Tag Archives: music

Simply Sing

Posted on January 3, 2026 by rachelmankowitz

On the final night of Chanukah, during the communal candle lighting ceremony on Zoom, my rabbi asked us to think about what light we might want to bring into the New Year, and I already had an answer: I want to sing more. I tend to sing alone in my car at this point, but he didn’t specify that the light had to be for other people.

I’ve been thinking about singing more since choir practices over the summer, when I noticed that I was struggling to make it through each session, always running out of air too soon. But I couldn’t figure out how to make myself sing more, when there were so many reasons why I didn’t feel comfortable doing it. And then I started bingeing Glee videos on YouTube, which led the algorithm to send me all kinds of videos about singing, and somewhere along the way I saw an ad for an app called Simply Sing, offering me a one-week free trial, and I decided to try it. To be honest, I expected it to be a dud, but I hoped that it would at least encourage me to sing a little bit each day and start to build a habit.

**This is what the icon looks like on my home page**

I hid in my bedroom and took the fan out of my window for my first practice, just in case someone could hear me. The first thing the app wanted me to do was to find my vocal range. They told me to hum my lowest note, and read something in my regular speaking voice, and shout to get someone’s attention, and once the math was done the app had decided that I was, of course, an alto, which felt judgy. Back when I took voice lessons in college, my teacher told me that I’m a mezzo soprano, with an extension, but that was after a lot of practice, and this was after a couple of shouts and buzzes, so I tried not to feel like I’d fallen too far behind.

The next task was to try a warm up: two minutes of singing the same short phrase over and over, gradually going a step higher each time. It was actually fun, and the female voice telling me what to do was encouraging, so I kept going. She told me to choose a song to learn, and sent me to a list of recommended songs. There were locks next to all of the songs that were above the Basic or Easy levels, but there were still plenty to choose from. I think I started with Every Breath You Take (the Police), or Give Me One Reason (Tracy Chapman), songs that were already familiar. The next thing the app told me to do was to sing the lowest and highest parts of the song, to see if they fit comfortably in my range or needed to be adjusted up or down. I earned points for finding the right key for each song, and then I earned points for reading the lyrics out loud, which was much more embarrassing than I expected it would be; maybe because lyrics rely heavily on their music to make them make sense.

Then it was time to learn the whole song, except, they didn’t show me the music, or break the song into manageable pieces, or coach me through it, they just had a vocal track playing, and the lyrics placed higher and lower on the screen to show their relative pitch. I could go over each song a hundred times if I wanted to, and change the key each time, but I could only earn points for one run-through, and one attempt at singing the song on my own with the vocal track muted. It felt kind of like doing Karaoke, and it bothered me that I didn’t earn more points for practicing more, and it bothered me that I couldn’t see the actual notes (so I could go and play them on a keyboard, at my own pace). The app did grade me on how closely I matched the notes and the rhythm of the song, though, which was something. And the collection of songs was good enough, especially as I earned more points and opened the locks next to more and more of the songs.

I wasn’t learning everything I wanted to learn, but I was practicing at least thirty minutes a day, much more than I would have done on my own, so I decided to sign up for a one-month subscription after the free trial ended. The gamification of the app meant that as I earned more points, I could access new lessons: singing in chest voice, and singing in head voice, correct breathing technique, and pacing, etc. Too quickly, though, I ran out of new lessons to earn with my points, and I finished opening all of the locked songs, and the app stopped counting my points altogether, meaning that the gamification part of the experience was mostly over.

But I still had a new warm up each day, and plenty of songs left to learn, and each day that I was able to get a practice done felt like an accomplishment. I kept putting more and more songs on my wishlist for the future: More Than a Feeling (Boston), The Story (Brandi Carlile), Defying Gravity (from Wicked). I was still closing my bedroom door, and taking my fan out of the window for every session, and I was noticing all kinds of problems with my voice that I couldn’t name, or ignore, but I tried to remind myself that the goal wasn’t to become a professional singer, just to enjoy singing again.

“**I would really enjoy having more chicken treats.”**

In the meantime, I was still bingeing Glee videos on YouTube, hoping to be inspired by the fun they seemed to be having as they sang together, and trying not to compare myself to them, if at all possible. And then my Glee binge extended to watching Lea Michele and Jonathan Groff in Spring Awakening, and then Jonathan Groff and Daniel Radcliffe and Lindsey Mendez in Merrily We Roll Along, and then all of the Glee kids who’d ended up on Broadway (like Darren Criss and Alex Newell and Kevin McHale), not to mention the Broadway stars who had guest starred on Glee (like Idina Menzel and Kristen Chenoweth) and then just Broadway stars in general, like Aaron Tveit and Gavin Creel and Bernadette Peters and Christian Borle and Audra McDonald and on and on and on.

I worried that obsessively listening to amazing singers was going to discourage me too much, but I was still practicing every day, and each day when I opened the app, it made sure to tell me more of the benefits of singing: it raises your endorphins! It improves respiration and circulation! It encourages you to express yourself! It encourages you to sing with other people (fat chance)!

Of course, my old issues kept bubbling up: the competition theme (you need to be the best singer in the world in order to have the right to sing at all); the expert theme (you need to master sight reading and dynamics and vocal placement in order to even begin to practice effectively); the alienation theme (if you don’t fit in with other singers – and I was watching a lot of interviews of performers that made it clear I would not have been their cup of tea – then you have no right to sing); and, the waste of time theme (spending time on this, or anything else, with no hope of earning a living from it, is selfish and stupid).

My brain was swirling with noise, and I couldn’t figure out how to drown it out, but at the same time I was noticing that singing certain songs felt cathartic, even therapeutic, either because the words of the song expressed something I needed to say, or needed to hear, or because the music tapped into places in my voice that I couldn’t find on my own. Singing Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay with Otis Redding, felt like singing with a friend who really knew me. And I thought about an interview I’d seen with Jonathan Groff, where he said that a lot of the roles he’s played have been like therapy for him, helping him work through something that he wasn’t able to work out on his own.

But I was getting more and more frustrated by the limitations of the app, wishing there were more steps in the learning process for each song, and then more steps to help me figure out how to deal with all of the noise in my head. And I knew that I wasn’t ready to seek out live human beings for help, so I went to the app store to see if there might be other singing apps that could offer more support. So far, none of the ones I’ve found has been as good for me as Simply Sing, but I’ll keep looking. And there are always YouTube videos to teach me more breathing exercises and vocal warm ups and vocal techniques. And now I’m seeing ads from all kinds of voice teachers who specialize in posture or mixing chest voice with head voice, or building breath capacity; all things I want to work on, eventually.

These are all tentative steps, but I’m reminding myself that that’s how I started with Hebrew too, and with teaching and writing and therapy. All of the best things, for me, seem to be made of a long series of small, tentative steps, usually without having any idea where those steps will lead. So, I’m doing my best to take it one practice at a time, and I’m looking forward to finding out where these small steps might lead me.

**“I’m not taking one more step, just so you know.”**

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

Yeshiva Girl is about a Jewish teenager on Long Island, named Isabel, though her father calls her Jezebel. Her father has been accused of inappropriate sexual behavior with one of his students, which he denies, but Izzy implicitly believes it’s true. As a result of his problems, her father sends her to a co-ed Orthodox yeshiva for tenth grade, out of the blue, and Izzy and her mother can’t figure out how to prevent it. At Yeshiva, though, Izzy finds that religious people are much more complicated than she had expected. Some, like her father, may use religion as a place to hide, but others search for and find comfort, and community, and even enlightenment. The question is, what will Izzy find?

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My Israel Trip: Shabbat in Israel

Posted on December 13, 2025 by rachelmankowitz

Friday morning, day four of my trip to Israel, I woke up to my friend’s son practicing guitar and singing This Land Was Made for You and Me, because he’s been taking guitar lessons from a relative in the States. His other practice song was Skip to my Lou, and I’m pretty sure I have the same guitar book somewhere.

