Kiev Shock, Part Shabbos

As soon as I discovered that I was going to be spending the next two years in Ukraine, researching and searching out the country’s Jewish community trickled to the top of my priority list. The son of a Rabbi, the product of a day school education, a young Jew who constnatly feels the weight of his people on his shoulders, the loneliness I would feel living, yet again, in a graveyard of my ancestors---a confluence of factors led me to believe that finding a community was important to my sanity, vital to my success.

I was put in contact with the chief Rabbi of Ukraine, Isaac Bleich. Rabbi Bleich was out of the country when I first arrived, but through a variety of contacts I was able to touch base with his assistant Rabbi at his synagogue. I was eager to go. Living in my Ukranian village, communication has been difficult, with only a handful of Americans and a splattering of Ukranians who spoke english. Sure, my Ukranian was improving. But all the same, my references to the spiritual audacity of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel were falling on deaf ears, and I knew I needed a solid dose of Yiddishkeit.

Unfortunately, Peace Corps regulations stipulate that we arent allowed to enter Kiev until 3 or 4 weeks into our program, and only after we first enter the city as a group, with our Language Teacher. We went on a thursday. The next day, Friday night, I decided to attend Shabbat services.

When I first told my host mother, Natalia, about my decision, she was incredibly supportive. In fact, she was going to be working in Kiev that night, and she also grew up about seven blocks away from the synagogue. She will take me there, she told me. She will make sure I get there safe.

When I awoke that morning, I gathered all my things, as I would be heading to the trian straight from school. Papers? check. Secret money pouch strapped around my waist? check. Phone on silent? check. My TzitTzit, a Jewish ceremonial garb to worn at all times as a reminder of the 613 commandments? check mate.

A TzitTzit resembles an undershirt, except it is sleeveless, and instead of a waistband at the bottom, it instead has four knotted strings protruding from every corner. The number of knots on the TzitTzit numbers 613, a reminder of who I am and what I am supposed to be doing. The irony, of course, is that never in my life (save, perhaps, a brief experimentation in middle school) have I worn one under my every day clothes. In fact, I only purchased my very own for the first time last December in Israel. But since arriving in Ukraine, I’ve worn my every Shabbat, without fail, from Sundown Friday to Sundown Saturday. It helps.

Natalia and I got on the train, and about ten minutes into the ride it became very crowded. Soon after, I felt Natalia flick my ear, and then point to an older woman who was standing, and then smile. Ya Rezoomeeyoo. I understand. I stood up, and gave my seat to the woman. Natalia was pleased.

After arriving in Kiev, we took a tram to the synagogue’s district, which coincided with a trip down Natalia’s memory lane. As we traversed the blocks of this much older part of town, Natalia nostalgically pointed out the landmarks of her life.

Mi Tato Pratzuvav u tze bazari. My father worked in this market.

Moya Mama Pratzuvala tut. Boov Mahazin. My mother worked here. It used to be a school.

Moya Shkola. My School.

Moya Doma. My home.

After our stroll we found ourselves face to face with the synagogue. She asked me if I had someone I could call. How could I explain to her that no one here would have their cell phones on them? We approached the security guard, and this was pretty much a lost cause. I rattled of the names of the Rabbis I knew, and he confirmed that he knew them, as well. After an awkward thirty seconds of pretty much realizing neither of us had any clue of what was going on, the security guard led us into the courtyard. Upon encountering a man with a Kippah, a head covering, I made my move.

Slicha. Ani yehoodee. V’ani Rotzeh Lehitpallel. In my beast Hebrew, I told him I was Jew and that I wanted to pray.

Tov Moed. Very good. Our first obstacle was crossed, and I was ready to say my farewell to Natalia when suddenly she said to him, in Ukranian, “you will make sure he gets on the train, yes?”

To which my newfound Jewish friend replied, “He can’t get on the train. Its shabbos.”

I almost burst out laughing at the massiveness of the cultural misunderstanding of which I lay smack in the middle. here is Natalia, unfamiliar with Jewish customs, who only wants me to go home safe and who knows I cannot stay over in Kiev overnight. Here is a pious Jew, who knows the restrictions of travel on the Shabbos and is well versed in Talmudic Law but for whom the Peace Corps’ rules and regulations is as foreign to him and Halacha, or Jewish law, is to Natalia. Of course I held the key to this conversation while missing a very important component, that is to say, the ability to speak Ukranian.

I turned to Natalia. Boo-de Dobre. It will be fine.

I turned to the Jew. Ein Lee bechina. Ani tsarich lachzor habayta. I don’t have a choice, I must return home.

