Friday, October 15, 2004
Landlord-Tenant Politics
We're an odd couple, all right — me, the poster girl for secular
Israelis, Leo the very image of a religious diaspora Jew. But my
Satmar landlord and I can be portrayed as a semi-idealistic model for
the relative tolerance that can exist between such polar opposites —
with an emphasis on the words semi and relative.
I have been living in Williamsburg for two years and can count on one
hand the number of ideological squabbles between his anti-Israel-
until-the-coming-of-the-Messiah rhetoric and my Zionist visions. Yes,
there have been times when Leo plopped his clumsy body on my sofa,
his face assuming a pained seriousness as he twirled his payes behind
his red ears and listed the vast advantages of living a decent Jewish
life removed from the chaos of the Holy Land. But all things
considered, given our worldviews, I would nominate Satmar Jew Leo and
Secular Israeli Gali as the Mr. and Ms. Universe of getting along
despite the odds.
The first time I met Leo, he eyed me suspiciously, asked for my name,
where I was from, and if I could pay rent. I answered, "Gali, Israel,
and hopefully."
He said, "Gali? Israel? Hopefully? What kind of a name is Gali? It
should be Sarah. What kind of a state is Israel? It should be
nothing. And what kind of an answer is hopefully, it should be I'm
rich."
I think this initial conversation laid the groundwork for exactly
where we stood in terms of personal, national/religious and financial
identity — the three topics that Leo would never let rest in peace.
Since that first conversation, I have evolved into more direct modes
of resistance. Leo arrives and I instinctively chant "Am Yisrael
Chai" — "without the Messiah," I pipe in as an afterthought — as
Leo's blood-pressure increase shows itself in red splotches strewn
across his face. But other than asserting our own separate visions of
the future of the Jewish people — mine being Jews united in Israel,
his being Jews dispersed in the diaspora until the Messiah decides
he's had enough of heaven and pays us a visit down here — we have
managed to keep our disdain for one another's lifestyle and opinions
relatively subdued.
If only it were that easy. Roughly 80 percent of my secular Israeli
friends shudder at the mere mention of the word religious. And within
that 80 percent, about half cringe at the idea of Judaism itself.
This is sad. By linking the settlers in the Gaza Strip — who would
rather have land than save lives — with Judaism itself, they are, by
association, linking a wise and sacred religion with those who have
interpreted it to quench their own political agendas.
In that sense, Leo and I are on the same page. I don't think we
should settle in areas that put thousands of soldier's lives on the
line to protect a relative few who believe they have a direct line to
God's will. Leo doesn't think we should be in Israel, period — Green
Line, red line, yellow line — any line. Until He comes, that is.
When I put Satmars — people who are deemed to be the very antithesis
of Zionism and the autonomy of the Jewish people in a Jewish state —
on one side of the equation and religious settlers — determined to
keep a stubbornly blind foothold on a strip of land that only leaves
Israelis and Palestinians dead and the world hating us — on the
other, the choice leaves me dumbstruck. Who would I prefer to bring
along with me to a secluded island? Maybe I'd stay on the boat at
sea, or sail to another more distant island where these questions
don't demand such grueling soul searching.
In fact, the latter option isn't so far from what I am doing now —
it's the distant island called America.
Tommy Lapid, the arch-secularist leader of the Shinui Party, was
faced with a similar dilemma after he captured a sizeable number of
seats in the last election. To stretch a metaphor, Lapid had to
decide if he wanted to pay rent in the House of Sharon, a house that
had in it religious tenants he didn't like all that much. But faced
with the prospect of being homeless and in the political wilderness,
he took out his checkbook, won a few concessions from Sharon the
landlord, and got himself a spacious room with nice view.
Kind of like Leo and me, huh?
Leo and I have a distinct advantage making our tolerant relationship
possible. We are both on neutral terrain. Removed from the emotional
frenzy of Israel, we are able to argue and dispute, knowing that at
the end of the day, I will still be paying rent in my two-bedroom
Williamsburg apartment, and he will continue walking past Manhattan
Avenue to the Satmar enclave two blocks away.
Which leaves me with another question, more vexing even than my
relationship with Leo. Would I rather have emotional placidity in a
land that is not my own or emotional upheaval in a land I love?
