(x-posted to Justice in the City)

Now that the election season is heating up, once again the question will be asked, what does the Jewish community want? How will they vote? What will they base their choice on? If you listen to the polls, the pundits and the politicians (and many of the putative spokespeople for the Jewish community) the answer is simple: Israel. However, the question needs to be asked: is this the right answer? What should Jews care about, as Jews?

If by being Jewish one means connecting oneself to the wisdom of the Jewish tradition one would find that Jews who put social and economic justice at the heart of their concerns are tapping a deep vein. When God informs Abraham that God is going to destroy Sodom, Abraham challenges God: “Will the judge of all the world not do justice?” Speaking of Sodom, the prophet Ezekiel understood their sin as “She and her daughters had plenty of bread and untroubled tranquility; yet she did not support the poor and the needy.” Jeremiah channels God saying: “but let him who boasts boast in this, that he understands and knows me, that I am the LORD who practices steadfast love, justice, and righteousness in the earth. For in these things I delight,” from which Maimonides, the great 12th century Spanish Jewish philosopher and jurist, understood that the true goal of the religious and philosophical path—beyond even knowing whatever it is that one can know about God—is to practice love and righteousness and justice in the world. 

It is the Rabbis who move from the hortatory to the practical. In the third century mishnah, and the later Talmuds, the Rabbis move beyond the individual obligations of charity—whether demanding that the corner of the field be left over, or helping one’s fellow when she falls on hard times—and establish poverty relief as a political obligation to be fulfilled by cities and gathered by assessment. Every poor person who lives in, or even passes through a city must be supplied with two meals a day, a place and provisions for sleeping and shelter. As a matter of fact, residency in a town is itself described in terms of obligations towards others. When one lives in a town for certain period of time (3, 6, 9, 12 months) one must take on various levels of obligation towards other residents and the town itself.

The rabbis unpacked the Levitical verse: “For it is to Me that the Israelites are servants: they are My servants, whom I freed from the land of Egypt.” They interpreted “they are My servants and not servants to servants.” The central act of Divine intervention in the world is seen by one of the greatest Talmudic Sages as a prooftext that workers cannot be forced to work against their will.

I could go on. Social and economic justice issues are the heart and soul of the Jewish tradition, from Isaiah to the Rabbis of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (of all denominations) who spoke in favor of, and some who demanded, that workers be afforded the ability to organize and have the protections of collective bargaining.

So why is it that when a politician wants to reach out to the Jewish community she goes to AIPAC, or he goes on a trip to Israel? Most American Jews live in the very cities which were devastated by the economic collapse and are being victimized by the monetizing of our morals (in which the economic bottom line always trumps the ethical bottom line). Most American Jews feel the call of the tradition to create cities wherein justice lies. The thinking that the American Jewish vote should be swayed only by a candidate’s policies on Israel is made all the more absurd by the lack of any real daylight between the policies of Democrats and Republicans on Israel. As a community we should demand that when politicians speak about Jewish issues, they speak about the issues that really matter to us, issues of social and economic justice.

I will give Jeremiah the last word (channeling God, of course) : “And seek the well-being of the city to which I have  exiled you, and pray to God on its behalf, for in its peace you shall find peace.”

Here are his complaints in order (This is just the outline, for the full effect, you’ll need to go see the actual essay):
I. I am the Lord your God, Who took you out of Egypt to ‘repair the world.’
II. You shall not be judgmental.
III. You shall be pluralistic.
IV. You shall personalize your Judaism.
V. Meaning, meaning shall you pursue.
VI. You shall create caring communities.
VII. You shall encourage the airing of all views.
VIII. You shall not be tribal.
IX. You shall celebrate your Jewishness.
X. You shall hold the Jewish conversation in public.

Just to get them out of the way, I’m just going to skim over my major wuts in is piece:

I’m kind of mystified by number 5. Is he saying that Jewish survival, should it have, for example, no Torah at the center, and no community, is worthwhile for its own sake? Why? Number ten, OTOH is classic Wertheimerian krechtzing. He just doesn’t actually get that there is no non-public square anymore. I know the guy is basically a grumpy, old, reactionary (and sexist, though that doesn’t come out so much here), crank, but does he really want to advertise the fact that he has no idea what year it is and is unaware of the use of new technologies and how people – not just Jews- actually live?

