We Are in Mourning

Hello, friends.

Yesterday, an antisemitic terrorist walked into a Conservative synagogue in Pittsburgh, yelled, "All Jews must die," then proceeded to kill 11 people, and wounded several others. All those who died were in the synagogue on a Saturday morning, just as countless Jews go to synagogue during Shabbat every week--just as I went to synagogue Friday evening. They were there for a bris, a ceremony for a new baby boy that marks the belonging of that child to the Jewish people--a celebration of a new life. And these people were murdered in cold blood in their house of worship by an automatic weapon. 

This is the worst antisemitic attack to take place in the U.S. since the establishment of our country. There are no words for this tragedy, for the magnitude of this tragedy, and yet we have to find them.

I have said several times over the past 36 hours that this horror was not unexpected in my mind. Without going into too much detail the history of antisemitism (some of you may know I have done a fair amount of research into European antisemitism; I am very willing to share it offline with anybody who wants to learn more), the facts are thus: throughout history, from nearly the beginning of the Jewish people, other people have hated the Jewish people. While the excuses for this hatred have varied--whether claims about the Jewish role in the death of Jesus, criticisms in the Middle Ages of having some magical solution to the Black Plague and not sharing it (afterward largely attributed to Jewish hygiene practices, even perhaps ritual mikveh usage), claims to a worldwide Jewish conspiracy, to some now claiming criticism of the state of Israel as reason enough to hate all Jews--antisemitism has always, always been there. Periods of calm were few and far between, and they always ended. There were always killings. Burning Jews in front of an audience. Or pogroms. Or the ovens of the Shoah. Over, and over, and over again, people have targeted Jews. I am not going to even hazard a guess here as to why, as the fact remains that we are targets.

I have traveled a fair amount around Europe, and often try to go to synagogue on Friday nights in whatever city I am in. Rome, Barcelona, Dublin, London--many different places, many different synagogues. And guess what? All or almost all of them have security all the time, and will heavily question anyone coming for services that they don't recognize. In London I even had to send my passport information ahead of time in order to be checked out before Shabbat. When I lived in Rome, I remember feeling the tragedy of the major synagogue in Rome, which faced an attack in 1982 by Palestinian terrorists when they drove by and shot at the shul. Thirty-seven people were wounded, and a two-year-old child died that day. I understood why there is always security there, and why they were suspicious whenever I would come for services. In Barcelona, the questions for me and my friend went on for so long one Friday night that I wondered if they would bar us from the service altogether.

I have long figured that eventually, American Jews would need to employ similar tactics to protect ourselves. Already, major synagogues in major cities here do hire protection--but the suburban shuls have long felt safe without it. No longer.

When people say, "How could this happen here?" I think of how in 2017 in Charlottesville a Reform synagogue had to face down a group with guns standing outside their doors, and the president did not condemn it fiercely. Or how not three years before a gunman entered a Jewish community center and nursing facility in Kansas in 2014 and killed three people. That's not to mention the countless other attacks against Jews around the world--in a kosher supermarket in France, in southern France, the issues facing Jews in the U.K. today from their own political parties. No one who has been paying attention and watching these things unfold over the past few years could doubt that we are moving out of our relative period of calm, and back into a much fuller outward display of antisemitism.

So for now, as I think about how those in a synagogue in the state where I now live faced death at the hands of a terrorist, we mourn. We mourn, and we hold each other, and we pray. We all run through in our mind which Jews we know in Pittsburgh to reach out and see if they are alive. Jewish institutions around the country and the world are putting in place further protections. My rabbinical school has informed us already that the local police will be having a larger presence for us at school this week., and that "active shooter protocols" will be uploaded to our website shortly. My inbox and my Facebook timeline are filled with official statements by Jewish and interfaith groups. Vigils and prayer services are taking place everywhere, it seems.

But then, once we can find the inner strength, we need to cease our mourning and do something. 

