Racism in Israel against Non-Jews

Better a Jew
by Nicky Blackburn

For the growing minority of non-Jews living in Israel, a sense of
belonging
can be impossible to achieve.

http://www.haaretzdaily.com/hasen/pages/ShArt.jhtml?itemNo=286180&contrassID=3

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Just recently, former MK [Member of the Knesset] Michael Kleiner
described
non-Jewish immigrants to Israel as "dirty water." He applied the
metaphor to
Russian immigrants, but his racist statement was also aimed at me. The
only
difference is that I'm the dirty water that slopped in from England, not
Russia. Kleiner's comments are not unusual in Israel. For years now I've
been
listening to politicians, public officials, even ordinary people
spilling out
bile toward the non-Jewish citizens of the country.

Living in Israel as a gentile is not an easy experience. There is always
someone out there to remind you that not only do you not belong, but
that in
some way you are polluting the purity of the country. During my early
years
in Israel, the first question people asked me was whether or not I was
Jewish. It was like an obsession. In taxicabs, at bus stops, at
interviews,
at work, even in the supermarket, the question followed me everywhere
and
anywhere. "Are you Jewish?"

I lied about it twice. The first time to a taxi driver. He eyed me
suspiciously and then launched into a tirade about his brother who had
married a goy and gone to live in America. "It's people like him who are
destroying the Jewish race," he told me angrily, his eyes locked on mine
in
the mirror. "I cannot forgive him."

The second time I was standing in a queue at a public toilet. I was six
months pregnant and the toilet attendant, an elderly man with a stoop,
shuffled over to me. "Where are you from?" he asked. "England, but I
live
here now," I replied in Hebrew. "Are you Jewish?" he asked. "Yes," I
said,
hoping to put the whole conversation to rest. Instead the man took my
hand,
and with tears in his eyes thanked me for moving to Israel, and for
bearing
this child here in the Jewish homeland. I never lied about it again.

I met my Israeli husband in India in 1990. We lived in England for a few
years and then decided to move to Israel and get married. Before we
left, my
husband asked if I would convert to Judaism. He told me it was important
for
both him and his family. I agreed. I'm not a practicing Christian. I
only
went to church on special occasions. My faith went so far as the morning
assembly at my Church of England school and the Lord's Prayer. I was
open to
Judaism. I thought that becoming Jewish would be an intellectual and
emotional challenge. I thought it would bring me closer to my husband's
family and my new way of life. I expected it to give me great insight
into
the Jewish people. In retrospect it did, but certainly not in the
positive
way I was anticipating.

My first encounter with Orthodox Judaism came in London, where I
approached a
rabbi who worked with university students. He gave me a handwriting test
and
after examining my graphic flourishes, said he would be happy to teach
me.
The first week he talked about the laws pertaining to the physical
relationship between married couples. The following weeks the subject
was the
same. The rabbi complimented me on my eyes, commented on my appearance,
and
told me his wife was eight months pregnant. I grew uncomfortable and
soon
stopped going.

`Just a game'

My husband and I moved to Israel in 1993. We got married in a civil
ceremony
in Cyprus, and then a year later married in Britain. We also wanted to
have a
wedding in Israel, but decided to delay it until I became Jewish.

We applied to the rabbinate in Jerusalem. I sat with my husband in the
corridor waiting to see a rabbi. The mood in the halls was tense.

"Don't let them see you're nervous," one young conversion candidate
advised
me. "They'll never let you through if they think they've got you scared."

"You just have to play a game with them," another would-be convert
agreed.
"Don't tell them anything other than what you have to. Don't give
anything
away."

Half way through our long wait, a girl burst out of a room sobbing
furiously.
"I've been studying a year and a half. I've taken test after test and
they
still tell me that I'm not committed," she wailed.

After talking with the rabbi, my husband and I realized that it would be
impossible to convert this way. We were already married and our
lifestyle in
Tel Aviv was far from that required by the Orthodox. We started looking
for
alternatives, and found a rabbi who would be willing to help me convert
for
NIS 600 a week.

