For most of my life, I couldn’t begin to ask such questions. My sister, three years my junior, was the only daughter in our family. And though I hated being a boy, I could be messy, dirty, ruthlessly self-centered, indifferent to my appearance, careless of others to the point of rudeness — behaviors my sister could never have gotten away with. I hated myself for deceiving my family and it broke my heart that they were so easy to deceive.

I felt utterly alone and, as so often when I was child, my estrangement from the world around me drove me to the Torah. There, I found someone I recognized as the direct ancestor of my own unbearable tangle of love and lies.

In a passage I read over and over, Jacob serves his blind, aged father Isaac his favorite dinner as a prelude to receiving his blessing. There’s only one problem with this scene of filial devotion: Jacob is impersonating his twin brother Esau, who older by a moment, is his father’s heir. Esau, a vigorous, hairy, hyper-masculine hunter, is his father’s favorite.

Jacob is a smooth-skinned, domestic, almost feminine farmer. Lest his blind father become suspicious, Jacob conceals his smooth forearms under hairy swatches of fresh-killed kid-skin that will make his arms feel as hairy as Esau’s. If his father recognizes that the manly Esau is really the feminine Jacob, Jacob will be cursed instead of blessed.

Like Jacob, I wasn’t the boy my parents meant to bless with food, shelter, clothing, love. Under the skins of masculinity — the pants and shirts I hated, the roles and games I forced myself to play — was something too smooth, too soft, too feminine to be loved like the male “twin” I pretended to be. Like Jacob, I found deception heartbreakingly easy. As long as I kept my hair short and wore pants and shirts, no one could see the girl cowering beneath.

But Jacob had something going for him that I didn’t have: a mother, Rebekah, who knew him for who he truly was. It was Rebekah’s idea that Jacob masquerade as Esau because she knew he was destined to transmit Abraham’s spiritual legacy to future generations. She sees that Jacob is a first-born trapped in a second-born’s body, and that only by flouting law and love can he become the person he was meant to be.

Not only didn’t my mother know who I truly was, I was sure that the moment she suspected, I wouldn’t have a mother at all.

But for four-and-a-half decades, my skins never slipped.

The first time my mother and I really talked, I was 46, sitting on a box in a dim, cool basement storage room, surrounded by old tax returns and broken computer equipment. An underground room for unwanted things was the perfect setting for the moment I’d been avoiding my whole life — the moment when I would finally tell my mother that I wasn’t her son. I had lived that moment in dreams and nightmares, fantasies and wishes. Now I was about to live it in the flesh.

I dialed her number and waited. Hundreds of miles away, my mother’s phone rang. Don’t answer, I whispered, as though if I couldn’t complete this call I would somehow avoid this conversation.

She answered. “Hello. Jay?”

“Yes,” I told her, “it’s Jay. I need to tell you something, Mom. Something hard. But first, you have to promise me that what I tell you won’t affect your relationship with the children. You’ll stay in touch with them, right?”

“Of course. I’m their grandmother — nothing is going to change that.”

“Good,” I said. “Because soon I’m — I’m moving out. This will be hard for the kids, and they need you to stay in their lives.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

I wished she would ask me why I was moving out, but she didn’t, so I took a deep breath and recited the words — even I found them hard to believe — that I’d practiced.

“Mom, our family is breaking up because I’m a transsexual and I can’t live as a man anymore.”

The pause that followed my revelation — the most honest thing I had ever said to my mother — seemed to stretch for years, years we had lost, years we now might never have. I thought I was ready to lose her. But in that pause, when truly motherless years were only a breath away, I realized that I had never stopped clinging to the hope of her.

“I’ve heard about this,” she said at last. Her voice, rich and low, trained for a radio career she had never had, was thick with feeling. “I know that you have to be who you are, and no matter what that is, you will always be my child.”

The air above my head felt empty. The sword that had always dangled above me, the terror of what would happen if my mother discovered what I was, was gone.

My voice rose to the pitch I had made my own, and for the first time in my life, we really talked.

Joy Ladin is a professor at Yeshiva University. This article is excerpted from her new book, “Through the Door of Life: A Jewish Journey Between Genders” and has been reprinted with permission from the University of Wisconsin Press.

This week we were rocked by another close shave with disaster: “Chasidic reggae superstar” Matisyahu got rid of his facial hair!

Full disclosure: Matis is a friend and I’m a fan. However, I always feared the label “Chassidic reggae superstar” was a heavy burden for someone who became so “frum so fast.” It seems that the beard became a symbol of that burden to Matis, and he felt he had to do something drastic to free himself from other people’s expectations and demands.

I can’t begin to imagine the pressure of being the most famous bearded Jew on the planet. People in Japan may not know who the chief rabbi of Israel is, but you’d better believe they know Matisyahu — especially if they’ve seen him live in concert.

I’ll admit that I’m taking Matisyahu’s decision to go clean shaven a bit personally. Having such a prominent Jewish celebrity embrace the beautiful dictum of letting the hair on the face grow made me look cool, too, and allowed me to relate better to my students. (At least that’s what I told myself.) But herein lies the root (pun intended) of the problem. I for one am guilty at times of using his success to encourage other young people to become more involved in their faith. My intentions were always pure, but there is always a danger that we’ll mix up the message with the messenger.

