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My
name is Loolwa Khazzoom. I was born into an orthodox Jewish family,
with an Iraqi Jewish father and a Jewish mother from an old American
Christian background. We lived in Montreal, Canada until I was five
years old.
When I was five, my father left Mc Gill University in Montreal to
teach at Stanford University in Palo Alto, California. My parents
found a stunning, spacious, and affordable home minutes away from
the university. Public schools in the neighborhood were outstanding.
In fact, everything seemed perfect...except there were no Jewish
schools above fifth grade, and my sister was about to enter sixth.
The first priority in my parents' life was giving my sister and
myself a solid religious Jewish education and Jewish identity. Accordingly,
we settled in the closest area with a Jewish day school that both
my sister and I could attend. Though living in San Francisco gave
my father a two-hour commute each day, my parents found the sacrifice
worthwhile as a Jewish investment.
I loved my school. I adjusted quickly to the new environment; and
within days, my teachers adored me, and I was one of the most popular
kids in the class.
***
This utopia came to an abrupt halt when I entered second grade.
At the age of seven, I learned that I would be accepted as an individual
and as a Jew on one condition only: that I keep my "ethnic" identity
to myself.
That year, my father and sister had decided it was time for me to
learn about my Middle Eastern Jewish heritage. It is ironic that
was an issue, considering that I was enrolled in a "Jewish" school.
Are not Jewish children enrolled in Jewish schools specifically
for the purpose of learning about their Jewish heritage?
As I came to understand at such a young age, however, "Jewish" meant
"Ashkenazi" (European). It did not mean my heritage, and it did
not mean me. Any people and any traditions that were not from Europe
were not "really" Jewish.
As I also came to understand, this situation occurred not out of
benign ignorance, but out of virulent hostility to all non-European
Jews and Jewish traditions. For two years, my parents spoke repeatedly
to the principal and teachers, pointing out that what they were
teaching as "Jewish" tradition and "Jewish" law at times conflicted
with Middle Eastern Jewish practices - specifically, with the practices
in my home.
The best response the faculty ever gave my parents was indifference.
When I took on my ethnic identity at the age of seven, my teachers
suddenly stopped liking me, though I was the same kid they had adored
just days before. Now when they talked about "Jewish" traditions
that in truth were only European, I raised my hand and shared the
traditions of my family, noting that not everyone practices Judaism
the way they were saying.
The teachers responded by denying the truth of my statements or
otherwise invalidating them. They made nasty comments about my culture
and embarrassed me in front of the class. They clearly were annoyed
at my "audacity" to introduce consciousness about Middle Eastern
Jews, and they proceeded to punish me for it.
"Why do you pray in that book?" one teacher loudly asked in front
of the class, after I began reading silently from my Iraqi Jewish
prayer book. "Because it's my tradition," I answered, lowering my
eyes, sensing what was coming to me and feeling both afraid and
ashamed. My teacher made a face that looked as disgusted as it might
have looked had I been eating live worms. I wanted to hide.
A few weeks later, my classmates and I were in our bible study class.
The standard practice during this class was that our rabbi would
read to us from the bible in Hebrew then translate it into English.
On this particular day, the rabbi "read" to us from the bible the
following "verses": "It is against Jewish law to pray from a Sephardic
prayer book, and it is against Jewish law to pray by yourself."
All but one student in the class turned to face me and unanimously
said, "Shame, shame, shame on you, Loolwa!"
My parents took me out of the school that day. I spent the rest
of my life in public school.
From that day on, my primary Jewish education came from sitting
with my father every Shabbat and learning Middle Eastern Jewish
prayers, religious songs, holy day traditions, and rabbinical teachings.
Of course, I continued learning the Ashkenazi traditions by default:
Outside of my home, in every "Jewish" synagogue, camp, community
organization, and community publication, "Jewish" still meant "Ashkenazi."
By being an involved Jew, I could not help but learn the Ashkenazi
way of life.
***
By the time I was eight years old, I could sing the Shabbat and
weekday evening prayers in the traditional Iraqi tunes; I knew dozens
of Iraqi Shabbat and holy day songs by heart; and I could sing a
good portion of the Haggadah in the Iraqi melodies, both in Hebrew
and Judeo-Arabic (the traditional language of many Middle Eastern
Jews).
