By all outward appearances, the JFS applicant, identified only as “M” in court papers, is Jewish. But not in the eyes of the school, which defines Judaism under the Orthodox definition set out by Jonathan Sacks, chief rabbi of the United Hebrew Congregations of the Commonwealth. Because M’s mother converted in a progressive, not an Orthodox, synagogue, the school said, she was not a Jew — and neither was her son. It turned down his application.

As we say in my home town, oh no you DIDN’T!

However irritating the school’s selection criteria are to me and some other liberal, progressive, Reform, unaffiliated, Conservative, take-your-pick-of-non-Orthodox Jews, this is hardly the first time that non-Orthodox Jews, especially non-Orthodox converts, have been classified as “insufficiently Jewish.” So the situation is hardly surprising.

What is surprising, at least to me, is a) that the court ruled that the policy was against British law and b) their rationale for that decision. While religious groups in the U.K. are allowed to practice discrimination based on religion, the ruling classified this school’s policy as race- and/or ethnicity-based discrimination, which is illegal.

To wit:

The court ruled that it was an ethnic test because it concerned the status of M’s mother rather than whether M considered himself Jewish and practiced Judaism.
“The requirement that if a pupil is to qualify for admission his mother must be Jewish, whether by descent or conversion, is a test of ethnicity which contravenes the Race Relations Act,” the court said. It added that while it was fair that Jewish schools should give preference to Jewish children, the admissions criteria must depend not on family ties, but “on faith, however defined.”
The same reasoning would apply to a Christian school that “refused to admit a child on the ground that, albeit practicing Christians, the child’s family were of Jewish origin,” the court said.

Fascinating.

The actions of the Jewish State ultimately reflect upon the Jewish people throughout the world. We in the Diaspora Jewish community have long taken pride in the accomplishments of the Jewish State. As with any family, the success of some reflects a warm light on us all. But pride cannot blind us to the capacity for error on the part of the country we hold so dear. We cannot identify with the successes, but refuse to see the failures.

As we approach Yom Kippur, I call on America’s Jews to examine the Goldstone findings, and consider their implications. In the spirit of the season, we must consider the painful truth of Israel’s behavior in Gaza, and understand that we must work, together, to discover the truth — and then urge on all relevant parties in the search for peace.

Oh, the city also started a city-funded hotline for parents and friends to inform on these Jewish women, who “did not undergo the religious and Zionist education.”

Then why are you sending a so-called psychologist for advice? Send a religious and Zionist teacher, quick!

Are you surprised? You should not be.

Israel only accepts religious marriages in the first place. That means that if two people of different religion or ethnicity want to marry, either one of them converts to the religion of the other, or they have to leave the country to get married elsewhere. Cyprus, anyone?

Check out this website, of an Israeli organization calling for civil marriage in Israel.

I can relate. I’ve been married to my husband twice. The first time the California Supreme Court declared my same-sex marriage null-and-void; the second time the voters passed Proposition 8. This time around the California Supreme Court protected my marriage, but closed the door to any new same-sex marriages in the state. Massachusetts, anyone?

I bet you they do not talk about these pesky problems of civil marriage in the hasbarah campaigns that target the LGBT community. Somehow the theme of marriage equality sounds a bit hollow when even heterosexual couples have trouble getting married because of their ethnicity of religion.

And whatever happened to the law that Uri Avnery had called one of the most revolting laws ever enacted in Israel? The law stated that the wife of an Israeli citizen is not allowed to join him in Israel if she is living in the occupied Palestinian territories. Last I heard, it was under judicial review. I am not sure what happened to it. Maybe the psychologists in Petach Tikvah know.

We plan to create a spiritually uplifting, emotionally engaging, introspective, and welcoming space. In addition to focusing on our personal atonement we will be talking and reflecting critically about the teaching/meaning of Yom Kippur in the context of the ongoing occupation of Palestine and Palestinian people. We welcome people who identify in a diversity of ways. This will be an antizionist, nonzionist, diasporist, queer and trans positive space.

