TRAVELS THROUGH MY IDENTITY
As I toured through
Israel a few years ago, especially as I sat on buses watching people
come in, I noticed my sense of immediate connection and kinship with
every dark-skinned person. The American term "people of color" and its
construct are quite interesting to someone like me.
At an anti-racism conference a few months ago, I reflected on the fact
that my identity and sense of full connection had been with Jews of
color, whereas I felt no initial connection with, even initial hostility
towards, non-Jews of color - especially African-Americans. After that
workshop, I began experimenting: When I saw people of color on the street,
I pretended they were Jews. Each time, there was an immediate, dramatic
shift in my attitude. I suddenly felt warm and friendly towards whomever
I had seen. I suddenly felt very connected, as if that person was family.
At the anti-racism workshop, I realized that in the United States, skin
color is a primary factor in determining who has privilege and power
in society. As such, progressive Americans are used to looking at models
of power through this filter of "color." In other parts of the world,
however, skin color is not necessarily a factor in constructing power
relations.
My own consciousness, I became aware, had been based on a Middle Eastern
model - specifically Iraqi - where everyone was more or less the same
brown skin color; and power was determined along Muslim, Christian,
and Jewish lines. In Iraq, Muslim people of color held the political,
educational, and economic power and barred Jewish people of color from
access to it. Muslim people of color harassed, kidnapped, raped, tortured,
and murdered Jews of color. Muslim people of color declared Jewish people
of color to be "dhimmis" - inferior people - and created discriminatory
laws around this belief.
In addition, I was very conscious of the discrimination Jews faced in
Ethiopia, Mexico, and Latin America. To varying degrees in these countries
as well, non-Jewish people of color persecuted Jews of color. Skin color
was not necessarily a major factor of power and oppression, in places
where being a Jew or non-Jew was.
The primary legacy of oppression I inherited from my family and community
thus was around Jewish identity, not around "person of color" identity.
Although my family and I experienced racism and oppression from Ashkenazim
in Israel and the United States, that persecution was towards our heritage,
not our very lives. With this background, my primary identity was as
a Jew, and my struggle against racism existed specifically within that
Jewish context.
A factor I am sure contributed to my personal perspective was that though
I have Mediterranean features, I come from a mixed heritage family -
I am half-Iraqi and half-Welsh/Danish/Irish mix; and so my skin is light.
As such, just walking down the streets in San Francisco, I did not receive
harassment that I know darker-skinned people received. Perhaps if I
did, I would have felt more of an immediate sense of kinship with non-Jewish
people of color.
In the general American world, however, nobody particularly cared one
way or another about my Iraqi identity, since it was not so obvious
on my skin. My Jewish identity was the issue; and as an "out" Jew, I
was the target of anti-Semitism. It was almost exclusively within the
Jewish world that I was a target of racism.
In the Jewish world, skin color always was an obvious factor of discrimination
against Mizrahim/Sephardim. It did not, however, seem to be the primary
factor. Whether one was Ashkenazi or not seemed more important. Light-skinned
or dark-skinned, if one was not Ashkenazi; if one identified strongly
as Mizrahi/Sephardi, s/he automatically might be treated as backwards,
primitive, uneducated, and less valid of a Jew.
The darker one's color, the more exacerbated the problems could become;
the less one could "pass" as Ashkenazi. Primarily, however, the issue
was whether one's family was from Poland/Russia/Germany or Portugal/Syria/Morocco.
Accordingly, though the Jewish side of my family was dark-skinned, I
related to skin color not as an identity and issue in and of itself;
rather, I saw it as an indication of common Jewish identity and heritage
- and only therefore, of struggle.
Growing up, most of my friends were non-Jewish people of color. I identified
with them not specifically as a person of color, but as a Jew - as a
fellow "minority" group member in America, struggling against a common
White Anglo-Saxon Protestant steamroller out to quash our respective
heritages. With the rise, however, the Nation of Islam and anti-Israel
sentiment in the name of anti-racist activism, I felt increasingly attacked
by and therefore alienated from non-Jewish people of color.
Framing Arab-Israel relations around a model of supposedly white Europeans
(Jews/Israel) oppressing third world people of color (Palestinians/Arab
states), I found activist groups for people of color to be increasingly
hostile towards Israel and Jewish identity, in the name of being against
racism and European colonialism. In these circles, I thus felt pressure
to check my pro-Israel Jewish identity at the door. I felt I would be
accepted only if I stressed my Iraqi self, without revealing the fact
that this Iraqi self was a Jew.
