Orli in Holyland 3

My nephew’s wedding is barely over when my mother reminds me about Sheva Brachot, the seven traditional dinners held to honor the newlyweds. Literally, translated, Sheva Brachot means seven blessings, and when I made a hasty decision to attend this wedding, I didn’t think about this series of dinners with my Haredi family. I did not anticipate spending Sabbath in the ultra-orthodox community of Bnei Brak where my brother lives.

Fuck.

A brief background:

Thirty years ago, God made a Red Sea of my family and split us in half. On one side were the Fundies—my nickname for the fundamentalist ultra-orthodox half, and on the other were the Heathens—the secular half. After a more than ten-year hiatus from all of them, I (Heathen), recently reconnected with them. It’s been so long since I’ve spent time around Fundies that I’ve forgotten how much of an alien I am here.

A few hours celebrating with my family is one thing, but I haven’t observed Sabbath in thirty years. How the hell am I supposed to spend an entire weekend around Fundies?

While there’s a war raging fifty miles away, I’m more concerned with the one going on in my head.

I remind myself that I’ve come to Israel to celebrate my nephew and to spend time with my mother. So what are my options?

Staying elsewhere and driving to the dinners is out of the question, since cars are prohibited on Sabbath. The roads are closed off in Bnei Brak on Saturdays, and even if they weren’t, the Fundies would not agree to me transgressing the Sabbath for the sake of joining them. It’s all or nothing.

I’m going to have to suck it up and attend the Sabbath events.

Fuck.

I’ve brought the only skirt I own—a thirty-five-year-old vestige from my religious phase. More on that another time but in short, skirts and dresses make me break out in hives. Having come unprepared for this, my mother and I go through her closet. I find a long sleeveless lace dress that’s way too big, but black and with a blouse tied over it, I can pass for Haredi, at least for a weekend.

You don’t have to meet the residents to know you’re in Bnei Brak. The street signs named after rabbis and prophets are a clue, and the buildings tell their own story.

There are three Sabbath meals over the course of the weekend, and all are eighty-person affairs due to take place at a trailer park where each structure has been converted into a synagogue, a dining hall, a beis hamedresh, and several bedrooms for those who live too far away to walk.

I haven’t been a believer in decades but I thank Yahweh, Asherah, Allah, Christ, and Buddah, that I’m not staying in a trailer on site, and that I’ll be several blocks away, sharing a flat with my mother, one of my nephews, and his young family.

On Friday night, I skip synagogue—even I have my limitations, and instead wait outside until the service ends. The Fundies enter the dining trailer, an army of black hats followed by beautifully dressed wives and daughters.

Immediately the oxygen supply feels thin.

My mother is whisked off to the head table reserved for the newlyweds, parents, and grandparents. I’ve barely taken my seat at the women’s table and already I’m suffocating and fighting back tears. The jet lag and sleep deprivation are definitely not helping and I’m sure it was a mistake to come here.

Van der Kolk’s theory is playing out in real life, and my mind has been involuntarily dragged back into my nineteen-year-old body–among the worst moments in my life when I was ultra-orthodox and attended a seminary in Jerusalem.

I’m trying to find something funny here but it’s not easy when my amygdala is lobbing bottle rockets at my prefrontal cortex.

One glance at my mother, my brothers, my nephews, and nieces, and it’s clear there will be no escape. I’m trapped.

It would be so much easier if the Fundies were arseholes, but they’re so fucking warm and welcoming and caring and friendly. They’re thrilled that I’m here and they do everything to make sure I’m taken care of, pushing food and drinks in front of me and checking to see if I’m okay.

I’m seated next to my cousin’s wife, Yocheved, an angel who is full of compassion and empathy. Using a combination of Hebrew, English, and French, we share our experiences, me of my five-year stint with ultra-orthodoxy, and her of the miracle of finding God.

My discomfort must be obvious because she tells me I’m courageous for coming here. My laughter gives way to tears. This isn’t courage, it’s desperation to belong to a family in which I no longer fit.

To be continued…

Note: names changed for privacy

Please click below to read:

Orli in Holyland 1

Orli in Holyland 2

Orli in Holyland 4