Saturday, April 3, 2010

And They Said It Couldn't Be Done (And By "They" I Mean "I")





Well, if I didn't feel like we were living undercover before, I certainly felt like it on Passover night.

There we were, 38 relative strangers, huddled together in an unfamiliar kitchen listening to a child we'd never met reciting the 4 questions.

Not exactly a family gathering. But in some ways, a more meaningful Jewish holiday than I'd ever experienced before.

We'd heard about it through the sibling of a friend of a friend. The brother of a college classmate of my boy Seacrest had been invited to a seder that was being held in Dubai. Now, I'd never met this brother of the classmate of Seacrest, nor had I ever heard of the hosts. But when the sibling of the friend of my friend emailed us the details, of course Daddy and I quickly RSVP'd that we would attend. I mean, what are the odds that we would receive a *competing* seder invitation this year?

After overcoming just a bit of pre-holiday stress (who knew, when we accepted our assignment of bringing a dessert, that 99% of online Passover recipes would require MATZOH MEAL; thank heavens for kosher meringue) we put on our fancy clothes and Daddy pocketed his dusty old yarmulke and we headed out to an unknown address. When we arrived, Indian neighbors were standing on the sidewalk eyeing the influx of guests suspiciously (or maybe they were eyeing us completely hospitably, and this was just my paranoia talking). Either way, we hurried past with minimal eye contact, trying not to call attention to ourselves.

We entered the house and I was immediately transported back to the front reception hall of every synagogue I'd ever known: the heavily overdone jewelry, the mildly grating nasaly voices (though this time with English and South African accents, which made them vastly more alluring than annoying), the competitively over-aerobicized physiques.

In other words: MY PEEPS!

Conversation quickly turned to our collective relief in meeting one another, and our shared amazement that we had found enough Jews to fill the entire ground floor of someone's home. It felt like we were gathering in a public storm shelter during a hurricane: all of us so glad to see each other, so comforted to see that the other person had also made it through.

"I heard that there are 10,000 Jews in the UAE!" said one admirably optimistic participant. (The rest of us shook our heads and rolled our eyes discretely.) "I think it's more like 100," said a grumpy (and more realistic) skeptic. Someone else did some quick math aloud and announced, "Probably around 1500." The group accepted this number even though it seemed to me a little high, considering that none of us in the room knew any Jew who wasn't there. But okay. 1500 Jews, wow!

Then people started excitedly comparing Jewy experiences much as you would with Sasquatch sightings. "The organic cafe here has matzah!" said one yenta. "And when I went this week, there was only ONE box left." ("OOH, THAT'S A GOOD SIGN," we all chanted in robotic unison.) "MY local supermarket serves something that looks EXACTLY like challah," said a sister yenta, "but *only* on THURSDAYS!" ("OOH!" we all sighed. "THAT'S A GOOD SIGN!") Then there was some talk about the mythological secret synagogue that, according to Dubai legend, Sheikh Mohammed has set up in a private home in order to woo a prominent American businessman to come to the UAE. But alas, no one in attendance had ever seen it themselves. (Not a good sign.) The requisite jokes were further exchanged about how, at the end of the evening, we'd go to leave and the CID (Dubai police) would be patiently waiting outside to escort all of us directly to immigration. Ha ha, the subject of deportation for political insurgence never fails to get a laugh! (nervous laughter, but laughter nonetheless.)

Suddenly someone approached Daddy and said, "Over here. We need you for the minyan. Would be amazing if we could say kiddush. Can't believe we might actually have ten men." (Why ten, you say? Well, for those playing at home, and by that I mean gentiles, and sorry-ass Jews like me who had to look this up on Wikipedia, "It was the firm belief of the sages that wherever 10 Israelites are assembled, either for worship for the study of the Law, the Divine Presence dwells among them." Learn something new every day, my friends.)

So Daddy went off and stood by the front door with nine other Jewish men. Most wore yarmulkes. One wore a fedora. (And good day to you, too, sir!) One guy was very old and white-haired and reminded me of my elderly Jewish grand-uncles who are still doing the Passover thing with great gusto back in Jersey and I got a teeny bit emotional for a second. You don't see a lot of old people here in Dubai. Let alone old Jews. Made me miss my late grandfather, who really got into all this religious stuff. Ah, life.

