About “Male” Religion and “Female” Freedom

At the peak of Germany’s latest “circumcision-debate,”[1] talkshow host Anne Will invited an orthodox rabbi, so as to let him defend the position of his folks. Inexperienced with contemporary religious tribunals, the rabbi brought forth what was, to him, the single one relevant argument: “If circumcision is going to be forbidden, we will continue in any case…because it is written in the Torah: On the eights day, his foreskin shall be circumcised” (Lev 12:3). Needless to say that with this explanation, the rabbi gave the audience the gratification of being easily identifiable as a religious fanatic: he was – as is obvious from what he just said – a fundamentalist one cannot reasonably talk to.

Of course, not all Jews quoted the word of God in order to illuminate circumcision’s raison d’être. Some willfully followed the choreography, which dominates religious tribunals from the Middle Ages onwards, and has the accused trapped in (of course futile) attempts to prove Judaism’s compatibility with Christian and/or secular notions of the truth. Whether such rhetorical compliance is a strategic choice or a matter of conviction – one thing is certain: Any speech about God in a secular space has to grapple with the ways, in which secularism has not only installed a division between earthly and divine power, but also rearticulated “religion” in a manner that is compatible with modern sensibilities and modes of governance.[2]

Germany’s “circumcision-debate” did not come alone. The debate needs to be read as an integral part of the religious debates that preceded and followed it – most of which were directed against Muslims, Germany’s principal bearers of “religion.” This is not to deny the circumcision-debate’s unique qualities and dynamics, which developed when Germans figured that circumcision is not only a Muslim, but also a Jewish practice – yet, I hold that the circumcision-debate’s ideological context are all those debates, that had previously scrutinized, stigmatized and criminalized the religious practice of Muslims: The debate about the “meaning” of a hijab, about prayer in public schools and universities, about religious education in mosques or Islamic kindergartens, about Muslim girls’ participation in swimming lessons, about handshaking, to mention just a few.

A central element in all these debates is an anxiety about the subject’s free will and the way the latter is deployed vis-à-vis her body. During the circumcision-debate, for example, one of the most notorious and powerful arguments against the rite focused on the obvious lack of “free will” on the part of the child: How can the German State permit Muslim and Jewish parents to inscribe the bodies of their innocent minor offspring with an irreversible religious mark? How can parents force a religion upon a child that does not have the slightest understanding of what said religion is all about? More generally, this argument is time and again brought forth also against the religious education of children: Children should either grow “naturally,” without any “premature indoctrination,” or learn about every religious tradition, so that they may henceforth choose from among what they “liked best.” In order for a religious practice to be accepted at least by left-wing liberals in favor of “religious diversity,” it is thus crucial for this practice to pass as an expression of an individual’s free choice. Accordingly, both hijab-wearing women and their secular supporters defend the hijab in public spaces as an individual choice, and not as a religious obligation.

The practice of circumcision, however, does not fit this strategy. It completely undermines the standard arguments of left-wing liberals in favor of religious diversity and self-determination, because circumcision simply cannot aptly be described as “just another choice.” It is obviously not the child’s “choice,” but neither is it the parent’s “choice”: From a Jewish religious perspective at least, circumcision is not a choice among any number of equally worthy options. There is no marketplace of different practices, from which a “consumer” may pick whatever suits her best, because the body is here not a thing, which an individual owns and with which she can do whatever she is inclined to do. It is not a commodity to possess, analogous to a thing being purchased. It is, rather, something that defines the self long before the latter is able to capture itself in language (hence, the obligatory and pre-discursive character of circumcision). The rite’s opponents thus detected, quite accurately, that circumcision is, indeed, about subjugation, in which an individual’s “free choice” does not take center stage.

In this respect then, practices such as circumcision fundamentally contradict contemporary identity-politics, which do not recognize the body as a guarantor of stable (gendered) identity and a site of self-evident (masculine) power: In contemporary Europe, difference is no longer explicitly, in a socially acceptable way, articulated through reference to the body, that is, through gender and/or race. This does of course not mean, that gender has ceased to work, that it is an obsolete category. Rather, I’d suggest that difference, that was previously articulated in terms of gender and race, is today negotiated primarily in terms of “male” religion vis-à-vis “female” freedom: The face of Islam – again: Islam as the primary bearer of “religion” – is decisively decoded as male and black, that is, the “old” way of being male. It is autocratic, violent, physical, and dangerously virile, it even “conquers.” It is, if I may, everything the “new,” Western male was once, but is no longer. In contrast to the “old” manliness of religion/Islam, the “new” manliness – that is, the new way of exercising cultural superiority – entails a disavowal of the male body as a site of symbolic and actual power: the face of the New Right in Europe does not feature archaic machismo, but female leadership figures, and female self-determination against religious (male) authority as one its most prominent pet issues.