Still, even a stopped analog clock is right twice a day: He’s right that the term “tikkun olam” which doesn’t really mean what people think it means, has even in the more general way it is used currently, come to be essentially meaningless (Rabbi Jill Jacobs takes this on concisely in the introduction to her first book).

I also agree that being judgmental is now considered to be the greatest insult (not just in Jewish circles, either) but I think that the world wants not less judgmentalism, but more. Judgment is the great human gift – not everything is acceptable, and indeed, there are things which are not Jewish, no matter how says they are. Rabbi Jeremy Kalmanofsky takes this on over at jCast in his review of David Teutsch’s A Guide to Jewish Practice: Volume 1 – Everyday Living in which he points out,

This work – and I suppose by extension Reconstructionist Judaism in general and maybe all non-Halakhic Judaism – seems unable to say that anything is assur, just plain forbidden. Its alternative ethos is that if good values can be attained through a given practice, if individuals or communities can make something work, then classical Jewish norms have no business stopping them. But for me, this is no prescription for Jewish integrity or keeping faith with the Torah and Sages, and risks a kind of self-indulgent narcissism…
Tattoos come in for positive evaluation in the Reconstructionist Guide, with no discussion at all of the biblical prohibition, because they can “evoke spiritual meaning or use Hebrew words that connect to the act of prayer as a form of walking meditation” [pp. 87-88]…
And very dismayingly, this work of Jewish practice cannot even bring itself to affirm monogamy and sexual fidelity within marriage, gay or straight, as absolute Jewish norms. While Jews have generally favored monogamy, Teutsch writes, “it is not obvious that monogamy is automatically a morally higher form of relationship than polygamy.” If “polyamory” – multiple romantic and sex partners – were practiced with honesty, flexibility, egalitarian rules for men and women, with trust and without jealousy, it could help couples “avoid some possible forms of exploitation” and avoids “the violation of vows and the need for secrecy” as found in most affairs. “Perhaps some people can manage it successfully and live enriched lives as a result” [pp. 217-227].
Wait … what?! What did I just read?

Uh, yeah, no kidding. What, indeed?

Wertheimer goes on to object to young Jews rejecting to the notion of a tribe (what he means is that he objects to the idea that many Jews – and this isn’t even vaguely a phenomenon of this generation – actually it’s perhaps even more of that of his own- are cosmopolitan, and view solving problems for the world, or other peoples, as worth investing our time and money in). Oddly, many of those Jews invest that time and money as Jews (back to his complaints about Tikkun Olam). Actually, there is a thread of legitimacy to this one. I think, if one were to state this more reasonably, one could refer to the notion of circles of tzedakah – Jewish tradition actually rejects the idea of giving everything away and not caring for one’s own first.

Even when I was very young, I thought those historic individuals who decided to give everything to the poor and live on offerings were actually rather selfish – what were their families eating? I wondered. Jewish tradition advocates, rather, taking care of oneself first, then one’s immediate family, then one’s community, and only then the wider world. The question today comes in because we don’t live in communities of only Jews. Today, community is a rather nebulous concept, and it becomes much more difficult to decide how to allocate resources. This is actually a very difficult – perhaps one could even say, a talmudically difficult- question, and Wertheimer dismisses it far too easily.

He also objects to “caring communities.” Again, he is rather imprecise. Does he really object to people being pleasant to one another? I doubt even he really goes that far. Rather, what he seems to be unhappy about is an uneven model: synagogues have become, in many congregant’s eyes, fee-for-service institutions. They pay what they want, and expect to get certain services. But then, they also want to feel warm and good, and have that institution take care of them, without realizing – there is no “institution.” The institution is us. If we want community, we have to provide it. If we want to be in a place where we care about each other,and provide safety nets for one another, we have to contribute to it. It’s the difference between a friend and a therapist. With the therapist, if you don’t pay your bill, you don’t get help. With a friend, there’s no fee, but to have a friend you have to be a friend. Same for Judaism, and community.

