On Passover. And Bibi. And Nazis.

Some events in the past few weeks reminded me of a story from years ago. In Huffington Post religion, I discuss the relative merits of ignoring unreasonable voices, and of calling them out. 

A number of years ago, a prominent member of congress, a Christian, was a guest at our seder. Though he was a friend, we had assumed that he would never make it past dessert, if that long. Over the years, plenty of Jews had politely excused themselves as the afikomen was being passed around just before midnight, gently shaking their heads while a bunch of still wide awake kids continued to sing out loud and strong in way-past-everybody's-bedtime territory.

But our politician friend surprised us. He energetically participated in the discussion, and he was still standing as we began to clear the tables around 1am. He nearly begged to help with the cleaning, but we thought the kashrut issues too difficult to explain to a novice in the middle of the night, after all that wine. Still, he insisted.

"At least let me load the dishwasher."

See more

Proud to be from Shushan, or what Bibi could learn from the Purim story

I am not a Purim fan. If this offends, I am sorry. Here is my featured blog on Times of Israel which explains my crazy minority opinion, and tries to find something to learn from Purim for diaspora Jews today.

I dread Purim. There. I’ve said it. I’m aware this is an unpopular opinion. But hear me out. I have empirical evidence.

The holiday always seems to sneak up on me, as I scramble to shop for mishloach manot bags and costume accessories, hamantasch fillings and face paint to replace last years’ dried out mess.

 

In our egalitarian household, somehow all this preparation falls on me, as the kids demand that only Ima can properly bake the cookies with them and put together the Purim ensembles.

Once all the preparation is complete, the lead up to the holiday is a sunup to sundown fast, which seems invariably to fall on my birthday. As evening approaches, the fasting headache is cemented by a shul filled with a hundred screaming children hyped up on candy and brandishing foam swords.

Read more: Loathing Purim, but proud to be from Shushan | Leah Bieler | The Blogs | The Times of Israel http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/loathing-purim-but-proud-to-be-from-shushan/#ixzz3TLNG1j3N 
Follow us: @timesofisrael on Twitter | timesofisrael on Facebook

why Jews should ride with Muslims in Sydney

Watching the events in Sydney unfold, I somehow ended up thinking about what it means to take responsibility for our entire community, even when they fail us. Here's my take on this question in The Forward.

My ears perked up when I heard the news about a potential terror attack at the Lindt Chocolat Cafe in Sydney. “Potential” terror attack, because for a while the nature of the situation was unclear. And then came the now-familiar black flag with white Arabic lettering, and what was murky became just a tiny bit clearer.

For some reason, my thoughts went to what this moment must feel like for the average Muslim living in Australia. Or in London. Or in my own New England city. Because that is an emotion I recognize. Though they had nothing to do with the crime, I imagine that these Muslims experienced that all-too-familiar feeling, that gnawing fear deep in the stomach, that in my house is called, “Oy. Not good for the Jews.”

Read more:

on catcalling and compliments

Two pieces of information regarding my latest piece on HuffPost Women. 

1 - I have been shocked to see the online reaction over a video of a woman being repeatedly catcalled. Catcalls are not flattering. They are an attempt to assert power.

2 - The news about a Rabbi videotaping women is horrifying and disgusting. The news that it has become standard Orthodox practice for male rabbis to be in the room while women dunk in the mikvah for conversion is a perversion of Judaism, full stop.

So, following, a history of my relationship to the unwanted gaze.

To the men who made me hide my womanly body

I remember the dress. I felt so grown up wearing it. It was a gift from my great aunt and uncle who owned a clothing store in Nashville. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and stared at myself. Adjusted the sleeves so that they were ever so slightly off the shoulder. Marveled at the buds of breasts that were beginning to appear. Then I would quickly pull the shoulders back up, alarmed at how old I seemed reflected in the harsh bathroom light. I would slowly spin around, examine how I looked from every angle.

It was still a girl's dress. But the girl inside was just a tiny bit woman.

I wore it that day, walking in Jerusalem, where we spent many summers, through the Arab market. The air smelled of spices, leather and olive wood. Though I could feel the presence of my parents and sister behind me, I walked ahead, tasting, for a moment, a grownup freedom. My focus stayed on the tiny shops, hawkers trying to entice tourists into their entryways. It was midday, but dark in the market, the sun blocked by the ancient stone walls of the old city.

A hand slipped gently into mine. I'm not sure what I was thinking. That one of my parents had reached out, not wanting to lose me, most likely. But the hand felt unfamiliar. And I felt myself being pulled to move faster. When I finally looked up, I saw that a strange man had hold of me. His grip was firm. I was too surprised to know what to do.

I'm certain it was less than a minute until my parents noticed and grabbed me away. The man ran. His back disappeared into a dark alleyway. I didn't really understand what had just happened. That a man had tried to steal me away. For the first time, it seemed I had come up against how the rest of the world viewed my changing body, and it was not exactly what I had expected. In that moment I became aware of the gazes of men as I passed by. I was nine years old.

see more