In a world where pop culture is so ubiquitous and real life can feel sometimes like a struggle, we can start to live vicariously through celebrities, making them into idols.

I received a call from a young man distraught that his musical and spiritual hero Matisyahu had shaved off his beard. The young man actually asked me if he should follow suit. I gently told him he needed to learn more Torah and then decide, adding that I’d be happy to learn along with him. Yet the truth is, anyone who grows a beard because a “Chasidic reggae superstar” has one probably wasn’t mature enough to grow one in the first place even if they were able.

We place too much of our own hopes and dreams into the hands of Jewish celebrities. Take the sporting arena: What happens when your favorite kosher-eating, kipah-wearing “Chasidic celebrity boxer’ loses a bout? Do you suddenly stop wearing a kipah and keeping Shabbat?

I’m certainly not an A-list star in the constellation of “Chasidic celebrities.” I’m probably a D-lister (on a good day). One of my best-selling books is about the Jewish influences on the creation of classic comic book superheroes. Over the years I’ve received numerous e-mails from overly enthusiastic readers eager to share their “deep” theories about the “spirituality of Superman” and such. It’s flattering, but also disconcerting. I wanted the book to inspire readers to go on to further explore Jewish philosophy, not obsess about comic books. I’ve started writing back, “I think it’s time to turn off the laptop …”

I’m grateful for celebrities who choose to observe Jewish tradition in the public eye. We can salute them and admire them, as long as we never forget that they are people, not prophets. To treat them otherwise is unfair to them and us. In the wise words of Monty Python, Matisyhau is “not the Messiah.”

It’s going to be a cold winter, especially if you don’t have a lush beard anymore to warm you. Let’s let the lights of the Chanukah candles warm our faces — bearded or not — and look up to a real hero: Matisyahu the Maccabee.

In the meantime, like facial hair on a beardless face, “we all have room to grow.”

Rabbi Simcha Weinstein is a best-selling author who recently was voted “New York’s Hippest Rabbi” by PBS-Ch. 13. His forthcoming book on demography is titled “The Case for Having Kids: Why parenthood makes you (and your world) healthy, wealthy and wise.”

Nancy Mellan

As Jewish wom­en, we come from a tradition that honors our role in home, family and community. In the Eshet Chayil Shabbat blessing recited by husbands to their wives, we are honored: “A good woman, who can find. She reaches her hand out to those in need. She is precious far beyond rubies. She is robed in strength and dignity; and she smiles at the future. She opens her mouth with wisdom and a lesson of kindness is on her tongue.”

We find our role models in our ancestors: Sarah, opening her tent on all four sides to welcome travelers with hospitality and compassion; Rebecca at the well, offering water to a thirsty traveler and his animals.

In our own homes we know how to get everyone up and fed and out the door — beds made, kitchen counter crumb-free and the endless “to-do list” with at least a few items checked off. I’ll wager that many of us know how to unclog the toilet, flip the breakers that will re-start the air conditioning and paint a wall. Modeling for our children, spouses and community we conquer synagogue attendance, Federation Mitzvah Magic and Aunt Ethel’s brisket. We cement this all together with hugs at the door, a day at the office and the lighting of the Shabbat candles. Clearly, we are the ultimate home builders. And yet, the notion of literally building a house with real hammers and nails can, at first glance, feel out of our league.

Last year as I prepared to join several women with the Jewish Community Relations Council in a Habitat for Humanity house build, I found my construction anxiety rising. How could I possibly navigate my way through brick, mortar, dry wall and nail guns, not to mention a serious fear of ladder climbing. I had never worn a hard hat or thick leather work gloves. Most important, what shoes to wear? And yet, I found compelling the notion of lending a hand to help put together a home for someone without one. A roof, a door, a window, a floor. As Jewish women we understand that these are the makings of the sacred space of “home.”

On the day of the build I wore my most comfy cowgirl boots, jeans and a loose long-sleeved shirt. We gathered at the site where three homes were the focus for our day. We were surrounded by a group of women from the Habitat Women Build program already working in high gear, chatting, laughing, painting and sweeping. Still shaking in my boots that I would be asked to climb a ladder, I was instantly put at ease by our forewoman. She had a task list for the day and we could each select a task that felt comfortable for us.

Choosing to clean floors with a floor machine (I always wanted to try one of those), I donned my hard hat and gloves. I relished the thought of leaving behind a pristine cement slab ready for staining or carpeting; the very foundation of a cozy home. But wait. Before we can use the floor polisher we have to remove the heavy plastic that was covering the floor to protect it from the wall plastering. Oy! Knife cutter, dust mask, broom. Bend, stoop, sweep, sweep, sweep. Three houses and nine floors later my day was complete. Well, no machine. But one more accomplishment checked off the to-do list of building a home for someone in need. Sore, dust covered and hungry we left our task for the day, stopped for a burger and basked in the tired glow of the power of Jewish women.

