To be a Jew is to always be at war

From the heart of Jerusalem...

To be a Jew is to always be at war. Even when it seems peaceful. You are still at war. Because you know its just a matter of time before someone comes to destroy you. And because you carry that war deep inside of you, manifest in all manner of hyper-vigilance, generalized anxiety, misplaced guilt, internalized shame. If we are not at war with them, we are at war with ourselves. The battlefield is everywhere.

I know something about this, because I’m a Jew. Not necessarily a good Jew (more on that, later), but a proud Jew nonetheless. My mother was born Jewish, my father converted to marry her (and I later found out he was Jewish on his father's side). I grew up surrounded by (mostly) loving Jewish relations, attended Hebrew School 3x a week, and I had my bar mitzvah—scratchy adolescent voice and all—at Toronto’s Pride of Israel synagogue on October 25th, 1975. I remember that day—particularly my Grandfather's smiling eyes as I nervously fumbled through the haftorah—like it was yesterday.

Little did I know what a miracle it was that he—and all the other Jews in the congregation—were here at all on this day. The drive-over to the shul was easy—the centuries-long evasion of the anti-semites much more difficult. To have reached this moment meant that many before us had out-smarted their predators. In other words, it wasn’t just my Grandfather’s eyes that were smiling at me. It was the eyes of every ancestor who had found a way to stay alive under impossible circumstances. Here we were, all gathered under the same roof, celebrating something more than my passage into adulthood. We were celebrating our right to exist. The ancestors glowed with delight. (Baruch Hashem)

In the years after my bar mitzvah, I seldom went to synagogue. I read no scripture, ate unkosher foods, dated non-jews. After a painful childhood, I wanted to get as far away as I could from my roots. Not all of them—I remained very close to my grandparents and would have taken a bullet for any Jew under fire—but just enough to catch my breath and forge a less combative way of being. At this time, I did not understand that my painful upbringing was largely a direct reflection of my Jewish roots. I did not understand that my mother was feisty because she had to be in order to survive. I did not understand that my grandmother was persistently afraid because of her war-time memories. I did not understand that most everybody in my immediate family had shpilkes (ants in their pants), both because it hurt too much to slow down and feel, and because they needed to keep moving in order to stay alive. I didn’t understand that all of this was a consequence of anti-semitism.

After years as a writer, I published a book called ‘Grounded Spirituality.’ Many Jews who read it told me that the perspective in it was consistent with Jewish teachings. At first, I was annoyed. I had prided myself in distinguishing myself from my upbringing. I had broken away, escaped the holocaust, found my own unique voice! How could my writings be similar to the world I had fled?

I then walked my way into a 4+ year long political nightmare. The context isn’t particularly important. What is important is that I experienced a modern-day (‘techno-terrorism’) version of what Jews have been experiencing since time immemorial. My privacy was invaded, my voice squelched, my name defamed in an effort to deflect from the wrong-doers and prevent a book from being published. It was (and still is) classic political persecution, and it is surely not only directed at me. It is happening everywhere, now. Tyranny always masquerades as benevolence, but now they have technology to take their game to the next level.

Like the warrior Jew that birthed me, I fought the good fight with all of my might. “David vs Goliath on steroids,” as my editor described it. I fought for my right to the light, until I could fight no more. A kind of bewildered hopelessness set in. For the first time in my adult life, I couldn’t find the light anywhere.

I then did the strangest thing. With nothing left to lose, I booked a trip to Jerusalem in the middle of a war. I had never been to Israel, but I somehow knew that it was time to return to my roots.

After I arrived, I slept like a baby for what felt like days. Never slept this good in my life. After being under personal attack for years, it felt good to see soldiers on every corner. After being surveilled for 4+ years, it felt good to actually see cameras everywhere. Finally, the monitoring was out in the open. I felt like I had come home to something safe. And not a moment, too soon.

When I was ready, I made my way towards the Western Wall (aka the Wailing Wall). It had always held a profound place in my consciousness. Like I had been there before in some other life, and like I was destined to return in this one.

The walk there wasn’t easy. When I walk through the Old City, I feel burdened. My legs feel heavy and painful, my breath shallows. Like I am somatically absorbing all of the memories and intensities that this place holds. It’s just so much. I can barely carry it.