One of the reasons I became involved in interfaith relations was because I had researched antisemitism, both past and present, and wanted a way to fight against this baseless hatred for my own and other people. And it is actually this line of work that has me hoping that this time around--as antisemitism obviously rears its ugly head in our world, in our backyards, once again--that maybe, just maybe, we'll be more effective at fighting it.

I have hope because of the many people of different faiths who reached out to me after the shooting, just to check on me. I have hope because when I posted about the tragedy on Facebook, Christians and Muslims and Jews all commented together. I have hope because Muslim folks came together to raise money for the families of the victims, and has already raised more than $50,000. I have hope because the statistics show that if you know just one person of a particular faith, you are more likely to have positive views of members of that faith. Yes, there were people in the past who cared about the Jews in times of trouble and fought to save them. But I am hoping against hope that this time around, even more people will stand up for us when these things happen. Just as I stand up for those of other faiths, I believe that there are people out there who will do the same for me.

And I especially have hope because this next week, from November 1-7, 10,000 people from over 200 faith and non-faith traditions are heading up to Toronto for the World Parliament of Religions, a gathering that happens every few years and seeks to promote respect and understanding among peoples. But that is a post for another time.

So how can you stand up after this tragedy, if you are not Jewish? Reach out to the Jewish people in your life, now. Send a hug or a heart or call them, but just let them know you see them, and that what happened is not okay. Then check in with them again in two days. And then a week. Let them know that this is not going to be forgotten. Encourage your spiritual leaders to speak about this in your own weekly faith services, because we need more people to care. Learn about the victims--learn their names, their stories, look at their faces, realize how much was lost in that synagogue yesterday morning. Support your local community by attending a vigil for those lost. And perhaps most difficult of all: when you hear people make comments about Jews or any group of people, however small or seemingly harmless, speak up. Yes, it is difficult and uncomfortable and may even hurt or even end relationships you have with some people. But until we all--Jewish and non-Jewish alike--start speaking out against all forms of prejudice with our collective voice, these things will continue happening...just as they always have. Let's make the future different.

Speak out, my friends, and make your voices heard.

First they came for the socialists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a socialist.
Then they came for the trade unionists, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
     Because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.*

I am speaking out for you--will you speak out for me?

Now go out, and especially today and this week, and love one another.

<3,
Allyson  
---
*Credited to Martin Niemöller, a German Lutheran pastor speaking about the cowardice of German intellectuals following the Nazis' rise to power

Jews and Catholics in Lithuania

Hello, friends!

This summer, I was honored to be invited to attend an Emerging Leaders conference in Vilnius, Lithuania that took place in July. The conference ran from Monday-Wednesday, and brought together Jewish and Catholic people under 35 to discuss interfaith, Catholic-Jewish relations, some important documents that have come out on these topics in the past few years, and more. Lithuania was once home to a significant Jewish population, much of which was devastatingly destroyed during the Holocaust.

Jewish and Catholic Participants in front of the Presidential Palace in Vilnius, with a #LT100 in front of it as Lithuania is currently celebrating the 100th anniversary of their independence.

While I was raised Jewish, I have been aware of and involved in Catholicism my whole life, via my mother (click here), many close Catholic friends, and my year spent studying at the Angelicum and Gregorian universities in Rome. However, in terms of dialogue opportunities with Catholic folks, I have not done too much formal work since I left Rome in 2014 (okay, I did hang out with Catholic folks in Jerusalem...and a lovely priest organized this panel I was on in Hartford this spring, but still...). All that aside, I was very happy to have some time to delve back into this dialogue, which in my experience has always been very focused on theology, which is a fascinating approach for dialogue in my mind since it focuses on unknowable (in my opinion) ideas as opposed to lived experience (how do we celebrate holidays? as an example). I think the approach might not resonate with everybody. However, I am definitely interested in it and the nuanced conversations that flow when discussing deep, metaphysical topics, and so I was very happy to participate in this conference and revisit things like Nostra Aetate (Please read it. All of you. It's short. It changed the path of the Catholic Church and how it interacts with Jews and those of other faiths.). We also looked at some newer documents from both the Church and from Jewish groups about relationships between these two groups.

