TRAVELS THROUGH MY IDENTITY

As I toured through Israel a few years ago, especially as I sat on buses watching people come in, I noticed my sense of immediate connection and kinship with every dark-skinned person. The American term "people of color" and its construct are quite interesting to someone like me. At an anti-racism conference a few months ago, I reflected on the fact that my identity and sense of full connection had been with Jews of color, whereas I felt no initial connection with, even initial hostility towards, non-Jews of color - especially African-Americans. After that workshop, I began experimenting: When I saw people of color on the street, I pretended they were Jews. Each time, there was an immediate, dramatic shift in my attitude. I suddenly felt warm and friendly towards whomever I had seen. I suddenly felt very connected, as if that person was family. At the anti-racism workshop, I realized that in the United States, skin color is a primary factor in determining who has privilege and power in society. As such, progressive Americans are used to looking at models of power through this filter of "color." In other parts of the world, however, skin color is not necessarily a factor in constructing power relations. My own consciousness, I became aware, had been based on a Middle Eastern model - specifically Iraqi - where everyone was more or less the same brown skin color; and power was determined along Muslim, Christian, and Jewish lines. In Iraq, Muslim people of color held the political, educational, and economic power and barred Jewish people of color from access to it. Muslim people of color harassed, kidnapped, raped, tortured, and murdered Jews of color. Muslim people of color declared Jewish people of color to be "dhimmis" - inferior people - and created discriminatory laws around this belief. In addition, I was very conscious of the discrimination Jews faced in Ethiopia, Mexico, and Latin America. To varying degrees in these countries as well, non-Jewish people of color persecuted Jews of color. Skin color was not necessarily a major factor of power and oppression, in places where being a Jew or non-Jew was. The primary legacy of oppression I inherited from my family and community thus was around Jewish identity, not around "person of color" identity. Although my family and I experienced racism and oppression from Ashkenazim in Israel and the United States, that persecution was towards our heritage, not our very lives. With this background, my primary identity was as a Jew, and my struggle against racism existed specifically within that Jewish context. A factor I am sure contributed to my personal perspective was that though I have Mediterranean features, I come from a mixed heritage family - I am half-Iraqi and half-Welsh/Danish/Irish mix; and so my skin is light. As such, just walking down the streets in San Francisco, I did not receive harassment that I know darker-skinned people received. Perhaps if I did, I would have felt more of an immediate sense of kinship with non-Jewish people of color. In the general American world, however, nobody particularly cared one way or another about my Iraqi identity, since it was not so obvious on my skin. My Jewish identity was the issue; and as an "out" Jew, I was the target of anti-Semitism. It was almost exclusively within the Jewish world that I was a target of racism. In the Jewish world, skin color always was an obvious factor of discrimination against Mizrahim/Sephardim. It did not, however, seem to be the primary factor. Whether one was Ashkenazi or not seemed more important. Light-skinned or dark-skinned, if one was not Ashkenazi; if one identified strongly as Mizrahi/Sephardi, s/he automatically might be treated as backwards, primitive, uneducated, and less valid of a Jew. The darker one's color, the more exacerbated the problems could become; the less one could "pass" as Ashkenazi. Primarily, however, the issue was whether one's family was from Poland/Russia/Germany or Portugal/Syria/Morocco. Accordingly, though the Jewish side of my family was dark-skinned, I related to skin color not as an identity and issue in and of itself; rather, I saw it as an indication of common Jewish identity and heritage - and only therefore, of struggle. Growing up, most of my friends were non-Jewish people of color. I identified with them not specifically as a person of color, but as a Jew - as a fellow "minority" group member in America, struggling against a common White Anglo-Saxon Protestant steamroller out to quash our respective heritages. With the rise, however, the Nation of Islam and anti-Israel sentiment in the name of anti-racist activism, I felt increasingly attacked by and therefore alienated from non-Jewish people of color. Framing Arab-Israel relations around a model of supposedly white Europeans (Jews/Israel) oppressing third world people of color (Palestinians/Arab states), I found activist groups for people of color to be increasingly hostile towards Israel and Jewish identity, in the name of being against racism and European colonialism. In these circles, I thus felt pressure to check my pro-Israel Jewish identity at the door. I felt I would be accepted only if