Wheeee!

Yippee! After weeks of struggling with beaurocracy, red tape, time difference, and so forth, I finally have a schedule for my classes for the coming year. I am taking classes in contract law, criminal law, and tort law (as best I can translate them), and one on different systems of justice. I also have a class on sects of Judaism in the Second Temple Era, picked more or less at random from among the Jewish class requirements.

Doesn't seem like so much, does it? I mean, I have only 22 hours of class a week. I feel as if I either have forgotten to sign up for some kind of class, or else they're really going easy on us in the first semester. Already, my second semester is much busier. But all of the free time is tempting me to maybe apply for a minor.... maybe in Talmud or something?....I shall have to think on this...

Talmud

Well. It's a fascinating discussion, although I must confess that I started spacing out before reading all of it. But the general debate is one in which I have participated bajillions of times. First, to establish my own credentials- I am a female who learns Gemara. Not on-and-off, not in a class, not if it comes up in some properly tanach/mussar setting, but on my own, for fun, doing Daf Yomi, searching for chavrutot. Because I absolutely adore it. And feel that it makes me love G-d and Torah and holiness and sharpens my mind and so on and so forth.

So, what does that mean? Well, for one thing, it means that I don't feel that it's forbidden for women to learn Talmud. Which is at odds with the philosophy of my high school, it should live and be well. (I had one teacher who preferred to bring in sheets with a passage from the Talmud written out, rather than bring in a photocopy of the page, because she preferred that we not get familiar with the format of a daf of gemara. Yeah.) Of course, I have never heard any really good halachic reasons or sources for it to be forbidden, or even frowned upon, but then, if you started giving girls solid halachic reasons, that would sort of destroy the whole point, wouldn't it?

Darn. I am sounding bitter, aren't I? I'm trying not to be bitter here. Because really, from what I know of girls, 95% of them are not suited for learning Gemara. Whether this is natural or acquired through environment would make an interesting discussion, but it lacks, I believe, a nafka mina (useful difference) for this particular case. I am actually pretty much in agreement with the statement that females, as a whole, do not think as logically, factually, or analytically as men. I am willing to believe that they (well, 'we', I suppose. Distancing myself is cheating, isn't it?) are collectively worse at math and science, quite probably at Talmud as well.

Well. And where does that leave me? Shrug. As an anamoly, I guess. One that some people find disturbing and others love to rally around as if I were representative of some far larger trend. Really. When I tell friends that I am doing the daf, there are only three possible reactions, depending on their hashkafic leanings and gender: 1) The sideways glance at another Bais Yaakov friend, with the little amused shrug, translated into "Oh, that Tobie. She's a bit...you know, but it's not nice to start fights about people's beliefs" 2) The MO "right on, girl! you're fighting for all of us! Carry the banner proudly!" that makes me want to roll my eyes and/or run shrieking, 3) the (usually male) patronizing smile that says "A girl who thinks that she learns gemara. Adorable!". Well, actually, there are a few people who just kind of accept it, and those are cool and good people, but they are few and far between.

The point is...there was a point, back there somewhere. Ah, yes. The point is, I think that the gemara argument often presents a false choice: Women can't learn gemara vs. women should all learn gemara. I happen to fall in the middle- the desire and/or ability to learn gemara is rare among females. Those that can, should. Those that can't, they should live and be well.

And just because I learn gemara doesn't mean I want to be a rabbi. Possibly, if I were male, I would become a rabbi. But I'm not and I prefer to think that this was not just an oversight on the part of G-d. And the fact that I won't be a rabbi doesn't really bother me, since I happen to believe that women shouldn't be rabbis, both because the majority may not be able to handle the torah-knowledge requirements and for a variety of other reasons that are really too complicated to get into now.

But the point is, insofar as there is a point, that just because I'm a gemara-learning female doesn't describe my entire hashkafa or personality or anything. It's just something that I do, because I can and I think that I should.

Live Blogging

And speaking of group psychology, fascinating dynamic going on in the computer lab as I type this. One group of Frenchies are not only loudly talking to one another in the otherwise silent lab, but one dude is playing this really annoying, percussiony music out loud (quite loud) instead of using his headphones. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one annoyed by this- people keep clenching their headphones tighter, sighing, or casting the group glances, but nobody has the guts to say anything. I keep planning to, and even planning out the sentences in Hebrew in my head, but it just never seems to happen. I wish that somebody else would say something, which is probably just what everyone else is wishing. But honestly, how jerky can you get? They even left the music blaring when they went outside to do something.

UPDATE: Urg. I may have accidentally done something. As I left the lab, thinking I was done and all, I gave the music player a somewhat severe look. Or rather, I just kind of looked at him hard, thinking that he wouldn't be looking at me and then I could feel smug and admonishing without having to have any moral courage at all. Only he looked back, and then I couldn't look away without feeling stupid, so I ended up giving him a rather long severe look before I left the room. And then I realized I hadn't checked my e-mail so I came back in to check it and I'm not sure what that might have been construed to mean, but anyways, he's stopped playing the music and has at least once given me a possibly severe, possibly guilty look (I can't really tell). What the lesson of this story might be, I wish I knew.

Where to live?

I spent shabbat in Nof Ayalon, a small yishuv affiliated with/attatched to the hesder yeshiva Sha'alvim. In many ways, it's quite the idyllic small town, straight out of a 50's sitcom, with its special Orthodox twist- children wandering the streets in gangs, making up their own fun as they go along; the streets flooding in a single sudden gush when the shul lets out; neighbors whose homes you will wander in and out of; stands where you can hitch a ride without having to worry.