My question then is: Are all those debates about the embodied practices of “religion” a reflection of a sense of insecurity regarding the cultural superiority of this “new” manliness? Or why do Europe’s “new men” feel such an urgent need to constantly hurt the bodily integrity of others, to unveil female hair, faces and bodies, to obligate children to shake hands, to circumvent the public bowing down in prayer, to define the proper look of the male sexual organ – to emasculate whatever reminds them of what was once, but is lost? Why do so many people attack the body in an age, which has stripped the body of any innate, intrinsic meaning? Is this because the “enchanted” body is (still) too desirable?


9e67349cb1bec817b7bf99a4d976026d[1] For an analysis of previous German circumcision debates see Robin Judd, Contested Rituals: Circumcision, Kosher Butchering, and Jewish Political Life in Germany, 1843-1933, Cornell University Press 2007.

[2] A person, who embodies a religious practice, that runs counter these notions, thus faces something like an ever-ongoing Fanonic moment: Even before uttering a first word, she has to take into account that her audience yields secularism a non-negotiable necessity and religion a threat – with the threat growing proportionally to her religion’s distance from modern notions of what a religion is, and how it should behave like.

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Who Is Mandolina?

On a late afternoon, a chilly spring-day, I rushed down Gihon Street of Jerusalem’s Abu-Tur neighborhood. I had to get to the main street’s bus station, to catch number 74 downtown. A few months earlier we had married, and moved from Nahla’ot to Abu-Tur, into an apartment of a house, that people referred to as “the last house of Gihon Street.” It was not that this street ended with our house – our house gained its appellation simply because it was the last house of Gihon Street’s Jewish part. Right next to it, the remains of a wall from the 67’-war marked the “border,” the border between “Jewish Jerusalem,” and the other, unknown, “Arab Jerusalem”: that part, which is – from the perspective of the city’s Jewish inhabitants – some kind of a white spot or a black hole, where the names of neighborhoods and streets become indistinguishable gibberish, where I would not get along, be lost, a total stranger.

Yet, a stranger I was also in “Jewish Jerusalem”: Women who looked like me were sitting in the bus next to me, reading Psalms, or calling their families on their mobile phones to organize the Shabbat’s set up – yet I had no family in Israel, and instead of Psalms, I had just discovered Talal Asad’s “Formations of the Secular.” Jerusalem’s German expats didn’t offer any refuge, too: as a convert, who deliberately chose to belong to the not-yet-enlightened Psalm-readers, I was referred to as a more or less pitiful person, whose academic brain melts away like a snow-man in the sun. I was, in short, an assemblage of unrelated parts, with myself (and my apartment, coincidentally) being located at an unidentifiable in-between place, where no other people were dwelling, where there was no recognizable community, no solidarity, no natural buffer-zone.


On that chilly afternoon, on my way to the bus-stop, I met Mandolina. Mandolina – who did not have her name back then – was a cat, maybe one month old, not bigger than a fist. She was dwindled up in a bush next to the street, crying, because her belly was ripped open. There were branches, thorns, dust and dirt, and a bundle of blood, bowels entangled around legs, with a faint breathing body. Frantically, I searched for the phone-number of the city’s veterinary emergency. Someone picked up: Yes, they would come, but it may take a while.

I waited next to the bush. The hours passed by. The sun slowly vanished, the sky turned red, and the air became cold and serene. I am not sure, cat, what we are doing here, I told her. She kept on breathing; I kept on waiting.

It was dark already when the veterinary service arrived. With a pair of tongs, similar to those that are used to pick up rubbish from the street, they grabbed her, placed her in a metal cage, took my phone number, and drove away. She will not make it, they told me.