I felt especially attacked by African-American groups, where Farrakhan
and his followers were increasingly popular and Jew-hatred was on the
rise. I thus separated myself from the African-American community during
college, after experiencing direct clashes with black student groups
that dripped with such hatred.
As a result of experiencing the hostility many non-Jewish people of
color had towards my Jewish identity, I in turn developed mistrust of
and hostility towards non-Jewish people of color. In those groups where
being Jewish was framed as being inherently evil, I was not willing
to connect on any other points of commonalty; I refused to sneak in
my Jewish identity through the side door of being Iraqi. My primary
identity was as a Jew, and I demanded to be accepted with my Jewishness,
the same way I accepted others with their own self-identity.
Over the years, as I became increasingly alienated from non-Jewish people
of color, and as racial awareness and tensions escalated in the States,
I became hyper-sensitive to issues of race and where other people's
lines of alliance are drawn. I began assuming that non-Jewish people
of color automatically would judge me as a "white girl," based on my
skin shade, and thus would feel hostility towards and mistrust of me.
Whether or not individual people of color actually did view any of our
interactions through a racialized lens, I was so sensitive to the possibility
they did, that I did it myself.
And so I have lived my life in a strange gap between American constructs
of "white" and "person of color," between my lines and definitions and
those of other people, between my family's history and today's reality.
All these definitions and divisions came to a head at the first feminist
conference for African and Middle Eastern Jewish women, in Israel a
few years ago, where I was able to explore exactly what all the terms
mean to me, where I draw which lines, and where I stand today.
***
It was Shbu'oth (holy day celebrating receiving of the Jewish Bible).
I traveled up from Eilat to spend it in Jerusalem. I had the option
of going to a free Jewish youth hostel in the old city. The hostel managers
set up travelers with families, for Shabbat and holidays. But it was
hopelessly Ashkenazi. And ultra-orthodox. It was out of the question.
I went to a pricey youth hostel in the new city, with the hopes of finding
a Mizrahi synagogue and getting invited by someone there for kiddush.
The youth hostel staff had no idea where to find a Mizrahi synagogue.
They refered me to the "Great Synagogue" of Jerusalem, which by "general
Jewish" default was Ashkenazi. I left the hostel and begin searching
by foot for a synagogue that was Mizrahi.
I bought ice cream from a store with a dark-skinned owner who wore a
kippah. I assumed he was Mizrahi and asked about Mizrahi synagogue options.
He refered me to the Great Synagogue. "No," I said, "I want a Mizrahi
synagogue." This man reeked with ethnic shame, unable to fathom a stranger
who would prefer anything Mizrahi. He finally told me of a Kurdish synagogue
only two blocks away from the youth hostel. I was in luck!
I was very excited. I did not know much about Kurdish Jews. I knew they
were close geographically to Iraqi Jews, but I wondered if their traditions
were similar. I couldn't wait to find out.
Sunset came. I walked to the synagogue in my all-purpose travel dress.
I had trouble finding the synagogue, though I had scoped it out during
the afternoon. Finally, I found the entrance. There was a separate entrance
for women and men. Uh, oh. Not promising...I entered the women's section
and felt disgust. It was a room behind where the men were praying. There
were a total of four window holes cut out, with curtains covering the
openings.
I was pissed.
I shoved one of the curtains aside and sat hanging over the window sill.
Any joy I could have gotten from the prayers was clouded over by the
rage I felt. I had come all the way to Jerusalem to ensure I would be
in the Jewish center for the holy day. I had shelled out money I had
been conserving so well, to ensure I could be with other Mizrahi Jews.
I had foresaken being set up with a definite place to say kiddush. I
had foresaken enjoying free food during a time when all stores were
closed for the holiday. For what? To be dishonored in this way?
Services ended. Nobody said as much as a hello to me. Nobody invited
me anywhere. I askd one of the women if we would be saying kiddush in
the synagogue. Hint, hint. "No," she said. Period, end of discussion.
I left.
Depressed, I wandered around for a while, then ironically decided to
go to the Great Synagogue. I met a friendly, formerly American family
along the way, and we sat together during services. We walked back together,
and I hoped to be invited for kiddush. But it turned out they were staying
in the King David Hotel, participating in the hotel-sponsored ceremony.
Not for people staying down the street. I gave up and returned to my
youth hostel, saying kiddush as best as possible over the boxed juice
and pita I had gotten from the souk during the afternoon.
