what I did on my summer vacation

Sometimes as a religious feminist I feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. I am clearly hated by the religious establishment in Israel, and I've become accustomed to it. But when secular Israelis have no love for me either...I'm left wondering what else I can do but laugh. In today's Forward I tell a little story where my mouth may have gotten the best of me, but I'll blame that on my father. Heredity is a bitch. 

This is not a story about Women of the Wall. That is a story for someone else to tell. So many women have been dedicated to that cause for so many years. I am just a sometimes joiner. A tourist, if you will.

But my daughters really wanted to go. So, despite my dislike of crowds, and of getting up bright and early in order to be spat at and called a Nazi, how could I say no?

When we arrived at the Western Wall gate, the coffee I had chugged at home only 15 minutes earlier had not yet fully kicked in. And so it took a moment to notice that the women’s security line was moving at a snail’s pace while the men — carrying full bags, backpacks, even guns — moved quickly through their lane.

Next to our metal detector, there was a man with a velvet kippah going through each woman’s bag with a fine-toothed comb. He removed books and paged through them, and I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what exactly he was looking for.

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a picture is worth a thousand words

This piece in today's Sisterhood at the Forward is the result of many recent conversations I've had  with women about the picture we have in our mind when we hear the word doctor, or President, or Jew. And what we can do to change those pictures. 

When I was a kid, we had a famous riddle that I heard/told dozens of times. It involved a man and his son who were in a car accident. The man dies instantly, and the son is rushed to the hospital. The surgeon is about to operate on the boy, and suddenly exclaims, “I can’t operate on this boy. He’s my son.”

There was a delicious fun in watching as the brows of those listening to this riddle would slowly furrow, heads tilting. I’d be giggling inside, full up with the knowledge that they would surely kick themselves when they heard the solution. Because, amazingly, they almost never came up with it on their own.

Read more: http://forward.com/sisterhood/344264/why-is-it-so-hard-to-get-used-to-a-woman-wearing-a-tallit/#ixzz4DYnHj7BW

minhag america

On our street in Jerusalem, there is a Turkish shul, and a Hungarian one. Both are prized for their 'authentic' devaluing and preservation of unique traditions. Why is it, though, that my traditions are never taken seriously. In today's Times of Israel, I discuss what the Jewish world could learn from Minhag America.

Last week, prominent American and Israeli Jewish leaders went to the Israeli government on an “emergency mission” to plead the case of those who want mixed prayer available at the Kotel, as had been agreed upon only a few months ago. But my money is on the status quo. Because as much as Israelis claim to value the traditions and customs of Jews all over the world, when it comes to Minhag America, there is simply no love at all.

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Filling our table

When I was a child, I remember feeling inexplicably lonely. My sister and I would sit at the shabbat table, one on each side, our parents at the ends. For sure, we had many lovely times, delicious food, singing, laughter. But often, in the back of my mind, there was something missing. 

Though my parents created a community of friends, inviting them for shabbat and for holidays, I was always aware that my friends had something I did not. Family. Choosing your friends is of course a wonderful way to expand your circle, and sometimes those relationships are the most important we will ever have. But I missed the forced intimacy of relationship with people who I would need to be connected to, whether I wanted to or not. The shared history, biology, language - all linking us together. 

Some of this was a function of geography, my relatives living too far away for a last minute shabbat invite. but much of it was a result of the war, and what it had done to my family. When the fighting was over, my grandfather and his brother were the only ones left from a large extended family in Tarnopol, then Poland, now Ukraine. 

With four children, and family and friends, our table is almost always full. And my hope is, that my kids will have even bigger gatherings as they create their own families in the future. But I can't help missing the cousins I will never know, who float above my shabbat table every week, reminding me what could have, what would have been. 

On Yom Hashoah, they come into focus, and I say their names out loud. 

Yekutiel Schmelke Bieler

Betka Bieler Fischer

Israel Fischer

Sabina Bieler Teichholtz

Abysch Teichholtz

Giza Teichholtz 17

Klara Teichholtz 16

Jakob (Kuba) Teichholtz 9

Moshe Bieler

Gusta Spitzer Bieler

Henya Bieler 7

Josef Bieler 5

Sosie Bieler Biloraj

Abraham Biloraj

Two Biloraj children ages 3 and 1.5

Chava Dvojre Bieler

Hersh Bieler

Rakhel Bieler

Herman Bieler

Misia Bieler

Bernhard Bieler

Wilhelm Bieler

and tens of others whose names are forever forgotten.

May their memories be for a blessing, and may our crowded, loud, infuriating tables filled with family be a measure of our revenge.