Inside the Synagogue in Vilnius

A lot of interfaith dialogue is about building relationships. So beyond our formal sessions (which were largely EXCELLENT), this incredibly well-educated group of young Jews and Catholics had a great time fostering connections over meals, on a walking tour of Vilnius during which we learned about the tough history of Lithuania's Jews, and over drinks and World Cup matches. We laughed and a few of us went swimming in a random river one morning (great idea, guys) and teased each other and had a great time.

Sign on the Vilnius Synagogue

The conference was based at a Catholic retreat center just outside of Vilnius, so we were mostly all staying at the same place. We had sessions there as well as at the Jewish community center in Vilnius (which--how amazing that there is a Jewish community center in Vilnius, especially after the tragedy of the Shoah). We ate Chabad meals in the synagogue (like...in the synagogue...) so that those who needed would have hot kosher food. We visited with an archbishop. All in all, we (a very international cohort) fit an amazing amount into a short period of time. Also, while I love dialoguing with hugely diverse groups, there is also value in having a hugely specific dialogue between fewer groups as it allows time for diving deeper into revelant topics, and also deal with more specific issues between the groups.

Our Group with the Archbishop Metropolitan of Vilnius Gintaras Grusas. (You may notice that I am directly in front of the Archbishop...yes, I did run up when they said we were taking a photo so that I could be next to him and chat for a minute.)

The short story as I would tell it of the Catholic Church and Judaism (feel free to push back on this) would be:
1. There were centuries of distrust of Jews and even antisemitism from many in the Church establishment (including the horror of the Inquisition)
2. With obvious outliers of Catholics who were hugely loving/proactive on relations with Jewish folks
3. But the seminal moment came during Vatican II when Nostra Aetate was adopted and the formal position of the Church became one of positive feelings toward the Jews
4. And the past 50 years since that meeting has led to a top-down flourishing of Catholic-Jewish relations.

There are always going to be problems between people, of course, but many of my Catholic friends might not even realize the huge import of Vatican II and Nostra Aetate, and just how much the Church changed in that time period--that's how well it filtered down: they love me regardless/because/all of the above my Judaism, as if it were the most natural thing in the world (even though we know from history that it is not). And so any Catholic-Jewish meeting has some very specific items to deal with, such as: the Church's history with antisemitism; Jewish distrust of Christians in general; certain Church documents even beyond Nostra Aetate that have been released; and some that Jewish groups have issued on the topic as well. We might not have time for things this specific to Jews and Catholics in a more mixed interfaith group, and they could be handled in a deeper way when we have more time to focus on it together.

Now, over the years, I have heard people question the value of such interfaith dialogues. "What's the point?" or "It seems like it only affects the people in the room; why should they continue happening when they have such limited impact?" To which I would respond that with many efforts at changing our society and the world, the impact is not immediately--or ever--obvious. We cannot all be the Catholic Church that can accept a document and immediately it is disseminated and considered official; not everything is quantifiable. So I think the unseen impact of efforts like these can be great, even if not easily seen--how people spread the ideas then to their communities, how their language changes after having met people of other faiths, things like this. It's why I write on this blog about my interfaith activities--to try to encourage similar discussions beyond the four walls that held the dialogue.

Beer, World Cup, and good conversations

The second way I would respond would be to say that I am a fan of meetings like these coming with an agreement that participants will do something afterward--which can vary based on the meeting. Perhaps it is everyone agreeing to run a dialogue in one's home community upon returning there (a hard yet meaningful requirement--it's hard to get people together!). Maybe it would be literally just saying you agree to get coffee with someone of a different faith upon returning home. (Easier.) One example that comes to mind is that I was fortunate enough back in 2015 to participate in an interfaith conference in Morocco, and we all theoretically signed on to accomplish two interfaith projects a year after that--and it's been a great, meaningful network with which to stay in contact in the intervening years as some of us work on the relevant projects.