Not sure exactly what went down during the kiddush (did I mention I'm a sorry-ass Jew? very out of practice.) but the visual was powerful. All the men faced forward and some bowed a little bit and seeing a group of them standing there in their yarmulkes (and fedoras) felt like an act of peaceful revolution.

Then it was time for the seder. I had initially been stunned to see through the open French doors that the tables and chairs were set up in the back yard: were we really going to be reciting Hebrew right out there in the open?? But then our host called everyone's attention and declared, "Let's do the seder right here in the kitchen. There's no need to do it outside."

I felt my eyeballs turn into cartoon spirals as my brain began racing to process all the possible interpretations of "There's no need to do it outside." Did he mean, there's no need to move everyone, when we're already all so comfortable standing around here? Or did he mean, THERE'S NO NEED TO RISK IT, when the neighbors are already standing out there wondering what we're up to?? I'll never know.

At that point, despite the conspicuous presence of those mass-produced paperback Haggadahs that were the cornerstone of every seder I ever attended in the USA, the host-- let's call him Dubai Moses, as he was leading us Jews through the desert-- announced, "The seder is for the children. It's not for the adults. And so, if no one objects, I'm going to do an abbreviated seder that the children will understand, hitting only the highlights. And-- since I'm the first to admit that I'm far from the most frum person here (meaning, religiously observant)-- anyone who would like to jump in is welcome to." No one jumped. So away we went.

For the next ten minutes, Dubai Moses spoke directly to the 6 tweens and 3 infants in attendance (our kids were not there; why take chances with their lives and/or mess up the bedtime schedule, thought neurotic me), flipping through the Haggadah and remarking on only the most critical aspects of the story. I'm of course paraphrasing, but in relevant part what Dubai Moses said was this:

"A long long time ago, the Jews were slaves in Egypt. They were forced to work outside in the heat from before the sun came up to after the sun went down. How do you think you would feel if you were a slave? Sad? Tired? Depressed? It's a lot like the construction workers that you see on the buses here in Dubai going back and forth between their work camps. You see? It's happening all over again."


Yikes. This made me uncomfortable. Because the ubiquitous sight of dark-skinned construction workers perpetually toiling in the half-built streets of Dubai, like ants or bees or Doozers under the blazing sun, already causes me emotional distress. And now, the analogy laid out so plainly like this-- where the Indian and Pakistani construction workers are the modern-day slaves of the Passover story-- makes *us* the heartless Egyptians who sit around in our fancy homes heartlessly reaping the benefits of their blood and sweat and labor. You know, the Bad Guys. Which of course we are but what can I do about it?? (A blog for another day, methinks.)

So anyway, Dubai Moses tells the kids that the Jews were slaves and so are the construction workers and then I zone out in self-torment and then the next thing I know someone's handing out masks. (Note to self: Research why I was wearing a cat mask and the guy next to me was wearing a Torah scroll mask with a crown on it and the guy next to him was wearing one that simply said BOILS in block letters. Was there a kitty cat plague I don't know about, or were the hosts just making due with whatever they had on hand?)

Then Dubai Moses got to the part of the story where the Jews put a mark on their door so that the Angel of Death would pass over (get it? passover?) their houses in its search for Egyptian firstborn children. He noted, "This is kind of like mezuzahs, which we don't do here in Dubai." (Second note to self: I'm pretty sure that mezuzahs have nothing to do with the Passover marks on the doors, which I think was actually blood, and that Dubai Moses was just getting in a little dig at the UAE while he had a sympathetic audience. But look into this as well.)

Finally Dubai Moses called his 9-year-old daughter to the front of the kitchen and asked her to recite the 4 questions. Which she did, eloquently and confidently and melodiously. The rest of us murmured along at the chorus (if you can call it that, not sure, no disrespect intended). Daddy later told me that for him this was the most moving part of the evening: A child, innocently leading a room full of adults, in a Hebrew prayer, on Arab soil. It's unlikely the kid had any real sense of the tiny act of heroism she was performing.

