Dear Friends,

The first time a saw a desert was in my year in Sem in Bnei Brak. Since it was an Israeli seminary, the trips were few and far between; the girls had been there and done that.  The handful of American girls used every day off to explore the Land. It was wide open, gorgeous and anything but familiar. In those days, a trip to Beer Sheva was an adventure. The Bedouin market was still a real Bedouin market, not a tourist trap. The desert shading was formidable, far more varied than I had imagined. It’s colors and angles that were completely surreal. Its harshness was unrelieved, but it was still beautiful. We met a man who told us that he had been living in the desert for something like 27 years. I understood his love of its continually changing contours, but couldn’t relate to his near total self-chosen isolation from other people.

I can’t imagine what the trek our ancestors made was like. They were there for forty years.  In spite of the fact that they were living in the dreamlike state of experiencing miracles on a daily basis, eating mann, wearing clothes that didn’t get soiled or wear out, following pillars of cloud during the day and pillars of fire at night, their lives weren’t the equivalent of being in a full time spiritual wonderland.  The Zohar describes the atmosphere as spiritually deadening.  This, in spite of the fact that Moshe taught them the Torah. They were living a dream! The desert itself felt as spiritual desolate as it was physically desolate. It was both beautiful and harsh, like the actual desert that I saw near Beer Sheva.

Why did we need this experience?

A desert by its nature is a bubble. There are no distractions and no outside influences. You may find this inviting. Or not.  Try to recall the last time you sat in a dentist’s office waiting your turn. No matter how pleasant the environment, past a certain point did you have trouble living in your own mind? How many of you turn to your phone to tune out the sound of silence? The desert the Jews lived in for so many years wasn’t silent; it was a Bais Midrash. There was no possible escape from the intensity of its truth and its beauty by distracting yourself with  foreign culture or mindless distractions. The generation did well! They are described by Chazal as ‘Dor Deah’ which means “The generation of knowing”. They flourished as no generation before or after them flourished. They didn’t let the desolation defeat them. It became a means of self-discovery.
We don’t live in a desert.
Wherever you go, you are the passive (and sometimes active) recipient of Other. The billboards tell you about who you are and about what you need. Who you should look like. What you should eat. It’s human nature to be affected by your environment. You believe what you see, consciously or subconsciously, and so do I. What happens if you decide that this isn’t the game that you signed up for? You want an entirely different atmosphere to be the backdrop of your life. You can do your best. Find good people and make them your friends. Find a positive social environment and let it be your new “normal”.
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A problem that Rambam faced in his time (about a thousand years ago, but who’s counting..) was that there are no really positive social environments to choose from. Nothing is perfect.  You have to do your best. There’s so much passive information floating around out there via the media and the predominant culture that you necessarily want to define the way you think and feel. You can’t live in a cave.

Or can you?
What should you do?
What can you do?

Rambam says “head for the deserts and the caves”. Find a place that you can define, not one that defines you. The great sage of two generations ago, Rav Avraham Yishaya Karelitz, known by his work, “Chazon Ish”, said, “In today’s world the yeshivas are the caves and the desert”, meaning that you can create an atmosphere, not just passively fall into a stage that was set with someone else’s drama in mind.
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You can’t always be in a bubble; but it’s crucial for you to find your own mini-environment where you can be the person that you want to be and practice what you believe in.  Stay close to your sem sisters if you can, stay in touch with us,

Head for the desert, it may be sweeter than you think
Tziporah

Dear Friends,

It was marvelous to meet up with so many of you on my trip to the States. What was even better was meeting your kids (and sometimes your grandkids!). One of the most surprising things about these chance meetings was that they forced me to concede that I am over forty. I was seventeen for most of my adult life, but skipped up to forty just a year or two ago. 

What brought this message home far more dramatically was an email invitation that I received about a year ago inviting me to my High School class's fiftieth reunion. I let the organizers know that I was interested in participating and then proceeded to forget the entire matter. It was too ridiculous to consider seriously; so I filed it away under "Huh?" When I received a followup invitation and then a call, there was no place to hide. I would come. I had planned to be in L.A., but I could no longer pretend that I could avoid choosing to go or not to go.  It was yes or no. My dear daughter Chani patiently rearranged my tickets so that I could be in N.Y.

I arrived at the hall and found myself surrounded by the graduates of Bais Yaakov circa 1966; They were disguised as middle aged matrons. Yes, I know that "middle aged" isn't quite true.   I don't actually know many 137 year olds. This puts me a bit beyond the middle. Considering that I was seventeen. I shared so much of my life with the "girls".  We all wore plastic identity cards to make the entire process of figuring out to whom you are talking to less brutal. We mixed, caught up, and of course ate (we are Jewish after all…). Once you scratched the surface, the drama of everyone's lives shone through. What made this one of the best afternoons of my life, is that they were, overwhelmingly 'Winners'.