Street sign in Vilnius--"Rehov Yehudit," or "Jew Street." On our walking tour, we saw a lot of evidence of the once-thriving (and now slowly rebuilding after the Holocaust) Jewish community in Vilnius.

So beyond the intangible but I would say significant impact that can come from these meetings (changing someone's mind, especially someone in a position of power in their community, can have an immense impact on their thoughts, words, and actions, and so scale out to others with whom they interact), I do think having a concrete requirement afterward as part of the agreement for participating is important. Now, there were no formal understandings as part of the follow-up to our time in Lithuania, but I do think the types of conversations we were having were the right ones to affect that intangible measurement--many people were engaging on serious topics, learning from one another, and hopefully growing in respect and love. If that's not meaningful and worthwhile, I don't know what is, and I know they will bring those things back to their communities.

All in all, I am thankful to everyone who made it possible for me to go (for connecting me to the group, to figuring out the logistics, to funding the trip, etc.). Here's to many more meaning-making meetings like this one!

Now go out and love one another.

<3,
Allyson

The Next Step in an Interfaith Journey

Hello, friends!

Announcement, announcement, announcement: after a decade-long period of reflection, self-analysis, and vocational discernment (wuddup Catholics), several visits to different schools, more than a few conversations and internal debates with myself, and two helpful official Prospective Student visits, I have officially decided to attend rabbinical school in Philadelphia, beginning in the fall! In 5-6 years, I will (G-d-willing, inshallah) be a rabbi. In the meantime, I will once again be moving in August.

If you're reading this post, you probably have an inkling that I love interfaith dialogue. I have been fortunate to participate in interfaith dialogue as a lay person for a number of years now, and am humbled by the respect shown to me as someone trying to authentically represent the wide diversity of Jewish thought and belief without deep Jewish training behind me. I have certainly had some amazing Jewish experiences with folks from across the Jewish spectrum, and so can speak fairly well to the Jewish lived experience, but it's time for me to have some more formal Jewish and pastoral training. I am undertaking this course of education, though, primarily to strengthen my knowledge and ability to bring people together across lines of difference--both Jews and others.

Here is an excerpt from part of my application essay to give you a better sense of my intentions:

My rabbinate will be one of dialogue. It will be one of difference, of engagement, of respectful debate, and of learning...I am a stronger Jew because I have learned from non-Jews, and I am forever grateful for those opportunities...

We can no longer be content to stay in our insular communities. If we want to move our world towards peace, we need to take the responsibility on ourselves to promote greater understanding. Especially in a time like this, with such deep conflict, we absolutely must step outside our comfort zones to embrace and learn from our differences, and so make the world a more peaceful place. This is my life goal, and so too will this be the goal of my rabbinate.

I have been thinking about rabbinical school on some level for ten years, since my childhood rabbi (hi!) first suggested it to me at age 17. Now, I was never a particularly rebellious teenager, but if I didn't laugh out loud at that first suggestion from him, I definitely internally thought, "Nooooope, thank you, not for me." But life is funny and here we are, at a time when it feels like this is the right step in my life. 

After submitting my application, I was invited down to Philly for my in-person interview in April--and honestly, a large portion of the interview (with eight people!) was spent discussing my passion for interfaith dialogue, and since they let me in, it seems like the right environment for my rabbinical training. Oh yeah, I also had a Modern Hebrew interview and since I do not speak Modern Hebrew, most of what I said was, "I would like two cappuccinos, please" because this is what I remember from my time in Israel. Typical Allyson.

In all seriousness, an important thing I want to say: I did not make this decision lightly. I see this decision as one in which I am choosing to some extent to put service to others above myself. It is an obligation I am taking on to the Jewish people and to everyone, as someone willing to learn and live what I believe in so deeply: the power of dialogue and communication across lines of difference in order to strengthen peace in our world. I just need some more Jewish background and authority to move my work forward.

