A few years ago, I participated in an eye-opening trip to Senegal, a beautiful former French colony in West Africa. This trip was actually a rabbinical student delegation, organized by American Jewish World Service, for the purposes of introducing us future Jewish leaders to the impoverished condition of the global south. Our time on this trip was divided. Half of the trip was spent studying Jewish attitudes towards economic justice while staying at our NGO site an hour outside of Senegal’s capital, Dakar. The other half was filled with volunteering in a small rural village called Ker Daouda Cissé, which translates as ‘the home of Daouda Cissé.’ There we helped with several construction projects around the village and with housework, all-the-while building relationships with the local people.
My trip to Senegal was one of great contrasts. There was a great contrast between the incredible joie de vivre in the Senegalese people I met— many of the villagers seemed ready to jump into rhythm and dance at the drop of a hat—and there was tremendous poverty— where a wealthy home meant a courtyard with a floor of sand, surrounded by bedrooms built of concrete bricks and corrugated tin, with holes for windows shaded by ragged curtains.
There was great contrast between Dakar with its modern buildings, bistros and cafés, and paved streets, and Ker Daouda Cissé, with its sandy squares, wandering livestock, and (fortunately for them) their single well.
There was great contrast between the overall character of the Senegalese nation and certain feelings left among individuals I encountered from their days under the French. Senegal has been a stable independent country since 1960 with a peace-loving and hard-working people, a country where many Muslims will tell you that any Muslim who doesn’t seek peace with his entire being is not a true Muslim, and yet Senegal is also a place where deeply rooted in the communal subconscious is a notion that their people are inferior because of their skin colour.
Walking around the village, the town where we stayed, and the capital, we rabbis-to-be were frequently referred to as Tubab. Not in a derogatory way, as in, ‘look at those tubabs sticking out like sore thumbs.’ It was just their name for us. After a few days, we asked what it meant, and the answer? Doctor. White people are doctors. It seems that originally, the only medically trained doctors were white, and this phenomenon extrapolated to this day to imply that people from beyond their world, the whites, somehow know better when it comes to what is good for the people of Senegal. Sure, most Senegalese who I met did not consciously think that I was more skilled in their world than they were. I proved that I was not, in fact, when I tried to help mix cement for the new addition on their school, sweep dirt off the sand of their courtyards, and do seriously-dirtied laundry by hand. And yet, I was still a tubab, a doctor, and someone who was welcomed, not only because I was a friend, but because I was someone from a more developed world with more insights on how things ought to be.
A few days ago, Miriam and I went to see the movie the Butler, a compelling story about a black man named Cecil Gaines raised on a cotton farm in the south, who slowly found his way to dignity and respect while serving as the White House butler through eight different presidencies. Cecil’s quiet and deferential stand for black rights contrasted with the active and confrontational acts of his son, Louis, who somehow participated in many of the major events in the fight for racial equality, including sit-ins in segregated restaurants, freedom rides, marches with Dr. King, and protests with Malcolm X. I’m about to reveal the ending of this movie, so you may want to plug your ears. It ends with the joy in the eyes of Cecil’s family as they see something they never thought they would see— the election of Barack Obama, the nation’s first black president.
One line from this movie really stood out for me… Cecil, walking his son through the cotton farm living quarters of his youth, said,
Americans always turn a blind eye to our own. We look out to the world and judge. We hear about the concentration camps, but these camps went on for 200 years in America.
He makes a statement reminding his son, and those watching, that in being so concerned with the tragedies of others of past or overseas, we often neglect to consider the plight of our own fellow Americans. It often seems as though it is enough today to pay a visit to the issue of racial justice once a year, on MLK weekend.
To be honest, I was a little disappointed with the movie. The Butler was a beautiful film and story, but it was also deeply problematic, in that it gave the air of history and fact to a mostly-fictional fabrication. Partly because there was not one person— a son of a White House butler— who participated in all of these civil rights milestones, but even more so because it painted for the audience a picture that while things were bad, they improved and improved and improved, to the point where we have won the battle for racial equality in the election of a black president. Those who were once slaves were now free, in the absolute. While things certainly have improved since the days of slavery and segregation, it is dangerous and careless to believe that all is well— that whites, blacks, latinos, and everyone else all have the exact same rights and privileges.