The rest of Wertheimer’s complaints merge into a kind of grayish, undifferentiated mass. He complains about celebrating Judaism (what he means is that he objects to young Jews insisting that the evidence is that we have no good reason, at least in the USA, to live in fear of our neighbors), about pluralism (really, is it that important that we all fit into very narrow categories? I wonder where I would go, since I’m a halachicly pretty traditional (except on specific things where I consider myself more stringent, such as who counts in a minyan: I believe everyone has chiyuv), textually obsessed, geeky, politically (very) liberal Jew. I like the Conservative movement’s big tent, but if the orthodox started counting women as equals, I could see myself there, too). This flows into his complaints about being open to airing all views and personalizing our Judaism.

Wertheimer seems to be worried that this generation (never mind that it’s just as true, if not more so of the previous generation) isn’t parochial enough. He notes,

Michael Berger astutely observed in a riposte to Kaunfer: “If something is yours, you don’t feel the need to ask ‘why’—it’s just yours. The French don’t wake up every morning asking why should French culture exist—it just does, it’s theirs, and many of them are proud of it.”

Really, he can’t aspire to Judaism being more important than French culture? In fact, this little aside elucidates an attitude that is more problematic than ones he is complaining about. I actually agree with several of his points (and believe me, that doesn’t happen often), but this little aside stopped me dead, because the reveal here is that he apparently doesn’t actually believe that Judaism has anything to say.

To say that “we should be proud of it just because it’s ours” implies that there is no greater meaning to it. This is actually far more radical and sad than any of the attitudes he critiques. At least the people who want Judaism to have a big tent think that there’s a holy mission there, an important one; at least the people who want to personalize Judaism feel that some piece of it will speak just to them, and have meaning; at least the people who think that anything goes feel that somehow there is something holy about Jewishness that can connect them to the divine. But saying that we should be Jewish without any further examination, that we should be Jews just because – well, that implies a deep lack of faith. It means there is nothing deeper to him, and Jack Wertheimer: on behalf of the cheerful greeters, the open-minded, the cosmopolitans looking to save the world through their Judaism, on behalf of all these people, I reject that. I proclaim with perfect faith, that there is more to Judaism than “I love it because it’s mine.” I disagree with all kinds of Jews about all kinds of things. But I love Judaism, because it is holy, because it speaks with meaning, and because it connects us to the divine through torah. And so do all those people you dismiss out of hand.

Perhaps God loves Israel just because we are God’s, but as a human being graced with the blessing of judgment, I require more out my path, my halacha. I live a Torah life because God commanded it, but if God were evil, I would be right to reject him. Even Abraham asked if the Judge of the world should not do justly. or as my mother used to say to me, when I was a child, “If all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you jump off a bridge?”

As it happens, I do love it, and it is mine. But if other people love it, that makes it no less mine, even if I think they’re wrong about what it means, or how to do it. It’s curious that nowhere in the diatribe is there a word about the God, or prayer, or for that matter, even about study, let alone about halacha. Curious.

Police, defying the mechitzah, to teach Deb how a woman ought to wear her tallis.

It wasn’t long before I spotted the photos on Facebook, counting several friends among them. Based on the two photos included in this post, I decided to talk to Deb (pictured) about her experience today and each month she joins Women of the Wall for their Rosh Chodesh davening.

Right off the bat, Deb made clear that she hasn’t historically connected to the kotel as a place where she’s wanted to daven. However, she finds that the more she goes with Women of the Wall, the more she wants to go. It’s the community Women of the Wall is fighting to create that speaks to her more than the wall itself.