I figure some folks might have questions about this, and please feel free to ask away. Some things some of you might be wondering already: 

1. Yes, women can be rabbis. (Actually, the liberal schools now tend to have more women than men enrolled, I believe.) My understanding of the Divine and of Judaism supports the idea that all people are completely equal, so both men and women can be rabbis. 

2. Fun fact: "rabbi" as such generally translates to "teacher." It is not even necessary that a rabbi be present for a religious service to take place, and I have indeed attended services led by folks who were not rabbis. Instead, at least in my interpretation, it is  a marker of a level of authority in Judaism, signifying that the individual holds a specific standard of knowledge. (In some communities, it would generally mean that a man is qualified to give a ruling on strict Jewish law, halakhah.) 

My understanding is that I will receive training in Jewish knowledge (history, religion, culture, language) as well as training in being a good leader of people (how to care for those struggling, ethical reasoning, how to perform life cycle events like weddings, etc.).

2. The school which I will attend is a liberal school, and a very small one, near Philadelphia. Easily Google-able if you want to figure out which one it is. They tend to make innovative changes that then some of the other schools copy years and decades later.

3. Those more familiar with the rabbinical school scene may wonder why I chose this one in particular. The short answer is that they will not make me return to Israel right away for the first year, which I would need to do at certain other rabbinical schools; I am not ready for another stint in the Middle East yet. Also, they have this great page on their website that describes exactly how they want to train rabbis who are ready to meaningfully engage with people of other religions...aka interfaith dialogue. My kind of place. 

4. "Why is it going to take 5-6 years?!" is a great question. One easy answer to this is that I need to learn Hebrew--and not just one version of Hebrew, presumably biblical Hebrew (Torah), rabbinic Hebrew, and modern Hebrew. Hebrew 4eva. (Pray for me.) Another is that Jews have written a lot of stuff and I have to read some of it? IDK I'll find out more as I go.

Thank you, thank you to everyone who has helped me get to this point. Onward and upward! (And Ramadan Mubarak to everyone!)

Now go out and love one another.

<3,
Allyson

Including the Nonreligious in Interfaith Conversations

Hello, friends.

I was on a panel this week!

My school this year is pretty neat. It is an interfaith graduate school, and I'll be leaving the year with a Certificate in Islamic Studies and Christian-Muslim Relations. It has some amazing classes (I know things about the Qur'an now! Like specific passages!), we have folks across a part of the spectrum of religious practice (Christians, Muslims, Jews), and we have people from all over the world (Saudi Arabia! Haiti! India! A zillion others!)--truly quite the diversity.

One tiny thing about my school, though: not a lot of Jews. So even more than in some other contexts in which I've found myself, I am called upon here to speak to the "Jewish" perspective quite a bit. I do my best to intentionally represent the diversity of viewpoints in Judaism; I've been fortunate to have meaningful experiences with a number of different Jewish groups so I have a bit of a range of experience, but I also make sure to represent my own personal place on that vast Jewish spectrum.

One lovely thing then to happen this week was that I was invited to sit on a panel last night. The topic of focus was, "Including the Nonreligious in Interfaith Conversations." The topic is not one with which I have particular expertise, but I was very humbled to be asked to join.*

I tried so hard to look normal up there, and still their photo catches me with my legs in weird positions. Of course.

If anyone is interested, they have posted a video of the event here. (The panel is a tad long, so you can see me talking, if that's your main goal, at these times: 20:37, 46:42, and answering audience questions at: 1:10:53, 1:15:18, 1:22:17) I always welcome comments or critiques if there are things I could have done better--there is always something more to learn and ways to improve.

The tl;dr version of my opinions on the panel: interfaith dialogue is a misnomer. For me, it's about increasing understanding and respect among people--all people, religious or not. But even though it is not a perfect descriptor, the word "interfaith" is still a powerful word--not because of the "faith" half of it, but because of the "inter" part; dialogue between communities, across lines of difference. Fostering those incredible conversations, that "inter" half--that is its power.