It was already drizzling, which just reinforced the plan to stay close to home for the day. Our first plan was to go to a local ceremony naming a path in the city after a fallen soldier, but when we got to the school building where the ceremony was taking place, the crowd had already overflowed out of the auditorium, into the lobby and beyond. Reassured that the family would feel the community’s support, we sent our best wishes through neighbors, and walked back to the car, and on the way back across Modiin, my friend showed me the black fabric covering a new street sign that would tell the young man’s story. A large number of the young people in Modiin had served in the army during this war, either as regular army or in reserves, so these ceremonies were, unfortunately, not uncommon.

One of the first things I’d mentioned to my friend when we started planning this trip, was that I wanted to go to a real Israeli supermarket at some point, so after we dropped her husband back at their apartment, we headed out to the local supermarket. The main shopping for the week had already been done, so we didn’t go to the big supermarket down the road, but this one reminded me of the little supermarket in my own neighborhood on Long Island, which happens to carry a lot of Israeli products. The only big differences were that the majority of brand names were written in Hebrew, even if the typestyle and packaging was the same as in the United States, and, next to the frozen chicken and turkey and ground beef, there was also a quarter of a goat. I don’t usually see goat at my supermarket, but maybe I haven’t been looking carefully enough.

We made sure to pick up more of the fake Krembos, since they still didn’t have the real Strauss brand in stock, and then we got a few other staples: eggs, seltzer, crackers, etc., nothing too big because this shopping trip was mostly for research purposes.

I’d either forgotten how outgoing my friend is, or I’d missed a lot, because I was amazed at how many people she seemed to know everywhere we went, and how easily she made conversation with people here and there and everywhere. She kept telling me that her older daughter is the social butterfly of the family, but clearly, she learned it from somewhere.

After bringing the groceries home, our next event on the schedule was a small outdoor concert, part of a free music festival taking place that weekend in Modiin. The concert was billed as “Kabbalat Shabbat,” which is part of the traditional Friday night services, and it has become popular in Israel to bring religious and secular Jews together early on Friday afternoons, to sing together and welcome in Shabbat, before Shabbat officially begins. Doing it early in the day means that you can play instruments, which aren’t allowed in orthodox synagogues on Shabbat. Because of the rain, the concert was relocated to a school gymnasium, and we found seats near the front just as the show was starting. The small band was made up of four young men: a drummer, a guitarist, one guy on multiple woodwinds, and the bandleader, playing a Persian stringed instrument called a Kenchen that looked like a backwards sauté pan, with strings attached.

**(I don’t know these two ladies, but they seemed to be enjoying the music as much as I was)**

**a closer look at a Kenchen, not my picture**

They played a few traditional Kabbalat Shabbat songs from the Friday night service first, songs that you would hear at almost any synagogue around the world, and then they branched out into Israeli songs with religious themes (songs from Chanan Ben Ari, and Akiva, and Meir Ariel), most of which I knew well and could sing along with. It felt surreal to be sitting in a gym in Israel, singing along with an Israeli crowd, and just like that moment in the Carmel Market when everyone sang and danced together, I felt the magic here too. The fact that the whole concert was in Hebrew, including the patter between the songs, might have been alienating a few years ago, but now, with all of the Hebrew classes and obsessive listening to Israeli music, it barely registered that I was in another country.

At the end of the concert, which came way too fast, my friend jumped up to thank the musicians and see if they knew some of the same people as her older son, a drummer and a sound engineer in training, but I hung back, as usual. I’ve always been in awe of musicians, especially since my attempts to learn piano and guitar (and ukulele and recorder) have not been very successful, so the idea of talking directly to these magical people was more than I could manage. I mean, I could travel across the world, and speak a foreign language, but making actual conversation was just pushing it.

When we returned to the apartment, the cleaner was already there helping to get the house ready for Shabbat, and chatting to any and everyone in rapid-fire Hebrew, so I escaped to my room to hide, and/or to get myself ready for Shabbat. I tried to remember everything I’d learned from sleepovers way back when about how to manage in an orthodox house on Shabbat, about which lights to leave on (since you aren’t supposed to turn lights on or off during the holiday), and what to wear, and what to say, but I was sure I’d forgotten some of the rules along the way, and I was anxious and self-conscious and, basically, hiding out seemed like a reasonable choice.

We’d planned to go to Friday night services at the synagogue around the corner, but what with getting the house and ourselves ready, my friend and I missed the Kabbalat Shabbat section of the service, which, given the concert we’d been to that afternoon, worked out just fine.

It had been a long time since I’d been to a synagogue with a mechitza (a divider between the men’s section and the women’s section), and at their shul there were even separate doors to enter the men’s section and women’s sections, and I’m pretty sure I would have walked in the wrong one if I’d been on my own. A lot of the children in the congregation, boys and girls, were sitting with their fathers in the men’s section, but even so, it was hard to find any free seats in the women’s section. At my synagogue, we struggle to get a good crowd on a Friday night, unless there’s a special event going on, but here, on a regular Friday night, the whole town seemed to have shown up to pray, or at least to see and be seen.

The rabbi gave a short talk, in Hebrew, and I was able to understand about 80% of what he said. My friend’s synagogue is filled with olim (immigrants) from English speaking countries, but the rabbi is Israeli, so even if most of the chatting among the congregants is in English, they’re all sufficiently fluent in Hebrew to understand and appreciate what the rabbi was saying. I also noticed that whereas at my synagogue everyone follows the cantor carefully, here they had lay people leading services, and since everyone knew the prayers so well they didn’t bother to sing in unison.

When the service was over, we threaded our way through the sudden crowd, passing a few men with guns on our way out of the synagogue, regular congregants acting as de-facto security guards. It was hard to hear anyone in particular over the hum of neighbors wishing each other a Good Shabbos, but I followed my friend religiously, and was relieved when we found our way out of the crowd for the short walk home in the cool night air.

We had the Israeli equivalent of a traditional Shabbat dinner, with chicken matzo ball soup and challah and grape juice (like we do in the States) and salatim (salads and spreads), very much not like we do it in the States. My friend’s husband, who made most of the salatim, insisted that I try the olive tapenade (I’m not an olive person), and the herring (bad memories of herring in cream sauce from my childhood), but my favorites were the chummus, and the roasted onion dip, and the eggplant. My Mom is allergic to eggplant, so I was reveling in the chance to try every different version of eggplant as a main part of the meal.

We stayed up late chatting, and watching my friend’s youngest daughter practice for her upcoming dance performance, and then run through every TikTok dance she could remember offhand, before going out to see her friends at the local park. There’s a degree of comfort and safety for kids in Israel that just doesn’t exist in New York. I’m sure things are different in different towns, and maybe Modiin is unique, but the idea that my mom would have been comfortable letting me walk over to the park to meet friends at ten o’clock at night, confident that I would be safe, just didn’t compute.

I woke up relatively early the next morning, now that my jet lag was wearing off, but I was relieved that my friend and her daughter didn’t want to go to synagogue for morning services. We hung out in the living room, relaxing, until her husband came back from shul to help set the table for the weekly kiddish. They have a group of friends in their neighborhood who make kiddish together every Saturday after services, with snacks and grape juice and wine, and kibbitzing. The men gathered around the table (aka the food) to discuss American politics, even though only half of them are originally from America, and the women gathered on the couches to discuss just about anything but politics, thank you very much. I felt self-conscious in the one skirt I’d brought with me, but it helped that everyone showed up in various states of rain-soaked-ness, since it had started to pour outside. A bunch of the members of the kiddish group were also invited to (or hosting) the lunch we were going to, so the conversation continued through the short walk over to their neighbor’s house, and then at a long table set up down the center of the dining room, kids at one end and adults at the other. The discussion of politics morphed into a review of popular movies and TV and books, all in English, as we ate all of the delicious food spread out across the table (though the kids hogged the pickles, which was not very nice of them. Harrumph).