It was rare enough for a child my age to know all these prayers.
What more, I sang with the distinct Iraqi pronunciation of every
word, something that was unusual even for Iraqi adults to maintain,
much less for their children to preserve.
I loved singing the prayers. I realized the significance of carrying
on the tradition. And I felt so proud, so accomplished that I was
able to lead them for my family. I very much wanted to lead them
for the synagogue congregation.
My father, sister, and I went to the only Sephardic synagogue in
San Francisco. With rare exceptions, my sister and I were the only
children and two of the very few females who ever showed up. Our
dedication was so strong that we walked three miles to get there
and three miles back, on Friday night, Saturday morning, and Saturday
afternoon. Every Shabbat.
If we were boys, I believe the entire synagogue would have been
ecstatic that we were so committed to Judaism and to passing on
our heritage. They probably would have encouraged us in every possible
way to continue in our Jewish pursuits. But alas, we were "only"
girls, so we did not count and thereby did not receive the attention
we deserved.
Because I was a girl, I was not allowed to lead any part of the
main prayers. After considerable fuss, I was allowed to lead parts
of the supplementary prayers, the reason being that those did not
"really count."
But there was one catch: Once in a blue moon, a boy would walk in:
One wearing a Ben-Davis jacket and pants, dressed more for a street
fight than for the synagogue, one who barely could read Hebrew,
who stumbled and sputtered through the prayers, who did not know
his tradition from Episcopalian tradition. Any old boy would do.
Whenever this random boy would enter, he would be instructed to
lead the prayers instead of me, and I would be shunted aside. Once,
for example, with ten minutes left in the whole service, a boy walked
in, just as I was climbing the steps to the bimah (altar) to do
my thing. One of the men from the synagogue came and literally pulled
me off the bimah so that a boy could read instead of me. I was just
a girl.
I tried saying something, but the man only grunted at me as if I
did not exist and joined the others, panting after the boy. There
was a communal sigh of relief as several men went clamoring after
this boy, shoving a prayer book in his hand.
I felt that.
I, who spent my life dedicated to my religion and heritage. I, who
woke up early every Saturday morning to walk across town in the
cold to get to the synagogue. I, who spent every Shabbat learning
about Middle Eastern Jewish tradition. I, who had such love for
this heritage and who knew so much more about it than others in
my generation.
I felt that. I sat there and watched some boy bumble his way through
the prayers, with several men standing around him, encouraging him,
helping him along, giving him all the attention...while I was relegated
to nothingness on the side, knowing that maybe next week, if no
boys came, my prayers might be tolerated again.
The message clearly was that I did not count. My unique knowledge
of and passion for Iraqi Jewish heritage was irrelevant. My unusual
commitment to Judaism was irrelevant. The fact that I was bursting
with the energy to lead, that in my own mind I was planning to resurrect
my heritage some day, also was completely irrelevant.
How can I even explain the feelings this treatment caused me - a
powerless child who did not understand, could not understand why
this bumbling idiot was preferable to her. Here was my identity,
my roots, my family, my people...and all I was facing was a brick
wall. It was one of my first experiences in learning the role of
women in society - to just shut up and sit on the side.
I had no meaningful outlet for this pain, no context for it, and
no power to fight it. My father kept saying it was not fair the
way they treated girls, and he comforted me; yet we kept coming
to the synagogue. We had no revolution against the system, and we
did not walk out on it. Accordingly, I learned that though this
treatment was not fair, it was acceptable. And I learned to accept
it.
I continued to lead prayers whenever they would allow me. Still,
I knew they would rather that I did not lead - which was bad enough
in itself. What more, each time they relegated me to the sidelines
in favor of a boy, they strengthened the message that I was undesirable,
that my intelligence was meaninglessness, and that my abilities
were worthless. It was a degrading and humiliating experience for
me. I was like a starving child denied permission to eat from the
rich food on the table and forced to grasp for scraps of food from
off the floor.
With Middle Eastern Jewish culture fading fast in this society,
how could this community have ignored the potential of a child so
young and so eager to learn and share the traditions? Surely, had
I been a boy, they would have rejoiced in the prospect of ethnic
continuity and the potential of renewed leadership for the community.
