Why are Jews so weird?
This questions seems to be stalking me lately, lurking in the undertones of conversation, and pouncing in my most vulnerable moments. Say, when I tell someone, "My mom is a Rabbi." "Oh wow," he'll reply, "so maybe you can explain to me why Jews act the way they do?" I brace myself. I can feel my stomach lurch and my shoulders tense as my mind scrambles to gather a list of 'because's'. He continues, "Why are they so self-segregating and exclusive? And with so many strange rituals, what's so special about them?"
I find myself on the defensive. My mind is so jaded with antisemitic-defense-mechanisms that I can barely think clearly. You see, I've always hated this question and how it conjures images of early Nazi Germany, making me think, "it all started with comments like this." Only recently, though, have I actually had the space to give this question some serious consideration.
A few months ago, I was discussing Judaism with my uncle, David. "I'm not religious," he told me, "but I am very much a Jew." This puzzled me; how can you be one and not the other? Indeed, I had been faced before with the conundrum of the secular-Jew, but never quite so blatantly. David's not religious, but he still hangs mezoozot on all his doorways. David's not religious, but he still says kiddish and keeps Shabbat. David's not religious, but, as he told me, he was, "born a Jew, and always will be a Jew."
What irks me the most, though, is that .. I agree with David. There is something about me that is inherently, utterly, and undeniably, Jewish.
Phew, step one is completed. I admit it, I am a Jew.
Step two: Jews are weird, accept it.
On my way to the Passover Seder I traveled by bus through Jerusalem. Every twenty yards stood another group of Hasidim dressed in full black, circled around a bon fire, burning untouched loaves of bread. The same scene rolled passed the bus window over and over like an unedited film of some strange Pagan bread sacrificing ritual. Of course, they were all just clearing their homes of any trace of "hametz" before the Passover holiday. I mean what's so weird about that, Arielle? You've been doing this your whole life, haven't you? But now, safely removed from the situation, sitting as a spectator on a bus, I could see this tradition from another angle. And, well, it was just plain freaky looking.
That evening, I spent the Passover Seder with my friend, Ido's, family. His family was unashamedly more interested in eating dinner than any part of the Passover ceremony. We hustled through the fifteen steps of the Seder in a fury as I scurried to translate (first from Hebrew to English, then to something that would make sense to a reasonable human being) what was happening to my friend, Jane, who had never been to Seder before. "Okay, so there was this guy named Moses.. and ten plagues... and now you dip that parsley in the salt water... recline to the left while you drink that .. oh and there's something about four children ... and we hide that piece of matzo. and," wow.. this stuff is weird. I felt like an actor who, having memorized her lines, was now reading through the script for the first time.
As shocking as it was to finally see Judaism as it looks from an objective stance ( kind of crazy, that is ) Admitting that we are unusual is not so difficult for me, what really gets me is, why are we this way? And why are we afraid to be this way in coexistence with others? Jews are, in my experience, largely self-segregating. We cling so tightly to the notion that we are fundamentally different than everyone else; that, somehow, our Judaism defines us beyond the boundaries of religious practice, and, therefore, we can only hope to be fully understood by one another. Still, this answer feels like an unfounded excuse to me. It addresses the 'why', but only by evading a deeper, and more conclusive, truth.
Well, where better to explore my conflict with Judaism, than in the much more heated setting of the Palestinian/Israeli conflict.
Recently, I volunteered for an organization called Eco ME located inside the West Bank, just outside of Jericho. Eco ME is a center open to all Israelis, Palestinians, and internationals who are willing to gather in the common spirit of respect for one another and the earth. Eco ME is located, literally and figuratively, on a junction between languages, cultures, and politics; yet, it is able to maintain a peaceful atmosphere because its founders are committed to creating a space built on trust and not fear.
While I was there, they gave a presentation about the organization to a church group visiting from Germany. "Why are Jews so strange?" a man asked Ilana, one of the founders of Eco ME. He continued, "I have a theory that they are seeking revenge. That, somehow, they want to pass on their pain to others," he spoke clearly of Palestinians in this case. Ilana sighed, and smiled uncomfortably before answering, she clearly hated this question as much as I did. "I don't believe they are seeking revenge," she replied rather calmly, "I believe they are acting on the only thing they know." She continued to explain that Jews grow up on stories of oppression, from the Passover telling of how 'we' were slaves in Egypt to Haman's decree to kill all the Jew's in Persia to the destruction of the Holy Temple(s) in Jerusalem. Indeed, I can attest that I have been a fed of diet of victim stories from a very young age.
Thus far, this is the best reason I have found to justify the 'why' of 'why are Jews so weird?'; our behavior is simply a product of the ritualized telling of the tale of the victim. We have absorbed this narrative so fully into our religious practice that it spills over and quickly becomes a defining characteristic of the Jewish mentality, religious or not. As a friend of mine once put it, Israel is the only nation who's anthem is sung in a minor key. It is only natural then, that with this mind-set, Jews would become self-segregating in search of safety. Which, when viewed from a third party, reveals a people that seems suspicious, uninviting, and strange.
Yet, somehow, I feel unsatisfied with this answer. Even armed with this explanation, I still feel powerless to the question at hand. Perhaps it is because it is not mere justification that I seek. Rather, I feel that if I am "always going to be Jewish," as my uncle David said, then it's time I start being a better representation of what that means.
I intend to show, through the example of my own behavior, that Jews are no longer the self-pitying victim. Instead, what connects me to my fellow Jews, and likewise to all other people, is a love and ritual care for the earth, myself, and others. My spirituality transcends the boundaries of the old narrative, and my desire for well-being and peace for everyone is stronger than any will I have to safeguard my old patterns.
And, if it all sounds a bit peculiar, it's OK, I'm Jewish.
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