I stressed my Iraqi self, without revealing the fact that this Iraqi self was a Jew. I felt especially attacked by African-American groups, where Farrakhan and his followers were increasingly popular and Jew-hatred was on the rise. I thus separated myself from the African-American community during college, after experiencing direct clashes with black student groups that dripped with such hatred. As a result of experiencing the hostility many non-Jewish people of color had towards my Jewish identity, I in turn developed mistrust of and hostility towards non-Jewish people of color. In those groups where being Jewish was framed as being inherently evil, I was not willing to connect on any other points of commonalty; I refused to sneak in my Jewish identity through the side door of being Iraqi. My primary identity was as a Jew, and I demanded to be accepted with my Jewishness, the same way I accepted others with their own self-identity. Over the years, as I became increasingly alienated from non-Jewish people of color, and as racial awareness and tensions escalated in the States, I became hyper-sensitive to issues of race and where other people's lines of alliance are drawn. I began assuming that non-Jewish people of color automatically would judge me as a "white girl," based on my skin shade, and thus would feel hostility towards and mistrust of me. Whether or not individual people of color actually did view any of our interactions through a racialized lens, I was so sensitive to the possibility they did, that I did it myself. And so I have lived my life in a strange gap between American constructs of "white" and "person of color," between my lines and definitions and those of other people, between my family's history and today's reality. All these definitions and divisions came to a head at the first feminist conference for African and Middle Eastern Jewish women, in Israel a few years ago, where I was able to explore exactly what all the terms mean to me, where I draw which lines, and where I stand today. *** It was Shbu'oth (holy day celebrating receiving of the Jewish Bible). I traveled up from Eilat to spend it in Jerusalem. I had the option of going to a free Jewish youth hostel in the old city. The hostel managers set up travelers with families, for Shabbat and holidays. But it was hopelessly Ashkenazi. And ultra-orthodox. It was out of the question. I went to a pricey youth hostel in the new city, with the hopes of finding a Mizrahi synagogue and getting invited by someone there for kiddush. The youth hostel staff had no idea where to find a Mizrahi synagogue. They refered me to the "Great Synagogue" of Jerusalem, which by "general Jewish" default was Ashkenazi. I left the hostel and begin searching by foot for a synagogue that was Mizrahi. I bought ice cream from a store with a dark-skinned owner who wore a kippah. I assumed he was Mizrahi and asked about Mizrahi synagogue options. He refered me to the Great Synagogue. "No," I said, "I want a Mizrahi synagogue." This man reeked with ethnic shame, unable to fathom a stranger who would prefer anything Mizrahi. He finally told me of a Kurdish synagogue only two blocks away from the youth hostel. I was in luck! I was very excited. I did not know much about Kurdish Jews. I knew they were close geographically to Iraqi Jews, but I wondered if their traditions were similar. I couldn't wait to find out. Sunset came. I walked to the synagogue in my all-purpose travel dress. I had trouble finding the synagogue, though I had scoped it out during the afternoon. Finally, I found the entrance. There was a separate entrance for women and men. Uh, oh. Not promising...I entered the women's section and felt disgust. It was a room behind where the men were praying. There were a total of four window holes cut out, with curtains covering the openings. I was pissed. I shoved one of the curtains aside and sat hanging over the window sill. Any joy I could have gotten from the prayers was clouded over by the rage I felt. I had come all the way to Jerusalem to ensure I would be in the Jewish center for the holy day. I had shelled out money I had been conserving so well, to ensure I could be with other Mizrahi Jews. I had foresaken being set up with a definite place to say kiddush. I had foresaken enjoying free food during a time when all stores were closed for the holiday. For what? To be dishonored in this way? Services ended. Nobody said as much as a hello to me. Nobody invited me anywhere. I askd one of the women if we would be saying kiddush in the synagogue. Hint, hint. "No," she said. Period, end of discussion. I left. Depressed, I wandered around for a while, then ironically decided to go to the Great Synagogue. I met a friendly, formerly American family along the way, and we sat together during services. We walked back together, and I hoped to be invited for kiddush. But it turned out they were staying in the King David Hotel, participating in the hotel-sponsored ceremony. Not for people staying down the street. I gave up and returned to my youth hostel, saying kiddush as best as possible over the boxed juice and pita I had gotten from the souk during the afternoon. *** The second day of Shbuoth, I