I can't decide whether I could possibly live in a place like that. On one hand, I feel as if it's the sort of childhood that I ought to give my future kids, in terms of innocence and camraderie and nurturing environment and so forth. And certainly, it would place me firmly in a religious setting of my own, where there would be plenty of opportunities and inspiration for shiurim, chesed, and the other sorts of activities that work best in a communal setting.

But even for the single shabbat, I found that it stifled me. Like living there would crush my illusions of individuality. How can you feel like a person when everyone you know goes to the same shul and has the same interests and everyone's kids go to the same school and the same s'nif and have the same beliefs. You come out of shul with everyone else and walk home to your identical shabbat table with the same divrei torah sent home by the same teachers and your children rush off to the same pe'ulot as you clear your identical table and go to take your identical nap.

And it's not just a matter of not feeling unique. It's the very fact of all the homogeneity. What would it be like to spend your entire life among people whose ideology completely coincides with your own? Can what you do even be called thinking after a while, or is it just the communal brain swinging into the obvious, universal conclusion? Never to have your ideas challenged, never to have to accomodate another point of view- couldn't it make your personal conscience shrivel up and die entirely? And even if you were fine, what would it do to your children to never have to struggle with anything they ever thought, to have every idea implanted and reinforced by the fact that everyone they know thinks the same?

I guess the reason that I'm so worried about this is because of last year's anti-disengagement activism, which was so unanimous in certain groups that it seemed nothing short of indoctrination. I mean, does anybody know of a B'nei Akiva kid who supported disengagement? Is such a thing possible? What, I wonder, would have happened to a kid who happened to think that disengagement was a good idea? Would they have been ostracized, pressured, ignored? Or are their minds so thoroughly homogeneous that it would have been impossible for any of them to have thought such a thing? I know that it sounds patronizing to assume that they didn't all just happen to reach the same conclusion, but I don't think that the argument was so one-sided that no reasonable person could have reached a decision opposed to the concensus. And so I get kind of scared when I go to places like this yishuv, where everybody agrees and is friendly and nice and small town and religious (but not the wrong kind of religious) and holds the right views and so forth. Maybe people need constant friction in order to really think, let alone grow.

The Matzav

It wasn't until my second day in Israel that I heard anyone talking about 'the matzav'. (By the way, bit of digression, but there's so emblematically Israeli about that term. Not the war, or the terror, or the problems, but just 'the situation'. As in 'this is the situation that we have to deal with.') And even then it was just Ulpan announcements about the security arrangements, to allay all of us nervous Americans. On Shabbat, there was some talk about the war, the ceasefire, and so forth, but it was mixed in with talk of the craziness of American politics and so forth.

There is no fear. The 'situation' comes up when we are discussing my sister's plans for a summer camp for evacuated families from the north, or discussing why my roommate had to relocate from University of Haifa. There is concern for those that are in danger and sadness over those who are killed, and worry about the whole situation and what is going to be for the country, but I have felt none of the sudden panic that gripped me back in America. As I knew it would be. First of all, because things are insanely safe here in Jerusalem, but also because here is the right place. I am doing what I want to be doing, and I am where I should be.

And that is enough.

Yo

This is not a post, this is an explanation of why you ahve had no posts and why you probably will not in the near future. I got into Israel yesterday and registered for my Ulpan. Talk about a nightmare- four or five straight hours of beaurocracy on absolutely no sleep. And the worst of it is that everyone tells me something different and wants something different and sends me somewhere else for something else that I need but that I can't get without waiting for seven billion bajillion hours and then of course you're not actually in the right room for it and why didn't you mention that you are an Olah and so on and so forth until you really want never ever, ever, ever to see another form in your life, but of course you will since you haven't even begun to do everything that you need to do for your real university or for half the things that the government wants and you're starting to feel a little stressed. I managed to go from starry-eyed crying as we landed in Israel to bored, harrassed, overwhelmed trucalence, full of "okay, b'seder, let's get this done already, mah pitom you are yelling at me, maybe a bit of savlanut, stop yelling at me please" in less than an hour, which I must regard as some sort of a record.

Today, however, was much better. Only two hours of beaurocracy and we actually began the ulpan classes, which are quite awesome, and also I finally made contact with the people I know in this country, which mitigated the feeling of wandering around being lost and confused and so forth. But my computer access is probably going to be limited to the lab, so expect blog posts even less frequently than when I had to wrest it from Mike.

Kol Tuv from the Holy Land.

Ritualization

Argh! I should not be posting, I should be packing, considering as how I am leaving the blinking country in less than three days and have thus far...placed some shirts in one of my suitcases. Not a very good pace, I'm afraid. But I had a blog post sparked in my head yesterday and this is the first time that I've been able to get the computer since then, so here goes:

I listened to an interesting shiur yesterday about the mitzah of keriah and how it has evolved over time. One of the most striking aspects was watching how what we do today is not only different from the original mandated way to perform the mitzah, but even diametrically opposed to the whole point. Example: In the gemara, it says that keriah that is not done in the moment of anguish is not valid. Today, however, we tear keriah not by the death bed nor when we first hear of the loss, but only after the burial, a good day or so later. Example 2: Keriah for parents is supposed to be done with one's own hands. Today, we have somebody else start the tear and then continue it. And this is not even bringing into account the strict halachot of how far to tear and from what direction and so forth (not that I, thank G-d, am in a position to be familiar with those details).