Please join us for JFSA Women’s Philanthropy Habitat for Humanity Build on Nov. 9. Don’t worry that you may not be physically strong enough. You have the strength of ancestors of Jewish women behind you. Don’t worry that you cannot climb a ladder. We are each climbing Jacob’s ladder every moment of every day and you will have permission to sweep the floor instead. Don’t worry that you’ve never held a hammer. Trust that someone will show you how. You come from a tradition in which Jewish women have kept our peoplehood and spirituality glowing and growing by creating our homes. Don’t worry about the dust, your sore feet or even your mistakes. Just remember that you have a home to return to at the end of the day. Roof, floors, windows, doors. Together we can.

Volunteers for the JFSA Women’s Philanthropy Habitat for Humanity Build on Wednesday, Nov. 9, must be at least 16 years old. To volunteer, contact Jane Scott at 577-9393, ext. 114 or jscott@jfsa.org.

Nancy Mellan is co-chair with Diana Friedman of the JFSA Women’s Philanthropy Habitat for Humanity Build.

Moments before our wheels touch down, a brush fire breaks out in the Carmel Valley, near Haifa. By the time we make it to our taxi it is a news item on the radio. You don’t need to be a fluent Hebrew speaker to know that something is happening. The cab drivers are clustered, standing by their cars with the news blaring on the radio, smoking, not talking. They are listening intently.

The ride to meet our friends who had arrived on separate flights gives us the opportunity to catch up with our driver. A fire in the Carmel is burning out of control, he tells us. Local firefighters are overwhelmed. Rumors are flying as to the cause.

By the time we check into our hotel at 4 p.m., the fire has become a national disaster; by dinnertime it is a national tragedy:  Forty prison guards and their bus driver perish while being evacuated. And the fire is getting stronger, engulfing a larger area and completely overpowering the available resources. In the fire’s sights are a school for troubled youth in Yemin Orde, an artist’s colony in Ein Hod and Kibbutz Beit Oren. Everyone knows someone (or knows someone who knows someone) who is directly affected. All army reservists with any firefighting experience are called and told to get to Haifa immediately.

By the time the sun goes down on Shabbat, the fire is extinguished. A converted 747 from Arizona designed to fight wildfires in California drops a huge blanket of chemicals to put out the blaze, but the destruction it leaves is smoldering and raw.

On Monday morning we visit Kibbutz Beit Oren, a secular group of New Age kibbutzniks who have championed a model of the collective community concept that is controversial and sustaining. Their primary income is derived from a hotel-resort operation combined with eco-tourism for nature lovers in the Carmel Valley. Kibbutz members not involved in the daily hotel business are employed by outside businesses or run home-based independent businesses from inside the kibbutz. One business, a pottery studio, belongs to an artist name Imi. Imi is married to Ran, who serves as the kibbutz manager. Ran leads us on a tour of what is left of Beit Oren.

Amazingly, much is spared. The main guest house and outbuildings used for the hotel guest business appear untouched by the fire. But the homes of many kibbutz members, including Ran and Imi’s, are destroyed. Imi’s studio, which contained many unfinished pots awaiting glazing in a high temperature kiln, is reduced to clay ashes.

Inside Ran and Imi’s house, food on the table is blackened. They explain that they got the call to evacuate in the middle of dinner and literally grabbed their laptops and cell phones before leaving for the waiting shuttles. The images of pictures affixed to their refrigerator door with magnets have literally melted from the intensity of the heat. Nearly everything is black and burnt; the smell reminds us of a campfire. Strangely, the only thing we notice that is not burnt are the wooden logs in the fireplace, somehow protected by the stone masonry that surround it.

It is an emotional scene for Ran and Imi, returning to their home this way, and we get caught up in the intensity of their feelings. You can see their pain of loss surrounded by their thankfulness for survival. It is on their faces, in their bloodshot eyes and in their choked-up voices.

We are compelled to do something for these people, some act of service or kindness to show them we are moved and that we care. So I ask, “What can we do for you?” expecting to write a check.

Ran pauses, takes a deep breath and replies.

“We will be OK, eventually. The insurance should cover our losses,” he says. “But there is something we would like to have.”

Excited at the prospect of any request, and raising my voice above the ever increasing sound of workers beginning their demolition work, I shout back at him, “What? Anything you want. If we can do it, we will. What do you need?”

We can barely hear each other above the bulldozers.

“A Torah,” he screams. “We need a Torah.”

At that moment I knew why we had come to Beit Oren that morning.

Ran explains that although they are a secular kibbutz, the residents do perform rituals and observances. They occasionally hold Shabbat services, officiate b’nai mitzvah and organize High Holidays services.

In Israel, Torahs are distributed by the nearest local chief rabbi. In Haifa, the chief rabbi, as in all Israeli cities and towns, is Orthodox; very Orthodox. In the chief rabbi’s view, Ran says, Beit Oren is not Jewish enough to merit a Torah because men and women sit together when praying. For an American Reform Jew, this is outrageous, and everyone in our group is appalled. My wife, Trudi, and I now have a mission. And we have a plan.

