FOUR CULTURAL HUGS
First a bit of background with some thoughts about Culture and National Identity.
The four hugs I have written about each took place within a Cultural experience.
Every faction of the world is jostling for the right of judgement through the might of reason and self-defined forms of logic. Logic in the real world is multi-faceted. I have written before that ‘my mob’ is, generally speaking: “fellow left-wing labour/environmental liberal-minded live-and-let-live arty-fartys”. I also have friends who are much more conservative which the Left seems increasingly obliged to label as right-wing even though being conservative does not at all mean one is right-winged in any way. In fact the reactionary Left-wing (my mob – “fellow left-wing labour/environmental liberal-minded live-and-let-live arty-fartys”) communicates more and more in a fanatic right-winged dogmatic jargon. We all live in strange and interesting times.
I can belong to several other ‘mobs’ and notions of nations. I have three passports thus three citizenships and could have had at least two more. I am a member of various ‘tribes’; also, i have a mixed ethnic background.
One year I had to take several hundred taxi rides. That was back in the day when most taxi drivers in Sydney were Ethnic; usually Greek or Lebanese or Italian.That year around 1987 those Sydney taxi drivers, taught me that by their assessment in the 100s of conversations I had in their taxis, that beyond any parallel and real and honoured nationalisms or sub-culture identification, according to them, I am Jewish.
That was the 1980s. With no exceptions as soon as I said where I wanted to go the driver heard an accent and would then ask me “Where ya from”? I always answered “Sydney” because that is where I was living. The drivers would then refine their questioning, chronologically. In replies I would go through my steady deflection thus: Sydney. I live here. Clovelly (my suburb). Born in USA. In Pittsburgh. Yes parents born in USA. Grandparents one side from Romania. Grandparents other side Czech (we used to say they were from Vienna, but, they were from Moravia). Then their following questions tried to pinpoint or ‘pigeon hole’ me via “You don’t look American”. Fine. Finally. “I’m Jewish”. With no exceptions, the taxi drivers would belt out a relief ‘Aha!! Nice to meet you. I’m – Italian or Greek or Lebanese’ or whatever each was. To them, even though we were both “New Australians” – immigrants to this wonderful country, but, to them above all only when I finally said “I’m Jewish” did they rest and befriend me. Then we began all sorts of interesting topical conversations.
That happened hundreds of times. The same way. Via those same incremental and chronological questions.
Of course if you ask me without any interrogation ‘what’s your background’, I will simply say “I’m Jewish”.
Rest assured “Jewish” can mean a 1000 different things. After all is there a single definition of being “Australian” or “American” or ‘Russian’ as there are, according to someone who is supposed to know, 300 ethnic groups that comprise ‘Russia’. For example.
Sometimes when I tell people I’m Jewish they then step back (yes, sometimes they step back physically – actually) and ask “But are you really Jewish”.
Seemingly in total disbelief that they are talking to such a mythological creature. Or because they imagine all kinds of religious fervent madness or mandates. Then I always answer “Yes”. As in yes I am really Jewish. What does that mean? Well clearly it can mean a thousand different things. How do you say what is an Australian or an Indigenous person or an Aborigine or an American or an African or any cultural label? Within each cultural label there are ALWAYS squabbling minions trying to hold the fence around the self-definition about what an Aussie is or a real Aussie for example or whatever notion of nation.
Being Jewish I’ve seen Jewish People who are: agnostic, atheist, Buddhist, Gay, anti-Jewish, and hundreds of undefined versions of being Jewish. One of the most interesting phenomenon to me is anti-Jewish Jews. Jewish people who wish to argue in the most Jewish of ways about how anti, non, or un-Jewish they are. Yeah right. Very funny phenomenon.
If you are Australian does that mean you eat meat pies every week, or shoot kangaroos, or that you are Indigenous – First Nation person, or that you may be a First Fleeter or that you hate the All-Blacks (NZ great rugby team), or you think only Australian theatre is the best, or that you follow the cricket, or that you have an eskie and a surfboard tattooed on each cheek of your backside. Really if you are Australian – admit it – that can mean a 1000 different things. And really, I am Australian. But, in a technical sense I am at the same time other notions of self. So too being really Jewish can mean any one of a 1000 different combinations of elements. For three years actively, part-time, I have been reading, studying, thinking about, and researching the question: What does it mean to be a Jewish person? And what is the particular way that the Jewish Culture is unique in the Human History; and, in nearly every field of Human endevour? Yet, some people imagine they already know ‘really’ what a Jewish person or the Jewish Culture is? In this early phase of my research, i.e. three years so far, it is quite obvious that the Cultural truth is that being Jewish requires daily study. In fact, the Cultural Practice is that study. I don’t know what Indigenous Peoples around the world are required to study when they wake up in the morning. But I know that an Australian does not have to wake up in the morning and check their Passport:) Although it may well be that some feel obligated to wake up in the morning and first thing upon opening their eyes says to their spousal partner “0w yer goin’ maaate, yer roight”?:) All or most joking aside, being Jewish according to the Cultural saga requires that a person investigate their Self at least minimally, consciously daily. It is like a form of Buddhism in practice. By the way there are numerous divergent forms of Buddhism.
