Bar Hopping

Hanging out at bars is not my usual mode of social interaction, but this month I ended up going to two different bars for two very different reasons. In both cases I was invited, the first time via Facebook and the second, via an SMS (text message). That alone should be sufficient to know that I drove up the average age quite a bit in both settings, as the primary audience was their 20s and 30s. There were several other things in common about these experiences, including the fact that yes, I confess that I consumed what is probably my annual allotment of beer (2 glasses) and even did a couple of shots – arak in the first case, whiskey in the second.

According to my young adult informants, there are actually quite a few bars in downtown Jerusalem, far more than you might expect. Though centrally located, they are rather tucked away into little alleys and alcoves. The names of the bars seem to reinforce the idea that bar culture is hardly part of the mainstream in the Holy City. The first was called “Yankees Bar (in Hebrew letters) and the second Ha’Katzeh, which means the edge. Certainly bars are not on the edge in Tel Aviv or Haifa, where they are a much more visible part of the commercial fabric of the city.

Yankees Bar was the setting for the Young Adults Forum of the Israel Movement for Progressive Judaism (IMPJ) celebration of Purim, which began with a lively reading of the entire Book of Esther. I actually received the notice of this event from several sources but the one that assured me that it would be ok for a 50-something to go was from a real (not just Facebook) friend, whose daughter turned out to be one of the megillah readers. By the time the reading began, the place was packed. Most people came in some sort of costume and the audience and megillah readers seemed to be about three-quarters Israeli and the balance being American students. The emcee for the evening was an Israeli rabbinical student and it was clear that he was comfortable on the bimah (which means stage in modern Hebrew and in this setting it took on both sacred and secular connotations). He sported a kooky wig, played music and did a bit of Purim-related standup in between chapters. At the end of the reading, which was definitely not the end of the evening, he thanked everyone for coming and said: “We chose a bar over a synagogue for our celebration of Purim tonight because we wanted to bring Judaism into the public square.”

Now, you might think that Judaism is always in the public square in Israel and that is partly true. But, the type of Judaism that is most public, most mainstream, is not the type of Judaism that reflects who these young adults of the IMPJ are. Even though many of the organizers of this event were active members of the Reform Movement here, their Jewish activism is more likely to be expressed through social justice and educational work than through ritual practice. Situating a religious event in a public space was a political statement about religious pluralism, reinforcing the message that there is indeed more than one way to be a Jew as the motto of the IMPJ states. Since it’s actually a mitzvah to drink on Purim, a bar was definitely the right public setting for this statement. It drew a great crowd. Now, it will be fascinating to see whether different kinds of public spaces might become the setting for other holidays as well.

My second bar hop was a couple nights ago when one of my daughter’s friends sent me a text invitation to come hear the band of another one of their friends. Hannah happened to be in town for the night so this seemed like a fun thing to do as a kind of kick-off to the Pesach vacation. The band plays a combination of both original music and covers of country, folk, and bluegrass tunes. As Hannah told me, the band’s founder plays with almost an entirely different group when in Jerusalem as compared to Tel Aviv. The Jerusalem musicians all wore kippot in contrast to most of the Tel Aviv members of the band who do not. Most of the male members of the audience were sported kippot as well. All of the band members are American born (or raised) and the entire evening except for purchasing drinks, took place in English.

This evening didn’t have a purpose other than a fun social gathering for an extended circle of friends, American Israelis and American sojourners – students, young professionals, social activists, and even one soldier who is counting the days to his discharge (48) – most of whom had either Camp Ramah or Young Judea in their background. Virtually everyone knew each other and the atmosphere was almost like a gathering in someone’s (large and a bit funky) living room - a happy, warm, and friendly escape from work and routine. It almost could have been anywhere. Though again, there was something that made this a Jewish space and not just the number of kippot in the room. Some of these young adults like my daughter have lived in Israel for several years; some came as volunteers on one program or another and stayed, some came to study, others to work. Others are studying here for the year but this is certainly not their first extended stay. They were here on summer camp programs, Young Judea Year Course, undergraduate year abroad programs, study in yeshiva, and on and on. Many are activists and advocates for religious pluralism and social justice, and in fact may even show up at the same demonstrations and events as their IMPJ counterparts in the other bar. Israel is an integral part of who they are, whether they are religiously observant or not, whether they plan to remain here or not. And yet, as integral as Israel is, they need an utterly American outlet, a place to relax, be among their American friends, speak carefree English, share a bit of their home culture, and their music (even if none of them ever lived in a blue grass state). That too, is an integral part of who they are that they take with them too wherever they go.