We will spend Sunday day in a variety of workshops, studying and discussing the themes, prayers, practices, and meaning of Yom Kippur. This will include private and paired engagement in teshuva (a return/change/repentance/transformation/healing process) to help us reflect on where we have been in the previous year and where we aim to be in the year to come. Sunday evening and Monday we will observe Yom Kippur together through prayer, singing, fasting, and reflection. On Monday evening we will break fast together.

Services, study, and discussion will be led by Rabbinical student and activist Ari Lev Fornari, and others.

This spiritual radical retreat will be held at The Stone House in Mebane, N.C.

SUNDAY:
Workshops 10 a.m. – 3 p.m.
Festive Meal to Start the Fast 5 p.m.
Kol Nidre Services 6:30 p.m.

MONDAY:
Yom Kippur Retreat 10 a.m. – Sunset
Break Fast 6:30 p.m.

Festive Meal and Break Fast are potluck. Drinks will be provided.

In order to offset the costs associated with the retreat, we ask that you make a financial contribution that meets your budget anywhere in the range of $25-$150. No one turned away for lack of funds!
In order to plan properly, we ask you to pre-register by emailing temaokun@earthlink.net. Let us know whether you will be attending Sunday and/or Monday and/or both and indicate whatever contribution you feel you can make (if you can).

The world has descended upon Rabbi Alysa Stanton. From coast to coast and continent to continent, global media trumpet the ordination of “the first African-American female rabbi.” Whether it’s The Forward, Jewish Telegraphic Agency, The Jewish Week, CNN, Black Entertainment Television, the Huffington Post, The New York Times, and seemingly every other Jewish and secular media outlet, all of them, by-and-large, cover the same facts:

“Alysa Stanton is the first mainstream African American female rabbi in the world. A convert to Judaism after being raised in a Pentecostal family, she was ordained by Hebrew Union College on June 6, 2009. She is the new congregational rabbi of Congregation Bayt Shalom in Greenville, North Carolina.”

That’s the whole story. That’s where most of the media stops. What interests us is what is not covered, the questions that are not asked.

America’s response to Stanton’s ordination calls for introspection and self-examination by the larger Jewish community. It is true that Alysa Stanton’s ordination is a historical moment that should be celebrated. However, disproportionate attention is paid to her gender, racial background, and path to Judaism when her work and character should receive equal coverage, if not be at the forefront. What’s more, the emphasis on her being “the first” downplays a decades-old, increasing shift in the fabric of American Jewish life.

Rabbi Stanton’s ordination did not happen in a vacuum. She is not the first person of color to become a rabbi, nor is she the first woman of color to become a rabbi. Just as Rosa Parks wasn’t the first or even the second to refuse to move to the back of the bus, Stanton is the rabbi of color who received the attention of the mass media. It is true that she IS the first African American female rabbi. Yet it needs to be acknowledged that other Jewish clergy of color who are not of African American descent have preceded her in mainstream synagogues, and more are in rabbinical school or on the way. Furthermore, Jews of color who are currently serving as presidents of congregations and working on synagogue boards are not the first to do so.

So, why aren’t the people of color who preceded her in the rabbinate getting equal press coverage? Over the course of American history, a social construct of race developed and the racial binary of white vs. black arose as those in power separated themselves from African Americans, who were—and still are—systematically oppressed. As immigrants came to the United States, they were either classified as black or assigned a non-white status. To this day, that non-white status is often applied to certain ethnic communities including Asian Americans, Latinos, and even Jews at times. Neither black nor white, depending on the situation, all of these groups are classified as the middle ground of America’s social construct of race. And while certainly all of these populations receive media attention, African Americans receive more attention, while Anglo-whiteness remains the norm and groups in the middle ground are often rendered invisible.

Even though the Jewish community is negatively affected by this power dynamic, it is not immune to this systemic habit of ignoring people who are not black, but also not white. We should be beyond the black/white binary in the United States. It seems that in the case of Stanton’s ordination, the U.S. press is gloriously pursuing shock value over critical journalism, marketing sensationalism, and emphasizing the supposed improbability of a black person, let alone a black female, becoming Jewish and a rabbi.