The pretty clear trend in these changes is from spontaneity, an organic expression of grief, to ritualization. Looking even in tanach, we see tearing clothes as an expression of grief, along with putting ashes on the head and so forth. It's a very human, believable gesture- in the throes of grief, you tear at your clothes, seeking... to what? To vent your rage, to express your feelings that everything is nothing, is useless, perhaps even to induce grief if you are in shock. (All of these are, by the way, the explanations for the mitzva of keriah given by the rishonim).

On the other hand, what is keriah nowadays? A carefully planned ritual. At a certain time, somebody comes over with a scissors and makes a small cut, then explains to you exactly how far and where and how to tear. The sentiment- in fact, the purpose- quietly fades away in the flurry of details.

Which is not to say that I oppose details. The halachic system largely consists of taking a general idea and transforming it into a set of specific, sometimes ridiculously detailed instructions. And it is good that it should do so. Nice ideas without details have a habit of evaporating or being transformed into vague mushy-gushiness without any anchorage in reality. Mitzvot without details become pretty hippy rituals- rather like a Tu B'Shvat Seder- full of sweetness and feeling, signifying nothing.

On the other hand, it is a pity when the original organicism of the mitzvah is lost entirely. And, to the degree than it can be avoided, I think it ought. Which brings me to the other thing that was nagging at my mind all through the lecture: I shouldn't be here.

I shouldn't be sitting on a kindergarten chair listening to an interesting halachic dissection of the laws of mourning, or a mussar shmooze about being nice to people. Nor should I be working my way through a book of kinnot, trying to say all of them with some modicum of understanding.

Tisha B'Av is a day to weep. Not to learn, not to pray, not even to become nicer people. Just to weep. If kinnot help you do that, wonderful, but I would suggest that it's more useful to find a couple that really rend your heart and say them slowly, and stop in the middle and cry.

There seems a curious inability to sit and cry on Tisha B'Av. Instead, the day gets filled with this and that, with shiurim and inspirational movies and endless mumbled kinnot. Maybe you pull out a Mo'ed Kattan or hear yet another way of slicing and dicing the Bar Kamtza story. Very nice. But it isn't Tisha B'Av.

And, I mean, I understand why this trend develops. First of all, sitting and crying is hard, not to mention depressing, especially for people who are less given to emotion. But I think that there's a more deep-seated objection. Maybe this is just in my head, but I think that people would see that as a waste of time. 'What's the point of crying? It doesn't make anything better. Go, go to a shiur or a shmooze, become a better person.'

Perhaps a good point, in general, but it's not Tisha B'Av. The whole point of Tisha B'Av is to act simply as a day of mourning, simply as a chance to weep. Not to move on. Nobody tells an that they should move on, that they shouldn't just sit around and cry all day. We don't feel like onenim on Tisha B'Av. But the point of the day is that we should.

And you can see this clearly in the halachot of the day. No torah study, except the sad bits. And personally, I think that the sad bits should be a bit sadder than a fascinating halachic chap on some muddled sugya in Mo'ed Kattan. No tehillim, even skipping bits of davening. No chiyuv, I might add, to say all those kinnot.

But the point of the mitzvah-its actual, emotional soul- has been eaten up by a focus on the details and the rituals, on avoiding what's forbidden and still ignoring the point. I'm not saying that I'm not guilty of it as well. But I do think that it's a pity.

Chicago Tehillim Gathering

A very nice Tehillim gathering this evening to pray for Israel. I am horrible at estimating crowds, but there must have been upwards of 600 people present. Things that I especially liked: having a mincha and a maariv surrounding the tehillim; the wide array of the community that attended-black hats to baseball caps; the misheberach for the IDF; saying Aveinu Malkeinu (I had thought you needed an official fast or something to do that? Apparently not).

The one thing that left me a bit cold- and this is typical of all of these sorts of gatherings- is the mode of saying the tehillim themselves. You know what I mean- one person leading it pasuk by pasuk in that very special cadence stretched and cut to fit the words. I mean, maybe it's just me, but I tend to totally lose my concentration (the split infinitive is hereby acknowledged and ignored) in those breaks when I'm listening to the person leading it. Tehillim is so eloquent and so personal that it feels off to stop and space out between sentences, and trying to pay attention and recapture the same sentiment for the same words twice running is like trying to recite Shakespeare with a horrible stutter. I never quite understood the whole idea of that system, as opposed to saying it all together. Is there any halacha/minhag basis?

But the most powerful feature of the gathering was an announcement that they made at the end. They cited the pretty well known statement that in the war with Midyan, each soldier had a corresponding person back home who prayed and learned for him. What was incredible was the application, which they attributed to Rav Kanievsky. They handed around slips of paper with the names of soldiers who were currently fighting or wounded, and each person took one name. Somehow, this personalization feels a lot more powerful than praying/learning/acting good for the general mass of IDF; now I have one name, of one person, one real flesh-and-blood person for whom I am 'responsible'. Telling myself "Learn for the soldiers" is, for me at least, less effective than saying "Learn for Gideon ben Yehudit." I wonder if there's some way that this could be mass-produced somehow on the J-blogosphere? I'm really not quite sure how it would be, but I think that it would an incredible idea for someone more internet-saavy to try to work out.

