MOLDOVANER FREYLEKHS!

In da city Kishinev

2008-07-16T22:48:00.002+03:00

Perhaps the most accurate musical depiction of life in Kishinev since S'keshenever shtikele....

я живу здесь-- это город мой!

גילגולים

2008-06-30T23:06:00.011+03:00

Being a successful Jewish Service Corps volunteer requires a great deal of resourcefulness, creativity and self-motivation. In Moldova, a go-with-the-flow attitude is also crucial. And so, I find myself playing several different roles every day.

From the top, here's a brief sampling of my more recent transformations:

1. as living art/poolside propaganda in honor of 60 Years of Israel
2. as a blushing bride during a short theatre piece at Jewish Family Summer Camp Shevet Achim
3. in an improvised "national" costume at the Multicultural Kishinev Seminar hosted by the Moldovan Jewish Community's own Tolerance Club (pictured with Anna from Kiev)
4. creating cultural continuity on an excursion to Rybnitsa with the Madrichim Training Center

זעכציק (60) יאָר שױן

2008-05-26T00:12:00.005+03:00

Bas-Tsiyon says:
Your Oldnewland must have you!
Join the Jewish Regiment!
(American Jewish Advertisement, circa WWI)

image courtesy of Wikipedia

My White City, You Are a Flower of Stone!

2008-05-25T23:14:00.002+03:00

Ladies and Gentlemen, meet Soviet song legend Sofia Rotaru. An ethnic Moldovan and native of Ukrainian city Chernivtsi (Czernowitz), Rotaru is, even at the age of 61, still the darling of the Post-Soviet World.

Here she sings "Песня о моём городе", or "The Song of My City", which was the theme for the 1970s made-for-State-run TV movie "Kishinev, Kishinev". Appropriately, this song is now the unofficial anthem of of Chisinau/Кишинёв, the city in which I have now lived, with interruptions, for almost nine months (whoa!).

The Russian Lyrics (there is, of course a Romanian/Moldovan version as well) are as follows:

ПЕСНЯ О МОЕМ ГОРОДЕ

Музыка - Е. Доги
Русский текст - В. Лазарева

Мой белый город, ты цветок из камня,
Омытый добрым солнечным дождем,
Как ветрами, овеян ты веками,
Как песня, в сердце ты звучишь моем.

Мой теплый город в переливах света
И в зелени, и в звездах, и в огнях,
Я так люблю, когда живут рассветы
На улицах твоих и площадях!
Ла ла ла, ла ла ла....

Мой нежный город - свет мой негасимый,
Ты весь в моей, а я - в твоей судьбе.
Так радостно здесь встретится с любимым
И вновь услышать песню о тебе.

Мой белый город, вечный как сказанье.
В тебе наш труд и молодость, и смех.
я чувствую всегда твое дыханье -
Ты мой, ты наш, и ты открыт для всех.
Ла ла ла, ла ла ла...

Goodbye Chamets, Hello Matzo! A Passover Retrospective

2008-05-20T17:06:00.011+03:00

Ah Pesach--- the festival of freedom!

Like most other JSC Volunteers, this year I spent my Pesach at innumerable seders, ingesting more JDC-brand matzo then I ever thought possible. But what makes Pesach in Bessarabia unique, you may ask? Well, to understand this you must first understand the Moldovan relationship to bread.

The famously fertile soil of Bessarabia produces a wide variety of leavened products-- from black & hearty to light & fluffy. Bread is matter of Moldovan pride, a symbol of hospitality and cross-cultural communication. Thus today, some of this nation’s favorite snacks include the traditional Moldovan (i.e. non-Jewish) “Hala” and “Beighel”.

In the Moldovan Jewish community this frenzied love of all things yeasty means that Passover is an especially difficult time. In Hillel, for example, the transition from leavened to unleavened was marked by a pre-Pesach seminar where we learned not only how to lead our own seder, but also how to cope with eight full days without bread. Several days later we had a special “Goodbye, Chamets!” visit to the “Chisinau (Kishinev)” brand beer factory run by local Jewish business leader Yakov Tikhman.

You may think that under a bread-loving society, many young Jews in Kishinev gave into crust-lust and snuck sandwiches between matzo balls. The pressure was especially intense this year, as Moldovan Easter, for which special aromatic loaves are displayed and devoured as an act of devotion, coincided directly with our Jewish holiday. It was quite incredible, however, to see people for whom Jewish traditions such as kashrut are very rarely acknowledged, doing everything they could to keep themselves kosher le-peysekh.