One of the topics of discussion was the relatively recent phenomenon among young modern orthodox Jews to get piercings and tattoos. We’d actually had discussions at my own synagogue about the old rumor that you couldn’t get buried in a Jewish cemetery if you had a tattoo or piercing, which turned out to be just a rumor, and we’d even read some of the rabbinic responsa (mostly written by modern orthodox rabbis) that said that as long as you’re not tattooing an image of a foreign god on your arm, you’re ok. I found out that, in Israel, often as a post army celebration, groups of soldiers will go out and get matching tattoos, or a helix, a cuff on the upper part of the ear. One of the men at the table said that his two sons, one finishing regular army service and the other finishing reserve duty, coincidentally both went and got a helix, on the same day, without having told each other ahead of time. My idea of what it meant to be orthodox was changing moment by moment, as I met each new person and realized that the existence of a Jewish State really did make room for a wider variety of religious expression.

I hit my socializing limit somewhere along the way, long before everyone else did (they’re better trained for this sort of thing), but everyone was friendly and welcoming and, given that orthodox Jews don’t watch TV or use the computer or phone on Shabbat, spending the time chatting with friends turned out to be a great way to fill the hours. In Israel, it was as if Shabbat was an essential part of their week, rather than an extra obligation, the way it tends to feel among liberal Jews in the U.S. The sense I got in Modiin, but also from things I’ve heard from secular Israelis, is that Shabbat in Israel is a whole vibe. Transportation is limited throughout the country from Friday night to Saturday night (though I think public transportation is still available in Haifa), but it’s more than just not having anywhere else to go: there’s a basic culture of taking the time to spend with friends and family on Shabbat that’s just taken for granted. Kids come home from the army or national service or college, or just from wherever they’re working and living during the week, to spend time with their parents and visit their friends. It’s something they can rely on and look forward to each week, no matter what else is going on in the world.

Shabbat was over early, given the early sunset this time of year, so we’d made plans to see another friend of ours from high school who lived about thirty minutes away in a more religious area. I was anxious to see her, and self-conscious, worried she’d be annoyed at me for wearing my jeans, or that we’d have nothing in common anymore, but there was no reason for concern, because she was as sweet and bubbly and welcoming as she’d been in high school, and the three of us spent a really nice time going through our old yearbook, reminiscing about all of the people we could remember, and even the ones we couldn’t remember very well at all.

And then, even though it was past my friend’s regular bed time, she decided that we would go to one more free concert. There was a cover band doing classic Israeli rock songs from the 70s and 80s at a small auditorium, and we found seats right up front by the speakers. Every Israeli member of the audience (aka not me) knew all of the songs by heart, and danced and sang along; and even though I only knew one of the songs (Yoya), the band was so good, and the energy was so infectious, that I found myself singing and dancing with everyone else, from the little children to the great grandparents. The songs seemed to capture a time in all of their lives that was simpler, and more hopeful, and the chance to travel back there with them felt like a gift.

It was still raining a little bit by the time we left the concert, but we were buzzing with the joy of the whole thing and barely noticed the outside world. My friend often told me over the years that she felt like there was a big gulf between the people who grew up in Israel and those, like her, who had arrived as adults, because of the musical memories she’d missed out on; but this concert, and the whole trip so far, was making me think that a lot of that gap had begun to fill in over time.

I was exhausted from the long day of socializing, and the singing and the dancing, but also excited for the next day and the next adventure, knowing already that whatever it was would be worth the effort.

Some music to try:

Yoya – https://youtu.be/B5xUiayK-Pc?si=8povEpYqVldozV2Q

Chanan Ben Ari – https://youtu.be/z27MZP_4P_U?si=4slADx6ZjXeUkRgA

Akiva – https://youtu.be/u3n2SLWQsXk?si=UPKkErUg5v3DwaJs

Meir Ariel – https://youtu.be/jnbJk3D5X5Q?si=HcQHAlEWbuV9slwT

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

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Posted in Uncategorized and tagged dogs, Hebrew, Israel, Jewish, memoir, music, religion. Bookmark the permalink.

God as a Metaphor

Posted on February 15, 2025 by rachelmankowitz

A few years ago, Rabbi Toba Spitzer came out with a book called God is Here: Reimagining the Divine, which delves into the metaphors we use to help us discover God. I haven’t finished reading the book, so don’t tell me how it ends, but what has stood out for me so far is how we rely on metaphor to give us a sense of who, what, and how God might be, just like we use metaphors to help us understand emotions and ideas that we can’t describe in any other way. These metaphors are often treated as literal descriptions by many religious people, as if we are watching a play about the world and God is playing all of the roles. And, to be honest, I don’t believe I can know God with any certainty, or that God is literally an anthropomorphic being. But there are metaphors for God that reach me on a deep level, and that seem to help me tap into the “God energy” within myself and/or in the world around me.

The Toba Spitzer book has been sitting on my shelf for a while, filled with sticky notes and other place markers, because it is too rich to read all at once, but it came back to mind recently while I was listening to Ishay Ribo, a religious Israeli singer who has become very popular among religious and secular Israelis, and Jews around the world, for singing popular music that is full of metaphors for God, with lyrics that are often pulled directly from traditional Jewish prayers. It is surprising, and also not surprising, that his music has crossed over into the secular world, among people who would say that they are agnostic at best, and would scoff at the idea of an anthropomorphic God who actually intercedes in our lives. And yet, the music has meaning and power for them too. Why?

I’ve always heard these metaphors for God in Jewish prayer: God as nature – wind, rain, tides, sun, moon, trees. God as warrior. God as provider. God as lover and beloved. God as teacher. God as judge, magistrate, accountant, social worker. God as rock, redeemer, savior. God as breath, spirit, life itself.

But what I realized as I listened to these metaphors as they are used in Ishay Ribo’s songs, is that the metaphor is really about the nature of our relationship with God, rather than a way of describing God him/her/itself. If God is a Shepherd, then we are the wayward flock. If God is a king, then we are the dependent subjects. If God is a mother, we are her children in need of comfort and nurturance and protection. If God is the teacher, we are the students, looking for knowledge and wisdom. If God is the doctor, we are the patients in need of healing. The metaphor for God that we find most meaningful in any instance will depend on how we see ourselves in that moment, and what we are longing for that we can’t find elsewhere.

I decided to do a deep dive into some of the songs, or at least use Google Translate to see what I’ve been singing along to all this time, and I found a lot of familiar metaphors for God. In one of Ishay Ribo’s songs, Tocho Retzuf Ahava (He is filled with love), he says of God: “He never turns a blind eye from the sheep of his pasture,” meaning, we are the wayward sheep longing to have someone keep us safe from harm, and especially from our own mistakes, like a shepherd would do with his flock. In another lyric, he sings, “Even when we’re broken vessels, we are still his precious vessels,” which really resonates for me. Whether we are thinking about God or not, the deep need to feel loved and cherished, especially when we feel broken, is something we all share. And then there’s the magic of God, or the alchemy ascribed to God’s power: “In the future [God] will give glory in exchange for ashes, the oil of joy will replace our grief, a shroud of glory will replace a heavy spirit.” Who doesn’t want to believe that God, or fate, or someone, will eventually step in and make things better. You don’t have to believe in God in order to long for that spark of hope when you’re feeling hopeless.