Public/ Private Transportation

One of the simple pleasures of being on sabbatical in Jerusalem is that my main mode of transportation is my feet. I also take the bus a lot, especially since the trip to school is uphill from my apartment and I’m usually carrying books and my computer. When I stay in town, my circuit is pretty small, probably not much more than one and a half square miles or so. In that space, I can find all of my local friends, school, shuls, theatres and other cultural venues, the gym (of course!) and any shopping I want or need to do. For someone who spends an awful lot of time commuting back and forth to New York City during my “normal” life, this is a lovely respite that adds lots of extra hours to my week for other pursuits.

There are times, of course, when this narrow orbit feels a bit constrained and then I head to Tel Aviv, usually by sherut, a 10-passenger shared taxi that goes from downtown Jerusalem to the central bus station in Tel Aviv which makes the Port Authority bus station in New York look like a luxury spa. From there, I then take another interesting conveyance, a shared mini-bus that drops you off anywhere you’d like along a specified route.

Occasionally, I get rides from friends who take me home after an evening visit, or even if they see me standing at a bus stop. It’s those rides that make me think about how different it is seeing Jerusalem and the rest of Israel from inside a private car as compared to one or another mode of public transportation.

The buses and shared taxis are windows into the rich and complex social fabric of this not altogether Jewish state. On any given bus trip, you are likely to see a wide range of skin colors and hear a polyglot of languages including Hebrew, Arabic, English, Russian, French, Spanish, German, Portuguese and who knows what else. The passengers are schoolchildren, the elderly, commuters, tourists, soldiers, foreign workers, certainly rabbis and even a few priests. It’s one of the few places where a Jew might sit next to an Arab, not that they’d actually speak to one another.

Now, if I really lived here and wasn’t just a part-time sojourner, I know I’d have a car and that would change a lot. I got a taste of that this past weekend when I rented a car and was able to visit four different friends who live in suburbs of Tel Aviv and Netanya and in the lower Galilee. It felt great to be in a peppy little car where I could set my route and schedule, going wherever and whenever I wanted. But, it also made me realize that being in a private car creates a buffer to the outside world. The only link is the radio that gives regular traffic bulletins and news on the hour that reports the usual murder and mayhem but of quite a different ilk from what you’d hear on a typical American FM station – rockets fired from Gaza to a field outside of Ashkelon, IDF soldiers killing two Palestinian teenagers in Nablus who attacked them with a pitchfork, a Supreme court ruling overturning a Jewish town’s attempt to block a Bedouin family from moving in. But all of this is just background noise when you are zipping along the super highway and mainly concerned that the drivers around you won’t do anything crazy or stupid.

The car radio is a disembodied voice; in contrast, the bus is a live performance. Phone etiquette is pretty much non-existent and at times, it seems as if everyone is talking on the phone. If they aren’t talking, they’re eating, and if they aren’t eating, they might be davening tehilim (psalms) or studying a daf gemara (page of Talmud).

Private transportation is personal and liberating. It’s also protected. It’s up to you where to go and when to stop. Public transportation demands more direct engagement with the world. You have to accommodate more to the route & schedule. Of course you can plug into your IPod and tune out but if you pay attention, you see things you might otherwise ignore, the throngs who converge at the central bus station, and constant reminders of the persistence of poverty among Israel’s underclass – Ethiopians, Arabs, foreign workers, African refugees, and many many more.

Public transportation is also supposed to be fully and equally accessible to all members of society and that's what I normally see when I climb onto a bus or sherut. But, sadly, even this basic right is at risk here. Last Saturday night I went to a demonstration with an estimated 2000 other people to protest the increasing number of gender segregated bus lines. The impetus for this comes from the Ultra-Orthodox community whose male members find it objectionable to have any kind of social contact with women so they have been relegated to the back of the bus, literally and truly. There are currently between 58 and 63 such gender-segregated inner and intra-city routes. In some cases, the only option for travelers is to sit in a gender segregated section regardless of who their travel companions might be. Despite condemnation by the Supreme Court , the Transportation minister and the quasi- public bus company continue the practice.