I think “1000” in traditional Jewish culture means “many” just as a double word in the Indigenous Wiradjuri language means “many” as in Wagga Wagga which means ‘place of many crows’. One Wagga is one crow. The Hebrew word for ‘1000’ is aleph. The same word, aleph means 1, Aleph is also the first letter of the alephbet/alphabet, bet is the 2nd letter. Each of the Hebrew letters is also a word and that letter/word is also a philsophical concept. The Arabic Numeral for ‘one’ i.e. 1 has either 2 lines or when it is drawn with a base line also it is comprised of three lines, as is the Hebrew aleph. In that sense ‘1’ and ‘one’ may imply the philosphical idea called ‘unity’ rather than only ‘singular’.
So, hugs. What’s all this got to do with hugs? Specifically Four Cultural Hugs?
To be brief:
Cultural Hug #1. Moscow. 1985. Two years before the Sydney ethnic taxi drivers taught me my life lesson about ‘who or what I ‘am’, the Moscow Customs Officer had a go. He interrogated me with this accusation: “We understand that you are a Zionist and that you are here to make protests”. Well having at that point never considered Zionism as a calling I was quite confused as to what on Earth the bloke was crapping on about. So we went around in circles for ten minutes or so. Finally I said “Wait a minute. Are you asking me these questions because I’m Jewish? Because I am Jewish, but, I’m not a Zionist”. He smiled and had a friendly little laugh and said “It’s okay. You may enter”. The next minute, I knew, I should be a Zionist. One of the very interesting things about the Jewish People, Culture and Land is that it is and always has been integrated in various ways with other ‘nations’ that is other Peoples. For example the region known as the Levant which included Caanan was a great trade route for thousands of years. It was the region where the Middle East and other ‘orient’ nations could trade with Egypt and Africa.The Egyptians for example were meticulous in their economic record keeping, that is Bookeeping. One obscure book I have tells about how the Jewish People that were the ancient Israelites learned that form of record keeping and management from the Egyptions. The book is “Solomon’s New Men: the emergence of a ancient Israel as a national state” by E.W.Heaton (1974).
I knew enough history to know that We were there long ago and that some remnants of Us had never left. Eventually I learned a lot more about how the Jewish People were ‘born’ of that Land when it was labeled as Caanan. In a similar way, the Maoris as we know them were ‘born’ of the land that is called now New Zealand but what the Maoris called Aotearoa a mere 800 years ago. According to the Maori Culture their people arrived from a place called Hawaikiki in 12 long boats. However, there is an ongoing denial that another ‘race’ people were already an Indigenous group established on the ‘aotearoa’ land.
For the Jewish People and Culture, our record is in the written document called the Torah. The ‘book of instructions’. That is not a history book. That ‘book’ is a set five books and it is a mix of writing genres including some elements which are historical. Some of those elements are historical myths. But some are historical facts. The science of Archeology annually finds more and more evidence of the Jewish history in that Land We refer to as Eretz Yisroel i.e. The Land of Israel. Historically there have been five Kingdoms or nations of Israel within the last few thousand years. One Archeologist several decades ago decided to test out one of the Torah’s stories said to take place in the area of Samaria/Judea. He followed the details of the Torah story regarding the altar of Shiloh. That led to the discovery hidden of evidence that proved that the story occurred in the exact location of Shiloh told in the Torah. There have been and are continual incredible findings of evidence of the Jewish Saga in the Shiloh area. The pieces of evidence there and elsewhere in Israel are small items by the thousands but also some of the largest Archelogical digs in the world.
Now back to ‘Mother Russia’.
As an old song says “In the merry, merry month of May”. My first trip to Russia in May 1985. To Moscow. To the USSR/CCCP. While there, through a strange coincidence right out of “The Master and Margarita” novel so to speak – I befriended a young writer who had begun to write clown sketches for professional clowns in Moscow. His Father, whom I met a the night before, was the editor of the Soviet circus magazine. The editor’s son who wrote Clown skits took me to meet his friend who was going to cook us dinner. We needed bread for the meal.
