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Things We Lost in The Fire

The years of my marriage are broadly marked as a six year patch of blackness, a distinct flavor of blackness, in line with, but distinct, from the blackness of my childhood. (A two-year window of brightness separates the two, the time when I was in the army).

Certain songs summarize my experiences during that time. Music has a way of anchoring emotions. I’ve heard it described as painting with time.

Like the whimsical notes of Fireflies by Owl City, capturing the childhood wonder of my first week of marriage. Starry eyed and hopeful.

Or the weight of intensity of the entire Bastille album, Bad Blood. Although I am not a man of lyrics, the ones from that album hit like a punch in the gut.

How were we to know that these are the days that bind you together, forever
And these little things define you forever, forever
All this bad blood here won’t you let it dry?

What did we know? From dating, from marriage, from parenting, from making a living, from paying bills, from writing checks, from having a bank account, from having to have sex the first 24 hours we could touch?

I was left to my own devices
Many days fell away with nothing to show
And the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love
Grey clouds roll over the hills, bringing darkness from above

There is a fear I am used to, of a tightness in my stomach. A sort of impending doom. This is the fear from my childhood.

The fear from my years of marriage is different, it’s a dropping away, like when the roller coaster goes over the hill. My stomach is gone. It is the feeling of nobody being there for me, with the weight of the world on my shoulders.

And I am not proud of how I dealt with that weight.

And I remember wandering the streets of French Hill, pasting signs on bus stops, trying to organize support groups for people like me, because none existed.

And I was not a mental health professional, and no one responded, and when someone finally did, sounding haunted in a way that I related to far too deeply, I did not have the resources to do anything but tell him that it was no longer relevant.

Things we lost to the flames
Things we’ll never see again
All that we have amassed
Sits before us, shattered into ash
These are the things, the things we lost
The things we lost in the fire, fire, fire

Aish. The fire of Torah. Full of balanced individuals who sold their souls to God. Whose relationship advice came from a man who pretended to still be married to his wife for the optics.

Men who smiled and said “I see your point” and “I used to feel that way too” and “you need to have intellectual honesty” and “you need to admit your biases”.

Women who explained that it was their spiritual duty to be in the home, because the home was the holiest place, a miniature temple (that was somehow still ruled by the man?).

What is this sanctuary you speak of. Can I get a moment of peace.

I’ll see you in the future when we’re older
And we are full of stories to be told
Cross my heart and hope to die
I’ll see you with your laughter lines

We have the shared pain. I suppose we have that.

Everything I Learned About Relationships I Learned from Aish.com

I recently observed, upon hearing about the divorce of yet another Aish Rabbi (they are now at the age that they are getting divorced from their second marriages), that “everyone at aish sucks at relationships”. 

Not just romantic relationships, but also parent-child relationships as well (I can’t speak to other forms of relationship like friendship).

When contemplating the reason for this, I believe the cause to be psychodynamic: to join a cult you must first negate your own needs. You must put the needs of God, The Book, Noah Weinberg, and Your Mission higher than your own. 

To accomplish that you must ignore what you really want, and once you start ignoring yourself, it is impossible for you to see other people.

If you can’t acknowledge that your own unmet needs are getting dragged into every dynamic, because you’ve convinced yourself thoroughly that religion meets every one of your needs, then you will continue to bring your extensively flawed self into every relationship with little hope of actually changing anything. 

Aish self-selected for people who were willing to sell their own souls; to replace their inner sense of self with an external monolith, rigid and inflexible: with predefined roles for men and women, preset emotions for different times of the year, and predefined thoughts for different times of the day.

It then handed these the crudest of self-development tools in the form of a 2,500 year old book: The Goat Herder’s Guide to the Galaxy. With these tools – stories of men doing manly things and rarely interacting with women, fathers casting out their sons and sacrificing them unto heaven – they were supposed to navigate the complexities of the human condition and the 21st century.

Rabbis should be the last people to give relationship advice.

They do not have much to work with, these victims of aish, either inside or out. But they were given a distraction from this sorry state of affairs: a mission. 

Saving Other’s Souls is Much Easier Than Saving Your Own

Let me tell you: it is far easier to save the Jewish people than to show up as a father. 

One involves gala dinners and inspiring speeches and helicopter rides with rich donors.

The other involves staring at the abyss of your own soul and grappling with every personal imperfection that is marring your ability to show up, be supportive, and love unconditionally.

