Netanel, a forty-year-old father of four living in Jerusalem, told me that he had never skipped a day wearing tefillin. “Even when I was fighting in my tank on the Lebanese border, my tefillin was always there in the tank with me,” he said. I thought to myself, there is something you won’t likely hear an American Jewish man say to describe his religiosity: wearing tefillin in a tank.
The “tefillin in a tank” story is one of many poignant images that emerged from my research on Orthodox men that went into my book, The Men’s Section: Orthodox Jewish Men in an Egalitarian World (UPNE, Hadassah Brandeis Institute, 2011). From my interviews with 54 men from Israel, North America, and Australia who belong to partnership synagogues, I found that despite contextual, linguistic, and historical differences among the communities, there are also common dynamics and tensions within Orthodox communities around the world. Indeed, although cultural differences—particularly between Israel and North America—find expression in sometimes surprising ways, I think that, when we dig beneath the surface of these differences, we may find more commonalities than we would expect.
The Centrality of Army Service in Religious Zionist Identity
The “tefillin in the tank” narrative, for example, on the surface illustrates the unique centrality of army service within Israeli religious identity. Army service has always been a significant component of religious Zionist identity and a major motif in the Israeli life narrative, filled with emotional, spiritual, and nationalistic associations. It also injects a culture of obedience, hierarchy, and power, which is deeply enmeshed with beliefs about national loyalty and religious Zionism. Religious identity and masculinity become interwoven with a profound sense of personal sacrifice, obedience, and responsibility to the national collective.
At the same time, a three- or five-year army stint for men also represents a potential challenge for religious cultures that increasingly pressure youth to marry young and build a large family fast. This can put army service in conflict with other religious-nationalistic goals. There is a growing trend of young couples starting out their marital life while the man is still in uniform, and often away from home for long periods of time—which, in turn, puts pressure on young religious women to go to work as soon as possible (hence the advent of new programs in Ulpana, enabling girls to take a fast track for college degrees or teaching certificates, and to work full-time before they turn twenty). This pattern was the subject of a troubling and impassioned lecture by Torah scholar Malka Petrekovsky at the 2011 Kolech conference. She implored the community to rethink the pressure-filled life trajectory being promoted by the religious world, and to enable young people to study, build their own careers, and engage in active family planning.
Certainly, the army experience has no real equivalent in the typical American Orthodox life. However, the issues raised by an examination of the role of army service find expression in Orthodox communities around the world. The pressure on young people—women as well as men—to marry early and to start large families quickly, combined with an education that promotes personal sacrifice and decision making based on what is best for the collective rather than one’s own emotional, physical, and spiritual health, arguably reflects worldwide trends. I believe that the “tefillin in the tank” story is about a religious person saying, “My religious observance is immutable.” Understood thus, the story crosses cultures. It is about encouraging people to carry out the religious dictates that they have been taught, perhaps without considering the potential consequences.
The Tension between Religious Commitment and Societal Consequences
This tension between obedience to religious prescriptions and the acknowledgment of their real-life consequences finds expression in a multitude of ways in the religious world. I often think about this dilemma when traveling on airplanes to and from Israel. When I was younger, I remember watching the clusters of men in the back wearing tallit and tefillin with a certain pride, appreciating the enormous commitment it must take to keep admittedly strangelooking practices in a public space, given considerable physical discomfort. Like the action of wearing tefillin in the tank, these actions are, to my mind, demonstrations of an unwavering commitment to religious observance.
However, more recently, the pendulum has shifted, and the most blatant act of religious commitment on airplanes has now become refusal to sit next to a woman. The same uncompromising, absolute determination that once was embodied in prayer has evolved into egregious views of women’s presence in the world. If religious people were once undeterred by the idea of appearing strange, today many religious people are undeterred by the idea of hurting others. Thus, the tension between commitment and consequences seems to have taken an unbalanced turn toward absolute commitment—often at the expense of women’s feelings and well-being.
Thus the iconography of tefillin in the tank—of the man who does what he believes is expected of him regardless of the dangers, real or imagined, that surround him—seems to have spread around Orthodoxy, not only in Israel but around the world.
Differences in American and Israeli Religious Cultures: Real or Imagined?
In my research on partnership synagogues, I encountered many claims of differences between American and Israeli religious cultures. These included claims of differences around punctuality, conversational style, definitions of community, role of the synagogue, patience, humor, and more. Certainly, the prevalence of such claims demands granting them a certain credence. However, the insistent claims of cultural difference echo Jacques Derrida’s theory of difference, whereby he describes the human tendency to ascribe otherness to those only slightly different from ourselves in order to help us form our definitions of ourselves. How much of the difference is real and how much is constructed remains an enduring question.