What more, as human beings, how could they treat a child the way
they did? Through their behavior, I began internalizing learned
powerlessness and a lack of self-worth. I began learning to live
from a place just behind my potential. I began learning to fear
my intelligence, creativity, and new ideas, knowing the danger of
expressing them: at best, they would fall on deaf ears. At worst,
they would be scorned. Is being a girl so horrible a crime as to
deserve this punishment?
***
I knew the men were just waiting for their "day of salvation," when
I would reach bath mouswa (1) age and be banished to the back of
the synagogue forever. But apparently, out of sight was not enough;
I had to be muted, as well.
Being cast off to the women's section was a devastating and degrading
experience for me. Just one day of my life, one birthday, separated
me from active participation in the synagogue and thereby stripped
me of what little Jewish freedom I had enjoyed up to that point.
Just as the brith milah (circumcision) is the sign of a male Jew's
covenant with Gd; just as a boy's bar mouswa (2) is a visible ritual
rite of passage, entering a boy into his full place in the Jewish
community - so I feel is the act of being confined to the women's
section a physical, visible ritual of a woman's shrinking place
in the community; so that coming of age as a woman is not an honor
but a punishment. It is a clear message that female Jews have no
place as fully participating and valued members of Jewish society.
Obviously, it was preferable to this community to lose a potential
leader, and thereby further sacrifice ethnic continuity, than to
encourage a female Middle Eastern Jew to participate fully and lead.
Vocally joining in the prayers was my last shred of connection to
the congregation: I sat in the front row of the women's section,
hanging as much over the top of the mehisa (3) as I possibly could
get away with, heartily singing along. Nevertheless, I felt tremendous
sadness, anger, and hurt from being shut out. I felt a deep sense
of despair in the gap between my passion for my heritage and what
was tolerated, not even to mention valued, by the community. It
was so humiliating to give so much of my love and myself to my heritage
and this synagogue and then to be stuck in the back of the room,
behind a wall.
By this point, my sister was off in college back East, so I was
almost always the only female at services. Accordingly, my voice
was the only female voice that could be heard.
Rather than be delighted that there was one female congregant attending
services; rather than be thrilled that she knew, loved, and participated
in the prayers; rather than encourage her attendance and participation,
the rabbi decided that I was not to sing audibly, for that would
violate the law of kol isha (a woman may not sing alone if she is
in audible distance from men).
As I recall from the arguments that ensued, the "kol isha" practice
was not custom in any of the Middle Eastern communities from which
synagogue members came. As far as my father knew, it was strictly
an Ashkenazi practice. Ashkenazi or not, this "ruling" conveniently
served the purposes of the men in the congregation; it was an effective
means of silencing me, and I was ordered enthusiastically not to
sing anymore.
We left the synagogue that Shabbat, and I spent the next two years
going to Ashkenazi synagogues. I neither participated in those services
nor cared to, as those traditions meant nothing to me. When I was
fifteen, I stopped attending services altogether.
***
In the following years, I had additional experiences where Middle
Eastern Jewish communities bent over backwards to ensure that women
could not participate in praying, learning, and leading. Where it
was in fact permissible by our tradition for women to be involved
in these activities, the communities adopted Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox
Ashkenazi practices so as to guarantee women's exclusion.
I was a Middle Eastern Jew in an Ashkenazi world, thirsting, yearning
for any drops of my heritage I could find. I was a child crying
for home; and wherever there was a Middle Eastern Jewish community,
I ran towards it with my arms open wide.
The men of the community shut the door in my face.
***
During my struggles as a female in the Middle Eastern Jewish community,
I was attending public school. Whereas in orthodox Jewish school
I was alienated because I was Middle Eastern, in public school I
was alienated because I was an orthodox Jew: My identity was under
attack with anti-Semitic slurs; I was flunked for not taking tests
on Jewish holy days; I was kicked out of orchestra, debate, and
theater for not performing on Friday night or Saturday; I had to
endure year after year of Christmas and Easter celebrations sponsored
by my schools; and so on.
Being an orthodox Jew in a public school was a tremendous struggle
and a painful experience of constant alienation. When I finished
high school, I decided to go to Barnard College, largely because
of its sizable and very strong orthodox Jewish community. Finally,
I thought, I would belong.
