Hello Friends,
Tonight begins the Jewish festival of Passover -- the holiday lasts eight days and commemorates Moses freeing the Israelites from the bonds of slavery in Egypt. As with most Jewish celebrations, Passover can be summarized with the cliché: "They tried to kill us. We won. Let's eat!" However, for me, Passover has always been so much more than a holiday, it's been a commitment to remember the past and to actively participate in making the world more free and more just.
Each year, we are obligated to retell the story in its entirety: the bitterness of the oppression our enslaved ancestors felt at the helm of their masters, the story of Moses as a humble leader, the plagues sent upon the Egyptians to sway the Pharaoh, the exodus and journey from captivity to freedom, the joy and sweetness of liberty. The more we tell this story, the more it becomes cemented in our psyches. The obligation to retell is entwined with the necessity to remember, to make personal our shared history, to prevent other injustices from affecting other people. As familiar as these themes and this story has become, I will admit that it is sometimes difficult to really put myself in the place of the ancient Hebrews, to really feel like it is my journey and my escape to freedom, from my comfortable house in California.
For those of you who know me, you are well aware that Passover is my favorite holiday. Not only because I have a thing for ritual and tradition (Passover is full of extensive preparations relating to the special dietary needs of the week, cleaning, the festive meal, etc.), but also because Passover is a time of reflection and contemplation of ourselves and our impact on society. I love the retelling, and aim to use social justice and relevant societal flaws to bring meaning and empathy into the joyous familial celebration. The food doesn't hurt either. This year marks the first Passover that I have ever spent without my family in my twenty-two years and to be honest, its bittersweet. While I am thrilled and honored at the opportunity to spend this holiday with families who have generously and warmly welcomed me into their homes, I cannot help but to wish I were with my own friends and family singing about the four sons to the tune of "My Darling Clementine," laughing as my mother bringing herself to tears by eating a whole spoonful of horseradish, and leading the kiddish over the first cup of wine.
This year brings yet another new dimension to the holiday as I have been studying, and will be spending my seders, with families who have experienced their own exodus. Willingly or not, the people whom and the community in which I have spent the past few months immersed has experienced the trauma of leaving their native land and relocating in the hopes of finding a better life in a new country. In my growing collection of oral histories, the significant majority express a longing and nostalgia for the past and communities in which ways of life were dictated by religion and family without complication. Passover is always a time to use the past as a lens through which to live in the present and future, but it seems real here somehow in a way that I can't quite place. I have been warned that the seders in which I will participate tonight and tomorrow are a bit "old-school" (that would be a direct quote from my French friend, S) and are almost the same as the way they are conducted back in Morocco and Algeria, as if that were something for which she needed to apologize. However, for me, it seems only appropriate that Pesach is celebrated with one foot in the past and one in the future. To remember is to move forward.
Unlike years past in which I dictated my liberal, modern, feminist seder, this year I will be participating in two Orthodox seders. I recall discussing Passover over Shabbat lunch a few weeks ago and the table being shocked at my commentary on the controversy of placing an orange on the seder plate to represent women. The idea of a cup for Miriam in addition to a cup for Elijah was ridiculous and unnecessary. So, I am embracing the world as it comes to me and will do like the Strasbourgeois via North Africa do. And, lucky you, you are the audience for my social action commentary this year. Each year, I like to focus on four areas to which I want to draw attention, areas in which I want consciously act and to learn more about in the coming year and discuss them during the seder. I encourage you to think about your four issues and I would love to hear them, if you'd like to share. If I were at my own seder, I would dedicate the customary four glasses of wine in the following fashion:
1. For years the Jewish people were enslaved because of their religion and their identity. For all those who are persecuted, shamed, abused, and exploited because of their race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, and religious affiliation, I dedicate this first cup of wine.
2. Passover necessitates the reading and retelling of the stories of our ancestors. Our traditions live on both orally and through the written word; however, too many in our world do not have access to safe, basic and equitable education. I dedicate the second cup to the continued fight for the freedom and the right to education for all.
3. Liberation of the body is not the same as liberation of the soul and of the mind. The stigma surrounding mental and psychological disorders such as depression, bi-polar disorder and eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia can be so paralyzing that one feels captive within themselves, unable to seek help or discuss their medical concerns with friends, family, or health professionals. I dedicate this third cup of wine to those struggling with mental illness, to those professionals who work tirelessly to treat and bring attention to mental health, and in the hopes of changing our society to effectively treat and support those who, at this moment, cannot help themselves.
4. This week marked the 20th anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda and tomorrow is the first anniversary of the Boston marathon bombings. The history of the Jewish people is not the only narrative marked by unspeakable pain and atrocities. As a commitment to those who are victims, to all those who have been lost due to senseless hate and violence, including those killed in Kansas City yesterday, I use this fourth and final cup of wine as a commitment to speak out against injustice and to create peace through love and understanding.
