Hullin Hatches an Egg

(with apologies to Dr. Seuss)

Sighed Mayzie, a lazy bird hatching an egg:
“I’m tired and I’m bored, And I’ve kinks in my leg
From sitting, just sitting here day after day.
I’d rather be cleaning for Pesach, I say.
I’d eat all my chametz, and sell all the rest
If I could find someone to stay on my nest!!
If I could find someone, I’d be chametz-free – “
Then Hullin, the Elephant, passed by her tree.
“Hello!” called the anxious bird, smiling her best.
“You’ve nothing to do, I have Pesach ahead
Would you like to sit here on my eggy instead?”
“ME on your egg? Why, I couldn’t, no way!
For you’re a tahor bird and I am tameh.
You’re a tzipor, and here is the thing,
I’m more a kanaf (or karnaf) with a wing.
And worse, I must tell you, although it’s a pity
I come from a burned-down idolatrous city.”
“That’s great,” answered Mayzie. “You’re just the right breed
They can’t send you away, then. You’re just what I need!
I’ll hurry right back. Why, I’ll never be missed ….”
“Very well,” said the elephant, “Since you insist,
Get rid of your chametz, at least try your best—
And while you are cleaning, I’ll sit on your nest.
I’ll stay and be faithful, I mean what I say,”
“Toodle-oo!” sang out Mayzie and fluttered away.
“Hmm,” said Hullin, “I’m heavy. This branch soon will sag
I’ll place between me and the eggy a rag.
Is that a chatitzah? Can it still count as resting?
I wouldn’t want Mayzie to come back protesting.”
But Mayzie, by this time, was far beyond reach,
Enjoying the sunshine way off in Palm Beach,
For would you make Pesach if this fate befell
You? If free of my kids, I’d go to a hotel.
So Mayzie did too. Kosher-style, deluxe
Free Seder included, she paid the big bucks.
She was having such fun, such a wonderful rest
She decided she’d never go back to her nest.
So Hullin kept sitting there—when he got on
There was no moon in sight. ‘Twas Rosh Hodesh Nisan.
But the days went by quickly, the moon grew more whole
The next thing he knew, ‘twas Shabbat HaGadol.
Just three days ‘til Pesach! So where then was Mayzie?
Had she been taken by a leper for a sacrifice, maybe?
Was she kdushat mizbeach, unable to come back?
Or had her siman been cut, was she now someone’s snack?
With all these hirhurim, poor Hullin, distressed,
Rested, then hovered, then sat on the nest.
He sat there and sat there the whole shabbos through …
And then came havdalah with troubles anew!
His friends gathered round and they shouted with glee.
“Look! Hullin the Elephant’s up in a tree!”
They taunted. They teased him. They yelled, “How absurd!”
“Old Hullin the Elephant thinks he’s a bird!
He thinks he’s a girly, an Em who’s rovetzet
Compared to that egg, he’s a fearsome mifletzet.
Said Hullin, “Shut up. Go get rid of your pita.
Besides, don’t you know Rabbi Eliezer’s shita?
A male, too, can sit on an egg. It’s quite pleasant
Think of the Koreh – the male brooding pheasant.
A male pheasant can be a stay-at-home Dad
If brooding on eggs is what makes him feel glad.
When the Torah says Em, it means lav davka female
Don’t you read the shiurim you get in your email?
They laughed and they laughed. Then they all ran away.
And Hullin was lonely. He wanted to pray.
He did not have a minyan. Instead he would say,
“No matter WHAT happens, this egg must be tended!”
Yet poor Hullin’s troubles were far, far from ended.
For, while Hullin sat there so faithful, so kind,
Three listim came sneaking up softly behind!
“Look!” they all shouted, “Can such a thing be?
An elephant sitting on top of a tree….”
Let’s take him alive. Why, he’s terribly funny!
We’ll sell him to Rome, to a circus for money!”
Poor Hullin, distressed, wanted nothing of Rome
He’d been raised learning Torah. The beit midrash was his home.
But the men did not care. And off they all went
With Hullin unhappy, one hundred per cent.
Sold to a circus! Goodness. And sheesh.
He now had a background like poor Reish Lakish.
Poor Hullin grew weary as week after week
They showed him to people, four zuzim a peek
‘Twas or l’araba asar when the circus show reached
A town way down south, not so far from Palm Beach.
And dawdling along way up high in the sky,
Who (of all people!) should chance to fly by
Chance to, yes, chance to – that’s ki yikarey
For she wasn’t at home. She was out on her way.
“Good gracious!” gasped Mayzie, “I’ve seen YOU before!”
Poor Hullin looked up, his face white as Maror.
“Be off,” shouted Mayzie. “Get out of my nest.”
“You can’t send me off,” Hullin said in protest.
“This egg is not yours. You can’t take it or buy it
I’ve already pledged it to Bedek Habayit.
It’s hekdesh! Ha ha, Mayzie, joke is on you—”
Said Mayzie in fury, “What? Could that be true?
I thought you were Hullin!” And then off she flew.
And Hullin, alone now, the sun sinking low
Knew just what to do with the egg. Don’t you know?
An egg raised for Pesach has only one fate—
He set it down squarely on his Seder plate.

הדרן עלך שילוח הקן וסליקא לה מסכת חולין

Turmeric & Nicotine

The Art of Leaving by Ayelet Tsabari (Random House, $26) is a memoir seasoned by turmeric and nicotine, chronicling Tsabari’s coming-of-age in a large Yemeni family in Israel and her travels around the world until ultimately she creates, for herself, her own definition of home.

The first third of Tsabari’s memoir focuses on the death of her beloved father just before her tenth birthday, leaving her young mother alone with six children to raise. Tsabari vividly depicts the devastating impact of this loss: “That moment, crystallized in my memory through the fog of grief, will be the fork in the road where my future splits in two: what could have happened had he lived and what happened because he didn’t. And as I grow up, I will try to live as wildly and loudly as I can to outdo the enormity of this moment, to diminish it.” Not long before her father’s heart attack, Tsabari had shared with him some of her writing, and her father had promised her that he would publish it in a book. Three decades later, Tsabari finally became a published writer on her own, and this memoir is on one level the story of how she found a way to make good on her father’s promise – and on her own.

As a girl growing up in Ashkenazi-dominated Israeli culture of the 1970s and 1980s, Tsabari struggles with her identity as the granddaughter of Yemeni immigrants. She refuses to eat her mother’s Yemeni soup with its wilted cilantro and fenugreek paste and buys herself burgers instead. And though she is proud when her childhood idol, the Yemeni singer Ofra Haza, becomes one of the first Mizrahi artists to make it into the Israeli canon, Tsabari does not want to be mistaken for a freha, the subject of one of Haza’s most famous songs and a popular stereotype of Mizrahi women — intellectually shallow, heavy made-up and accessorized, marked by poverty and promiscuity. In search of her own identity, she becomes a hippie, gets hired to write for a popular teen magazine, and tries to pass as an Ashkenazi. Only when she gets a job, decades later, at a Lebanese restaurant in Vancouver does she finally feel free to embrace her ethnic identity halfway around the world.