***
At first, I was thrilled with Jewish life on campus, and I was very
active in religious activities. In time, however, I felt less and
less fulfilled; and eventually, I felt removed from Judaism itself.
After going home for one of the holy day celebrations, I realized
that my feelings stemmed from the disparity between the religious
Judaism and Jewish traditions which I knew and loved, and the Euro-centric
Orthodox Judaism presented at school. The European Jewish traditions
did nothing for my "heart strings," and the European Orthodox religious
philosophy had many aspects I strongly disliked.
When I lived at home, the Judaism in our community was
Euro-centric as well; but for me, it was balanced out by my primary
Jewish experiences with my family. Barnard/Columbia, however, offered
no non-European Jewish experience whatsoever. Accordingly, I had
two options - European Judaism or no Judaism; and I started drifting
away from the community.
In my junior year, the Jewish activities office held a "kvetching
session" (4) where students were encouraged to give feedback on
how to improve Jewish life on campus. I went in goodwill, to share
my struggles with and hopes for the community.
I expressed how painful it was for me personally to have no shred
of my heritage apparent in any of the Jewish activities on campus.
Furthermore, I noted that Sephardic invisibility cheated all students,
depriving them of a tremendous wealth of Jewish knowledge. As a
solution, I proposed that we begin saying one prayer during services
and singing one song after kiddush in the Sephardic melody.
My proposal received hostile resistance:
"When I go to services, I want it to be the same prayers I grew
up singing! I don't want it to be something foreign!" one student
yelled. "I want to feel comfortable in services too," I replied.
"I also want to practice my traditions. But the difference is that
you want it all your way. I am asking for one prayer, one song."
Throughout our discussion, this student violently was opposed to
the idea of incorporating one iota of non-European Judaism into
campus life. As we spoke, the tone and mannerisms she used disclosed
her thorough disdain for Sephardic heritage. She spoke of it as
if it were diseased, lower-than-life, and not worthy of being called
Jewish. I was thoroughly disgusted.
"There are only a few Sephardim (5) on campus," another so-called
leader replied. "You and maybe three other people." Not enough,
he felt, to spark any concern. "I don't care if I'm the only Sephardic
Jew on campus," I said. "I don't care if there are no Sephardic
Jews on campus. The point is that when we teach Jewish tradition,
it has to be Jewish tradition and not just Ashkenazi."
Furthermore, I noted, "We are at a university here. This is where
we're supposed to learn about different cultures. If at Columbia
University in the United States, we can't learn to live together
and respect each other's differences, how the hell can we expect
Sephardim and Ashkenazim ever to get along in Israel?" Not, apparently,
a concern to them.
This meeting was the last straw of my life in the Jewish community
margins. Since I was a child, I had grown increasingly angry and
resentful that Ashkenazi heritage was passed off persistently as
the authentic or only form of Judaism. I was sick of my heritage
being treated as exotic and dispensable. I was tired of the condescending,
patronizing, or unconcerned responses I always received when I questioned
this Jewish system and shared my pain.
I swore to myself after that meeting that I never again would ask
permission from Ashkenazim to please, please consider including
half the Jewish people when programming Jewish events. The community
clearly could not be counted on, and time was running out for the
preservation of my heritage. I began planning for a new Jewish organization,
one which would ensure that Middle Eastern Jewish traditions would
be represented. The following semester, I founded SOJAC - Student
Organization of Jews from Arab Countries.
***
SOJAC was one of several activist organizations I founded, directed,
and/or was heavily involved with since high school. This activism,
combined with my academic studies, ended up sacrificing my musical
pursuits for a number of years.
I had composed and performed music since I was a small child, and
there never had been any doubt in my mind that I would be a musician.
By the end of my senior year in college, I realized I had to swear
off activist involvement for the next few years, so as to re-focus
on my music and pursue a career in the field. I moved to Los Angeles
with the intention of doing just that.
Within a few months, I realized I was kidding myself to think I
ever could not be an activist. I literally could not sleep, as a
result of thinking about the Jews trapped in Syria and Yemen and
about how the Jewish community was ignoring them.
I reached a point where I no longer could be involved in Jewish
life the way it was. I was too furious at and depressed by the invisibility
of and lack of concern about Middle Eastern Jewish heritage. It
was fading fast, and someone had to do something immediately.