The son and his friend and I were crossing a wide street to go to the bakery directly across the street. We waited at the traffic light. I happened to have an old man standing on one side of me. As we all crossed with the green light the old man started to talk to me in Russian.
I could see that he was asking where I was from. I said simply “Americansky”. His eyes lit up. He stopped walking in the middle of the street with cars waiting for the light to change. He yells to me “Ah!! Americansky!!” And right there smack in the middle of the street he gives me a solid hug. Then he takes my hand and walks me across the street. He was very happy to meet an American. This is only weeks after Gorbachov was ‘voted’ in. This is still – really – Soviet Russia. No Perestroika yet in any practical sense. My ten days in Moscow meant I was literally followed at times by the KGB. I know. I saw them. Several times. It was like a Monty Python skit each time I saw them. Yet crossing the street with that old man I was a metaphoric American which includes people from 200 nations and First Peoples and people of every social persuasion. But that little old Russian man didn’t care because to him I was simply an American and a living manifestation of all the POSTITIVES that being ‘American’ could mean. Could mean especially to someone who lived their whole life under the glorious thumb of various totalitarian forms of socialism; under the watchful caring eye of their KGB and Comrades; and, the relocation opportunities available in the Gulag Archepelago.
Cultural Hug #2. Sydney. 1987. After a few short tours in Australia, four Australians who were insistant that I should leave New Zealand to bring my method and move to Australia. Two of those four Australians were Indigenous and two were Non-Indigenous and of British heritage. One of the four was a fellow acrobat and he and his girlfriend were my first hosts. The fellow was like me an acrobat and clown. He wanted me to meet his exceptional Acrobatic teacher George Sparkes. George was wonderful to anyone who entered his studio on Sunday mornings i.e. the only day he taught as an old man. One or two of his oldest students would escort him and assist him. George was a ‘character’. He had nicknames for most people as his nicknames he could remember but he couldn’t remember proper names. He had three nicknames for me which revealed how he pictured me: “Mr. America”; “Mr. President”; and, “Stars and Stripes”. We were mates even though I only saw him on Sundays in class. He’d say on parting some days “Ya comin’ to church next week mate”? Church of course meaning our Sunday acrobatic sessions. One day as I was about to exit after class he asked “Ya gettin’ much work matey”? I answered somewhat forlornly “Not really”. He shot back “But do ya love what ya do”. I light up and smiled and cheerily said “Oh yeah”!!! He said “That’s the way matey”! By that time I was near enough as usual to give my parting handshake with him. He was standing and gave me his big bellyfull grand hug. When I got near the door his oldest student told me “George really likes you. I’ve been coming to him for 40 years since I was a kid. That’s the first time I’ve ever seen him hug a man”.
Cultural Hug #3. Jerusalem. 1993. I was invited to come to visit Jerusalem the last week of 1993. One of my Mentors – Antoine Seleh whom I knew in Sydney was on a brief visit to Israel and based in Jerusalem. He had been born in Nazareth; into a Christian Arabic family. His Wife was a Jewish Israeli. Antoine only considered himself an Israeli. His Father was one of he Heroes during the Israeli War of Independence. Antoine had always insisted that I would love Israel. And especially he was insistent that I must see Jerusalem. Every few months we’d meet for coffee and chat for a few hours. My Friend Vered Kilstein had met him first and arranged a dinner with her Family so that Antoine could meet me and a few others. He and I arranged to meet for a coffee and chat. He poured his heart out to me about the racism spewed upon him and his Family and others like him from other countries. He and Family were living in Western Sydney. His family were subject to all types of very vile racist attacks.He had been a very successful Director of Drama for stage and TV. Also, like many TV directors he also directed TV commercials. There were internal factions dividing Israeli society. He had a relative in Western Sydney who owned a small one building factory and Antoine got work there as a supervisor. He also tried to open up a tiny shop in a shopping mall. From our first coffee meeting he decided to nickname me “Kotel” (the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem) because he could tell me anything and pour his heart out with no backlash.
A few years after Antoine and I met, I got a short contract in Europe. He called my host who told him I was away visiting my former Sociology and Political Science professor Peter Deitrich who returned to live in his hometown of Hamburg, Germany. Antoine phoned me at Peter’s on Christmas Eve to tell me he was on a short trip to Israel. He said “I have a room for you at my friends home in the middle of Jerusalem. When are you coming”?
I flew the next day for one week and returned to Hamburg on New Years Day.
On my first day in Jerusalem Antoine and his hosts suggested that I take a short walk by myself before lunch.