Centuries of servitude and subjugation—of slave and master, of unfavored and privileged—do not so quickly leave our culturally-inherited psyches. 50 years after Senegalese independence, I was still a tubab.
Someone once shared with me a question she had— could Obama have made it as far as he did if he was instead descended from African-American slaves, instead of a Kenyan family that has only known freedom? Was his rise to the presidency enabled by a sense of confidence and conviction that is seemingly far less prevalent among America’s poorer black communities?
I really didn’t get this. Growing up in Canada, the slave trade, the civil war, the emancipation-proclamation— all of these were things we heard about maybe once in a grade school history class. We did learn a bit more about our subjugation of the Native Americans, but that’s a story for another time.
I did not understand what it was to be part of a country that had once embraced slavery and now lived with the consequences. I did not understand the critical fights this country has fought in order to grow in the ways that it has. The positive milestones, like Rosa Parks, and Brown vs Board of Ed, were unknown to me.
What I knew about slavery was that it happened, that Canada was the destination for the Underground Railroad, and that my closest connection, as a second-generation Canadian Jewish boy of Eastern-European descent, was that my people were once slaves in Egypt.
The very weight of slavery did not strike me until this trip to Senegal, when we cruised to Gorée Island, a small slave-trade centre at the western-most point of the African continent. There, I saw a trader-villa, with beautiful spacious chambers above, and dungeons below, where kidnapped Africans were crammed in, naked, to be sold to the highest bidder after days—sometimes weeks—of sitting in the dark. I saw the door of no-return, a door at the end of the cell-block, opening to a dock and the bitter-sweet Atlantic: the last threshold before shipment to Europe and the Americas.
It was gut-wrenching to imagine that to which so many were subjected.
And so, I understood things a little bit better. I understood a little more the history of slavery and this country’s connection to it. I became a little more attuned to the fact that we like to focus on how civil rights are significantly better now than they used to be, and the movie The Butler helps us focus on this point rather effectively.
Yes, things are certainly better. People of all colours have access to health care, education, banking, and security. Theoretically and often practically, we are indeed integrated and living together like the human beings we are. But this is not always true. Our nation still suffers from an epidemic of racial inequalities. All that needs to be done to figure this out is to look at the news and local demographics. We still see that poor, inner city populations, plagued by violence and drug-use, are most often black and hispanic. Issues like stop and frisk, civil forfeiture, voting rights, racial profiling, and racial disparities in our justice system are but a handful of the many challenges we have inherited from our national ancestors.
If you are unaware of the ePSA error codes, or if you have not encountered one yet, then it is advisable to look into the Dell tech support phone number. levitra 60 mg cute-n-tiny.com These categories that are expressed by the body when one is under stress as it adjusts this way and this is good if you can start using this medicine only after discussing with physician. purchase viagra without prescription Studies have also found that increased stress levels cute-n-tiny.com brand viagra result in reduced testosterone levels and lower sperm count. The consequence with this capsule lives in body for around five to six hours. discount brand viagra Here at Temple Emanu-El, we have done good in the fight of racism. We are truly a welcoming community, and a diverse one at that, with many backgrounds and skin colours represented in our community— more so than many of our neighbouring communities. But may we be cautious about finding contentment in our early accomplishments, about patting ourselves on the back for having interracial Jewish couples in our community. Being satisfied in incomplete work is failing in our duty as Jews and members of the human race. In the language of Yom Kippur, it is al cheit worthy.
A few weeks ago, Miriam and I attended Friday night services at Ikar, a vibrant Los Angeles congregation led by Rabbi Sharon Brous, a phenomenal, inspirational speaker. She brought to my attention a fascinating concept: the tzuris— the stress— of privilege. She asked us, what are the issues that keep us up at night? Concerns like will my child get into their top choice university? Will I get that promotion at work? Will I have enough in my savings, given the state of the economy, to retire comfortably? Will the Leafs ever again win the Stanley Cup? Just to be clear, these matters are important— they are legitimate issues in our lives, entitled to our care and concern. However, we must acknowledge that these tzurises are privileged in nature. There are others, throughout the world but also in our own country, who may be kept up at night wondering, how will I feed my children tomorrow? Will they be safe walking to school? Will they last through high school? Will I get to vote this year? Will my children have access to a better life, and will they actually know that this better life could be theirs?