hung out with Alex, one of the staff members at the youth hostel. He was one of the few young Israeli men I had met who seemed sweet and gentle. What more, he had not immediately sexualized me, which was a welcome relief. Alex was a Russian immigrant, and we spoke in Hebrew with our mutual accents. Our conversation drifted to the issue of sexual harassment on the streets. "It's because of all the Moroccans here," he told me, unaware of my ethnic identity. "It's because they are less intelligent that they behave this way. In Russia, this would never happen." Interestingly enough, only three nights earlier in Eilat, I was in a physical fight with a young Russian security guard who had harassed me. I verbally pounced on Alex like a tiger, calling him racist. "That's bullshit," I said. "I have been harassed by Israeli men of all ethnic backgrounds, Ashkenazim as much as Mizrahim. It doesn't matter where they're from. They're men, and they harass women...I am Mizrahi," I continued. "Do you think I am less intelligent than you?" Alex and I battled it out for the next hour. I was tempted to leave many times, but I could not walk out unfinished on a conversation like that. Eventually, we wrapped it up, with Alex saying I taught him many new things and that he had much to think about. He was enthralled by me and wanted to get together again, but I did not feel like playing teacher. I told him I would be traveling but that if I got a chance, I would call. Most of the sexual harassment I have gotten on the streets in the States has been from African-American and Chicano/Latino men. I have wondered if it would be racist for me to identify my experience as such. I have wondered if I just did have not noticed as much when white men have harassed me the same way. And I have wondered if there is any relevance in identifying what racial background men are from, when they sexually harass women. What if it is the reality that men from certain ethnic groups tend to harass women more than men from others - at least in public? Is it racist to identify that reality? Is it useful? As I have thought about this issue, I have wondered how I would feel if Israelis pegged Mizrahi men as the worst sexual harassers on the streets. And what if it was true? As a fellow person of color in an Israeli context, how would I feel about such a statement? How would my feelings be similar to or different from my reaction in the States? As disturbing as the conversation with Alex may have been, I was grateful for the experience; as it gave me more clarity around this issue. The racism of Alex's statement, I feel, lay in his preconceived notions about Moroccans - namely, he saw Moroccans as less intelligent than Ashkenazim. As a man, chances are he did not have much experience in being sexually harassed by other men; so he was not making a simple statement of personal experience and observation. Clearly, it is because of his pre-existing prejudice towards Moroccans that he blamed sexual harassment on them. If a woman, to the contrary, had shared with me that her experience with harassment came predominantly from Mizrahi men, I do not think I would have been as upset. If she had general contempt towards Mizrahim, however, I probably would take issue with her assertion. I would question whether it was because of racist sentiment that she simply did not notice when Ashkenazi men harassed her. Is it generally useful to take notice of which ethnic groups behave in what fashion? Clearly, we identify men as a gendered group and discuss trends in their oppressive behavior patterns. And certainly, identifying these trends does not implicate every single man; rather, it describes a political reality. Naming that political reality gives women the power to organize and fight against it, thus causing positive change. Perhaps what is at play here is the drawing of lines: There are many "ism"s, allowing even oppressed groups to oppress others. Perhaps the relevance of identifying what group is engaging in what behavior lies in trying to figure out with whom we are safe and in what context. And perhaps our lines of connection thus are fluid, depending on a given situation: We may be in alliance in one area and in opposition in another. I think identifying groups and their patterns becomes dangerous - becomes the act of targeting and attacking - when people operate under the blinders of one "ism," in their struggle against another. For example, if one is racist, s/he may fight sexism not purely along the lines of ending gendered oppression, but along the lines of discriminating against people of color in the process... It is all so complex and volatile. *** I had lunch with one of the women from the Mizrahi feminist conference I had attended days earlier. "Jaqueline" had many criticisms about the conference. As I listened to her, I realized there were many places I could critique it myself; but I felt it was not "my place" to do so. Jaqueline helped me realize that feeling was an issue in and of itself; that Mizrahi feminism needed to be defined by all Mizrahi feminists, not by one small group of women; that if it did not feel like "my place" to raise issues in our supposed community, then