Just weeks before we left for Israel, the rabbi at our synagogue, Temple Ner Tamid in Bloomfield, N.J., suggested that the congregation consider what to do with the additional Torah scrolls that we acquired as part of a merger with another Reform synagogue.

We leave Ran and Imi at Beit Oren. I call our rabbi, Steven Kushner, and tell him I have an idea for one of the scrolls. I can hear him smiling into his iPhone. We return to New Jersey a week later, arriving at the airport in Newark at 5 a.m., and go before the temple board that same evening. Jet lagged but no doubt energized by the opportunity for mitzvah, we tell our story with considerable emotion. We talk about the fire, Ran and Imi, and the need for a Torah. We ask if the board would consider donating one of the temple’s. There are a few questions and the president calls for a vote. Twenty-five hands rise — the consent is unanimous.

It is a hot Friday in July when we return to Israel with the Torah scroll. After Kabbalat Shabbat services in Haifa, we head to the kibbutz. Walking up the steps into Ran and Imi’s house has a surreal quality. While I have only been there once, it seems so familiar. Perhaps the memory is so strong because of its tragic nature? Ran is happy and proud of his newly renovated home and eager to point out both the replaced and upgraded amenities.

Before eating we welcome Shabbat. There are guitars, ukuleles and drums, niggunim to get in the mood, and Shabbat songs. We sing, make blessings, eat great food, drink wine and sing some more, all underneath the star-filled sky of the Carmel on a beautifully restored deck. There is much to be thankful for this night in their house — a house rebuilt after the fire.

Despite its secular bent, the kibbutz has a shul. Construction began a few years ago after the passing of a longtime kibbutz member who made the provision in her will. By the looks of the fresh paint, clean floors and newly refurbished ark, our impending arrival may have given added purpose and priority to its timely completion.

Walking us back to our hotel bungalow, Ran tells me to leave the Torah in my room when the community first gathers the next morning at the shul. He says the residents will march to my room to “receive” the Torah from us and parade it back to the shul.

The next morning Ohad, a Jewish Renewal rabbi with a new age focus, officiates at the ceremony. He lives on the kibbutz and conducts seminars, meditations and gatherings in his spirituality center. He also operates from an encampment deep in the kibbutz’s forest, where he conducted a Jewish Shaman ceremony the night before. He looks like he has been up all night. About half of the community’s 170 members are gathered just outside the little shul for some opening remarks.

I lead the assembled multitude back to my hotel room to receive the Torah. There is genuine excitement, not merely polite participation. Soon I’m inside my room, lifting the Torah from its resting place. I turn and walk out the door.

There is singing, crying, laughing, kissing, hugging — first the Torah, then me, then each other. It is Simchat Torah times a million. A tallit is stretched out and raised as a makeshift chuppah. It is placed over me and the Torah, and the kibbutzniks begin to lead me back to their shul. A man comes up next to me, motioning to cut in, like you would with a dance partner. I hand him the Torah and he dances with it, tears streaming down his cheeks. Imi tells me he is a cancer survivor who is missing his vocal chords.

He is also a Yemenite, which happens to be the nationality of the chief scribe for this 110-year-old scroll — a fact I had passed to the group during my earlier remarks. The man is dancing with the Torah as though it were a long-lost relative.

From person to person the scroll is passed and shared. There is rejoicing under the chuppah as the procession slowly makes its way back to where we began.

Then I hear the blasts — long and loud, then short, rapid staccato with piercing highs. It is the sound not of one but three shofars. The horns are several feet long and curled about three-quarters of the way out, held high and played like trumpets announcing royalty. The energy is as palpable as it is powerful.

We return to the shul for a Torah service, then more singing and dancing with the Torah, a few closing remarks by the rabbi and lots of hugging and kissing. I am a popular target for demonstrative affection; it’s like being attacked by a dozen grandmothers at once. My favorite is a woman with a heavy Polish accent to her English, her mascara now in small clumps on her face.

“When I saw you come out with the Torah, I pished from my eyes,” she cries at me.

That pretty much sums it up. Of course, she also wants to know if I am hungry, married and if I have a place to stay that night. So Jewish.

After the crowd disperses, I have some alone time with Ran. He is much quieter than he had been last night and earlier that morning. I can see he is reflecting.

I start the conversation with a question: “Why did you ask me for a Torah?”

“I don’t know,” he replies too quickly, suggesting his train of thought was right where I had jumped in. “That is not like me. I am a business guy. I would always ask for money. But that day, when you asked me, ‘What do you want?’ I opened my mouth and the word ‘Torah’ came out. They were not my words. They did not come from me but through my mouth.”

Ran pauses and turns directly to me.

I am not quite sure what to say, and think I shouldn’t interrupt. He continues, “Then today when I see the people hugging and kissing, people who have not spoken to each other in months, some for years, I knew why we needed this Torah. We had problems here before the fire. The fire just made those problems worse. But now we have a Torah and after seeing this today, I think we can really start to heal.”