I decided to re-create SOJAC.
As I soon discovered, building up the organization was living life
in a giant "catch 22": First, I found I had not just to "market"
a "product," but I had to create the demand for it as well. Decades
of ignorance, indifference, and hostility regarding Middle Eastern
Jews did not make for a community waiting with open arms to greet
my project, to say the least.
For example, in the summer of 1992, I called the rabbi of a large,
wealthy congregation to discuss the life and death situation facing
Syrian Jews. I suggested that we meet to discuss how his congregation
could join in helping their Syrian brethren. To this he replied,
"We're not interested."
Not interested? Not interested? Contrary to selling vacuum cleaners,
I was addressing the urgent need to help rescue thousands of Jews!
Unfortunately, this rabbi's response was just a slightly more arrogant
reaction than those which other "Jewish leaders" gave, such as my
personal favorite, "But I'm not Syrian."
I had experienced Ashkenazi ambivalence and animosity towards Middle
Eastern Jews and Jewish issues all my life. Nonetheless, I believed
that if I created an organization to address our invisibility, mainstream
Jewish leaders would respond positively.
Not so.
As it became clear to me, non-European Judaism had been so marginalized
over the years that intellectually it was perceived as "less than"
or "other than" what was really Jewish; and emotionally it was not
perceived as being Jewish at all.
I am not Ethiopian, but I was the president of Student Action for
Ethiopian Jews. I am not Russian, but I was an active member of
Student Struggle for Soviet Jews. I am not German, but I have wept
endlessly about the tragedy of the Holocaust. The Jewish people
is my people, Jewish issues are my issues, and Jewish blood is my
blood, whether the Jews are from Poland, Spain, Iran, or Ethiopia.
It absolutely dumfounded me how a Jew could hear about the suffering
of other Jews and only be able to reply, "But I'm not from that
country."
The pervasive feeling of detachment from Middle Eastern Jewish concerns
had serious ramifications for the growth of SOJAC. Jewish leaders
persistently failed to see how SOJAC concerned their organizations.
SOJAC overwhelmingly was perceived as having either a Sephardic
and thereby marginal agenda or as having my personal agenda; but
it was not acknowledged as having a Jewish agenda that concerned
them.
At best, SOJAC was humored but not taken seriously. Leaders gave
lip service to supporting the organization or did me the "favor"
of "letting" me organize an event for their community.
Gee, thanks.
I was 22 years old, just out of college, further sacrificing my
music career, making no money whatsoever to do this work, and struggling
desperately to get the project off the ground for the benefit of
the Jewish people. It was not about doing me a favor. It was about
rescuing 3,000 years of Jewish heritage that was on the verge of
going down the toilet unless drastic action was taken immediately.
Yet because of the community's complete blindness to the relevance
of Middle Eastern Jewish issues, I found that I not only had to
create the vehicle for addressing such issues, but I had to create
the very awareness that they were issues. For this reason, I did
not receive the support I urgently needed to get the organization
off the ground.
I am deeply angry on both a personal and philosophical level that
I had to struggle so hard and give so much of myself just to be
able to begin dedicating my life to this Jewish cause. I did not
create the situation where half the Jewish culture was on the brink
of extinction. I was only doing my part to save it.
One would think the Jewish community would be there to help. After
all, are Jewish organizations not for serving the needs of the Jewish
people? I needed guidance. I needed financial assistance. I needed
people power.
With rare exceptions, I got none; and I know that it was available.
I know, furthermore, it would have been available to me had the
cause already been deemed worthy of concern.
I turned to the Jewish press, thinking that if it did a full article
on the issue and the organization, the community might begin to
understand and support my efforts. Apparently, it was not story
enough that a young Jewish women was starting an organization to
address an issue the Jewish community had ignored for decades. The
organization already needed to be active and holding "newsworthy"
events.
Needless to say, we could not reach that point of activity until
we received real support from the Jewish community; which of course
we would not receive until the Jewish community deemed the cause
worthy; which in turn would not happen until they gained consciousness
about the issue; which finally could not occur unless they were
informed by some means such as the Jewish press.
Thus, the first part of the catch 22.