Now go out and love one another.

<3,
Allyson
---
*In the photo above from left to right, there is Fr. Carl Chudy (the Catholic priest organizer, who focuses his work on religious-non-religious dialogue), Tom Krattenmaker (a columnist to USA Today and author of Confessions of a Secular Jesus Follower), Kathleen Green (Executive Director of the Yale Humanist Community), Bilal Ansari (Assistant Director, Davis Center, Williams College; for a time he was also Dean of Students at Zaytuna College, the first accredited Muslim undergrad college in the U.S. out in Berkeley, which started in 2008), and me.

The Palestinian-Israeli Conflict and Understanding

Hello, friends.

Have you ever felt the need to pick up and leave your life? I mean, to literally move to another place, another country, another continent, and start over? I’ve felt that urge approximately every six months since I was a teenager, and I have been fortunate to get to follow that urge many times over the years. 

I felt something like that urge when I decided to move abroad in 2016. For a variety of factors, I decided that the right next step for me would be to attend a yeshiva—a place of Jewish learning—in Israel. Many of you know this part of the story—in September 2016, I packed what I could fit into two big suitcases, and headed off to Jerusalem for a year of learning. And I went over there knowing nothing about the conflict/Conflict I was walking into.

Well, not “nothing.” I am Jewish, and had heard one side of the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict for years. Going to Hebrew School, attending synagogue, all these things had given me a pretty one-sided view of things. 

But a few months before this, I had also met Palestinians for the first time, and became close enough with some of them to have very regular contact. So I knew a bit more than I had before, but I also knew enough from all my years as an active Jewish individual that Israel was not my focus in life, that the “Conflict” as it is called was not my purpose for being, nor my fight to fight. I chose other causes, focused on other issues (#interfaithallthetime), and tried to put aside the fighting I knew was such a focus for so many Jews and others around the world. I was (and in some ways, still am) glad to be a Jew in the Diaspora, living outside of Israel, focused on being the best Jew and best person I could be here in the West, with minimal interaction with Israel.

Now, I started this post talking about that tickle to move somewhere else, to try something new. By 2016, I had already done this three times previously—moved abroad, alone. And each time had brought its own challenges. Learning about new cultures, sometimes new languages, trying to fit in while still standing out in my own way—but it had to be an intentional act, a willingness to learn. So while I was moving over to Israel to learn about my religion, I was also going there to learn about the humans in this place, the people who were suffering so much every single day on both sides as a result of the Conflict.

I just didn’t expect to have to learn so much so fast. I’d like to share a story from my first two weeks in Israel. 

I arrived in Jerusalem in early September, and started school a day or two later. The first day of school we were greeted with great warmth and welcome, and we were told that our first Shabbaton—a weekend trip over Shabbat—would be held in just two weeks, and we all needed to put down a small deposit right away if we wanted to go. This would be our first time to bond as a community, a lot of our teachers would be joining, we would go and learn together at a retreat center, and start off our year of learning together in a meaningful way. Of course we all gave our money right away.

I didn’t think much more about it until a few days later, when I was speaking with someone from the West Bank. He asked where we were going for our trip the following weekend, and when I told him the name of the place, he paused, then said, “...you do know that’s across the Green Line, right?”

Now, for those of you who are not in the know about the whole Palestinian Israel conflict, the Green Line is an armistice line from 1949. It is a fictional line, not an obvious thing, that today is accepted by many folks as the potential borders of an independent Palestinian state on one side, and an independent Israeli state on the other. Jews who intentionally go across it for specific purposes—a Jewish Shabbaton like this, for example—are seen as in some way laying Jewish claim to the whole land. 

(You may have heard the term “Settlers” before—this a term given to Jewish people who not only cross that line into potential Palestinian territory, but actually build their homes and communities across this Green Line, usually in an attempt to show that Jews should be able to live everywhere in the land. I had learned very soon before heading to Israel that many of my teachers did, indeed, live across the Green Line, which meant in the broadest of terms that we would disagree about our politics a great deal.)