something was wrong. Jaqueline went on to notice and give insight into my comfort with feeling out of place: "You probably are used to it," she said, "from living on the margins in every community your whole life. So it just feels normal now." Jaqueline was right. It was an intense moment of realization for me. It amazed me that someone I did not know very well was able to give me this insight. Most people in my daily life do not share my particular struggles and do not really understand them. Usually, I have to explain to them the basics of what it is like for me. Yet here was someone who not only got it without my saying anything to her about it; she helped me gain insight into what I did not yet see! Incredible. I also noted my discomfort with criticizing the conference because I had been starving for a community of Mizrahi feminists. I did not feel I could risk straining my relationships with anyone in this community, because I needed them all so desperately. "I know," Jaqueline said. "But I live here, and this is my daily community, so it has to work for me...Because I am here and part of the process, I am willing to do battle. I have to." *** Israeli elections were a few days away. At the central bus station in Tel Aviv, I picked up a copy of the Jerusalem Post - the Israeli paper in English - and hopped a bus to Tiberias. Halfway through my trip, I read about an event happening in the evening: Representatives from six of the parties would have a debate in English, in downtown Haifa. It was 3:00 pm. I had four hours to get there. I jumped out of my seat to speak with the bus driver. Half an hour later, I was off the bus at a transfer point, where I caught a bus in the opposite direction, to Haifa. I could just make it, if traffic was not bad. It was 7:00 pm, and I arrived at the site. Likkud was having a meeting in the same building as the English debate. There also were information tables from various parties lined up the street, with people arguing everywhere. The crowd was thick, and there was much confusion about what was where and when. I ended up in the Likkud meeting. Finally, I figured out where my desired event was taking place, and I arrived late. The debate was centered around who wanted to keep and who wanted to give up what part of Israel and why. I wanted to hear party positions on Mizrahi and feminist issues. Question-answer period arrived. "All I have heard you speak about is security issues," I said. "But there are so many more issues to be addressed. For example, I am a Mizrahi feminist woman, and I feel very unrepresented by the panel. Out of six representatives, only one of you is a woman, and at least five - if not all - of you are Ashkenazi. I want to know what each party intends to do about the racism facing Ethiopian and Mizrahi Israelis. The majority of people in these communities are caught in a cycle of poverty, living in squalid conditions in neighborhoods such as Schoonat Hatikva. And they are facing systematic discrimination in education. Two-thirds of children in grade school are Mizrahi. By high school, only one-third are Mizrahi, and by college, just 20 percent. What do you intend to do about this reality? I also want to hear you address the issue of sexual harassment. I cannot walk two feet in this country without some man hassling me. It is out of control, and I want to know what you plan to do to stop it." Each speaker took a turn answering my questions. According to the Likkud speaker, the issue facing Mizrahi and Ethiopian Jews was "discrimination, not racism. It is different than how it is in the United States." But, say I, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck... This speaker called Mizrahim "Sephardim," clumping us all together, in the spirit of failing to recognize our different historical realities. And sexual harassment? It apparently was the result of Israel being "a mix of cultures" and stemmed from the fact that integration failed. Say it, babe. Just say it. Blame it on the primitive Mizrahim. Come on, right in the jaw, go ahead... The Meretz speaker and only woman, Naomi Chazan, was a welcome relief. "There are Mizrahi women in the Knesset," she said," but they do not go under that banner. I not only want to see more Mizrahi women in the Knesset, but I want to see them making decisions as Mizrahi women." I liked this one. She got it. "And as far as sexual harassment goes, Meretz is the only one of these groups with a platform that addresses the issue..." Chazan claimed Meretz also had drafted affirmative action programs for Mizrahim and Ethiopians. I became interested in finding out more about that party. The Labor representative, who I thought possibly could be Mizrahi, turned out to be Iraqi. Cool, I thought to myself, a homeboy. "The problem," he said, "is that we need to integrate Ethiopians and Sephardim into a Western society, and that takes time." A brainwashed homeboy. A Western society?! Oh, right! (thunk to the head) I forgot that Israel borders France and Germany...What are these people thinking?! I sat back, shaking my head from side to side while this representative spoke. Chazan saw my frustration and sent me an empathetic gaze and smile. She also shook her