Orli in Holyland 4
‘You go to change your shirt before we leave?’ my mother asks.
‘Why?’ I ask.
She points to the three and a half inches of exposed skin below my neck. I’m about to look for another shirt when I remember that I’m fifty-four years old.
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m not changing.’
I was already dreading the two remaining Sabbath meals with my family but now there’s added tension, and I’m useless at hiding my discomfort.
Do what you feel, my mother says.
Forty-eight years in England and her Middle Eastern accent still clings to her.
I apologize for no reason, and try to explain.
‘I can’t pretend to be something I’m not,’ I say.
‘You think it easy for me to pretend?’ she says. ‘Just do what you feel.’
I wonder then, how she’s put up with the Fundy rules for so many years.
Between them, my two brothers have eighteen children. Add the cousins, aunts, uncles, and we’re talking a shit load of Jewish holidays, Sabbaths, Bar mitzvahs, engagements, weddings, memorials, circumcisions, anniversaries, and birthdays. Caught between Fundy and Heathen, my mother attends all of these events as one of the only women who doesn’t cover her hair, her arms, her legs, doesn’t wear skirts exclusively, or observe Sabbath. Compromises are required if she is to maintain close ties to her ultra-orthodox grandchildren.
‘Go without me,’ I say, ‘I’ll come later.’
My mother leaves.
I feel bad.
I pull out my sketch book—my oxygen mask over the last couple of decades. Drawing, writing, and erasing are forbidden on Sabbath, but the flat’s empty so only God will see, and I owe Him a good kick in the bollocks.
I sketch until I’m sure services and lunch are over and head to the trailers.
Lunch is not over.
Despite the usual warm welcome my brain remains guarded.
I imagine the Fundies see me as public enemy #1, flouting my abominable lifestyle, and corrupting young minds. They needn’t worry—the children know the rules.
My brother’s youngest son, Shmuli-Yossef, barrels over to me. He wants to know why my hair is uncovered. I tell him that not all women cover their hair. He mutters a blessing over a sugared almond and pops it into his mouth.
‘Why do you wear trousers?’ he asks.
‘I like them,’ I say, ‘why do you wear them?’
‘I’m a boy,’ he says, ‘boys wear trousers. Girls wear skirts.’
‘Some girls wear trousers,’ I say.
‘It’s an aveyrah,’ he says. It’s a sin.
Unsure how much I should debate a five-year-old, I try joking instead.
‘You should probably pray for me,’ I say.
‘No,’ he says, and bounces away.
I relax a little when my eight-year-old niece, Rivki, all sunshine, throws her arms around me. She and her brother, Simcha, ask about the quote on my necklace.
My husband bought me this years ago and it gives me strength. I explain to the kids that it’s from Alice in Wonderland. Neither have heard of the story, but they find the quote hilarious.
Simcha runs off to tell his older brother about it, and I wonder how much longer he will talk to me. After Bar mitzvah, the boys tend to shy away as they become more aware of the gender differences.
Rivki leads me inside the dining room where the food has been mostly cleared away and Dvar Torahs are being delivered. My niece pushes a plate of Chamin in front of me. This traditional Sabbath stew is heavy but no one in these parts gets away without eating.
After Grace is recited I approach the newlywed’s table to give my nephew, Moshe, a heads up.
‘I’m probably not going to make the final dinner,’ I say.
‘But you must,’ Moshe says with a disappointed look.
What difference does my presence make? I wonder. With men and women at separate tables, I’ve barely said two words to him.
His mum tries to convince me to come.
‘It’s the finale,’ she says, ‘the most important one, Moshe will make a speech.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘don’t count on me.’
I walk back to the flat with my mother where she takes a quick nap. Outside of sleeping, most of the last twenty-four hours have been spent in the trailer, and although my mother has said she’ll skip the last meal, she decides to return.
She makes pretending look easy.
It’s not just about her relationship with her grandchildren. There are others to appease. In a community of Fundies, your chances of getting a good shidduch are threatened if immediate family members are heathens. In addition to pissing me off, this transfer of responsibility encourages division.
In his essay, How To Cure A Fanatic, Amos Oz insists that as long as one employs a sense of humor, it’s impossible to be a fanatic. With this in mind, I begin to draw, determined to extract something funny from this experience.
As usual, a two-dollar fine-tip Micron pen brings some relief, and by the time I’m done, I’ve changed my mind. I will return for the final dinner, if only to say goodbye to my nephew and his bride.
I need to lighten up and as I set off through the streets of Bnei Brak, I shove an earbud in my ear, cover it with my hair, and walk to the trailer park listening to the most fitting music I can think of: The Book of Mormon soundtrack. As I pass rabbis, mothers, and children, Michael Potts’ deep voice blasts in my ear.
Hasa diga, Eebowai. Fuck you, God.
I choke back my laughter as I walk, and the breeze forces me to cover my ear to avoid being caught transgressing on Sabbath. Suddenly I’m seven years old again, rebelling against my rabbis.
When I get to the trailer, Moshe is thanking his guests. He thanks his parents, his grandparents, and all of ten of his siblings. When he thanks me for making the long trip, I try not to cry like a baby. I fail.
Sabbath finally ends, and I’m able to spend a few minutes with Moshe and his sweet wife.
‘What did you think of the wedding?’ he asks.
‘It was fantastic,’ I say. ‘Were you there?’
I’ve found my sense of humor but it’s not exactly Fundy friendly.
I show my nephew a wedding video I have captured of his bride being showered by the women with thousands of tiny red fabric hearts. Because of the mechitza, he has no idea this has happened at his wedding.
He’s mesmerized.
‘Ayzeh yoffi,’ Moshe beams. What beauty.
He takes the opportunity to thank me again for coming to the wedding, and I recall to him my promise when he was sixteen. His eyes grow wide.
‘You remember that!‘ he cries. ‘I know exactly where we were when you made that promise,’ he says, ‘right by the front door of my house before you left.’
He’s right, and I’m taken aback by his detailed memory.
‘So,’ he says, ‘when are you coming back?’
‘I’m not sure,’ I say.
‘When I become a father?’ he asks.
‘Hell, no,’ I say. ‘The way you lot spit ‘em out, that’s only six months away. I’ll come to your first son’s Bar mitzvah.’
‘That’s way too long,’ he protests.
After a brief negotiation, we agree that I’ll return by child number three.
‘Be ezrat Hashem,’ Moshe says. ‘With God’s help.’
‘Hasa diga, Eebowai,’ I say.
Note: names changed for privacy
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Thanks for reading.
Beautiful series. Thanks for writing.