The rabbi lived in an Orthodox suburb in the hills surrounding
Jerusalem.
Twice a week we sat in his tiny, dark apartment studying at the dining
room
table. Whenever I asked a question he would snap at me angrily. "Don't
ask
questions. It's a matter of faith. You're not supposed to understand.
You're
just supposed to believe." Sometimes he would ask a question and as I
made to
reply, he would bark out "wrong!"

Whenever possible, he criticized the Christian religion. He told me it
had
been set up for people who were too lazy to live by Jewish rules, by
people
looking for an easy life. On one occasion he told me that Baruch
Goldstein
should be praised for killing 29 Arabs in an attack in Hebron in 1994.

Throughout those awful weekly meetings I kept quiet. I gritted my teeth,
studied the books, paid him the money and did not say a word.
Inside, however, I began to seethe. I was sickened by his hypocrisy. He
set
himself up as a man of faith, then took our money without a moment's
hesitation. The more I learned about the Jewish religion in Israel, the
more
I realized how rife it was with corruption. The media was full of
stories
about Orthodox figures taking bribes, about scams and dodges carried out
in
the name of religion. And worse than that, it was like an open secret.
Everyone knew about it, they even laughed about it, but no one was
prepared
to do anything to stop it. Instead they insisted that it was vital that
I
become Jewish.

After a while I began to question this insistence. No one actually cared
whether I believed in Judaism or not, not even the rabbi. No one
cared whether I'd continue to celebrate Christmas or any other Christian
holidays. When I told Israeli friends that I felt this was morally
wrong,
many sympathized, but others dismissed my fears. "It's just a game,"
they'd
say. "Don't even think about it." All anyone seemed to care about was
that it
would say Jewish on my ID card, and that somehow, therefore, I would fit in.

As time went by, I became increasingly distressed. I was shocked by the
discrimination I saw around me toward anyone who was not Jewish. In my
office, colleagues called me "shiksa" and "goy" as if it were a joke.
They
made comments about my non-Jewish appearance. Readers wrote letters of
complaint if newspapers dared run adverts for Christmas festivities. The
media was constantly running stories about how the Jewish race was being
destroyed by assimilation. A cartoon published in 1996 showed a man
sitting
at a table. "The two major threats to Jewish continuity today are -
terrorism
and assimilation!" he said. "Or, in other words, the non-Jews who want
to
kill us - and the non-Jews who want to marry us."

Facing facts

I continued visiting the rabbi, but he began to grow uneasy as stories
about
corruption in the conversion process began to leak to the press. Finally
he
told me that he could no longer help. "You're not prepared to suffer
enough
to become Jewish," he said.

We next tried a rabbinical court lawyer in Jerusalem, a man with good
connections to Shas. He offered to convert me for a large sum of money.
We
met him in a hotel on the outskirts of Jerusalem. He asked me about
Jewish
friends, about any connections I had with Judaism as a child. After some
coaxing, I realized he was not after the truth, just some fabricated
story
about how, even as a child, I had always wanted to be a Jew. He told my
husband to gather certificates and documents showing that I bought my
meat
only from Kosher butchers, that I attended synagogue, and was following
the
rules of the Orthodox way.

By the time we left the hotel I knew that I did not want to be Jewish. I
bitterly regretted my decision. I was antagonistic and hostile. I did
not
want to lie or cheat anymore. Not long afterward we were given details
of a
rabbi in Paris who would convert me for $5,000 in a simple, one-day
process.
By then, however, it was too late. I was so ashamed of the whole process
that
I could not go through with it. I felt that by converting I would
actually be
committing a sin. I decided, however hard it would be, that Israel would
have
to accept me as I was.

My husband's family took the decision badly. They felt I had cheated and
manipulated them, and for a long time afterward their frustration
spilled
over into our relationship. Very few people here understood me. Some
Israeli
friends felt I was making an unwarranted fuss about something very
minor,
while at the same time admitting that they would never dream of changing
their own religion.

For years after this experience, my bitterness and resentment continued
to
seethe. I felt let down by the country. Before arriving here, I believed
that
the terrible suffering the Jews have experienced over the centuries
would
have created a nation where tolerance and understanding was prized.
Instead,
I found a society full of prejudice and bigotry.