It is far easier to lose yourself into a mighty mission than to show up day after day for life’s mundanity.

One involves an epic saga between good and evil, invoking images of wars waged and battles won.

The other involves feeling the crushing weight of your own mortality, the pointlessness of it all, and the mistakes you’ve made along the way.

But you can only hide from yourself for so long. And it is actually your ability to sustain quality connections with those around you that are the biggest indications as to the state of your own internal systems. 

Looking around at the state and quality of these people’s romantic and parental relationships tells us everything we need to know.

Purim: Genocide with Extra Steps

An article penned by my father is currently one of the top posts on the homepage of aish.com (the cheap imitation of the far superior fuckaish.com). In it, he harps upon the single point that has got him out of bed in the morning for the past 40 years: the spiritual reason for antisemitism.

This particular dead horse is one he has beaten very thoroughly, through seminars, films, lectures, and a book with badly drawn cover art that looks like AI, but isn’t, and borrows directly from Nazi propaganda (it must be seen to be believed, in all its unbelievability. No, I won’t link to it). 

His premise is mind-numbingly simple: The reason for antisemitism is because Jews are morally superior in their very essence, enraging the morally inferior non-Jewish haters throughout the generations with their very presence as superior beings. 

As you can see, this is a very small horse. 

To support this claim, two sources are invoked: Hitler’s writings, whose very specific form of antisemitism is cited as an explanation for all antisemitism; and the Bible itself, whose broad, mythic teachings can be twisted into almost any narrative, framing the sons of Jacob in a legendary spiritual fight against Esau and Ishmael. 

Apparently, the stick is pretty flimsy too. 

They don’t value life the way we do, so we have to kill them

In his article, my father explains that the story of Purim informs us how to combat antisemitism:

The Scroll of Esther records that the Jews killed 75,810 of their enemies. Read that again.

There is no handwringing in the text. No apologetics. No moral confusion. These were people who intended genocide. The Jews defended themselves.

Purim forces a difficult but necessary recognition: some people choose evil.

Not everyone shares Judaism’s moral framework. Not everyone values life the way Jews do.

So there it is. The reason genocide is ok is because they want to genocide us. Some people are just inherently evil, ya know? They don’t value life like we do, ya know? And the way ya know, is by referring to a 2,500 year old collection of fairy tales.

I have news for you: the Bible is full of genocide. It repeatedly invokes the need to conquer enemies who were previously living in the land, sometimes saving the women and children as slaves, as with the Midianites (Numbers 31:18), or more often killing them all, as with the pesky seven nations already living in the land (Deut 20:16), and of course Amalek (Deut. 25:19). 

Anyone who invokes the Bible as proof of Israel’s right to the land is saying, clear as day: I justify the Jews genocidally conquering the land a second time, just like they did the first time around. 

It is these same people who will most vehemently deny that there is currently a genocide occurring in Palestine:  “We are justified in our God-given right to genocide, and also we aren’t committing it.”

He who rises to genocide you, genocide them first

I feel like I’m becoming stupider as I write this, but justifying genocide because it says to do it in a book, is still genocide. 

The fact that someone else wrote the book instead of the author himself writing it in prison and then acting upon it, is still genocide. 

Hell, even if God Himself wrote the book, it’s still genocide. It just means that your God is genocidal. 

Framing the genocide as an epic battle of good and evil where your heart is inherently pure and the enemy is rotten to his core and driven by an insatiable and innate desire to kill you, is still genocide. You’ve simply shifted the exceptionalist criteria from having a superior Aryan body to having a superior Jewish soul. 

Writing that you have to kill an entire people because they don’t value life the way you do is both genocidal and comedy gold.

An abstract struggle with genocidal significance

You want to know the one Torah reading a year that women are commanded to actually come to the synagogue and listen alongside the men? It’s the part where Jews are reminded to “never forget to erase the memory of Amalek from beneath the heavens.”

Much like the way Muslim apologetics (who my father, unironically, has committed to combating) explain that the concept of Jihad holy war is just “a spiritual struggle”, I was raised on the idea that the commandment to kill Amalek was theoretical. It was either a metaphor for spiritual growth, ‘The Amalek that lives inside you, bro’, or it was a way to explain past inequities: ‘The Nazis were Amalek’.

