About Mixed Cultural Heritage

Me with my mom and dad during New Year celebration, December 31, 2013

Every holiday ended the same way: with a fierce debate over who had finer fabrics, whose national ornaments were more elegant, and which language – Hebrew or Arabic – was more beautiful (neither of them spoke either, by the way. One spoke Yiddish, the other Tatar. They argued in Russian). They debated whose songs were more melodic, whose dishes more delicious, whose customs more noble, whose household traditions were more refined.

During these arguments, my parents and I would slowly, quietly edge toward the door, pretending to tidy up while looking for an escape route. They kept their distance from all things "culturally coded" and made sure my sister and I did too.

And yet, somehow, those two women were secretly besties.

You could spot them out on a morning stroll near the mosque, just to hear the muezzin call to prayer or arm-in-arm at synagogue on Shabbat. Of course, this was always followed by commentary:

- He really can't sing, poor guy. Wasting his breath.

-At least he doesn't tell me how to dress—unlike your guy in the hat.

-Oh really, it's your guy who doesn't tell you how to dress, eat, sleep and live? Really? And by the way our rabbi wears a kippah. Not "the hat" Yeah yeah, call it whatever you want.

This was usually followed by critiques of religious texts (they tried to read both), dramatic discoveries of "See? this is exactly the same!" and the inevitable accusation: "You stole that from us!" They competed over whose soup was tastier, but both dreamed of Jerusalem.

Unfortunately, they've never ever been there. In their older years, the arguments faded, replaced by quiet conversations on the balcony during family dinners. They'd sneak off mid-meal, chatting in hushed tones like schoolgirls with secrets.

When I moved to Israel, I felt more Jewish than ever. But still – like when I was a kid – I freeze up at the sound of the azan. It hits something deep. At the same time, I genuinely enjoy listening to rabbinical teachings. I'm always impressed by how beautiful abayas could be and, okay, yes – I sometimes think Haredi men look weirdly stylish (is that even allowed?). Sometimes I feel guilty about all this. Especially now. Especially during the war – you should stick with your chosen side completely, huh? But I know I'm not the only one living in this in-between space.

So I'm saying this out loud: if you grew up in a world where two very different cultures danced – and sometimes clashed – in your living room, let's admit both and it's OK. We love Israel the most but let's be honest – Arabic or Turkish patterns are just out of reach.

Let's love, pray and…well…continue arguing.