Tsabari finds herself only by traveling far from her family to India, Thailand, Vancouver, Toronto, and New York. Once, while calling her family back home from Manhattan, she reflects, “It’s strange how much I miss them and how badly I need to be away from them right now… Maybe I need to do my growing up away from them. Or maybe I love them so much, it feels safer to walk away. Because you never know what might happen to the people you love.” It is not just the loss of her father that haunts her; in an era of suicide bombings, she writes that a bus in Israel is an “instrument of death”; in a later chapter about Vancouver, she describes the bus as a “traveling circus” where you never know whom you will meet. And so following her unhappy and inglorious army service, she spends most of her twenties and thirties rolling joints, bargaining in bazaars, waitressing for enough money to pay for her next plane ticket out. As a boyfriend once tells her, “You play backgammon like you live your life. You play aggressively, you constantly take risks, you don’t want to build houses. You leave yourself open all over the place, and when things get dicey, you run away.”

The most compelling parts of Tsabari’s memoir are not about her longing to leave, but about her struggle to stay. (But then again, perhaps that’s just my own bias. I have always been far more captivated, for instance, by the memoirs of those who struggle to come to terms with their religious identity than by the many accounts of those who leave Judaism, or Hasidism, or the Modern Orthodox community. I prefer memoirs about decades-long marriages to sordid sagas about devastating divorces. Is it not always harder to stay?)

For Tsabari, the struggle to stay takes many different forms. It is about learning how to fry her mother’s chicken livers and bake her chocolate yeast cake –which is first and foremost about seeing her mother’s strengths after years of being blinded by grief. It is about bringing her Canadian Christian husband home to Petah Tikva to clean out her childhood home. It is about discovering her father’s poetry and realizing that he, too, fought long and hard to master a literary language not his own. It is about researching the story of her Yemenite great grandmother, who abandoned her toddler twin daughters and followed her husband to a strange land: “I see her walking away, shoulder trembling, tears streaming. I imagine the mountains and the spirits who lived in them looking on as the family began their journey toward a new life. The mountains had witnessed the lives of the people for centuries. They watched patterns evolving through generations, old roles taken over by new faces, new husbands replacing the dead, girls becoming mothers and mothers becoming grandmothers. Nothing ever changed, but rather shifted ever so slightly, like an ancient folk song played in a new key.”

Most poignantly, for Tsabari, learning to stay is about becoming a mother herself and recognizing that in order to stay, we cannot help but leave: “Perhaps motherhood is a series of small abandonments, in the same way that life is a series of goodbyes. We are raising our children to survive without us in the world. We are raising them to leave us, raising them to endure our own departure.” Perhaps the art of leaving is not all that different from the art or losing. “The art of losing isn’t hard to master,” wrote Elizabeth Bishop, a poet born in Massachusetts who circumnavigated South America and traveled extensively in Brazil. The real art is not about losing or leaving, and perhaps not surprisingly, it is captured by Donald Justice, Bishop’s contemporary, a poet who stayed far closer to home: “It always comes, and when it comes they know / The knack is this: to fasten and not let go.”

A Chicken Soup for Every Parsha

As a child I rarely helped my mother in the kitchen because I was always too busy reading. My bedroom was at the top the staircase and my mother used to holler up, “Ilana, time to set the table,” or “Ilana, I need you to peel the potatoes.” My response was invariably the same. “I’m in the middle of the chapter, one minute.” But one chapter led to another, one book to another – and generally it was one of my siblings who ended up completing my chores in my stead. Somehow I managed to leave home with hardly any basic kitchen or household skills, and much to my chagrin, I can’t say all that much has changed with marriage and motherhood.

For as long as I can remember, I have tried to avoid any tasks that can’t be completed while reading. I never properly learned how to thread a needle or drive a car, because I was always holed up in my room with a book. Alice Shalvi writes in her memoir that as a child she was such a good reader that her teachers would make her read aloud during sewing class, and as a result she never learned how to sew. I can relate. One of the only jobs I could be counted on as a child was to bring up the right chicken soup from the basement freezer. My mother made chicken soup only twice a year, and then froze it in weekly batches which she labeled by parsha. Each week I enjoyed the blast of cold air as I stood before the open freezer sorting through plastic containers labeled “Beshalach,” “Yitro,” “Mishpatim,” until I emerged upstairs triumphant bearing the batch for Bo.

I tend to think that I grew up with very little mimetic tradition, and that all my learning as a child was text-based. But now, as an adult, I can appreciate how much I subconsciously imbibed from my parents even with my head in a book. My parents’ way of practicing Judaism defined for me what was comfortable, familiar, and natural, and set the standards for what I would regard as normative religious observance for the rest of my life. Our family kept Shabbat and kashrut. We walked to shul every Shabbat, drove twenty minutes to the nearest kosher butcher to buy our meat, and checked all food items for a hechscher before adding them to our supermarket cart. As a child I would have said we observed halakha strictly and fully; it is only as an adult that I came to recognize the inconsistencies in our practice.

In my hometown there was no Eruv for many years, but we nonetheless carried books and snacks to shul, and those who traveled from farther away brought umbrellas when it rained. I did not know there was any problem with opening an umbrella on Shabbat, let alone carrying one to a shul with no Eruv, until a friend with a sense of humor in the egalitarian minyan at Harvard ordered a custom-made umbrella with the words “This is not an Ohel” printed on the fabric. My parents also turned on lights on Shabbat, in keeping with a Conservative movement teshuva. I never questioned why it was all right to flick on a light switch whereas the television and dishwasher were clearly muktzah. In my family it was all right to turn on lights on Shabbat, and nothing I was told in school would convince me otherwise. Physicists use the term “stable equilibrium” to refer to the state that a system always returns to, even after small disturbances. A ball may roll around the sides of a bowl, but it will always return to its stable equilibrium point at the bottom of the bowl. My parents’ religious practice defined my stable equilibrium. Now, in my own home as an adult, we set timers before Shabbat, but if a light needs to be turned on and none of the kids are around to see me, I will turn it on, much to my husband’s consternation – not because I consider it a minor infraction, but because no matter how hard I might train myself to think otherwise, it simply doesn’t feel assur.

My parents’ religious practice also defined my stable equilibrium with regard to feminism and egalitarianism. I grew up in a Conservative shul in which men and women participated equally in all parts of the service. As a child I did not sit with my father in shul, but that was only because he was the rabbi so he sat on the Bima. We children sat in the shade of our mother’s various wide-brimmed hats, playing with race cars underneath the pews while nibbling away at cheerios packed in plastic bags to keep us quiet. There was no question that we would sit through all of shul even years before we learned to read or daven, and though we weren’t following the service, we quickly absorbed its rhythms – we knew when the ark would be opened, when it would be time to kiss the Sefer Torah, and when we could run up to sing Adon Olam next to Abba.