Alas. Purim, with its famous “uno reverse card’ switcheroo, invokes the ultimate gotcha: you thought it meant an abstract spiritual struggle? No, silly, turns out we’ll use it to justify the killing of 40,000 women and children as an act of erasing evil. It was only abstract when we were limited to abstractions.

Herein lies the danger in secular and progressive Judaism. When you try to build upon a 2,500 book by abstracting its ideas, ignoring or explaining them away, you always run the risk that someone, at any point, will simply read them more literally. 

The first rule of textual analysis should be: the literal answer is probably the correct one (Shall we call this Shore’s Razor?). Don’t ask me, ask your favorite source, the Talmud: “A verse does not depart from its plain meaning.” (Shabbat 63a)

In this case, the plain meaning is clear: some people deserve to die, as a people. Justifying that because they all, inherently, supposedly want you to die, as a people, is just genocide with extra steps and more poppy seed cookies. 

One of Purim’s key instructions is to get so drunk that you can’t differentiate between good and evil. It appears that many people don’t want to limit themselves to just one day a year, preferring to get drunk on its ideas and lose sight of their basic human decency on a daily basis.

Purim is a celebration of the mask coming off, the revealing of one’s true self for one day of the year. And the results, what we are finding behind many people’s masks, are horrifying.

Thoughts from Berlin

The American flag flies over the American embassy in Berlin, across the street from the Holocaust memorial.

Visiting Berlin on a Europe trip, I’m confronted head-on with many of the topics I’ve been grappling with for months.

Meeting Germans, some of the nicest and most open-minded people I’ve met, in a city steeped with culture. Knowing that they had a similar reputation before they started two World Wars and killed tens of millions of people.

Coming off a leg of the trip that involved spending time with my close-minded and supremacist parents, surrounded by similarly-minded Israelis, all steeped in their own versions of propaganda, misinformation, and fundamentalist beliefs.

As a child, I was raised to believe that there was Good and there was Evil. Esau hates Jacob. Germany is biblically ordained to hate Jews. We don’t visit Germany. We don’t buy German products. Boycott, divest, sanction.

I have since learned that Jews can create their own genocides, their own mass-murders, and their own propaganda. That they can build their own walls. That they can justify their actions with the need for more living space.

I have since learned that nobody sets out to fight against evil that is not at their doorstep. America did not join the war to liberate the camps or fight Nazis. I know this because they stayed neutral for as long as possible and because they seem quite comfortable harboring both Nazis and their own deeply entrenched racist beliefs.

I also recognize that no one would come to save the Jews if they were being oppressed in another country, just as no one is coming to save the Palestinians and no one is coming to save the Ukrainians.

***

I met a woman in Berlin, Sofiya. Originally from Russia, she fled to Berlin with her husband after Russia invaded Ukraine, so he could avoid the draft. She told me she actually had Israeli citizenship as well – automatically granted by the Israeli government because her father was Jewish. She joked that she was collecting shitty citizenships.

I shared with her how I am ashamed of telling people I’m from Israel. She commiserated. She feels the same about telling people she’s Russian, she said, especially since Germany has many Ukrainian refugees. Shitty citizenships indeed.

***

Evil, points out Hannah Arendt, is not a complex or deep-rooted thing.

It is not spiritually predestined, as my father would have us all believe.

It is quite easy to foster, as can be seen in America’s devolution into totalitarianism in a matter of months.

Arendt was simultaneously supportive of the need for Jewish self-defense, and critical of partitioning Israel and the dangers of creating a nation-sate.

***

I was reading about Eli Wiesel and his outspoken advocacy for human rights (and for illegal settlements in Jerusalem, citing the bible as justification). How, when Israel was going to host a forum about the Armenian Genocide, Turkey got angry, threatened Turkish Jews, and Israel did everything in its power to shut down the conference.

Wiesel withdrew his participation and encouraged others to do the same because, as he said, “One life is more important than anything we can say about life.” I hear his point. I only wonder what would his, and the state of Israel’s, stance be if the conference they were pressured to cancel was one about the Holocaust.

All I ask is for consistency.

The more civilized Berlin presents itself as, and the more unhinged my family, Jewish friends, and conservative Americans become, the more the ground upon which my mind tries to establish a basic sense of equilibrium and safety, crumbles.

I tried visiting the Holocaust Museum in Berlin, but it was closed for renovations.