We exchange a few more words and I smile at him. Then two men — both Jewish, about the same age, born, raised and living 6,000 miles apart — embrace warmly.

One of the Torah verses chanted that day translates to “you shall pass through the fire and will be purified” (Numbers 31:23).  I think at that moment, locked in each others arms, we both realize we have “passed through” something much bigger than either of us, now forever connected by this fiery Torah. Such a blessing.

(Jerry Krivitzky is a businessman living in Montclair, N.J.)
 

Because I love America, it is with hesitant hands and a heavy heart that I am writing this note. I never expected to request revocation of my citizenship, and while I certainly understand the circumstances requiring me to do so, it is important for me to share with you why I have decided to take this step.

The United States has a perfectly sensible law that does not allow for diplomats from foreign countries serving in the U.S. to hold U.S. citizenship. The fact that this is eminently reasonable doesn’t make this any less difficult.

Much of who I am is based on my childhood in the U.S.; as a 4th-generation American growing up in quintessential Small-Town America, the values inculcated in me in school and at home were American. Many of those values are shared by Israel, which I believe to be the destined homeland for Jewish people of all nations. As Israel builds its place among the nations, it has much to learn not only from its Jewish and biblical roots, but also from the ideological foundations which built the United States of America – the greatest country of the past 240 years.

Every week in synagogue, Jews around the world read a portion of the Bible. Last week, we read the Ten Commandments. One of the many lessons of these commandments is that the Jewish nation left Egypt not simply to survive, but rather with a greater purpose of building a just and moral society. Now, some 3,300 years after the revelation at Sinai and 63 years after the establishment of the State of Israel — two of the most momentous occasions in Jewish history –  the guidance from Sinai is all the more relevant. In this spirit, a very small piece of what Israel needs to do is to continually strengthen its economic foundations. Like other dimensions required in building the State of Israel, I consider this to be my generation’s holy work; therefore, when I was asked by Israel’s Finance Minister to serve as the country’s Minister of Economic Affairs to Washington, the decision to accept was easy. That doesn’t make my decision any less painful.

I will never forget the horrific terrorist attacks of 9/11, which took place roughly two miles from my classroom where I was beginning my graduate school studies. At the time, there was significant uncertainty as to how the United States would react. A very close, very educated friend of mine told me that day — as we walked uptown amidst the rubble in the traffic-less streets of one of the greatest cities on earth — that America didn’t have the stomach to deal with the terrorists the way they needed to be dealt with. He said that America had gotten too complacent. Fortunately for mankind, my good friend was wrong, as President George W. Bush announced to the world that America would not rest until the people responsible would be dealt with – a promise eventually fulfilled by President Barack Obama.

When I saw President Bush’s proclamation that day, I thought that here is a man who understands that the price of liberty is, indeed, eternal vigilance. I thought of that moment five years later when my professional career in the world of management consulting took me to one of the world’s leading investment banks. I was commuting from my home in a Jerusalem suburb to London’s Canary Wharf each week to work on what the bulge bracket bank defined as its number one strategic objective for that year. Three months into the six-month project, I was drafted by my reserve unit for the Second Lebanese War. While many of my international colleagues and clients thought I had lost my mind, the decision for me to leave that project to go assist in destroying terrorist cells in Lebanese villages was an easy one. It was exceptionally frightening, yet easy. For I grew up in America, and I had been taught that personal commitments must be made to ensure a land of the free and a home for the brave.

One can love two countries just as one loves two parents. Today, I voluntarily give up my citizenship, but I do not give up my values; indeed, in giving up my citizenship to help further the economic development and strength of Israel in a diplomatic role, I believe I am living those values I was educated to cherish. During my 10 years of schooling in wonderful Upstate New York, I pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States each and every day. And today, more than ever and despite the renunciation of my citizenship, I remain committed to the Republic for which it stands.

God bless America; land that I love.

(Eli Groner wrote this statement in August. He begins his post in Washington today,

Eric Groner says he revoked his U.S. citizenship with a "heavy heart" when he became Israel's minister for economic affairs to the United States.

Oct. 24.)

Shoshana Hebshi

TOLEDO, Ohio (j. weekly) — When I wrote an article nine years ago about going on a press trip to Israel, I was just beginning to explore the implications of my Arab-Jewish heritage on my life. The trip was eye opening for me in many ways, chiefly because it was the first time I openly confronted and then wrote about living with this dual ancestry.

Now I find myself again writing about the same subject, only under vastly different circumstances.

On Sept. 11, the 10-year anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, I was flying from Denver to Detroit. After we landed, I was handcuffed and pulled off the airplane with two Indian men for “suspicious activity.”

Following my 2002 Israel trip as a writer for the j., San Francisco’s Jewish newspaper, I wrote, “A co-worker who had lived in Israel said I should expect some harassment or strange looks” (because of my Arabic heritage). During the trip, I acutely felt the tension between the Arabs and Jews living there. It was during a peak in the second intifada, and our press trip was intended to show that tourism was still possible and attractive, though suicide bombings in public markets and on buses were common.