To move beyond this systemic polarization, it helps to know that the number of Orthodox, Conservative, and Reform rabbis of color is already significant. Three prominent rabbis—among many–come to mind. Last month was the ten-year anniversary of Korean American Angela Buchdahl’s graduation from cantorial school, followed by her ordination as a rabbi in 2001. Cuban-born Rabbi Rigoberto Emanuel Viñas is ordained as a rabbi and master Torah scribe. Colombian-born Rabbi Juan Mejía, who intends to work with crypto-Jews in the American Southwest, graduated this year from the Jewish Theological Seminary in New York.

While information about rabbis of color is readily accessible, some misinformation is still being reported. Take for example a May 29 report from the Associated Press claiming that the only known black male rabbi graduated from American Jewish University (undoubtedly referring to Rabbi Gershom Sizomu of Uganda). On the contrary, there are many black male rabbis in Orthodox communities. In many of these communities, a man who studies in yeshiva for a certain period can choose to take the requisite exams to earn smicha, thereby becoming a rabbi.

There is no doubt that Alysa Stanton has broken ground and established herself as a leader. She has gained not only worldwide interest, but respect as well. Among those who know her, she is seen as a gracious and reflective person who can inspire and aspire while keeping her feet solidly on the ground. Through her studies and her compelling personality, she has become an ambassador for a group of Jews who have long been ignored. Yet, she herself says she is committed to serving all Jews.

After this initial introduction of Stanton, we hope that the media will turn its focus to issues of substance and content. Tiffany Rivka Gordon, an African American rabbinical student at Hebrew College in Boston, says, “I’d like to hear about Alysa’s thoughts on halacha and holidays, not so much about what she is.”

Gordon also notes, “After black and female, Alysa is identified as a convert, which just speaks more to the myth that Jews of color in this country are automatically converts.” We ask, why focus on the rabbi’s conversion with no concurrent investigation of her current conceptions of spirituality, her views on Israel, or her rabbinic interpretations of contemporary halachic debates or ethical dilemmas? Not to mention, according to Jewish tradition, a Jew is not supposed to remind another of his/her conversion.

The media frenzy around Alysa Stanton’s ordination has opened the possibility of improved coverage of Jews from a variety of ethnic backgrounds, but in order to be relevant, journalists must dig deeper. Fortunately, times are changing. According to Gordon, “My own personal experience is so not colored by my skin.” Instead, she says, “People genuinely want to know what my opinions are as a young Jew, not only as a Jew of color.”

As those who know Stanton well can testify, she is a spiritually inspiring rabbi who has much to give and many lessons to teach. As she states with conviction, “I believe that it is a new era for changing, strengthening and deepening our faith in humanity, regardless of one’s religious creed or spiritual practice. I believe this is a time where hope needs to be embraced with all of our might… I have committed my life to being a rabbi of the people, a rabbi of hope.”

April N. Baskin is a Schusterman Insight Fellow. Corinne Lightweaver is a writer and editor in Los Angeles.

In my Orthodox world, an ‘invisible mechitzah’ prohibits valuable friendships.

I had tea with my friend David the other day. And it was fun. But when I told my husband that I went to tea with a classmate — a male classmate — his face was less than sunny. It contorted with jealousy as he explained that it wasn’t appropriate for me to be having tea with another man. When I argued my case (“We were in Starbucks, for G-d’s sake!”), my husband eventually relented. But the whole experience left me thinking about the state of male-female friendships in the Orthodox world.

I remember a time when most of my friends were boys. Before I converted, boys made up more than 50 per cent of my crew of friends. These were friendships that had never been sullied by messy boy-girl game playing. When my friend, AD, put in my air conditioner, sure, the neighbors wondered if he was my boyfriend, but I assured them there was nothing there. AD was just handy with tools, and even handier as a broad shoulder to cry on.

Then there was Stathis, who treated me like a kid sister, making me tuna fish sandwiches when I visited his dorm. And my friend, metrosexual Mark, was, well, largely immune to my tomboy charm. AD, Stathis and Mark could have been my best girlfriends were it not for certain body parts.

During my conversion to Judaism, I had a set of Jewish girlfriends who congregated together for Shabbos sleepovers. But I also had a matching set of close guy friends who were mostly Modern Orthodox yeshivah students. No one clued me into the fact that these relationships might be anything other than normal. I knew they could not be alone with me in a room, but that just meant that I hung out with them in groups of, well, mostly guys. They seemed to accept me despite my skirt.