Though the abuse that Women at the Wall receive on a monthly basis from Ultra-Orthodox men when they gather to pray on Rosh Chodesh is getting a lot more press (at least in blogs and Facebook), these segregated bus lines are a far more insidious erosion of democratic values and respect for human rights that effect people daily not just for an hour or once a month. The demonstration was a hopeful sign that people are waking up to the reality that segregated bus lines are not just an issue for those who can’t afford a car. The gathering was a wonderful mix of Orthodox, Secular, Conservative, and Reform Jerusalemites. It was organized by a broad-based coalition of human rights organizations including a new forum of young adults who are active in building bridges across different social and religious sectors and working together to make Jerusalem a more tolerant and pluralistic city.

There were all kinds of signs and placards at the demonstration and the requisite number of speeches from activists and politicians. Perhaps the most compelling sign was a small, hand-made one that said something like “Segregated bus lines is an issue for the entire country, not just Jerusalem.” Indeed, even for those who never step up onto a bus, this issue gets to the bedrock of what it means to live in a civil society where everyone has equal rights. As such, it seems that it's high time for everyone to get out from behind the protection of their private cars and join the cacophony of the daily show of life on the public routes and buses of Israel.

From Song of the Grasses to Secular Prayer

Last week, I went to two very different musical experiences, each of which represents fascinating trends in the ongoing relationship between Israeli identity and culture. I am hardly a music expert and am virtually illiterate when it comes to America popular music but I am quite drawn to Israeli popular music both for the pure pleasure of listening (and mostly understanding it) and also for what it says about what are the issues of the day in this complex corner of the world.

Since the First Aliyah in the 1880s, popular music has served as both a mirror and a reflection of Israeli culture and Israeli self-understanding. In those days of pre-post modernity, there was a singular view of what Israeliness should be – the “New Jew”, strong, confident, peace-loving but willing to fight, connected to the Land through love and labor, the antithesis of the pasty, pale, and weak “Yeshivish” Jews from the old country. The songs that embodied this ethos were simply called Shirei Yisrael – songs of Israel. Much of this music drew its lyrics from the great Hebrew Zionist poets of the first part of the 20th century as Rachel (Blumstein), Leah Goldberg, Natan Alterman, and Chaim Nachman Bialik and set them to folk tunes drawn or adapted from European sources. Later generations of singers such as Naomi Shemer followed along a similar vein. Even many artists better known for their songs of social critique and protest, also wrote Shirei Yisrael. These songs celebrate the natural beauty of the Land, the rewards of physical labor, the excitement of Jewish laborers building Jewish cities, the longing for the Land and the price paid to defend it. These are the songs that my generation was raised on and apparently are still taught today as I saw when I went to a uniquely Israeli experience called Shirah Ba’Zibbur - communal singing (literally “singing in public”).

In its original form Shirah Ba’Zibbur took place in social clubs and around the campfires of the youth movements. Almost always, folk singing went hand-in-hand with folk dancing, notably the hora. These iconic images of the halutzim reinforced Israeli identity and also shaped American Jewish conceptions of Israel through decades of Hebrew school textbooks. In fact, American Jews may have locked into these images for much longer than they held in Israeli society itself, but that’s a topic for another day.

While this type of music is still being produced, the phenomenon of communal singing died down after the Yom Kippur War in 1973. However, around the time of the second Intifada, it began to re-enter the cultural landscape. The revival is attributed to a nostalgic pull towards the past as a way of finding comfort during a time of violence, threat, and great uncertainty. The music and the experience of communal singing evokes an idealized time of shared direction and shared purpose, and affirms a connection to Eretz Yisrael and the unity of the Zionist project.

The Thursday evening gathering took place at a local community center. The setting was a large multi-purpose social hall that was set up with a few rows of chairs and a wide expanse of mats and giant pillows on the floor. The song lyrics were projected on power point slides with various Israeli pastoral landscapes as background. At its peak, the room had around 50 people, almost all of whom were Modern Orthodox young adults in their 20s sprawled on the mats and pillows. There were a few couples, but far more common were groups of three or four friends, much more often women than men.