I was torn between empathizing with the plight of the Palestinians and feeling at home as well as solidarity with the Israelis. I marveled at the Israelis’ resilience to the violence but questioned how it appeared that the Arabs were second-class citizens. It was a powerful experience for me, and it sparked a trend of writing about my ancestral conflict.

On Sept. 11, I was returning from spending the weekend with my sister and her family in San Francisco. My flight had a layover in Denver before connecting me back to the Detroit airport. My husband, from Moraga, our two kids and I now live in a suburb of Toledo, Ohio, where my husband is doing a residency in emergency medicine.

I had been looking forward to an uneventful flight — albeit on an ominous day — and I wanted to get home to have dinner with my family. I was happy when our flight landed in Detroit on time. I sent a text message to my husband telling him I should be home in an hour. But I didn’t know that two F-16s had been following the plane to Detroit and what was waiting for us — especially my row mates and me — when we landed.

As I later recounted in a blog post, which I titled “Some]http://www.tinyurl.com/5sbtxjf”>Some real Shock and Awe: Racially profiled and cuffed in Detroit[/url],” the events that unfolded shortly after our plane touched the ground turned an easy trip into a frightening ordeal: I was handcuffed and escorted by armed officers off the plane into a police car and placed in a holding cell.

I was later strip-searched and interviewed by FBI and Homeland Security agents about my actions and those of the two men in the seats next to me during the flight. They had detained the three of us for “suspicious behavior,” which media reports described as the two men going to the bathroom several times and remaining indisposed for long periods.

On the other hand, I did not move from my seat during the entire flight, yet was still pulled off and detained simply because — I can only imagine — I had been seated next to the two Indian men and I have a dark complexion.

The incident recalled memories of that 2002 press trip to Israel of how scared my family and I were that I would be blown up by a suicide bomber. We were all so relieved that I came back in one piece that we started a ritual feast that we celebrate on the summer solstice.

At Ben Gurion Airport, as I was preparing to fly home to San Francisco, airport security personnel started asking questions about some of the visas I had in my passport. One was from Saudi Arabia and another from Egypt — both of which I had received during a family trip in 1999. A female agent took my passport and disappeared for a while, maybe 15 minutes. When she returned, she gave me back my passport and sent me on my way.

That was the longest I had been “detained for questioning,” and I felt like the matter was dealt with appropriately. I understood the nature of their adherence to security protocol and suspicions about travel to Arab countries.

This Sept. 11 was a different story. My detainment and questioning in Detroit seemed so unfounded and unprovoked that I sat wondering where my rights had gone — or if I had any to begin with.

There is no mistaking that the 9/11 terrorist attacks were horrifying. I cannot begin to imagine the pain that those who experienced the events firsthand felt and probably continue to feel. As an American I was in shock, but I had no idea that we would still be fighting our same demons 10 years later.

This country has always been one of innovation, fortitude and pluck. I question if our lingering fears and over-the-top safety measures have dampened those strengths. Some will counter that our national security protocols and procedures are what keep us safe, but I can tell you that I would take a 15-minute investigation at the airport before I board a plane rather than an aggressive, unwarranted detention any day.

The public and media attention my blog post has received this week has been overwhelming, turning into something quite bigger than I could have ever imagined. To me it signals a dire need for a national debate on the way we are handling our national security.

I do hope that a positive outcome will come from this, and as a nation we can live less in fear and more in tolerance and acceptance.

(Shoshana Hebshi worked for j.-the Jewish news weekly of Northern California in 2002 and 2003 as a copy editor and writer. She now lives outside Toledo, Ohio, raising her twin boys and working on freelance projects. Contact her at Shoshana@shoshanahebshi.com or follow her on Twitter @ShoshanaHebshi.)

Audrey Brooks with a child at the Mevaseret Zion Absorption Center near Jerusalem. (Courtesy JFSA)

The story is in the stories. That’s what I learned with 100 others from 37 other communities on the Jewish Federations of North America’s Campaign Chairs and Directors Mission to Moscow and Israel this summer. I heard stories of inspiration, intrigue, courage and hope. I learned that just as local Federation programs improve and save lives, the same is true overseas with the help of our partners: The Jewish Agency for Israel, the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee and World ORT.

Yes, we saw the Kremlin, Red Square and Old Arbat Street in Moscow; yes, we danced and studied Torah at a Russian summer camp and shared Shabbat at Hebrew Union College and watched a rock concert at Bar Ilan University with 3,000 Birthright Israel students. But the heart and soul of the trip was in the individual connections we made — with children, the elderly, newly aware Jews.

There was Lidia, age 17, whose grandparents in Moldova never wanted to draw attention to their Judaism. Lidia opted to go to a Jewish school when given the opportunity and convinced her family to have their first Seder in 100 years.

Vanya, who at age 19 is finishing her university studies in costume design, says finding her Jewish connection at a summer camp changed her life. Being at camp was “like a weeklong seminar centering around Israel.”

Now a Jewish professional, Misha was expelled from school in 1967 for writing a poem that included “I am Hebrew.” Eventually getting a scholarship to attend Yeshiva University in New York, he is personally aware of how Jewish life in Russia was extinguished and has now been revived. “Being Jewish is being part of a family with a being and a purpose — to care for one another.”