Then I summered at a Charedi conversion school in Israel. When a fellow female classmate asked whether she should move if a man sat next to her on the bus, I almost laughed out loud. But my laughter went cold when I realized she was serious and no one else in the room was laughing. My brow furrowed in consternation as I announced that my best friend back home was M-A-L-E. All eyes shifted to me. When I glanced at the headmistress, I could swear her eyes were daggers and that puffs of smoke flamed from her nostrils.

The shock was too much to stomach for a recovering tomboy. Surely, these rules didn’t apply to the Modern Orthodox crowd where I had developed such close friendships with men, usually Cohens, who were, again, like the best girlfriends I’d never had.

But I found out soon enough that the same rules did apply. As soon as I got married, or my guy friends got married, our friendships tanked. They didn’t become more distant, they became non-existent. I found myself wishing that all my male friends were women (acknowledging that would be hard on their wives). So, instead, I stopped wishing and started sulking.

I suffered silently from the lack of companionship of my pseudo big brothers; guys who I know would have defended my honor like real brothers. I just sat with the girls in one corner. I rolled my eyes through conversations about shoes, clothes, cooking and (oh no!) sheitel upkeep. I looked longingly at the other end of the table where my husband and the other men seemed to be enjoying more scintillating discussion. I am not sure how I shall ever recover from my loss. Maybe that’s why I had tea with David. And I enjoyed it. It took me back to a time before restrictive gender roles erected an invisible mechitzah between me and my guy friends.

OK, the object in question is actually a bronze bull. But the visual impression is the same. The only traditional religion of which I’ve heard that advocates worshipping metallic bovine effigies is the ancient Egyptian cult of Osiris — and, according to the Bible, when the Israelites fashioned such an effigy during their exodus from slavery in Egypt, suffering temporary amnesia about which god had freed them, The One God rather forcefully clarified it for them.

Followers of self-described prophet Cindy Jacobs bowed their heads in prayer before the bronze bull statue on Wall Street in New York last week. The Christian Broadcasting Network promoted it as a “a Day of Prayer for the World’s Economies on Wednesday, October 29, 2008. They are calling for prayer for the stock markets, banks, and financial institutions of the world on the date the stock market crashed in 1929. They are meeting at the New York Stock Exchange, the Federal Reserve Bank, and its 12 principal branches around the US that day.”

The blog Pharyngula called this bullish prayer “peculiarly oblivious” in light of clear Biblical prohibition. That’s Exodus 32 as well as the second commandment* for you. (*Or first commandment, according to some Christian traditions. But idolatry is forbidden no matter which way you slice the Ten Commandments.)

These are troubled times, even desperate times for some. On the cusp of the election, I feel as if I am reaching the end of an ancient suffering only to face the prospect of an interminable schlep through a new desert. The analogy reminds me not to be so peculiarly oblivious.

I’ve attended an Orthodox service exactly once in my life, and I’ll never do it again.

It was Yom Kippur during my year in France, when I was working as an au pair for a Parisian Jewish family. They’d wanted someone a little more Jewish – someone who spoke Hebrew, someone who wasn’t secular – but I turned up the charm during our phone interview and they deemed me worthy to fold their laundry and make dinner for their kids. During my first few weeks there, they busily schooled me on the particulars of Orthodox life, reminding me to use the flowered plates and the fridge in the hallway for meat, gently chiding me when I absentmindedly flipped switches on Shabbat. They kept inviting me to go to service with them, and I kept demurring – after all, I was in Europe! I had to see the Louvre and Notre Dame! I had to visit my college pal in Scotland! I didn’t have time for synagogues.

Except I did kind of want to go. I was still working through what it meant to be a Jew, and even though I leaned toward atheism, I knew it was essential to at least familiarize myself with Judaism. I was descended from Hasidim, after all. So when they asked me if I wanted to attend the Yom Kippur service with them, I agreed.