head. "I am from Iraq," the bumbling idiot went on to say, "and I never felt racism here." I was curious how much of his identity he bleached, to be the proud recipient of such gracious treatment. In time, the speaker registered my complete disdain for everything he was saying and tried backtracking, justifying, and explaining away, but it was too late. I was bored with him already. Next was the speaker from the New Religious Party. He also asserted that Israel has cultural discrimination, not racism. He did acknowledge, however, that "the Western world ruined Eastern culture." He talked a lot about representation, boasting about the Moroccan and Yemenite Israelis in his party's leadership. I wondered if those party leaders had the same politics as the Iraqi representative from Labor...The speaker went on to assert that his party wanted women involved in leadership, although it did not have any at that time. I guess it must be because women are just so damn hard to find... The representative from Yisrael B'Aliyah had one sentence to say on the subject: "Ditto to what everyone else has said." I was floored by his eloquence and deep concern for the issues. Lastly, the Third Way representative spoke. Addressing representation, he talked about the "lady" who was in the fifth or seventh seat of the party - he could not remember. He also boasted about the Yemenite in the number one seat of power: "What more do you want?" he asked. Well, for starters, a few more Mizrahim would be nice. Perhaps you also could add one Mizrahi woman... The representative acknowledged a gap between the poverty-stricken and rich citizens, but he did not talk about poverty as predominantly affecting Mizrahi and Ethiopian Israelis. After this last response, the debate facilitator started wrapping up the event. People in the audience began shouting, "You didn't answer anyone else's questions!" I chuckled to myself. I had completely taken over the floor with these issues. And it was about time, I might add, that those concerns dominated the discussion. The facilitator added another 15 minutes to the program, but I remained the only one who received an answer from every single speaker. I loved it. *** A close Israeli friend arrived from the States, for the summer. I stopped drifting between youth hostels and went to stay with him and his family, for my last 10 days in the country. My friend's family was Ashkenazi and rather wealthy. They lived in a penthouse outside Tel Aviv. They had a maid. She was Mizrahi. "My name is 'Na'ama,'" a woman had said at the open mic of the Mizrahi feminist conference, "and I am a maid...I grew up in the 'hood...I never received the education I deserved...All my life, they said, 'Na'ama, you can't. You're not smart enough. You're not good enough.' But I am smart enough, and I am good enough. And I am tired of people telling me 'You can't' just because I did not receive an education. I can. I can..." Na'ama's words haunted me as I saw "Tina" mopping floors, ironing shirts, cleaning dishes. I felt strange. I felt split. I felt guilty. How could I talk to her? She was cleaning while I was eating. She was so docile, subservient in her manner, quiet. Broken. What could I say to her? "Hey, sister, we are one, and I am in solidarity with you, even though you're cleaning the toilet I'm using? Even though I received a Seven Sisters education in the States and grew up in a house several times the size of this penthouse? Even though I'm close friends with the son of your employers and a guest in their house?" How strange it all was. How very strange. I am Mizrahi. But I did not grow up in the 'hood. I did not even grow up in the country. Or the region, for that matter. I grew up in a totally different reality, in America, which is only a dream to so many. And as a result of it, I was sitting at the table this woman would scrub...Where was my alliance? With my Ashkenazi friend? With her? Where was my identity? In Israel? In the States? "This must be what an upper-middle class African-American woman would feel like," I thought to myself, "if she visited a close WASP friend, only to be faced with an African-American maid scrubbing the floor." I remembered a workshop a few years ago, where white people and people of color were divided in the room. White people were asked, "How many of your primary experiences with people of color were with individuals who were working for you?" A substantial number of the group raised their hands. I was shocked. But I got it in Israel. And it hit home and really hurt there, because the people doing the working were my people, felt like my family. Through this experience, I felt more of a sense of connection with non-Jewish people of color in the States. I felt more understanding for issues to which I did not completely relate before. And I once again experienced my flexibility in crossing lines between American constructs of "white" and "person of color." The experience made even more clear for me the many variations that exist in the world of racism and race relations. For one, nationality: Where would I be today if I grew up in Israel instead of the States? How would my stature in society be similar or different? Which