In his song, LaShuv HaBaita (To Return Home), Ishay Ribo sings: “The time has come to wake up, to leave everything, to overcome, to return home,” and though I know, intellectually, that he is referring to a return to God and Jewish practice, the metaphor of returning home has power for me anyway. And the idea that, “Even if we’ve done something wrong, he forgives and pardons,” feels like a prayer for how the world, or our loved ones, will respond to us. And, “He reaches out a hand to help, and gives, with mercy, the power to correct and fix ourselves and return to him.” I don’t have to believe in an all-powerful God to be comforted by the image of someone who will help me help myself. And I don’t have to see that help as coming from God. I can replace God with friends, teachers, parents, and mentors, in my mind, and be just as comforted.

I watched an interview with Ishay Ribo on YouTube recently, in Hebrew and without subtitles so I may have misunderstood, but the message I took from it was that he knows his music is reaching more than just believers in God and or orthodox Jews in particular, and that that’s intentional. The words he sings are meaningful to him because he’s using the language that comes most naturally to him, but he is expressing universal experiences of doubt, pain, anger, hope, longing, and joy. And if you want to call all of that God, fine, and if not, that’s fine too. To be fair, Ishay Ribo probably wouldn’t say it that way, exactly, but I think he would agree that it’s the connection between human beings that holds so much power in his songs, and in his singing.

If the energy that connects us is God, or just our own energies radiating outward, what does it matter, as long as we are, eventually, connected? These metaphors have lasted millennia and have held power for the people who have used them, because they help us to describe parts of our internal landscape that are otherwise left in shadow. The metaphors allow us to see and feel and talk about states of longing and pain and hope that otherwise are left unspoken, and that is why they are so healing.

It’s true that, at times, when I sing along to these songs, or take part in Jewish prayer services, I will notice a line about God as father or God as Shepherd and roll my eyes a little bit at the idea that God would literally be any or all of these things. But most of the time, I just close my eyes and feel deeply heard, and comforted, and seen. And I’m not alone.

Ishay Ribo and the Solomon Brothers, LaShuv HaBaita in English and Hebrew: https://youtu.be/WZ6HvzFh7js?si=F6AIRcWu1XOf3smL

Some of Ishay Ribo’s songs in Hebrew:

HaLev Sheli: https://youtu.be/6U_5KhaH6IM?si=Hl_wcxj0TVhKrMCR

LaShuv HaBaita: https://youtu.be/Y30pfWIQfoo?si=Ly0Wz1qWrltC5dzY

Tocho Retzuf Ahava: https://youtu.be/fQRgX3ivUKU?si=YcFnd-2El0GIzqpj

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

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Posted in Uncategorized and tagged God, Israel, Jewish, memoir, metaphor, music, religion, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

The Choir

Posted on November 23, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

In my head there is a large choir

full of cacophony

and also harmony, sometimes.

I have all kinds of voices in my choir,

from too high to too low,

from too loud to too quiet,

from chaotic to orderly,

and everything in between.

I’m still not used to singing with my choir.

I don’t know how to train it

or coordinate it

or control it the way it needs.

There is no one conductor.

There is no one composer.

And there is no silence.

But there are moments

that sound beautiful to me.

And there are notes that I am happy to hear,

even just once in my life.

Maybe one day,

soon or in the future,

my choir will be able to create the beauty

and the complexity

and the hope

that lives in my imagination.

That is my prayer.

המקהלה

בָּרֹאשׁ שֶׁלִי יֵשׁ מַקְהֵלָה

מְלֵאָה בְּקָקוֹפוֹנִיָה

וְגָם הַרמוֹנִיָה, לִפְעָמִים.

יֵשׁ לִי כֹּל מִינֵי קוֹלוֹת בָּמַקְהֵלָה שֶׁלִי,

מְגבוֹהוֹת מִדַי לְנְמוּכוֹת מִדַי,

מְחָזָק מִדַי עַד שָׁקֶט מִדַי,

מְכֵּאוֹטִי לְמְסוּדָר,

וְכֹּל מָה שְׁבֵּינֵיהֶם.

עוֹד לֹא הִתרָגָלתִי לָשִׁיר עִם הָמַקְהֵלָה שֶׁלִי.

אַנִי לֹא יוֹדַעַת אֵיך לְהִתאָמֵן אוֹתָה

אוֹ לְתָאֵם אוֹתָה

אוֹ לִשׁלוֹט בָּה כּמוֹ שְׁצָרִיך.

אֵין מְנָצָחָת אָחַת.

אֵין מָלחִינָה אָחָת.

וְאֵין שֶׁקֶט.

אָבָל יֵשׁ רְגָעִים

שְׁנִשׁמָעִים לִי יָפִים.

וְיֵשׁ צלִילִים שְׁטוֹבִים לִי לִשׁמוֹעַ,

אָפִילוּ רָק פָּעָם בָּחַיִים.

אוּלַי יוֹם אֶחָד,

בְּקָרוֹב אוֹ בָּעָתִיד,

הָמָקהֵלָה שֶׁלִי תוּכָל לִיצוֹר אֶת הָיוֹפִי

וְהָמוּרכַּבוּת

וְהָתִקוָוה

שְׁחַי עָכשַׁיו רָק בָּדִמיוֹן שֶׁלִי.

זוֹ הָתפִילָה שֶׁלִי.

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

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Posted in Uncategorized and tagged choir, Hebrew, memoir, music. Bookmark the permalink.

The Dreaded High Holidays

Posted on October 5, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

I hate the high holidays. I hate the focus on repentance, and the large crowds at the synagogue, and all of the standing, and having to dress up, and the depressing Eastern European music, and the endless communal guilt. I would much rather spend the time watching a Father Brown marathon.

But I pushed myself to join the choir anyway (which, at my synagogue, mostly sings during Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur and not much the rest of the year), and each year I push myself to go to as many of the rehearsals as possible, even though I’m tired by 8 pm (which is when choir rehearsals always start). And I push myself to get up early for the morning services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and wear something other than a t-shirt and jeans, and stand and sit and stand for hours. And, I resent it, every year. I especially hate the emphasis on all of the sins we are presumed to have committed over the past year, as if I wasn’t already spending many hours each day combing through my life for my actual sins and trying to correct them.

So, why do I go? Because it’s an obligation; because of FOMO (fear of missing out); because this is the one time each year when I get to see all of the people who rarely come to Friday night services; because I’d be lonely sitting at home knowing everyone else is there.

And, because I love to sing. Music is such a mystery to me, because even when it’s imperfect or depressing, it is still, also, transcendent. It connects me with other people; even with people I might otherwise have nothing in common.

Do I believe, or agree with, every word in every prayer we sing over the high holy days? Not at all. Is it meaningful to me to think of God as a judge or a king, doling out forgiveness for sins I’ve never even committed? Nope. But when those words that mean so very little to me, and even piss me off, are put to music, they are transmogrified into something new and my body becomes one of the instruments producing and receiving and echoing sound. This imperfect body of mine, that feels so much pain and that I feel so self-conscious about, becomes a vessel for transcendent sound for a little while every year, and that only works if my body is in the room with all of the other bodies.

I wish we could all come together for happier occasions, and sing Israeli pop songs, or just tell stories and laugh together, but for some reason, when everyone sat down to decide which holidays were going to be the most important ones on the Jewish calendar, they chose Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur (at least after the destruction of the second temple in 70 CE, before then the most important holidays were Sukkot, Passover and Shavuot, weeklong festivals to celebrate harvests – more about Sukkot next week). So, why did my ancestors decide that the most important days of the year were the ones where we have to pound our chests and asks for forgiveness and beg God for another chance? I have no idea. But most of the Jews who go to synagogue on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, and not once the rest of the year, pay expensive yearly dues for the privilege. And they seem to think it’s worth the cost.

Maybe they’re there for the music too, and how it feels to be in a room full of people singing together, no matter what they happen to be singing. Or maybe they don’t realize that there are (much) happier holidays on the Jewish calendar that they could be celebrating with their congregation. Or maybe my people just really love repentance. It doesn’t matter. The decision has already been made, and I can either be there with them, or stay home alone. So, I go. Every year. And I sing, every year. And I whine and complain and need long naps to recover afterwards every year. And I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

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Posted in Uncategorized and tagged Jewish, memoir, music, rosh hashanah, singing, synagogue, yom kippur. Bookmark the permalink.