In our shul women leyned and wore tallitot, and so for me these practices have always felt completely natural. They are traditional, to my mind, in the sense that they are the traditions I grew up experiencing first-hand. I continue to feel most comfortable in shuls without a mechitzah because this is the prayer environment that seems most normative to me. The presence of a mechitzah distracts me because it concentrates all the men in one place and tells me exactly where to direct my gaze. I have davened in partnership minyanim in which men lead dvarim she’bikdusha and women leyn and lead the other parts of the service, and I find it distracting as well – to my mind, prayer is about people vis-à-vis God, and not about men and women. In some ways I would find it easier to concentrate on my davening in a fully-Orthodox shul in which women are essentially invisible behind a mehitza, because at least there the focus is on men vis-à-vis God, rather than gender dynamics.

My husband Daniel, who grew up in an Orthodox shul, has a different stable equilibrium. Daniel often tells me that he completely agrees with me intellectually that women and men should have equal roles in shul – but he just can’t bring himself to feel comfortable enough truly to daven in synagogue without a mechitzah. I tell him, in response, that I don’t think people should turn on lights on Shabbat – but I just can’t bring myself to stop doing it. We are too comfortable, each of us, in our stable equilibrium.

In the shul where grew up, it wasn’t just my father who was the communal leader. My mother taught classes and ran a learner’s minyan in parallel to the main service, until her own professional commitments left her too busy to take on so much volunteer work in shul. I grew up thinking that women could do everything men could do, both in the wider secular world and in the synagogue sanctuary. My mother raised four children and then, at age 35, earned her PhD and launched a meteoric career at UJA-Federation. We used to joke that my father saved the Jews in our town on Long Island, while mother saved the Jewish world.
Given this egalitarian milieu, perhaps it comes as no surprise that I did not grow up hearing the blessing shelo asani isha. In my father’s shul, and in Camp Ramah where I spent my summers, and at the Harvard Hillel egalitarian minyan where I davened as a college student, both men and women said she-asani b’tzalmo, thanking God for making us in His image. These days I rarely get to shul in time to hear birkot ha-shachar, but not long ago, I was at minyan early on a Thursday morning for my nephew’s bar mitzvah. It was an Orthodox shul and I stood behind the mechitzah with my three daughters, who were happily amusing themselves with a keychain while I davened. I head the shliach tzibbur say “shelo asani isha” and I nearly burst out laughing at the absurdity of it. I wanted to holler out, “She-asani isha!” Thank God for making me a woman! My religious life has been so deeply enriched by roles that I would not have been able to take on had I been a man. My most spiritual experiences of all time were pregnancy and childbirth. In carrying human life inside me and bringing a child into the world, I felt closest to God as creator. I davened with the most kavanah when I was pregnant, conscious of how much was beyond my control even as it is was taking place just millimeters beneath the surface of my skin. The experience of bringing life into the world has been my Holy of Holies – it has been my most profound experience of intimacy with God, and I am so grateful to God for having had this privilege.

Part of what I found most meaningful about pregnancy is the way in which time became my ally. With every passing day that nothing went wrong—please God, may nothing go wrong, I prayed constantly—I was one day closer to having a new child. Even when I was doing nothing at all, the baby was growing inside me. I found that when I was pregnant, I was less bothered when I had to wait in a long line at the supermarket or the doctor’s office, because I knew that even while I was waiting, so much was progressing – like a taxi driver racking up the meter while stuck at a red light. This was true, too of my experience of daf yomi. When I learn a page of Talmud a day, time becomes my ally. With every passing day, I am guaranteed that I will have learned one more page. As someone who likes to feel productive, both pregnancy and daf yomi have shaped my relationship to time in ways that I try to carry over even to those periods in my life when I am not bearing children or studying Talmud. I feel so fortunate to be a woman and to have had both experiences.

Perhaps it is because my experiences of being a Jewish woman have been so positive that I feel no anger when I encounter the Talmud’s misogyny. Most of the women in the Talmud are identified in relation to their husbands or fathers; very few have independent identities. The Talmud’s women seem to spend most of their time sorting lentils, traveling from their father’s home to their husband’s home, and gossiping with other women by the moonlight—and when they talk to the rabbis, it is generally in querulous, hectoring tones, like the woman who yells at the resh galuta for stealing her sukkah, or like Yalta rebuking Ulla. These dependent, disgruntled shrews are hardly suitable role models for girls and women studying Talmud today. And yet when I encounter the women of the Talmud, I do not take offense. I regard them as historical curiosities rather than infuriating provocations, because their experiences are so far removed from my own. The women of the Talmud seem like extinct creatures, not like victims of the same patriarchal society that has oppressed me. I have never felt oppressed, and so I don’t identify with these women in their oppression. Rather, when I encounter Talmudic women—many of them nameless and voiceless—I feel so grateful for how far human history has come. Baruch she-asani isha in the twenty-first century, and not in the first! Shehachiyahu v’kiyimanu v’higiyanu lazaman hazeh!
People often ask me, when I speak about my book, how my religious practice has changed since I started learning daf yomi. I think they expect me to say that I’m so much more frum now that I’ve learned scores of Talmudic pages about muktzah and dinei ta’arovet. But the truth is that my observance has not changed very much at all. Yes, in front of my children, I try to cover up my inconsistencies. I don’t want them to see me turning on lights on Shabbat, because I’d like them to have a different mimetic model when it comes to these lapses. But when it comes to my own practice, it is hard to believe that they are truly lapses.

I suppose one way in which I’ve become more frum since I began studying daf yomi is that I’ve stopped reading secular literature in shul. I have always brought books with me to shul to keep me busy in between aliyot and during the repetition of the Musaf Amidah (and yes, I confess, occasionally at other times too). Whereas I used to read novels in shul, now I only learn daf yomi. It makes sense to me to learn in shul because I think of learning as an act of devotion not unlike prayer, much the way Dr. Soloveitchik describes the role of learning in the traditional world: “The purpose of study was not information of knowledge but lifelong exposure to sacred texts and an ongoing dialogue with them. Learning was an intellectual endeavor and an act of devotion. Its process was its purpose.” I could not describe my attitude toward daf yomi more aptly.

That said, I do think my daf yomi study has had a practical impact on my life, even if not primarily in terms of my religious observance. Above all, my study of Talmud has taught me to be a better parent. I have known, for a while, that I am a much better parent in public. When I am home alone with my children, I am quick to anger and slow to forgive. When my son spills his water for the second time during dinner, I grow exasperated and yell at him instead of helping him find a better place for his cup. But when we’re in the playground, playing around other children and their parents, and my kids spray water from the fountain on each other, I merely exchange eye-rolling glances with other parents and let the kids work it out. Somehow the knowledge that I am being watched enables me to hold myself in check, to restrain my frustration and anger, and to judge my kids favorably.

Not long ago I came to a story in Masechet Berakhot (28a) about Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai’s deathbed blessing to his disciples. He told them, “May it be God’s will that your fear of heaven be as great as your fear of flesh-and-blood human beings.” His disciples were taken aback. “Ad kan? Is that all?” Their master responded, “If only it were so.
Know that when a person transgresses, he says, ‘May no man see me.’”

Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai knew that it is often much easier to act properly in public. When we do something wrong, we are much more likely to hope that no one else witnessed our act than to worry about what God observed. But as we learn in masechet Hagigah (16a), “Anyone who commits a sin in secret – it is as if he or she is bumping against the legs of the divine presence.” The rabbis quote a verse from Isaiah: “The heavens are my seat, and the earth is my footstool” (Isaiah 66:1). Chazal imagine God sitting on a divine throne up in heaven with legs dangling down to earth. Any time we sin when we are alone, we are in fact bumping up against God’s feet. These sources remind me that while it is all too easy to sin when alone, it is in fact when we are by ourselves with no one else around that we have the greatest potential for intimacy with God.

There is much talk these days of helicopter parenting, but after learning the story about Rabban Yochanan ben Zakkai on his deathbed, I have found it more instructive to think not of parents who hover, but of those who hover over us as parents. I’ll admit that it’s hard to imagine the legs of the divine presence dangling down into my living room – this is the true yirat shamayim that Dr. Soloveitchik writes about experiencing as a child in shul during Neila on Yom Kippur, and now, as an adult, encountering no longer. But I do find it helpful to imagine that a friend or neighbor has stopped by and is sitting beside me as I feed my kids dinner or read them bedtime stories. And so I’ll sit reading there Goodnight Moon, following along as my daughter points to the pictures, but all the while I am thinking of the little old lady who sits there watching. Just when I’m about to lose my temper, she rocks back and forth and whispers hush.
It is often at bedtime that I try to share my love of learning with my children. I leyn at least one Aliyah from the parsha to them every night, trying to get through all seven by Shabbat. Before they fall asleep I leyn them the three paragraphs of the Shema and sing the full Anim Zemorot, hoping that this will train them to recognize ta’amei hamikra (I learned to leyn by matching the te’amim to the Shema I already knew so well) and to lead the congregation in prayer. During the day, while we are waiting for the bus or sitting in the dentist’s waiting room, I take advantage of the down time to teach them verses from the Torah or sayings from Pirkei Avot that I’d like them to internalize. No pasuk is too mundane, and I have a preference for those that can be metrically scanned and therefore easily set to music: “Oto v’et b’no lo tishchatu b’yom echad,” I once sang repeatedly to my toddler, who then belted it out on the Jerusalem light rail to dismay of our fellow passengers. I thought they would kill us both.

When we are in shul, I struggle to find the right balance between focusing on my own davening (thereby trying to model a serious davening practice) and keeping the kids occupied and engaged (look at the Torah go up, up in the air!). I leyn regularly and always bring one child up to the Amud with me, usually one of my daughters – she stands on a chair next to me and I let her hold the Yad between Aliyot, so that she will also grow up feeling ki karov elayich ha-davar meod. We daven in a shul where women wear kippot and tallitot, but my children also often go with their father to daven in an all-male minyan at the Kotel at dawn. I wish my children watched me daven in the morning, but I never open a siddur until they are in preschool; I daven outside the schoolyard after dropping off the last of the four. I’m not sure if they know I daven in the mornings, and this gives me pause. I am conscious that what we model and expose our children to when they are young and impressionable will define their standard equilibrium, and I feel the yoke of this responsibility in much the same way I feel ol malchut shamayim.

And yet even as I’m constantly trying to model for my kids, I’m aware of how much of my own learning remains text-based rather than mimetic. My idea of preparing for Pesach is attending as many shiurim and reading as many new haggadot as possible so that I have insights to share at the Seder – my sister-in-law does all the cooking, as I couldn’t cook for Pesach to save my life. Sometimes I get creative in the kitchen, but if so, it’s generally to make a parsha-themed cake like a Sulam Yaakov made of licorice strands with marshmallow angels that don’t quite stick to the cake, since I’ve never been very good at icing. I am still the girl who was always too busy reading to pick up any practical life skills, except that I can’t call myself a girl anymore. I’m a woman, and I’m living at what is arguably the most exciting time to be a woman in Jewish history. As a twenty-first century Jewish woman, I hope I will succeed in merging the mimetic and the textual – modelling for my children a commitment to engaging seriously with Jewish texts. My daughters will probably not inherit any recipes from me, but I would like to imagine that one day, at least one of my daughters or granddaughters will be excited to inherit my volumes of Talmud, covered with all my handwritten notes. Today’s commentary is tomorrow’s text. Perhaps, if I should merit to be so lucky, she will read through my marginalia and scribble her own.

By Any Other Name

For a long time, I would not say my last name when introducing myself. I wanted people to get to know me on my own terms, and all too often, when I said my full name, my interlocutor would immediately ask if I was related to my mother, my father, or one of my various siblings. And then I’d have to say, “Oh yes, that’s my mother/father/sister/brother” – which meant that the conversation would inevitably turn to how wonderful my mother/father/sister/brother is. And while there is something heartwarming about hearing how much my various family members are loved and appreciated, I always felt like I wanted to be known on my own terms. I was wary of receiving special treatment because someone knew one of my family members; I felt that my reputation should be built on my own merits. And so I always said “Hi, I’m Ilana,” and I left it at that.

This began to change when my children were born, and I started referring to myself as “Ima shel Matan.” I was no longer Ilana; my identity, as far as the other parents in the preschool was concerned, was that I was Matan’s mother. When I’d write messages on my phone to Matan’s friends’ parents, I’d simply sign my name “Ima shel Matan,” without bothering to mention my own name. This was especially helpful because I did not change my name when I got married, so my son and I had different last names. By referring to myself as his mother, I sidestepped any potential confusion.

But once I began introducing myself as my children’s mother, I realized that my name is not exclusively my own. Whether I would like it to be so or not, my actions reflect not just on me, but on my children. I want my children’s teachers to like me because I want them to like my children; I don’t want them to think I’m one of those annoying, pestering mothers, because then they might not have patience for my son. By the same token, I want to come across as lovely and amicable when interacting with my son’s friends, because I want them to associate these qualities with my son. And in thinking about all that I hoped to bequeath to my son by association, I realized how fortunate I am to be associated with my parents’ good name. “A good name is greater than the finest oil” (Ecclesiastes 7:1). Oil is used to anoint kings, whose position is generally hereditary. I would like to be able to anoint my children with my good name, the way my parents have anointed me with theirs.

More recently, when introducing myself, I notice that things have changed. Ever since my book was published, other people are increasingly likely to associate me with my memoir rather than with my family. “Oh, are you the one who wrote that daf yomi book?” they will ask me. And I will smile and nod, because I feel that at last I have earned my name.

And yet we are not expected to get by on our own names alone. Many of us are not blessed with the ability to make a name for ourselves, and in Judaism we are encouraged—if not mandated—to appeal to the names of those who came before us. In the opening paragraph of the Amidah, in the first of the eighteen benedictions that comprise this prayer, we approach God by invoking those who came before us in the hope that God will remember them and therefore give us the time of day: “Blessed are you, our God and God of our ancestors, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” We appeal to a God who “remembers the merits of our forefathers, and will bring redemption to the sons of their sons for the sake of His name.” We have no expectation that God will remember us on account of anything we did. But maybe, just maybe, we will merit to receive God’s attention if we immediately remind God that we are related to our spiritual forbears.

