassed and teased for being Jewish, all through school, I associated it with far more pain than joy. It wasn’t until I went abroad for my first time that I found more importance in my Jewish identity. When I was 17 I went to live in France for a year. I lived with a Christian host family in a town of 1,000 people. I attended a private Catholic High School in a neighboring town. Talk about being the odd-man out!

I never realized how important being Jewish was to me until I was in this entirely new environment. That same year, around 40 synagogues had been burned, bombed, attacked, or destroyed in France. Luckily I found naiveté more often than hatred, where most people thought Judaism to be a branch of Christianity, like Catholicism or Protestantism. I was removed from everything Jewish and anti-Jewish/anti-Semitic, and yet I began to miss it.

My year in France did more than inspire a little bit of Jewish identity. It inspired me to explore more of the world. One year later I found myself teaching English, French, and Portuguese in Ukraine. I had no idea how much anti-Semitic sentiment I would find there. There were swastikas carved in the walls all over my apartment building as well as all over the city.

My students, who did not know I was Jewish, spent an entire class one day talking about how evil Jews are, though they admitted to never having met a Jew before. One student approached me after class and told me she had Jewish friends. She said she really admired Jews and wished she could be Jewish too. I asked why she hadn’t spoken up in class and she said she was afraid the classmates would ostracize her.

I had two colleagues there who still stand out to this day. One was Ukrainian, teaching German, who thought it was hilarious to give me the ‘heil Hitler’ salute every time he saw me. The other colleague had become a good friend. One day he called me to say he needed to speak to me urgently in person. He came over promptly. We moved to my kitchen and he told me he had heard a rumor at work about me being Jewish. He sat me down and said, “We’re friends, I want you to be honest with me. You’re not a Jew are you?” I was blown away. I asked him what difference it would make. He responded that he didn’t have any Jewish friends and didn’t plan on making any. He said that I should have told him I was Jewish when I met him. I asked what that would have changed, to which he responded that if he had known I was Jewish from the beginning, he wouldn’t have wasted time getting to know me; that he wouldn’t have been my friend in the first place.

Somehow I’ve become a magnet to anti-Semitism; death threats in Egypt, prejudices everywhere from Korea to Costa Rica, Brazil to United Arab Emirates. Every country I have been to I have noticed some level of hatred and disdain, particularly when people don’t realize I’m Jewish. Surprisingly this has happened a lot in DC as well.

As you can imagine, these experiences left some deep scars in my Jewish self-image. I quickly found, as I began traveling around the world that anti-Semitism was prevalent everywhere. I noticed this particularly when people assumed I was not Jewish and felt at ease disclosing their true sentiments. All these experiences made it harder and harder for me to “come out” as a Jew, and yet it has made my inner Jewish identity perpetually stronger.

“Outing” the Jew from the Closet:
I have never in my life been somewhere I felt comfortable being Jewish. I always felt like I had to hide it for my safety or comfort. As you can imagine, it was a bit of a shock when I moved to Washington, DC. I saw a Jew wearing his kippa in public and I recall saying to him, “What are you doing wearing that in public? People might know you’re Jewish!” Looking back I realize what kind of damage all of these negative experiences have had on me. I made a resolution to myself to ‘get over it.’ I wanted to become more comfortable with being Jewish. One part of that is learning and understanding more about what it means to be Jewish.

With much hesitation, this past August I went to a Jewish “retreat" to learn more about Judaism. I met some truly amazing, wise, honest, inspirational people who really helped me get a better idea of what it means to be Jewish. I cannot describe how great the environment is. A place where there are no locks on the doors, which not only shows the trust and honesty of everyone there, but stands as a metaphor for all the people I encountered, who show true compassion and concern for each other without the barriers that we as a society are accustomed to.

One person in particular, Rabbi Styne, left a lasting impression with me. He told me stories about how, before studying to become a Rabbi, he too felt embarrassed to be Jewish and tried to hide what he valued most. He didn’t realize the true value until a non-Jew commented on the nobility of traditional Jewish practices and ideals of righteousness, honesty, and compassion for others.

Inwardly I feel like a much stronger, prouder Jew than I have ever been. Outwardly I don’t though, and I never have been. All my horrible experiences in Colorado, DC, and abroad have made me associate being Jewish with this certain and ultimate pain; that if people know I am Jewish, I will be treated differently.

What Rabbi Styne helped me understand is that we will be treated differently regardless; but we have the power to affect how people treat us differently. On one end, I’m plagued by all the prejudices, stereo-types, and hatred that scare me from being outwardly Jewish; with the thought that if people know I’m Jewish they will immediately judge me negatively. But he made this an opportunity for empowerment and said this is the perfect chance to be an “Ambassador of the Jewish people;” to show everyone that real Jews are honest, righteous, compassionate, generous, caring people.

This, combined with my recent exposure to a positive, warm, loving environment of what it really means to be Jewish, has empowered me to be proud of who I am, given me more confidence in being a Jew, and much more curiosity and desire to more-fully understand what it really means to be a Jew.

There’s a common expression, that every time you learn a foreign language, you gain another soul. I believe this to a certain extent. I feel like every time I have learned a new language and have been exposed to a new culture, new people, and new way of life, I have found something within myself that I didn’t know existed before. Out of all the souls I have gained in my life, nothing feels as fitting, as comfortable, and as true to me as my Jewish soul.

With this, I’ve decided to go to Jerusalem for a year to attend a fantastic Yeshiva, Machon Shlomo. With all the crazy adventures I’ve been on, it’s about time for a more spiritual trip. I figured that after all my world travels, learning about many world languages and cultures, it’s about time to learn about my own heritage.

This year in Yeshiva will help me gain a better grounding on my Jewish identity and become a better, more-rounded person. I’m not quite sure what to expect, but I am confident that any school that preaches seeking knowledge, honesty, righteousness, and compassion for everyone regardless of faith or creed, could only be a positive experience. It will also allow me to phase out the distractions and physicalities of “the real world” in order to focus on what is truly meaningful to me.

The Hat, the Jew, and the Closet:
I’ve been fortunate to have exposure to many countries, languages, and cultures. I often think back on the conversations I had years ago with my grandma. For 14 years I have searched desperately to understand where my ancestors were from; to discover my heritage. Recalling my conversations with my grandma, her telling me we’re Jewish, and me telling her that wasn’t good enough; after all these years I’ve finally realized something. I’ve realized that being Jewish is good enough; and not only is it good enough, but it’s great.

After 11 years, I still have that black fedora I bought in middle school. What’s funny is that hat has followed me every where I have gone. Every time I have moved, from one house to another, I have brought it. From Boulder to DC, from dorm to dorm, from apartment to apartment, I still have it in my closet for some reason. For 11 years I didn’t wear it once and yet I brought it with me everywhere I lived and just left it in the closet.

And what’s even funnier about that black fedora hat that has followed me around for 11 years, is that I’ve never found a use for it; just as I’ve never found a use for any of those heritages I attempted to adopt. You might know where I’m going with this. Anyone who has seen Torah Jews (Orthodox Jews) on Shabbat has seen them with their black suits and their black fedoras.

To come full-circle, I bought that black fedora 11 years ago because I thought I found a heritage I could connect with. And by now, I’ve explored every heritage but my own. Throughout all the years, I’ve kept my hat and my heritage in the closet. And now I realize how unique my heritage is, how meaningful it is to me, and how I’ve had the right hat all along, I just never realized it.

“We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.” --T. S. Eliot

I leave October 5 for Israel. See you in Jerusalem.

Shalom,
-Andrew