I Wrote a Poem in Hebrew

Posted on June 29, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

It started as a song. I was in my car (on the way to yet another doctor’s appointment) and singing harmony along to some of the Israeli songs on my playlist, and I started to think about how I could write a song specifically for an alto (like me) where the harmony line becomes the melody of the song. But I was too busy driving to record what I was singing, and by the time I got to the doctor’s office and tried to record the tune on my phone, I’d forgotten most of it. But while I was in the waiting room, and then waiting again in the exam room, I wrote down some of the lyrics that had come to mind while I was singing, and the words kept coming, all in Hebrew.

By the time I got home from the appointment, I had four or five pages of potential lyrics, but no music to sing them to, and no idea how to get the music back. I decided to keep working on the lyrics anyway, shaping them into verses and a chorus and a bridge, in the hope that the melody would come back to me; but I found myself writing a poem instead, without any strict rhymes or rhythms. And after ten or fifteen drafts, and some help from Google Translate, I ended up with a poem I was happy with, about returning to my online Hebrew classes after a year away.

It took me a while to get up the nerve to send the poem to my current Hebrew teacher and ask for her corrections, though. I felt self-conscious about presuming to write a poem in Hebrew, and embarrassed to share what had turned out to be an ode, and kind of emotional and squishy (AKA not cool).

My teacher made a few corrections to the Hebrew, but mostly she just showered me with praise. She told me how meaningful it was to her, after teaching through the past year in Israel, to see that her work was paying off and reaching people at such a deep level. She also asked if she could send it to some of her friends, who also teach at the school, and I jumped up and down for a while before I could calmly type back, Sure. It took me a few more days to get up the nerve to ask her if I could send the poem to our WhatsApp group, to share it with my classmates, but when I finally sent it I got some very nice responses, and I felt great for a whole minute, maybe even two!

Then, of course, the letdown kicked in and I thought, ugh, I’ll have to keep writing poems in Hebrew to keep getting this much attention, and each poem will have to be better than the one before it or else they’d get bored and, really, over it. Or, maybe I could send the poem to new people, so they could be impressed, and then I wouldn’t have to write a whole new thing. And I thought, Aha! The blog! But, most of my readers are not fluent in Hebrew, so I would have to translate it, but I could also include the Hebrew, so they could be impressed in theory, if not in fact.

And as I started to translate the poem I realized that, except for a few details, this poem could just as easily be about the blogging world, and the kindness and curiosity and love we share here, in this place that doesn’t quite exist in the real world, but is very real, for us.

So, thank you for being such amazing, passionate, and compassionate people, and I hope you like the poem.

Hinei! (Here it is!)

An Ode to Citizen Café Tel Aviv

A year ago, I thought I was done with this,

I thought I’d finished learning Hebrew

After two years in the Zoom rooms.

Maybe, I thought, this is my Hebrew

And it can’t improve anymore.

And so, I closed the door on this world.

But,

I still dreamt about the zoom rooms

That existed outside of space, or

I worried,

That didn’t exist in reality at all.

Those zoom rooms were closed to me for almost a year,

And what a year,

In which the world shattered into many little pieces.

I watched the news and said to myself,

Maybe the whole world is different from what I imagined

And there’s nowhere to go for comfort.

Finally I understood

That I missed the zoom rooms

That exists outside of space or that I’d imagined completely,

But,

I’d lost the key

Or I’d lost the path to the rooms

Just when I needed them the most.

I missed all of the weird sentences,

About the beach and the traffic in Tel Aviv,

And about Ross and Rachel from Friends

And about Beyoncé the queen.

I missed all of the speed dating questions that we answered in the rooms,

And I missed this place where love is in the air,

Love of languages, love of food, love of music and laughter,

Love of the land of Israel and the Jewish people.

And so I decided to return

Even if these rooms only exist in my imagination,

Because I remembered that here everyone believes in this world that we create together.

This world isn’t perfect, I know.

Here everyone speaks Hebrew with a different accent,

And they don’t agree on a lot of things.

One man believes in every word of the Torah, and one doesn’t believe in anything.

One woman believes in world peace, and one thinks it’s impossible.

But,

In these rooms, all that matters to us

Is to learn from each other and to support each other

And to create a different world,

A world filled with kindness and curiosity.

That’s why we’re here

From Barcelona, and New York, and Berlin,

And Tel Aviv, and Jerusalem, and London,

And Argentina, and Toronto, and Arizona

To create a beautiful world together,

With all of our words and all of our love.

And because of this, our world, which exists outside of space, is real

For us and for always.

עוד (או אודה ל)סיטיזן קפה תל אביב

לפני שנה, חשבתי שמיציתי את זה,

חשבתי שסיימתי ללמוד עברית,

אחרי שנתיים בחדרי הזום.

אולי, חשבתי, זאת העברית שלי

והיא לא יכולה להשתפר עוד.

ואז, סגרתי את הדלת לעולם הזה.

אבל,

עדיין חלמתי על חדרי הזום

שהיו קיימים מחוץ לחלל, או

דאגתי,

שלא היו קיימים במציאות בכלל.

חדרי הזום האלה היו סגורים לי כמעט שנה,

ואיזו שנה,

שבה העולם התנפץ להרבה חלקים קטנים.

צפיתי בחדשות ואמרתי לעצמי,

אולי כל העולם שונה ממה שדמיינתי

ואין לאן ללכת לנחמה.

סוף סוף הבנתי

שהתגעגעתי לחדרי הזום

שקיימים מחוץ לחלל, או שדמיינתי לגמרי.

אבל,

פספסתי את המפתח

או פספסתי את הדרך לחדרים,

פשוט כשהכי הייתי צריכה אותם.

התגעגעתי לכל המשפטים המוזרים,

על הים והפקקים בתל אביב,

ועל רוס ורייצ׳ל מחברים,

ועל ביונסה המלכה.

התגעגעתי לכל השאלות הספיד דייטינג שעשינו בחדרים,

והתגעגעתי למקום הזה שבו אהבה נמצאת באוויר,

אהבת שפות, אהבת אוכל, אהבת מוזיקה וצחוקים,

אהבת מדינת ישראל והעם היהודי.

ואז החלטתי לחזור,

אפילו אם החדרים האלה רק קיימים בדמיון שלי,

כי זכרתי שפה כולם מאמינים בעולם הזה שאנחנו יוצרים ביחד.

העולם הזה לא מושלם, אני יודעת.

פה כולם מדברים עברית עם מבטא אחר,

ולא מסכימים על הרבה דברים.

איש אחד מאמין בכל מילה בתורה, ואחד לא מאמין בכלום.

אישה אחת מאמינה בשלום עולמי, ואחת חושבת שזה בלתי אפשרי.

אבל,

בחדרים האלה כל מה שחשוב לנו

זה ללמוד אחד מהשני ולתמוך אחד בשני

ולהמציא עולם אחר,

עולם מלא חסד וסקרנות.

בגלל זה אנחנו פה

מברצלונה, וניו יורק, וברלין,

ותל אביב, ויורשלים, ולונדון,

וארגנטינה, וטורונטו, ואריזונה

ליצור עולם יפה ביחד,

עם כל המילים שלנו, וכל האהבה שלנו.

ובגלל זה העולם שלנו, שקיים מחוץ לחלל, הוא אמיתי

לנו ולתמיד.