Nonetheless, I found my way to the wall. I stood on the overlook, mesmerized by the sight and feeling of it. I watched the men and women pray in separate areas, a cluster of children gathered somewhere in between for a chorus of song. It was so real that it felt surreal. Like we were not just here together in this moment alone. We were also here together, in every moment before. There were dozens of us here, no… thousands, millions… including some I have known. My Auntie Tilly (who can forget that voice?), my great great grandfather the beloved Rabbi, my Uncle Ricky lost too young, the baby sister I never met. I felt their spirits close.

And then my mother appeared in my imaginings. She was much softer than I remember her: “Jefferson... Come back to the wall. It’s time for you to join us.” I replied: “No mom, I’m not ready. I have been very far away from my roots. Far away from you. I don’t feel worthy of this place. I don’t feel worthy as a Jew.”

Then things went quiet, though anything but still. That’s the thing about this place. So much is energetically happening at one time. It’s like a soulnami of wonder and thunder that keeps waking you up, whether your habitual consciousness likes it or not. It’s not that you’re not in reality. It’s that you are in so many realities at one time. The past and the present and perhaps even the future scale the wall of your imaginings at such a pace and with such an intensity that you can’t assimilate them in the heart of the experience. I am fairly sure that I didn’t walk down and touch the wall, but I’m not even certain. So much happened on the inside, that I can’t remember what happened on the outside.

On the way back, I stopped for some food. Nothing like fresh hummus and pitta to bring you back to earth. Yummy. The reflections began. Why so reluctant to touch the wall? What wall stands between? I couldn’t find any answers in my mind. I got up and moved my body. I returned to the path, walking through the Old City. Memories of childhood and adulthood flooded to the surface. I again touched into the illusion that I had somehow transcended my Jewish roots. After one visit to the Wall, that now felt preposterous. You can’t transcend what you are. It’s not like some tattoo you get removed. It’s emblazoned in your soul.

I spent time in other parts of Jerusalem. I went to the Machane Yehuda market, where a possible cure for anti-semitism can be found in the form of Chocolate Rugelach. OMG. How can anyone hate the Jews after eating that scrumptious delight? Then I met someone for dinner at the Mamilla Mall, before finding my way back to my hotel room. I lay down and contemplated my resistance, but I couldn’t get clear. I knew that I needed to return to the wall. The wall knew the score.

Before returning a few days later, I pre-booked a tour of the Western Wall Tunnels. I arrived early, and grabbed a Kippah to cover my head. I slowly worked my way toward the wall.

I sat down in a chair a little back from it. I closed my eyes, seeking to cozy up to my resistance. Not much happening. I then opened my eyes, and gazed at the men praying at the wall. I looked at them closely. They appeared to have remained true to their Jewish roots. Not just inwardly, but outwardly. They were with scripture, they were dressed appropriately, they struck me as Jews that had remained part of the traditional system. Of course, I didn’t know them, but what I did know is that I had gone another way in this life. And somehow, at this moment, in this place, that was a problem.

I closed my eyes again and went deeper, again asking questions: Why do I feel unworthy of this wall? Why am I so reluctant to embrace my Jewishness? Where is this feeling coming from?

I thought of my mother. She had certainly practiced the (not so) fine art of shaming, but it wasn’t her. Not anymore. Our spirits had made peace long ago. I thought of my father. It wasn’t him, either. I knew that he was proud of me. And then I began to remember some of my more critical relatives and Jewish acquaintainces. I saw their shunning expressions in my mind’s eye. I remembered their high-handedness, their seeming righteousness, their certainty of interpretation. Growing up as I did, I had always felt judged in their presence. I was a half-Jew, after all. Is it their eyes that I imagine cast upon me?

I stayed with it, and the answer was not exactly. The judgments that I was feeling came from them, but I could see that they weren’t them. They were just the messengers, unknowingly channeling someone else’s hateful rhetoric. I saw this very clearly.

I re-opened my eyes, and looked back toward the wall. I watched a man rocking back and forth. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was somatically discharging old shame. Not shame that he earned, but internalized shame that he had carried in this lifetime and perhaps others. The reverberating remnants of centuries of anti-semitic derision. Misplaced aggression that had congealed into weapons that we have unknowingly turned against ourselves and our fellow Jews: “You’re not good enough; You’re a bad Jew, a fake Jew”; “You weren’t there for your parents towards the end of their lives. You weren’t there for your Grandfather the night he died. You should have saved them all, you lowly misfit”; And from those Jews with a very robust pattern of ‘self-hatred’ (which effectively means that they need to destroy all memories of their own unresolved trauma by identifying with the enemy and destroying Judaism altogether): “How dare you imagine yourself worthy of a homeland? All you get are table scraps, Jewboy.”

