Chapter Two: Who Am I Supposed to Be? Stories Of
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El-or/Reserved Seats/Chapter 2/page 137 CHAPTER TWO WHO AM I SUPPOSED TO BE? STORIES OF PERSONAL TRANSFORMATION PROLOGUE 1 EVERY WEDNESDAY It was 10:25 when I parked my car. HaYarkon Street began to fill up. Most of the cars were old ones, and many were plastered with bumper stickers. Some displayed the Na-Nah-Nahma-Nahman Mi-Oman mantra of the Bratislaver Hasidim. Others asked “What, you haven’t become religious yet?” and still others proclaimed “You can’t make a million people shut up.” A young couple emerged from a Subaru. He drew a kipah from his pocket and put it on his head. She wore a tight skirt that reached down below her knees, and stylish sandals without socks. Her hair was loose, and she had a knapsack on her back. They parted at the entrance to the yeshiva. He went in the main door, to the central hall, while she, and I, walked around the back, to the women’s entrance. Not many women were there yet—only about forty. I knew from experience, however, that the lower auditorium, which served during the day as the yeshiva’s dining hall, would slowly fill up. The ramp leading down to the back entrance was dimly lit. Actually the back access drive to the building, it was lined with piles of crates, wooden palettes, and discarded yeshiva gear. The foyer leading into the lower hall had been converted into a small religious emporium. Its shelves were packed with volumes of instruction, children’s books in versions appropriate for Haredi homes, decoratively bound Books of El-or/Reserved Seats/Chapter 2/page 138 Psalms, head kerchiefs, hats, gifts for the Jewish home, candlesticks, pictures of rabbis. A separate shelf held video cassettes of Rabbi Daniel Zer’s lectures and, at the end, the few audio cassettes that remained for sale in the video age. Beyond, in the auditorium, rows of plastic chairs faced a large screen. At 10:30 the regular background music ceased, and was replaced by the special music for the neighborhood rabbi-preacher who, in the 1970s, founded the network of Or David yeshivot. Sometimes the music was played by live performers and sometimes it was recorded. Except on days of mourning, the weekly lecture always began with this music, which accompanied the rabbi’s entrance and procession to his seat before the Holy Ark. The audience sang: “Rabbi Daniel—we love you.”1 On the large closed-circuit television screen, the men stood and clapped their hands over their heads. The women who watched them also stood, sang, and clapped hands. The rabbi took his seat, the people sat down, and in the lower, women’s hall the chairs slowly filled up. By 11 p.m. there were about a hundred women.2 They came and went, entered and exited, whispered among themselves, laughed and chatted. But mostly they listened, reacting to what was happening above with gravity, laughter, amazement, and applause. Sometimes their reactions mirrored those of the men above, perhaps with a split-second delay. The night was hot, and the smiling matron who oversaw the women’s section handed out soft drinks in plastic cups. She plodded from row to row, the fringes of her kerchief swaying over her eyes, her thick feet shod in rough-looking thongs. If a woman demurred, she’d say with an even larger smile: “It’s free.” So was the air-conditioning, which made the room a welcome refuge from the heavy early-summer humidity outside. At the end of the lecture, the women who had stayed all the way through went out and El-or/Reserved Seats/Chapter 2/page 139 crossed the steaming street. Some walked home, while other small groups got into cars; still others met up with their husbands, who emerged from the main hall. See you next week, on Wednesday, same time, same place. I attended the same lectures for three years. Not every week, not always, and I didn’t always stay until the end. *** This chapter is based on the observations I conducted during the lectures, on my notes I managed to take of what the rabbi said as he spoke, or which I wrote down afterwards. I also make use of audio cassettes of his talks, which I bought in the foyer. The chapter is divided into three sections. The first addresses the significance of “stories of personal transformation” as a rhetorical praxis, and juxtaposes Rabbi Zer’s talks with a Protestant example. The other two sections examine the way the rabbi addressed three subjects that were central to his lectures: love, the Israeli state, and the Holocaust. 