The blurriness of claimed difference is especially resonant when considering the history of the partnership synagogues in general. Shira Hadasha in Jerusalem, established in 2002, was ascribed to be the first such synagogue, although Darkhei Noam in New York began around the same time in a completely separate process. Of the twenty-five or so partnership synagogues that currently exist around the world—at least one fourth of which are in Israel—Israelis have been active in many of those in North America, and Anglos have been active in many in Israel. According to research by William Kaplowitz,1 these minyanim are a function of the mobility of the culture of these synagogues—each started by someone who had been active in a partnership congregation in another city or community.
Indeed, in my research, I found myself interviewing many people who had been in more than one partnership synagogue: someone in Jerusalem who was a founder of a minyan in Chicago; someone in Los Angeles who was active in one in New York; someone in Modi’in who migrated from Jerusalem; and so forth. I also found myself interviewing friends and relatives in various locations: a man in Australia and his cousin in Jerusalem; brothersin-law, one in Jerusalem and one in Modi’in; childhood friends, one in Boston and one in Zikhron Yaakov. This pattern is also a reflection of globalization and a more mobile, connected world in which people move around and communicate internationally with ease. Many of my informants have lived in different places around the world—including Israelis who have lived in America and Americans who live in Israel. When people move that much, who is to say to which culture they belong?
For these reasons, I find it difficult to distinguish something called “American” and something called “Israeli” in this religious culture. The entire Orthodox world is composed of traveling cultures that blend into one another and continuously influence each other.
Even claims of cultural differences around liberal ideology are difficult to maintain. Israel, for instance, is often said to be a generation or two behind America in terms of developing a civil rights consciousness. (The recent violence in south Tel Aviv over the presence of African migrants is a case in point.) There is certainly evidence that Israeli social policy lacks sensitivity to issues of equality and civil rights, as evidenced by some overtly racist statements made by Israeli government ministers over the years. In fact, Israel Prize laureate Professor Alice Shalvi said in an interview that there was no real civil rights movement to speak of in Israel during the 1970s, and that feminism did not really arrive in Israel until the 1990s. Orthodox feminism, in particular, started in Israel some twenty-five years after it was born in America.
Are Israelis Less Feminist-Conscious?
For this reason, it may be reasonable to assume that Israeli interviewees would be less equality-conscious or feminist-conscious than American interviewees. But that assumption was not confirmed in the interviews. Some of the most liberal, open-minded men, the ones most committed to feminism and equality, were Israeli. Even without the civil rights upbringing, even if they were “late” in discovering Orthodox feminism, some of the men most unwavering in their commitment to equal rights were Israeli. In fact, Netanel, the man who donned tefillin in his tank, arrived at his feminism while in the army. “I don’t want to be the one with all the power,” he said. “I’ve been that man, the domineering man who is in charge over other people’s lives. I don’t want that.”
The religious feminist movement probably had a lot to do with this blurring of differences. In an interview earlier this year, Dr. Hannah Kehat, founder of Kolech, stated that when she attended the first JOFA conference in 1997, Orthodox feminism did not exist at all in Israel. Her experience with JOFA was a major impetus for starting Kolech (see article, page 1), and she has since been a tireless advocate for changing consciousness on women’s issues in Israel. Perhaps, then, Professor Shalvi’s observations about a time lag may be in need of revision, as Israeli and American religious communities evolve on parallel tracks toward a greater appreciation of equality, feminism, and human rights.
Trying to make some sense out of all this, I have concluded that cultural differences between Israelis and Americans are not as clear-cut as one might have originally thought. Perhaps the perception of difference is a psychological tactic: it is easier for us to dismiss challenging ideas by citing cultural differences. We say to ourselves, “That’s not me; that’s them.”
Discussions of cultural differences are useful in helping us contextualize our own behaviors and beliefs, to locate ourselves within the broader framework of humanity. Ultimately, however, when we look closely at what we believe to be cultural differences, we are likely to find that human beings are more alike than we are different. We are all walking the same journey, trying to make meaning out of the life we are given. Jewish men in Israel and America are doing that, too, building meaningful religious practices as they develop their own identities as men. Whether they speak Hebrew or English, serve in the army or don’t, finish Shabbat davening at 10 AM or at 1 PM is less significant. What is most powerful is the common language of humanity and life.