***
The second day of Shbuoth, I hung out with Alex, one of the staff members
at the youth hostel. He was one of the few young Israeli men I had met
who seemed sweet and gentle. What more, he had not immediately sexualized
me, which was a welcome relief.
Alex was a Russian immigrant, and we spoke in Hebrew with our mutual
accents. Our conversation drifted to the issue of sexual harassment
on the streets. "It's because of all the Moroccans here," he told me,
unaware of my ethnic identity. "It's because they are less intelligent
that they behave this way. In Russia, this would never happen."
Interestingly enough, only three nights earlier in Eilat, I was in a
physical fight with a young Russian security guard who had harassed
me. I verbally pounced on Alex like a tiger, calling him racist. "That's
bullshit," I said. "I have been harassed by Israeli men of all ethnic
backgrounds, Ashkenazim as much as Mizrahim. It doesn't matter where
they're from. They're men, and they harass women...I am Mizrahi," I
continued. "Do you think I am less intelligent than you?"
Alex and I battled it out for the next hour. I was tempted to leave
many times, but I could not walk out unfinished on a conversation like
that. Eventually, we wrapped it up, with Alex saying I taught him many
new things and that he had much to think about. He was enthralled by
me and wanted to get together again, but I did not feel like playing
teacher. I told him I would be traveling but that if I got a chance,
I would call.
Most of the sexual harassment I have gotten on the streets in the States
has been from African-American and Chicano/Latino men. I have wondered
if it would be racist for me to identify my experience as such. I have
wondered if I just did have not noticed as much when white men have
harassed me the same way. And I have wondered if there is any relevance
in identifying what racial background men are from, when they sexually
harass women. What if it is the reality that men from certain ethnic
groups tend to harass women more than men from others - at least in
public? Is it racist to identify that reality? Is it useful?
As I have thought about this issue, I have wondered how I would feel
if Israelis pegged Mizrahi men as the worst sexual harassers on the
streets. And what if it was true? As a fellow person of color in an
Israeli context, how would I feel about such a statement? How would
my feelings be similar to or different from my reaction in the States?
As disturbing as the conversation with Alex may have been, I was grateful
for the experience; as it gave me more clarity around this issue. The
racism of Alex's statement, I feel, lay in his preconceived notions
about Moroccans - namely, he saw Moroccans as less intelligent than
Ashkenazim. As a man, chances are he did not have much experience in
being sexually harassed by other men; so he was not making a simple
statement of personal experience and observation. Clearly, it is because
of his pre-existing prejudice towards Moroccans that he blamed sexual
harassment on them.
If a woman, to the contrary, had shared with me that her experience
with harassment came predominantly from Mizrahi men, I do not think
I would have been as upset. If she had general contempt towards Mizrahim,
however, I probably would take issue with her assertion. I would question
whether it was because of racist sentiment that she simply did not notice
when Ashkenazi men harassed her.
Is it generally useful to take notice of which ethnic groups behave
in what fashion? Clearly, we identify men as a gendered group and discuss
trends in their oppressive behavior patterns. And certainly, identifying
these trends does not implicate every single man; rather, it describes
a political reality. Naming that political reality gives women the power
to organize and fight against it, thus causing positive change.
Perhaps what is at play here is the drawing of lines: There are many "ism"s, allowing even oppressed groups to oppress others. Perhaps the
relevance of identifying what group is engaging in what behavior lies
in trying to figure out with whom we are safe and in what context. And
perhaps our lines of connection thus are fluid, depending on a given
situation: We may be in alliance in one area and in opposition in another.
I think identifying groups and their patterns becomes dangerous - becomes
the act of targeting and attacking - when people operate under the blinders
of one "ism," in their struggle against another. For example, if one
is racist, s/he may fight sexism not purely along the lines of ending
gendered oppression, but along the lines of discriminating against people
of color in the process...
It is all so complex and volatile.
***
I had lunch with one of the women from the Mizrahi feminist conference
I had attended days earlier. "Jaqueline" had many criticisms about the
conference. As I listened to her, I realized there were many places
I could critique it myself; but I felt it was not "my place" to do so.
Jaqueline helped me realize that feeling was an issue in and of itself;
that Mizrahi feminism needed to be defined by all Mizrahi feminists,
not by one small group of women; that if it did not feel like "my place" to raise issues in our supposed community, then something was wrong.