of the differences would be because of general America-Israel differences, and which would be because of Israeli racism towards Mizrahim? What more, how would my life be different if both my parents were from a Mizrahi background? *** My friend and I were in Sfat for Shabbat. We wanted to go to services. I only wanted to go to the Sephardic synagogue. I was excited to go and hear the prayers, even though I would have to sit upstairs from the prayer action. I gave up the feminist issue for the treasure of hearing a community pray in the Sephardic tradition, for the privilege of being able to be a stranger and walk into a synagogue and have it be my genre of prayers. My friend wanted to go to the Ashkenazi synagogue, but he was willing to go to the Sephardic one. He really liked the Ashkenazi synagogue. Apparently, it was very lively. "The women are very active," he told me. "You'll like it. They dance around and sing as loud as the men." I decided to go by it and try. We passed by a window of black hats jumping around, singing, "Ay-yai-yai-yai-yai." This was the synagogue. "No way," I said, bolting from the scene. "Nope, uh-uh. Not possible." He laughed. He understood. We went to the Sephardic synagogue. When we finally found the synagogue, people were pouring out. Although the services were over, I just wanted to make contact with the synagogue, to see it, to go inside. I was so starving for contact with some part of the community...As I stood at the gate, waiting for an opportunity to squeeze through the crowd flowing out, a man came up to me and said, "Girl, don't stand there. You are near the mezuza." Apparently my female presence would taint the experience of kissing the mezuza or something. This guy can go to hell. I did not move, I did not grace this person with an answer. The man repeated himself. Then he went to my friend and explained again, thinking maybe I did not understand Hebrew. "Loolwa," my friend said to me, "He says..." "I know what he says," I cut my friend off. My friend realized why I was not budging. He was not comfortable with the situation but did not want to interfere with my stand, so he excused himself and walked away from the synagogue, to wait for me around the corner. I simultaneously wanted to cry and to scream bloody murder. I remained where I was, my eyes slit and my jaw set. Finally, the crowd thinned out; and I went into the synagogue. I just wanted some time alone, to talk with Gd. To ask why, to ask for guidance... But the synagogue keeper needed to lock the gate. So I just looked around quickly. Where do I fit? I thought. This place is mine, but it is not. I looked upstairs at the women's section. I looked down at the teba (prayer altar). I wanted to be at the teba. I knew if I went to that synagogue, I would be told to go to the gallery. What if the women stormed the downstairs? That would be such fun! I dreamt up a revolt. We have to create Mizrahi religious space for women. I have to do something about it soon, or I will go crazy... I left the synagogue and joined my friend, who was sitting on one of the beautiful stone steps winding through the city. As we processed my feelings, a large group of black hats (ultra orthodox men) clamored past us. I did not even look up. I was angry. I was going to ignore them. I noticed the black coat of a man standing stationary beside me. I sensed something was up, but I was not going to get involved. I did not have the energy to deal with anything else unpleasant. When the hats passed, my friend and I talked about them. As my friend informed me, the stationary coat was protecting his friends from seeing me. Oh, great. This asshole was blocking me from other men's view, to prevent their holy gaze from being soiled by the image of a woman...And I was wearing the stupid costume of a dress down to my toes! I was livid. Good thing I did not know this information while it was happening. I would have felt so incredibly violated. And tempted to jump up and hit the guy blocking me. Or I suppose I could have just touched him, it would be all the same for him. Or maybe I could have sung! That would have gotten him... I was beside myself with grief. "All my life," I told my friend," I have fought to preserve my heritage - my Jewish identity and my Mizrahi traditions. For what? To come to Israel and be told I can't dance and sing out loud in front of the Kotel? To go out of my way to attend services at a Sephardic synagogue and be treated like this?" My friend and I talked through my feelings. He shared how he did not see Sfat as his community; how he only felt entitled to claiming space in the community of his family's synagogue, located in a suburb of Tel Aviv. It is so interesting how we all draw lines in different ways. I guess where we draw each line depends on the other lines and battles already existing in our lives; for it seems that within each division, there is yet another division... Finally, we stood up to leave. I asked my friend to go ahead without me and wait for me around the corner. He left. I imagined the black hat in front of me, and I did several air kicks to the guy's crotch. Then I inhaled deeply and exhaled all the gunk that had accumulated inside