Although we invoke all three of the patriarchs, it is Abraham whose name is probably most likely to win us divine favor. No one has more name recognition that Abraham. After all, the whole reason that God chose Abraham was so as to make Abraham’s name great so that everyone on earth might receive blessing through him: “And I will bless you, and I will make your name great. And you shall be a blessing…and all the nations of the earth shall receive blessing through you” (Genesis 12:2-3). A midrash (Genesis 39:2) compares Abraham to a vial of perfume. God tells Abraham to leave his home and set off on a long journey so that Abraham’s name will become known wherever he goes, like a vial of perfume that is opened so that it’s fragrance spreads far and wide. God wishes for Abraham to travel far so that Abraham’s faith in the one God will also spread far. By making Abraham’s name great, God is making the divine name great as well.

And so Abraham made God’s name great, and by invoking Abraham, we seek to make our own names sufficiently great so that God will heed our prayers and bring redemption. We want to ride on Abraham’s coattails in the hope that God will pay attention to us even though our own merits pale in comparison to his. Back when I was at Harvard, there was much talk of “legacy” students – those who were accepted to the university only because their parents or grandparents, who had also been students, had gone on to donate large sums of money. No one at Harvard wanted to be outted as legacy student; everyone wanted to believe they had been accepted on their own merits alone.

As Jews, we are all legacy students. We have been fortunate to inherit the legacy of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, and we hope that we will merit to get in to God’s good graces thanks to them. Moreover, we are proud of our legacy. We invoke our ancestors’ names not sheepishly, but as a badge of pride. And so I have been trying to learn from this invocation. When I introduce myself these days, I try to use my last name, even though it still doesn’t come easily. Maybe the person I am talking to will recognize my name on account of my book, or on account of my siblings, or on account of my parents. It doesn’t really matter. I am grateful to my parents and to my spiritual forbears for the legacy they bequeathed to me, and I can only pray that I will merit to use my name, too, to make God’s name great.

The Child in Time

It is nearly Tu Bishvat, which means that we are back to reading The Giving Tree. I read the book to Shalvi last night while the older three kids were at swimming lessons, and once again I burst into tears. This time I cried even before the boy starts to lose his hair, when he cuts down the tree’s trunk to build a boat and sail away, and the tree is happy – but not really. Shalvi looked at me earnestly, batting her eyelashes fast and furiously to take it all in: “Ima, why are you crying?” Except that it sounded like “cying,” because she omits the r in most consonant clusters. And that unleashed another wave of tears, because I was crying not just for the tree, but for the day when Shalvi would stop dropping her r’s and start speaking properly. After that, I was sure, it would not be long before she built a boat and sailed away, and I’d be the one who was happy – but not really.

There are certain books that inevitably unleash the floodgates. My kids know, for instance, that whenever I read them Sunrise, Sunset (a pictorial adaptation of the Fiddler on the Roof song), I will fall apart before we turn the last page, when Tevye becomes a grandfather. And perhaps they suspect that the one page that has no words in Before You Were Born—the story of a father explaining to his daughter what happened to her when she was in her mother’s womb—is there so as to give Ima time to dry her eyes. (It is one of the most eloquent caesuras I’ve encountered in a picture book.) All of these books are about the passage of time and about moments that are impossible to recapture fully, and as I read them I cannot help but imagine my own children growing older and setting sail.

The Talmud in Hagiga (4b) tells the story of various rabbis who would burst into tears while reading. Each rabbi had a particular biblical verse that set him off: Rav Yosef would cry when he read a verse in Proverbs about those who die without justice; Rabbi Ami would cry when he read about God’s wrath; Rabbi Elazar was moved to tears by Joseph’s reunion with his brothers. This discussion is immediately followed by a story about Rabbi Yohanan, who once saw a man picking unripe figs and leaving the ripe ones, and was reminded of how God sometimes takes people from the world before their time. The juxtaposition of the two passages suggests that when we are moved to tears by what we are reading, it is often because we are reminded of life’s transience. It is the same reason that Rabbi Elazar wept on his sickbed when he saw Rabbi Yohanan’s magnificent exposed arm: “I am crying for this beauty that will ravage to dust” (Berakhot 5b). We cry because time passes but it does not pass us by; it sweeps us along so that we can remember the past and anticipate the future, but all that surrounds us is the whirl of the current.

A mother of older children once told me that any time my children ask me to play with them, I should say yes, because before I know it the time will come when they will not want to play with me anymore. “It goes by so fast,” everyone tells me, even though Dara Horn questions this assumption in her brilliant novel Eternal Life—how can it possibly go by so fast when you are changing diapers for seven years straight. And yet I have so many moments when I feel time slipping away from me. I will be reading a book when suddenly I am reminded of when I read that book for the first time, to a baby too young even to turn the pages – and I will think about how that baby is now in the other room practicing violin and trying to get out of doing his math homework. So I come to the last page, close the book, and then immediately open it again from the beginning, wishing I could do the same with time.

Now my youngest is about to turn three and when we go to the library, we rarely take out picture books anymore. The older kids are still not able to read on their own, but they want me to read aloud to them from All of a Kind Family and Cam Jansen and other chapter books. We’ve read the first four All of a Kind Family books but I’ve been holding off on the fifth, where Ella is offered a career in vaudeville and doesn’t know if she should leave her beloved fiancé Jules, who has just returned from World War I. When we first started reading the series, Ella was only twelve and was the oldest of her siblings, whose adventures included losing library books, buying penny candy, and keeping their baby brother Charlie out of trouble. I’m not sure my girls are ready for fiances and vaudeville, and so for the time being I’ve been freezing the Kind Family (as my kids call them) in time, their ages fixed at the end of the fourth volume. Sometimes I wish I could do the same with my own children. The other series they love, Cam Jansen, is about a girl who has a photographic memory; when she closes her eyes and says “click,” she can store a perfect image of whatever she has just seen. One of my daughters likes to imitate Cam, and every so often she will close her eyes, say click, and ask me to quiz her on what she has just seen and stored in her memory. I get it. When all of us are piled up on her trundle bed to read in pajamas, the toddler in my lap, the twins on each of my sides, and Matan climbing over his sisters, I sometimes wish I could stop for a moment to close my eyes and say click.

Arriving with Presence (Hullin 44b)

This week we were invited out for Shabbat lunch by a family with a daughter in the twins’ Gan. I knew it would mean so much to the girls to have an extended playdate with a friend, and so we said yes, even though we are ordinarily very reluctant to go out for meals. I prefer to have guests at our home – it means I have to be less concerned about my children misbehaving. I would prefer for other children to make a wreck of our house than for our children to make a wreck of someone else’s home. I also don’t like being beholden to others – once we accept an invitation, we feel obligated to return it. The Talmud in Moed Katan (22b) distinguishes between two types of meals – the Arisuta and the Puranuta. The former refers to a meal that one hosts out of one’s own initiative; the latter refers to a reciprocated invitation. I generally prefer to extend the Arisuta than to be obligated in the Puranuta.