The band played relatively softly as the lyrics flashed on the screen. A few songs seemed to catch the crowd’s full attention but for the most part, the buzz of conversation seemed to dominate more than the voices singing. I was also somewhat surprised that it was predominantly a young and religious crowd. I thought it would draw more middle-aged secular people looking to reclaim a bit of their youth. Maybe that is more of the demographic in places like Haifa or Rishon LeZion, but this is Jerusalem after all and it’s not likely that the young religious set, even if modern, would flock to bars as a way to start their weekend. In fact, the whole experience seemed like the musical equivalent to comfort food. Perhaps that is what the whole nostalgic pull is about –creating a safe space to gather and passively affirm one’s belonging to Israel today through music reflecting an Israel from a better time and place.

While the Shira Ba’Zibbur revival may have something to do with reclaiming Zionism, the second musical experience seemed to have a lot more to do with reclaiming Judaism. This was a concert by Kobi Oz to celebrate the release of his new CD entitled “Mizmorei Nevuchim” (Psalms for the Perplexed). The title reveals a lot about this endeavor. Oz comes from a Tunisian background and was raised in Sderot. Earlier in his musical career, he was the founder of a band whose musical message was one of social commentary and critique. The band was called Tipex, whose name in Hebrew means “whiteout”, in and of itself a critique against the European hegemony in Israeli culture and society. A few years ago, he became somewhat infamous when he was selected to represent Israel in the annual Eurovision musical contest with an extremely edgy song called “Push the Button.” The latest initiative reflects his journey to recover both his North African and his Jewish roots.

This return to Jewish sacred sources is a trend that has been going on for some time now among mainstream secular musicians, many, but certainly not all of who are Mizrachi in origin. These musicians draw from familiar liturgy and also the more esoteric piyyut (sacred poetry). Israeli musicians with North African roots are particularly drawn to piyyut as a way of reclaiming ancestral traditions that were largely dismissed and derided by the dominant Ashkenazi culture-makers of the early days of the State.

Oz’s project is more of a fusion of old and new rather than just a recasting of sacred music in contemporary modes. In a couple of songs, he blends cuts from old cassette tapes of his grandfather singing piyyut with his modern musings on the meaning of secular prayer. In another song called “Longing for Longings” he explores the Jewish condition of never quite being settled in any one place. The music is sometimes playful, sometimes poignant, and always pushing at questions of the relationship between Israeliness and Judaism.

What’s fascinating to me about these two events is that with the Shira Ba’Tzibur evening what I saw was a kind of static holding onto an idealized notions of Zionism that have outlived the times, whereas the Kobi Oz concert was much more about connecting to the past to build a new Jewish future, in even if it’s a perplexing one as the CD title says. In his song, “Elohai” (my God), Oz seems to be expressing his Zionist dream when he writes: “But despite everything, tolerance is bubbling beneath the surface. Look how people are bit by bit leaving behind the tension. And in the end they just want to be united in this great synagogue called Eretz Yisrael.” Amen, sela – may it be so in our day.

When the Jewish People and Israel Conflict

I spent a lot of time in front of the computer this week so my post is of a more academic rather than experiential nature. This is going to be published in the next issue of the "Peoplehood Papers"published by UJC and the Peoplehood hub of the Jewish Agency......

The word “Israel” has multiple meanings and associations. In the news, it refers to the modern state of Israel. When it appears in the siddur, it might be referring to the Jewish collective or to the actual Land of Israel. In the Bible, it might also refer to the collective or to the patriarch Jacob whose name was changed to Israel after he wrestled with the angel. In contemporary parlance, the word םואל (l’om), usually translated as nationality, is used in similar fashion to Israel, at times referring to the modern nation-state and at other times referring to the entire Jewish people. Placing an adjective in front of Israel adds to the multiplicity of meanings. Am Yisrael can be understood narrowly as the modern nation or more broadly as encompassing all Jews everywhere. Similarly, Eretz Yisrael is used both to refer to the land on which the State is situated as well as the sacred Land that God promised to Abraham and his descendents.