Mandolina, however, made it. Three days later, I got a phone call from the veterinary service: The cat had survived surgery, but it couldn’t remain any longer at the veterinary station. Outside, the chilly weather and the rain would turn the wound inflammatory, so if I could take the cat into my home? Yes, I said, sure, the cat can stay with me!

Again, she was locked up in a metal cage. When the veterinary service worker opened it, she ran out in total panic, crushed a few times against the walls, and eventually hid behind the fridge. Ok, he said, goodbye then.

For two weeks, she left her hideaway only during the nights, in order to eat some of the food, which I had placed next to the fridge. In the night, I heard her wandering around, yet as soon as she heard the rustling of my blanket, she ran back to the fridge, her refuge. We advanced in small steps: First, she stared at me when I was sitting at my computer, a few meters away from the fridge. Weeks later, she stared at me also when I was walking around in the apartment, hiding only when I came too close to her fridge. It took a few months, until she dared to touch my hand with her little nose. In the meantime, we had built her a little shack in the garden right next to our apartment’s window, from where she could jump in- and out. She never became fully domesticated.

When we left Jerusalem for Berlin, Mandolina stayed behind. I placed a full plate of food next to her shack – she immediately came to fetch it – and I closed the windows of our apartment, the garden’s backdoor, the apartment’s door, and left the “last house” of Gihon Street. I passed the place where I had found her, walked down the street to the bus stop, to the central bus station, to the airport. Our neighbors agreed to give her food, yet we lost contact with them. I have no idea what happened to Mandolina: for a few weeks, she probably waited for food to be placed next to her shack. I hope that she made it, and am tentatively optimistic: Even though she had always remained small, she had a strong survival instinct, and luck, too.


When setting up my blog, one of the stages of registration entailed the naming of the site’s domain. I didn’t know that, unlike the blog’s title, I could of course not change the domain-name later on. And that’s how a blog called “Mandolina” came into being: It was simply the first name that came to my mind. She remained in my heart, if you wish to phrase it like that.

This name fits, however, because much of my writing here is a continuation of something, that started many years earlier in “Gihon Street’s last house,” during the time Mandolina was living in our garden (which was not officially “our garden” at all). The feeling of insecurity and melancholy of this time have vanished, yet still, the blog’s vantage point is that moment when turning from a self-evident, naturally belonging agent into an object, or a “problem,” of contemporary notions of “the good,” the reasonable, the right, the important. Of course, this means that this blog is not about pleasing the majority of readers: it is about re-thinking that, which pleases the majority of readers. It is, at the end of the day, about finding words for a vantage point, that is situated at the margin of a place, where street-names sound familiar, and glides into another place, that is the dominion of another law, quite literally. A place, where me and Mandolina gradually lost our panic, reassembled our selves, and tried to make sense of this fragile, particular beginning of a new life.


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The Hebrew Manuscripts of the Bodleian Library in Oxford: An entirely Non-Academic Account

At some point in the course of my studies, I decided that I am not a manuscript-person. Maybe this was simply due to laziness, or haughtiness, or both: After working for a couple of months on the transcription of a Hebrew manuscript from Renaissance Italy (precisely: Yohanan Alemanno’s magnum opus, Hay ha-Olamim), I tossed all my work into the archive, and never opened the microfiche-pdf again.

On my way to the manuscript-collection of the Bodeleian library in Oxford I therefore did not expect anything overtly spectacular. Together with a group of some 15 academics, I had attended a (very cool) summer-school in a nearby castle-hotel, and after being transferred to downtown-Oxford for Shabbat, we were offered a guided tour through the Hebrew collection of the library. The chief-librarian, César Merchán, welcomed us at the entrance: An old building, high ceilings, a lots of marble, a security counter, lockers for bags and jackets, acclimatized air, silence. Like many times before, I sensed that old, academic buildings imbue their guests with an aura of authority, secrecy, importance, as if one enters a temple, in which matters of higher orders are being stored, made accessible only to the selected few – one immediately becomes a little too underdressed, a little too profane, a little too working-class.

Passing another few doors with locks secured by secret codes, we entered a room, into which César had previously moved some manuscripts. On a wheeled cupboard, one next to the other, they were waiting. César heaved a huge Mahzor upon a plastic-foam-construction on a table in the middle of the room, and let his hands wander through the pages. 13th century, Ashkenaz.