At a senior day care center in Moscow, I sat and sang with the choir while many danced in the dining hall; “Yerushalaim Shel Zahav,” “Tumbalalaika” and “Shalom Aleichem” are the same the world over. At the same center, I met Irina, an 83-year-old retired oncologist who taught at a medical school and now spends time making jewelry and talking with friends.

Some of us visited with Raisa, 93 and frail, unable to see well, dependent on her caregiver, her social worker, her walker and her radio. “I love the U.S.” was her motto. She survived on tins of meat sent from the United States after World War II and has never forgotten.

Currently a member of Israel’s Knesset, Shlomo Moula spoke to us at an Ethiopian absorption center in Israel about his harrowing escape from Ethiopia through Egypt at age 16, walking barefoot, with friends. They were shot at, jailed, and tortured in Sudan. There are still more to be rescued.

Remember the petitions in the 1980s to free Nelson Mandela? I signed one in London when I was there for a legal education seminar. They helped; Mandela is free. Remember the tens of thousands of post cards sent to free Natan Sharansky? They also helped; Sharansky is free. In fact, on a picture-perfect evening at a hotel terrace high in the hills outside Jerusalem at our farewell dinner, 33 years after he was sentenced to prison for “treason and espionage,” Sharansky ate with us and spoke to us. He thanked us, many times. Kol Yisrael arevim zeh la-zeh: all Jews are responsible one for another. We all need to help.

Audrey Brooks is co-chair of the 2012 Women’s Philanthropy campaign with her sister, Donna Moser. A retired judge from Milkwaukee, Wisc., she has been a Tucson resident for almost six years.

Once again sirens sounded last night in our sleepy town of Meitar and the non-stop booms of missiles falling in nearby Beersheva could clearly be heard and yet we are not at war or even worthy of mention in the international press.

Like PMS, this syndrome makes me unexpectedly irritable and short of patience in otherwise normal situations. But (thankfully) it isn’t quite Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) as I have been so far lucky enough not to be in the actual vicinity of direct hit.

But my psyche has been hit time and time again. My PSMD is based in the well-founded knowledge that the end is nowhere in sight and more missiles are coming. As a resident of the south of Israel, I am on a first name basis with more people than I care to count who have had missiles fall in their living room, on their street/school/car, or who have been horribly wounded when they fell only a few feet away.

Over the last few months, hundreds of missiles have been launched from Gaza into Israel – reaching as far north as Ashdod and as far east as Beersheva. Over the past week, the situation has intensified with tens of missiles being launched every day, many of them falling in and around Beersheva. Though reports of ceasefires come and go, small barrages of missiles let us know that the break is an illusion and sure to pass sooner rather than later.

The truth is that we knew it was coming. Sometime this spring Ben Gurion University of the Negev, where I work, replaced the haphazard handwritten pages directing people to safe rooms with nicely printed, laminated ones – a sign that they were here to stay until further notice.

And yes, there is now a wonderful Iron Dome defense system which has remarkably intercepted many of the missiles as they approach Beersheva and Ashkelon, but there are only two units stationed in the south of the country and that is simply not enough.

We have learned to tell when a loud wailing noise is an air raid siren, which leaves less than a minute to find a place to take cover, or something else. Without a doubt, being caught on the open road is the worst. Nothing can compare with the terror of lying flat on a road with your hands on your head waiting for the inevitable boom to arrive, particularly if your children are with you. I cannot imagine how I would cope if my kids were still hooked into car seats. Helplessness does not even come close to describing the feeling of futility.

Every day we are forced to make critical decisions. Today is my son’s 12th birthday. Will we go see a movie in Beersheva as promised, or not? Is today worth that trip to buy back-to-school supplies? Let’s see what the morning brings before we set out. On Tuesday the same son went with friends to the Ashkelon beach – a risk? Of course. But so is sitting home letting the PMSD drive you crazy.

Our daily lives are filled with small reminders that we cannot let our vigilance down. Coffee shops in Beersheva ask for payment when the food arrives so that if you have to run to the shelter in the middle of your meal you won’t be tempted to disappear without paying the bill. Enter a store and the saleswoman will probably let you know where the nearest shelter is, just in case.

Yet a glance at Facebook or any international paper online shows that the world’s eyes are turned elsewhere – to what is happening in Libya and Washington, and to the beach in Cape Cod as the summer vacation draws to end. I realize that all news is local and that earthquakes and hurricanes are truly scary, but what can I say? My PMSD makes me short of temper and lacking in empathy. It is not your sympathy I want, but your awareness that something has to change. That these missiles exist and are being launched by Palestinians who claim to be ready for statehood but who are behaving like lawless terrorists.

Of course we could leave for a day or two, make the most of the summer vacation, but there doesn’t seem to be much point as the same situation will be here when we get back. This is our home and a million people cannot just pretend their lives are going on as normal.