Today, my anger has given way to some kind of understanding. Israel is a
young and diverse society struggling for a national identity in the face
of
wave after wave of mass immigration from different countries. The only
glue
that holds this country together is its Jewish identity, and even this
glue
is not particularly strong. It is never easy to accept outsiders when a
society is so deeply divided. Nor is it simple to welcome strangers when
Israel is still viewed as a safe haven for Jews in an increasingly
anti-Semitic world.

But Israel must face facts. Today there is a growing minority of
non-Jews who
live within the Israeli community. We are full members of this society
and
yet we are still denied some very basic human rights. My two sons, for
instance, can serve in the army, they can pay taxes, but they cannot
marry
here, nor can they be buried alongside Jewish friends or partners. Like
me,
they will spend their lives listening to constant sniping remarks by
politicians and officials who feel they are second class citizens, the
dirty
water that slipped in on a wave of immigration. They too may have to
listen
to jokes about goys, sarcastic comments about their parental heritage,
and
have doubts raised
about their Israeli identity.

This, however, is a mistake. Today there are 50,000 Russian immigrants
living
in Israel who identify themselves as Christian, and another 270,000 who
are
not Jewish according to halakha. While some of them have given up and
left
Israel, in a few cases even seeking asylum in England on the grounds of
religious persecution, the rest are here to stay. Israel must make a
decision. Does it want yet another alienated minority, or does it want
full
citizens who feel a real bond to their country?

In the wake of all this, it is hard to understand why the Orthodox
community
is so determined to make conversion such an unpleasant process. Every
year
thousands apply to convert, but only a small number make it through.
Assimilation today is a major problem for diaspora Jews. Experts are
beginning to realize that it is also a growing problem within Israel. At
a
recent conference, Dr. Asher Cohen, of Bar-Ilan University's Institute
for
the Study of Assimilation, reported that the present rate of
intermarriage in
Israel stands at 10 percent, and is rising. Rabbi Yoel Bin-Nun, head of
the
Kibbutz Hadati Yeshiva, also told participants that rabbis who ease the
conversion process and promote mass conversion, are actually preserving
Judaism.

Instead of welcoming new converts, however, Judaism shows them its worst
face. Potential converts are too often met with narrow-mindedness,
corruption, and distrust. While some people undertake conversion with a
full
heart, many others view it as a game in which you cheat and lie to win.

Had I been met with understanding, then perhaps I would be Jewish now,
and so
would my two children. For Israel, it was a missed opportunity. Instead
of
teaching me to respect the religion, I learned instead to despise its
protagonists. My children are growing up as Israelis. Their overwhelming
identification is as Jews. But they also celebrate Christmas and Easter.
If
they ever decide they want to convert, I will support them, but there's
no
doubt my experiences will shape what I tell them about the Orthodox religion.

Today, I have no real idea of what it will mean to bring up two
non-Jewish
children in Israel. Perhaps as they get older they will be bullied by
classmates, perhaps they will be accepted unquestioningly, perhaps they
will
feel they do not belong. Much depends on where we live and where they go
to
school. Much also depends on how Israel develops once the war with the
Palestinians is finally concluded.

In the last few years, I have noticed a change in Israel's character, a
growing maturity and tolerance within the secular population. Israelis
today
are more willing to accept people who are different. Certainly things
for me
have changed. I now have a warm relationship with my parents-in-law,
whom I
love dearly, and people rarely ask if I'm Jewish.

Despite that, however, I still feel like an outsider. At Christmas I
bring
out my tree and decorate the house, but inside I feel it's almost an act
of
defiance. A few years ago, a co-worker arrived in the office fuming
because
hotels in Jerusalem had put up Christmas trees. I told her that I put up
a
tree every year. "Well I hope you shut your curtains," she said
bitterly.
"It's not right that people in your neighborhood should have to see it.
When
you live here you should respect our beliefs." I was deeply distressed
by her
prejudice, but the awful truth is that I really have begun to feel that
my
religion should be hidden away behind curtains.

Just a few weeks ago I had another reminder. I was writing an article on
Tekes, a new alternative Israeli organization set up to provide secular
ceremonies for Jews who cannot, or do not want to, undergo an Orthodox
ceremony. I suggested to the founder that I might also write up the
article
for a newspaper here. He hesitated for a few moments, and then said: "No
offense, but I think it would be better if a Jew wrote the story."