Negativity

Last week during my therapy session, I had the sudden instinct to share my upbringing with my therapist in an unusual way – I pulled up Google street view in maps and showed her the school buildings I had attended and neighborhood I had grown up in.

I was surprised at how emotional I got, I started crying within a few seconds of pointing out the first school building.

“You can’t see the room I was in for first grade, because it’s below ground,” I finally found the words. “There were two windows for the classroom that opened to a courtyard below street level.”

“It looks like a prison,” she observed. “Why are there bars everywhere?”

I explained it was to keep the kids in and the terrorists out – every school in Israel has an armed security guard. “I’m not sure which of those two was the priority here, but I suspect it was the kids.”

Whereas Google regularly updates street view in other parts of the world, the footage hasn’t been updated since 2011. It’s as if Google doesn’t want to go back there either.

“I happen to know the building looks even worse now,” I told her. “They’ve put tarps over the bars so you can’t even see through them.”

I continue the tour, showing her all three buildings where I spent 11 years of my life.

“This was where the community garbage room used to overflow, and trash would pile up right to the door of the school building.”

I showed her the window I sat beside, in 8th grade. It was covered in steel mesh, further contributing to the prison chic aesthetic. “But the window pane was broken, and during the winter I froze when I sat there. I ended up getting pneumonia.”

I showed her the kids crowding around the camera that was capturing all this. How we’d just empty out into the street and roam aimlessly during recess. How there were almost no trees or grass or any greenery.

“It all looks hard,” she observed. “Stone and cement.”

I showed her all the narrow alleys and tunnels, shrouded in shadows. How the houses were so close to each other that there wasn’t enough light even through the windows.

“Whenever I imagine the neighborhood I grew up in, I just imagine darkness.”

She had never seen anything like this, she said. Amanda from Newfoundland did not have context for Zilbermans or the Jewish Quarter.

I feel like I am endlessly showing. Telling. Explaining. Yet nothing I say can do justice to the darkness in my mind, the bars around my psyche. This Google Street View was another attempt.

“It feels oppressive,” she observed.

Did it land for me? Her words, her mirroring back to me what she was seeing? Not really. Maybe a little. Maybe nothing can. I guess the crying was a good sign, if nothing else.

I showed her the Muslim Quarter. How suddenly an imaginary line gets crossed and you’re in a mystical Arab bazaar, where you need to be worried for your safety and where plaques commemorate victims of past stabbings.

“Is it any wonder,” I concluded. “That I am so bitter? That I see the world in such a negative light?”

That was the theme of that week’s session. My negativity. Why can’t I see things more positively? Appreciate people’s efforts, or their partial successes? Why, my partner had recently asked, could I not mefargen – the modern Hebrew word that has no exact translation but which I roughly interpret as “adopt benevolent positivity towards others”?

Why indeed.

The answer, my subconscious informed me, was how bleak my childhood was. How black and white, but mostly black.

“It feels like a pressure on my brain,” I described it. “Like I am not allowed to think in certain directions. Like there’s a filter through which everything gets viewed, not as dark-colored glasses, but like a dark cloud between my eyes and my mind.”

I literally did not know what positivity looked like, even though at this point I was ready to adopt it.

“I can see all the ways in which being negative brings others around me down. How it makes me an ineffectual parent, a grouchy partner, a curmudgeony friend.”

“Please model positivity for me,” I requested. “What does it look like? Put me in your shoes, tell me how you see the world so I can try to see it too.”

She tried, but it did not stick. The picture she painted did not sound particularly positive to me.

For now, I have accepted that this is all my brain is capable of. That there is so much pain from my past inside me still, even if I am no longer as in-touch with it on a daily basis.

Maybe this is all the positivity I can muster? A hope for a better future? In my typical negative fashion, it doesn’t seem like that’s enough.

It’s the classic psychological bind – feeling negative about my negativity. At least I warned my therapist about this, so now she’s informed.

Mind The Gap

Sometimes when I wake up from a particularly deep sleep, my subconscious comes online before my conscious mind has a chance to.

I forget the context of my life (what time is it? What bed/room/house am I in?) and I’m hit in the face with a felt sense reality.

A deep sense of dread, a punch in the face.

How did I get here?

What is the point of it all?

Why am I even alive?

Some details begin to crystalize, unpleasant.

Linking a raw feeling into realities that might explain it, retroactively.

37 years old.

Living in a random city.