Of course, sometimes the lack of yeast can make people do strange things. This is Jan-- he’s
dressing up as the Pharaoh--- need I say more?

Mir Basaraber, Part II

2008-04-21T19:08:00.003+03:00

With a hearty laugh, Alexander Bendersky greets all his guests the same way. “Sit down and stay healthy!” he says with smile. A frequent host of all kinds of visitors, from his high spirits and seemingly contagious energy, one would never guess that Mr. Bendersky, or Sasha, as he is more commonly called, is one of Hesed Yehuda’s neediest clients in the Kishinev region. Bed-ridden, without the use of his left arm and living in harsh conditions, he is nevertheless happy, popular and proudly carries on the Jewish traditions he learned as a child.

Born in the village of Nisporeni, Sasha is able to recall with astonishing detail the thoroughly Jewish atmosphere of the pre-war shtetl, remembering even the smallest episodes from his childhood. "Bet you didn't know that in Bessarabia we played dreydl on Purim too, did you?" says Sasha playfully. In an effort to recreate this environment, he and his wife Roza, who also grew up in Nisporeni, still maintain a Jewish home, keeping Shabbat and celebrating the holidays with family recipes passed down for generations. “We can never forget where we have come from,” says Roza softly, “It’s too important”.

On Saturday afternoons, the Benderskys door is always open. Friends of all ages pour in until sunset, joking, talking and debating with Sasha in Russian, Romanian and Yiddish. Making a l’chaim over homemade wine, all the collective aliments of his family, from his own troubles, to his wife’s frequent illnesses and their son’s mental handicap, seem for a moment to disappear. One special toast is always reserved for Hesed, whom Sasha thanks not only for the medical and humanitarian aid they provide, but also the connection they give him with the wider Jewish community.

Yet though the Benderskys are grateful for the help that Hesed provides, Sasha still struggles. Each month he sets aside a portion of his meager pension to save up for his dream--- a motorized wheelchair he could operate with his one good hand. “Being Jewish means being part of a community. My door is always open to guests, but one day I’d like to visit others too”.

Mir Basaraber, Part I מיר באַסאַראַבער

2008-04-10T09:32:00.007+03:00

פֿון "מיר באַסאַראַבער"

פֿון מאיר כאַראַץ

מיר, װאָס מיר װײסן אַלײן ניט פֿון װאַנען

אונדזערע מאָדנע פֿאַמיליעס שטאַמען,

אפֿשר פֿון אײביק אָן פֿון דאַנען,

פֿון די פֿעלדער פֿון בריטשעװאַנען?

From Mir Basaraber (We, the Jews of Bessarabia)

by Meyer Kharats

We’re the ones who don’t know themselves

From whence come our strange surnames,

Perhaps from the very beginning from here,

From the fields of Britshev?

quote and translation adapted from: Klezmer Alliance

A Tale of Two Purimshpiln

2008-03-29T23:01:00.001+02:00

If Purim is the favorite holiday of Moldovan Jewry, then the purimshpil is their favorite form of artistic expression. Let us take a moment to compare two purimshpiln, one in Hesed, our beloved community organization for the elderly, and one in Hillel, the Jewish students' club.

First, King Akhashveyrosh, portrayed in Hesed by Anatoly....

and in Hillel by Pasha:
Next we have, Ester haMalke, as played by Valentina, the Hesed choir's leading soloist...

and by Olga Klimina, Hillel's foremost hula-hoopist:

Of course both purimshpiln not only told the story of the holiday, but also taught important Jewish values. For example, Hesed's Mordechai, played by volunteer doctor Yuri, reminded Jews of their obligation to study Torah...
while I, also playing Mordechai, apparently promoted healthy living through tennis:

And lastly, no purimshpil would be complete without the evil presence of Homen haRoshe, portrayed this year by Sveta (look at those delicious ears!!!)...

and Hillel's lovable Stas:

gut yontef yidelekh!

פּורים אָן אַן עק

2008-03-29T22:52:00.019+02:00

Perhaps it's because of all the wine they make here in Moldova, but if there's anything that Bessarabian Jews love, it's Purim. Seriously. From the pre-Purim preparation programs, to the extended days of Purim proper, this holiday was on the verge of outlasting Chanukah and Sukkot combined.