As I was walking up a small street in the distance I could see a person in bright reddish clothes. We were walking on the same side of the street with no one between us. Walking towards each other I could see he was some type of Christian priest. As we neared each other we looked straight towards each other and were both smiling so when we met we stopped and said hello. We each asked if the other was living in Israel. Neither. He was a Black African Catholic Priest. Of course I had a choice to say I’m any one of my citizenships but I chose to say I’m Jewish. There was no ‘really’ required for that man. For each of us it was our first day in Israel. We were both having our first walk in this ancient land which could have been anywhere on Planet Earth. But it was there. In Jerusalem. In the middle of Jerusalem. On our own. Somehow there we were who we ‘really’ are: two men. We laughed and were so happy to be there and to see another pilgrim. We gave each other a grand hug and waved goodbye and continued to beam our seeming endless smiles and the joy of our monumental minor meeting.
I soon saw a small poster near what seemed a university perhaps. It said there was a lecture/demo that night only with the famous actor Bruce Myers from Peter Brook’s ensemble. His once only lecture-demo was on “The Dybbuk”. So that evening I went to that. For those reading this who may not know – “The Dybbuk” is one of the most iconic and important Jewish plays. It deals with many levels of the Jewish culture. It was a landmark production which changed the history of modern acting as its director Vahktangov discovered that Jews have an indigenous way of acting based on their cultural expression.
Mel Gordon is the noted scholar who has written about that production. Bruce Myers is a Jewish actor (not necessarily “really”) and Peter Brook is a Jewish director (not necessarily “really”). Neither of them like to discuss their Jewishness but I’d still give them a hug.
The next time I ran into Myers was in Prague about a year or two later on Rosh Hashana eve at the famous Altneuschul Synagogue where ‘the golem’ is said to have been created by Rabbi Loew. Bruce came and sat next to me. He said he would only stay briefly as he was to meet his wife at another synagogue but wanted to see part of the service in Altneuschul which was built in the 1200s.
Hug #4. London. 2014. I was staying at my regular hostess’s home in Stoke-Newington. Dear Ann Firbank. Now about 90. Still a working actor. My nickname for her is “Wendy”. In reference to her though I refer to her as “The Dame”. Her nickname for me is “Scamp”.
This particular day, a Friday,I had time in the morning to get a coffee at a cafe. I needed to scamper back to The Dame’s house and to pack and take a train to the airport and fly. This particular day I took a different route home to check out the way I would have to leave with my suitcase to catch the train. That was because I was for the first time flying out from Stanstead. So I wanted to check the travel path without my suitcase.
This short trip from Holland was only to see The Dame act at The Old Vic in The Crucible. Stoke-Newington is said to be the most diverse cultural neighbourhood in the UK. The particular section where Annie lives is about 90% Orthodox Jews and Muslims. They don’t necessarily intermingle but they they certainly Criss-cross each other every single day.
Friday is considered as a ‘holy day’ for both Cultures. Jewish Culture is at minimum dated by 1400 B.C.E. and Muslim’s consider that Islam began in 610A.D. Given that Jewish Culture pre-dates Islam by approximately 2000 (two thousand) years; and, given that the Friday holy-ness business is sourced in the Torah then Friday as ‘the’ sacred day began, culturally speaking, with the Jewish People who were already referred to as Israelites.
Now, here I was on a Friday mid-day and as I was walking to Annie’s home there was a flow of white robbed men en route to one of the local mosques for their Friday service. Moments later closer to home, a few doors away, there was only me and a solitary man about my age, dressed in white, towards the Mosque where the others in white were headed. As we neared each other me and the man in white looked at each other from a short distance. As we neared we smiled and nearer we nodded and quite near we said hello and have a nice day.
Perhaps an hour or so later after a cup of tea and a farewell chat I left with my bag to walk the same path in the reverse direction. Then I saw the same man in white coming from the direction of his Mosque. This time we chatted briefly and chirpily. As per usual when totting a suitcase, I was asked where I was going and where I was from. I said I was flying to Amsterdam and that I was Jewish and that I live in Australia. There was no need for him to be doubtful and start a line of questions with “really”? 🙂 We continued with the brief, friendly chat. As I was en route to catch my plane, the man in white wished me a good travel and we were already at ease enough to naturally give each other a grand hug as a way of celebrating our ‘shared Cultures’.
So there is a little tale of four Cultural Hugs, and the hidden realities in this crazy mixed up world.
Some things are still really good. And there are plenty of people to prove that. Really.
Really is in the mind of the questioner and not necessarily in the experience of whatever one ‘really’ is.
We’re all the same on Planet Earth, but, we are each very different even within any real or surreal labelled category. As my Mother often said on the right occasions: “Don’t judge a book by its cover”.