Voices from Behind
By Loolwa Khazzoom
I was fourteen. For the past nine years, every Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur, and Sukkoth/Simhath Torah (1), my family had made a pilgrimage from San Francisco to Los Angeles to attend the only Iraqi synagogue this side of New York. This Simhath Torah was the third year that a new, young rabbi was leading services alongside our beloved hazan and hacham (2). I walked into the synagogue with apprehension.
Everyone in my family hated the young rabbi. We called him the Ashkenazi Moroccan, the assimilated Sephardi. What was he doing in an Iraqi synagogue in the first play, my parents would mutter; he's no Iraqi.
For the past two years, the Ashkenazi rabbi and two Israeli congregants - all with booming voices - had taken over the singing during hakafoth (3), drowning out classic Mizrahi songs such as "Mipee El" and replacing them with Ashkenazi-Israeli songs such as "Heveinu Shalom Alechem." In typical passive Iraqi-Jewish behavior, everyone submitted to the takeover - either by joining in or simply not resisting.
I ached inside, watching the sad faces of old Iraqi men as they quietly and sadly gave up singing, removed their sisith (4), and headed home. Both years we were there, I felt helpless, desperate and powerless. Trapped in the back of the synagogue behind a four-foot wall, I hung over the top of the mehisa (5) and sang Mizrahi songs at the top of my lungs. But my sole voice was no match for the three loud musketeers.
My eyes always faced forward into the men's section, where the action happened and the power lay. I belonged up there with them, I thought to myself every time I attended synagogue. It should be me up there leading! I knew all the prayers, largely by heart. I sang in the traditional Iraqi style, with the distinct Iraqi pronunciation of each word. In America, where I was raised, it was unusual for adults to preserve the Mizrahi/Sephardi traditions and unheard of for youth to know them. But none of my knowledge or dedication mattered to the Mizrahi/Sephardi community, because I was "just" a girl.
My bath mouswa (6) had been a traumatic experience: My twelve-year guest pass to the Jewish boys' club expired abruptly, and I was shoved in the back for good. Boom! No more participation for me.
Relegrated to the the women's section, I noticed that "the ladies" only showed up on the major holidays or at the end of Shabbath services (if at all), and after arriving they talked incessantly to each other. I constantly had to strain my eyes and ears towards the teba (7) to focus on services. And when I sang, my voice seldom blended with the other voices from behind; for the women's section usually was devoid of prayer. It just never seemed the place to turn.
As we neared Hakafoth, I sucked in my breath in anticipation. The congregation started off by singing a few Mizrahi songs; but within minutes, we were bowled over by the three musketeers who had launched into a boisterous round of "Daveed Melech Yisrael." I absolutely had to stop the insanity, but I knew I could not stop it alone. For the first time in my life, I stopped facing forward and turned to look behind me.
I was stunned. I suddenly realized the enormous, latent potential that had been there all along. One might say that moment was the awakening of my feminist consciousness. I jumped out of my seat and began marching up and down the aisle of the crowded section. Clapping and singing at the top of my lungs, I roused all the women into a rowdy Mizrahi song: "Simhoona, simhoona besimhath hatorah..."
I chose songs that were easy to follow, with repetitive phrases, and the women jumped right in, as their expressions changed rapidly from boredom to glee. (8) As our section began drowning out the Ashkenazi songs, some of the passive men woke up and joined in with us; and quite soon, we had taken over the synagogue with Mizrahi songs!
The young rabbi started getting agitated. Clearly he wanted to be in control. I marched up from the women's section, crossed the mehisa line, climbed the steps onto the teba, and yelled at him, " "There are at least ten Ashkenazi synagogues down this street alone. If you want to sing Ashkenazi songs, then get out of here and go to one of them. But don't you dare try to bring Ashkenazi songs in here! This is an Iraqi synagogue, and it's the only one we have!" With that, I marched back down the steps and into the women's section.
All hell broke loose, and everyone started yelling at everyone else. Apprently I had brought to the surface tensions that had and growing over the past few years: What direction would the synagogue go in? Would it "adapt" (assimilate) to the "modern" (Ashkenazi) ways, or would it stay pure? There was a definite split in the congregation.