And don't worry! If, khas ve-sholem, you had missed any of the celebrations, the preferred activity this shabes at the Kishinev Jacobs Jewish Campus was to watch videos of this & last week's earlier festivities.

But how can I possibly hope to convey the sheer number and diversity of the carnivals, klezmer concerts, costume parties and homentashn feasts that transpired here in Moldova in a mere blogpost? I'll let the photos speak for themselves....

The KEDEM Purim Carnival:

Face-painting for all!!!
Vladimir Goykhman's Klezmer Brass All-Stars:
One of Hesed's happiest:
Hillel Party, No. 1:
Hillel Party, No. 2:

What a ride! Let's just hope Tisha B'Av isn't this long!

Bendery's Bestest Babushki!

2008-03-27T16:18:00.002+02:00

As a Jewish Service Corps volunteer in the Former Soviet Union, I come into contact with a lot, and I mean A LOT of babushki and dedushki (or grandmothers and grandfathers). Luckily for me this is one of my favorite parts of the job, and I happily spend hours chatting away in Yiddish, Russian or some mixture of the two. Conversations revolve around a surprising range of topics, from childhood memories and harrowing wartime tales, to the adventures of "My Son the Engineer" and the plight of hundreds of beautiful, intelligent, and yet sadly unmarried granddaughters, all of whom just happen to be free on Saturday night.

And lest you think this is time wasted, and that hanging out with babushki leads only to over-eating and guilt-tripping, think again. More often than not, I am overwhelmed by the depth of warmth, wit and intellect that these young-at-heart seniors provide. In many ways they are a Post-Soviet Jewish community's greatest natural resource-- preserving that which has made the community distinct in the past and providing a context for the future.

Take, for example, the incredible men and women of Bendery whom I met a few Fridays ago. Contrary to the rumors I had heard in Kishinev, the older Jews of Bendery celebrate shabes with a raucous and lively morning program. I had brought with me about an hour's worth of Yiddish songs to teach the crowd, thinking this would be more than enough material. As it turns out, however, what was supposed to be a relatively short program quickly turned into a two and a half hour exchange of songs, stories and even dance! Proudly, the babushki (and two dedushki!) taught me songs both new and old I had never before heard.

Of special note was Raisa Luminsky, pictured here with me and her husband. In hushed, yet bold tones she explained how she leads shabes and holiday programs, always sharing her vast knowledge of Jewish history with stories from the time of Abraham to what Jewish life was like in the Soviet Union. "It is the tradition of the Jewish People to always be learning," she says quietly, "and this is why I teach. My week is not complete unless I have both taught something and learned something". Her husband, who remembers much of his kheyder education, also serves as a sort of amateur spiritual leader for the community, saying the brokhes in a richly accented loshn-koydesh almost entirely forgotten elsewhere in the world.

There were of course so many others, such as Valentina, whose risque sense of humor shocked even me (!), and the ladies with the "Golden Voices" who, with the help of local klezmer star Efim Chorny, formed a choir a few years back--- an almost impossible task to mention them all. In short, it was clear that almost each and every person in the room had their own unique gifts to share and that, moreover, I had hardly seen the tip of the iceberg.

Cleopatra Stratan: Moldovan Pop Sensation

2008-03-27T14:05:00.004+02:00

If you're like most people, you probably know quite little about the modern country of Moldova. Yes, you might know something of the Jewish history of Bessarabia and you might be following my adventures in Jewish Moldova today, but what about the country at large?

Ladies and gentlemen, enter Cleopatra Stratan. Though she and her father, Romanian rock legend Pavel Stratan, no longer live in the country, at the age of three years old, Cleopatra is still considered Moldova's brightest and youngest cultural export.

Enjoy!

Jewish Memory

2008-03-20T14:54:00.007+02:00

The Jewish Community of Moldova is proud to announce the launch of www.jewishmemory.md, a website containing photographs of some of Moldova's more impressive monuments to Jewish life and culture.

And after stopping there, come take a look at www.jewish.md to get the latest on happenings on Campus and elsewhere....

Quo Vadis?

