Jewish Mothering

Goldie Cohen, an elderly Jewish lady from New York, goes to her travel agent. "I vont to go to India." "Mrs. Cohen, why India? It's filthy, much hotter than New York, it's filled to the brim with Indians." "I vont to go to India." "But it's a long journey, and those trains, how will you manage? What will you eat? The food is too hot and spicy for you. You can't drink the water. You must not eat fresh fruit and vegetables. You'll get sick: the plague, hepatitis, cholera, typhoid, malaria, G-d only knows. What will you do? Can you imagine the hospital, no Jewish doctors? Why torture yourself?" "I vont to go to India." The necessary arrangements are made, and off she goes. She arrives in India and, undeterred by the noise, smell and crowds, makes her way to an ashram. There she joins the seemingly never-ending queue of people waiting for an audience with the guru. An aide tells her that it will take at least three days of standing in line to see the guru. "Dats OK," Goldie says. Eventually she reaches the hallowed portals. There she is told firmly that she can only say three words. "Fine," she says. She is ushered into the inner sanctum where the wise guru is seated, ready to bestow spiritual blessings upon eager initiates. Just before she reaches the holy of holies she is once again reminded: "Remember, just three words." Unlike the other devotees, she does not prostrate at his feet. She stands directly in front of him, crosses her arms over her chest, fixes her gaze on his, and says: "Sheldon, come home."

I've had rough Jewish mothering moments this past weekend. I've passed on having "fun" with a girlfriend - going to the last round of films being shown at the film festival and passing up on Saturday brunch because I thought my family needed me after me being away for a week. At lunch time everyone was goading each other into an argument - perhaps out of boredom and they sat around the table making fun of each other's boyfriend, friends, this one's ghost-white skin, hair lice, and then they looked at me and said I looked like an Arab. Fine girls, you'll have to think of another one, this one's NOT an insult. "Mum's the only one in the family who loves Arabs." They laughed. I looked at my youngest daughter who had two Arab friends from her last school and asked - "What happened to Rami and Sami. Why don't they come around to the house anymore?" She replied - "They're Arabs." I feel like I'm swimming against the tide. Or trying to drain the ocean with a strainer. I felt so weak. Why? I'm working so hard towards peace in my country, which I believe starts at home and I get this?

People are always saying - Look at the parents and you'll see why kids behave that way. I've never ever understood this. Look at this story. I've read a recent article in the New York Times (July 15th) about a Palestinian father in Jenin. To quote - "While Mr. Nashrati, who once worked as a welder in Israel, spoke of peace and a twostate solution, his children, maturing in this time of violence and separation, sounded a harsher note. Rukon, 10 years old, said he wanted to grow up to be a fighter like Mahmoud Tawalbe, an Islamic Jihad leader killed in the raid two years ago. "I'm disturbed when I hear my son say that," Mr. Nashrati said. "This is a general problem for us, that we don't feel we can control our children." Asked if he thought he could be friends with an Israeli boy his age, Rukon drew a hand across his throat. "I want only to stab him," he said. Mr. Nashrati hastily said Rukon was young and ignorant. "This son is old enough to understand," he said, indicating Munir, 20. Asked if he could be friends with an Israeli his age, Munir Nashrati said, "It's impossible."

Racism doesn't always begin with the parents teaching. So is it the schools? Peers? What can a Jewish mother do?