She told me, the group is “called ‘women’ but it’s actually creating a space for all who want to daven there, who have the right to access this public, Jewish space.” The group’s mission states they “seek the right for Jewish women from Israel and around the world to conduct prayer services, read from a Torah scroll while wearing prayer shawls, and sing out loud at the Western Wall – Judaism’s most sacred holy site and the principal symbol of Jewish people hood and sovereignty.” Deb appreciates that they’ve also created a “queer-friendly space,” and that they “call attention to the need for spaces that are friendly and welcoming to all. There are folks who identify as genderqueer and trans who are invited to lead services, read from the Torah, and take on other roles. Likewise, Women of the Wall creates a welcome space for all genders, including male-identifed folks, to participate in the Torah services” that they hold at Robinson’s Arch after they move from the Western Wall.

Wearing a tallis in a hijab-like manner is apparently permitted.

When I showed Deb the two photos from Facebook, she said that she feels like she’s being “singled out each month” by the police, because she wears a tallis that is more traditionally considered a man’s, and not a colourful tallis that might be more “feminine.” Today, a policeman asked permission of Anat (co-founder of Women of the Wall) to demonstrate, using Deb and her tallis, how women should properly wear a tallis like a shawl. The idea being that this would avoid the 2001 law that makes it illegal for women to perform those religious practices “traditionally done by men” at holy sites, like reading from the Torah, wearing tefillin or a tallis, or blowing the shofar.

“He folded it up, and put it around me like a fake scarf… Of course I unfolded it and ended up wearing almost like a hijab instead!”

Her other response to the police? She davens extra loud when she’s with Women of the Wall. I asked if that was a way of protesting the police interference, but she corrected me. “The truth is that I’m extra loud so that the women feel a presence. And it’s for the policemen, so they hear the truth of the davening, rather than the protest of the women. Because that’s really why I am there: so that I can pray and sing and so can any other person. I guess I like to think I bring some davening confidence…”

Her confidence, and the monthly return of so many woman (and folks of all genders) reminds us that they’re fighting over a public space. A Jewish space. And women (and those who identify outside the gender binary) have just as much right to pray in public as men.

There was always something odd about the Sweet Genius himself. His flamboyant style hinted at his being gay, but unless you knew his name is Ron Ben Israel, his Austrian accent never would have outed him as a Tel Aviv born-Jew.  Of course, his Viennese mother might have something to do with that, as well as giving him knowledge of delicate European style confections, which appeared in Martha Stewart, Vogue and many food pron books before the New York Times named him “the Manolo Blahnik of cakes.”

New Yorkers and foodies may be more familiar with Ron Ben Israel, but for those less in the know, JTA profiles the Sweet Genius star:

In 1999 he opened Ron Ben-Israel Cakes in New York’s SoHo neighborhood with one oven and one mixer. As people fled downtown New York after the 9/11 tragedy, he was able to capitalize on lower rents and expand his operation.

Coming from a secular Israeli upbringing, Ben-Israel wasn’t ideologically interested in making his shop kosher, but for a caterer for some of New York City’s biggest hotels, it was a prudent business decision.

He chose OK Laboratories, the Chabad-affiliated kashrut organization headquartered in Brooklyn, which now certifies his shop’s pareve cakes.

After serving in the IDF in the 70′s , he studied dance and pursued a Ballet career that eventually brought him to NYC, where while working odd jobs to make rent he discovered baking.

Sounds like a sweet story. Only a sweet genius could have cooked it up. Check out the full profile here.

Jewschool is a co-sponsor of Inside the Activists’ Studio 2012.

The theme of this year’s Inside the Activists’ Studio is “Finding Your Voice in a Global Movement,” and we know how challenging it can be to match your skills and passion to actual change-making. But we also know it’s a lot easier to find your voice with community support, and that’s why we’ve brought together a group of outstanding panelists to share their own experiences this Sunday. As a preview, check out some of their answers below to the question:

How do you amplify your voice for change?

 Phil Aroneanu: I’ve been an activist on climate change nearly all my adult life. Since I first learned about the climate crisis from a goofy high school physics teacher, and throughout the next decade, I’ve felt that climate change encompasses a whole range of environmental and social justice issues that I feel passionately about. At first, I wasn’t much of an organizer–my first effort in high school was to organize a “No Car Day” with some friends. We got the local bagel shop to donate bagels and cream cheese, which we handed out to all the kids who biked, skateboarded or walked to school. It felt good, and we got a write up in the local paper, but in some sense it was ineffective. Even if I “raised awareness” about climate change and transportation, how many people who received a bagel would actually think twice about getting in a car the next day? More importantly, it taught me to think bigger than myself; I wasn’t going to solve the climate crisis by trying to change personal behavior. That’s certainly a part of the solution, but to solve the climate crisis, we really need to change the way the world produces and uses energy, which is a much, much larger, multi-faceted challenge.