I’d known about the separation of the sexes in Orthodox life, but I’d always imagined it as two equal groups side by side. When I arrived at the synagogue, I was stunned to find the central men’s section, the opaque curtain, the folding chairs haphazardly strewn around the periphery of the room. I couldn’t believe it when the service started and the women around me contented themselves with staring at the fabric and silently mouthing along with the prayers. The service lasted four hours, and during that time I could only guess at what the actual activities looked like. The message I got was clear: women had no place in holiness. Scripture might state that women are merely not required to participate in worship, but in reality, what I experience is that, women are often actively – and aggressively – barred from it.

Two months after I got home from Paris, I went on a Birthright trip and faced the same message when I visited the Kotel. For those of you who have never been, let me give you a woman’s-eye view. When you pass through the metal detectors at the back of the plaza, the temple mount is partially obscured by tourists, soldiers, fences, and Israeli flags; if you’re merely following your guide like I was, it actually takes a second or two to realize what exactly you’re looking at. The wall looks shockingly normal – it’s not a thousand feet high or glowing with divine light. Much like the Mona Lisa, though, the size quickly becomes part of the experience: see how little significance has to do with grandeur? The wall is a wall, but it’s not just a wall, and you realize that that’s part of what makes it sublime. It’s only when you approach it that you begin to notice the gender divide: black hats and coats taking up the vast majority of the space, with a small knot of scarves and shawls off to the right. Is it just a coincidence? One of the crowd’s normal shifts and permutations? No, you realize – each area is fenced off. And soldiers are guarding the entrances.

I was glad we weren’t there on a Saturday; otherwise, I might have never gotten up close, the women’s section was so tiny. Unless I was mistaken, women make up about half the population of Israel, same as any country. Why exactly did men need so much more space? Were women expected to be tending house? Does manliness suffer from claustrophobia? And if it was really my birthright to be here, why was I shoved off to the side?

After the group reconvened, I found out about the tunnel system, which was, we were told, accessible only from the men’s side. (Note: during my research for this essay I read that both men and women are allowed to enter the tunnels. Have they changed the policy? Was I there during a temporary closure? Was it all a stupid mistake?) I, and the other women, gathered around as one of the guys showed us the pictures he’d taken of deep caverns and corridors. “I can’t believe this place is so sexist,” he said with a brief, forlorn shake of the head. “That totally sucks, you know?” We agreed: it totally sucked. Then we got lunch.

Why were we all so blasé about such blatant injustice? Partly it was because Israel wasn’t our country (despite the Birthright program’s assurances), and we knew that once we got on the plane back to Los Angeles, we could leave the problem to Israelis. But there was more to it than that. Those of us who were truly bothered could sense that the men didn’t plan on worrying about it. We knew we’d annoy them if we nagged. So we – I – kept silent.

But the effects stayed with me. I’d never before felt the shame and the anger and the helplessness of state-sanctioned discrimination. It’s humiliating to be told you can’t do something because you – your being, your personhood – are flawed and impure. It’s humiliating to have to rely on a man to show you what you’re missing. That day at the Kotel, I thought of the suffragettes, the civil rights movement, the fight for gay marriage. I was standing in a country that was supposedly an egalitarian democracy, but I’d felt the sting of official second-class citizenship.

That was my Kotel experience.

Sure, I felt some of the holiness and pride that everyone talks about. I even teared up a little as I touched those giant stones. But what sticks with me isn’t the awe; –what sticks is the feeling of exclusion, of alienation, and of punishment. The message I received at the Kotel was the same as the message I received at the Orthodox synagogue: “woman” and “Jew” – and, taken to its logical extreme, “woman” and “human” – are mutually exclusive categories.

And this is my culture? This is my wall and my birthright? How? How can I possibly feel at home here, when the other half has the power to shut me out?

***

Last month in the Forward, Jay Michaelson wrestled with the effects of politics on a Jew’s relationship to the Kotel. How political does the personal have to be? Michaelson writes,

It’s obvious why many contemporary Jews don’t miss the Temple, with its animal sacrifices and priestly hierarchies. But let’s face it, Jews like me don’t like the kotel either. Expats living in Israel see it as a tourist trap; rationalists find the adoration of a physical object un-Jewish, even idolatrous; mystics see it as a distraction (isn’t God supposed to be everywhere?); secularists see it as the object of irrational devotion, and liberals see it as sexist and Haredi-centric. So, as a liberal, expatriate intellectual scholar-mystic myself, I shouldn’t like the kotel, let alone love it.