Coincidences

Nothing, they say, is a coincidence. It's a platitude so often that it has the ring of a truism, in the beginning of speeches, in casual conversations, implicit in the inspirationalness of a good 70% of inspirational stories. You happen to meet a stranger who ends up knowing your second cousin? Katrina strikes soon after disengagement? Parsha Mattos always falls during the three weeks*? All of them represent some sort of message from Hashem, whether as a specific instruction, a source of potential inspiration, or just a general statement registering His participation in the world.

I hear this quoted so often, in fact, leading into the main gist of some speech or other, than I tend to take it as a given. On further examination, however, this doesn't really tally entirely with my vision on the world. I mean, I believe that G-d is parsimonious in His direct intervention in the world. Indirect intervention is far trickier, but I am personally inclined towards Rambam's vision of Hashgacha. The Rambam maintains that G-d largely leaves the world to its own rules and devices. Hurricanes will, for the most part, hit because of meteorological conditions. Depending on a person's greatness, G-d will intervene in his life more or less, but in general, He stays out of the picture. In other words, coincidences often happen due solely to natural explanations or random fluctuations of chance.

On the other hand, I do not really reject the idea of Divine Intervention. I believe that G-d does have some interaction and direction over the randomness, to whatever degree or however directly. Many coincidences, then, may have some important message.

The problem with this otherwise balanced theory is that I have no way of determining which coincidences are which. It would be nice if one could compose a neat algorithm, based, perhaps, on the odds against this particular confluence of events. But that's mathematically silly and theologically ridiculous. So the most logical way to decide the issue seems to be to evaluate the cost of a miss and that of a false positive and determine the best course accordingly.

Which gives rise to a very interesting insight: This is little to no cost to a false positive, and there may even be some benefit. Because attributing Hashgacha rarely causes anyone to do anything that they wouldn't otherwise. When faced with a coincidence, people tend to interpret events based on their prior convictions. Which is natural, and perfectly logical. So nobody who thought that disengagement was a good idea would possibly say that Katrina must have been a punishment for it. No matter how likely or unlikely they consider the similarities between the events**, it would never occur to them to draw the link. Similarly, those who find a link between the Parsha and the week's events always use them to reinforce and/or inspire towards an ideal they had already had. So "wrongly" assuming coincidence tend to inspire people towards pretty noble goals- better interpersonal relationships, improving their midot, serving Hashem better and so forth.

A miss, on the other hand, has small to large negative. At best, you fail to be inspired towards the noble goals that you would otherwise attain. At worst, G-d has to continue to send more and more harsh messages to shape up until you get the hint.

Based on this analysis, I think I would come to the more complicated conclusion, "Many things may very well be a coincidence, but it may not be morally useful to believe so." It seems, I will admit, somewhat disingenuous, but I have very little problem lying to myself, as long as I know that I'm doing it. Or, to sound moderately less split-personality, I am willing to assume everything is Hashgacha in order to get myself to become better, as long as I do not let it murk up my theology.

This may not, in fact, be the best system. Perhaps it would be better for me to totally lose the theology that alerts me to the possibility of coincidence, so that I will be more likely to fall for my own attributions and thus be more inspired. Or perhaps it is disingenuous to suck false inspiration from anything and I should just be inspired by good old fortitude. Be that as it may. I find myself unable to fool myself any more than I do and unwilling to fool myelf any less.

*If you want to call this a coincidence instead of presuming some prior planning by the calender makers or some supernatural aura/power corresponding to certain times of the year
**This example, by the way, is based off of an e-mail that went around just after Katrina explaining it as punishment for America for pushing disengagement, as proven by the fact that it struck Condaleeza Rice's home state and other uncanny similarities

This Time, Last Year

Israel sure finds a way to keep us busy during the Three Weeks, doesn't she? This time last year, I was listening to speeches analyzing the halachic status of the disengagement, explaining my refusal to wear any sort of wristband, and praying that Israel wouldn't have her first civil war. This year, we are all kept busy tracking Israel through the first real war in over a decade and trying to decide whether or not we would prefer it to erupt into a region-wide conflict.

Bit of a microcosm of there, the two extremes of a nation's troubles- civil war on one hand, violent conflict on the other- and at the same time, the two faces of Israel's foreign policy- concessions to win peace and war to fend off those who ignore concessions.

I suppose that could be a lovely transition into a post attacking disengagement, but I was never really into antidisengagementarianism. What strikes me about the two periods is the contrast in attitude.

Last year, I can remember only a deep sick sort of fear in my stomach. I was actually and truly terrified that this was a defining moment in Jewish history, a literal second chance at the whole sinat chinam/feuding factions thing, and I thought that we just might fail it. Hearing the news made me nauseous, to say nothing of the nastier sort of rumors and vitriol (Sharon starting the disengagement to avoid being indicted and so forth). And to make matters worse, I didn't know how I stood on the whole matter. I saw a lot with which I sympathized on both sides, and a lot that really appalled me.

Compared to that, this year is a psychological cakewalk. Good old-fashioned war, with all its clarity. No guilt, no indecision, no moral qualms. It's very odd. Last year's crisis did not end up involving any deaths, but it somehow terrified me much more than a barrage of missiles. I mean, maybe it's just because I don't actually live there, don't have to face the consequences of real war, while the moral conflict reached its fingers into my friends and community. But I think it's more than that. I have a strong, perhaps irrational, faith in Israel's ability to handle any war. Give us a target, give us something tangible to shoot at, and I'm not worried about Israel's future. Internal strife is more frightening, more elusive, something we have to fight with the less sturdy tools of propoganda, philosophy, and maturity. A war is just a war, an almost welcome chance to sort things out, while a huge protest movement is, well, a mess. It seems silly to be grateful for a war, but this year's crisis is something that I know that our nations, strong in its unity, having survived her most terrible danger, is well equipped to face.