This isn’t about politics. I am sure there are pundits who will argue that one side or the other started the attacks first. This is about living in an impossible situation, with the knowledge that there will inevitably be more missiles.

The world is constantly calling upon Israel to act with restraint, but when will those same voices call for an end to the daily launching of missiles into civilian areas of Israel? When will the UN (or at least the New York Times) acknowledge that no country can sit quietly while their citizens are being held hostage? When will someone force the Palestinians to take responsibility for their actions?

When will the world realize that PMSD is a real condition that first has to be recognized before it can be solved?

(This article originally appeared in The Forward on Aug. 25, 2011.)

Rabbi Robert J. Marx, with glasses, is pictured with the Rev. Martin Luther King in the 1960s.

CHICAGO (JTA) — Time affirms what heroism discerns. The dedication of a statue in memory of the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. is a belated yet significant tribute to a man who did so much to redefine the meaning of our democracy.

Make no mistake about it, there was a civil rights movement in the middle years of the 20th century, but King was the face of the movement, the pulse of it — one might even say the heart of it.

The memorial in Washington, D.C., about to be dedicated to his memory is made of solid stone, of granite. It will remain for the ages, solid and unmoving, a reminder of what dedication and courage are able to achieve.

Yet contemplating the statue, something seems to be missing. King was not one to sit transfixed for the ages. He was always in motion, always on the move. His travels led him on a heroic if ultimately fatal arc — Atlanta, Birmingham, Selma, Chicago, Memphis.

In Selma, Ala., and later in Chicago, I experienced no great moral revelation as I answered King’s invitation to join him, no great sense that destiny was inviting me to play a supporting role. Quite the contrary; the feeling was rather mundane. What was being done had to be done.

I had the privilege of spending several days in Chicago with King, who was there to protest a housing market that remained segregated. King’s presence shattered the illusion that discrimination was a southern disease, not a northern one.

We marched in the heart of the city, down Michigan Avenue. I was walking beside King when a small stone aimed at him hit me on the forehead. It was a glancing, harmless blow, but the scene was picked up by a television camera and broadcast all over the country. Friends in New York called: “Are you all right? Were you hurt?”

“No damage, I am fine,” I answered. And then, in a moment, I started to tremble.

“No, I am hurt — not by the stone but by the hatred, the bitterness, the rage,” I said.

It is the anger behind that stone that remains with me even now, so many years later. How easy it is to deplore hatred — even the political hatreds that still drive us away from our own humanity. Yet how difficult it is to understand the anguish of the poor and powerless. And how impossible it is to contemplate something that has begun to affect both blacks and whites — the steady evisceration of a struggling middle class.

So there he will sit for the ages, the man who for all too brief a span would never let us relax or sit smugly silent. The Martin Luther King Jr. memorial will become a tourist attraction. Facing as it does the Lincoln Memorial, it will serve as a reminder that our country’s moral force remains alive and potent.

King and Lincoln — neither led a simple life. Both were shot down by demented fanatics. Both tell us that the journey to freedom still requires wisdom, dedication and courage.

(Rabbi Robert J. Marx, the founder and a past president of the Jewish Council on Urban Affairs, marched with the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. in Chicago and Alabama and fought for civil rights in Chicago and beyond.)

Last month I participated in the Jewish Outreach Institute’s Judaism 2030 conference. There were approximately 200 participants, representing many facets of the global Jewish community, from rabbis and education directors to musicians and professional fundraisers. The conference revolved around four themes: spirituality, belonging, globalism and peoplehood. The opening plenary and breakout sessions focused on spirituality. My initial reaction was skeptical. I remember thinking, “What does spirituality have to do with outreach?”

My perspective on spirituality and outreach has completely shifted since attending the conference. Presenters emphasized the trend of Jewish people across the globe finding their spirituality outside the walls of a synagogue. While this may seem surprising or even alarming to some of us, it is a trend that will continue to grow. People find spirituality in a variety of ways, including hiking, chanting or even quiet reflection.

Throughout the conference, at each meal or snack time, I saw hand-washing stations set up. Hand-washing is a mitzvah that is done before eating, with a special bracha (blessing), thanking God for making us holy through the commandments and instructing us to wash our hands. Many conference participants walked past the hand-washing stations, while more traditional or observant Jews stopped to wash their hands before eating.

Hand-washing is a simple enough mitzvah to perform. What really struck me was the spirituality of this simple act. By stopping to wash our hands and recite a short bracha we are forcing ourselves to stop, reflect and put intention into our next activity, eating. Hectic as our lives can be, the ritual provides a chance to move away from frenzy and chaotic schedules into a place of calm.

Outreach can be thought of in the same way. It should be thoughtful, graceful and purposeful. My “a-ha” moment about hand-washing, spirituality and outreach is to focus on the small moments and think of them as significant opportunities to make connections. Each experience in the Jewish community is significant, even if it might not seem that way in the moment. A committee meeting, carpool to Hebrew school or even a workout at the Jewish Community Center might seem like an ordinary moment, but in reality these are all opportunities to connect with people with a spirit of warmth and welcome.

Lori Riegel is a Jewish educator in Tucson.