But I do, and I want to reclaim it as my own.

On the surface, the essay is a noble endeavor. Obviously I see the Kotel – or, rather, the policies and prejudices that have been built up around it – as sexist. And as a secular liberal, I couldn’t help but think of the absurdity of crying over an object, and the Palestinians being restricted from, or denied access to, the Dome of the Rock. And it’s true: we tell ourselves we shouldn’t get caught up in it, but we do. Something in our brains turns on. Michaelson describes the Kotel as “an energy center, a vortex of holiness,” and whether that energy comes from spirituality or psychology or even biology, we feel it despite ourselves.

But his introspection left me troubled. “I know the Kotel excludes,” he writes:

and I am not blind either to the sexism of the mechitza or to the politics of that other Israeli wall that’s visible off in the distance. I stand with Women of the Wall, and sometimes wear my rainbow yarmulke when I go there to daven….

So, I do understand the critiques. But I’m not willing to let either conservatives or liberals steal my people’s most sacred space from me. If progressives let the fundamentalists capture all the spiritual treasures of our tradition, we’ll be left with nothing but the dregs. And we’ll continue to lose the demographic battle, because we’ll be left with less to inspire us. Progressive Jews are like that Hasid in the famous story — unaware of the great treasure that’s lying right in his home. Only it’s not that we’re unaware of it; we’re suspicious of it.

But maybe the kotel could become a model for Jewish religiosity in general. It’s got a questionable pedigree, it means different things to different people and it means particularly odious things to some people. Just like much of Judaism. But it is a treasure nonetheless, if we dare to embrace it — ambivalence in tow, but not necessarily in front.

Michaelson seems to be talking to Jews who have decided to reject the Kotel altogether – to abandon it to the fundamentalists and find meaning elsewhere. And that discussion is certainly necessary. But what about the rest of us? What about those of us who want to love the Kotel, but are barred from doing so?

Perhaps the ambivalence and suspicion he describes is more than just politics; perhaps it’s solidarity. Because what good does it do those who are oppressed to revel in an experience you know they can’t have? How exactly do I embrace the Wall when I know I’m not wanted there? How do I let go of my bitterness and shame when the men to the left of me constantly enforce it – and how can men ever rouse themselves to really confront injustice when their primary concern is their own experience?

It’s not enough to simply stand with those who are oppressed. To really fight injustice, you have to let it enter you as deeply as that holy energy. It can’t hover at the periphery of your vision, like the women risking arrest by praying out loud, slipping out of view as you daven. You have to feel their anger and frustration and pain so vividly that you can’t embrace your own experience. Unless you feel everyone’s injustice as keenly as they do – unless your sacred space is stolen, just like mine has been – then you’ll never be an effective ally.

***

Privilege is a funny thing.

I remember a birthday party I went to when I was nine years old. The birthday girl, who had earned the nickname “Weirdo” through her penchant for wearing her jacket on her head and screeching like a monkey, had invited every girl in our class, and to my surprise – I was her best friend at the time – many of them actually came. We were playing in her backyard when someone noticed that she had disappeared.

We only stopped playing for a few moments. “She’s probably in her room crying,” one of the popular girls said. Everyone laughed and resumed what they were doing. I hesitated – after all, I was her best friend! I had to go to her! I had to shut this down until she was okay! I tried to get a few girls’ attention, but they’d have none of it. I quickly realized how much easier it was to go along with everyone else; my friend would probably be fine, and, well, I was having fun…I’d comfort her later, I decided. It’d be easier to comfort her later. Yes, she’d be fine.

And I did. And she said she was fine. And she continued to succumb to depression with no one to help her through it.