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

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Posted in Uncategorized and tagged blogging, Hebrew, Israel, Jewish, memoir, music, poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Listening to Israeli Music in the Car

Posted on May 4, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

When Mom and I bought our Subaru Crosstrek last summer, the car salesman demonstrated how to link an iPhone to the car’s computer in order to answer phone calls hands free. But as soon as Mom’s phone was linked to the car’s computer, a podcast or a phone call or a voice mail came bursting out of the speakers at us, and we had to press every button in the car before we could finally make it stop. And as a result we decided, as we often do, that this latest technological advance was not for us.

But then, a few months ago, when I was listening to music on my phone in the car because I was tired of hearing the same Olivia Rodrigo and Taylor Swift songs on the radio over and over, I noticed that the battery was low and plugged my phone into the car charger, and suddenly my Spotify account was playing over the car’s speakers. And it was wonderful! So now, as soon as I get into the car, I put my phone on the car charger and open my Spotify app and my music fills the whole car instead of just the cup holder next to me.

Of course, I still pay attention to the news, but only when I feel like I have the energy to deal with it because trying to make sense of the different narratives of what’s going on in the Middle East (and here), as reported by different outlets through varying lenses feels like trying to untangle a pile of fishhooks. But listening to Israeli music, with a playlist that has ballooned to over 300 songs, has become my sanctuary. Especially when I’m on my way to school to teach my students, listening to Israeli music instead of news about Israel helps me get into a mindset where I can have hope for the future, so I can be the person I need to be for my students.

Alas, I only have a free Spotify account, which means I can only listen to my playlist on shuffle, and I still have no idea how Spotify decides to shuffle the songs. Luckily, even though my Israeli music playlist is ridiculously long, it is filled with songs I really like, so even if the shuffle decides I need to hear the same song on the drive to and from work, or jumps from one style of music to a very different style of music, it’s all good. And there’s actually something comforting about having the app choose which song to listen to next, because it makes me feel like I’m not really alone in the car; like there’s a tiny DJ in there, somewhere, keeping me company and telling me everything’s going to be alright.

Four songs on a theme:

David Broza - It'll be Alright – Hebrew with English Subtitles https://youtu.be/qtI7h5A9eEQ?si=EHnP_sG13WAKC92E

Yasmin Moellem – It Will Be Good - Hebrew https://youtu.be/qvdQ4mGMVkg?si=8SnxkJslFPMKPUfv

Cafe Shahor Hazak - It Will be Okay – Hebrew https://youtu.be/PQp2a_yunmM?si=KWPCfyJyFLvq0qbU

Lior Narkis – In the end it will be Okay – Hebrew https://youtu.be/SNsBoZLyIAk?si=Q3lf1MrHvXShQdwY

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

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Posted in Uncategorized and tagged Israel, Jewish, memoir, music, news, spotify. Bookmark the permalink.

I Am Not Alone

Posted on March 2, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

               In my adventures through Israeli music I’ve found one song title coming up over and over again: Lo Levad, or, Not alone.

               At first, I thought they must all be covers of the same song, because Israeli music is filled with covers and mash ups and duets, in a way that makes it feel like the whole country is one big Glee club. But when I listened to each recording, I realized that, no, they were all different songs, with different lyrics and musical styles and intentions.

               Since loneliness is a feeling I’m very familiar with, I wanted to understand why Israel in particular would have so many songs on this topic, not just referenced in the lyrics but in the titles themselves. So, I chose three songs that I found particularly powerful, maybe only because they are “my” kind of music, to examine further.

Lo Levad – Jane Bordeaux https://youtu.be/H_gMtQ7BTo4?si=Obq-yjaSAL1Ry2yb

               Jane Bordeaux’s Lo Levad (written by Doron Talmon) was posted on YouTube soon after October 7^th and is set at a kibbutz overrun by Hamas. A lone, burned tree is the first and enduring image of the song, but the roots of the tree are still strong, because of the people who are coming together to remember those they lost, and to rebuild. The melody is sad, but the message of community coming together is hopeful, and that melancholy contrast lingers long after the song is over. It’s not a big, banging rock song, or a cry for help; maybe it’s more like a folk song, the kind of thing you’d sing at a campfire, after a long day of cleaning up or picking clementines, to remind yourself that the effort is worth it. The basic message of Jane Bordeaux’s Lo Levad: some limbs of the tree may have been burned, but the roots are strong and with help the tree will heal and grow again.

Lo Levad – Aviv Alush and Omer Adam with Veteyn Chelkaynu https://youtu.be/EiYoDi7IwFQ?si=vX4tXZO1_EZxLzT-

               The second Lo Levad I chose was posted just before October 7^th this year, and is performed by Aviv Alush and Omer Adam, and written by a collective of artists called Veteyn Chelkaynu, as part of a yearly project leading up to the Jewish high holidays, to inspire secular Israelis to return to religious study in some small way. The message of this Lo Levad is that you can always go home again, by which they mean return to God and to Torah (the Hebrew bible), which is very much in sync with the message of Rosh Hashanah, and the month of Elul that leads up to it. This is my favorite of all of the Lo Levad songs I’ve heard, and did the most to genuinely make me feel less alone each time I heard it, maybe because the idea of prayer and study, as part of a community, actually does resonate for me, a lot; though I wouldn’t limit it to religious study, because in my experience almost any group studying together, or singing together, and willing to acknowledge weakness and the need for comfort, creates this same powerful energy. I also like the contrast of the two voices, one gruff (Aviv Alush, a popular Israeli actor) and one sweet (Omer Adam, maybe the most famous and certainly the most prolific of Israel’s singers), and I like that in both the lyrics and the music, this song champions both crying out for help and reaching out to help someone else; there’s no sense that one role has more value or respect than the other. The basic message of Aviv Alush and Omer Adam’s Lo Levad: life is a difficult journey for everyone, with lots of choices along the way, but you don’t have to go on this journey alone, and you can find your way home, with help.

Lo Levad – Hanan Ben Ari https://youtu.be/6G_1fUcExJY?si=AB3rwHmRzwZDhqB3

               The third Lo Levad I chose is from Hanan Ben Ari (co-written by Roi Chasan), a popular Israeli singer/songwriter who sings a kind of pop/religious hybrid that really seems to crossover well. His Lo Levad, which is actually from seven years ago, is anthemic, built like an uphill climb, both in the music and in the lyrics (or what I understand of them, because the Hebrew here was hard for me in certain places). It’s written in third person, so it has that distance of speaking about someone else’s pain (even though it could be about him, who knows), and there’s a choir that jumps in when the song builds. The basic message of Hanan Ben Ari’s Lo Levad: even if you fall into the dark cavernous pit of loneliness, you can find the light and even the wings to fly.

               Together, all of these songs feel like puzzle pieces in the larger picture of how loneliness feels and how we try to combat it. Loneliness is certainly not unique to Israelis, but maybe their willingness to acknowledge it, and their focus on combatting it in community fits the Israeli ethos in particular. In the United States, where our most insistent value is independence, we have mixed feelings about acknowledging loneliness as a problem. We, maybe, see loneliness as a necessary price for the kind of rugged individualism we are supposed to strive for. But in Israel, where collectivist kibbutzim played such a big role in its beginnings, and mandatory army service brings people together from all walks of life, community is the key to survival.

               The loneliness theme also resonates in the physical isolation that is inherent in where Israel is located in the world, surrounded by Muslim majority countries that have, historically, seen Israel as a cancer that needs to be excised; and it responates with the long history of Jewish wandering that has led to being seen as the other by the majority populations of pretty much every place in the world.

               Wherever the loneliness comes from, though, it’s a relief to have it expressed, in music and in words, in so many ways; just the chance to hear about someone else’s struggle, and their attempts to find comfort, helps me fight off at least the bitterest edges of the loneliness.

