"Bousha." (Shame) That's what could be heard on Dizengoff Square on Yom Kippur Eve. No, there was no protest against the reform. No, there was no contested public figure. Simply, a prayer bringing together several hundred people who had come together peacefully to celebrate the beginning of the holiest festival in Judaism.
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I am an oleh hadash who came from France six years ago. I am descended from a mixture of a Sephardi and an Ashkenazi family. My Tunisian grandmother was the product of a pious Judaism in Tunisia. She often reminded me, with her very approximate French and her veil covering her head most of the time: "Adrien, religion is important, but never neglect your studies. Unfortunately, being a woman, I was never given the opportunity to pursue them."
My Ashkenazi grandmother was the daughter of Abram, who died in Auschwitz and spent dark years hidden in a convent. Like many, she was a convinced atheist, yet at every moment we spent together, she made sure I respected the Sabbath and the dietary laws because, as she said, "My grandson's happiness will always come before my convictions."
When I approached Dizengoff Square, I had in mind my grandparents who had always been an example of sharing, respect, and above all, love for me. I especially had in mind my uncle, whose recent disappearance had deeply moved me. He was an extraordinary man who was the very embodiment of Ahavat Hinam, unconditional love. A man who welcomed Jews and non-Jews, religious and secular, and for whom only injustice and the questioning of his own could provoke his anger.
What a joy it was for me, following this tragic loss, to be able to pray for Yom Kippur with my family: my father, of course, but also my mother, my sister, and her family. What a disappointment it was for me to see, just moments later, people shouting "Bousha" at women, men, and elderly individuals. Their epithets were directed at the leaders of the Rosh Yehudi community, yet I saw them shouting at simple faithful who had come in peace, and it wasn't these leaders who were in tears, but ordinary men and women who had come together to pray, sing, confess, or perhaps just to be present among others.
What a dismay to hear all these people vehemently complain about a simple prayer which, in their opinion, illegally and disrespectfully occupies Dizengoff Square, while they consider it legitimate to block the Ayalon Highway every week, sometimes violently. Is this what they believe democracy, for which they are fighting, is all about?
Their contempt, I share it! I am against any form of discrimination: religious, social, racist, sexist. Their fight, I join it! I am opposed to this reform that has been dividing the country for far too long now.
Their pretext, I understand it! I myself am a fervent opponent of this mechitza (gender separation barrier) that I find increasingly difficult to tolerate in the synagogues where I pray.
But my opinions, my convictions, and my battles did not matter at that moment. I had the opportunity to be with my family and my people, from wherever they came, men and women mixed, because yes, being a participant in this outdoor service for two years, I know that even if there is a mechitza, it is an optional mechitza for those who want to pray among women, while on the other side, men and women are seen mixed. Was this really the place and time to shout their hatred at a vast majority of people who only intended to experience a moment of harmony in these times of division?
"Bousha," that's what I felt when I saw this big guy pouring out his hatred on a poor, bewildered old man.
"Bousha," that's what I felt when I couldn't find the words to explain the situation to my 6-year-old niece. She was in tears and implored me, "Uncle! I want to pray outside! I don't want to go back behind the curtain in the synagogue." How could I explain to her that the people opposing this curtain were forcing me to send her back behind it?
"Bousha," that's what I felt when I heard my sister, a fervent Meretz voter and a regular participant in protests against the reform with her family, say, "I will never set foot in this protest again!" "Bousha," that's what I felt when I heard journalists, judges, and right-wing and left-wing politicians continuously adding fuel to the fire.
"Bousha," that's what I felt when I heard dozens of people declare, "If it's like this, I'll vote far-Right." Is there anything more disgraceful for a country than people choosing their leaders based on the hatred they feel for others?
"Bousha", that's what I felt when I (and probably many other olim hadashim that went to Dizengoff Square) thought that maybe I should go back to France. Actually, I might have been happier as a Jew there than in the so-called Jewish state.
"Bousha," finally, is what I felt when I heard these people applaud as the faithful, heads bowed and tears in their eyes turned back towards the synagogue. They probably won their battle. There was no service at Dizengoff Square this year. The loser in this story? Israel.
PS: I would like to respond to the woman who was shouting at a stunned kippah-wearing man, not because he lacked arguments, but because he was disheartened by the situation: "But I'm not stopping you from praying! Pray!" No, he and I have no problem praying in front of a woman. However, I am incapable of praying in the absence of another mechitza – the one that separates love and unity from hatred and discord. I can pray alongside a woman, but I cannot pray alongside a human being whose heart is filled with baseless hatred.
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