In my experience, Iraqi Jews cannot stand unpleasantness, and they will bend over backwards to avoid it. This situation was no exception. After arguments ensued, the young rabbi and his cohorts began gathering people into a room off to the side of the sanctuary; and people just followed along. The musketeers got them to dance around with the Toroth (9) - which is strictly forbidden by Iraqi practice (10) - while singing Ashkenazi-Israeli songs like "Hava Nagila."
The resistors went home.
I remember seeing one of my favorite old men dancing around with the crowd, gathering people together, trying to make everyone forget that they had disagreed and fought. I was shocked to see him actively participating in the erasure of our tradition; and to this day, I vividly remember his face at that moment.
As I walked with my family through the hubaloo, I had a sinking feeling. People were dancing, but to me it felt like death. As we neared the exit, I knew the resistors had lost and my family probably would not return to the synagogue. We pushed open the door and walked out. After the door closed behind us, it re-opened; a boy younger than I called out, "And don't come back!" Slam! He shut the door again. I started to cry.
Eight years later, I moved to Los Angeles. I avoided going to the synagogue, because I did not look forward to how congregants - especially the rabbi - would respond to my being there. When I finally visited the community, I realized that perhaps I had given them far too much credit: Unable to fathom that a girl could possibly be the source of such commotion, the few men who mentioned the "situation" seemed to think my father was the one who had raised the ruckus, not me.
Offended yet relieved, I did not bother correcting them.
(2) Hazan means cantor. Hacham means scholar. In the Iraqi and other Mizrahi traditions, rabbis were referred to as Hacham "Firstname" instead of Rabbi "Lastname."
(3) Hakafoth is the practice of walking around the teba (footnote #7) seven times. Each time a set of prayers is said, followed by joyous songs.
(4) Sisith is a prayer shawl.
(5) Mehisa is the wall separating men and women. According to Jewish tradition, it must be four-and-a-half feet minimum height. Traditionally, Iraqi and other Mizrahi/Sephardi synagogues separated women and men by seating women in a "gallery," an upstairs section, where women could see everything from above. In Ashkenazi synagogues, women traditionally are seated in the back of the synagogue. Mizrahi/Sephardi synagogues have adopted this practice in the United States.
(6) Bath mouswa is the female passage into Jewish adulthood, which in Mizrahi tradition takes place when a girl turns twelve and a half. Until that age, she is allowed to sit with the men.
(7) Teba is the platform in the middle of the men's section of a Mizrahi/Sephardi synagogue, from which services are led. It is different from the "bima," which is the platform at the front of the synagogue, and where the toroth (footnote #9) are kept in a special closet.
(8)"as their expressions changed rapidly f rom boredom to glee." My experience has been that Mizrahi women have not been taken seriously as preservers of our heritage. As such, we have not been encouraged to participate in prayers. Most women I witnessed in Mizrahi synagogues, including this one, came to socialize with each other but were constantly shushed by the men. This event triggered, perhaps for the first time, people noticing and recognizing the women's section instead of literally silencing it. The women hungrily jumped at the opportunity to be heard; they sprang into life. I remember being very confused when one woman eagerly suggested we sing an Ashkenazi song. Clearly, I thought, she had missed the point entirely. Then I realized that for her, this activity was about women finally outvoicing the men; she did not particularly care what vehicle we used.
(9) Toroth is plural for "Torah."
(10)"strictly forbidden by Iraqi practice." According to Iraqi and other Mizrahi traditions, it is forbidden to dance around with the Torah in order to avoid dropping what is the most holy object for Jews.
Loolwa Khazzoom's work has been published in Bitch, Breaking the Silence, Bridges, Horizons, HUES, NYU Women & Performance Journal, Lilith, Massage, Maxine, Moxie, Response, and Tikkun magazines. Her work is also included On the Fringes: An Anthology of Young Jewish Women (SUNY Press, 1999) and Sex & Single Girls (Seal Press, 1999). Check out www.Loolwa.com.
© 1999 by Loolwa Khazzoom. All rights reserved.
No portion of this article may be copied without author's permission.
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