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Diary of an American Jew. No direction home

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Noam A Osband
Noam A OsbandMay 08, 2015 | 20:37

Diary of an American Jew. No direction home

The older I get, the less religion means to me, and yet paradoxically, the more meaningful I find visits to Israel. How to make sense of this?

Let me begin with my birth, 34 years earlier.

I had a happy childhood in a tight-knit orthodox Jewish community just outside Boston. Although the local baseball stadium was within walking distance, the non-Jewish world was still in many ways an exotic "other". I had no non-Jewish friends until college. I would pass McDonald's and gaze with wonderment through the window, wondering just how the forbidden fruit tasted. Unlike most Americans, I've never attended a high school prom, and I know more people who have served in the Israeli army than the American one. One benefit of this insularity, however, was that when introducing myself to people as "Noam", no one was confused. It was a common name in the community.

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Now that I no longer live in that community, I constantly have to repeat my name during introductions. At first, this frustrated me. My freshman year roommates, David and Robbie, did not face this problem. I've grown, however, to find it a fun part of meeting new, new people. Like some absurd cliche, on northeast college campuses I reference Noam Chomsky to explain my name, and down south I usually say, "It's like Noah from the Bible… but with an m." My name can also be useful. There are few better ways of charming older, religious women in Arkansas than quoting in Hebrew the biblical verse from the Book of Psalms that contains the word "Noam".

Yet, as much as I love this interaction, it's also a constant reminder that, culturally, the United States is in many ways not my home. American culture warriors need not fear. It is definitely a Christian country. Conservative lawmakers invoke the Bible in justifying policy, and people smear the president by calling him a Muslim. Hell, I've met many people who don't know what a Jew is. When I tell them, "For starters, we don't believe in Christ as saviour," I've had children and adults respond with, "Oh, so you believe in Mary?"

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By contrast, in Israel, my introductions are brief; Noam is one of the most popular boy's names. The fact that everyone there knows my name is indicative of the fact that Israel runs with the rhythms of my childhood that are still familiar to me. Passover is essentially a national holiday, with many restaurants and bars closing for the week. Signs at the front of buses, asking you to give your seat to the elderly, do so by quoting a biblical snippet I can both recognise and translate.

I didn't have a say in how I was raised, and as I get older and see more of the world, reveling in the sheer diversity of human expression, I find tremendous satisfaction with the fact that one small piece of the globe accords with the rhythms of my youth. It reminds of the time I drove back from a large American music festival, "Bonnaroo", with a teaching colleague. Mr Royal taught in the classroom next to me in rural Arkansas. He was a former "Black Panther", and served as an unlikely father figure to me two years after I'd lost my own dad. Before leaving "Bonnaroo", he took out a little American flag from his bag, placing it in the backseat window of the car. Given the many critiques this black nationalist had of America, I was surprised he intentionally placed one of its primary symbols in our car. I asked him why he did this, and he replied, "Cause it's the only flag I got."

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There are two kinds of nationalism. One kind is triumphalist, jingoistic. "Here's to America, right or wrong!" This is the kind that doesn't give a damn about the unfair imprisonment of innocents at Guantanamo, assuming that if someone's there, they must obviously have been involved in bad shit. The second kind of nationalism is factual, a simple recognition and pleasure in your commonality with others. This kind of nationalism simply appreciates the fact that I shared the same children TV shows with other 34-year-olds, and I eat the same shitty gas station food as strangers 3,000 miles away in California. You can choose whether or not to embrace the first kind of nationalism. Personally, I reject this unthinking love of country. But the second form is like family. It's the ties you are simply born with, the kind you had no say in, and it seems silly not to appreciate them. It is this second form that increasingly informs my experiences in Israel.

Precisely because of the cloistered nature of my upbringing, so much of my cultural DNA is Jewish, and in Israel, these elements are the dominant culture. There are other reasons American-Jewish friends of mine take pride in Israel. For many, it offers them a sense of security in a turbulent world, but while that point isn't lost on me, that is not really why I enjoy time there.

To be clear, there are other rhythms of time and patterns of behaviour I cherish that don't exist in Israel. I love Thanksgiving, American football, and the signage of the United States' interstate highway system, all uniquely American characteristics. Yet while the Israeli flag isn't the only one I got, it is a flag we raised at the flagpole in my school. I didn't ask to be raised in a community where I kept track of the Hebrew calendar and sang the Israeli national anthem, but to disavow those connections seems as uncaring and uncharitable as disavowing a close relative.

So instead, I love landing in Israel and reveling in the connections I hold dear. And enjoying the fact no one asks me to repeat my name. Except for the security agents at the airport who usually assume that with my name and American passport, I'm an Israeli citizen who evaded army service.

Last updated: May 08, 2015 | 20:37
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