I went deeper into remembrance, inviting the shame to have its way with me. Let’s amplify the damn thing. Let’s see how deep it goes. Soon, it got really ugly inside. I was drowning in an ocean of unworthiness.

Then something unexpected happened. I just got up and went to the wall. My ghosts were still with me, but there was something else in there, too. My determined Jewish soul. The shoulders I stand upon. My memories of overcoming. And, all the work that I had done to learn that it was okay to own your mistakes, while still loving yourself. In and of itself, a spoonful of shame isn’t a problem if properly allocated. What is a problem is being so eaten alive with self-hatred that you can no longer grant yourself permission to live. That’s precisely what the anti-semites want. And that is precisely why we have to reject their messaging with all that we are.

I placed a note between the stones, as I promised someone I love. I walked back up to the lookout. It was almost time for my tunnel tour. While taking it, I found myself again riddled with self-doubt. There was something about these compressed and narrow tunnels that triggered my memory of the last 4 personally terrorizing years. All hemmed in and dehumanized, my enemies had perfectly mirrored the plight of the Jews (as well as many of my own childhood memories) in their actions toward me: swastikas, vehicular, and in-person harassment (threatening the Jew); financial obstructions and restrictions (impoverishing the Jew); persistent surveillance and monitoring (watching the Jew); turning friends into enemies (isolating the Jew); house alarms going off in the middle of the night (terrifying the Jew); mockery and name-calling (shaming the Jew); and just for good measure—attacking my Bar Mitzvah synagogue (as I predicted they would) only hours after I put up a post specific to this political context (savaging the Jew’s connection to his history). Coincidental or otherwise, the message to Jewish Canadians was clear: Not even in a House of Worship are you safe.

When the tour ended, I felt like going back to the hotel. The wall and I had made progress, but my fortitude now escaped me. My internalized shame had again returned. I left the building in a bit of a stupor and walked down the hill with the intention of returning the kippah I had borrowed. But my body had other ideas. It just kept walking me toward the wall. The wall was like a magnet, pulling my soul toward it. Before I got there, a man grabbed me from behind and told me that I had been selected for a blessing. And then a Rabbi came over and asked if he could put tefillin on me. I hadn’t worn tefillin for close to 50 years. I said yes. After he was done, a woman came up behind me and covered me in a tallit. And the Rabbi gave me a prayer book, encouraging me to go to the wall and recite three particular prayers.

For a moment, I thought to rebel against the Rabbi, as I had done for years in Hebrew School. But I trusted the man’s eyes, and recognized the desperation of my moment. I walked toward the wall and again found a little chair to sit on. I turned toward the prayers, and repeated them over and over again. I could feel them reverberate inside. I really felt them. Then I got up and went back to the wall. I touched it and leaned against it. Not everything was right with this world or my world, but for this moment at least, I belonged.

(picture taken with Rabbi Shmuli Weiss)

In the twenty years since I had begun to write my first book (Soulshaping), I had always carried the feeling that it was just a matter of time before abuse of power returned to my life and derailed my creative callings. I knew this because of my Jewish soul history, my experiences with early life tyranny, and because of what I had witnessed time and again in the Jewish community. We only get peace for so long, before the war returns. As a result, I pushed very hard for a long time, doing all that I could to write my main books before everything got taken away. I am certain that I am not the only Jew that feels this way. I once asked my mother why she ate so fast. She said “eat it while you have it. Because you may not have it for long.” And so it is. A Jewish life.

I’m not yet done at the wall. We still have some work to do together. I have only just scratched the surface of those seemingly immovable stones. I do know that I wish that I had come here sooner. It might have helped me to understand where I come from, and to not take things so personally in my family-of-origin. Because they weren’t actually personal. They were the remnants of someone else’s hatred mistakenly planted beneath our ancestral tree. Not ours to water. Ours to bury, when the moment is right. In the meantime, Jerusalem reminds us that we belong.

Treasure yourself, Jeff Brown