This blog is dedicated to my late parents, Leonard and Betty Sherman.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way. . . .” — Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities
Just as in Dickens’ epic novel about the French Revolution and Reign of Terror, I am living in a paradoxical world right now. As a Jew, I am feeling more alone than ever, and yet more united than ever. More vulnerable, and yet, stronger. Less supported by some friends, and more supported by my husband, family, Jewish community and true friends. More fearful of the future and yet more confident that we shall prevail.
How does that even make sense?
For one thing, the world right now is a paradox, so why shouldn’t my emotional experience be any different? I am a reflection of the incredulity that is all around me. People are shouting antisemitic expletives from every corner of the planet. They (Pro-Palestinian, Pro-Hamas groups) are storming airports “hunting” for Jews. Jewish students at universities are receiving death threats. They are painting Star of Davids and swastikas on Jewish homes and businesses. Progressives who have championed every social cause imaginable are eerily silent.
Lest we forget, this is after over 1,400 people in Israel were murdered (in unimaginably horrific ways) and over 200 people (including elderly and children) are being held hostage by a terrorist organization. And then to make matters even worse, some people blamed the innocent victims…celebrated the atrocities…then turned around and denied the gruesome acts even happened in the first place. Mind boggling.
And yet, people are lighting candles and praying for Jews all over the world. Skyscrapers and even the Eiffel Tower are lit up in blue and white. Courageous people from diverse backgrounds are standing up for us in droves — they are not even Jewish. Empty Shabbat tables are lovingly set for the hostages. The Maoris in New Zealand are dancing for us. Voices once quiet are now speaking up loud and clear on our behalf. I am educating myself on the history of the Middle East so I am not espousing political jargon. Plus an added bonus: I have made a new set of international Jewish friends who are cheering each other on and have each other’s backs like none other. I have strengthened my cultural ties and feel prouder than ever of who I am because of these people.
All this from a shy, awkward kid growing up in West Los Angeles in the 1960s and 70s. My family did not attend temple regularly, if at all. Both sets of grandparents were Orthodox Jews who fled Eastern Europe (Kiev and Odessa) because of the pogroms…mass killings, rapings and torture of hundreds of thousands of Jews. They were the lucky ones, though, that got out of Europe before the Holocaust. My parents had to learn English in America, as their parents spoke primarily Yiddish. When my mom and dad didn’t want me to hear something, they spoke in Yiddish. Oy vey!
Every Chanukkah, however, we lit a menorah that was made in Israel. I still light that same humble, brass menorah every year — it is one of my prized possessions. Because we were Jewish, my dad did not allow a Christmas tree, so I decorated a tall fake plant in our living room. Food was a big part of our life, too. Dad did his weekly grocery shopping at Fairfax Avenue, a predominately Jewish neighborhood, for ethnic goodies like kishka, the best kosher salami, chicken and brisket, fruits, vegetables and my carb coma downfall, rich pastries such as honey cake and babka. Junior’s Deli on Westwood Boulevard was our most frequent dining spot.
Despite the fact that my parents were neither religious nor Zionists, they knew that our past was vital to our understanding of identity. We would watch films such as The Ten Commandments every year. I know every line of that film by heart. Moses was my super hero before Superman or Batman. My dad especially loved Fiddler on the Roof, identifying with the main character, Tevye, a stubborn patriarch who had to make tough decisions for his family. We watched Fiddler on a loop before streaming was a thing.
“This is the story of our people,” dad would always say after watching the film’s ending where Tevye leads his family out of Russia because of the pogroms.
“Yeah, dad,” I would say, in that teenage roll-your-eyes way, hoping he would not lecture me (again) on our familial history and struggles.
But my parents, both middle class Democrats, did not discuss Israel much at all. Dad read the newspaper from cover to cover every morning and we watched the news as a family every night on television rain or shine. I sort of knew what was going on in the world. Both of my parents worked full time; I was the quintessential latch key kid who loved Father Knows Best reruns and reading ghost stories.
My mom also told me about her father who went to temple religiously. He was always praying, praying, praying. Mom helped her mother cook and clean for six children and decided at an early age that she wanted a more glamorous life. She did not want the Orthodox life. Her father — deeply hurt and resentful about her decision — disowned her. Though preferring a secular lifestyle, mom still loved and cooked the Jewish food of her childhood. To this day, I cannot make a brisket like she did, though I have tried.
Sometimes we celebrated Passover with my parent’s best friends, Ray and Selma Stevens. Those Seder’s were warm, friendly and so much fun. Ray had a great sense of humor. Primarily our family recreation centered around bowling, taking drives down the Pacific Coast Highway or Sunset Boulevard, and me pestering my two older brothers when they were around. My mom and I loved shopping and going to lunch together. As our family had only one car, mom and I either walked or took the bus to Westwood Village, Beverly Hills, Century City and Santa Monica (before it was revitalized). We also loved the Los County Museum of Art, where I dragged her to the deserted bottom floor so I could stare at the Egyptian mummy in its sarcophagus. After the mummy, we went to the La Brea Tar Pits so I could see the saber-toothed tiger bones encased in tar.
This was my ordinary upbringing. Not Zionist. Not religious. Not wealthy. Not even bat mitzvahed. Culturally and genetically Jewish, yet assimilated.
October 7 changed all of that. Not only for me, but for the majority of Jewish people. Suddenly thrown into the fray of hate, whether or not we agreed or disagreed with Israeli politics, we started to collectively kick and scratch and gasp for air and try to make sense of our peculiar place in the world. Many people have similarly described how their ancestral “DNA kicked in”.
So now while I am disgusted with humanity, I am also hopeful for humanity. Where I see darkness, I also see a lighthouse. In response to feeling disdain at cruel words and actions, I try to be kinder and more courteous. While anger and disbelief are part of my daily repertoire, so is joy and appreciation. While I fight ignorance, I seek the truth. Though inherently introverted, I am reaching out to people more than ever.
In Fiddler on the Roof, Teyve must come to terms with his Jewish identity and traditions in a rapidly changing world. He says, “a fiddler on the roof. Sounds crazy, no? But here, in our little village of Anatevka, you might say every one of us is a fiddler on the roof trying to scratch out a pleasant, simple tune without breaking his neck.”
Jews everywhere are trying not to break their necks. Meanwhile, we are scared, we are hopeful. We fight ancient prejudice while we experience a new togetherness. We want peace. We wage war. We are fragile. We are stronger than ever. A paradox, indeed, trying to scratch out a simple tune while teetering on the edge.
This is the story of our people.
Yeah, dad, I hear you, now, loud and clear.
Cheryl Thatt-Burbank 