Top Ten Reasons I am Making Aliyah

I am sick of my own unbelievable mushiness when it comes to aliya. So...these are the real reasons for the decision, aided and abetted by Mike, who is not making aliya, really.

10)Funny colored money- it feels so fake that it's fun to over-spend.
9) I heard that there are people who are going to give free drives to the Mediterranean? And I love going to the beach!
8) America is being run by a cabal of Jewish conspirators.
7) Everybody speaks English.
6) Being overdrawn isn't an embarressment, it's a national pasttime.
5) Jordanian TV
4) Well, Israel certainly needs another lawyer.
3) So much closer to the culture, excitement, and beauty of the Paris of the Middle East.
2) No extradition treaties and no death penalty (heh, heh)
1) Well, I've heard that once all the Jews get there, they can all be wiped out and Messiah can come. And who doesn't want Messiah to come? Again.

What's our Edge?

Throughout my Western Civ class the past year- which is really a "History of Christianity" class in essence- and throughout the current ongoing war with crazy Islamists, I have been struck by the following question: "How was Judaism able to escape all this mess?" Judaism, for all of its flaws, has never really been guilty of anything approaching Jihad or Crusades, never, for all of its fundamentalism, lapsed into the hard-core evilness that seems to haunt most religions. I have actually pondered the question for a couple of days now and have attempted to compile a list of every possible answer of which I can think, in no particular order.

1) The Blessing of Weakness- Judaism has never been a dominant power, never had a chance to enforce their rule with steel. There are few things more conducive to favoring the weak than being the weak, and few things more likely to discourage oppression than inability to oppress. In fact, this could in some way be the point of Galut- keeping us from the corruption of power until we have figured out basically how to be civilized, with the advantage of being able to learn from everyone else's struggles.

2) Been there, done that- My question excludes the earliest part of Jewish history, which is pretty rife with wars and killing, because I tend to think that everyone in that time was just as bad and one could hardly expect one tribe to suddenly jump to some sort of 21st century Western morality. It would have been as impossible as it would be suicidal. But it's possible that our religion got such an early start that we got over that stage before anyone knew better. I don't particularly like this answer, but I can't articulate an exact objection.

3) Stupid Question- The question itself is based on a false premise, ignoring evils that Judaism has committed or looking at only a small slice of all of history. Of course, I don't think that this is true, but then, the objection is based on my own ignorance and is thus going to be circular and so forth.

3a)Define Evil- Or else Judaism has the advantage of defining what is "evil". Perhaps Judaism has never lapsed into evil because they get to pick what evil is. I don't buy this one either. Firstly, Judaism doesn't define evil in the Western world. Christianity does, and Christianity has done plenty of things that they and others will freely label as evil. Secondly, I think that the definitions of evil that I am using- wanton murder of innocents, for example- are pretty well acknowledged among the general population. But of course, I would be fooled by my own indoctrination, so I can't evaluate this one either.

4)Inherent Advantage- It may not be PC, but there's a definite possibility that our religion turns out less evil results because it's better. I don't think that's a complete explanation, because no religion can be so wonderful as to preclude misinterpretation, because that would eliminate free will. And, objectively, I can see tons and tons of things in the Torah and later sources that would have been excellent fuel for Jihadists, from Amalek to some of the more interesting civil wars. Thank G-d, we have never really been swept up by people pushing these interpretations, but that doesn't mean that the fuel isn't there.

5) The Jews- My brother's- Jews are "a stiff-necked nation." It would be physically impossible to get them to unite around any one goal, except for self-defense. The Jewish nation, as a united whole, lasted for 80 years (with three rebellions)- hardly enough time to start any sort of crusade.

6) Flexible Interpretation- My pet theory. A talk radio host was bullying a Muslem caller into admitting that if he was convinced that his religion really did call for killing people, he would do it. I wondered out-loud whether I wouldn't have to say the same, and then came to the conclusion that "If Jews were ever really convinced that the Torah really did call for doing something that immoral, we would find another way to interpret it." Intellectually dishonest on the surface, but it may just be the soul of Judaism. The halachic system, as it was formed or as it evolved, makes us partners in creating our moral code, which gives us the liberty to use conscience as an interpretative tool. Again, it may be cheating, but then again, I look at it this way: My moral sense and legal code are both Divine. If there seems to be a contradiction, then one or the other has to be tweaked so that they can match, just as I'd try to resolve an apparent contradiction between two p'sukim. And the law is usually a lot easier to tweak.

The reason I love the last theory so much is that I think that the halachic process and its human-centricness is the most awesomely cool thing about Judaism and I would very much like it to be our saving grace as well. But I am open for other explanations, or better arguments for any of the above.

Third Time's the Charm?

My brother has risen once more from the dead, just as we were all starting to ask ourselves whether those dry bones could ever live again. I must say, this one is definitely my favorite so far, with one excellent post already and absolutely no mention of baseball. And I feel obliged to offer it all of my best wishes since I was an instrumental part in killing his last one, by agreeing to guest post while he was in Israel and then failing to do so.