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For a quarter of a second, I thought that something’s utterly wrong here, that César is not really the Bodleian’s Hebrew chief-librarian, but a charlatan who had tricked his way illegally into the temple: How come, I asked him, that you touch the pages without gloves? Shouldn’t there be some kind of protective barrier between your hands and the 13th century? How can you touch something so fragile? “Oh no,” he said, turning to me, “there are two schools among librarians of manuscripts. One advocates the use of gloves, but the other holds that you have to feel the pages.” The use of any additional tool would not protect them, but reduce the sensibility of the hands, as nothing is more sensitive, more perceptive, than real skin. The preferred method of the Boldelain library is, therefore, literally “skin on skin”: the skin of human hands gliding over the skin of an animal, the parchment. A sensory meeting of the hands of the living, the active, the powerful, with letters, motionless on parchment, fragile, a thousand years old. Or maybe the other way around – for what would we be without those letters?

Ohhh, I murmured, and was reminded of the Brit of Joel: In an attempt to understand the medical dimension of the intervention, I had asked our Mohel if he would use any devises, or tools, besides the regular ones. But he assured me, that he would need solely his hands. Any “medical” addition would interrupt the procedure unnecessarily, and bear the risk of complication. Skin on skin, again.

The Mahzor measured some 50 x 30cm, with a width of approximately 15cm. Its script and layout were even, almost as if printed, without mistakes. One could see how the pages had been prepared: cut, smoothed, nearly invisible lines being embossed at each page, an incredible amount of work before the scribe had set his first letter on the parchment. Someone in our group rejoiced upon identifying at first glance a particular part of the Sukkot-liturgy: Did the scribe of this Mahzor ever imagine, that 1000 years apart from his own life, the eyes of a professor for Talmudic law would meet his letters, and mean precisely the same thing they meant to him? How many eyes, how many places, how many hands had this Mahzor seen? How many Jews have carried its weight, how did it survive? It must be heavy, I thought, its transportation not especially convenient, and difficult. Each page was illustrated with ornaments, fable-animals, human-beings without faces, colors and layers of gold. Meticulously, millimeter-by-millimeter, the illustrator had beautified each page, as if the immeasurable value of the words needed to be accompanied by material, aesthetic worth.

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Each page had a “micrography” at its bottom, which César explained us to be a particularly Jewish type of illumination. Mircographies are tiny, tiny Hebrew letters combined to form an ornament, that is, it is not the illumination of a letter, but the very use of the letter itself as a “limb” of the illustration. It is unknown what motivated this kind of artwork: possibly, it circumvents a prohibition of images, yet possibly, too, the use of a letter as a physical component of a larger image, or ornament, is also a visualization of the Jewish interpretative tradition: Viewed from above, it is an image, a coherent whole, an entire world, yet the closer you draw, the more you become aware of a multitude of components, details, interwoven one into the other, a “massekhet,” a web, made up of tiny little bodies of letters, each one in and of itself an indispensable, corporeal component of the universe.

César turned the pages, something he had done probably at least a dozen times before our visit. Despite British correctness and professionalism, his face seemed to be filled with admiration, affection, love for what he was doing.

On our way out of the library, we passed a few high-ceiled reading-halls named after people. Serious scholars dressed in neutral colors were sitting in rows above their books and manuscripts. No food, no drinks. If I had decided to become a manuscript-person, would I sit here, too? Would I be smart and patient enough to prepare a critical edition, or would I schedule as many coffee-dates as possible and sneak into facebook for digression? Would I be fond of my manuscripts like César? Glancing over the ethereal-looking scholars, I saw myself sitting on the ground with Joel, handling toys, strollers, bottles, bananas, ice-cream, invitations to the kindergarten’s summer-party, team-days, and the laundry, tired. I envied their tranquility, the quietness and cleanliness of their temple, their effortless appropriateness. The Mahzor was an expat here: It was written by the light of the sun and candles, it wandered through the hands of those, who prepared the parchment, the ink, the script, who illustrated it, who carried it from place to place on their backs, or in wagons, who recited its words on the Festival of Sukkot. A few of its pages had been damaged by the teeth of a mouse. It must have seen the fullness of life.

(César had advised us to look at the manuscripts in their digitalized form, accessible on the library’s website. A collection of micrography-highlights, for example, is here).