And just like that, the seder was over. There was no singing, there was no discussion of the 4 sons (cue that corny tune of "My Darlin' Clementine"), there was no plate onto which I could put 10 drops with my pinkie. But there was-- more importantly-- miniature glasses of wine passed between husbands and wives, actual matzah (brought into the country by one of the seder attendees, who is a pilot for Emirates), and a whole room of Jews. The company of whom I have missed so, so much.

The dinner experience was similarly fulfilling (especially the matzoh ball soup, yahoo!). We sat outside in Dubai Moses's back yard under a full moon and made easy conversation with complete strangers. Just as Dubai Moses had opened his home to all of us, sight unseen. And that's one of my favorite things about the Jews: even if we've never met, we're looking out for each other; we're all in the same boat so why bother with the formalities.

Most of the Jews that night were from England or South Africa. There were two other Americans besides us (my hookup included). Lots of people were talking about a dinner a bunch of them attended a few months back that was hosted at a Dubai hotel by some American Zionist organization (!!!!!). (Side note: You have to have some serious balls to show up at a pro-Israel event here. It's the inverse of laying low. I don't think I could do it.) One attendee offered to take me to the off-the-beaten path marketplaces. Another offered to give me acupuncture. Another hustled Daddy for his business card. (Hey now, networking is a valid component of the Jewish community, too.)

Then Dubai Moses, who was sitting at our table, described how his 9-year-old is dealing with some anti-Semitism at her school. Which also happens to be SUSHI'S SCHOOL, the American school, gulp. Dubai Moses said that it was just one kid spouting off some anti-Semitic remarks that he had certainly heard at home, and that while that his daughter's classmates do not know that she's Jewish, her teachers do (we have the same arrangement with Sushi's teacher) and have been consulted about the problem. I expected Dubai Moses to be more upset about it, but instead he said, "You know what? It's fine. Because now when we go back to South Africa, my daughter will be able to defend the Arab point of view." Very diplomatic of him, no? And we compared notes on how our eyes have been opened to the way that the Arab world sees Jews, and Israel, and how neither the pro-Arab world nor the pro-Israel world gets the straight story from their media.

(Was initially a little stressed about anti-Semitism at Sushi's school, where she proudly declared her allegiance to HANUKKAH! on the playground this past December, but then remembered that there were swastikas painted on lockers at my New Jersey middle school last year, and conceded that no place on earth is utterly devoid of anti-Semitism, unfortunately.)

The evening concluded with a furious exchange of mobile numbers and the promise to get together again soon. I couldn't help wonder if someone was going to initiate us into a secret Jewish handshake before we dispersed (and was a little disappointed when no one did). But even without the handshake, it was a truly memorable experience and I will be forever grateful to Dubai Moses and Dubai Moses's wife (did Moses have a wife? my sorry-ass-iness rears its ugly head again, we'll call her Mosette for now) for providing me with a night's worth of respite after a year and a half of spiritually wandering through the desert.

A final thought about my first Passover seder in Dubai. I'm not sure God was there. Or, if he was there, I didn't notice. Now, in all fairness, I'm an atheist, so maybe he was indeed hanging around, checking in with all the faithful, and just didn't reveal himself to me out of spite. And he's entitled to that, by all means, fair is fair. My point is just that there wasn't a whole lot of praying, or discussion of the Almighty, or that kind of thing. It just seemed like all of us Dubai Jews had showed up at that seder seeking not divine interaction, but human connection.

Just some confirmation that we weren't alone.

(WHICH IS WHAT *I* AM HERE FOR, YOU IDIOT!! shouts God into my deaf ears.) (But again, a blog for another day.)

The gentleman giving the farewell toast to Dubai Moses and Mosette concluded his remarks with, "Next year in Dubai!" And while I perhaps wouldn't go *that* far... the classic "Next year in Jerusalem!" has a certain enduring ring to it... suddenly I'm thinking that another Passover here in the UAE might not be *quite* so bad. :)



8 comments:

Al said...

