So there I was with my friends Steve and John, one from a Jewish background and the other with some Jew in him, and – tired of even thinking about Donald Trump – we got to talking about how we had come by our names. And I asked, is Stephen even a Jewish name?
This has always bothered me a little. My father’s older brother Joe (who I now assume to have originally been named Yosef), though observant, changed his surname to Arnold sometime in the late 20s. Living among the taxi drivers and department store walkers of Ilford, he then sired a line of Garys and Marilyns, presumably named after the film stars of the 50s and 60s, but giving no outward clue to their origins.
But here I was, a David Aaronovitch. My middle name is Morris. When, as a child, I asked why, I was told it was my grandfather’s name. “Morris” had died just before I was born, but my grandmother Kate lived in a flat in Clapton, which we kids would visit every few weeks to be fed matzahs and have our cheeks pinched. She dressed like a peasant woman in smock and headscarf and, missing most of her teeth, could not pronounce the letter “s”. At least that’s why I thought she always called my father Sam, “Shammy”.
Years later, researching for a book, I came across the census record for the house in Stepney where my grandparents lived along with three other families. My grandfather had signed his entry by making his mark – he couldn’t write (nowadays the Reform Party would probably want him repatriated to Russia).
But in the entry, his name wasn’t Morris, and his wife wasn’t Kate. They were Moishe and Gitel.
These are good names, so why did they need to change? For that matter, why are so many Jews called Angus or Malcolm or Siobhan? Do Scottish women get called Gitel? How many Irish Moishes are there? It’s a one-way street. It’s almost as though we were ashamed.
When I was in primary school it was still obligatory for the day to begin with an
David Aaaronovitch
act of Christian worship. At assembly we would sing hymns and recite the Lord’s Prayer. Meanwhile all around us were (and still are) the reminders of Christian culture. Up the hill was St Joseph’s (or Holy Joe’s, as the locals called it); there were innumerable Blessed Virgin Marys, and if you had to go to hospital… Well, you get my drift.
All this just WAS. You didn’t think about it any more than wondering whether Oxford Street led to Oxford or whether there had actually been a high gate close to Holy Joe’s at the top of Highgate Hill.
Then I came across a YouTube of a lecture about St Paul and recalled from somewhere that – being a Jew – he had originally been a Saul. The way it used to be told by the Christians was that he had been Saul right the way up to his conversion on the road to Damascus but – blinded by the light – transmogrified into Paul.
No such thing, it turns out. Saul remained Saul after his conversion, with even the Holy Spirit addressing him by his Hebrew name. And greater authority than that is not to be had. Only when he started travelling among the Gentiles did he become Paul, and it was Luke who said so. Calling him Paul as opposed to his real name subsequently allowed Christians to gloss over his Jewish origins.
So hold on. If Paul was Saul, what about the others? It turns out that the top apostle, St Peter, was actually a Shimon, James was a Ya’akov, Bartholomew was Natanel Bar Talmei, and the Virgin Mary was the Virgin Miryam.
This is a situation that needs rectifying. Things should be given their proper names. Next weekend I intend to walk in the sunshine from St Saul’s Cathedral to St Ya’akov’s Park, via St Bar Talmey’s Hospital. And from now on, call me Moishe.
