chai anxiety
Firstly, for my non-Jewish friends and readers, a little Judaism 101:
In Judaism, the Chai symbol consists of the letters of the Hebrew alphabet Het (חַ) and Yod (י). In the Hebrew language, the word chai (חַי) spelled by these two letters means "living", and is related to the word for "life". It's pronounced with a strong guttural "ch"and not as in the Indian tea, "chai".
Over the years, I have acquired a few Chai pendants. The first Chai I was given was a gift from my Northern Irish lapsed-Protestant boyfriend when I was about 19 years old and living in Belfast. He actually managed to find what was probably the only Chai in the country.
Ironically enough, my ex-boyfriend's mother used to work for a Jewish family who owned a jewelry business. Years later, he remembered the family and went to visit their store to see if he could purchase some kind of Judaica for me. The family, who hadn't seen him since he was a small boy, were in typical gushing Jewish fashion, thrilled and overwhelmed that the little Proddie Belfast lad they had known had grown up only to fall in love with a nice Jewish girl.
Such naches!
Of course the lapsed Protestant's parents had segued from wishy-washy Protestantism to full blown born-again Christianity. Yup. We're talking serious God Squad people. Christians with a capital "C".
I can't say they were thrilled with the fact that their only son was dating a Jewish girl, but it was a heck of a lot better than being a Catholic. They might be born-agains, but by jove, they never forgot their roots!
For over a year my boyfriend’s mother worked steadily on trying to get us to come to their church. Their “church” was more like a convention centre; it was a monster of a building; that literally held thousands of people. The Whitewell Metropolitan Tabernacle was reportedly one of the largest churches in Britain and people as far away as Dublin would drive up in the wee hours of Sunday morning just to attend and hear its charismatic preacher.
When his mother realised that she was getting nowhere with me, she went back to targeting her son. It’s not just Jewish mothers that are blessed with the art of laying guilt. Soon enough I had my boyfriend approach me and basically beg that I go with him. “Just the once”, he promised. “It would make them so happy. Please.”
The next thing I know I am in the car with boyfriend and potential future outlaws hurtling our way to The Church of God. What was I thinking? How did I get roped into this? I was consumed by paranoia; if Jews go to hell, I am surely on my way. This is just not right!
It was actually worse that I had imagined, if that were possible. Nothing could have possibly prepared me for the experience I was about to have. I walked into this mammoth structure and discovered that it had been designed to almost stadium proportions. And deep in the dead centre was a 360° pulpit. There was not a corner of the church this man could not see and preach to.
As we took our seats, I looked around me. There was not a spare seat in the house. I was introduced ad nauseam to friends of his parents. You could see the pride in their eyes that their son and son’s girlfriend were at church with them. I knew it was a significant moment in their eyes, but to me it was playing a sick and twisted game of Happy Families.
The Preacher took his place on the pulpit and for what seemed a lifetime, he circled the hall with his eyes and then he closed them. He asked that everyone close their eyes and pray. Pray to the Lord Jesus. Pray for forgiveness and pray that one more soul be saved that day. He boasted that not one single Sunday service had gone by in the history of their church when a soul had not been saved. “Close your eyes!” he yelled. “Praise the Lord!”
Having not closed my eyes, I looked around me. Like I had seen on television, people had their arms in the air and their eyeballs visibly rolled to the back of their heads. It’s like they were literally trying to invoke Christ himself. A shiver ran down my spine. A cold sweat began to bead on my forehead. I had to get out of there. I thought I was going to be sick. I turned to my boyfriend. I thought if I looked at him, he would see the desperation in my eyes and know what I was feeling. But he had his eyes closed too. I squeezed his hand to get his attention. He looked at me and his eyes said, “Just close your eyes. Just do it. This will all be over soon.” But I just couldn’t do it. Every cell in my body was saying “Get out! Run while you still can!”
My boyfriend’s parents were deep in the moment. With closed eyes and an expression of serene devotion on their faces I felt utterly helpless. I was stuck in this giant cell and standing at each end of the row was a man that looked more like a bouncer in a nightclub than an innocent church warden. In their dark, severe suits, they looked like they would be ready to zap me with a ray gun should I try to escape.
Clearly this single day in my life some fifteen years ago had a significant effect on me.
In my whole life, I don’t think I have ever felt less Jewish than when I lived in Belfast. Only two things mattered in Belfast; whether you were Catholic or Protestant. It’s like there was nothing in between.
I experienced this first hand when I was offered a job on a radio show. Before I could start, I had to fill out an Employment Declaration Form, which was a bit of a misnomer, what it really should have been called was a Religion Declaration Form. Except that wouldn’t have been politically correct, not that there was anything politically correct about living in Northern Ireland. When you got down to it, the only piece of relevant information on that form was what religion you were. It was designed to prevent discrimination and to ensure that there was a balanced number of Catholics and Protestants in the workplace, especially in ghetto areas, where one group reigned supreme.