A Short, Uncharitable Rant

First of all, let me apologize for the previous post. The sappiness of it overwhelmed almost before I had finished posting it, but I can't afford to delete anything that I spent precious computer time writing.

And on to the rant of the evening. I just got back from a shiur for alumnae of my high school. It was a wonderful shiur, it really was. Not boring at all, and very full of lovely, surprising pro-Israel sentiment. Trotting out all of the traditional lines- "He who lives outside of Israel, it is as if he serves idols", "Ramban says it's a mitzvah d'orayta to live in Israel", roundly criticizing Reuven and Gad for choosing wealth over living in Israel, and so on and so forth. Really, it was wonderful.

But it still rubbed me just a bit the wrong way. I'm afraid that I am sick and tired of hearing my American teachers and rabbis lecture about the holiness and necessity of living in Israel. "Yes, inspiring, wonderful, great idea. Why don't you go for it?"

Or all the people who go up to me and congratulate me on my aliya. "You're so lucky," they say. "Take me with you," they say. "I wish I could join you," they say. Well, you know what? There's no immigration quota. You want, you can spend a couple of weeks filling out paperwork and you can go too.

And yes, I know that I am being smug and unfair and self-righteous. I know that making aliya is not simple or fun, and for many it may well be unwise or impossible. I know that I spent seminary being annoyed at the people who thought that every Zionist in American was a hypocrite for not moving there. I know that there are plenty of good reasons for staying here. I know that I am only making it due to a tremendously large amount of good fortune and help from above.

But still. I mean, still. One of the main reasons that I decided to go for it was that I didn't want to spend the rest of my life being one of those people. That I would have always felt like a bit of a failure if I never made it to fulfilling something that I believe is so important. That I would not be able to stand becoming one of those people who lecture others about the paramount importance of something that you can't do. Or forever being jealous of others for being able to do something that I just could never manage.

I don't address this mainly to the people with families and untransferable jobs or anything, I mean my peers who are just starting to plan out their lives and just say that "someday they hope to make it to Israel." Someday often never happens. And I know that this is hypocritical, because until six months ago, I was saying the exact same thing- "someday", "after college", "definitely in my plans". But- if you really mean it, if you want it to happen, then you have to do it. Just go for it. Not someday, not 'I wish'. And certainly not 'It is morally mandatory. For all of you."

I was sitting on the train yesterday, feeling rather smug. And for good reason. There are few things more conducive to smugness than going from a pro-Israel rally to the Israeli consulate to submit your application for an Oleh's visa- a feeling that you alone, of all the people around you, are really supportive of Israel- you alone are really brave and idealistic and all that sort of junk. And most of all, the feeling that you alone doing something for the country- giving her the rest of your life, and so forth.

Anyway, just about the time that the wry internal editor was starting to get sardonic on the whole smugness thing, the woman behind me, who had been holding a deafening cell phone conversation behind me, shouted "It's not me that owes you! It's you that owes me!"

Thank you, Hashem. Sometimes it does not pay to be subtle, eh?

Well, but nonetheless, it's true. How dare I feel smug for moving to Israel? Do I honestly think that Israel is breathing a sigh of relief and saying, "Well, now all of our troubles are over. Tobie is on her way." Or even if we will allow that my presence may make some small positive difference to Israel, how can I imagine that this comes close to the good that Israel is doing for me?

I am not doing Israel any favors. Quite the contrary. I am giving Israel what? Some tax money, a couple of more figures for her demographics? And she is giving me...everything.

But the point of this post is not merely to act as a forum for my uninteresting personal revelations. I think that, in some sense, many of us may secretly be feeling the same smugness- attending our rallies, saying our prayers, calling our congressman. "Israel, don't worry, here we are." And our actions are, of course, commendable, and I suppose we have the right to feel good about doing them. But let's not forget for a second that Israel gives us more than we could ever give her.

As Americans, she is a friend in a truly messed-up region, one of our only real allies, and a useful canary in the mineshaft. As Jews, she is our heart, our hopes, our inspiration. She doesn't owe us anything; it's we who owe her.

The Chicago Rally

Blogging real events? Instead of random sentiments? What, Tobie? But yet I feel a certain obligation to record the events of the pro-Israel rally that took place today in Chicago.

First of all, the day was swelteringly hot. Heat index of over one hundred. The organizers (Jewish Federation, I think) were surprisingly well-prepared, handing out water bottles throughout the event, although I don't know if any got to the people in the back of the crowd. My family, because we came a few minutes late, ended up getting incredibly good spots, off to the side of the podium, but right in the front, so that we could see and hear the entire event.

The rally began with the singing of HaTikva and the Star-Spangled Banner. There were a series of politicians who spoke- Congressman Mark Kirk and Judy Baar Topinka, as well as a couple of State Senators. The entire event was very frum friendly- opening with a prayer (Misheberach for Chayalim), reciting Tehillim, and with all the songs led by a male singer, no accompaniment. They also had a couple of teenagers read the names of the killed- very powerful.