Few friends.

Shouldered by the responsibilities of feeding three mouths.

The monotony.

Of putting one foot in front of the other.

The unfulfilled dreams.

I was supposed to be somebody by now.

Wasn’t I just eight years old?

Wasn’t I just lying on the couch, listening to Enya and reading Richard Scary’s Cars and Trucks and Things That Go?

The dread is often followed by a rush of anger.

Here’s how I got here.

I was raised religious.

I was married off to the first woman I dated.

I was taught that birth control was a sin, that sex was a sin, that free time was a sin.

Slowly my logical brain comes back online, and I piece together my identity, my context, my self-regulation resources, step-by-step.

You are ok.

You have much to look forward to.

Here’s a specific exciting thing you’re doing, working on, learning.

Here are the ways the future will be even better.

Tune into your body. Tune into your breath. Everything is transient, this will pass.

And slowly the ton of bricks weighing down my stomach begins to lighten as I claw my wayward mind back into submission.

I find it insightful though, to observe what comes up in the time between when I wake up and and when I gather my wits.

A glimpse into all the shit that is still there, despite all the healing I’ve done, in the space between lost -and self-consciousness.

Mind the gap.

But What Will the Antisemites Think?

As I continue to publicize my criticism of Israel and Zionism, a specific kind of criticism has emerged from people in my life, frequently enough that it has become a pattern.

The gist of their argument is this: “We agree with you in theory that Israel is doing many terrible things, but we’re worried that you being so vocal about it will serve as fuel for antisemites. They will take your statements as a Jew and use it to justify and validate their hate speech.”

To which I say:

Israel has done more harm to other people in the last 70 years than any anti-Semite has harmed the Jews. You want I should silence myself around an ongoing atrocity that cannot be tolerated, simply because it might become some sort of amorphous, unspecified threat?

Why are we living our life based on what antisemites think?

What happened to speaking up for the truth despite the risks? My critics are not even denying the terrible acts themselves (although they might try to explain them away as anecdotal incidents instead of systemic issues). They are simply refusing to decry them publicly for fear of how this will be perceived.

I fear, further, that they are grouping all critics of Israel into the “antisemite” category, a common Zionist tactic. Yes, there are people who froth at the mouth at the very thought of Jews. But there are thousands of liberal and rational individuals and organizations who also condemn Israel, and it’s not from a place antisemitism – it stems from the exact opposite, basic respect for the human rights of all people regardless of their ethnicity.

Here’s what really gets me: why are we living our life based on what anti-Semites think? By their very definition, these are racist, irrational, and bigoted people. Their beliefs are not founded in reality – that is exactly what makes them racist in the first place. They don’t need our valid criticism to serve as ammunition, they already believe that Jews control the weather.

To censor your values because it will “fuel antisemitism” is to give in to these racist fanatics.

To quote them, as my father does of Hitler, as proof of your moral superiority, is to base your own value upon the irrational beliefs of some of the world’s most misguided people.

To try to appease them by withholding criticism where it is due means buying in to their own false beliefs – that they have legitimate reasons to hate Jews and that if you stopped giving them reasons, they would change their mind.

Do you think Hitler, or Kanye West, or Candace Owens, or David Duke or any of your favorite antisemites really cares what you say, one way or the other? They are out to lunch, and you serving them the tastiest bagels will not change their world views.

The truth is, they will hate you anyway.

The only thing you can do is try to live with a clear conscious.

A life based on speaking truth even when it’s difficult, of living by your values even when it’s unpopular and alienating.

And that’s why I speak out.

The Tote Bag of Enlightenment

I am not above criticism any religion or social institution.

I spend most of my time calling out Orthodox Judaism because I am intimately familiar with its fuckeries and am haunted by its residues in my psyche.

But I think it’s important on occasion to criticize some other sacred cows, to balance things out and show that I hate everyone equally. Islam? Fuck that shit. ‘Religion of peace’, my ass. Christianity? Has millions of deaths to account for in the name of love.

This time I want to talk about Buddhism. And what’s interesting here is that I’m generally into Buddhism.

When I left Judaism, I encountered key Buddhist ideas that were much more aligned with how I experienced the world, and techniques for self-regulation that I had been missing my whole life.

At the same time, as I have explored Buddhism further, several things have become apparent.