Changing one mind at a time is nice, but it won’t add up to the severity and speed of the problem, nor become a force for sanity in a politics dominated by the power and money of the fossil fuel industry–the richest corporations in the history of money. It takes a push for real justice–what we call climate justice–to put people before corporate profits. It takes a solidarity model of activism, or as my friend Joshua Kahn Russel calls it, “Power with, not power over.”

That’s why nearly all the work I’ve done since high school has been focused on empowering others to amplify their voices. In our successful campaign to stop the Keystone XL pipeline, those voices included Indigenous leaders from tar sands producing areas in Canada, ranchers and farmers from Nebraska, students from around the country, and ordinary climate activists from around the country. To my mind, amplifying my voice means not putting myself at the center of attention–it means developing leader-full networks who are able to push our agenda together. It’s what separates activists from organizers.

 Dasi Fruchter: I’ve learned along the road as an activist that though I am actually quite loud, one voice is not enough. For me, amplifying my voice is about building surprising coalitions across difference that truly empower those struggling for change. No matter how many people will listen to the sound of my voice, they weren’t really going to hear what I was going to say unless they were a part of the amplification process. I’ve seen this play out literally in Occupy Wall Street–in the “People’s Mic”–but more importantly, in all other activist efforts where strong coalitions are weaved together in a gorgeous tapestry of types of people–different textures and layers make for a richer sound that ultimately speaks to the most people.

Karen Abravanel: I seek out and collaborate with organizations that share my values and goals. My voice is louder and more effective when backed by the weight of an established organization. Plus, I can build on the organization’s contacts and access to increase my opportunities to be heard.

Thursday, May 17 at 7-10 PM
Hub San Francisco in the SF Chronicle Building, 925 Mission St.
Cost $5
RSVP at nif.org/lovehate

Share your story. Leave the boxing gloves at home.

“Love, Hate, and the Jewish State” is a civil dialogue for Jews in our 20s and 30s to share our personal experiences about Israel and social justice. We are creating a space where authentic discourse and diverse opinions are welcome – about love and hate, and everything in between. You get to own and author the content of the discussion. We will just provide exercises to help you talk, listen, ask questions, and create meaningful interactions around Israel and social justice.

Brought to you by New Israel Fund’s New Generations. Co-sponsored by A Wider Bridge, Berkeley Hillel, Congregation Beth Israel Judea, Congregation Beth Sholom, Bureau of Jewish Education, CalGrads, East Bay Moishe House, Hazon, Jewish Community Relations Council, Jewlicious, J Street and J Street U, Keshet, Pursue, Rabbis For Human Rights-North America, San Francisco Hillel, San Francisco Moishe House, Congregation Sha’ar Zahav, The Kitchen, Urban Adamah, USF program in Jewish Studies and Social Justice, World Zionist Organization, and Zeek.

Crossposted from Pursue. Jewschool is a co sponsor of Inside the Activists’ Studio. 

On Sunday, May 20, Pursuers in NYC will gather for Inside the Activists’ Studio: Finding Your Voice in a Global Movement. The event will feature an incredible array of local Jewish change-makers speaking on a panel, presenting workshops, or performing. As a sneak peek, we chatted with workshop presenter Emily Saltzman, who will co lead a workshop with Erin Markman (click to read her interview). 

What inspires you to work on issues of allyship (being an ally)? 