me. I inhaled clean, positive, loving air. I felt much better. I joined my friend. "You are amazing," he said. *** It was the night before I was leaving. My friend and I went out to dinner with my sister and her girlfriend. We wanted to go to a Mizrahi restaurant, and my friend took us to Schoonat HaTikva, otherwise known as "the hood." Growing up in the States, where 'hood refers to predominantly African-American inner-city neighborhoods, it was quite a mind trip to hear people refer to 'hoods that were parallel in many ways to the American ones, yet comprised of my people. However removed I may have felt from inner-city issues in the States, I could not feel removed from those issues in Israel. Suddenly, they had to do with me. The Mizrahi neighborhoods of Israel seem not to be just a source of poverty, but also a source of ethnic pride and activism. As much African-American power has risen from the inner-cities of America, so does Mizrahi power seem to be rising from places like Schoonat HaTikva. Many neighborhood women are going to court, for example, battling the Israeli school system for racist treatment of Mizrahi and Ethiopian students. I was excited to revisit this 'hood, especially after hearing so much about it during the Mizrahi feminist conference. "The 'hood, the 'hood, the 'hood..." they kept repeating. I feel that the neighborhood was mine, about me. After dealing with racism my whole life as a Mizrahi, it was a place for my experience, a face to my reality. A visual aid. I too could go "back to the 'hood," where the people shared my heritage and reflected my identity... "If you say so," my friend said. "I don't see this neighborhood as mine..." Those damn lines again. Yes, my friend was Ashkenazi, but I was American. So who had more claim on the territory, if either of us? With my friend's comment, I began feeling that perhaps I was presumptuous to stake claims on Schoonat Hatikva. Was it really mine? I had the social, economic, and political advantage of having grown up in a Western society, speaking a Western language, and having received a Western education. Did I have the right to call that neighborhood mine, if I did not grow up there? How would people in the neighborhood feel about my identifying with them? I sat with my questions, as we entered our restaurant of choice. As we sat down, a party of 20 sat across our table. They were celebrating some occasion and began singing rowdily. The songs were Ashkenazi, yet all the people looked unmistakenly Mizrahi. I was not surprised, just sad at this reality - which exists even in the 'hood. A few minutes later, an older woman began singing a beautiful Mizrahi melody. I felt so happy! My sister and I knew it and began singing along. I sang along not so much because I felt like singing at the moment, but because I wanted to support this woman. I wanted to send the message that it is "cool" to sing these songs, that random people at other tables would join in when you sing them... People at the party table grew uncomfortable with the Mizrahi song. They sang only half-heartedly, while cracking jokes at it. Within one minute, the song faded, and someone introduced an Ashkenazi song. All of a sudden, the table was rowdy and singing whole-heartedly again. I wanted to cry. Our table began discussing what just happened. My sister and I noted the predictability of the pattern - the discomfort with being visibly Mizrahi, the shame associated with singing Mizrahi songs. As we talked, the party table switched from religious Ashkenazi songs to Israeli nationalist songs, all of which have an Ashkenazi melodic line and rhythm. We discussed this reality, too. It cut me deep inside...Not seeing my reflection anywhere. And in the places I went to see it, finding a shattered reflection, a fading reflection. The woman singing the Mizrahi song was probably in her 50s or 60s. Did the younger people at the table even know the words...This blindness to what we are losing of ourselves. This inability to value our heritage as being worth anything. Three thousand years of wisdom down the toilet. This is the end. A few years ago, I saw a movie on the Rhodes Jewish community now living in Los Angeles. As part of the movie, one of the individuals made a comment about how the Jews who grew up in Rhodes are dying, how we have about 20 years left before they - and the information they carry - are gone forever. After that point in the movie, I cried my head off. I got together with the young, Sephardic director after the movie, and we talked. He noted how interesting it is that Mizrahim and Sephardim have been able to preserve our heritage for 3,000 years, despite the worst possible circumstances; but that now we are losing it in one fell swoop, within a single generation. I suddenly realized a huge factor why: Traditionally, Mizrahim and Sephardim identified as "Jews." Whether our own line or other people's line, that was the distinguishing line of our identity, and the life of our community revolved around it. "Jew" has meant "safe." "Jew" has meant "home." "Jew" has meant "self-preservation." Because the Mizrahi/Sephardi lines traditionally have been drawn so strongly around Jew/non-Jew, I believe