2008-03-19T22:26:00.010+02:00

On every signpost in Kishinev, every billboard in Belts, every poster in Edinets—in short, covering almost every inch of free public space in Moldova— are advertisements for various language schools and conversation classes. The largest company is QUO VADIS?. Their ads are everywhere, with large, haughty Latin letters that stand out against a sea of cheaply made Cyrillic flyers. Boldly, even accusatorily, these posters ask “where are you going?”, as though there were no alternatives for a Moldovan’s future other than a better life somewhere else where they can forget they are from Moldova and begin to speak English, German or French.

It should come as no surprise, therefore, that in the Jewish community I am often asked to attend and organize different English clubs and informal conversation circles. At these events I deliberately steer conversation towards Jewish topics, though inevitably questions begin to revolve around life and potential jobs in America. At one recent Hillel English Club meeting, however, I came armed with what I thought was a powerful pedagogic tool.

The song Halevai is an old Yiddish tune made popular in the mid-20^th century by Bessarabian-born celebrity cantor Moyshe Oysher. A few years ago, the song was revamped and revived by the Montreal-based klezmer band Shtreiml, in a recording which, while clearly rooted in old-time klezmer is still unmistakably modern, young, hip, and dare I say it… even cool. From an English teacher’s point of view the band’s translation is perfect— written in simple, repetitive language that is at once also humorous, engaging and idiomatically rich. For the Jewish educator, the song not only explains that all-important word “halevai”, but also provides an opportunity to discuss that optimistic yet ironic take on life that has typified much of Ashkenazic history.

The students enthusiastically sang the song and participated in the conversation that followed. When the lesson seemed to have come to an end, I asked the students where they thought the song was written. “Israel!” came the first confident reply, “Jewish songs are from Israel!” “No, he said the band was from Canada, the song must be Canadian too!” chimed in a second.

“Well…” I began diplomatically, “The song has been popular in Israel and in Canada, the States too… but where was the original written, where does the song come from?” I asked raising an eyebrow. The ensuing silence was not surprising. I waited a beat and replied simply: “Moldova”.

Moldova?!?! Their immediate reaction was shock and puzzlement. “How could something come from Moldova that was so cool and so… Jewish?” they seemed to be asking themselves. I quickly explained that Bessarabian Jewish culture was rich and dynamic, that for centuries Jews looked towards Moldova for literature, art, dance, music. And slowly in a few faces I saw a glimmer of pride.

It seemed for many in the room that they had encountered something for the first time that was both Moldovan and Jewish, something that was authentically “theirs”. I was a little surprised myself by the electricity in their response and the number of requests I received afterwards, asking for more information, more songs. It was apparent that there was a real desire in the room to take ownership of the material, to be able to say that they as Moldovan Jews have a tradition that is worth the world’s attention that they can, halevai, pass on to the next generation, wherever the future leads.

Post Script:
Shtreiml's website can be found here: http://www.shtreiml.com/
An excerpt from their rockin' rendition of Halevai is also available for download on the same site: http://www.shtreiml.com/sounds/halevai.mp3

In the meantime, however, please enjoy this also rockin, yet shmalts-filled youtube video starring Moyshe Oysher himself and the famed Sisters Barry...

Closing the Circle...

2008-03-19T21:30:00.010+02:00

My second to last day in Belarus began early enough that the sky was still braided in ribbons of blue and gold. Those pungent gray clouds that spew forth every morning from Minsk’s characteristic candy-stripped factory towers (and of which I had strangely grown fond, by the way) had not yet risen from their collective slumber. Waiting for me outside were Ilya, one of JDC Minsk’s official drivers, Natasha, our logistics coordinator, and Slava, our local director of security, who was know amongst the JSC as “Slava Bogu!”, the Russian equivalent of Baruch Hashem.

Mirroring my second day in the country, my penultimate day in Belarus was to be spent in Bobruisk in preparation for a rabbinical mission coming in January. My assignment was to accompany Natasha on a series of home visits, testing the linguistic aptitude of those Hesed clients with whom the rabbis wanted to speak in Yiddish. Natasha had warned me not to get my hopes up, that of the seven or so home visits we planned, she would not be surprised if none actually spoke Yiddish fluently.

Upon arrival in the city, however, I met the local JCC’s Yiddish Club, a group of about twelve older men and women who were struggling to keep active in the language they used to speak with their parents on a daily basis. Quickly the group adopted me as their official American eynikl, or grandson, and assured me that in Bobruisk, once considered Belarus’ “Jewish Capital”, Yiddish was indeed alive and well. Still, I was only cautiously optimistic about what we would find during the course of the day.

