01 Nov Love Wins
I remember the day I could string together letters, making the sounds of each character, and read. I remember pumping my scrawny, brown legs faster and faster and faster until I swung high into the air, flying all the way up to the sky, on a swing. I remember falling off a bike countless times, until the moment where my body balanced, and I pedaled up and down the block. And I also remember the moment where Daadi, my beloved grandmother – compassionate, strong, wise, all-knowing – tried to teach me her anti-Semitic ways.
I think Mr. Hinkleman was Jewish; I never asked and it never came up. According to my not-so-vast cultural knowledge of Jewish surnames, if man, stein, berg, and/or son are in a last name, it could possibly note a lineage to the OG Tribe, God’s chosen people, the Hebrews, and unfortunately, probably one of the most persecuted faiths that has ever existed. (Sometimes I wonder if being the “favorite child” has more disadvantages than advantages.)
Our unit of World War II history had culminated and Mr. Hinkleman, my 8th grade history teacher, with parental approval, shared news footage of Nazi concentration camps: mass graves; countless bodies, from children to teenagers to adults – shells of what were once human beings; gas chambers disguised as “showers”; ash everywhere; men in uniform supervising the destruction of other human beings; black and white footage that made my heart bleed red.
The projector was turned off. Mr. Hinkleman turned on the lights, and where normally teenagers hustled and bustled gathering their belongings together, there was only silence. A few audible sniffles could be heard. Everything we had studied over the last few months in books, about distant lands, a time long gone, and “history” seemed to come alive right before our eyes, warning us: This can happen at any time and any place; silence is not an option.
The rest of the day I couldn’t wait to get home and get Daadi’s input: How could this happen? What was the rest of the world doing? Where was God? Is there a God, Allah as we call him? Daada, who had passed away the previous spring, was no longer available as my confidante, support, and spiritual advisor. I could talk to him about everything or nothing and it would just feel right being around him. He never forced his values, perceptions, and ideologies onto others – he lived them; plain and simple.
“He never forced his values, perceptions, and ideologies onto others – he lived them; plain and simple.”
Daadi was standing at the kitchen sink getting supper ready. Onions, garlic, and ginger were sautéing in a skillet, meat – in a flimsy plastic bag with a mixture of water and blood condensation pooling under it – was thawing on the counter, and a bunch of cilantro was set in a bowl. As was my habit and only kitchen duty since I acquired fine-motor skills, I gently separated the cilantro leaves from the stem, placing the stem in my mouth making a sort-of chewing gum.
“Salamm, Daadi,” I greeted.
“Samita, ghar aghee,” Daadi said.
“Gee,” I replied. “I’m home.”
Cilantro leaves are surprisingly strong even though they seem fragile. I could have forcibly ripped the leaves from the stem but I never did. To this day, I gently pull one leaf at a time, and since there are three to five leaves on a stem it takes time to gather them all off the bunch. As an adult, it’s become a moving meditation for me, a prayer for each petal that allows me the opportunity to fragrance food and nourish the body.
I slowly began (In hindsight, my soul was strengthening me with the inevitable.) “Did you learn about World War II?”
“Bhari jung,” she nodded, while effortlessly adding cumin, red chili flakes, red chili powder, salt and pepper to the aromatics in the pan.
“Yes, the big war,” I repeated. “Did you know that there was a man named Hitler who made it his mission to wipe out all Jews and millions of others who did not fit his role of a perfect race?” I inquired.
“Oh yes…Hitler was a great man!” she proudly said. “I wish he had won the war.” (This is not a misprint or a typo. Lord, do I wish it were! Years of therapy would not have been needed otherwise.)
“Daadi, I do not know what history you learned…” my voice trailed off into the curry-filled air. She wasn’t listening.
Daadi went on to explain that Jews had persecuted the Prophet Muhammad; Jews were the cause of the world’s problems; their existence itself was a stain on mankind. At that moment, the last person in my family whom I looked up to as a spiritual teacher – just like a magic trick, an illusion by the Universe – was gone. Nothing made sense. My ideas, my perceptions, my truth, my faith – the moral compass I lived by – were no longer centered on the teachings of my family. I was 14 years old and on my own (in a sense) to practice spirituality that worked for me; where love became the epicenter.
Six years later, at the University of California, Riverside, students lounged on the grass, reading and chatting; preachers carrying tattered King James Bibles damned everyone to hell; professors walked, head down, busy in conversation with colleagues or TAs; a lone in-line skater, with a camera around his neck, and balancing a backpack zigzagged between the gathering. I would meet him a few days later while applying for a position at the school newspaper, The Highlander. We would become friends. We would become best friends. We would become husband and wife. We would become spiritual partners. He happens to be Jewish.
I am all too familiar with anti-Semitism, racism, and bigotry. I have had the rare honor of having faced it in my lifetime and been privy to the creation of it. Most people believe that xenophobia is based on hate. I know it is nestled in the bosom of fear. All human decisions, when distilled to their essence, are based on fear or love. Daadi loved me but taught out of fear. She wanted me to receive all the wisdom she learned in her life, one of them being trepidation of the other. I get it: It’s scary to be truly ourselves, inside-out, so vulnerable for attack and rejection. At our core, we – beautiful and magical humans – want to know we matter, that we connect to something bigger than ourselves: maybe our religious community; the workplace; family; something, anything that tethers our existence in this vast Universe so we know we are loved.
“All human decisions, when distilled to their essence, are based on fear or love.”
We owe it to our human family and to our ancestors to lay down what no longer serves us, even if that means religious or cultural biases and indoctrinations. Dr. Maya Angelou, one of my favorite sages, said, “When you know better, you do better.” Daadi might not have known better but I do. We inherit more than we realize from our DNA, but intolerance is something that I lay to rest, no longer coursing through the bloodlines of my children. It is a choice. A choice my Soul made 30 years ago: A choice to love; a choice to be vulnerable; a choice to see all my human family as equal, all created by the same stardust that created the Big Bang.
Allah…still a source of my strength.
Star of David meets Allah
In less than two weeks, Daadi’s great-granddaughter – my daughter – will stand on the bema, with Rabbi Lindy and Cantor Jen, reciting scripture and delving into traditions thousands of years old. The Torah, gifted by God to the OG Tribe, the chosen people, the Hebrews will be chanted across synagogues on Shabbat as it has been for thousands of years; sacred texts passed down from generation to generation as teachings, a moral compass to guide the Jewish people for all of eternity. Leia’s Jewish family as well as her Muslim family will surround her, people of all faiths will be in attendance, and in the center of that village will be our daughter. What will not be seen by the human eye but felt by the Soul will be ancestors from all faiths, gathering, holding hands, and bathing the sanctuary in their love because God is Love and Love is God. Shalom. Salaam. Namaste. Peace.
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