At least some of the Talmudic sages shared my reluctance to accept invitations and my preference to be on the giving end rather than the receiving end when it comes to gifts. In Hullin (44b, and Megilla 28a) they consider the verse from Proverbs, “One who spurns gifts will live long” (Proverbs 15:37). We are told that whenever Rabbi Elazar received gifts from the home of the Nasi—the leader of the Jewish community in the land of Israel, who was quite wealthy—he would refuse to accept them, and when he was invited to the home of the Nasi, he would decline. He would say to them, “Don’t you want me to live?” and then quote the verse from Proverbs about how the person who spurns gifts will live long. His colleague Rabbi Zeyra, in contrast, would decline gifts but always accept invitations on the grounds that his hosts were honored by his presence. I identify much more with Rabbi Elazar – I would prefer to decline invitations altogether – but perhaps there is something to be learned from Rabbi Zeyra as well.

On those rare occasions, like yesterday, when we accept invitations and eat at the home of others, I am generally caught up in Rabbi Elazar mode. I am worried that I will say the wrong thing, or that my kids will act rudely and refuse to clean up, or that someone will drop and break something and we’ll leave our host’s home in a far worse state than when we arrived. I cannot overcome my inhibitions about accepting gifts, and so I tend to show up with way too much food. I pack the bottom of the stroller with cookies, cake, and a bottle of wine, and then all the kids groan that it’s too heavy to push. But when we unload the stroller and shower our hosts with gifts, I feel like at least I am doing my own small part to reciprocate the generosity of our hosts. Like Rabbi Elazar, I feel like I would rather give gifts than receive them, and so I try to turn the tables even before I sit down at the table of someone else.

Sometimes I wish I could be more like Rabbi Zeyra. I doubt Rabbi Zeyra ever showed up with a house gift. He probably never even brought a bottle of wine. Instead, he felt that his presence was enough of a gift – he was gracing his hosts just by showing up. I imagine that Rabbi Zeyra was a scintillating conversationalist, and everyone enjoyed having him around. Or perhaps he was an especially good listener, and people felt that whenever they were in his presence, they were truly being heard and understood. Or perhaps he was just comfortable enough in his own skin that he could simply enjoy the company of others, without being preoccupied with anxious thoughts of what he would reciprocate and when.

If I could be more like Rabbi Zeyra, I would stop worrying so much about what I can be giving and how I can be apologizing for myself and my children. Yesterday at one point I got up from the table to check on the kids, who were playing in the back room. Matan, who was seven, was arguing with two boys in the family who were hosting us, both of whom were younger than him. The younger boy knocked off Matan’s glasses. Matan immediately smacked the boy in the face. I grabbed Matan and carried him forcefully out of the room and through the nearest door, which happened to be the door of the apartment. The door locked behind us, and Matan and I were left alone in the hallway, where I proceeded to chastise him for his behavior. At some point we were ready to come back inside, but the door was still locked, and I dared not knock. I was sure the little boy had gone crying to his father, and now the parents were reproachful that our child could be so unkind to theirs. I was mortified to show my face again. And so Matan and I missed a half hour of the meal. Rabbi Elazar might have thought we were adding on years to our life, but Rabbi Zeyra would definitely have thought us rude for disappearing for so long. And I suspect Rabbi Zeyra was on to something.

When I finally summoned the courage to knock on the door and Matan and I came back in, I immediately went with Matan to apologize. But the little boy seemed to have forgotten about the episode altogether, and when I mentioned it to his parents, they claimed to have no idea what had happened. Matan should not have hit the little boy – that much is certain. But I probably should not have been so focused on the damage we’d done when I could instead have concentrated on the good I yet could do if only I allowed myself to be more present.

As Rabbi Zeyra understood, sometimes our very presence can be a gift. Sometimes just sitting at the table and listening and participating in the conversation is much more appreciated than all the home-baked dessert in the world. If we are so preoccupied about how we will reciprocate in the future, we are not fully there in the present. Those who spurn gifts may live long, but what is long life if not an accumulation of present moments? May we allow ourselves to be more present in those moments, so that the gift of our presence may truly become the greatest present of all.

The Matron Saint of Israeli Feminism

Reading Alice Shalvi’s memoir was like discovering a kindred spirit. From the moment I first picked it up, I carted the heavy hardbound volume around with me everywhere, stealing glances at the cover photograph of kindly, white-haired Alice smiling pensively back at me – in synagogue, where I read her book behind the mehitza; in the classroom, where I tore through a few more pages while my Talmud students learned in havruta; and in the theater where I’d taken my children to see a play, my cell phone flashlight illuminating the page. “Ah yes, I know where you are, I have been there too,” Shalvi seemed to be saying to me wherever I toted her around.

Shalvi, who published her memoir just before her 92nd birthday, knew the synagogues and study houses and theaters of Jerusalem very intimately, though she too, as she avows, was never a native. She was born as Alice Margulies in 1926 in Essen, Germany, and fled to London with her parents and older brother eight years later. Shalvi had already taught herself to read in her native German by age four, and she quickly taught herself English as well so she could devour the novels of Lewis Carroll, Louisa May Alcott, E. Nesbit, and Arthur Ransome. In her primary school she was frequently asked by her teachers to entertain the class by reading aloud while the other pupils learned to sew, a skill she consequently never acquired. (And here I flipped to the front cover and smiled back at Alice, because I shared her predicament – I never learned to sew or drive or acquire any practical life skills because I was always the designated reader in the family.)

During the war, Shalvi’s family moved to a country house in Waddesdon, a village in Buckinghamshire. When she was not performing in school plays, singing in the choir, or reading books from the Boots’ lending library, she rode around the corn fields on a bicycle, learned to play tennis and cricket, and discovered British Romantic poetry: “One spring day, turning a bend, I found myself, unprepared, confronting a vast bank of daffodils. I had never before seen such an abundance of what appeared like wild flowers thronging an open space.” Years later, she taught Wordsworth’s poem about stumbling upon a field of daffodils to her English literature students in Jerusalem and was astonished to discover that her students had never heard of a daffodil. Five years ago, when substituting for my husband in the English department at Bar Ilan University, I taught this same poem and had the same experience; while waxing poetic about my own encounter with a field of daffodils and how it had stayed with me all those years, I too was met with vacant stares. Like Shalvi, “only then was I made aware of the absence of this quintessentially English flower from the abundant flora of the holy land.”

At Waddesdon, Shalvi and a friend bribed a teacher with cigarettes to teach them Latin so that they could take the entry exams for Oxford and Cambridge. She was accepted to Newnham, then one of two women’s colleges at Cambridge, where she and her fellow students were expected to live cloistered lives: sex was considered “obscene, indecent, smutty,” and women had to sign out if they left the college after 8pm. Reading about Alice’s adventures in Cambridge, I am grateful that I attended this university over a half a century later, though I identified with many of her experiences: I too hung a photograph of the Kotel on my dorm room wall; I too suffered from an inadequate number of toilets (mine was across two courtyards, though fortunately my baths were not limited to a shallow five inches of water, the depth designated by a black line on the tub); I too attended Friday night dinners at the Jewish Society on Thompson’s Lane, where Alice fought to allow women to lead the traditional hymns at the Sabbath meal (by my time, alas, this license had been revoked). As the only religious Jew in my English program, I had many experiences similar to Alice, who relates that she tried to explain the concept of ‘simile’ to her classmates by citing the prayer in which the children of Israel’s relationship to God is compared to “clay in the hands of a potter”; she was dismayed to discover that few of her classmates had ever heard of this prayer. At Cambridge I also found that many of my frames of reference were foreign to my classmates, which rendered my experience there all the more lonely.

