My Story 27

In my experience, unless one is dealing with  politicians, people are usually as nice to us as we are to them.  I have lived in many parts of the United States, and have traveled to many parts of Europe, rarely experiencing antisemitism, even in Eastern Europe during Cold War days. A smile goes a long way. Nearly every nationality, other than the French, are thrilled and flattered if we attempt to speak in their language. (In France, make one mistake in French and you will be spoken to in English). The Arabs in Israel were, until the 1987 Intifada, no exception. I had minored in Arabic in college. But it wasn't "street Arabic". It was the literary language, close to Classical Arabic. The difference could be compared to Shakespearean English, compared to a strong Brooklyn or Bronx accent and dialect. (Fuggetaboutit!) I knew but little colloquial Arabic, but I was fairly fluent in the literary dialect (Nahawi), which Arabs know and love. It is used even today by orators. Most Israeli Jews know some colloquial, but few know how to speak the literary form, let alone to read and write it. Speaking in Nahawi brought out in Arabs huge smiles, as well as invitations to come have a cup of coffee. Once, when I was working in the Beit El Tefillin factory, I was speaking Nahawi to an Arab who was sweeping the floors. He said "I'll bet you can't write it!" "Try me!". He gave me a sentence. I first corrected the grammar, and then wrote it down. His mouth flew open "By G-d! You are an Arab!". I smiled, and took it as a compliment. A coworker, also an American, said to him "He's an Arab like you're a Jew". The Arab quit on the spot, and ran out furious. The boss had to apologize profusely for my coworker. The Arab construction workers at Beit El called me "the Sheikh", and showed me great respect. At the point where I had lost hope of having a home, or even just being able to survive, an Arab plumber, Hussein 'Abd el Qadr, who was working on a neighbor's house, came over to me and introduced himself. He was a decade my junior. He had a pleasant smile, radiating compassion and humility. My Hebrew name is Yaakov, but the Arabs knew me as Ya'aqoub. "Ya'aqoub, I feel very sorry for you. You have been cheated by Jews, Christians and Muslims. I will finish your house for free. Anything I am not qualified to do, I will get you workers...at Arab prices. Any supplies needed, I will get them for you at wholesale." True to his word, he came every day at 6 am, working until his regular job began at 9. After work, he would come back for another two hours. We would talk about religion, politics, family. He was single, because he wanted to first make enough to put his younger siblings, Musa (Moses) and 'Isa (Jesus) through college. He was pious in his own faith, and yet was most respectful of mine. He brought his younger siblings to meet me. Once, when my Mother came for a visit, he came into the house and bowed before her. Whenever he came to the house, if I wasn't home, he would talk to Sima from outside the doorway, averting his eyes out of modesty and respect at all times. He worked on my house for six months until it was completed. We lived in that house for the next eleven years.Others asked him "How come you work for everyone else at high prices, but for Siegel you work for free?" His response? "Ya'aqoub is my friend". On one occasion, one of my neighbors tried to cheat him. He asked me what to do. "Go to the Rav of the community and demand a Din Torah". He did, and he won! After the house was finished, he came back every few weeks, seeing if it needed any maintenance...always for free. Every Sukkot, he would come by and put up our Sukkah, also taking it down after the holiday. I was terribly ashamed when one day I went to the grocery with him. The proprietor kept calling him "Goy" in a derisive tone. On top of that, he was grossly overcharging him. I asked the proprietor the next day about it. "That's how I keep prices down for the Jews, by overcharging the Arabs". I wanted to crawl into a hole. A few years later, I saw Hussein after the Intifada was in full swing. "Ya'aqoub" he said "I'm getting married. I would love for you to come to the wedding. In fact, I would love for you to perform the ceremony. But I realize that neither one of us would come out alive". A few days later, after a terrorist incident, some residents of Beit El began throwing rocks at Arabs. My friend Hussein took one to the head. He recovered, but he never stepped foot in Beit El again. I wondered "Hey...I thought we were the good guys!" I was left to ponder this. At the same time, I was beginning a process of questioning a great deal about the religious establishment in Israel in general, and the Breslov community in particular. My distress in this led me to meet a person who has been, ever since, my guiding light in understanding Judaism, and why it seemed so dysfunctional. More than that, he taught me how to survive spiritually and emotionally. That will be the next part of my story.