Jaqueline went on to notice and give insight into my comfort with feeling
out of place: "You probably are used to it," she said, "from living
on the margins in every community your whole life. So it just feels
normal now."
Jaqueline was right. It was an intense moment of realization for me.
It amazed me that someone I did not know very well was able to give
me this insight. Most people in my daily life do not share my particular
struggles and do not really understand them. Usually, I have to explain
to them the basics of what it is like for me. Yet here was someone who
not only got it without my saying anything to her about it; she helped
me gain insight into what I did not yet see! Incredible.
I also noted my discomfort with criticizing the conference because I
had been starving for a community of Mizrahi feminists. I did not feel
I could risk straining my relationships with anyone in this community,
because I needed them all so desperately. "I know," Jaqueline said.
"But I live here, and this is my daily community, so it has to work
for me...Because I am here and part of the process, I am willing to
do battle. I have to."
***
Israeli elections were a few days away. At the central bus station in
Tel Aviv, I picked up a copy of the Jerusalem Post - the Israeli paper
in English - and hopped a bus to Tiberias. Halfway through my trip,
I read about an event happening in the evening: Representatives from
six of the parties would have a debate in English, in downtown Haifa.
It was 3:00 pm. I had four hours to get there. I jumped out of my seat
to speak with the bus driver. Half an hour later, I was off the bus
at a transfer point, where I caught a bus in the opposite direction,
to Haifa. I could just make it, if traffic was not bad.
It was 7:00 pm, and I arrived at the site. Likkud was having a meeting
in the same building as the English debate. There also were information
tables from various parties lined up the street, with people arguing
everywhere. The crowd was thick, and there was much confusion about
what was where and when. I ended up in the Likkud meeting. Finally,
I figured out where my desired event was taking place, and I arrived
late.
The debate was centered around who wanted to keep and who wanted to
give up what part of Israel and why. I wanted to hear party positions
on Mizrahi and feminist issues. Question-answer period arrived. "All
I have heard you speak about is security issues," I said. "But there
are so many more issues to be addressed. For example, I am a Mizrahi
feminist woman, and I feel very unrepresented by the panel. Out of six
representatives, only one of you is a woman, and at least five - if
not all - of you are Ashkenazi.
I want to know what each party intends to do about the racism facing
Ethiopian and Mizrahi Israelis. The majority of people in these communities
are caught in a cycle of poverty, living in squalid conditions in neighborhoods
such as Schoonat Hatikva. And they are facing systematic discrimination
in education. Two-thirds of children in grade school are Mizrahi. By
high school, only one-third are Mizrahi, and by college, just 20 percent.
What do you intend to do about this reality?
I also want to hear you address the issue of sexual harassment. I cannot
walk two feet in this country without some man hassling me. It is out
of control, and I want to know what you plan to do to stop it."
Each speaker took a turn answering my questions. According to the Likkud
speaker, the issue facing Mizrahi and Ethiopian Jews was "discrimination,
not racism. It is different than how it is in the United States." But,
say I, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck... This speaker
called Mizrahim "Sephardim," clumping us all together, in the spirit
of failing to recognize our different historical realities. And sexual
harassment? It apparently was the result of Israel being "a mix of cultures" and stemmed from the fact that integration failed. Say it, babe. Just
say it. Blame it on the primitive Mizrahim. Come on, right in the jaw,
go ahead...
The Meretz speaker and only woman, Naomi Chazan, was a welcome relief. "There are Mizrahi women in the Knesset," she said," but they do not
go under that banner. I not only want to see more Mizrahi women in the
Knesset, but I want to see them making decisions as Mizrahi women."
I liked this one. She got it. "And as far as sexual harassment goes,
Meretz is the only one of these groups with a platform that addresses
the issue..." Chazan claimed Meretz also had drafted affirmative action
programs for Mizrahim and Ethiopians. I became interested in finding
out more about that party.
The Labor representative, who I thought possibly could be Mizrahi, turned
out to be Iraqi. Cool, I thought to myself, a homeboy. "The problem,"
he said, "is that we need to integrate Ethiopians and Sephardim into
a Western society, and that takes time." A brainwashed homeboy.
A Western society?! Oh, right! (thunk to the head) I forgot that Israel
borders France and Germany...What are these people thinking?! I sat
back, shaking my head from side to side while this representative spoke.
Chazan saw my frustration and sent me an empathetic gaze and smile.
She also shook her head. "I am from Iraq," the bumbling idiot went on
to say, "and I never felt racism here." I was curious how much of his
identity he bleached, to be the proud recipient of such gracious treatment.