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Short Note: Post About Jewish Studies in Berlin

I just wanted to say that I took that last blogpost off the blog, because I cannot publish anything here, in my blog, before its “official” publication in a normal, traditional journal and/or presentation at a conference! I should have thought about this before, of course, but well…so my apologies.

If you have more questions, suggestions, critique etc. please feel free to contact me in private (via facebook or mail). It is important to have that conversation.

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Unruly Religion

A couple of weeks ago, I participated in a panel discussion about “discrimination on religious grounds.”[1] At the end of the discussion, someone in the audience asked me whether I had experienced a rise of anti-Semitism during the past months. I was not sure what to answer: No one has ever offended me, neither verbally nor physically, as a Jew. Yet, this answer would convey a message I did not want to convey, namely, that everything is fine. Nothing is fine. Just that the problem does not look like you think it does.


At some point in my life, I converted and became a “religious Jew.” I didn’t expect this to cause any relevant upheaval in my socio-cultural milieu: Academics from the humanities, people, who are engaged in Jewish Studies, travel regularly to Israel, and have Israeli friends. Among my peers, it surely was ok, even superb, to be a Jew. And yet, the appearance of another “kind” of Jew – the religious Jew – triggered their profound discomfort. Nothing I had done affected them in any straightforward, practical way, but glossing over it was nonetheless not an option: I learned that you could not be a member of their club if your identity, however discretely, pointed at a non-secular frame of reference. You could not represent the not-yet-reformed versions of Judaism.

When you belong to the not-yet-reformed, you are a traitor to cultural evolution. As the rest of humanity had progressed from paganism to Judaism to Catholicism to Protestantism to secularism, you were making a u-turn and despite knowing better return to some earlier, less elaborated, less free, less noble state of being. I was told that I could have chosen between “champagne and water,” and took the water. I was told that my husband will cheat on me once I would have produced him children, because this is what they do in “these kinds of societies.” I was asked if I am not afraid to marry into that “African tribe,” my husband’s Yemeni family. I was told that it is very, very sad that “someone like me” needs to put up with something like this (“something like this” being the observance of the Shabbat). Everybody oppresses and brainwashes me, I was told: the Jewish law, the rabbis, my husband, everybody from that other side, where God rules, instead of reason. I was being asked if I could keep on writing my dissertation despite my religion. I was told that secularism is the only guarantor of peace, that my religion will force me into cruel tribalism as evidenced by the rite of circumcision…

It felt like being trapped in an everlasting job-interview. When you are tagged as a “fundamentalist,” you are constantly checked as to your compatibility. Before being admitted as a relevant partner of debate, you have to prove that you’ve learned the rules, that you are a liberal, free and critical mind even though you stick to a set of archaic rules. Your word is never relevant as is, a priori, but always in danger of de-legitimization because of its situatedness, subjectivity, its being tainted by religious bias. At best, my position was that of a tragic transitional character, the one that knows of the sweetness of freedom and bravely manages to finish a Ph.D. despite religious constraints, but is not strong enough to get rid of those constraints entirely. Tradition, you know, is a very heavy chain.

I recount this not so much as a personal testimony, but as a piece of a puzzle of a larger point: In contemporary Germany, Jews and Muslims are not categorically discriminated as Jews and Muslims, but as unruly Jews and Muslims. We have a ban on head-coverings in state offices and almost criminalized ritual circumcision, because head-coverings and circumcisions do not comply with hegemonial assumptions about how a “religion” should function and look like. Thus, when the opponents of circumcision claimed, that they are not motivated by Jew-hatred, at least some of them could be believed: The criminalization of ritual circumcision was, indeed, not meant to be an anti-Semitic assault, but rather, an educational endeavor meant to transform the archaic into the enlightened: it was well meant, it was left wing, it was even feminist.

Of course, there exists racial xenophobia, that type of anti-Semitism and anti-Muslim racism that is categorically directed against Jews and Muslims. Yet, this kind of xenophobia is a social outcast and a political no-go: The New Right is keen to dissociate itself from a racial stigmatization of Muslims (and to that end, the AfD’s Muslim members are its greatest asset). The discourse, which is nowadays activated in order to legitimize xenophobic politics, is not one of racial purity, but of cultural progress from the “backward” to the “enlightened,” from tradition to reason, from tribalism to individualism. It is an evolutionary narrative, in which our predecessors peeled, layer by layer, “religion” from their skins, and thereby turned from child-like victims of religious paternalism, incapable of “independent reasoning,” into self-determined, individual agents. Secularism is this evolution’s glorious end-product, where religious differences and particularity are neutralized, where the limits of bodily existence are overcome by pure, bird-eyed reason: an ultimate truth.