 Mutual learning and meaningful connection inspire me to do this work.  Learning from and reflecting on personal relationships is one of the main ways that I have seen myself grow over the years. I find human connection to be incredibly powerful, so I hope to work toward removing barriers that would prevent that connection from occurring. For me, true allyship is an integral part of organizing for folks who hold privileged identities and should not be taken lightly. I do this work because one of the effects of oppression is that it dehumanizes us. It prevents us from connecting to each other in meaningful ways or it can stop us from connecting at all. Many of us have heard of stories where folks–typically white–work in mixed-race spaces in hopes of delving into their own experience in their privileged identity. This can most certainly be helpful and challenge folks to think deeply about the spaces that they occupy, although many times it falls on the folks of subjugated identities to educate the others. It is for exactly this reason that folks with privileged identities need to also have space to process their experience, socialized ideas and internalized superiority. There are feelings, values, thoughts and hurtful language that needs to be processed and challenged prior to and alongside all-identity organizing. While these spaces can be incredibly helpful and transformative, they can become problematic if not done alongside organizing in spaces where a variety of identities are present.

Allyship is taking a stand–both internally and externally–where we can use our privileged identity (or identities) to elevate an issue that is often silenced. Developing an ally identity allows us to challenge ourselves internally while also providing space to challenge other members of our privileged identity group externally. A large part of ally identity development is knowing when to step back and simply be present, which can be quite a challenge. The allyship development process is constantly evolving and non-linear in nature, which can also cause us to want to “give up” or “check out.” We need to take the necessary measures to support our development and connect with folks that can nourish this process while simultaneously holding us accountable.

How does your Jewish identity relate to what you do?

Growing up in the suburbs of Minneapolis, I was not connected to a Jewish community, and I didn’t learn how to integrate Jewish values into my social justice work until moving to New York City. I felt drawn to issues of social justice, equality and equity from a young age, but I did not have strong Jewish leaders that modeled this work for me. My family was one of a handful of Jewish families in my suburb, and I was often treated as an anomaly by friends and teachers. While I did not experience overt anti-Semitism until college, I did feel isolated and alone at times. I was commonly used as the “token Jewish person” in class to discuss the young adult classics like Number the Stars and The Devil’s Arithmetic. At the time I felt special and excited that my classmates and teachers wanted to discuss a section of Jewish history but, looking back, the support was empty and fleeting once the reading unit was over.

I mention this all to say that seeing the world through a Jewish lens has greatly affected my career and organizing path. To be seen as an “other”–overtly and covertly–allows one to begin noticing the social hierarchy. Fortunately I was never harassed to the point of violence, but these formative experiences stayed with me into adulthood.

When I moved to New York, I was bombarded with so many different illustrations of Jews and Judaism that it was difficult to tease out what felt right for me. Participating in AVODAH allowed me to see the connection between Judaism and social justice for the first time. My experience in AVODAH was unique in that I took part in very few Jewish learning opportunities prior to becoming a Corps member, so nearly everything we discussed in AVODAH was new to me. I was so intrigued–and thrilled–that there were younger Jews like me who had figured out a way to integrate Jewish culture, values and traditions into social justice work. After leaving AVODAH, I continued to pursue social justice ventures through my graduate program and noticed that so many of the folks I met were also queer-identified Jews. The active queer and trans community of Jewish organizers continues to support my journey. The resiliency and creativity that stems from this intersection inspires me both personally and spiritually to do this work.

What are you most excited about at Inside the Activists’ Studio?

I am thrilled to be part of such an energizing and exciting event! I have been disconnected from Jewish-based organizing for a while and I’m very much looking forward to learning from my peers and re-awakening this piece of myself. Oh, and I’m also looking forward to the delicious treats from Adamah!

Why should folks come to your IAS workshop?

Folks should join Erin and I if they are feeling stuck in their current ally identity journey, want to think deeply about how they wish to take a stand (internally and externally), are interested in learning from others’ experiences, are looking to form connections with folks doing similar work, and are interested in developing an accountable space to support this dialogue.

In addition to her own distinguished career, Achinoam Nini (aka Noa) has a history of working on behalf of peace and reconciliation. Notably, she has partnered with Israeli-Arab singer Mira Awad, a Christian and resident of Haifa, on a concert tour and as the country’s entrants 2009 entrants into the Eurovision contest.  This  creative collaboration brought them wide attention around the world, mostly of the positive sort.