In time, the speaker registered my complete disdain for everything he
was saying and tried backtracking, justifying, and explaining away,
but it was too late. I was bored with him already.
Next was the speaker from the New Religious Party. He also asserted
that Israel has cultural discrimination, not racism. He did acknowledge,
however, that "the Western world ruined Eastern culture." He talked
a lot about representation, boasting about the Moroccan and Yemenite
Israelis in his party's leadership. I wondered if those party leaders
had the same politics as the Iraqi representative from Labor...The speaker
went on to assert that his party wanted women involved in leadership,
although it did not have any at that time. I guess it must be because
women are just so damn hard to find...
The representative from Yisrael B'Aliyah had one sentence to say on
the subject: "Ditto to what everyone else has said." I was floored by
his eloquence and deep concern for the issues.
Lastly, the Third Way representative spoke. Addressing representation,
he talked about the "lady" who was in the fifth or seventh seat of the
party - he could not remember. He also boasted about the Yemenite in
the number one seat of power: "What more do you want?" he asked. Well,
for starters, a few more Mizrahim would be nice. Perhaps you also could
add one Mizrahi woman... The representative acknowledged a gap between
the poverty-stricken and rich citizens, but he did not talk about poverty
as predominantly affecting Mizrahi and Ethiopian Israelis.
After this last response, the debate facilitator started wrapping up
the event. People in the audience began shouting, "You didn't answer
anyone else's questions!" I chuckled to myself. I had completely taken
over the floor with these issues. And it was about time, I might add,
that those concerns dominated the discussion. The facilitator added
another 15 minutes to the program, but I remained the only one who received
an answer from every single speaker. I loved it.
***
A close Israeli friend arrived from the States, for the summer. I stopped
drifting between youth hostels and went to stay with him and his family,
for my last 10 days in the country. My friend's family was Ashkenazi
and rather wealthy. They lived in a penthouse outside Tel Aviv. They
had a maid. She was Mizrahi.
"My name is 'Na'ama,'" a woman had said at the open mic of the Mizrahi
feminist conference, "and I am a maid...I grew up in the 'hood...I never
received the education I deserved...All my life, they said, 'Na'ama,
you can't. You're not smart enough. You're not good enough.' But I am
smart enough, and I am good enough. And I am tired of people telling
me 'You can't' just because I did not receive an education. I can. I
can..."
Na'ama's words haunted me as I saw "Tina" mopping floors, ironing shirts,
cleaning dishes. I felt strange. I felt split. I felt guilty. How could
I talk to her? She was cleaning while I was eating. She was so docile,
subservient in her manner, quiet. Broken. What could I say to her? "Hey,
sister, we are one, and I am in solidarity with you, even though you're
cleaning the toilet I'm using? Even though I received a Seven Sisters
education in the States and grew up in a house several times the size
of this penthouse? Even though I'm close friends with the son of your
employers and a guest in their house?"
How strange it all was. How very strange. I am Mizrahi. But I did not
grow up in the 'hood. I did not even grow up in the country. Or the
region, for that matter. I grew up in a totally different reality, in
America, which is only a dream to so many. And as a result of it, I
was sitting at the table this woman would scrub...Where was my alliance?
With my Ashkenazi friend? With her? Where was my identity? In Israel?
In the States?
"This must be what an upper-middle class African-American woman would
feel like," I thought to myself, "if she visited a close WASP friend,
only to be faced with an African-American maid scrubbing the floor."
I remembered a workshop a few years ago, where white people and people
of color were divided in the room. White people were asked, "How many
of your primary experiences with people of color were with individuals
who were working for you?" A substantial number of the group raised
their hands. I was shocked. But I got it in Israel. And it hit home
and really hurt there, because the people doing the working were my
people, felt like my family.
Through this experience, I felt more of a sense of connection with non-Jewish
people of color in the States. I felt more understanding for issues
to which I did not completely relate before. And I once again experienced
my flexibility in crossing lines between American constructs of "white"
and "person of color."
The experience made even more clear for me the many variations that
exist in the world of racism and race relations. For one, nationality:
Where would I be today if I grew up in Israel instead of the States?
How would my stature in society be similar or different? Which of the
differences would be because of general America-Israel differences,
and which would be because of Israeli racism towards Mizrahim? What
more, how would my life be different if both my parents were from a
Mizrahi background? ***
My friend and I were in Sfat for Shabbat. We wanted to go to services.