Our first home visit was in the center of town, to a man living alone in a large, cold, decaying apartment. He looked quite young for a Hesed client, i.e. his hair was still pitch black, but he moved around the room slowly like a man who looked at least twice his age. As Natasha and the local Hesed administrator conducted their interview, I looked around the sparsely furnished room. Nothing seemed too unusual at first. I spied a few aromatic piles of yellowing newspapers in the corner that were too far away for me to determine their age or language. Then something caught my attention that was quite surprising--- sitting next to me on the couch was a new-ish looking book. Bookmarked and dog-eared, the book had clearly been well read, but what was really surprising was that this book was not in Russian, but in Yiddish. I could hardly believe my eyes--- how could such a young-looking man been reading a new-looking Yiddish book in the middle of Belarus?

Nonchalantly the man told the story of how in the early 1980s foreign professors began smuggling in Yiddish books, newspapers and learning materials in an effort to clandestinely bring back to life Jewish culture in the USSR. He was too young to have heard Yiddish at home, he explained, but he was nevertheless drawn to it and began to learn the language in small, secretive circles. By the end of perestroika and the fall of the Soviet Union, he continued, this trickle of information had surged into a real flood of activity as organizations such as JDC began to establish a presence in the city. Matter-of-factly, he showed us his hand-written poster for the first public event by the Mendele Mokher-Sforim Society for Jewish Culture.

And then his black eyes turned a shade darker, as he continued to explain in perfect klal-shprakh, or standard textbook Yiddish, how this moment quickly faded. People left, emigrated, passed away and soon the books and newspaper subscriptions stopped coming. Still active in Jewish life in Bobruisk today, the man seemed nostalgic for an era of heightened excitement, of vibrant Yiddish cultural activity. With a heavy sigh and a half-smile, he reminded us that he was not talking about some “pre-war fairy tale”, as he put it, but of a time not so long ago.

Our next home visit was to a chipper, lively woman with an ancient face who lived in a small wooden house somewhere far off, but still considered Bobruisk proper. In contrast to her expressive Russian, she spoke in Yiddish shyly at first, only gradually growing more comfortable as we spoke. Strangely, she stated that she did not learn Yiddish from the home, nor from books, but rather intuitively “knew it” somehow. Astonishingly, she even claimed to have written a song in this “instinctive” language.

Without our asking, she immediately began to sing her melody in a warm, cracked voice. With verses alternating between Yiddish and Russian, the words spoke of a longing for her mother, her childhood home, of a world that no longer existed. By the song’s end she was smiling so broadly that the points of her cheekbones seemed to be pushing tears from her eyes. She excitedly told us how she organized “warm home” programs for Hesed clients in her neighborhood and how we were all invited to come if we were ever in the area.

Several hours and many home visits later we arrived exhausted at our final client’s home, an apartment in a short Soviet style bloc. We were greeted at the door by a ninety-three year old woman who spent most of the month living alone in her warm, dusty flat, though this weekend, she explained, her daughter was visiting from Minsk. We knew from the daughter that this woman supposedly spoke a beautiful Yiddish, but for the first twenty minutes of our interview, she only responded to my questions in Russian.

Natasha winked at me from across the room and quietly told the woman that I spoke not a word of Russian, that she must use Yiddish to communicate. At first only a few syllables and small short words clumsily fell from her mouth. Within one minute, however, something clicked. With little warning, the language, so long trapped in her mind began rushing forward. Hurriedly, breathlessly she began telling me her life’s story and how, except for her evacuation during the war, she had seen little of the world outside Bobruisk. It dawned on me that though this woman claimed to have seen so little, that at ninety-three, she surely had seen the world change and had infinite stories to share. She insisted she was a simple woman, but nevertheless told how grateful she was for our visit and for Hesed’s work in general, how it has really brought joy into her life.

Curious to know about the commotion, Natasha asked in Russian to know what we were talking about. Yet the woman was just as stubborn as before, this time refusing to answer questions in Russian! And so I translated for her and we thanked each other profusely for each other’s company, promising that if I ever returned to Bobruisk, I would visit her first.