The other, related part was facing the come-and-see-us-when-you-don't-need-us-anymore
routine. People with the power and wealth to help often told me
they wanted to wait until the organization was off the ground before
they would consider giving assistance.
I would like to know how organizations are supposed to get off the
ground if nobody is willing to help get them off. It is a sad and
scary comment on our community when someone with the energy, drive,
commitment, and ability to solve a problem comes along, offers her
very life to the cause, and is denied support.
More often than not, the reaction I received inextricably was intertwined
with the afore-mentioned attitude towards the cause: While I launched
SOJAC single-handedly, with minuscule if any support, Jewish leaders
threw money and assistance at other new Jewish projects.
Those which received support focused on issues the community previously
had addressed at some level; accordingly, they were acknowledged
as important. In contrast, SOJAC addressed issues that had not yet
even been recognized. The organization therefore was not perceived
as consequential enough to warrant the attention it direly needed.
As I concluded from this experience, the biggest issues that need
to be addressed are those which are not even considered issues.
I think our community needs to pay infinitely more attention to
the voices which are screaming but never being heard.
What kept me going was singing the beautiful Iraqi Jewish songs
and prayers and thinking about how virtually nobody in the mainstream
community ever had heard them. It made me so sad. I thought about
all the people who would cherish them, if only they knew.
I reflected on the chutzpah (6) of the "Jewish" community to present
the European form of Judaism as the only form, to have the absolute
arrogance to claim to be teaching Jewish tradition while leaving
out half of it. In fact, all I needed to rekindle my determination
to surge forward despite the odds was to attend just one so-called
Jewish program.
It was always the same story: Whether a rabbi teaching "Jewish"
tradition, a group leader teaching "Jewish" songs, or an organizational
head discussing "Jewish" concerns, there was a haunting invisibility
of the Middle Eastern Jewish heritage - my heritage. I was so incredibly
livid and sick to my stomach that here was this tremendous, glorious
wealth of Judaism that was gasping its last breaths of air yet being
ignored and resisted even as it brinked on extinction.
To me, it felt as if there was a child caught in a deadly storm
outside, screaming, screaming, pounding on and clawing at the windows,
howling for help, begging to be let in...and the rabbi and congregants
kept praying along in their nice little cozy sanctuary, impervious
and apathetic to the death taking place outside.
I could not let it die.
With the combination of working several jobs, borrowing money from
my credit cards, writing many bad checks, and accepting my mother's
borrowed money from her credit cards, I was able to survive and
fund the growth of SOJAC. SOJAC became an officially egalitarian
organization; changed its name to SOJIAC, Student Organization for
Jews from Iran and Arab Countries; and within nine months, grew
from a handful of students to 150 and sponsored twelve programs
on the history, heritage, and humanitarian concerns of Jews from
Iran and Arab countries.
Along the way, a few leaders in the community really saw, really
understood what I was doing and what SOJIAC was about. With their
financial and guiding support, I finally was able to maneuver the
organization to burst into the mainstream.
I also was able to launch a new project to integrate Middle Eastern
Jewish heritage into the Jewish community: the One People, Many
Voices Coalition, a group of six inter-denominational synagogues,
Orthodox through Reconstructionist, that throughout the year would
sponsor 12 programs with Middle Eastern Jewish themes.
The coalition project had all the backing and prestige necessary
to bring the issues smack into the mainstream community's consciousness.
It was sponsored by the Council on Jewish Life of the Jewish Federation
Council and was funded by the Jewish Community Foundation. Furthermore,
it received the largest grant awarded by the Council on Jewish Life
for the 1993-1994 year.
SOJIAC and the coalition fed off each other and grew together, with
the establishment of one and prestige of another serving to boost
each other. SOJIAC received a cover-story article in one Jewish
paper and a full-page article in another; SOJIAC developed a board
of officers from various local universities; the Jewish Federation
Council accepted SOJIAC as a member organization; the coalition
received regular Jewish press coverage of its events; and a community
member donated a temporary office to the combination of SOJIAC and
the coalition.
Both organizations now are moving into the Jewish Federation building,
where we will receive an office as a donation until we have enough
money to rent one. Meanwhile, I am in the process of writing grant
proposals to expand both groups from a one-women operation to a
full-time staff with separate offices.