Firstly, the entire brand of Buddhism that I’ve encountered is actually a watered-down, westernized version with some of the worst parts of the religious aspects of it removed. It is similar to Reform Judaism, the flavor that most non-Jews are able to say ‘oh, Judaism is so quaint and friendly and accepting’ about. And the same type that I, raised Orthodox, would call out for being inauthentic and not rooted in tradition. I have a friend who was raised religious Buddhist and was deeply traumatized by many aspects of it. In addition to the emotional scars, she bears physical scars on her arm from when she was branded as a child as part of an affirmation of faith ritual. This is not the Buddhism most of us are exposed to, but it is out there in force.

Second, the constant talking about enlightenment, as though that’s some sort of measurable state that can actually be achieved. Instead of viewing personal growth as a continuous spectrum for improvement with no discernible end, which I believe is more aligned with reality, Buddhist teachers – even the western ones – often refer to this goal as a milestone to strive for. Not only is this not realistic, it actually introduces a whole new set of cravings and striving to one’s practice, which is the antitheses of what the entire practice aims to achieve. It’s hard enough to remove one’s ego from the practice even with just our human condition to account for. There is no need to introduce additional layers of dogma to the mix.

Finally, there is the human component. No matter how ideal the raw premise might be, by the time it comes around to people actually implementing it, things start to break down. First we have a rich tradition, starting with Buddha himself and continuing with prominent teachers like Tejaniya, who were deadbeat dads who left their children behind to seek the aforementioned enlightenment. It’s a lot easier to be enlightened when you’re not dealing with your fucking kids.

Then there are the more western teachers I have encountered on the few meditation retreats I have been on. Similar to the amount of fucked up therapists out there, the majority of them seem to be engaged in some sort of complex form of spiritually bypassing – immersing in a practice that is supposed to refine them as people while presenting with glaring personality flaws that they seem to not be aware of. I am allergic to this kind of shit from my decades of experiencing Kiruv rabbis with agendas, and often the parallels are striking. Techniques like posturing, deflection, and false humility abound, and they seem no more equipped than anyone else to answer a question that veers from the scripts they have been taught to address.

My favorite story that speaks to this last point is an experience from the last day of the last meditation retreat I was on. A fundraiser presented to us, about our opportunity to become monthly supporters. Anyone who pledged over $10 a month would be entitled to a much-coveted meditation retreat-branded tote bag.

The room erupted in a flurry of inquiries. People who had been meditating in silence for a week on the principles of non-attachment broke their silence to inquire how they, too, might be able to acquire said tote despite not perfectly fitting the previously stated criteria. The presenter appeared flustered – they had not been prepared for an onslaught of questions about tote bag availability. She pledged to escalate the matter to those with the Power to Distribute Tote Bags. She had to promise this multiple times, to the multiple people who took issue with the current toteless state of the world. Suffering abounded.

Still, the one advantage that Buddhism seems to posses over most other religious is that when you strip things back to the very original teachings, looking past the flawed personalities and before the addition of endless traditions and laws added over millennia, the core ideas hold an amount of philosophical truth to them, with practical application and benefits. This already steps it above the core teachings of Judaism or Islam, which are just a bunch of violent bullshit in a box.

So I guess I’ll take what I can get.

(It’s a pretty nice tote)

Deconstructing Nationalism vs. Religion

At this point, I have left both the religion and the nationalist views I was raised with. What follows is a short contemplation on  the similarities and differences between these two processes.

My journey of leaving both was primarily an emotional one. The values and beliefs of Orthodox Judaism and Zionism didn’t feel right to me. And for both there was also an intellectual exploration that preceded and accompanied the process of deconstruction. 

With religion, I pretty much left overnight, but the seeds of intellectual dissonance had already been sown and the ground of emotional turmoil had already been plowed for many years. 

When I left religion, exploring the Zionist ideas around which I had been raised did not occupy me much. And at that time my relationship with Zionism was only effected in so far as realizing that claiming a right to a land you lived in  2,000 years ago wasn’t much of a premise, and that the root of Zionism really was in its religious justification (even though Zionists were supposedly ardent secularists) but I basically left it at that.

Growing up religious, I was aware of the broader intellectual counterpoints against religion, whereas Zionism was presented as a given and deconstructing it has required more digging. Even with self directed effort at learning the facts, I find that there is more consensus around the big bang than there is about how many Palestinians were living in Israel at the turn of the century, for example.