The structuring element of this evolutionary narrative is religious: At the bottom, there is fundamental, non-reformed, non-liberal religion. In contemporary Europe, this kind of religion is currently associated with Islam. At the top is Protestantism, hardly distinguishable from secularism, and accordingly perceived as wholly congruent with “universal norms,” rather than with any particular “religion.” Judaism is an ambivalent in-between: On the one hand, it is entirely appropriated and incooperated into Protestantism, yet on the other hand, it is always kept as “the other,” whose existence testifies to Germany’s multiculturalism. It is the quintessential “other that is like us” – which explains my German friends’ unease with a Jew, who is “not like us”: The existence of this kind of Jew, who is a little closer to the bottom, was a surprise to many during the “circumcision-debate” in 2012, and erupted the new Germany’s self-image: The nation was torn between a wish to maintain a tolerant self-image, and a refusal to tolerate religious difference of the non-liberal kind.

Ultra-orthodox Jewish boy wears a costume ahead of  Purim in Jerusalem's Mea Shearim neighbourhood

Purim in Jerusalem’s Mea Shearim neighbourhood February 22, 2013. Reuters/Amir Cohen

So yes, something is going wrong here. The problem, however, rests neither with a particular political party, nor with any particular religiously defined group. The problem rests with an evolutionary model of cultural progress, which positions Judaism at an intermediary stage: a necessary, yet imperfect stage, that ultimately needs to be overcome, that is: to be transformed and expressed along particular, socially acceptable lines. This is a secularized version of Christian supersessionism, and it surrounds us in a million of ways: It is ever present in discussions about “Islam,” it comes up when the “level of female emancipation” in Jewish orthodoxy is scrutinized, it is a self-evident, automatic framework of any public assessment of “religion” – and it hurts.



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Das Experiment

Zwei Tiere werden in einen Glaskasten gesetzt. Sie gehören vermeintlich unterschiedlichen Spezies an. Ein Forscherteam hält das Zusammentreffen mit einer Kamera fest: Werden sich die beiden nun zerfleischen? Oder doch überglücklich in die Arme fallen? Wie geht das „Experiment“ aus?

Die Spezieszugehörigkeit beider Tiere ist ganz leicht zu erkennen: Das eine Tier hat eine Kippah auf dem Kopf, es heisst „der Jude.” Das Forscherteam nimmt die Perspektive des Juden ein: Er ist das Individuum, das auf seinem Weg durch den Dschungel begleitet wird. Es ist eine Expedition des Menschen hin zu den Wilden, mitten rein in eine nicht näher differenzierte Masse von Barbaren: die Geflüchteten, die da hausen in der Mehrzweckhalle.

Mit erregter Spannung erwartet das Forscherteam den Ausgang des Experiments: Was wird passieren, wenn die Wilden das erste Mal in ihrem Leben einen Juden sehen? Ganz tief im Inneren weiß das Team natürlich: Nicht nur die Wilden, sondern auch die Forscher selber hatten in der Vergangenheit eher wenig mit Juden zu tun. Die unmittelbaren Vorfahren der Forscher nämlich löschten jüdisches Leben in ganz Europa aus. Als sie dann zum ersten Mal in ihrem Leben auf einen lebendigen Juden treffen, zittern daher vor allem sie selbst – nur gut, dass sie ihre Vergangenheit bewältigt haben, und „dem Juden“ so ganz ungezwungen gegenüber treten. So ungezwungen, dass sie ihn mitsamt seines Markenzeichens, der Kippah, in feindlicher Umgebung aussetzen, um dann mit Erregung festzustellen, dass der anti-Semitismus nun bei den Geflüchteten zu Hause ist. Welch Erleichterung!