The most funny thing about the whole event was the counter-rally across the street- 75 people to our 5000. (Actually, I heard that they had scheduled first and this whole event was just thrown together to counter them. But in any case, we blew them out of the water. Hands down.) They were quite a dedicated lot, but then, they were doing the more fun kind of rally- inane chants and so forth. They kept trying to counter what the speakers were saying or to drown them out. It was actually hilarious to listen to them trying to draw the speakers into some sort of debate, and just getting totally ignored. But it wouldn't really have been much of a debate, since they were given to ridiculous slogans- if a speaker mentioned the Holocaust, they shouted back "Israel is the one causing the Holocaust!" Other gems included "Get out of Lebanon!" (what?) "Racist, go home!", "Stop killing children!", and of course "What do we want? Israel out! When do we want it? Now!"

It was actually fascinating to see the contrasts between the two events. As usual, the organizers handed out Israeli and American flags as a pair; I did not see a single American flag on their side of the street. Our rally was an organized bill of speakers, cheered intermitantly; theirs was a stream of slogans. Our side cheered or shifted silently when the war in Iraq was mentioned; theirs flaunted signs "Get out of Iraq" and had a sizable delegation of Not In My Name-ers. Our side had a large cross-section of population, including a lot of children; theirs was the traditional twenty something protesters.

One other special thing about this rally was the feeling among the crowd. I've been to plenty of Israel rallies, but there was a sense of camraderie today that I don't think I've sensed before. We did not only cheer speakers, but shouted "Yeah!" and comments; we passed water around and looked out for another. The man behind us mentioned that he was going to visit Israel in two weeks, and everyone around him murmured approvingly; later, somebody next to us complimented me on my whoop (I must say, I have a marvelous whoop/scream. And I get to use it so rarely that I really do enjoy trotting it out on occasions like this.) There was a palpable sense that today we were all one, standing with Israel, making our voices heard.

My Reaction

I normally don't post about world events because I don't have anything particularly useful, intelligent, or original to say about them. The blogsphere contains dozens of people expressing their opinions on crucial world events, and most of them are more informed and articulate than I am. With regards to the recent events in Israel, however, I think I might have something of a unique perspective.

I have the perspective of someone who is (G-d willing) making aliya in a month.

And I have a confession to make, as well. I was scared for the first time yesterday. That is, not just scared for Israel- the impartial fear that any American can and does feel- nor scared for loved ones in danger. I was scared for myself, moving to a country that seems to be on the brink of war.

My relatives have always thought that my family was insane for visiting Israel, much less sending their children to live there. One aunt or great-aunt told my mother that she was a horrible mother for putting us into that kind of danger. I'm used to floating around family gatherings, blithely spouting platitudes about how safe Israel really is (more likely to die in a car accident, etc), about how normal life really was, or, when I was feeling more self-righteous, about how I would be willing to die doing something I really believed in, about how you couldn't let fear stop you from doing what you knew was right.

Which is very easy to say when deep down, where you hide gut feelings, you aren't scared at all, because you know that very few people are killed and, furthermore, know for a fact that it won't be you. Because...it won't be. Because it's something that happens to people whom you later hear about in news reports.

And I felt the same way the whole year I spent there. I was aided by the fact that it was a pretty safe year. Terrorist attacks were infrequent and most of our political-thought time was spent on opposing the disengagement or worrying about civil war.

But sitting here now, listening to radio shows and news reports and all the thousands of blogs hashing and rehashing, debating and analyzing, worrying and reassuring, calling to action and critiquing, and going on and on and on...

I wish that I were there. I wish that I were already there, where I could walk outside and see how normal my life was, where I could take buses and watch the people milling about their daily lives. Where my fear would be the fear of every single one of my neighbors, and I could join them in facing it, shrugging it off, and moving on. Where I could bury my face against a building and remember that it was all worth it.

But this... it's like sitting outside an operating room. You don't know what's going on or how things are going, but every few minutes a couple of doctors come out and give hair-raising, conflicting, and vague descriptions of a loved one's surgery. And then twenty or thirty strangers sitting around you begin to analyze what that means and what will happen, and to critique the doctors' techniques, worrying that they might cause further harm. And you sit there, suddenly scared, and want to just push open the doors and come inside and sit beside the operating table, so that you'd be able to watch and be there as it happens. And maybe even help.

When I decided to make aliya, I had a very definite picture of the country I was choosing. And, to be honest, my decision wasn't particularly heroic. I knew what I was getting, and it wasn't a very scary place. But now it is. Not that I think that I am likely to be killed or anything like that, but living in a war zone is a tense, unpleasant sort of experience and it wasn't quite what I had thought I was bargaining for.

But in a way, I'm sort of glad that the fear finally managed to get through. Because it gives me a chance to test all those platitudes that I have so often mouthed. And it turns out that they seem to be true. Because I still can't wait to get there.

My Fourth

(Mike suggested that I not post this until after the Fourth of July was over, and then enforced his suggestion by refusing to let me use the computer all day.)

There is nothing quite like celebrating the Fourth of July as a soon-to-be emigrant. It makes you feel like a bit of a fake. Explaining the meaning of the holiday to my nephews, waving a flag at the people who march by in the parade, even ranting about the little girl who for some incomprehensible reason is wearing a shirt with a blinking Union Jack on it- the zest for all of them feels a bit ashy in the mouth when you realize that in a month, you'll be leaving the country for another.

Of course, it wouldn't be so bad if the only thing going were a religious question. But I'm not just going to Israel because I happen to think that it's obligatory. I'm like one of those stupid, ridiculous heroines who is being courted by a sturdy, reliable, responsible, wealthy, and all-around suitable gentleman, but nonetheless gives her heart to the handsome, though impecunious, poet, leaving the more worthy suitor with only a warm, sororital feeling

I love Israel. I love it intestinally and automatically, with a native's wry fondness for its foibles. I love it irrationally and irrevocably, so that even after a year, I would stop sometimes in the streets and feel its liquid air purr into my lungs.