The ambiguity of the three terms – am, eretz, and l’om, is intentional, signifying the actuality of a rootedness in a particular geographic locale and the aspiration that all Jews are part of the Jewish collective regardless of whether they live in that locale or not. A far less ambiguous descriptor is Medina, the state, which is defined by citizenship. And yet here too, we find some blurred boundaries, literally in terms of its defined and disputed borders and figuratively, in terms of considering just who is a part of this civic collective. We see this play out in common parlance. For instance, many of the quasi-governmental agencies that historically have connected Diaspora Jews to Israel, the Jewish Agency, WZO, Keren Hayesod, Keren Kayemet (JNF) are referred to as " המוסדות הלאומיים" the nation/people’s institutions, not the State’s. Likewise, you can see a blurring in the distinction between medina and l’om for example, in the name for a new parking lot by the Government Center (Supreme Court, Bank of Israel, Prime Minister's Office, Knesset...): חניון הלאום, the nation/people’s parking, not “governmental” or “state”. And for decades political figures refer regularly to the population of the State of Israel as Am Yisrael or even "כל עם ישראל " (the entire am/people Israel).[1]

The intentionality of this ambiguity actually conveys a clear message: Israel’s raison d’etre is to be the national homeland for the Jewish people. That is the core purpose for the establishment and ongoing project of nation building within the Jewish state. For many Jews, both in Israel and the Diaspora, Israel serves as an anchor and some would say the center of the Jewish collective experience, the place where Jews can enjoy full equality and express the full measure of their humanity. Others however, reject the notion of Israel as the (or even a) center of collective Jewish experience, Indeed, there appear to be a growing number of those who suggest that Medinat Yisrael the state, presents an obstacle to identification and solidarity with Am Yisrael, the Jewish people and who may even reject the idea that collective Jewish experience is a value worth upholding and acting upon at all.

Attention to these multiple meanings is far more than wordplay when considering the impact on the next generation of American Jews and Jewish leadership. The same might be said for Israeli Jews as well, although my focus here draws from my experience with young American Jewish adults. Over the past several years, I’ve had the opportunity to engage in serious, substantive, and ongoing conversations about Jewish Peoplehood with rabbinical and education students at the Hebrew Union College. These conversations have been structured around formal and informal encounters with people and ideas with the intent of fostering a greater consciousness about and commitment to Klal Yisrael, a less ambiguous term than those already noted, that connotes Jewish Peoplehood without a specific connection to nationhood. For many of these young adults, Klal Yisrael is a foreign and even alienating concept, so it logically follows that the ideas of am, l’om, and medina are even more distant from their consciousness and experience. Three core tensions seem to contribute to this detachment. The first relates to the primacy of the individual over the collective, the second concerns the relationship between varying streams of Jews, and the third is the relationship between the Jewish State and the Palestinians.

On the surface, the first of these factors may appear to be unrelated to the tension between Am Yisrael and Medinat Yisrael, but in fact, it does shape foundational perceptions and assumptions about the Jewish collective and Israel as a Jewish state. Most American Jews today see Judaism as a personal matter, where individual autonomy is privileged over a commitment to a communal set of norms, values, and behaviors. This sentiment is often given expression by the phrase “my Judaism,” meaning that Judaism is whatever I make it. American Jews, including these highly engaged and deeply committed future rabbis and educators, feel fully comfortable choosing whether, when, where, and how to connect to Jews and Jewish beliefs and practice. They also prefer communities with porous and fluid boundaries between Jews and non-Jews. For them, this is normative, which is hardly the case in Israeli society today.

This then relates to the second issue, which is when these American young adult Jews come to Israel for their first year of graduate studies at HUC, many share experiences where they encounter derision and disdain for Reform Judaism and Reform Jews both from Am Yisrael, the Jewish nation/people and Medinat Yisrael, the Jewish state. They experience this in informal conversations and in the public square. At the extreme, they are sworn at and spat upon which lately occurs with some regularity at the Kotel during Women at the Wall Rosh Chodesh services. In more benign fashion, they are simply dismissed as inauthentic, ignorant, and non-halachic. Their response is one of alienation and profound hurt that often gets expressed in the retort: “Why should I want to feel connected to Klal Yisrael when there are many in that collective who reject that I’m studying to be a rabbi and maybe won’t even accept that I’m a Jew?”