I cannot wait until you're back in Jersey (or anyplace in the Free World) so I can make you a proper Jewish dinner. I can learn b/c I will convert for a day only for you (didn't even consider that as an option for my Israeli ex who I lived with for three years until he'd had enough dumped me, and found a nice Jewish girl to marry).

This made me happy and sad. But I'm glad you found 38 Jews. Did you and Daddy make it an even 40 people. Because if so then that would be QUITE Biblically (is that a word? Don't care, I'm making it a word) appropriate!

Dave said...

That's a pretty awesome story. Wish I had some relevant commentary to contribute, but sounds like there is a lot in there. There is something buried in the fact that there wasn't much "God" there as you call it. It sounds as though the Jews didn't want to offend each other by being too religious, as they defiantly practiced their Judiasm in a country where people would be offended by it. The implications could range from Woody Allen style neurosis to extreme self doubt in the absolute certainty that the event was the right thing to do. If that makes sense. Sorta deep.
I'm in Westchester NY, and I skipped the Seder this year, so thanks for the story (and accompanying Jewish guilt;).

Zunaid said...

Interesting story! Especially the South African connection (you know how to keep your readers interested!) :P

Question: if you're an atheist then why does it matter? As you said, you didn't get anything spiritual out of the evening so what in the end do you gain out of it? I'm genuinely curious to know.

p.s. your writing style, as always, is quite enthralling!

"Mommy" said...

Hi Zunaid,

I really appreciate the opportunity to answer your question.

I think Judaism is one of, if not the only, religion in the world that can be experienced 3 ways, either exclusively or in combination-- in your "soul" (spiritually), in your actions (culturally), or in your identity (everything else). In other words, you could believe in the Jewish "version" of God but take no actions outside of yourself; you could not believe in the Jewish God and yet enjoy the rich foods and intricate traditions of the religion; and you could not believe in the Jewish God and not *do* anything particularly Jewish on a day-to-day basis... yet feel a powerful, almost tangible connection to other Jews and our collective experience as a "people." I, clearly, fall into that last category. While I hope for their sake that my girls believe in God (I think that, the vast majority of the time, faith makes life more beautiful and less frightening), at the very least I want them to identify with this complex and enduring tradition that they were born into.

Hope all is well with you, my friend!

Zunaid said...

Thanks for the reply, and things are well with me thank you :)

I get what you're saying and can definitely understand that strong feeling of identity that comes out in your post. For non-Jews it is slightly different; culture, religion and identity aren't as intertwined but the feeling and emotion is just as strong.

e.g. When holidaying in Europe last year I was happy to find and swap life stories with Indian shopkeepers and kebab shop owners alike (amazing how many Halaal food places there are if you just know where to look!).

Now the shopkeepers weren't Muslim, and the kebab guys weren't Indian (mostly they were of Arabian-ish descent) and yet the feeling of identity and "belonging" was equally strong with both. It was just fascinating to chat about life and find out how each of them came to Europe to make a new life for their children.

Yours is a touching story and definitely brought back a few memories. All the best for the future!

p.s. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Who_is_a_Jew?

Bluedebil said...

I am with you Mommy - as an atheist I never feel totally "worthy" going to these types of observances, but on another level it does make me feel a sense of community and tradition and safeness that I don't find elsewhere. I guess that is a spiritual connection on some level.... Great engaging story, as always - keep it up! ;-)

nina said...

Reminds me of a Shabbat service I attended once while traveling through Madrid. I went on a whim, it was a tiny group of about 15 people in a tiny room in small community center, and they were very warm and welcoming (an old couple even drove me back to my hotel). I had the same "nice to know I'm not alone" feeling; funny how that happens. And you hit upon the reason I hold onto my form of Judaism - even without faith/religion, it's about a shared history, shared traditions and shared culture. So glad you found gracious and friendly folks in Dubai... but next year, in Jerusalem, okay?

Anonymous said...

I am so thrilled to read the blog about the Seder. I was in South AFrica with my kids but my husband was there but I would never have gotten a quarter of the detail out of him that I got from you. Thanks and I hope you will come for a Shabat dinner in our Abu Dhabi home too. I am looking forward to meeting you but I believe you are meeting a mutual friend (SE) first.