Rabbi Elchonon Feldman packs a mighty punch. I’ve witnessed this first-hand as we train at the same boxing gym. Weighing up the correct protocol for fist-bumping an orthodox rabbi whilst fighters are slugging it out is a surreal experience. But we’ve worked it out and I do try to watch my language to avoid him having to reach for a Siddur.
People come into your life, in whatever form, for a reason. The world is a funny place that way. But since October 7th, it’s been an utterly horrific, barbaric place. For the vast majority of those with a shred of humanity, the news of the fate of Bibas family last week was unbearable.
So much so that I did something I have never done before. At the suggestion of our friendly, neighbourhood. pugilist rabbi, I went to a Kabbalat Shabbat service at Bushey United synagogue.
This is an extraordinary admission for a 50-year old whose Jewish education was abruptly halted at 13 because it wasn’t the done thing for girls to have batmitzvahs and my parents thought it would be a waste of time.
Sadly, I was forced to put away all the colourful illustrations I’d created during my beloved cheder classes. And what I have realised only now, more than three decades later, is that the closure of that door sealed me off from a huge part of my culture, rendering me an outsider, ignorant of understanding anything but the most rudimentary Hebrew.
Shul services are panic-inducing. I stand up when everyone stands up. I sit down when they sit down. I awkwardly hold the siddur, looking for the English translation, and when triumphantly am able to read two or three words, reassure myself that I AM Jewish.
Don’t get me started on the irrational fear I have cultivated for the wearing of skirts, dresses or the M&S tights that I swear have been manufactured purely to cut off blood flow to my spleen.
As a self-confessed ‘three times a year’ Jew, I put on a spiritual skin I struggle with and am inordinately relieved to remove it when I get home.
It feels ironic that a writer who specialises in platforming the Jewish community, in so many ways feels alienated from it.
The return of Shiri, Ariel and Kfir Bibas, the grotesque cruelty of Hamas, the constant fight for the recognition of our right to exist as Jews, the anger, the rage, the helplessness, the unceasing pressure on our nervous systems. All of it, all of it, all of it. All. The. Time. It’s left us broken inside.
A one hour Kabbalat Shabbat service would, Rabbi Elchonon assured me, be “uplifting”. In a leap of faith, I went. And it was transformative.
I arrived feeling hugely uncomfortable; I felt I didn’t belong and was completely removed from a ceremony I have never learned to follow.
I sat at the back and tried to make myself as small as possible. But people were friendly, smiling, welcoming. Emma, sitting next to me and coincidentally a former sparring partner at the gym, smiled when I admitted I didn’t think shul was for me. “But Mish, it’s for everyone,” she said.
And after a while, I stopped holding my breath, not even realising I’d been doing so. I bumped into people I knew. We all hugged. Compliments were made on fabulous hats, because, well, obviously. Many had incorporated the colour orange into their clothes in tribute to the Bibas family. There was a special Bnei Akiva graduation of sorts and I let their beautiful singing wash over me. It was all a comforting balm and I left feeling calm and restored.
Our 18-year old daughter is down from university, and it’s not unusual for the Chabad or Aish Friday night student dinners to welcome 200 Jewish students. She loves it. They all do. And when I told her about my experience, she said: “But of course Mum. We’re a community. That’s our strength.”
She’s now offered to teach me some of the prayers properly, and whilst I fully expect to be invoiced for the privilege, I welcome it.