A third tension that informs their experience of Israel concerns the relationships and attitudes of Am Yisrael, the Jewish nation/people, towards the Palestinians, both those who are citizens of Medinat Yisrael, the Jewish state, and those who are stateless in the West Bank and Gaza. For many of these students, social justice activism is a core aspect of how they express themselves as Jews. Thus, many express profound disappointment when they confront a complex and difficult reality where a sizable minority of Israel’s own citizens (not to mention Palestinians who are under Israeli governmental control) are denied equal access to the full measure of rights and opportunities afforded to Jewish citizens of the state. In essence, the question they ask is: “How can Israel live up to its ideal as a “light unto the nations” when it systematically and consistently discriminates against 20% of its own population?” Indeed, they even perceive, perhaps correctly, that most Jewish Israelis are content to continue such discriminatory policies in the fear that providing fair and equal access to Palestinian citizens of Israel will undermine the Jewish nature of the state.

These tensions are real and are seen by many as irreconcilable. Indeed, their resolution may require both political and educational action. While this brief presentation does not allow for detailed elaboration of an educational strategy, what is clear is that thoughtful and deliberative educational experiences can re-frame polarizing tensions as formative ones that invite learners to engage in serious and productive grappling with their attitudes and understandings of the interrelationships and conflicts between Am, Eretz, and Medinat Yisrael. It requires open and honest exploration of ambiguities and complexities through encounters, experiences, dialogue and reflection both with like-minded and culturally compatible peers as well as with individuals and groups who are markedly different in world view, life style, and culture. Working through such tensions in a formative way challenges one to opt in to being part of the politics of the Jewish public sphere in order to influence it. That is the difference between “my Judaism” and committing to live as a member of the Jewish collective which is the ultimate goal in creating a thriving and more connected Jewish world.



[1] Thanks to Peretz Rodman for pointing out these examples of contemporary usage of l’om and am.

Italian Interlude

A few days ago, I returned to Israel from a 9-day vacation in Italy. Billy’s university has a program in Florence and he was dispatched to meet with the program director and various faculty, associates, and students. That was the pretext for our get-together (not that we needed one) and it also was our entre into a glimpse of a not-so-touristic Italy. We did plenty of touring of course, but the brief encounters we had with Jewish people and places is what I want to focus on here.

First, was “cousin Anna”, the Florentine cousin of American friends who graciously made the introductions over email and we agreed to meet Anna at the Kiddush after services on Shabbat. The Florence synagogue is a late 19th century masterpiece with a grand copper dome and magnificent stenciling throughout the interior. The sanctuary must seat well over 500 but on this Shabbat morning, and I suspect on most, there might have been 60 by the time services were drawing to a close. The service was informal with minimal congregational singing and what seemed to be equal parts schmoozing and praying. The women’s section was on the side and separated by an open-weave lattice barrier that allowed plenty of room to view the action on the men’s side. The big event of the morning was a baby naming which took place after the formal close of the service. Then, mother (in slacks), father, and baby approached the bimah and were blessed by the rabbi under the protection of his long tallit. Later, I learned that both parents had recently converted to Judaism.

The hall was unheated and very chilly but thankfully, Kiddush took place in the much warmer school building. We found Anna easily and making small talk after introducing ourselves, we said how beautiful the synagogue was. “It’s too big,” was her blunt retort. “We’re a community of 900 Jews total and the building is just a burden.” We chatted for a while, she introduced us to her father, the rabbi and a few others, and then we made a plan to meet the following day for some touring around town.

Throughout the day in between sightseeing, coffee, and a delicious lunch, Anna shared stories of her family’s history and life in Italy. Her primary concern was about her son who is finishing high school this year. He spent last year as an exchange student in Ann Arbor, Michigan living with a Jewish family. Anna was delighted that it was such a positive experience, because she dearly hopes that he will decide to make his life outside of Italy. “There’s no future here,” she said. “We’re stuck in the past, and the state is so corrupt.” Her attitudes about Italy did not outwardly appear to have anything to do with being Jewish, but that too, emerged as a factor. “Gavriel is the only Jew in his class. He goes to school on Saturdays and is not interested in joining a youth group so he has no Jewish life. It was so wonderful that he was with a family in the US that took Judaism so seriously.”