Tzuris of the privileged is ok, as long as we remember that there are many other tzurises in our nation, for which we must be concerned.
As Jews in America, we lead excellent lives. Let us not forget that even here, in the early 1900s, we were subjugated, victimized, and hated. We were even portrayed in caricatures with stereotypically black features, to add to the establishment’s propaganda against the Jews.
More significantly, let us not forget our origins. We were all slaves in Egypt. Lest we say that it is natural that we forget, we have worked hard to overcome our hardships, and it has been a long time, we look to the words of Torah:
Now it shall be when the Eternal your God brings you to the land that God swore to your fathers, to Abraham, to Isaac, and to Jacob, to give you towns great and good that you did not build, houses full of every good thing that you did not fill, cisterns hewn out that you did not hew, vineyards and olive-groves that you did not plant, and you eat and you are satisfied, take-you-care, lest you forget the Eternal who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of servitude (Deuteronomy 6:10-12).
We were all slaves, and we have all suffered hardship. And yet, at the border of the land of Israel, after 40 years, we are told, you will soon get very comfortable. You will soon feel privileged. You will have things that others have built, and you will benefit from them. You will forget what it was before. But you may not forget. When you are enjoying that cozy life of privilege in the sacred land, do not forget your roots. Do not forget what it is to suffer at the hands of others, to be powerless, to feel as though our destiny is completely out of our hands. This is what we were told, and this is what we need to be told again and again and again.
I mentioned to one of my colleagues that I was planning on delivering a sermon on racism this Yom Kippur, and he responded, is there really anything new to say? Haven’t we taken this topic as far as we can?
To be honest, I do not know what to say that is new. I am still learning the ropes. What I do know though is that even if there is little new to say, the problem of racism— of inequality and injustice—is still very present, and until this disease is completely eradicated from our world, our work is not done. It is ok to have this tzuris of the privileged— we need not give up our lives of comfort— as long as we remain cognizant and aware of those who have concerns that are considerably more disconcerting, and as long as we remain engaged in trying to help them.
We at Temple Emanu-El have a wonderful history of social justice, and we are proud of the fact that we welcome and give home to people of all colours and backgrounds. Nevertheless, we must always remember that we are not perfect, and we have much more work to do. We are all guilty of having prejudices and making assumptions about others based on appearances, and we are all guilty of refocusing our concerns away from more serious issues, because things feel good here at home.
I do not know what it is that we can to do solve the problems of racial inequality and injustice in this country. I am still learning the basics. What is important is that I am working on it, and I am trying not to get too comfortable with our wonderful community in this place.
We as a congregation have begun the process of introspection, looking at the prejudices inherent in each of us, through the leadership of our own Mike Likier and our Social Action Committee, along with the New Jersey Anti-Racist Alliance. At our last program, we had a wonderful turnout of more than 30 people where we watched and discussed a documentary concerning the theory and history of racism. Given the importance of this issue, it is my hope that all of you in this room will seriously consider coming to our next program, on Saturday night October 19th.
I do not know how we might make a significant impact towards establishing equality for all, but I am on a journey with many of our community members, and I do hope that you all will join us.
The rabbis tell us that when God made Adam, God made him with dust from the four corners of the earth- red clay, black soil, brown mud, and yellow sand. This way, no single person could tell another, you are different, and you are not welcome here (Pirkei d’Rebbi Eliezer 11). We are all made of the same stuff, in the divine image, and therefore, worthy of each other’s love and respect.
While we have made good progress in seeking equality for all, there is much work to be done— far more than any one of us, individually, can accomplish. May we join together in this journey of effort, so that we might live to find all human beings treated as though we are made from the same sacred materials, with the equal rights, equal opportunities, and equal freedoms.
May we live to see the day the divine vision will be fulfilled, as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. hoped 50 years ago, when the jangling discords of our nation will be transformed into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood, and when true freedom will ring from every mountain, hill and valley in this world.
May we not be satisfied until the words of the prophet Amos come to fruition, that justice will roll down like water, and righteousness like a mighty stream (Amos 5:24).
G’mar Chatimah Tovah.
Delivered at Temple Emanu-El of Edison, NJ on September 13th, 2013, Kol Nidre 5774.
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