We're an odd couple, all right — me, the poster girl for secular
Israelis, Leo the very image of a religious diaspora Jew. But my
Satmar landlord and I can be portrayed as a semi-idealistic model for
the relative tolerance that can exist between such polar opposites —
with an emphasis on the words semi and relative.
I have been living in Williamsburg for two years and can count on one
hand the number of ideological squabbles between his anti-Israel-
until-the-coming-of-the-Messiah rhetoric and my Zionist visions. Yes,
there have been times when Leo plopped his clumsy body on my sofa,
his face assuming a pained seriousness as he twirled his payes behind
his red ears and listed the vast advantages of living a decent Jewish
life removed from the chaos of the Holy Land. But all things
considered, given our worldviews, I would nominate Satmar Jew Leo and
Secular Israeli Gali as the Mr. and Ms. Universe of getting along
despite the odds.
The first time I met Leo, he eyed me suspiciously, asked for my name,
where I was from, and if I could pay rent. I answered, "Gali, Israel,
and hopefully."
He said, "Gali? Israel? Hopefully? What kind of a name is Gali? It
should be Sarah. What kind of a state is Israel? It should be
nothing. And what kind of an answer is hopefully, it should be I'm
rich."
I think this initial conversation laid the groundwork for exactly
where we stood in terms of personal, national/religious and financial
identity — the three topics that Leo would never let rest in peace.
Since that first conversation, I have evolved into more direct modes
of resistance. Leo arrives and I instinctively chant "Am Yisrael
Chai" — "without the Messiah," I pipe in as an afterthought — as
Leo's blood-pressure increase shows itself in red splotches strewn
across his face. But other than asserting our own separate visions of
the future of the Jewish people — mine being Jews united in Israel,
his being Jews dispersed in the diaspora until the Messiah decides
he's had enough of heaven and pays us a visit down here — we have
managed to keep our disdain for one another's lifestyle and opinions
relatively subdued.
If only it were that easy. Roughly 80 percent of my secular Israeli
friends shudder at the mere mention of the word religious. And within
that 80 percent, about half cringe at the idea of Judaism itself.
This is sad. By linking the settlers in the Gaza Strip — who would
rather have land than save lives — with Judaism itself, they are, by
association, linking a wise and sacred religion with those who have
interpreted it to quench their own political agendas.
In that sense, Leo and I are on the same page. I don't think we
should settle in areas that put thousands of soldier's lives on the
line to protect a relative few who believe they have a direct line to
God's will. Leo doesn't think we should be in Israel, period — Green
Line, red line, yellow line — any line. Until He comes, that is.
When I put Satmars — people who are deemed to be the very antithesis
of Zionism and the autonomy of the Jewish people in a Jewish state —
on one side of the equation and religious settlers — determined to
keep a stubbornly blind foothold on a strip of land that only leaves
Israelis and Palestinians dead and the world hating us — on the
other, the choice leaves me dumbstruck. Who would I prefer to bring
along with me to a secluded island? Maybe I'd stay on the boat at
sea, or sail to another more distant island where these questions
don't demand such grueling soul searching.
In fact, the latter option isn't so far from what I am doing now —
it's the distant island called America.
Tommy Lapid, the arch-secularist leader of the Shinui Party, was
faced with a similar dilemma after he captured a sizeable number of
seats in the last election. To stretch a metaphor, Lapid had to
decide if he wanted to pay rent in the House of Sharon, a house that
had in it religious tenants he didn't like all that much. But faced
with the prospect of being homeless and in the political wilderness,
he took out his checkbook, won a few concessions from Sharon the
landlord, and got himself a spacious room with nice view.
Kind of like Leo and me, huh?
Leo and I have a distinct advantage making our tolerant relationship
possible. We are both on neutral terrain. Removed from the emotional
frenzy of Israel, we are able to argue and dispute, knowing that at
the end of the day, I will still be paying rent in my two-bedroom
Williamsburg apartment, and he will continue walking past Manhattan
Avenue to the Satmar enclave two blocks away.
Which leaves me with another question, more vexing even than my
relationship with Leo. Would I rather have emotional placidity in a
land that is not my own or emotional upheaval in a land I love?
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