Anna lived and studied in Israel for five years and owns an apartment in Gilo, a far southern extension (some would say a “settlement”) of Jerusalem. “It’s my foothold,” she said. But, Israel does not seem to be in the cards for Gavriel. His father recently made aliyah from France and Gavriel doesn’t like what Anna called “the French Jewish ghetto scene in Ra’anana.” Rather, he has his sights set on medical school at McGill University in Montreal.

A couple of days later, I met another wonderful woman named Amalia, who is a professor of Peace Education at the University of Florence. We met for lunch at the kosher restaurant right next to the synagogue. When Amalia came in, the owner came up to her and started talking about her brother who is a sports writer for a local newspaper. It seems this small Jewish community keeps tabs on one another, even if worship isn’t a core part of their communal life. Amalia was not so comfortable in English so we spoke in Hebrew. She is divorced and has two teen-age daughters, the elder of whom also just spent a year as a high school exchange student, living with a Jewish family in suburban Chicago. Like Anna, Amalia wants her children to leave Italy. Despite the fact that she thinks her family has been in Italy at least since the expulsion from Spain, she said: “I don’t feel at all connected to this place. It’s not mine.” Amalia also owns an apartment in Israel and visits often. This is where she feels truly connected, truly at home. While neither woman went into great detail about what held them in place, both have elderly parents who are very much part of their lives. While they may feel stuck or committed to stay for parents or careers, it’s clear that they want their children out.

One more experience is worth describing before trying to put together the pieces of this puzzle. We were in Rome the following Shabbat and again went to services at the Great Synagogue of Rome. This is an even more elegant and mammoth building than the one in Florence and is situated on a prime piece of riverfront property just a short way from downtown, in what was for centuries the Jewish ghetto of Rome. The synagogue was built in the 1870s after the unification of Italy and the abolishment of the ghetto. Like many post-World War II synagogues in the US that are built on main thoroughfares in grand style, this building sends a message that the Jews too are part of the Italian social compact and landscape. Rome’s Jewish population is around 15,000, far greater than Florence, but the numbers of worshippers weren’t that different from Florence and the feel of the crowd was more like a shteibl than it was a mega-shul. Our first sign of this was at the entryway where we were sorted – regulars went straight through and all strangers were stopped by the security guard, questioned and searched.

Unlike the side-by-side set up in Florence, the women’s gallery was more like a sky box with stadium style seating that challenged the women to find ways to talk to each other throughout the service, though they managed to do so quite well. Interestingly, there were a few places during the service where they stopped chatting and actually turned to the siddur. Despite their jabbering, they seemed to know exactly what was happening in the service down below.

The service itself was also much more formal than in Florence, though there were plenty of congregants who came in jeans. The hazan wore a flowing black and white tallit over a black robe topped with a four-corner hat that looked like it was straight out of a renaissance painting. There was a men’s choir that sang in a haunting chant reminiscent of medieval church hymns. Italian worship is definitely reflective of its milieu.

The history of Italian Jewry is unique, but its contemporary culture is similar to many other small Jewish communities around the world. The community is highly assimilated, and yet retains strong ties to tradition, even if not particularly strict in their observance. The community is also shrinking through intermarriage and outmigration, notwithstanding the young couple in Florence who had recently converted. Despite a comfortable lifestyle, meaningful work, and deep Italian roots, neither Anna nor Amalia feel there is a Jewish future in Italy. Both feel a strong pull to Israel as their anchor and safe haven. Yet, both seem to think North America is the better option for their children. Since we had just met, I didn’t feel I could probe further to tease out these complex feelings.

The encounter with Jewish space in Italy was both strange and familiar. I felt both at home and distant in these two synagogues where I was a clearly an outsider and where the music and liturgy was quite different even from my rather eclectic routine. But the encounters with Jewish people were filled with warmth and kinship. Even though they didn’t know us at all, both Anna and Amalia went out of their way to spend time with us and share something of their lives. From the moment we met, we were no longer strangers. Even though our family histories are so very different, we share a bond, perhaps based not so much on the past as on our aspirations for a shared future that celebrates Jewish life and a thriving Jewish people.