It was dusk when we left the apartment and we wasted no time beginning our drive back home. I felt horribly clichéd looking at myself in the review mirror, contemplating the day. I was tired and sort of awe-struck that this was “all in a day’s work”. One thing was bothering me though. That final woman’s accent in Russian seemed so familiar, but almost impossible to place. I stopped actively thinking and let the fog of sleep envelop me, when suddenly I sat up in my chair. This woman’s voice, her Russian heavily accented by her rich, thick litvish Yiddish, I realized, was identical to my own grandmother’s English. Growing up in Brownsville or in Bobruisk, these two women lived in two separate but both living, breathing, organically Jewish worlds, speaking the same dialect of the same language. Both claimed to be “simple women”, without stories to tell, with nothing in common except a complicated relationship to that amorphous thing know as the Jewish people. Somehow, I had bridged the gap

נאָר פֿון אַלע סאָסנעס שװימט אַרױס אַ בת-קול

2008-03-19T21:20:00.003+02:00

About halfway through my time in Belarus, Diana and Michael Lazarus, a charming British couple, showed up to continue their ongoing project of putting up small memorials to local victims of the Holocaust in cities and shtetlekh across the country. Their visit completely captivated the Jewish community as apparently it does about twice every year, when the Lazaruses make their way to Minsk. It is then that Belarus’ Jews, often fiercely loyal to their individual organizations, put differences aside and come together to reflect on a most tragic period of their shared past.

Seeing this incredible unity, I wanted to design an elaborate project that could channel that energy, but knowing that my time in Belarus was limited for such plans, I still felt the desire to participate at least in some small way. Many people had commented that the ceremonies on the first day of the Lazarus’ trip had been meaningful, but lacked some vital element that showed that it was not only these victims’ deaths we remembered, but also the lives they led. In the end, it was decided that as per my suggestion, my fellow JSC volunteer Erica Fishbein and I would sing the Jewish Partisan anthem Zog nit keynmol (Never Say…) at the next unveiling.

The drive to the designated spot, deep in the Belarusian backwoods, was long and Erica and I took the opportunity to rehearse. Zog nit keynmol, I explained to Mrs. Lazarus, was a Yiddish song written during the Second World War, which does not lament the destruction of the Jewish people, but rather details their courage and resolve in their bloody fight against the Germans in the forests across Eastern Europe. The memorial, as it turned out, was inaccessible by car and so we trudged through the mud made viscous by the freshly melted snow until we happened upon a small, highly polished orange-burgundy stone, the same color as the pines which surrounded it.

The ceremony itself was short; several speeches from various groups detailing the tragedy and bravery of eleven people, eleven Jews who met an untimely end. Erica and I approached the grave after kaddish, shaking both from cold and emotion. Anyone who has spent time in the forests of Lithuania or Belarus knows how the trees seem impossibly tall and almost infinite in number. Sounds are somehow simultaneously hushed and magnified as eyes strain upward trying to absorb the scene. And so as we sang I imagined the words flying upward like atoms of language, lacing through the trees, colliding with old Yiddish words, those last conversations, those final I-love-you’s of these eleven people, which had silently floated for some sixty years.

There is a line towards the end of the song that I had sung numerous times before, but until this occasion it had failed to strike me so powerfully: un vu gefaln iz a shprits fun undzer blut/ shprotsn vet dort undzer gvure, undzer mut, or in English, and where a spurt of our blood fell upon the earth/ there our courage and our spirit have rebirth. And yet, though I was standing on the spot where a drop of our blood had indeed fallen, it was the song’s final refrain which truly moved those present. “Mir zaynen do!” we cried out. “We are here!” — at once a booming echo and muted whisper throughout the pines.

Homecoming

2008-01-18T10:11:00.000+02:00

A belated posting on one of the most significant and intensely personal moments during my tenure as a JDC Jewish Service Corps Volunteer. Below is an edited version of a piece that I submitted as part of my required "Monthly Report" to JDC back in October:

Forgive my blatant Romanticism, but the true highlight of this month, and perhaps the whole year if not longer, has to be my journey to Lubtsh, the shtetl in which my great-grandmother was born over a century ago and in which my great-great grandfather was a rabbi. I cannot adequately articulate the experience, but it should go without saying that it was undoubtedly one of the most meaningful experiences I have ever had.