The Jew led me inside the synagogue, and soon his moniker became moot for I was introduced to a whole host of Jews, a new group of friends, my brothers, my Mishpacha, my family. There was Yisroel Dovid, born and raised in Kiev and pretty much the only one of the bunch who spoke any Ukranian (Russian was the predominant tongue, after Hebrew). There was Ya’kov, an Israeli Sabra, handsome and dark skinned and teaching youngsters at the local Yeshiva. There were my three Belrussian friends, whose names escape me, but who were incredibly inquisitive about whether I knew how they could move to America.

The sanctuary was one of the more traditional ones I had ever seen. The woman’s gallery was not only up top, but was secluded from view by a quite intense Mechitzah, or separation barrier. I could only barely make out the forms of the women up above.

The service was traditional, as well, but although I am quite liberal in ideology I have always somewhat relished Orthodox prayers. The consistency of the liturgy I have always found comforting, the emotion of its members enervating, the harmious disharmony of the voices a paradox that is both unexplainable and incredibly clear to any who have experienced its wonder.

Some time around my second week in Ukraine, I started praying. I would say the Shema, the Jewish affirmation of faith and of God’s oneness, three times daily. I would spout out random prayers at possibly incorrect times, unable to reign in spurts of inspiration. But Jews are not meant to pray alone; the Talmud commands us to pray in groups of ten, to be with the community, to be together. The Talmud was right. Prayer is an individual conversation between you and God, but it is so much better with your community at your side. It was nice to pray with my people, for my people, for all people.

After services, my new friends insisted I join them for the after Shabbat meal, where the general consensus to my story was shock. You came FROM America? TO Ukraine? You speak UKRANIAN??? You LIVE IN A VILLAGE???? YOUR BATHROOM IS OUTSIDE?????????????????? These are a group of boys who understand me in ways other Ukranians never will, my fellow Americans never can. They are my Jews, my brethren, we share a heritage and a history and a burden. But although they welcomed me, I was an alien in their midst.

At the same time, while they had trouble understanding me, they seemed, for lack of a better word, impressed. Impressed I would leave home. Impressed I would live in a village. Impressed I wanted to Daven, to pray, so badly. To be honest, at that time, I felt impressive.

Around nine o’clock, I told the group I had to leave. I had to catch a train back home. They tried to convince me to stay, but I could not. I had to go. They understood, and Yisroel Dovid and another Yeshiva Bocher, another pious Jew, walked me to the nearest metro. Be careful with your Kippah, they said. Be careful as a Jew, they nodded. Be careful to come back to us. I will, I promised. I will.

Two weeks later, this past Friday night I fullfilled my promise. Services started late this evening, because Rabbi Laub, the former Chief Ashkenazic Rabbi of Israel, was visiting the Ba’al Shem Tov’s grave (yet another analogy that would be lost on anyone within a twenty mile radius of my village.) Yet again, my experience was wonderful. I prayed with my brethren. My soul was uplifted, my spirit was nourished. It had been a tough stretch of time, and I was glad to be there, to be a Jew.

At the end of the service, Yakov and Yisroel Dovid and Gershom and the Belarussians and even Rabbi Bleich who was finally in town all urged me to stay for dinner. I told them I could not. it was late, and I had to catch the train home. I am sorry, I told them.

I could tell they were disappointed, and a little confused. Who is this Jew, who seems to desire a life of religiosity and yet desecrates God’s Sabbath? Who is this Jew, who travels an hour and a half each way for an hour and a half worship service? Why is he here? What exactly is his purpose, his goal? What is he searching for?

Then again, perhaps these were just the questions I was asking myself, the conundrums racking my brain as I rode home on the train. I was sad I could not stay longer. Yet I had no choice. I was doing something better, something that, in some way, was as Jewish as I could be. Wasn’t it?

At some point in the ride, I asked a fellow passenger how many stops it was until my town. He replied, and about thirty seconds later a guy about my age approached me and said he was headed towards that town, as well. His name was Vlady, adn he worked at a factory in Kiev. He soon revealed that he was trying to learn English, because if he did he could get a promotion at work, and then he could move out of his parents place get a house, and maybe even start a family...

I gave him my number, and we made plans to meet later in the week. As we parted ways on our walk home, I felt the joy of Shabbos. Perhaps I was using electricity and perhaps I wasn’t fulfilling all 613 commandments my Tzittzit beckoned me to follow, but I still felt right.

Jewish teachings proclaim that we, as a people, have an obligation to be a light to the nations. I’ve always wondered how we could do that if we were all sequestered in the same place. I feel very Jewish here, in my Ukranian village. Perhaps thats because while my spark may not be as bright as other, more Pious, Jews, my environment seems a little darker, and my little glimmer has the chance to cast a larger light.