When it got to the bit on the form where I had to write down my religion (surely this is not ethical I told myself) I discovered that there were only two options; a box to tick if I was Protestant and a box to tick if I was Catholic.
“Umm. Excuse me.” I asked my future employer. “I am not quite sure what to put here.”
He looked at me, and didn’t quite see what the problem was.
“It’s quite simple dear. Just tick the appropriate box.”
“But I am neither.”
I think it took a while for the information to click. “But what do you mean? Then what are you?”
“I’m Jewish.”
“Jewish? You don’t look Jewish.”
(By the way, what does a Jew look like actually? I have yet to work this one out)
“Well, I am. Should I write that down?”
“Yes, definitely dear. In fact, why don't you draw another little box, write 'Jewish' underneath and tick that."
He mulls this information over in his head for a few moments. “Actually this is wonderful.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, we were one Protestant over and now you balance the books perfectly.”
I wore my Chai with pride in Belfast, and Hong Kong, and Singapore and Australia and yes, I think that covers all the countries I have lived in to date.
Wearing a Chai in the Diaspora is not a particularly overt symbol, and definitely less recognisable to non-Jews than say, a Star of David. In fact, most of my friends had no idea what it was.
"Is it a camel? With its head off to one side?'
"Is it a what?"
This morning I decided, for whatever reason, to dig out my little gold Chai from Belfast, which I haven't worn for years. As I fastened the tiny clasp around my neck I thought to myself, how utterly unremarkable a symbol it is here in Israel. I don't mean to diminish its significance, but quite frankly, they are a dime a dozen here. Nobody would bat an eyelid here if you wore one.
Or so I thought.
I learned something very interesting today at work. Wearing one in Israel (as was pointed out to me not once, but twice today) has quite a lot of meaning after all. It means you are "arsim" – or in my case, being female, a "frecha".
What this roughly translates to (at least in Australian terms) is a Mega Wog. If I were a guy, I would be wearing half a pot of gel in my hair, my tight shirt would be unbuttoned to the navel, my hairy chest would be adorned with gold chains and I would smell like the men's aftershave department of David Jones. I would also be driving some souped up Italian convertible that I would hoon up and down Chapel St (if i lived in Melbourne, that is) on a 'Sat-day nite'.
Get the picture?
In the space of a second, my long and closely held beliefs about this little symbol had been turned upside down all because of a little thing called "context".
Worn outside it's natural environment, I felt I was making a subtle statement about my identity. Look at me world! I am a Jew, and I am proud.
Conversely, worn here in Israel, on 'home turf'' it means nothing more than a rather unsophisticated, and tasteless display of garish fashion.
If anything, today's revelation only reinforced something that has been swimming in my brain for months now. To quote Descartes, "Cogito, ergo sum", "I think, therefore I am".
That's the difference about being a Jew and being a Jew living in Israel.
You. Just. Are.
In some ways, it's a no-brainer. Perhaps this is partly the reason behind why so many of us who decide to make aliyah and live in Israel spend a significant part of our initial adjustment to life here struggling with our identities and trying to make sense of something so abstract that it makes our heads hurt attempting to attach logic and reasoning to our otherwise utterly illogical actions.
My colleagues seemingly innocent comments today were, I have decided, a bit of an inverted compliment. What they were really saying to me was, "Come on. You are one of us now. You're an Israeli. It's time to look the part."
Who would have ever suspected that fishing out an old, sentimental piece of jewelry from a long ago ex-boyfriend would have resulted in such a flood of memories and such deep contemplation?
Let's go back to our little Judaism 101 class.
Some say Chai refers to the Living G-d; others say it simply reflects Judaism's focus on the importance of life. Whatever the reason, the concept of Chai is important in Jewish culture. Gematrically, the Chai is equivalent to the number 18, which represents the life-force and is why Jews traditionally give charity in multiples of 18.
And finally let's not forget L'Chaim (to life), the quintessential Jewish toast.
Every day in this new country of mine challenges me, stretches me and forces me to question everything I ever thought and knew.
And to that I say -
L'chaim!
1:46 am
i have to say i've seen a couple that really do look like a camel with it's head to the side..!
i look forward, in time, to being able to struggle as you have with my identity as a Jew, moving to the Jewish State.
L'Chaim! top
4:45 pm
L'Chaim! Great Blog! I will be adding you to my blogroll. Shabbat Shalom! top
11:17 am
Too bad I didn't meet you when you visited Ketura. First, thanks for all the compliments. Second, I'm an NI fan. Wasn't in Belfast, but loved Derry. Would like to go back there for a sabbatical or some-such. The Chai thing was cute. Funny how it became *ars*-wear. Toodles. top