It was at Cambridge that Shalvi first became aware of the horrors of the Holocaust and the fate of her father’s brother’s family, all of whom were shot to death in their native Poland. “Worst of all and hardest to come to grips with, even today, was my growing awareness of a startling paradox: while the extermination of European Jewry was in progress, I was enjoying what were undoubtedly the happiest years of my adolescence, safe and secure amidst the natural beauties of rural England.” A Zionist from her early childhood, when she’d danced the horah around her family’s kitchen table, Shalvi resolved to move to Palestine: “I made the fateful decision to go there as a social worker, rehabilitate people like these youngsters, and assist them in becoming useful, committed citizens, fellow builders of a new Jewish state that, together, we would help bring into existence.” She went on her first visit to Palestine during Christmas vacation of 1947, less than a month after the UN vote on the partition plan but before the British withdrawal. The euphoria was evident, particularly in Tel Aviv, where “houses were shooting up, sparkling white in the bright Mediterranean sunshine that heightened the blue of the ocean with an intensity never seen in England. I’d not expected the sun to be so blinding, the sky so cerulean, the sea so calm. For the first time I fully comprehended the veracity of the Provencal works of the Impressionists.”

After studying social work at the London School of Economics (LSE), Shalvi made Aliyah, settling in Jerusalem in November 1949. She recalls a period when everyone walked around confused, unsure whether the street they were on was called Queen Melisanda or Heleni Ha-Malka. In neighborhoods like Talbiye, Katamon, and Baka—where I live now, with all modern conveniences–the streets had no names, the houses had had only plot numbers, and no one had telephones at home. In her first year in the country, she was seduced by her landlord who forced her to sleep with him when his pregnant wife was out of the house; “today,” she writes, “we’d call it rape.” Shalvi describes several men she dated as a young single woman in Jerusalem, though she never explains how she overcame the sense of unattractiveness that haunted her as a child: “My bust was too small, my hips too broad. Even had my mirror not reflected the reality… many wounding comments on my appearance… combined to instil in me both an overwhelming sense of my own inadequacy and a comparable need to compensate. Such compensation might be accomplished by academic achievement.” Surely her academic achievement was responsible for some of her confidence, but is still hard to understand where she mustered the courage to pursue and then propose marriage to the handsome young banker named Moshe whom she fell in love with when she first sighted him at a 25th anniversary party for the Hebrew University. The couple set off to Paris on their honeymoon, where they bought baguettes and cheap plates and cutlery so that they could eat in their hotel room, since Moshe kept strictly kosher. “It was our first experience of keeping house together. We made abundant and blissful use of the big brass bed. We were inordinately happy. The week in Paris proved an auspicious beginning to over 60 years of compatibility and compassionate companionship.” Moshe took pride in Shalvi’s professional accomplishments and always encouraged her to excel, never feeling threatened by her achievements. He was, in every sense, just as feminist as she.

Shalvi became pregnant soon after their marriage, and she went on to have six children in fifteen years, the fulfillment of a childhood dream: “My conception of a happy family was undoubtedly inspired by the numerous books I read that portrayed the adventures of siblings engaged in a series of fascinating activities… Parents seldom intervened. Indeed, they were largely absent or seldom referred to… I envied these fictional families and perhaps unconsciously longed to repplicate them in my own adulthood.” Her first pregnancy in 1951 was during a period of rationing, when pregnant women were allocated two fresh eggs a week, but she felt blissfully happy and healthy. On a visit to London she bought a book about natural childbirth and taught herself its precepts, shocking the doctors when she refused medication during labor: “It seems I was Israel’s pioneer of natural childbirth,” she muses. Her labor pangs began during an English department study session at her apartment, where members of the faculty were gathered to read Blake, and throughout her children’s early years, she and her husband remained intensely engaged in their respective professions.

Shalvi’s reflections on working motherhood are brave, candid, and –surely not just for me—deeply inspiring. She acknowledges that she was not present for her children nearly as much as they needed or wanted her to be, but she is proud of the people her children became: “I was not a source of the loving individual attention every child desires and needs. Frustrated, they sought other sources of attention and affection – friends, lovers, and eventually spouses. Today my children reproach me for my neglect but I take a certain degree of (cold) comfort in the fact that they’ve learnt from their own negative experience and that they, in contrast to me, are not only model parents but equally dedicated grandparents.” How refreshing that Shalvi can writing so openly about her inadequacies as a mother, while also appreciating that there is no one right way to parent; the decisions that leave us feeling most uneasy can prove surprisingly salutary.

In one of the more private and painful moments in this memoir, Shalvi reflects on an illegal abortion she underwent in 1950s Jerusalem. Shalvi became pregnant while her older children had mumps, and her doctor informed her she had to terminate the pregnancy because infection with mumps could result in brain damage in the embryo. Shalvi reluctantly and ambivalently consented. She continues to be plagued by what she underwent in the back room of the doctor’s house: “I never told Moshe about the abortion. I fact, I told nobody. I have never spoken of it. Yet similarly, I have never forgotten it. Though I gave birth with my customary ease to three additional blessedly healthy, carefully planned, children, the thought of that unborn child still plagues me. Was it a girl or a boy? Fair-haired like Micha or dark like Ditza? As placid as Hephziba or wild, like Benzi? And would it indeed have been in some way abnormal, or might it, despite our fears, have proved no leass healthy than its siblings? The questions can never be answered; the regret and guilt never fully assuaged.” Decades later Shalvi would go on to fight for increased awareness of women’s medical and psychological needs.

Shalvi learned her compassion and her concern for others from her own life experiences. When she birthed her first son, her roommate in the maternity ward of the Anglican school where Hadassah Hospital was then housed was a gaunt Kurdish woman who had just given birth to her seventh child, and had no visitors. The woman lay there miserable as all the members of the English department took their turns visiting and congratulating Alice on the birth of her firstborn: “I learned a great deal through this pathetic woman and her experience, of the overriding importance in some cultures of bearing sons, of the lowly status of females…of the contempt in which new immigrants from the Arab countries were held by the European veterans.” Shalvi went on to become instrumental in founding a “Women’s Kitchen” in a poor neighborhood in Katamon, a clubhouse for women immigrants from Arab lands.