When I did finally begin the journey of deconstructing Zionism, more recently (than I’d like to admit), it  took me several months to deconstruct.Once I did, though, the entire emotional weight of its sinister reality landed on me all at once. The feeling, therefore, is a much stronger one of the ground being pulled out beneath my feet than when leaving religion. 

Here’s the biggest distinction for me: when I stepped out of religion, I stepped into freedom; when I stepped out of Zionism I stepped into restriction.

Zionism is the winning, predominant worldview of the world around me. It is the view of the country I was born in, the mainstream media, and many intellectually and financially powerful people.

To be a Zionist is easy and convenient, especially when you compare it to being a Palestinian. You have nothing to lose by continuing to adopt this supremacist worldview, except your soul. Being a Zionist means having more land to live in, more people to exploit, and the moral superiority and persecuted exceptionalism to justify the most gratuitous use of force.

Religion, in my experience, has more tradeoffs: it limits what you can  think and feel, it prescribes what you can eat, who you can date, and what not to do every seventh day. It restricts almost every aspect of your life and often tells you you’re a shitty person at the same time.

My questioning of Zionism, which has unfolded alongside the rise of fascism in its closest ally, has been a rude awakening to the darkest aspects of human behavior and social tendencies – that seemingly all those who can exploit power will do so and that victims are only victims due to circumstances, such that given the chance they will become perpetrators themselves.

Whereas atheism has articulate and well-spoken advocates who far outstrip religion’s “intellectual rigor”, those same people can still somehow be proponents of Zionism. I’m looking at you Sam Harris. Thank God for the consistency of Christopher Hitchens.

Israelis are some of the coolest people I know, and often the easiest for me to relate to, especially when living outside Israel. To befriend them now is a fraught moral dilemma – and I doubt many of them would want to associate with me anyways.

Many of my secular family members who embraced my anti-religious transition are appalled at my new anti-Zionist views, or would be if they knew of them.

The moral weight of being related to Zionists who actively serve in the military is much greater than that of being related to a religious person. The latter’s biggest sins are cutting off the tips of their baby’s penises and teaching their children about hell. The former are calling in airstrikes and killing people.

I broadly believe it is possible, at least theoretically, to be a moderate religious person who does no harm to others. I don’t believe that is possible with Zionism. This leaves me a little gray area to hang out in while I navigate this transition, emotionally and socially.

To reiterate, leaving Zionism has been more difficult for me in many ways than leaving religion. It has been socially isolating, intellectually damning, and morally gut-wrenching.

When I stepped out of religion, I gained many freedoms. The freedom to think as I wanted, to eat what I wanted, to date who I wanted, to spend my time as I wished. I was joining the majority of the world, who would agree  (even if they were religious themselves) that the specific style of religion I was raised with was restrictive and absurd.

When I stepped out of Zionism, I stepped into restriction. I moved from the winning side to the losing side, and I personally don’t enjoy being with the losers. I am limited as to who I share my political views with, whereas I readily shout my atheism from the rooftops. I am limited by who I can befriend and who I can confide in. I have gained nothing but the knowledge that I am on the right side of history, and this is not a pleasant realization to carry on my own.

Bar Mitzvah

She approaches, the wife of the president.

Sherlon, her name is. Sherlon Goldfarbstein.

“What a beautiful son you have,” she exclaims, gesturing towards my daughter.

She gestures enthusiastically towards my other daughter, thinking she’s my partner. “Such a beautiful son you’ve made.”

Upon clarifying the second of her two mistakes, that my partner isn’t here and she is actually talking to two children, she proceeds to her next talking point:

Have they heard about the holocaust?

My children reassure her that they have.

“My husband was born in s a displaced persons camp. Can you imagine that? That’s what it said on passport DP. Displaced person. No one wanted them.”

(“We’ve been presidents of this shul for 30 years, everyone loves him here…”)

“Can you imagine having no home? Can you fathom such a thing?”

We share glances. We are fathoming it as we speak. The world is fathoming it right now.

She gestures emphatically towards my daughter again:

“You should have your Bar Mitzvah! Come to the synagogue! Say the prayer! That’s how you become a man.”

Current Weather in Hell

Hell
broken clouds
42.7 ° F
42.7 °
40.8 °
75 %
7.4mph
75 %
Thu
42 °
Fri
39 °
Sat
40 °
Sun
38 °
Mon
39 °

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