Jews traditionally end the seder with the phrase, "L'shanah haba'ah b'yerushalayim -- next year in Jerusalem!," with Jerusalem traditionally representing the Promised Land, the return to Zion, the notion of the Jewish people all celebrating together and a sense of unity and of freedom to partake in these traditions openly and with passion. I encourage you all to join me in the exercise of thinking about ways in which to create and promote freedom and unity within our own communities so that next year we can all, regardless of tradition and religion, celebrate in our "Jerusalem" together.
Wishing you all a chag sameach v'kasher, a happy and kosher Pesach. Sending all my love from Strasbourg,
Doria
Monday, April 14, 2014
Sunday, April 6, 2014
piège à touriste
My dear friends,
In the blink of an eye, March has turned into April and with it, blooming life abounds. Having spent most of my life in San Francisco where the seasons are fog and no fog, to have the opportunity to live in a place that experiences visible change with the passage of time is something extraordinary. I write to you today from my favorite café-boat on the river Ille watching La Grande Cavalcade (known to me as "random Sunday in April giant parade") pass us on the quay. I found out through much prodding that the parade is Strasbourg's version of carnaval; however, the abundance of witches and wizards in the procession may lead one to think it was just devised as an excuse to reuse the Halloween costumes from last year. No matter the occasion, there are hundreds of adorably costumed French babies and children, lots of confetti, and colorful drummers passing by, which makes this a good day!
The title of this blogpost, piège à touriste, translates to 'tourist trap.' It refers, of course, to the kitschy, overpriced souvenir shops and restaurants usually near major attractions that deliver inauthentic, often disappointing, shadows of their intended purpose. I believe, though, that people can become tourist traps as well. With merely two days in Paris, what does one do? Well, you have to do the Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame. The Louvre. Eat a few crêpes. Drink coffee outdoors while looking chic. Walk a lot. Get yelled at for being a dumb American because you asked for ketchup... you get the idea. So, how do I, the member of the party most familiar with Paris, not fall into the same problem of skimming the surface of this place that I adore with canned speeches about the history of France since the Revolution, walking the same routes with different people, pointing out the same street art and making the same once-witty comments about the differences between the French and Americans?
I was fortunate enough to have spent the majority of the past month with other people -- friends and family who generously graced me with their presence either here in Strasbourg, in Paris, or in various other places between the two. I've been thinking of how one could play with the semantics of them being guests versus visitors, of me playing tour guide or host, or of us being, simply, travelers together -- does that change the dynamic or mindset of a reunion or meeting? In terms of experiences, does it mean that someone shares and someone receives? Are memories being shared or created with equal measure for both parties? Does it matter? It does to me. Let me state for you my first world problem: I do not want to set foot in the Louvre for a very long time. I've determined, though, that with the right people, no matter how familiar one is with a place or a concept, visiting or re-visiting that known thing becomes new and exciting once more. I've found that the most rewarding and fulfilling moments I've had in the past few weeks involved diverging from the path, ever so slightly, so as to engage the familiar in a different conversation. For example, I've been to Sacré Coeur maybe ten times in the past two years; however, before two weeks ago I had never been with anyone to whom being in this extraordinary holy space meant anything. The conversation that ensued about religion and spiritual practice (both comparative and personal) changed forever the way that I will enter that place.
I've been thinking a lot, too, about how the concept of home. What does it mean that I'm sharing my adoptive home with the people from my "real home"? Can I call Strasbourg my home? And, the constant conversation that I have with myself every time I'm in Paris: could I make this place my home? It's been a long time since I've read an essay that resonated with me as much and, raised as much thought, as "On Not Going Home" by James Wood. It's long, but I highly encourage you to read it and I will throw in tea and cookies for you, if you're willing to talk about it in person. I will share with you one quote upon which I've been ruminating:
"When [Wood, a British ex-pat] left [England] 18 years ago, I didn't know how strangely departure would obliterate return: how could I have done? It's one of time's lessons, and can only be learned temporally. What is peculiar, even a little bitter, about living for so many years away from the country of my birth, is the slow revelation that I made a large choice a long time ago that did not resemble a large choice at the time; that it has taken years for me to see this; and that this process of retrospective comprehension in fact constitutes a life - is indeed how life is lived. Freud has a wonderful word, 'afterwardness', which I need to borrow, even at the cost of kidnapping it from its very different context. To think about home and departure from home, about not going home and no longer feeling able to go home, is to be filled with a remarkable sense of 'afterwardness': it is too late to do anything about it now, and too late to know what should have been done. And that may be all right."