I thank Gd for all the help She has given; I am grateful to all
the people who have supported my efforts; and I am delighted that
we have made it this far. There nonetheless is so much more that
needs to be done, and there still are pressing issues that need
to be addressed.
***
I am concerned about the rampant sexism and ageism that I have encountered
in building both organizations. Some examples:
I have been called dear, darling, honey, sweetie, my love, and good
girl by community leaders with whom I was working on a professional
basis.
When asking an organizational leader for the names of individuals
who could speak at a conference I was planning, the man told me
that he was going to find out my bra size and publicize it to everyone
in the community.
One of the first leaders I ever approached for help, the head of
one of the major Jewish organizations, was a man in his fifties
or sixties. He asked me to coffee, lunch, and dinner, to be his
tennis partner and jogging buddy; and he called me at home at all
hours of the day and night. Meanwhile, he kept stalling on his promises
to help SOJAC grow.
My decision to confront these unacceptable behaviors has been complicated
by the fact that community leaders have been unwilling to see SOJIAC,
the coalition, and the Jewish issues I address as being separate
from me. Furthermore, their interest in and concern about these
issues has been so tenuous that one unpleasant experience with me
could mean they would withdraw their support of the entire cause.
As a result, I not only have had to worry about my own personal
welfare with regards to a confrontation; I have had to consider
the ramifications for the preservation of Sephardic heritage. It
is loathsome that I have been put in such situations where I have
had to choose between my personal integrity and keeping the torch
lit for the Middle Eastern Jewish cause.
I have been advised to just let the demeaning behavior go, so as
not to jeopardize the organizations' progress. I refuse, however,
to sacrifice one issue for another. My identity as a Middle Eastern
Jew and as a young woman, and my concern for the Sephardic and feminist
causes may not be pitted against each other.
The work I have done needs to be valued on its own merit as a step
towards the goal of raising Jewish consciousness about Middle Eastern
Jewish heritage. Furthermore, that very goal of raising consciousness
needs to be perceived not as my personal agenda nor as a Sephardic
agenda, but as a Jewish agenda, a goal that only can serve to enrich
and unite our people. SOJIAC and the coalition need to be supported
because of their own worth as a vehicle for this important change;
and in assessing their worth, they need to be evaluated separately
from me as an individual.
In general, Jewish leaders and individuals in the community must
be conscious of their behavior and treat women and young adults
with the respect they deserve as human beings and professionals.
It is only destructive to individuals and the community as a whole
to do otherwise.
My name is Loolwa Khazzoom. I am young, Iraqi-American, feminist,
Jewish, and female. I am a part of all of these identities. You
may not define them for me, and you may not split me up with your
definitions. I am tired of life on the margins.
I am a bridge between different worlds. I have many brothers and
sisters like me. Open your eyes and see us. Open your ears and hear
us. Accept us and embrace us for who we are. We are tired of life
on the margins.
Footnotes
1. bath mouswa: By Jewish law, when a girl turns 12, she becomes a
woman in the eyes of the law. Her twelfth birthday is called her bath
mouswa. In the Ashkenazi pronunciation, it is called her bat (or bas)
mitzvah.
2. bar mouswa: By Jewish law, when a boy turns 13, he becomes a man
in the eyes of the law. His thirteenth birthday is called his bar
mouswa. In the Ashkenazi pronunciation, it is called his bar mitzvah.
3. mehisa: In orthodox services, it is mandatory to have a wall at
least four feet high separating men and women. It is called a mehisa.
In the Ashkenazi pronunciation, it is called a mechitza. In the United
States, it is most often is placed so that the men lead services in
the front of the sanctuary and the women sit in the back of the room.
4. kvetching: Yiddish for "complaining"
5. Sephardim: What is colloquially referred to as "Sephardim" includes
two groups of Jews: One group is indigenous to the Middle East, having
lived in the region for thousands of years, since the days of Abraham.
The other group descends from the Jewish community that was expelled
from Spain in 1492, many of whom found refuge in the Middle East.
6. chutzpah: Yiddish for "audacity"
© 1993 by Loolwa Khazzoom. All rights reserved. No portion of this
article may be copied without author's permission. This article was
first published in Bridges Journal. |