But here I was, one week into my year in Israel, finding out that I was supposed to be traveling in just a few days on an important trip with my new Jewish community, to a place that had I realized ahead of time was where it was, I would not have agreed to visit. To put it mildly, it was quite the introduction to my year in Israel and Palestine. I was frustrated mainly because I came into this year knowing I had so much to learn, yet I was forced to make this decision so quickly and before any real learning had taken place.

And I was torn. I had been taken into this yeshiva specifically as a Conflict Resolution Fellow—brought in to learn and teach about how we handle conflict and disagreements between people. Missing our first trip and community-building would set me back significantly in my attempts to build trust with my peers. But going to this place would also go against my moral understanding of how we could best forge a peaceful solution between Israel and the Palestinians. I was alone, in a foreign country, with strangers, forced to make a moral decision this huge about an issue I knew little about, almost immediately. I had no idea what decision to make.

So I did what I always do when I am stuck: I asked questions, of basically everybody. I set up meetings with different teachers—including one who lived across the Green Line and one who purposely does not. I had calls with a Palestinian friend. I spoke with family and friends back home. I had four days to decide if I would even go on this trip, and I filled all of my time just trying to learn more.

During this process, two of my new classmates had also figured out that we were going to be traveling across the Green Line (until that point, it had not yet been formally announced in school, even as we were causing a small ruckus among the faculty and staff by making it an issue), and they expressed similar concerns to me about where the kibbutz was located. The three of us decided that this was a time when we could step up and turn this whole issue into a time of learning. The school blessedly gave us the space to hold a session on the Conflict during the Shabbaton.* So we formed what I called to myself, “the Rebel Group.” We met outside a small café on a street near our house late at night, very French-Revolution-Les-Mis-esque, and we planned our session. Even with all of this, I was undecided until the very last minute about whether I would go on this trip.

In the end, I went, and I am so glad I did because the session we led that weekend was incredibly meaningful. The first part involved a lecture by someone who could give the historic facts of the Conflict as impartially as possible, especially regarding the inception of the Green Line and its meaning today. For the second part, we broke up into smaller groups of maybe twelve people to give everyone the chance to share how they felt about being where we were. 

The outcomes of these conversations were less important than the fact that everybody—those on the right, those on the left; those who lived across the Green Line and those who actively opposed those who did—were able to come together and talk, even if only for a short time. We were brought together by our love of Judaism and our care and concern for this tiny strip of land that is Israel and Palestine, and came into this conversation with what felt like a very refreshing honesty all around. Since we did this on Shabbat we could not take photos, but I felt very moved by having this opportunity to at least open the year of learning with a conversation. The conversation, the engagement, the makhloket lashem shemayim (disagreement for the sake of heaven)—that was what stuck with me the most.

So I return to the way I began—that itch to move somewhere, to start over, it absolutely must be accompanied by a genuine willingness to grow, to learn. I want to share a favorite quote that really speaks to me from Mormon thinker Stephen Covey: “Seek first to understand, then to be understood.” (My emphasis.) If we expect others to listen to us and our opinions, we must first be willing to offer others that same level of respect by listening to them. Some of the most meaningful relationships I had had in my life to this point have come from my willingness to listen to those with whom I disagree. Sometimes this willingness to engage can lead to the most incredible discoveries—about others, and about ourselves.

Now go out and love one another.

<3,

Allyson 

---

Please note: This post came came out of an exercise we did this year at my school on public speaking. I presented this orally to my classmates in a practice session in the fall, and have edited it here to share it with you.

*We came to understand that our yeshiva did not intend to avoid the issue of the trip's location altogether. There was an oversight during initial discussions of the trip with the students, due to the unfortunate circumstance of one of the faculty being out sick on the exact day they presented the trip to us. I give much credit to the way our yeshiva handled it all when we raised the issue.