Though she had made Aliyah with a degree in social work from LSE, Shalvi was unable to find work in her field. Instead she landed a job teaching in the English department at Hebrew University, then housed at Terra Sancta right near her home; among her students were the young Yehuda Amichai, Dan Pagis, and Dahlia Ravikovitch, who became some of Israel’s most famous and celebrated poets. Nearly two decades later, when her youngest child was a toddler, she accepted an offer to found the English Department at Beersheba. Four years later, the position of university dean became vacant. “Few of the men (needless to say they were all men) whose names were mentioned [as candidates] had what I considered the necessary qualifications.” And so Shalvi submitted her candidacy. Here, as throughout this memoir, Shalvi does not come across as arrogant or brash. On the contrary, she had a realistic sense of her own abilities and a supportive husband always at her back, and she was undaunted by the possibility of failure. “But you’re a woman!” she was told by the humanities dean. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” said the incumbent she hoped to replace. She was accused of “blantant lobbying” and “shameless self-promotion,” and she did not get the job. But for Shalvi, each failure, like each success, was a learning opportunity. “My humiliating experience led to a profound change in my perception of gender equality in Israel.”

Shalvi went on to devote herself tirelessly to advancing the status of women in all sectors of Israeli society throughout the 1980s and 1990s. She served on the Namir Commission to propose legislation and administrative changes designed to improve the social, economic, and political status of women. She worked with religious feminists to campaign on behalf of agunot, women whose husbands were missing, and mesuravot get, women refused divorce. She was instrumental in founding the Israel Women’s Network, a non-partisan organization to advance women’s status. She organized an international conference of women writers in 1986 to raise the self-esteem of Israeli women authors, hosting such luminaries as Grace Paley and Marilyn French. She persuaded the Head of Television at the Israel Broadcasting Authority to begin designing programs for women, of which there were none. She spoke on panels with Palestinian women, searching for common ground. She was involved in a six-month in-depth investigation of human trafficking and forced prostitution. She helped raise awareness about women’s health issues, founding an information hotline that referred women to sensitive and sympathetic doctors. Just recently, when I called the national hotline of my health clinic and listened to the menu of dialing option, I was told for the first time that I could press “5” if I wanted to speak to a doctor or nurse about pregnancy or childbirth; I have no doubt that Alice Shalvi is responsible, albeit indirectly, for this development.

And yet in spite of all her work on the national level, in Jerusalem Shalvi is perhaps best known for her tenure as principal of Pelech, a high school founded in the 1960s for ultra-Orthodox girls. From its earliest days, Talmud was part of the compulsory curriculum at Pelech. (The name of the school means spindle, and is spoken derogatorily by a misogynist sage in the Talmud who contends that “Women’s wisdom is solely in the spindle.”) Shalvi first became involved in Pelech as a parent – her eldest daughter Ditza, who was unhappy in her Orthodox high school, asked her parents to transfer to the Pelech High School for Haredi Girls, as it was then known. Uneasy with the idea of sending her daughter to such a religious school, Alice climbed up Mount Zion—where the school was then housed—to check it out. She engaged one of the students in conversation, and discovered that this ultra-Orthodox girl was working on a paper on Christian symbols in the novels of Graham Green. “Christian? Graham Green? At a haredi school? This openness was beyond belief. After that I had no objections to Ditza transferring to Pelech.”

In 1974, when Ditza was still enrolled, the founders of the school announced their intention to close it down – they were uncomfortable with the “infiltration” of modern Orthodox families. One day shortly thereafter, during a visit from the Ministry of Education, the principal was asked whom the ministry should be in future contact with on matters regarding the school. Without a moment’s pause, the principal told him to be in touch with Professor Shalvi – and thus to her total surprise, Shalvi became the school’s new principal. Though the school was already catering to a more enlightened demographic, Shalvi found that her religious progressivism was often at odds with the school’s ethos; in her new role, she had to put away her elegant pants suits and wear long skirts instead, though she was never able to bring herself to cover her hair. When she tried to advocate for replicating the American bat mitzvah program she had witnessed on a recent trip to the US; one of the male Jewish studies teachers caustically replied, “In an orchestra, when the violinist plays the notes composed for the violin and the trumpeter plays the notes composed for the trumpets, there is harmony. But when the violins play the trumpets’ notes and the trumpets play the notes of the violists there is discord.” Chastened, Shalvi writes that she “learned never again to express my heretical views on the inferior status of women within the confines of Pelech.”

Even so, Shalvi continued to push the envelope in her role as principal – she hired an American woman with an expertise in Talmud to teach a course on Women and Halacha, and she brought in a commanding officer from the IDF to speak to her students about women’s service in the military. Ultimately, her heresy became too much for the school officials to bear, and she felt she had no choice but to resign so that the school would not lose its accreditation. Still, Shalvi remains inordinately proud of “my girls,” as she refers to her Pelech graduates, one of whom is now her own rabbi. “Surveying how feminism has affected Israeli society, one is compelled to admit that the greatest revolution has occurred in modern Orthodoxy,” she contends. “Not only have the women themselves ‘come a long way’; they have carried their communities in their wake.”

Shalvi was tireless and tenacious in her professional and public roles. In 1990, when she was settling down for what she thought would be a quiet retirement, she was asked to head the Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies, which offered rabbinical training and advanced degrees in Jewish studies. Shalvi agreed and became rector and then president, a decision she later regretted: “The double burden was too heavy for one person to bear, and as I soon learned, I was totally ignorant as to the complexities of the Conservative movement in the US.” Even so, she acknowledges that she has “nothing but happy memories” of her days at Schechter, where she founded Nashim, an academic journal of Jewish feminist studies, and she helped create the Center for Women in Jewish Law.

Reading this memoir, I was struck by the enormous debt of gratitude that I, as a woman in Jerusalem, owe to Shalvi’s trailblazing. When Shalvi pushed for a bat mitzvah program at Pelech, such an idea was unheard of; there is no question that my daughters and their contemporaries will have bat mitzvah ceremonies. When I was pregnant, I had my pick of Lamaze classes to attend (though it was still difficult, in the early 2000s, to find a woman gynecologist). When I wanted to study Talmud on a high level, there was a host of institutions to choose from – some for women alone, and some co-educational. And when I wrote a book about my experiences studying Talmud as a woman, the opening chapter was first published in Nashim, the journal Shalvi founded.

Feminism among religious women in Jerusalem is a funny thing; just recently, I offered a copy of Lilith Magazine to a religiously observant friend my age who swims with me at the pool in the mornings after dropping off her children at school. “A feminist magazine?” she looked at me quizzically. “Sorry, that’s not for me. I’m no feminist,” she said, before heading out to teach history at the university. I wanted to call after her, “You’re not a feminist? How did you get to where you are, if not for the feminists? Why do you think you have childcare for your toddler? Why are you able to work as a mother? How did you get your maternity leave? What kind of historian are you?” But I knew my protests would fall on deaf ears. Her response is a reminder that we still have a long way to go. Alice Shalvi, having completed the memoir she has been writing for two decades, has taught herself to meditate and seems finally to have found tranquility: “No words are needed. No words suffice. Just as two lovers sit side by side in silence, each absorbing each other’s presence, so I sit absorbing and at the same time surrendering myself to the Divine Spirit.” There is more work to be done, but the mantle has been passed to my generation, and to my children. We are so fortunate to have Shalvi as our model, our mentor, our guiding light.