A few months ago, I was invited to dinner at a friend’s house. We were a bunch of good friends who often gather on week-ends instead of hanging out in night clubs.
After dinner, I proposed to one of the guest, a very dear doctor friend, to play the piano.
Before I go on with my story I would like to elaborate on this guy: When we first started meeting at diner parties or in restaurants we had always the same political point of views. One evening, the discussion was about Israel. Of course there were the attackers who would love to see the Jewish state vanish forever, and me, backed up by my Dr friend, who defended it with all the passion I had in me.
I was really happy that evening to find someone as fervent as I am. When I questioned him about his enthusiasm, he said that he admires the Jewish people for their strength and their determination. He is even working on signing a petition to renovate the Lebanese synagogue. I was startled. I had to tell him about me. And I did.
Since that day, we have a special complicity.
So that evening, I asked my Dr friend to play the piano. He decided that he will play a song for each one of us to sing along. There was the “lullaby” to the sleepy friend, Madonna’s “material girl” for the fashion victim etc… then came my turn. He winked and played “hava nagila” and he sang along. I laughed nervously. No one understood what it was. Then he switched to “hatikva”. He didn’t know the words but played it till the end. I sang in my heart. It was a very moving moment.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Fashion Kills...
My entourage is a “jet-set”, “high society” one. And when there is jet-set, there is fashion.
I mean I consider myself as a fashion addict. But never a fashion victim…
What is wrong with all these girls, walking around with Palestinian scarves? The kaffiyeh comes now in different colors: blue, red, mauve, pink… does anyone understand the meaning of these scarves? Do they know what they are wearing? the symbole of it? Or is it a feature of the high society, to be brainless?
Never a fashion victim….
I mean I consider myself as a fashion addict. But never a fashion victim…
What is wrong with all these girls, walking around with Palestinian scarves? The kaffiyeh comes now in different colors: blue, red, mauve, pink… does anyone understand the meaning of these scarves? Do they know what they are wearing? the symbole of it? Or is it a feature of the high society, to be brainless?
Never a fashion victim….
INVISIBLE
Sometimes I sit in the midst of a crowd and I think: here I am, a Jew, who is learning Torah, who is learning how to speak and read Hebrew, and who loves Israel… what am I doing here? Is it really hostile grounds? But these people around me are my friends…
Would they still be my friends if they knew who I really am? Do I want to continue living in the shadows, hiding my biggest pride?
Would they still be my friends if they knew who I really am? Do I want to continue living in the shadows, hiding my biggest pride?
FIREWORKS
The summer is almost over. Lebanese are rejoicing. They had a wonderful summer: tourism was blooming, restaurants and hotels were full, night clubs took in double the capacity of clubbers, beaches were invaded.
After 2 summers of frustrations ( the Israel-lebanon war in 2006, and the nahr el bared war in 2007), Lebanese wanted to celebrate. And to celebrate, there is nothing better than the fireworks… nostalgia?
I wonder if anyone is keeping an eye on what Hezbollah is planning for the coming months for this country… are they serious? A deal with the salafists??? there is something really wrong here...
After 2 summers of frustrations ( the Israel-lebanon war in 2006, and the nahr el bared war in 2007), Lebanese wanted to celebrate. And to celebrate, there is nothing better than the fireworks… nostalgia?
I wonder if anyone is keeping an eye on what Hezbollah is planning for the coming months for this country… are they serious? A deal with the salafists??? there is something really wrong here...
Thursday, July 24, 2008
RECOGNITION
I came back from a trip to Paris… a very important trip. I am officially registered as Jewish. My children will not forget who they are. My heritage is not gone for ever. I’m so proud.
It took me a whole year to collect all the information I needed:
My grand-mother doesn’t have any proof of her being Jewish. She says she was too afraid to ask for any. I think that it is the guilt-feeling of marrying a none-Jew, that held her from ever going to a rabbi and asking for any written proof.
So I found myself in front of the difficult task of finding her sister, who lives in France, going to her, convincing her to give me her kettouba (an old kettouba dating from 1943, and issued in Lebanon!) , then going to the “consistoire de paris” with a big pile of paper (papers that prove links from my grand-mother to her sister, then my mother to her mother then me to my mother and grand-mother….), and proving I’m a Jewish.
I couldn’t believe how easy it was. Here I am, recognized by the Jewish community, officially.
It is just a piece of paper, and my belonging to my Jewish heritage goes a lot further than that, but it is like never having registered a born baby: the child exists, of course, but not officially. Same here, I felt that as long as I don’t have it archived somewhere, I don’t really exist.
The torch can still be passed on…
It took me a whole year to collect all the information I needed:
My grand-mother doesn’t have any proof of her being Jewish. She says she was too afraid to ask for any. I think that it is the guilt-feeling of marrying a none-Jew, that held her from ever going to a rabbi and asking for any written proof.
So I found myself in front of the difficult task of finding her sister, who lives in France, going to her, convincing her to give me her kettouba (an old kettouba dating from 1943, and issued in Lebanon!) , then going to the “consistoire de paris” with a big pile of paper (papers that prove links from my grand-mother to her sister, then my mother to her mother then me to my mother and grand-mother….), and proving I’m a Jewish.