In the only contest,  that means anything. They were fulfilled, self-actualized versions of what they wanted to become at seventeen or eighteen. Their lives were not all easy; they had survived the tribulations that life offers with astounding success. They were resplendent versions of what Bais Yaakov is meant to inspire. They were not all successes in the material sense, nor were they all stereotypical wives and mothers. Some of them has suffered tragedies, some had health issues. Their goals of living Torah lives, keeping the example of their teachers and the Torah that they taught, turned them into a group that exuded a strong sense of achievement, and love of life. Some of the girls who came from difficult backgrounds were living testimony to how little that has to do with who you are at the end of the show.

The vast majority of girls were children of holocaust survivors, as were many of the teachers. They were inspired by their parent's faith and grateful that they were able to walk down the same road with fewer obstacles. One girl recalled that she was struggling her way through Tehillim homework. The language is sometimes difficult and often poetic. At the same time she was attacking Tehillim, her mother recited Tehillim without understanding what she was saying, but with absolute faith that Hashem heard her, and that the holy words have profound value.

The minority of "American"s became more ambitious; we would go where even the most observant families had not yet tred.  We saw photos of ourselves in the outrageous hairstyles that were the rage; huge mountains of hair sprayed into immobile and visually unbelievable hairdos. We are now wise enough to not take ourselves too seriously, and to enjoy the ride more than we did back then.

The real winners were the teachers (one of whom came to the reunion). Our principal, Rebbitzen Vichna Kaplan set the tone. She was always calm, always focused on the real goals, and always able to convey the truth without any form of apology or varnish. The teachers were human; some were more exciting, others less so. The clarity and the calm was always part of the package. We were far happier as a group than kids are today. We were teenagers and capable of emotional dramatics, but the greyness that seems to hover over so many of today's kids like an invisible cloud wasn't there.  We were more certain,  more civil, and more optimistic. We took ourselves seriously (and of course had endless Deep Meaningful Conversations).

There was lots of imperfection all around us. The building I learned in was a converted funeral parlor that had never been refurbished. B.Y. of Boro Park had originally been a hospital with a fully equipped birthing room. You can imagine the jokes about school being a cradle to grave full service experience. The general studies teachers were underpaid, making BY a safe haven for teachers who couldn't find work elsewhere. None of it mattered in the long run.

When I met Neve 'girls', I realized that you have your history and your tales of your Neve Daze and that they will build you and G-d willing turn you into the kind of winners that we grads of '66 are fortunate enough to be.

As ever,
Tziporah

Dear Friends,

Part One
I am in Dallas, home to quite a surprising number of familiar faces. It was so nice to see Neve girls in the audience. One of them was in Neve back in 84! The best is that some started in Mechina and are presently Rebbizens, pillars of the community, and successful professionals who integrate their work lives with their Torah lives almost seamlessly. One of the things that I like best is the mechitzah in the shul. It is made out of one-way glass and extends from close to the floor to the ceiling sponsored by a ‘Neve girl’ who wanted to do the best and most halachically valid mechitzah possible sponsored it. I like the mechitzah itself, but I also am full of admiration for the woman who chose to do something instead of the far more usual choice of endless complaining or compulsively describing why you do not like the old mechitzah in picayune detail.

I also had the pleasure of meeting some women who didn't go to Neve, but who are part of my online community, the mother of one of my Bnos Avigail students and the mother of a future Bnos Avigail student. Dallas has a wonderful feeling. Everyone knows who they are, and want to go up! The city itself is fascinating; the land is flat, green, hot, and looks like the folks who invented Lego constructed it. The previous day, I was in Providence. They estimate that there are about a hundred shomrei Shabbos. The result is a homey mini-community where everyone knows each other, cares about each other, and tolerate each other the way people do when they live Out of Town.

When I ask myself at the end of the day, "What did I learn from this", the answers are so much more complex than they seem at first. I learn about the struggle to be yourself when you have to be your own support system. I saw how people choose excellence when it would be socially acceptable to settle on mediocrity or worse.

The day before that, I was in Boston. It is an old Jewish community, a place where 250,000 students study every day. There are numerous universities and colleges, some of which are famous; others are tiny and almost anonymous. It is estimated that about 30% off them are Jewish. The indigenous community is heavily committed to providing them with places that are what I would call a spiritual safe house. Places where they can count on acceptance, and experience what a Shabbos with people who are genuine. Many of the Neve girls have daughters who are totally integrated to the Torah community. They go to the best seminaries, and still take enormous pride in their parent's journey.

The largest B.T. community I saw so far was in Passaic. The community is suburban, middle class and blessedly normal. Living here has many of the advantages of living in Town without the awful crowding and impersonal interactions of the City.

I am about half way done with my trip to the States. I have so much to share with you, and so little time. 

