Life of Yeshiva Guy

(Hi Resolution image on my Flickr stream).

Last night, deep into the Yerushalmi dark, far after the cats finished their screeching into the night, I lay awake wondering. Thinking about what it would be like. How I would deal with it.

If I would deal with it.

I lay awake, trying to figure out how fast I could move, how fast I could interrupt whatever I’d be doing. How difficult it might be to learn, or do anything else, knowing that at any moment I might have to drop everything and seek protection. How different my life might  be, having to deal with life and death’s imminence every day, immanent in the form of a fifteen second race to the shelter; a fifteen second sprint to life.

Accompanied by the faint footfalls of the lonely men who wander Yerushalayim at night, I wondered what kind of a people it is, exactly, who live there. A resilient people, no doubt, much like Yidden the world over. But why do they choose to live in an environment of fear? Money plays a large role in the decision, no doubt, but what of those who do have the wherewithal to withdraw from this daily battle, from this never ending grind on mind and body? Do they choose to stay, because they know they never could forgive themselves for deserting, as it were, their landsleit? Or is it some other cheshbon, some deeper reason that pushes them on in this impossible matzav?

Like most races, I imagine this one isn’t without a cheering crowd, of a sort. Here, every runner has inner fans, cheering him on. Chanting the numbers in muted but panicked silence. 1, 2, 3… Do they count up, or do they count down? I don’t know. I guess it doesn’t matter much.

After some time, I came to the internal supposition that I could do it too. Extreme pressure, of the life threatening sort, occurs in everyone’s life. Adrenalin rushing, mind racing…it could be done, this dash of doom. The sprint can’t be all that strenuous.

Soon, I might even come to depend on it. On the rush, on the super scream. Supported by enough forced rationalization, it could even become a kind of normal, this fifteen second sprint.

Except. Except what happens when it turns into a marathon? An endless heat with fiery consequences. Again and again, every day the same timed event. No completion, no red tape to break as you hurtle across the finish line…the clock simply resets, and stares at you from your dreams, impassive blinking red LEDs. It would become hellish. It is hellish.

I fell asleep slowly to the cats resuming their eternal scrap,  dreaming of forever trying to finish a never ending race, of ending the nightmarish run.

They run still.

and here I saw a hunchback…so broken, so broken, so broken…sweeping the floor, sweeping the street.

…do you know how many favors you can do on the streets of the world?

when moshiach is coming…the holy street cleaner, he will come back again, and he will clean the streets of the world…and do you know how he will clean the streetts?

by teaching the world the greatest thing in the world is to do somebody else a favor…

-Shloimeleh

…so when we’re walking up fifth avenue, I’m holding up the blue and white.

-GV

(Hi Resolution image on my Flickr stream).

A tzioni maskilishe professor once came to the Brisker Rov to talk with him in learning. When the Rov asked him what he did for a living, the fellow answered in Yiddish that he was a:

“dokter oif Tanach“.

Replied the Rov:

“Tanach shpirt zich gezunt. Es darft nisht kein dokter“.

(“Tanach feels fine. It doesn’t need a doctor.”)

“Let them get jobs! Let them learn a trade, like I did. Years of labor, hard work, building up a business. It wasn’t easy. Why should I support them? Lazy good for nothings! It’s a new fad, coming to America, and I won’t stand for it.” This last is punctuated with a fist thump on the table.” I refuse to do it any longer. Why just last week, one fellow dared tell me that it wasn’t enough- I HAVE to give more. And if I wouldn’t, he threatened me with some sort of klallah. Ah chutzpah! I’m not even going to discuss the fakers, the guys who are just having a good time, the chevrah who don’t even need the money b”ut come here to have a good time at my expense.”

Shaking my head sadly, it’s almost as if I can hear his refrain set to music. The first few chords, accompanied by the aforementioned fist thump, are  as familiar as the sagging walls of Zichron Moshe shtiblach. He’s ticked off by the endless parade of meshulachim knocking on his door, interrupting his shacharis, and accosting him at the mikvah. He can’t handle the endless yidden who’ve fallen on hard times knocking at his door, disturbing his dinner. He doesn’t like the the stream of schnorrers that doesn’t stop. He continues.

“From a purely financial standpoint, it doesn’t make sense. The plane ticket alone costs $1600, and then the drivers take 50% commission. For that price, let them borrow from the same people sponsoring their tickets, and make a cheap wedding at a tzedakah hall. And what about aniyay irchah? Huh? What about them? We have to support our own, don’t we? Do you know how many families in Teaneck mamish can’t make ends meet? Tons. You wouldn’t believe the numbers if I told you.”