And as for America? I'm proud of it. I think that it is quite possibly the greatest nation on earth. It is certainly the best governed and has championed some of the most noble causes. I am grateful to G-d for giving it to us and to America for existing. But when I see the flag, I feel none of the sudden tightness in my stomach or foolish fondness; I curtsey to it politely and tell it that I am most grateful, sir, for your attentions, then disengage my hand and slip away. I would never think to kiss its dirt, or cry when I spot it through an airplane window. Even were it to retain my citizenship, my taxes, my support and participation, I don't think that I would ever fall in love. And now, on a completely different note, but far too good to pass up the opportunity to quote one of my favorite comedy sketches, a clip from Bits of Fry and Laurie, a British comedy team:

My Anniversary

I began this blog one year ago, inspired by my eldest sister and with an entirely unreasonable set of expectations. For those of you too lazy to click on the link, this was my first post:

I don't think that I really need to have a blog. Nobody does, of course, it's supposed to be some kind of a hobby, but I'm already part of a blog for my family, so I don't really need a new forum to rant on, so the blame for this blog can only be placed on my sister.
A couple of days ago, we were discussing what on earth I'm going to major in during college. One of the possibilities that came up (actually, she was bringing up possibilities and I was explaining why I could never go into them) was English, but I pointed out the fact that this is the kind of thing that it's easy to major in, but very very hard to earn money in unless one has actual talent, which I'm not sure I do. So she said that I should create a blog as a writing forum to see if A) I enjoy writing something semi-daily and B) if anyone else finds it interesting enough to actually read. So far I can handle A) (Well, it's only been one post) and I have serious doubts as to B), but at least I tried.

Fascinating stuff. On one hand, we already see many elements that will later rise to the fore: the style that is a curious cross of pompous and awkwardly chatty; the paranthesis that go nowhere and do nothing but interrupt the flow of the sentence (like this one, for example); the long, confusing sentences; the wry, self-denigating tone that you can tell is just waiting to hear a chorus of voices to shout contradicting praises; the inability to find a good way to end. On the other hand (to coin a cliche), we have all of the elements that I can now, from the lofty vantage point of my superior age, look back upon and smile fondly but wryly about the naivete: the struggle to figure out what I want to be when I grow up; the charming notion that I would actually post on a semi-daily basis; and, somewhat latent, the idealistic, unrealistic idea that I would start posting and suddenly, hundreds of people would come flocking to hear the brilliance of my words.

And, of course, the content has radically shifted as well. At the very beginning, my posts were cuttingly witty (I hope you can hear the sardonicness there. There should be some universal text symbol for dry sarcasm, the way that italics give emphasis and smileys joy). The topics ranged from a parody on the Lorax (by far, my most popular post) to critiques of books and movies. I still rather favor that genre, but find that I can't keep up the necessary levels of annoyance or think of sufficient suitable sources.

Already by July, we can see how my true blog nature will arise- apologizing for not posting for months and summarizing uninteresting aspects of my daily life for general consumption. Things only got more so from there. Soon enough, we faded into vague reflections on random subjects, mixed with banal anecdotes from my life from which those reflections might be spawned. And then came the sappiness.

I must admit, I was totally unprepared for the sappiness. I am not, in my daily life, anything like a sappy person. I have probably told this blog more of my personal feelings than I have told most of friends and family. I blame the diary/confessional feel of the whole thing, although it may also be a sampling error- philosophic or sappy things are easier to write, and easier to keep interested in until you post.

Well, this is a longer than average blogversary (what is with that anyway? What, you add blog to a word and now it's all cool? And anyway, the 'anni' bit means year, so 'blogversary' is absolutely meaningless, in an anneversarial sense) post, but I've neglected things for so long and have a clear run of the computer for a bit. Will the blog survive another year? It's an interesting question. At times, I doubt it, as my interest in the blog wanes and seems to die. But then again, if the blog died all the times that I assumed that it would, it would have to be a cat to still be here. (That was such a messed up sentence. Piece of advice- never, ever trap yourself in a phrase that you're not sure how to end, and then be too lazy to go back and try to revamp it into something that doesn't paint you into a corner.) But here it still is, and I, for one, am still enjoying it.

My Disapproval

(This 'My' Stuff is getting harder and harder every time)

Just a short incident from today's visit to Kiddieland: A woman tries to board a mini-roller coaster with a daughter and two little kids. The woman running the place says that the kids both need to sit with the mother, since she's the only adult. The mother turns to her and says, in a falsely casual voice, "Oh, you know that my daughter is 16?" "Really?" replies the woman, "because she went on a ride earlier and she told me that she was 11." (The girl, quite clearly, is 11.) The mother is thrown off-balance only for a moment. She snaps at her children to get on the ride and then turns to the woman and hisses in an undertone, "She's fibbing. I don't know why she said that."

Perhaps I'm just a self-righteous busybody, but I was majorly offended. Even if one is going to lie for convenience, how dare they blame their children for not doing the same? How dare she call her daughter a "fibber" for having the moral decency not to lie? To be fair, she didn't seem really angry at her daugher afterwards and she was probably just shocked at being caught in a lie (and such a very obvious lie, too), but nonetheless. Nonetheless.