1. MIDRASHIM OF CHANGE AS A PRAXIS OF CONVERSION In Dror Shaul’s film, The Witch Sima Venkin (2003), one of the protagonists is injured in an automobile accident and lies in a coma. A teshuva industry activist, who distributes free audio cassettes of a famous preacher, enters the man’s hospital ward. A boy who is visiting another patient puts a cassette in his Walkman and places the earphones on the unconscious man’s head. He plays the cassette in this way for a few days, and in the end the protagonist opens his eyes. His wife stands beside him at this dramatic moment of awakening. She whispers to him: “How are you?” I, in the cinema, facing the screen, guessed what the answer would be, and whispered it under my breath: El-or/Reserved Seats/Chapter 2/page 140 “Baruch Ha-Shem”—“God is blessed.” The sick man immediately echoed me: “Baruch Ha-Shem.” *** Religious preachers, argues the American anthropologist Susan Harding, reformat their listeners’ hard drives, delete their operating system, and install a different system instead. The fundamentalist conversion industry’s tools are language, rhetoric, law and story. The preacher speaks, the candidate listens, and at some point he or she also begins to speak the preacher’s language.3 Harding devoted ten years to investigating of the great changes her society underwent in the 1980s in its attitudes towards religion and culture. Her focus was Jerry Falwell, the leader of the Moral Majority, a fundamentalist Protestant organization. She attended church meetings, prayers, community activities, ceremonies, and classes. She watched television programs, listened to radio broadcasts, read texts, and conducted hundreds of interviews. She collected a wealth of material, and decided to focus on the rhetorical aspect of the process of personal transformation,4 which in her view is the principal engine of the entire enterprise. Her insights have inspired my reading of the ethnography I present in this chapter. I hope that the utility of placing the two cases side be side will outweigh the disadvantages inherent in any such comparison.5 I will move back and forth freely, and sometimes associatively, between the American and Israeli cases, with the goal of illuminating the local case and pointing out its unique aspects. *** The rabbi-preacher’s act of speech is, first and foremost, a rhetorical performance. Rabbi Zer, like Jerry Falwell, links word to word, sentence to sentence, and creates a El-or/Reserved Seats/Chapter 2/page 141 world which he presents as the real, true, one and only world. His performance thus constitutes the research field. Before focusing on rhetoric, Harding sought to understand the huge change she discerned in American attitudes towards religion and culture. In her view, during the decade of the 1980s, fundamentalist Christianity “returned from exile” after fifty years of isolation. What happened in the 1980s, she argues, changed the way American society experiences itself and its public space. At the same time, it changed the fundamentalist Christian movements. These mutual influences, which in her view created a different America and a different fundamentalism, are the focus of her study. As an anthropologist, she tries to understand these changes from within one of the sites of events, and as from as close as she can get to the people producing them. The leader of the Moral Majority speaks to millions, just as the Haredi preacher Amnon Yitzhak does in the Teddy soccer stadium in Jerusalem, or as Rabbanit Leah Kook does in the Yad Eliahu basketball stadium in Tel Aviv. Yet, in fact, all of them give private lessons. Their message must enter each heart and each brain separately, and this is the point Harding wishes to reach. She begins her journey in 1925, with the Scopes Trial. A biology teacher, John Scopes, stood accused of teaching evolution in a public school in Dayton, Tennessee, in violation of a state law. The event, which was widely covered in the press, reestablished a distinction between the American that wanted to be seen as enlightened, scientific, urban, and secular, and the America that the media portrayed as benighted, primitive, provincial, and religious. Harding chooses this moment because of its drama, visibility, and because it reached every American home. She also argues that, even though Scopes was El-or/Reserved Seats/Chapter 2/page 142 convicted, fundamentalism lost the battle and was forced underground. The event was a traumatic one. The prosecutor, who won his case, died of a heart attack five days after the end of the trial. The liberal journalists who flooded the small town sent home carnival- like descriptions of the boondocks. They caricatured the town and its inhabitants, presenting them as everything that enlightened America feared.6 The Bible, which the town sought to defend, was proved to be a text in which its protectors were less than proficient. The defenders won, but they felt defeated.