It’s easy to tell myself that I was just a kid, but I’m still all too familiar with the comfort of inaction. I hear about prejudice and injustice and I do nothing. I read news stories and blog posts and action alerts and I feel numb. Maybe I donate some money; maybe I go and shout at a rally. But I feel like if I let every bad thing in the world get to me, I’ll go crazy, so I shut most of it out. It’s so much easier to put in my fair share of effort and then go back to my own life – to raise my voice in protest and then stop there, regardless of whether I’ve made a difference. We all share this problem, and it’s not okay.

Is it really a matter of daring to embrace the Kotel – along with Judaism and Jewishness and everything that implies?

Or should we focus on making sure everyone feels free to embrace it?

As with any injustice, many of us don’t have a choice.

***

A Response from Jay Michaelson:

Julia’s experience at the kotel resonates with that of many of my female-identified friends, and the points raised in her essay are well-taken. Really, I don’t disagree with any of it. I’d just like to make
two points.

First, we should remember and respect the fact that for many traditional women, sex-segregation provides the experience they want. I refuse to be so condescending as to say that all of these women are lost in false consciousness or delusion. Some women find their access to holiness enabled, rather than blocked, by these forms — even though to us they obviously privilege men.

Second, even many progressive and feminist women have different kotel experiences from Julia’s. No one I know simply ignores the segregation, or the unequal size of the two spaces. But many do hold both the holiness and the injustice. They don’t feel blocked (they tell me) — only conflicted and ambivalent, which is how I feel too.

So, for those who love the kotel but experience themselves as blocked from it, I would say: don’t let yourself be blocked. Don’t accept or acquiesce or rationalize or justify, but do recognize that your inner spiritual experience is your own, and no one can take it away from you. That’s the blessing and the curse of spirituality: it can coexist with oppression.

Last May — according to a recent article — a Gallup poll reported that this party divide had narrowed, with 61 percent of Jews claiming support for Obama and 32 percent for McCain.

Is Obama getting less Jewish support than he might have reasonably expected, and could this be due to the false belief of some Jews that he is a Muslim?

Newsweek declared a couple weeks ago: “Twelve percent of voters surveyed said that Obama was sworn in as a United States senator on a Qur’an, while 26 percent believe the Democratic candidate was raised as a Muslim and 39 percent believe he attended an Islamic school as a child growing up in Indonesia. None of these things is true.” (1)

I have not been able to find a breakdown by religion of the people who hold these false beliefs about Obama’s faith. We are told that, on average, 12 percent of American voters believe Obama is a Muslim. Are Jews more or less likely to hold this false belief, compared to people of other religious backgrounds, and, if there is a difference one way or the other, what might be the reason for it?

J. J. Goldberg, editorial director of the Jewish newspaper The Forward, was quoted as speculating that Obama’s “decision to keep his middle name, Hussein, raises symbolic fears among some of these voters, and reports about his record — including his early flirtation with black identity politics and his long association with Reverend Wright — strengthen these fears.” (2)

On the other hand, Jews have plenty of other reasons to support Obama. As it was pointed out over a year ago: “His early opposition to the Iraq war has also reverberated with Jewish Americans, who, according to Gallup polls, are more likely to view the war as a mistake than are Americans of any other faith.” (3)

I would be interested to find out — as I’m sure the Obama campaign would also like to ascertain — how the false belief that the Christian senator is actually a Muslim is propagated. Is it by ignorance, innocent rumor, or a deliberate campaign of to spread false information? How do Jewish people fit into this drama and how do we share responsibility for it?

(1) “Glow fading?” Jonathan Darman. Newsweek Web Exclusive. July 11, 2008.
(2) “Obama struggling to convince all Jewish voters.” AFP. July 19, 2008.
(3) “For Barack Obama, a Careful Courting of Jewish Vote.” Ariel Sabar. Christian Science Monitor. May 3, 2007.

Not only a blog, Tirtzah is “a community of frum queer women who gather to celebrate and study our yiddishkeit. We are committed to the value of shleimut (wholeness) and to supporting one another in observing a meaningful, integrated, honest and joyful Jewish life.” There is a email list discussion that people can join, and if you live in the New York City area, there are events to attend.

So, if you are a lesbian, bisexual or queer identified woman who is religious, observant and/or Orthodox, or on a path to becoming more halachically observant, check out this great resource and community being built in the New York area.