Part Two
Part two of this letter is coming out of San Diego. There are two main communes here; that of Rabbi Bogopolski and that of Rabbi Wohlgelenter. I hope that I spelled their names right. It isn't exactly Smith and Jones. The two communities are geographically fairly distant from each other. The Tragic result is that there is no kosher restaurant. Think twice before you move to this incredibly beautiful, friendly and most of all accepting and normal place. They also have an impressive Bais Yaakov. I had two of the girls in Bnos Avigail, and will have other fresh faced wholesome intelligent students from there this coming year. You would never know that they live in the same universe as the kids from the University of San Diego, one of the most dedicated party schools in the States. Their teachers and parents must be amazing.

​Well, it's soon going to be off to Oceanside (doesn't; the name sound inviting?)

Those of you in the States can call me at 848 565 4747 if you want to say hello or have a DMC.

All the best,
Tziporah

Dear Friends,

The dust has settled! Pesach feels like a dream, no longer part of your reality but not totally outside of it either. The "trick" is to keep it with you at least a while longer.

I saw an amazing idea from my latest Hagaddah. The author, Rabbi Elimelech Biderman, points out that the generic phrase "yitzias Mitzraim" which most people translate as "leaving Egypt" (without too much thinking) literally means “Egypt’s leaving” rather than  "Leaving FROM Egypt", which would translate as yestzias iMItzraim. Do you like grammar? No? Keep reading anyway. Until he pointed it out, I always filed this problem under "that's how Hebrew goes" and kept on doing things like munching on matzah. He asks, "Where did Egypt go? Didn't you just say it left? The answer is that it's much easier for you to leave Egypt than it is for Egypt to leave you. Getting Egypt out of the Jews was the most profound miracle of all. Even after an entire year of miracles, Egypt was still alive and well deep inside. Their fear of Egypt was hidden in that indescribable place, where your thoughts are barely audible.  They were still afraid of all of those Masters. The ones who subtly compete with Hashem. He quotes the Zohar that says that they only let go of all of their fears when they saw the Egyptians drown in the sea. Until then they were still afraid of the Egyptian taskmasters who turned their lives into unending nightmares. 

The Egyptians take many forms. Are you enslaved? Who holds the whip that makes you willing to do whatever he demands? Are you afraid of your boss? Your loneliness? Your financial insecurity? Your failures? The good news is that Hashem cares enough about you to say, “It's all illusion. They are gone. Dead in the water. Just be free”.

Take Pesach with you

 I always picture Pesach in pastels, wrapped and beribboned and very, very otherworldly. So many secular Jews sense the special nature of the narrative of the exodus (whether or not they recite it). They get together and make some sort of a Seder, sharing the experience of being part of something more than themselves. At least for the moment we are all free.
I went through some albums this year in the pre-Pesach cleanup. I came across a picture of my aunts. My mother had six sisters. They were all very different from each other; intellectual Fay,  Dorothy  with her fascinating collections , talkative Rose who gloried in her children's success and made sure we knew about them, gregarious Ceil, always the life of any party,  beautiful Jeanette the fashionista. My mother's favorite sister was Goldie.

All seven of them (and their two brothers) went to public school in the Lower East Side of Manhattan. The teachers were predominantly Irish, and did not particularly like Jews. To the girls, America was the ultimate melting pot, the fulfillment of the dream of being whoever you want to be. Their parents were still in Egypt; the name of their Egypt was Bialystok and Grodno, but it was Egypt. Every year, another one of the Cohen Girls entered first grade. The teacher was severe and remote; an almost iconic figure. She wore suits and starched white shirts. Their Mama wore housecoats covered with aprons that she removed as the day progressed. She was soft smelled faintly of fried onions, and came from another planet. Papa sold boys trousers from a pushcart on Delancey Street. Like their ancestors in Egypt, they didn't change their names, their language or their clothing. They spoke Yiddish, used Jewish names, and had a look that proclaimed them as hopelessly Green. They came from a different planet than the one that Mrs. Grady introduced to the Cohen girls. As she went through the rows, she asked each pupil their name. When Fay, the eldest, sat in 1-A she was told that the name she gave when asked, Faygaleh isn't a name. That's how she became Fay. Year after year, the same scene repeated itself. Devaira became Dorothy, Tzirel became Ceil, Raizeleh became Rose, Yentie became Jeanette. My mother, Sarale, became Syd. Goldie was different. When the teacher informed her that Goldie isn't a name and that gold is a metal, she told her name is Goldie. Period. No negotiations. She stayed Goldie for the rest of her life. All of the sisters were very Jewish, made Seders and invited and cooked. None of them liberated themselves from Egypt as well as Goldie did.

The weeks until Shavuot are weeks of challenge. You have to figure out how free you want to be-Hashem opened the doors wide, displayed infinite love and devotion. You have to learn how to get Egypt out of yourself by facing the daily choices. You can go for being kind, strong, real and balanced, transcendent, humble and devoted, you have it in you. You can reach out for the best choice of all, letting Hashem rule, putting crown so to speak on His head, and not been so afraid of whoever your slave master is that you are too afraid to let go of your patterns of thought and feelings that keep you enslaved.

I will be in the States, BEH from May 8 for two weeks. I will send out my itinerary so that you can be in touch with me or get to a class.

All the best,
Tziporah