I only wanted to go to the Sephardic synagogue. I was excited to go
and hear the prayers, even though I would have to sit upstairs from
the prayer action. I gave up the feminist issue for the treasure of
hearing a community pray in the Sephardic tradition, for the privilege
of being able to be a stranger and walk into a synagogue and have it
be my genre of prayers.
My friend wanted to go to the Ashkenazi synagogue, but he was willing
to go to the Sephardic one. He really liked the Ashkenazi synagogue.
Apparently, it was very lively. "The women are very active," he told
me. "You'll like it. They dance around and sing as loud as the men."
I decided to go by it and try. We passed by a window of black hats jumping
around, singing, "Ay-yai-yai-yai-yai." This was the synagogue. "No way,"
I said, bolting from the scene. "Nope, uh-uh. Not possible." He laughed.
He understood. We went to the Sephardic synagogue.
When we finally found the synagogue, people were pouring out. Although
the services were over, I just wanted to make contact with the synagogue,
to see it, to go inside. I was so starving for contact with some part
of the community...As I stood at the gate, waiting for an opportunity
to squeeze through the crowd flowing out, a man came up to me and said, "Girl, don't stand there. You are near the mezuza." Apparently my female
presence would taint the experience of kissing the mezuza or something.
This guy can go to hell. I did not move, I did not grace this person
with an answer. The man repeated himself. Then he went to my friend
and explained again, thinking maybe I did not understand Hebrew. "Loolwa,"
my friend said to me, "He says..." "I know what he says," I cut my friend
off. My friend realized why I was not budging. He was not comfortable
with the situation but did not want to interfere with my stand, so he
excused himself and walked away from the synagogue, to wait for me around
the corner.
I simultaneously wanted to cry and to scream bloody murder. I remained
where I was, my eyes slit and my jaw set. Finally, the crowd thinned
out; and I went into the synagogue. I just wanted some time alone, to
talk with Gd. To ask why, to ask for guidance...
But the synagogue keeper needed to lock the gate. So I just looked around
quickly. Where do I fit? I thought. This place is mine, but it is not.
I looked upstairs at the women's section. I looked down at the teba
(prayer altar). I wanted to be at the teba. I knew if I went to that
synagogue, I would be told to go to the gallery. What if the women stormed
the downstairs? That would be such fun! I dreamt up a revolt. We have
to create Mizrahi religious space for women. I have to do something
about it soon, or I will go crazy...
I left the synagogue and joined my friend, who was sitting on one of
the beautiful stone steps winding through the city. As we processed
my feelings, a large group of black hats (ultra orthodox men) clamored
past us. I did not even look up. I was angry. I was going to ignore
them.
I noticed the black coat of a man standing stationary beside me. I sensed
something was up, but I was not going to get involved. I did not have
the energy to deal with anything else unpleasant. When the hats passed,
my friend and I talked about them. As my friend informed me, the stationary
coat was protecting his friends from seeing me. Oh, great. This asshole
was blocking me from other men's view, to prevent their holy gaze from
being soiled by the image of a woman...And I was wearing the stupid
costume of a dress down to my toes! I was livid.
Good thing I did not know this information while it was happening. I
would have felt so incredibly violated. And tempted to jump up and hit
the guy blocking me. Or I suppose I could have just touched him, it
would be all the same for him. Or maybe I could have sung! That would
have gotten him...
I was beside myself with grief. "All my life," I told my friend," I
have fought to preserve my heritage - my Jewish identity and my Mizrahi
traditions. For what? To come to Israel and be told I can't dance and
sing out loud in front of the Kotel? To go out of my way to attend services
at a Sephardic synagogue and be treated like this?"
My friend and I talked through my feelings. He shared how he did not
see Sfat as his community; how he only felt entitled to claiming space
in the community of his family's synagogue, located in a suburb of Tel
Aviv. It is so interesting how we all draw lines in different ways.
I guess where we draw each line depends on the other lines and battles
already existing in our lives; for it seems that within each division,
there is yet another division...
Finally, we stood up to leave. I asked my friend to go ahead without
me and wait for me around the corner. He left. I imagined the black
hat in front of me, and I did several air kicks to the guy's crotch.
Then I inhaled deeply and exhaled all the gunk that had accumulated
inside me. I inhaled clean, positive, loving air. I felt much better.
I joined my friend. "You are amazing," he said.