I couldn’t believe how easy it was. Here I am, recognized by the Jewish community, officially.
It is just a piece of paper, and my belonging to my Jewish heritage goes a lot further than that, but it is like never having registered a born baby: the child exists, of course, but not officially. Same here, I felt that as long as I don’t have it archived somewhere, I don’t really exist.
The torch can still be passed on…
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
Suppressed Memories
I started asking questions.
She always answers back in a low, fearful voice.
Does she remember Iraq? How old was she when they left? Were her parents religious? Does she speak Hebrew? Does she know her prayers? What does she remember of her traditions? What does she remember about the old Lebanon, who welcomed so many oppressed jews?
So many questions. She had been here all this time, always quiet. My grandmother kept all this for herself.
What was she thinking?? Another few years and all this heritage would have gone to waste…
One day, after she saw all the interest I was showing for Judaism, and after she begged me to be careful (like every day of the past few months), she said to me: “I always knew you were special”
Deep down inside, she was happy someone is passing the torch…
At every Jewish holiday, I try to summarize it to her: the story behind it (megilat Esther, the exodus of the Jews from Egypt…) the meaning, the symbols (like with the Seder ), the traditions during this holiday…
She rediscovered some souvenirs she had. She gave them meaning, like when she remembered looking for pieces of bread with a candle (“bedikat hametz”, a tradition just before Pessa’h) and I explained to her the meaning of this “bread hunt”, and why the use of the candle…
One day she dared to ask: “where do you think I’ll be buried?”
Her parents are buried in a Jewish cemetery, forbidden to visitors… She can never go to see their graves…
She always answers back in a low, fearful voice.
Does she remember Iraq? How old was she when they left? Were her parents religious? Does she speak Hebrew? Does she know her prayers? What does she remember of her traditions? What does she remember about the old Lebanon, who welcomed so many oppressed jews?
So many questions. She had been here all this time, always quiet. My grandmother kept all this for herself.
What was she thinking?? Another few years and all this heritage would have gone to waste…
One day, after she saw all the interest I was showing for Judaism, and after she begged me to be careful (like every day of the past few months), she said to me: “I always knew you were special”
Deep down inside, she was happy someone is passing the torch…
At every Jewish holiday, I try to summarize it to her: the story behind it (megilat Esther, the exodus of the Jews from Egypt…) the meaning, the symbols (like with the Seder ), the traditions during this holiday…
She rediscovered some souvenirs she had. She gave them meaning, like when she remembered looking for pieces of bread with a candle (“bedikat hametz”, a tradition just before Pessa’h) and I explained to her the meaning of this “bread hunt”, and why the use of the candle…
One day she dared to ask: “where do you think I’ll be buried?”
Her parents are buried in a Jewish cemetery, forbidden to visitors… She can never go to see their graves…
Sunday, June 29, 2008
How It All Started
A few months ago, I was surfing on the internet. I started a video game of a virtual world, amazed of what it had to offer… didn’t go there to socialize or anything, just heard of it on the news and went in by curiosity.
A week later, I was wondering on a virtual beach, discovering the “realness” of it all, when suddenly, I met an odd avatar.
We started talking. He said he was Jewish… I felt safe enough behind my avatar, speaking to an avatar who spoke a very good French (eliminating the possibility of him being a trap…), to tell him about my grandmother, and that I’m Lebanese.
He was moved. He asked if I was aware that I was Jewish. In fact I wasn’t really aware, it was somewhere in the back of my mind… time made me forget its existence.
We talked for hours and days. I discovered he is originally from Tunisia, living in France, and that he is a Lubavitch. I had no idea what Lubavitch meant. Neither the word “Shoah”.
Now, when I look back, I understand how much a learned in a year.
We “met” through msn, on video cam. I met his whole family. His daughter gave me lessons on Judaism. He did too. I used to spend hours, days and nights taking notes.
I was eager to learn. And the more I learned, the more I wanted to know…
A few months later, I was in Paris for a few days. I went to a synagogue for the first time of my life. I was overwhelmed. I even spent Roch Achana with my new spiritual family…
A week later, I was wondering on a virtual beach, discovering the “realness” of it all, when suddenly, I met an odd avatar.
We started talking. He said he was Jewish… I felt safe enough behind my avatar, speaking to an avatar who spoke a very good French (eliminating the possibility of him being a trap…), to tell him about my grandmother, and that I’m Lebanese.
He was moved. He asked if I was aware that I was Jewish. In fact I wasn’t really aware, it was somewhere in the back of my mind… time made me forget its existence.
We talked for hours and days. I discovered he is originally from Tunisia, living in France, and that he is a Lubavitch. I had no idea what Lubavitch meant. Neither the word “Shoah”.
Now, when I look back, I understand how much a learned in a year.
We “met” through msn, on video cam. I met his whole family. His daughter gave me lessons on Judaism. He did too. I used to spend hours, days and nights taking notes.
I was eager to learn. And the more I learned, the more I wanted to know…
A few months later, I was in Paris for a few days. I went to a synagogue for the first time of my life. I was overwhelmed. I even spent Roch Achana with my new spiritual family…
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