               I didn’t include translations for these songs, because I wasn’t happy with my inability to really capture the magic of the words, and because I think it’s the music that is most powerful in these songs. There are, of course, other songs that have helped push away the loneliness, even when loneliness wasn’t even mentioned in the titles:

               Shleimim/Complete is performed by Idan Rafael Haviv (written by Avi Ohayon, Akiva Turgeman, and Matan Dror) and is a gentle love song about the kind of love that grows with every year together. https://youtu.be/kRy0xSsly_o?si=DKlSPPCyykkSRcdU

               Am Echad/One nation is written by Eli Keshet, Ben Tzur, and Omri Sasson and performed by a bunch of different Israeli musicians, and it’s a call for national unity in response to the current war, but also manages to capture the sweetness of coming together, even in hard times. https://youtu.be/u7CeOuIrxBM?si=8dtFFim9SZTnF9Bk

               Im Hayah Lanu Zman/If we had time, performed by Elai Botner and Noam Kleinstein and written by Elai Botner and Oren Jacoby is a re-recording of a song from a movie I never saw, about a different war, but Noam Kleinstein’s voice, even if I never understood the words, cracks me open every time I hear this song. https://youtu.be/mwPAlYxqLqE?si=uXKDfSQDW7xHKIXD

               As usual, I’ve been reading and listening to lots of voices about the war, and I found two people who were especially helpful in explaining the difference between the media coverage of the war in Israel and internationally:

Einat Wilf with Eylon Levy – https://youtu.be/mHZyuposz3I?si=1rR7z-agkbHMt09o

Matti Friedman with Dan Senor – https://youtu.be/hZ3JGq5dxEE?si=I46SXBRex5B1ThRF

               It still feels pretty lonely to be Jewish right now, but all of these resources have helped in different ways, and writing the blog and hearing from my readers and fellow bloggers, helps immensely. I don’t need everyone to see things the same way I do, but I do need to feel like I’m part of the picture, part of the community of voices that are hearing and being heard.

               Thank you for helping me feel less alone.

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

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Posted in Uncategorized and tagged community, Israel, Jewish, loneliness, memoir, music. Bookmark the permalink.

Translating Israeli Music

Posted on February 17, 2024 by rachelmankowitz

I’ve been obsessively listening to Israeli music for a few years now, but the obsession went into overdrive after October 7^th, when I needed to feel a connection to Israel that wasn’t all about the news. And as the months have passed, Israeli musicians have been creating more and more music, and finding new meaning in songs that came out before October 7^th, as performers have crisscrossed their small country singing at soldiers’ last minute weddings, at hospital bedsides, for evacuees from the south and the north of Israel, and really for whoever has needed comfort. David Broza and Hanan Ben Ari and Shiri Maimon and Ishai Ribo and Sarit Hadad and Omer Adam and Keren Peles and Benaia Barabi and so many others have been singing at small parties and huge vigils and everything in between with a generosity and humility that’s hard to imagine in American superstars. It’s as if the whole music industry in Israel has mobilized to try to help people put their feeling into words, and to fight off the isolation of grief.

I wish the outside world could hear what I’m hearing, but because most of the songs are in Hebrew, they just don’t reach across the divide. And, despite listening to all of this music out of a desire to connect, I’ve actually felt even more isolated, because so few people around me are listening to the same music. Even at my synagogue, where the situation in Israel is top of mind, there are very few people who understand enough Hebrew to listen to this music and enjoy it. So, a few weeks ago, I started trying to translate some of the songs into English, in the hopes that I could close some of that divide.

My goal was to try to make the music accessible to people who don’t know Hebrew and for me to understand the songs better myself. I’m certainly not the first person to feel called to do this; there are multiple sites online where amateur translators can upload their translations of songs from other languages (my favorite is lyricstranslate.com).

Some Israeli pop songs have been professionally translated: there’s a popular video on YouTube of Tamir Greenberg on Kochav HaBah singing an English version of Hanan Ben Ari’s Shvurei Lev/The Broken Hearted. And there’s a lovely half English/half Hebrew version of an Ishai Ribo song (with the Solomon Brothers) that manages to capture something of the original magic.

Hanan Ben Ari – Shvurei Lev/Broken Hearts – the original Hebrew - https://youtu.be/z27MZP_4P_U?si=Pbl5l_VobYY3pDop

Tamir Greenberg Singing Hanan Ben Ari’s Shvurei Lev/Broken Hearts - in English - https://youtu.be/Je6LCZH_wF8?si=6mLVIw-G1vnpnDH3

Ishai Ribo &The Solomon Brothers – My Way Back Home – English and Hebrew - https://youtu.be/WZ6HvzFh7js?si=fVRJ2guZL--PlP9e

But more often than not, the English translations are awkward. The problem is that Hebrew has so many internal rhymes and rhythms, and English is so chaotic and free form that you can’t make the songs sound alike. So, when I approached my own translations I didn’t even bother trying to rhyme, and focused instead on capturing the rhythm and the emotion of the original Hebrew, to the best of my ability.

The first song I chose is called Zeh Beseder/It’s Okay and it was a collaboration between an Israeli singer named Benaia Barabi and survivors of the Nova Music festival. It’s written in simple Hebrew, so I didn’t have to spend too much time on Google Translate, and it’s all about survivor’s guilt and needing to heal at your own pace, so it felt pretty universal.

Benaia Barabi and the Nova Singers – Zeh Beseder - https://youtu.be/WlBWOrLqErI?si=jNANaBBvWK4LWMza

Zeh Beseder/It’s Okay – Written and performed by: Benaia Barabi, et al.

(My Translation)

It’s okay that we’re not okay now

It’s okay to sing when it hurts

It’s okay to cry every morning

And even then to choose to rise

It’s okay to not feel normal

It’s okay not to say a word

It’s okay to dance ‘til morning

In a darkness full of hope

It’s easier to hide my face

To keep the pain in for a thousand years

The voices that keep screaming in my head

To pray for those small moments

When life is normal and we start to change

Only for my broken heart, I’ve tried to keep the faith

I want most of all to be together

To never have to be alone

To choose to sing at the top of my voice

And to reach out for your hand

We want most of all to live without fear

It’s okay to laugh just like that

Most of all I want to hug you close

Is it okay for me to love?

Most of all I want to hug you close

It’s okay for me to love

It’s okay to put on make-up and dress well

It’s okay to start to lose direction

Life keeps moving forward

So who am I not to go along?

It’s okay not to find the answer

It’s okay to need to pray for faith

It’s okay to ask a thousand questions

Of whether to be or not to be

It’s easier to hide my face

To keep the pain in for a thousand years

The voices that keep screaming in my head

I want most of all to be together

To never have to be alone

To choose to sing at the top of my voice

And to reach out for your hand

We want most of all to live without fear

It’s okay to laugh just like that

Most of all I want to hug you close

Is it okay for me to love?

The second song I chose is called Habayta, which literally means, “Towards Home,” about wanting the hostages to come home. The performance of the song, by Raviv Kaner, captures everything, even if you don’t understand any of the words, honestly. And if it were a song in English, about Americans being held hostage, it would probably be on American radio 24/7.

Raviv Kaner – HaBayta - https://youtu.be/Kgv7LNME33s?si=msXRuCH4nT_RSgo5

HaBayta/Return Them Home – Written by: Raviv Kaner and Elnatan Shalom

(My translation)

My father’s up, he’s already awake

My mother’s here, her pain just never ends

Mom and Dad go back to sleep again

Maybe it’s Shabbat and not Sunday

Surrounded by the noise and the chaos

There’s nothing left, there’s no point

Return him home to me right this moment

There’s nothing left, there’s no point

Return her home to me right this moment

Return them home

It’s dark now, turn off all the lights

Maybe for a day or two, at least

Because between despair and hope, I dream

When it’s over, I will breathe again

Surrounded by the noise and chaos

There’s nothing left, there’s no point

Return him home to me right this moment

There’s nothing left, there’s no point

Return her home to me right this moment

Return them home

There’s nothing left, there’s no point

Return them home to me right this moment

There’s nothing left, there’s no point

Return them home to me right this moment

Return them home

Maybe, in the end, I’m just doing these translations as a way to spend more time with music I love, but it would be really nice to share it with other people.