On Yom Hazikaron, the acclaimed international Israeli musical artist performed for a gathering of Combatants for Peace, an organization of former fighters and their families on both sides of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.  This recent performance brought on attention of a much uglier, vile sort from extremist corners in Israeli and North American Jewish corners.

Calling her “Garbage” and “Rat” and far worse.  They’ve taken to facebook calling for a boycott of Noa’s performances, and Noa has responded.

We’ve come to expect anti-Semitism from the left outside the Jewish world.  Such xenophobic outbursts within of the Jewish world, however, are an unfortunate growing  trend from extreme right-wing corners.  Soccer hooligans ransack Arab shops in malls and traumatize women who stand up to their racism. This is in Israel proper within the Green line. Now a call to boycott Noa.

I’m appalled when those who blindly hate Jews and Israel accuse us all of the very racism and facism by which our people were victimized. There are nevertheless dangerous and equally appalling trends emerging in our midst. People who dismiss the ‘rightward turn‘ that Israeli has taken not just in its politics but in its social sector do so at the peril of the enterprise of the Jewish State.  Something is happening to Israeli youth, demonstrated by multiple incidents, and more generally to tolerance.

Every society must hold to account those who beat grandmothers in shopping malls and innocent people in the streets. Its basic civil law and human rights.  Israel is supposed to serve this purpose for the Jews, and its morality and ability to do so (and many other things) is diminished when its foremost cultural ambassadors working to heal conflict are openly insulted in this fashion.

This book’s simple yet ingenious innovation is a layout common to every English-Hebrew siddur: the right facing page is the Israeli narrative and the left facing page is the Palestinian side, each describing the same events. As Sari Nusseibeh’s back cover blurb says, it’s a “pioneering effort not only in the context of Israeli-Palestinian politics, but in the writing of history.”

I don’t recommend trying to read both narratives at once, since parallel chapters are real, full histories with footnotes, photos and stories. Trying to do so will give you a headache. But for the first time, opening a chapter to, say, the Balfour Declaration immediately makes both sides’ claims and reactions easy to find. No skipping around, flipping to the next chapter, or trying to keep it all in your head.

This book makes the chasms between narratives poignantly clear. For example, page 168 is in the middle of the chapter about the 1950s-1960s. The Israeli page features a photo of Adolf Eichmann on trial in Jerusalem; the Palestinian page features a photo of a Palestinian refugee woman embracing a relative through a border fence. The Israeli chapter is titled “The State of Israel: The First Decades” and faces “Years of Homelessness and Despair.”As one reads about the bombshell effect Eichmann’s trial had on Israeli Jewish identity, you can’t help but glance at the other page describing the systematic dispossession of Palestinian property under absentee laws. (Like I warned, a headache in the making if you read the whole thing this way.)

The chapters cover roughly 20 year periods starting in 1917, often with whole chapters dedicated to seminal events like the 1947 and 1967 wars. Sadly, the history stops with the Taba peace talks in 2001, effectively the end of the peace process. The authors recommend that this experiment is a first and should be rewritten in a decade, acknowledging especially that narratives evolve. And kudos to the writers for calling out the symmetry of narratives does not erase the asymmetry of power, another facet that often dogs these educational efforts.

Those of us versed in both narratives may be quite familiar with the different traumas important to both sides. But to see them so vividly and loyally portrayed side by side reminds me of how important efforts like this remain. For avid consumers of Middle East histories, this is an innovative quick reference guide. And for those entirely new to this issue, I highly recommend any book that is simple, clear and fair to both sides — for which this approach is uniquely, brilliantly qualified.

Lastly, the book is a touching tribute to the work of Israeli historian Prof. Dan Bar-On, who co-founded PRIME and this its central project with Palestinian historian Prof. Sami Adwan but died in 2008 before seeing its completion. The final chapter features testimonials from many of the 24 contributing Israeli and Palestinian teachers. Their personal stories working with each other and their hopes and challenges of teaching young people about the “other” are themselves proof of overcoming challenges and creating new hope.