By now, the gvir I’m eating my Friday night seudah has worked himself into a fine frenzy, and his face is beginning to flush. His wife, apparently more forgiving of evyonim than he, or perhaps simply less forgiving of the spittle sailing into her soup, is trying to settle him down. Why he’s decided to direct this rant at me is beyond my ken. I’m no kin of his, and although I happen to be seated next to him, I should think this maarachah more appropriately be given to the local rabbonim or some such body. Instead, I’m zocheh to hear it. He ignores his wife and continues.

“I say that instead of funding endless flights to America, we setup a vocational school in Bnei Brak. For the same price, they can learn a trade, and support their children like G-d meant them to. Have some pride in their lives. Also, we must abolish the dira custom. It’s absurd that kollel yungeleit must buy a dira for their eidims; where are they supposed to get $200,000 from? Not me, I’ll tell you.  We must eliminate it from their mental minhag lexicon. From now on, they should make do with renting, like I did when I got married. If they want more, let them work for it.”

Finally having finished his piece, he sits back in his chair, happy to have delivered a humdinger of a filibuster. Convinced of his argument, and it’s inherent logical merits, I doubt I can change his mind. L’maaseh, however, there is a chiyuv machaah, so I give it a shot. By now, his wife has thrown up her hands in despair, and retreated to the kitchen to bring in the main course.

I start slowly. “Did it ever occur to you, R’ Yid, that this fad, as you call it, is not in fact born out of a desire to see the world, or spend time on El Al’s brand new fleet. That maybe, just maybe, these yidden are desperate for the money they receive in America. That as a charter baalebos of America, you have a chiyuv to support them. And as for its newness; well, that’s just incorrect. Your financial acumen notwithstanding, you clearly don’t know very much about Jewish history. Yidden have been collecting in far-flung communities of the Diaspora since the golus began. It’s how we operate- kol Yisroel areivim zeh l’zeh.” I pause for a moment to let my point sink home. He hasn’t started banging his fist on the table yet, so that means that at least he’s absorbed what I’ve said. Encouraged, I keep going.

“Having said that, let’s move on to your contention that they enjoy this. Let me tell you something. I, personally, have Boruch Hashem never had to collect money for myself. But come Purim every year, I experience a mashehu of the intense bushis that any ani no doubt relives, again and again, every time he must ask again for money. The gehinnom each closed door must mean for him; the shell tachtis each slammed door must be. I challenge you- go to a random community where no one knows who you are and try collecting money in the local shul, just for a few minutes. That will speedily put to rest any ideas you may have about people enjoying the experience.”

My long-winded drasha so far having enjoyed a bit of success, his open eyes tell me that the ideas thus far presented have met their mark. I finish up with a story for effect.

“And finally, with regards to aniyay ircha and who does and doesn’t have a chiyuv to support them, don’t give me that garbage. We both know there is more than enough money to go around, Boruch Hashem. And forgive me for bringing in a goyishe president to illustrate my point(s), but this problem is as old as you are, if not older.

Woodrow Wilson, a former president of the United States, had a rough go of it as a child. His father, a good man, was a minister, and apparently they paid their ministers less than they do kolleleit today. One day, young Woodrow and his father were on their way to the market in their horse-drawn buggy.

A member of the congregation flagged them down. “Minister”, he wanted to know, “why is it that your horse looks so well fed, while you yourself appear as thin as a stick?”

Before the gaunt Wilson senior had a chance to respond, little Woodrow answered.

“That is because my father is fed by the congregation, while the horse is fed by my father.”

I don’t think I need to tell you who are in the moshel…”

With this story, I stop talking, hoping the gvir sitting in front of me will chap the moshel, and take a lesson from a goyishe president. I don’t have koach to be masbir.

His brows still furrowed in thought, I lean back in my chair. His wife brings in the main course, and I dig into the American meat they are serving. It’s good; juicy, soft, and full of flavor. Too bad they don’t serve ‘em like this at every Friday night seudah.

Hmm…there is a job opening for some enterprising yungerman. He can open up a butcher shop, and import US meats. Wait. I’m not supposed to be advocating yungeleit getting jobs! Now my brow is furrowed, my brain in full gear. How about half day and half day? Nope. We don’t hold of that. Wow.

The lesson here? Obvious.

Don’t eat at baalebatim who will impart krumme hashkafos.

B’taovon.