Let me know what you think.

Bonus: Two versions of a Jewish prayer (that didn’t need translation) that has become popular for months now, because it asks for the release of captives:

Acheinu Kol Beit Yisrael – With English Subtitles - https://youtu.be/MYXr6wk19rA?si=tEZqQMmv4_LhyVIu

Lior Narkis and Avi Ohayon’s version (my favorite) – https://youtu.be/vYoQpKNt4II?si=LDwqbZrereSKGP73

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

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Posted in Uncategorized and tagged Hebrew, Israel, Jewish, memoir, music, synagogue, translation, writing. Bookmark the permalink.

On the Coverage of the War in Israel and Gaza

Posted on November 4, 2023 by rachelmankowitz

I have been trying to write my thoughts on this for weeks, but I’ve been afraid of getting things wrong, or of bringing down anger from any and all directions. I have a fourteen page draft of a blog post that seems more like a thesis than a personal essay, but I’m not an expert on the history of Israel, or military tactics, or academic jargon, or even anti-Semitism; I care about those things, and am impacted by them, but other people will do a much better job of holding forth on those subjects than I ever could.

What I can write about is how it has felt to watch the news lately, and be on social media, being told by so many people what I should think, or do, or say in the aftermath of the Hamas attack on Israel on October 7^th, a day after the fiftieth anniversary of the Yom Kippur war. I don’t believe that Jews, or Israel, should be immune to criticism; I also don’t believe that Hamas is anything but a terrorist group (calling them a liberation group suggests a real misunderstanding both of their mission and of how they have governed Gaza for the past decade and a half). What I know for myself is that hearing about the massacres on October 7th made me worry about family and friends in Israel, but watching the gradually more toxic responses around the world, and especially on American college campuses, has been frightening. I thought for sure that the chants of “from the river to the sea,” which is a demand for the eradication of the State of Israel and its current population of more than eight million Jews, plus two million non-Jews, would convince people that this pro-Hamas reaction is morally wrong, but that hasn’t happened. I thought it was the norm to recognize the difference between Hamas and Palestinians in general, and that everyone knew the difference between Israelis living within the internationally accepted borders of Israel (like the ones who were massacred and kidnapped), and Jewish settlers in the West Bank, but no. In fact, a lot of the terminology being thrown around about Israel (colonialist, apartheid, genocide) has become mainstream in a way I never expected. Social media is powerful in creating false narratives, and even more successful in advancing partial narratives that are misleading.

An enormous number of Israelis who spent the past year protesting against Benjamin Netanyahu’s far right government and its attempts to peel away layers of democracy are now fighting for their country’s survival, both in the military and in thousands of volunteer efforts to help the survivors from the south, who had to escape Hamas and Islamic Jihad rockets, and evacuees from the north, escaping Hezbollah rockets. I am proud of how quickly Israelis were able to find their way forward, and worried about the choices of the military and the government, and frightened by the lack of critical thinking and journalistic ethics that seem to abound right now when facts would be really helpful. I am proud of the Haredi (ultra-orthodox) Jews in Israel who are joining the army for this war, despite a very contentious law that allows them to avoid military service in favor of study, and I’m angry at some Jewish settlers in the West Bank who think they have a religious right to hurt their Palestinian neighbors.

But I can’t fix any of those things. I cannot vote in Israel, and I can’t call every reporter who takes Hamas’ word without evidence and remind them that that’s just stupid. I can only be here, living my own little life in New York, and sending prayers to my family and friends who really need it right now.

At my synagogue, on Long Island, we’ve spent a lot of time talking about how we find comfort right now, since that’s really all we can control. We’ve had speak ups, to share our grief and confused feelings, and vigils, for the survivors and the dead and the missing and all those on the ground who are still in danger. One of the rabbis from my synagogue joined a group of New York rabbis for a short trip to Israel, to show solidarity and to learn more about what’s going on. I think, right now, many American Jews, because we are further away from the danger and, in most cases, experiencing less direct trauma, are wishing for ways to reach peace. But we, I, have no idea what the military realities are, and what it will take to make Israelis safe again. I refuse to tell Israel what they should do, though, of course, I have questions.

I have a lot of trouble with people who equate the horror of a massacre perpetrated on civilians and a war conducted, or at least trying to be conducted, under the set rules of war.

My focus has been on finding podcasts and articles that can help me understand more of what it feels like to be in Israel right now, so that I can be more empathetic, and to reassure me that Israel is a real place and not this cardboard cutout of evil that often gets portrayed by Pro-Palestinian activists on American college campuses.

Israel Story, a great podcast in English that shares stories from all segments of Israeli society, has been posting short interviews with Israelis in different sectors during the current war. In the past, Israel Story has covered many Palestinian stories with empathy and clarity, humanizing and coloring in details of lives we often don’t get to hear about. The archives are full of those stories, but right now the most powerful of the short interviews I’ve heard was with a father who rescued his teenage son from the music festival in the South of Israel after the massacre had begun. www.israelstory.org/episode/sivan-avnery/ I’ve also been listening to podcasts from a school in Jerusalem called the Shalom Hartman Institute which has done a lot of work bringing together religious and secular, American and Israeli, and finding ways to have difficult conversations that are productive and even inspiring. I also watched a webinar interview with Yehuda Kurtzer, the president of the Institute in North America, that addressed what it feels like in Israel right now, and how liberal American Jews are dealing with the current news environment. https://youtu.be/Glia_tSZqmo?si=g3Fr8T4XR_D7Qkwk

I go to the Forward and the Times of Israel and the Atlantic for articles that help me understand the issues involved. Here are links to two of the many articles that I’ve found helpful: https://blogs.timesofisrael.com/why-is-israel-being-blamed-for-the-hamas-massacre/

https://www.theatlantic.com/ideas/archive/2023/10/gaza-hospital-explosion-misinformation-reporting/675719/?utm_source=copy-link&utm_medium=social&utm_campaign=share

I go to Kveller and Nosher and My Jewish Learning for a break from the news and a chance to remember that there is still Jewish joy and silliness, and comfort food, and so much to learn about being Jewish that has nothing to do with politics or war.

But most of all I go to music. I have a ridiculously long Israeli music playlist on Spotify filled with music from Ishai Ribo and Hanan Ben Ari and Yuval Dayan and Keren Peles and Jane Bordeaux and Ofra Haza and Arik Einstein and David Broza and Hadag Nachash and Hatikva 6, and I keep finding more musicians and more music to remind me that there is more to Israel than this war.

Hanan Ben Ari – https://youtu.be/z27MZP_4P_U?si=uu7wqn1pEn6cRdd8

Ishai Ribo – https://youtu.be/7mmu6EzLZfM?si=egySHSIHEU0ckn7t

Jane Bordeaux – https://youtu.be/5t59s1sa1oc?si=o2XozKDDdpCiaSFA

Yuval Dayan – https://youtu.be/V4qsi4V-NFY?si=FqlWyWA40AIKhBYA

So that’s where I’m at right now. I’m still trying to write out my thoughts on the war itself, and the history that led to it, mostly for my own clarification, but the rest of the time I’m taking a lot of deep breaths, and listening to voices across the spectrum, when I’m up to it, and listening to music when I’m not.

I wish everyone Besorot Tovot, good news to come, and comfort and understanding until that time comes.

If you haven’t had a chance yet, please check out my Young Adult novel, Yeshiva Girl, on Amazon. And if you feel called to write a review of the book, on Amazon, or anywhere else, I’d be honored.

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Posted in Uncategorized and tagged dogs, Israel, Jewish, memoir, music, news, war. Bookmark the permalink.

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