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Die Geflüchteten selber drehen sich weg. Sie wollen am „Experiment“ nicht so richtig teilhaben, was schade ist, denn nur durch dieses Experiment können die Forscher erkennen, ob die Geflüchteten integriert werden können, in die zivilisierte Welt da draußen, jenseits der Mauern der Unterkunft: da, wo Antisemitismus allenthalben geächtet wird – wo es zwar auch kaum mehr Juden gibt, wo man ab und zu Mal die Beschneidung verbieten möchte, wo man die Sichtbarkeit nicht-protestantischer Religiosität mit dem Verweis auf die eigene Neutralität kriminalisiert. Wo man Juden vor allem dann wirklich sehr, sehr gerne hat, wenn sie sich zur Bestätigung des eigenen Selbstbildes benutzen lassen.

Nein, das ist keine Relativierung von Antisemitismus. Es ist auch nicht der Versuch ein real existierendes Problem kleinzureden, unter den Tisch zu kehren, oder zu verharmlosen. Es ist ganz einfach ein Hinweis darauf, dass wirklich niemandem damit geholfen ist, wenn Juden und Muslime wie Versuchskaninchen in eine Glasbox gesetzt werden, um ihre Feindschaft und/oder Freundschaft vor deutschen Kameras zu demonstrieren. Denn Antisemitismus ist kein mystisches Spaghettimonster, das sich wahlweise auf verschiedene Bevölkerungsgruppen setzt, dort sein Unheil anrichtet, und dann weiterfliegt, um sich ein neues Zuhause zu suchen. Antisemitismus ist, in diversen Ausformungen und Facetten, ein integraler Bestandteil des christlichen Abendlandes, und wenn jetzt zur „Antisemitismus-Prävention“ Flüchtlingsunterkünfte und Moscheen brennen, dann schützt der weiße Europäer nicht die hier lebenden Juden, sondern benutzt sie zur Legitimation seines eigenen Rassismus.

Das Video ist hier.

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When a Queen Called Shabbat Knocks at the Door

Is not the sun red at sunrise and at sunset? [It is red] at sunrise, because it passes by the roses of the Garden of Eden; at sunset, because it passes the gate of Gehenna. Others reverse the answer (Babylonian Talmud, Bava Bathra 84a)


A question I am asking myself once in a while is: Why do I observe the Shabbat? What sense does it make? It is not, after all, that there are no other things to do on a Shabbat – quite the opposite, the Shabbat knocks at my door, inevitably and without invitation, and piles of work-not-done remain where they are, for 25 hours, as if deadlines and schedules were a joke, as if the entire mechanism of a global capitalist economy could be put on a hold without the batting of an eye. So why?

Some will say the obvious: Jews keep the Shabbat, because this is what God has commanded them to do. This sounds reason enough, to be sure, yet to me, such an answer is a little too “big” to make sense, too distant in time and place, too abstract. What does it mean, that God has commanded something? Where am I, as a woman living in 21st century Berlin, and where is that burning bush, I mean…come on…

A while ago, I have asked my husband for the reason of his Shabbat-observance. He answered that “this is what my mothers and fathers have done, so this is what I am and do, too” – an answer, which to me specifically was not satisfying, as my mothers and fathers surely have not done this. Yet as time passed by, I got it: When observing the commandments of the Shabbat, I become a heir of his mothers and fathers, too, and their mothers and fathers, and their mothers and fathers. The Shabbat is a connecting bond between me, and my husband’s ancestors in Yemen; it makes me part of their history, back in time and space. Of course, there are oceans and mountains between my world and theirs – there is, from a technical point of view, hardly a thing that “my” Shabbat has is common with “their” Shabbat, let alone with the Shabbatot of their ancestors, let alone with the Shabbatot which a group of Jews in 6th century Babylonia had in mind.

But still: There remains a bond, consisting of a set of rules, which makes me part of a larger whole: The pile of work-not-done at sunset, the hasty preparations before sunset, the prayers, the Torah-portion, the time-off, the being-thrown-back with your immediate surroundings. No trade, no money, no news beyond that, which happens here right now. Many small little things, some a little odd and superfluous, add up to make a Shabbat, and that Shabbat becomes part of my life and that of my children, as it became part of the lives of those before me. And here we go: When I will leave this world, I will know at least that: I was not alone, but was part of a community of people, connected beyond times and places, who have set their eyes, in whatever circumstances, at the sunset at Friday evenings. The burning bush seems a little less distant this way.


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