Not going to lie, as beyond excited I am to return back to California in a few short weeks (eight, if you're counting), I'm preparing myself for the inevitable: that the home I left will, in many ways, be different from the home to which I return. We shall see whether I experience "afterwardness" from my decision to live in France, to move to Providence in September, from all of the cumulative life choices that I've made to this point; however, I am confident that it will all be all right in the end.
With love,
Doria
In the blink of an eye, March has turned into April and with it, blooming life abounds. Having spent most of my life in San Francisco where the seasons are fog and no fog, to have the opportunity to live in a place that experiences visible change with the passage of time is something extraordinary. I write to you today from my favorite café-boat on the river Ille watching La Grande Cavalcade (known to me as "random Sunday in April giant parade") pass us on the quay. I found out through much prodding that the parade is Strasbourg's version of carnaval; however, the abundance of witches and wizards in the procession may lead one to think it was just devised as an excuse to reuse the Halloween costumes from last year. No matter the occasion, there are hundreds of adorably costumed French babies and children, lots of confetti, and colorful drummers passing by, which makes this a good day!
The title of this blogpost, piège à touriste, translates to 'tourist trap.' It refers, of course, to the kitschy, overpriced souvenir shops and restaurants usually near major attractions that deliver inauthentic, often disappointing, shadows of their intended purpose. I believe, though, that people can become tourist traps as well. With merely two days in Paris, what does one do? Well, you have to do the Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame. The Louvre. Eat a few crêpes. Drink coffee outdoors while looking chic. Walk a lot. Get yelled at for being a dumb American because you asked for ketchup... you get the idea. So, how do I, the member of the party most familiar with Paris, not fall into the same problem of skimming the surface of this place that I adore with canned speeches about the history of France since the Revolution, walking the same routes with different people, pointing out the same street art and making the same once-witty comments about the differences between the French and Americans?
I was fortunate enough to have spent the majority of the past month with other people -- friends and family who generously graced me with their presence either here in Strasbourg, in Paris, or in various other places between the two. I've been thinking of how one could play with the semantics of them being guests versus visitors, of me playing tour guide or host, or of us being, simply, travelers together -- does that change the dynamic or mindset of a reunion or meeting? In terms of experiences, does it mean that someone shares and someone receives? Are memories being shared or created with equal measure for both parties? Does it matter? It does to me. Let me state for you my first world problem: I do not want to set foot in the Louvre for a very long time. I've determined, though, that with the right people, no matter how familiar one is with a place or a concept, visiting or re-visiting that known thing becomes new and exciting once more. I've found that the most rewarding and fulfilling moments I've had in the past few weeks involved diverging from the path, ever so slightly, so as to engage the familiar in a different conversation. For example, I've been to Sacré Coeur maybe ten times in the past two years; however, before two weeks ago I had never been with anyone to whom being in this extraordinary holy space meant anything. The conversation that ensued about religion and spiritual practice (both comparative and personal) changed forever the way that I will enter that place.
I've been thinking a lot, too, about how the concept of home. What does it mean that I'm sharing my adoptive home with the people from my "real home"? Can I call Strasbourg my home? And, the constant conversation that I have with myself every time I'm in Paris: could I make this place my home? It's been a long time since I've read an essay that resonated with me as much and, raised as much thought, as "On Not Going Home" by James Wood. It's long, but I highly encourage you to read it and I will throw in tea and cookies for you, if you're willing to talk about it in person. I will share with you one quote upon which I've been ruminating:
"When [Wood, a British ex-pat] left [England] 18 years ago, I didn't know how strangely departure would obliterate return: how could I have done? It's one of time's lessons, and can only be learned temporally. What is peculiar, even a little bitter, about living for so many years away from the country of my birth, is the slow revelation that I made a large choice a long time ago that did not resemble a large choice at the time; that it has taken years for me to see this; and that this process of retrospective comprehension in fact constitutes a life - is indeed how life is lived. Freud has a wonderful word, 'afterwardness', which I need to borrow, even at the cost of kidnapping it from its very different context. To think about home and departure from home, about not going home and no longer feeling able to go home, is to be filled with a remarkable sense of 'afterwardness': it is too late to do anything about it now, and too late to know what should have been done. And that may be all right."
Not going to lie, as beyond excited I am to return back to California in a few short weeks (eight, if you're counting), I'm preparing myself for the inevitable: that the home I left will, in many ways, be different from the home to which I return. We shall see whether I experience "afterwardness" from my decision to live in France, to move to Providence in September, from all of the cumulative life choices that I've made to this point; however, I am confident that it will all be all right in the end.
With love,
Doria
Six-bucket well as seen with Hannah (Obernai, France)
Market bounty (Dijon, France)
Family comes to visit! (Strasbourg, France)
Hospice (Beaune, France)
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