***
It was the night before I was leaving. My friend and I went out to dinner
with my sister and her girlfriend. We wanted to go to a Mizrahi restaurant,
and my friend took us to Schoonat HaTikva, otherwise known as "the hood."
Growing up in the States, where 'hood refers to predominantly African-American
inner-city neighborhoods, it was quite a mind trip to hear people refer
to 'hoods that were parallel in many ways to the American ones, yet
comprised of my people. However removed I may have felt from inner-city
issues in the States, I could not feel removed from those issues in
Israel. Suddenly, they had to do with me.
The Mizrahi neighborhoods of Israel seem not to be just a source of
poverty, but also a source of ethnic pride and activism. As much African-American
power has risen from the inner-cities of America, so does Mizrahi power
seem to be rising from places like Schoonat HaTikva. Many neighborhood
women are going to court, for example, battling the Israeli school system
for racist treatment of Mizrahi and Ethiopian students.
I was excited to revisit this 'hood, especially after hearing so much
about it during the Mizrahi feminist conference. "The 'hood, the 'hood,
the 'hood..." they kept repeating. I feel that the neighborhood was
mine, about me. After dealing with racism my whole life as a Mizrahi,
it was a place for my experience, a face to my reality. A visual aid.
I too could go "back to the 'hood," where the people shared my heritage
and reflected my identity...
"If you say so," my friend said. "I don't see this neighborhood as mine..." Those damn lines again. Yes, my friend was Ashkenazi, but I was American.
So who had more claim on the territory, if either of us? With my friend's
comment, I began feeling that perhaps I was presumptuous to stake claims
on Schoonat Hatikva. Was it really mine? I had the social, economic,
and political advantage of having grown up in a Western society, speaking
a Western language, and having received a Western education. Did I have
the right to call that neighborhood mine, if I did not grow up there?
How would people in the neighborhood feel about my identifying with
them? I sat with my questions, as we entered our restaurant of choice.
As we sat down, a party of 20 sat across our table. They were celebrating
some occasion and began singing rowdily. The songs were Ashkenazi, yet
all the people looked unmistakenly Mizrahi. I was not surprised, just
sad at this reality - which exists even in the 'hood.
A few minutes later, an older woman began singing a beautiful Mizrahi
melody. I felt so happy! My sister and I knew it and began singing along.
I sang along not so much because I felt like singing at the moment,
but because I wanted to support this woman. I wanted to send the message
that it is "cool" to sing these songs, that random people at other tables
would join in when you sing them...
People at the party table grew uncomfortable with the Mizrahi song.
They sang only half-heartedly, while cracking jokes at it. Within one
minute, the song faded, and someone introduced an Ashkenazi song. All
of a sudden, the table was rowdy and singing whole-heartedly again.
I wanted to cry.
Our table began discussing what just happened. My sister and I noted
the predictability of the pattern - the discomfort with being visibly
Mizrahi, the shame associated with singing Mizrahi songs. As we talked,
the party table switched from religious Ashkenazi songs to Israeli nationalist
songs, all of which have an Ashkenazi melodic line and rhythm. We discussed
this reality, too.
It cut me deep inside...Not seeing my reflection anywhere. And in the
places I went to see it, finding a shattered reflection, a fading reflection.
The woman singing the Mizrahi song was probably in her 50s or 60s. Did
the younger people at the table even know the words...This blindness
to what we are losing of ourselves. This inability to value our heritage
as being worth anything. Three thousand years of wisdom down the toilet.
This is the end.
A few years ago, I saw a movie on the Rhodes Jewish community now living
in Los Angeles. As part of the movie, one of the individuals made a
comment about how the Jews who grew up in Rhodes are dying, how we have
about 20 years left before they - and the information they carry - are
gone forever. After that point in the movie, I cried my head off.
I got together with the young, Sephardic director after the movie, and
we talked. He noted how interesting it is that Mizrahim and Sephardim
have been able to preserve our heritage for 3,000 years, despite the
worst possible circumstances; but that now we are losing it in one fell
swoop, within a single generation. I suddenly realized a huge factor
why: Traditionally, Mizrahim and Sephardim identified as "Jews." Whether
our own line or other people's line, that was the distinguishing line
of our identity, and the life of our community revolved around it.
"Jew" has meant "safe." "Jew" has meant "home." "Jew" has meant "self-preservation." Because the Mizrahi/Sephardi lines traditionally have been drawn so
strongly around Jew/non-Jew, I believe the community has been blind
to the death taking place in our heritage, since our union with Ashkenazim.