the community has been blind to the death taking place in our heritage, since our union with Ashkenazim. We have let down our guard with the people who are supposed to be our allies, our family. But it is these very people who have slowly but surely been eroding what we have kept in tact for so long. We are blending with their ways, and we are losing our own. By the time we reassess our lines, it may be too late to save our heritage. When everything "Jewish" is defined exclusively as "Ashkenazi," Mizrahim have but two choices, unless we are prepared for a lifetime battle. Either we can Ashkenaziize, or we can forget the whole thing altogether and become secular. After years of hitting my head against the brick wall called the Jewish Establishment, I myself have been heading in this latter direction, drifting farther and farther from organized Jewish life. And I know of so many others who have done the same. *** June 9, 11 pm. My flight was leaving in two hours. I was in line for security check-in at the airport. "Can I have your passport and ticket?" a blond-haired, blue-eyed, perky young woman asked me. I handed her both. "English or Hebrew?" she asked me. "Either," I responded. She looked at my passport. "What's your name?" she continued in Hebrew. It's on my passport, you moron... "Loolwa Khazzoom," I replied. "What kind of a name is that?" she asked. "Iraqi," I said proudly. (I happen to think it is tragically hip and cool...) The woman asked me to come over to one of the low counters. I did not think much of it; I figured we were getting out of people's way...She proceeded to ask me the standard questions - where did I stay, who packed my bags, how long have they been with me since packing, and so on. I indicated that I had stayed with my friend the previous ten days - my Ashkenazi-looking friend with the kippah, nonetheless - and that my possessions had been in his house the previous week and a half. "Do you have family here?" she asked. "Yes," I answered. "Where?" "Ramat Gan." "What are their first names?" What are their first names? Wait - now the situation is getting funky. I felt sick. I was suspected as a possible terrorist. Because I have a Mizrahi name. Because I speak with a "het" and "‡yin" (which, I might add, are the correct pronunciations of Hebrew). Because I am not Ashkenazi. "Na'ava, Yaffa..." I began. I knew my answer to this woman's questions ironically would appease her - ironically, I say, because Na'ava is really Latifa, Yaffa is really Helwa...I was giving the names of my aunts who annoyed me to no end for changing their Arabic names to Hebrew names - the same aunts who tried to convince me to change my own Judeo-Arabic name to "Lilly." I was performing a little satire in my head, demonstrating how ridiculous this whole situation was. "OK," the WASPy-looking woman responded on cue. The interrogation was over. The woman had played her part in my skit according to plan. She put security stickers on my backpack and reciteed the closing cautions: Don't leave your bags anywhere, don't accept any gifts... I felt sick. I wished I had given the names of my aunts who still have Arabic names. I wished I had launched into a tirade of how this interrogation was an example of institutionalized racism against Mizrahim... I vented to my friend. I checked in my bags. I decided I could not leave without saying my piece. "Excuse me," I said, as I approached the woman. "When you were checking me in, you kept asking me all kinds of questions about my name, family, and ethnicity. I think you did it because I am Mizrahi." "No!" she said, in a friendly and sincerely concerned way. "I just did it because I did not recognize the name. We do these checks for your security and safety. I truly did not mean anything by it. It was nothing against you." "But if you did not recognize a European-sounding name," I persisted, "would you ask all the same questions?" "Probably not," she responded honestly, "and maybe that's something I need to do. But I really didn't mean anything by it." "I think it's something to think about," I said and walked away. I felt kind of bad - she really was sweet and concerned about me in a personally-caring kind of way. But is that not how it always goes? I have heard many men repeat the refrain, "Don't take it personally," when women confront sexist behavior. Much sexist and racist behavior of course is not about one person having a grudge against another individual and taking it out through that particular format. It is about standardly-accepted forms of behavior that have people of various identities as the incidental - but not individually intentional - victims. What a way to leave Israel. This experience happened to my sister before, in other countries, but it never happened to me. It is ironic it happened as I was leaving from this trip, when I had flown to Israel to attend the first Mizrhai feminist conference, to connect with other individuals fighting racism against Mizrahim... Excerpts of this article have been published in Moxie Magazine and are scheduled for publication in Alice Magazine ©1997 by Loolwa Khazzoom. All rights reserved. No portion of this article may be copied without author's permission.