2:7 In a Holy Fashion

September … the month slipped through my fingers, I was unable to reign in on time and grasp a minute in my hand to savour and retrospect. Even writing, my single channel to mental sanity, did not have a place to sit in my waiting room of to-dos. It is now October, the Jewish calendar reached its summit and started anew, a trip to London has been and gone, I have seen three cups smashed under wedding canopies, and work has slithered through the cracks. All the action blew pass and I tried to hold on but was blown away by the pace. I will attempt to recollect my thoughts of September for the sake of recollection.

Home time for the New Year

Rosh Hashanah, the Kosher new years day, signified time for my annual visit to the synagogue, to bind my resolutions with G-d: to cut down on negative mummers, to be a better person than I presently am, to visit synagogue more than on this one annual occasion, and to stop being so ungrateful. It also means family time, eating, resting and a two-day mental and physical rehabilitation period amongst my loved ones. The last two years, I have been in Israel during Rosh Hashanah and observed in a less than conventional way compared to my usual Ashkenazi approach. This year signified time for a 'holy' home visit and to spend Rosh Hashanah with the family. The memories cemented into my idea of holiday time at home in England have begun to crack. I was reliving these memories in a new light as the New Year drew in.

Synagogue and Hats

The weekend trip to London was to be spent in the two domains of home and synagogue, and we would carry out the Rosh Hashanah ritual. I would accompany my mother to our North London community synagogue in the morning, dressed in our new New Year gear, lippy, matching jewels, plenty spritzes of eau de toilette and my mum's accompaniment of some weird and fancy construction on her head, known as a hat. We would enter the holy domain through a heavy wooden door, clickety-clacking across the entrance, then tip-toeing in our high-heels once we realised the noise we made and see through glass doors men, all cocooned in white and blue stripped talises (prayer cloak), rocking to the rhythm of holy lyrics. We would slowly climb the red carpeted stairs to the ladies section, enter a balcony of nattering women sporting other fancy constructions and smelling of other ghastly moth-spray smelling eau de toilettes. We would squeeze our way through the over-sized blue leather seats to get to my mother’s prepaid positioning, causing much inconvenience to the ladies in conversation. I would peek over the latest headwear features, peer over the men’s section below and give a wave and a wink to my dad, who is as usual grinning up to me and blowing a kiss.

This year , the schedule was on queue. As per usual, I plonked my tuchus on the squeaky leather seats, I took a moment to absorb the surrounds, and realised, however, that the whole situation felt uncanny. Fine then, the seats had been reupholstered, the usual chandler fixtures had been changed to new 60’s décor shades and the crowd came with additional grey hairs, botox injections and hair extensions. Nevertheless, this year I did not feel right amongst the crowd, I wasn’t the same as 2 years before, the new me was uncomfortable and did not slot in so easily. Of course we all change and go through developments. Although, as with the synagogue décor, it seemed I had also gone through a refurbishment and no longer felt part of this community. Israel has impacted on me; even though I cannot pin point its effect, I realised it has changed me, for better or worse; and this Rosh Hashanah was the first that I came to realise that I have changed, for better of worse. And honestly, I feel a whole lot more comfortable with this new model.

Prayer and Prada

The women perched in the ladies gallery looking immaculate and resembling a collection of magazine clippings, with ruler straight hair, nails in perfect condition, a natural look of makeup plastered on with precision and clothes seemingly just off the Prada rack. Yet, it all seemed so surreal, as if a couture monster had possessed their presence, their smiles and their personality. There appearance seemed masked, disguising their inner character and creating a public display of what is important to them, public status and wealth.

In Israel, for some women, appearance is a means to exude an image of sexuality, wearing tight-fitting, cleavage-cut, curve-extenuating clothes, matched with a face of sultriness. In the same space, other women sees appearance, or in particular, clothing for its functional purpose, full-stop. Across the horizon, fashion seems to carry a facet of equality, whereby the large part of the female population have an opportunity to dress one way or another, with fashion being attainable.

In my home community, I felt a state, booted in a skirt and satin blouse that emphasised areas I had placed a pound or ten on since last wearing them, as I hadn’t worn them since being sat here two year ago. My nails were unpolished; my hair had a slight kink; and my shoes were scruffy on the points and scraped on the heels, as those too were not worn since last being in that prepaid blue seat. My appearance amongst this crowd of synagogue-going cat-walkers may have bothered me two years ago, however, at that moment, I was totally unbothered. Either I have done some growing up, or was it that I had left this world behind to fall into a pit of shallowness. Whatever it is, I am happy to have left.

I should have spent this time in synagogue concentrating on my resolutions and faux pas of the year, the focus of Rosh Hashanah. However, these thoughts were clouded by the muttering amongst the women, which in turn, drowned out the tunes sung from the men below. Their prayers for forgiveness probably reached G-d a lot sooner than I, so thank goodness I still had a whole day of atonement to return to in the holy land.

Fasting Amongst Fasters

The time in London came and went in a flash in a pan. A week later, I returned to the holy land. I was in Ashdod repenting for my sins on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, the Day of Atonement. This event involves a fast for 25 hours and the second occasional annual visit to synagogue, to feel bare of physicality and spirituality connected to God to repent.

Up till last year, I observed this high holyday in a country completely detached from it’s holiness. I would hide away at home or synagogue. The world outside would continue, the noises on traffic and city life would resound, but I would be in a place of silence. The two settings simply couldn’t amalgamate. However, this year I was in a place where I no longer felt the odd one out. Coming to Israel, I am able to observe a holiday in a society on holiday. I can atone for my sins in a place of repenters. The most apparent moment was on Erev Yom Kippur, the night bringing in the Day of Atonement.

White-Dressed Wanderers

During Yom Kippur, Israel literally shuts down. It is forbidden to drive, shops are banned from opening and all public life is placed on halt. The only sounds come from children on the streets and the praying of atoners. You are unable to eat, watch television, travel, be intimate and to even wash oneself. Simply put, we maintain a basic form of existence. Effy once mentioned in the past, ‘just wait till Yom Kippur, it is the strangest sight you will ever see.’ He was right. The streets stood still upon which residents, dressed in white, filled the black tarmac streets (Israeli’s traditionally wear white on Yom Kippur). Little children skipped hand in hand, adults strolled and elderly, in wheelchairs, wheeled their way down the main highway. It was like a modern re-enactment of the Israelites being guided out of Egypt by Moses. For miles, people filled the highways, doing nothing but simply being in coexistence. Those strollers may not have been repenting at that moment, nevertheless they were all detached from all modern distractions and simply in the company of others, appreciating the basic pleasures of life, which in other ways can be seen as truly spiritual. It was amazing to witness this, and I could not be more grateful for being part of this national fast.

The Ashdod community stood in silence in synagogue to hear the sounds of the Shofar (ram’s horn blown for religious significance), representing the end to the fast. Following this, I was almost knocked down by a mad rush of white-clothed Ashdodians, practically running home to fulfil their hunger; I galloped for an English cuppa. This also marked the beginning of the next countdown till Yom Kippur once more and God cleaning his slates clean to chalk ticks and crosses under our names again.

I presume I have learnt from the pass year, on reflection from my experiences of going to the place I once was and the place I am now. For the year to come I hope to fully develop into a more efficient and sleeker model, more aware of what the world has to offer and my position in this big place called earth.