We have let down our guard with the people who are supposed to be our
allies, our family. But it is these very people who have slowly but
surely been eroding what we have kept in tact for so long. We are blending
with their ways, and we are losing our own. By the time we reassess
our lines, it may be too late to save our heritage.
When everything "Jewish" is defined exclusively as "Ashkenazi," Mizrahim
have but two choices, unless we are prepared for a lifetime battle.
Either we can Ashkenaziize, or we can forget the whole thing altogether
and become secular. After years of hitting my head against the brick
wall called the Jewish Establishment, I myself have been heading in
this latter direction, drifting farther and farther from organized Jewish
life. And I know of so many others who have done the same.
***
June 9, 11 pm. My flight was leaving in two hours. I was in line for
security check-in at the airport. "Can I have your passport and ticket?"
a blond-haired, blue-eyed, perky young woman asked me. I handed her
both. "English or Hebrew?" she asked me. "Either," I responded. She
looked at my passport. "What's your name?" she continued in Hebrew.
It's on my passport, you moron... "Loolwa Khazzoom," I replied. "What
kind of a name is that?" she asked. "Iraqi," I said proudly. (I happen
to think it is tragically hip and cool...)
The woman asked me to come over to one of the low counters. I did not
think much of it; I figured we were getting out of people's way...She
proceeded to ask me the standard questions - where did I stay, who packed
my bags, how long have they been with me since packing, and so on. I
indicated that I had stayed with my friend the previous ten days - my
Ashkenazi-looking friend with the kippah, nonetheless - and that my
possessions had been in his house the previous week and a half.
"Do you have family here?" she asked. "Yes," I answered. "Where?" "Ramat
Gan." "What are their first names?" What are their first names? Wait
- now the situation is getting funky. I felt sick. I was suspected as
a possible terrorist. Because I have a Mizrahi name. Because I speak
with a "het" and "‡yin" (which, I might add, are the correct pronunciations
of Hebrew). Because I am not Ashkenazi.
"Na'ava, Yaffa..." I began. I knew my answer to this woman's questions
ironically would appease her - ironically, I say, because Na'ava is
really Latifa, Yaffa is really Helwa...I was giving the names of my
aunts who annoyed me to no end for changing their Arabic names to Hebrew
names - the same aunts who tried to convince me to change my own Judeo-Arabic
name to "Lilly." I was performing a little satire in my head, demonstrating
how ridiculous this whole situation was.
"OK," the WASPy-looking woman responded on cue. The interrogation was
over. The woman had played her part in my skit according to plan. She
put security stickers on my backpack and reciteed the closing cautions:
Don't leave your bags anywhere, don't accept any gifts...
I felt sick. I wished I had given the names of my aunts who still have
Arabic names. I wished I had launched into a tirade of how this interrogation
was an example of institutionalized racism against Mizrahim...
I vented to my friend. I checked in my bags. I decided I could not leave
without saying my piece. "Excuse me," I said, as I approached the woman.
"When you were checking me in, you kept asking me all kinds of questions
about my name, family, and ethnicity. I think you did it because I am
Mizrahi." "No!" she said, in a friendly and sincerely concerned way.
"I just did it because I did not recognize the name. We do these checks
for your security and safety. I truly did not mean anything by it. It
was nothing against you." "But if you did not recognize a European-sounding
name," I persisted, "would you ask all the same questions?" "Probably
not," she responded honestly, "and maybe that's something I need to
do. But I really didn't mean anything by it." "I think it's something
to think about," I said and walked away.
I felt kind of bad - she really was sweet and concerned about me in
a personally-caring kind of way. But is that not how it always goes?
I have heard many men repeat the refrain, "Don't take it personally," when women confront sexist behavior. Much sexist and racist behavior
of course is not about one person having a grudge against another individual
and taking it out through that particular format. It is about standardly-accepted
forms of behavior that have people of various identities as the incidental
- but not individually intentional - victims.
What a way to leave Israel. This experience happened to my sister before,
in other countries, but it never happened to me. It is ironic it happened
as I was leaving from this trip, when I had flown to Israel to attend
the first Mizrhai feminist conference, to connect with other individuals
fighting racism against Mizrahim...
Excerpts of this article have been published in Moxie
Magazine and are scheduled for publication in Alice
Magazine
©1997 by Loolwa Khazzoom. All rights reserved. No portion of this article
may be copied without author's permission. |