Compared to the chaotic days beforehand, packing up and leaving Moldova in less than twelve hours, driving through central Ukraine and getting a whirlwind tour of Kiev, my first couple days in Belarus seemed pretty tame. Driving around the country, stopping and checking each roadside bathroom for a group of rabbis coming in three months time was a little surreal, but at least I knew I wasn’t leaving the country anytime soon.

Then in the Jewish cemetery of Volozhin I saw a matseyve with the name “Schulman” staring back at me. Now, I know the name “Schulman” is comparable to “Smith” among non-Jews, and I also know that the “Schulman” branch of my family is from Czernowitz, a city closer to Kishinev than it is to Volozhin. Still, seeing the name staring back at me was a little jarring. After explaining why I was looking a little confused, Elaine, the JDC Country Coordinator for Belarus, and Ilya, one of JDC Minsk’s official drivers, both decided that we would make the journey out to Lubtsh, my ancestral shtetl I had mentioned in passing the day before.

I cannot really describe the town we saw, or how I was feeling while we were there. It was unlike any place I had ever seen, and except for a tiny central square, a few farming buildings and peculiar statue of Lenin who seemed to be caught in mid-dance, it seemed like it was totally unchanged since my great-grandmother’s days. As I bent down into the soil, digging to take some of the black earth back with me, I was overwhelmed by an intense and incomprehensible spiritual feeling. The sun was setting, splashing gold light all over the village and creating a sense of urgency that soon we would have to leave.

The drive home in the velvet black, star-filled night was quiet, my mind at once filled with thought and simultaneously silent. And when we reached Minsk I decided not to go home and collapse from exhaustion, but to attend the Hillel-sponsored English discussion group on Campus. The topic was “tradition”. Each student told similar stories how their families had forgotten how to be Jewish and how they would take it upon themselves to reignite those flames.

I looked around the room. Three branches of my family are from the territory which now comprises “Belarus”. One branch is from Minsk itself. I couldn’t help but think that I might have some distant relatives in the room, that it is only an accident of birth that I was not one of them. I laughed to myself and quickly brushed away the notion. And yet some of that feeling still lingers. When I worked in this community, part of me saw my brothers and sisters, and not only because of a sense of common Jewish Peoplehood. Perhaps I saw family because in many ways, I was finally home.

Where was I...?

2007-12-24T16:22:00.000+02:00

Where was I...? It's a good question, and not only because I've been inexcusably ignoring my blog. From two months of Moldovan medical experimentation, to six weeks in beautiful Belarus, wild drives from Kishinev to Kiev and back, and an upcoming trip to Israel, it appears I'm never in any one place for too long. It appears, in fact, as they say in Yiddish, that mayn adres-- keyn shtub un keyn gesele-- mayn adres iz ratn-farband!

My address is not a house, it is not a street--- my address is the whole Soviet Union!

Shir Hamaylesn (A Song of Ascents)

2007-09-14T00:52:00.000+03:00

Departure was delayed by over an hour and the passengers were, to put it lightly, getting a little restless.

On my left was a group of middle-aged Russian couples, the men outfitted in identical polyester tracksuits, the women bedecked with large haircuts and plastic press-on nails. Here and there, the odd piece of gold jewelry hung from their necks, usually in the form of a mogen dovid necklace. As soon as the doors to the airplane closed, they sprung from their seats and turned the aisle into their living room. Nonchalantly, they grabbed drinks from the plane’s tiny kitchen as though the bottles were their own and began the loud conversations that would continue uninterrupted for the next eight hours.

On the right side of the plane stood a crowd of Hasidim, ostensibly on pilgrimage to the gravesites of central Europe’s greatest tsadikim. As though they were the funhouse mirror reflection of my left-hand neighbors, they murmured amongst themselves in an austere, secretive mame-loshn. For their food and drink they reached continually into the overhead compartment, retrieving shrink-wrapped meals dotted with a constellation of stars, OU’s and K’s.

And right behind me, climbing over the heads of passengers in the middle three rows, was a cadre of Israeli pre-teens whose wild acrobatics caused permanent damage to many a personal flotation device.

The proud Magyar stewardesses tried desperately to keep their patrons under control. But this flight was no longer Malev Hungarian’s daily sojourn from JFK to Budapest—no, sir. With connections to Moscow and Tel Aviv, this flight had clientele that was at least 85% percent Jewish... Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this was the Flying Shtetl, a proud, unruly airborne microcosm of modern Jewry.