Newcomers, otherness and engaging with humility

By Adina Re’em Temple Beth El

When the trees burning in Canada lowered our air quality in the Lehigh Valley, I got a reminder of the grand connectedness of it all. Seeking connection is a powerful and positive human impulse.

Every fall, I have come to anticipate meeting newcomers seeking connection to the Lehigh Valley Jewish community. Many have successfully inte- grated. Yet at any given moment there are those standing outside the borders. Only some of them have recently moved to town. Some have not quite gotten around to the task. Some are not sure whether they belong.

I don’t have the key for unlocking this broch (Yiddish for an embarrassing, complicated situation needing to be resolved).

In the current cultural landscape of shifting and complex identities, there may be an expectation to constantly sensitize ourselves to the feelings and needs of others. Can we fulfill the expectation? Are we prepared to accommodate otherness and divergence among us?

Recent national polls have pointed to a steady increase of Jews from nonAshkenazi backgrounds claiming a place at the table. More so in large cities. More importantly, diversity of all kinds poses similar challenges in smaller communities, while hinging on various sociocultural differences. In any group one may feel unwelcome for a variety of legitimate reasons.

Making meaningful connections over differences is challenging. We find comfort among those who share commonalities with us. I’ve been the new kid on the block more than once in my life. As a timid first-grader in a new country, I was lucky enough to have the girls in my Jerusalem school unlock the gate to the castle and take me in with gracious welcome. I know now it was not (only) my luck of joining a nice bunch. I very quickly learned how I landed on the right side of the tracks. I came from the United States of America, after all. Not the Soviet Union or Iran. The strong Zionist education left no doubt which land was the promised one, but everybody knew nice clothes came from America.

Looking back, it was an early experience that left an everlasting mark. But that’s only half the story. The other half belongs to the other half of the class. The silent half. We shared little in common. Their Hebrew sounded heavily accented to me, and none of them lived in my neighborhood. Here is some background. I attended kindergarten in a suburb of New York City, then first grade in Israel, then second grade in New York. There were a few more back-and-forths since. I may have received some mixed messages in the shuffle, but one was crystal clear: there were four types of people in the world: Americans, Jews, Hasidim and Arabs. There was no problem with us being both American and Jewish. I enrolled in a religious-public all-girls school in Jerusalem. As it turns out, I went to school with Arabs. Really. At least that was the reaction in my 6-year-old mind. I’ll explain.

In 1971, I was part of an Israeli-government-run social experiment called integratzia, designed to fold us into the Israeli melting pot of Jews from many lands. The influx of Jewish immigration from Arab Lands in the 1950s motivated this. It was a high priority at the time to create a cohesive Jewish population out of this mixed multitude. Since my elementary social-mental map did not include Jews from Arab lands (today referred to as Mizrahim), for my first year in Israel they were “Arabs.” The ultimate other.

It was an environment aiming to be color blind. Yet at the end of each day, as we walked off, they, the girls walking in the opposite direction, returned to homes, often struggling economically to support larger families with fewer resources. We were so young, uninitiated to the ways of the world. Yet nobody had to teach us the hidden curriculum. Its text was never referenced. We all carried the unmistakable knowledge of a (nonexistent) brick wall dividing us. Frightening at how early an age we categorize people into groups that are inevitably stereotyped.

To this day I carry a deep discomfort knowing how I relatively easily slipped into the right group, while others clearly could not. There was no doubt which group was more desirable. One had the better neighborhood, access to after-school activities, useful social connections and status. I’m thinking of those who could not make it in, as hard as they tried. I’m thinking of those who made it in and carry endless anger mixed with pride.

One cannot draw any direct parallels between my story and the challenges our community faces today. Nonetheless, I am revisiting and sharing these early memories in hope of refocusing my own priorities. I’d like to think I’ve learned to be aware of my biases. I’d like to think I’ve learned that things are never as innocent as they seem and power always holds sway. Above all, I want to engage with those I encounter with a healthy dose of humility. After all, I don’t hold the keys to the castle.

Adina Re’em is an Israeli American who has been part of the Temple Beth El community for 20 years. She leads a weekly Shabbat study group there that is open to all, this year exploring Parsha with Prophets. She works as an RN Good Shepherd Rehabilitation Hospital, Raker Center.

By Nurit Galon Special to Hakol

After the end of the Second World War, many people in England were on the move, trying to decide where to live. Many homes and neighborhoods had been destroyed by bombing. The years of being born, growing up and dying in the same house in the same neighborhood were over, and not only in England.

How does one choose a community to move to? What do we look for? Stability? Education? Work prospects? Cultural possibilities? Room for children to grow and develop? Political involvement?

Probably most of these.

There are other considerations too. In my kibbutz, Galon, newcomers are asked to meet with members and explain why they want to move here. A big falafel for whoever guesses the answer cor- rectly: “We want to be able to walk barefoot along the paths,” meaning “We want the freedom of the countryside and to choose what we wear, because clothes are only symbolic, not the important things in our lives.”

On my first visit to the Lehigh Valley, I was overwhelmed by the feeling of how similar it was to Yoav, the smiles that greeted me everywhere, the warmth and caring, the devotion of the leadership and, yes, the determination to make the world a better place. Once the Lehigh Valley-Yoav Partnership2Gether relationship began two decades ago, every meeting, every delegation was a celebration.

Even 20 years later, the friendships made continue. Of course they do, because they are family friendships that matter. During Israel’s all too frequent wars, Lehigh Valley was there for us. Mark Goldstein z”l, executive director of the Jewish Federation of the Lehigh Valley at the time, didn’t wait to say he was coming. He came, and I can’t tell you how encouraged we were to see him arrive (even as he discovered that someone had stolen his suitcase — some welcome to the Holy Land!). Mark visited the kibbutzim, whose shelters and equipment seriously needed repairs. Sure enough, the Lehigh Valley immediately backed the request. This is family. This is a good, supportive place — and a good place to live.

Each time I receive Hakol, I am truly astounded at the amount of activities for all ages. Lehigh Valley is alive with creativity and care. I grew up in London with plenty of activities, but so impersonal and a little bit scary. Today I am a proud Israeli (with all the problems!), and naturally I would like to fly you all over here on a magic carpet. I am proud to be in the Lehigh ValleyYoav partnership and, to anyone considering places to settle down, I don’t hesitate to recommend the Lehigh Valley as a community well worth joining.

Happy summer days!

Nurit Galon writes for Hakol from Yoav, the Lehigh Valley’s Partnership2Gether sister region in Israel.