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March 7, 2002

The First Jewish Governor?

For years he has been a presence in the Jewish community, listening, cajoling and, more than anything else, raising money. And today he is on the verge not only of winning re-election to the governor’s mansion, but the beginnings of a political drive whose ultimate aim is the White House.

No, Gray Davis is not an Anglo marrano, a hidden, closeted Jew. He is, on paper, a Catholic, but his political career has been shaped, and largely financed — as much as any statewide politician including our two Jewish women senators — by the Los Angeles Jewish community.

Where did it all start? Carmen Warshaw, the former Democratic national committeewoman for California and major donor to Jewish causes, claims she first singled out the lean, ambitious young man more than three decades ago. From the beginning, she could see two overwhelming characteristics that define Davis to this day — a driving, cold-blooded ambition and the calculating smarts to achieve it.

The Jewish community, Warshaw suggests, represented the primary vehicle for Davis’ strategy. "His only interest was money," she recalls. "He played golf all the time at Hillcrest. You saw him all the time. He was known as the man who came to cocktails and didn’t stay for dinner."

Davis’ fixation on the Jewish community was a natural one, says one former top aide. As an aide to former Gov. Jerry Brown, Davis had been introduced to many of the major rainmakers of the Democratic Party, a considerable proportion of them Jews from the worlds of real estate, law and entertainment. When he finally won elective office, it was from a heavily Jewish Westside district that normally would send a landsman to Sacramento.

But, Davis made sure not to be stranger to the community. "Gray went to more bar mitzvahs and weddings than most rabbis," recalls this aide. "He didn’t do it because he was Jewish — he isn’t — but because that’s where the money was."

And that’s where much of Davis’ money still is. In fact, much of that money has come to him even though Richard Riordan — a man also popular with many Jews — sought to take him on for governor. But with Riordan dispatched, victim of both his own political naiveté and Davis’ brilliant ad barrage during the recent GOP primary, Davis will not have to fight this fall over Jewish contributors or support.

Against Bill Simon, a devotedly conservative Catholic with few links to the Jewish community, or much of anyone in California, we can expect it will be all Davis, all the time, this November. In boardrooms, country clubs and lavish living rooms across the Southland, Jewish hands will be writing many, many large checks for Davis, and in the process, creating the basis for a prospective presidential candidate.

Yet, how happy should Jews be with the man who is, in large part, their own adopted favorite son? Warshaw, for one, is terrified. Although she backed Davis early in his career, she now, like many other former and even present supporters, sees a man almost entirely consumed with ambition and all too little concerned with actually being a good or just governor. Not exactly the kind of leader the prophets of the Hebrew Bible would recommend.

"Don’t ask me, I’ll be vomiting," she half-joked when asked about how she felt about her former protégé’s rise. "I am the one who put him into politics and I am now scared to death he could become president."

Somewhat less emotional, but no less perceptive, are the views of Brown, the man who first introduced Davis to real power. Now the highly successful mayor of Oakland, Brown sees Davis as the epitome of the ascendancy of "money politics" over the Democratic Party.

Once arguably the party interested in the working class and poor, Brown claims the Democrats, first under Bill Clinton and now Davis, are little more than a mirror image of the Republicans — except for the religious right "Taliban" that Brown sees as increasingly dominating the GOP. "The Democrats have adapted the Republican ideas," Brown told me. "There’s really not much for the Republicans to complain about."

Brown sees Davis’ lack of any core beliefs as reflective of the "ideological pause" that characterizes the current era. Although class, race and environmental problems loom, Davis and other Democrats see no real percentage in tackling them head-on or with imagination. The key to success in politics now? "You have to have the money and not put your foot in your mouth," Brown observes. "It’s pretty simple."

Given his track record, Davis, like Riordan, is unlikely to put his foot where it doesn’t belong. A master of self-control, Davis will continue to gain support and raise gobs of money from unions, the business elite and, as usual, the Jewish community. Some, like Warshaw, may stay away, but Davis, like a hard-driving salesman, will simply find new "friends" willing to back his campaign, perhaps with the vague promise of some kind of influence.

Is this, as they say, good for the Jews? Well, Davis, as governor or maybe president, is likely to listen to Jewish concerns on Israel and other issues. But it also says perhaps something sad about our community that its new "best friend" is a man who is renown for his mastery of the minutiae of campaigning and his relative inattention to performing his job for the interest of the people, as so clearly displayed during last year’s electricity crisis.

This well may be the end of the era in which Jews primarily support those — like the late Pat Brown or Hubert Humphrey — who took seriously the idea that the powerful should hope to help the powerless. Or that government should serve the hardworking middle-class life rather than just well-heeled special interests, government unions or well-connected developers.

Rather than "a light upon the nations," we may be becoming just like the gentiles, only richer and perhaps even more cynical. As we Jews become more entrenched in the establishment, we seem to have lost our passion for both justice and good government, preferring instead the comforting notion that the man in office is someone who we think "owes" us a favor.

The First Jewish Governor? Read More »

Six Months Later

Sept. 11 was a watershed event in American history. Every decent person felt shock and revulsion to the very core. But human nature cannot maintain such a heightened sense of trauma indefinitely — life goes on. Six months later, The Journal interviewed several local Jews and discovered how even now, the Sept. 11 attacks continue to touch their lives, in ways large and small.

Sharon Mendel, a native New Yorker who has lived in Los Angeles “for too long,” said that the attacks “absolutely changed me. It made every moment count more than it had in the past, realizing that life could be taken instantaneously.” Mendel, an actress, had been slowly edging closer to traditional Jewish observance over a period of several years, and eventually became shomer Shabbat last year. But after Sept. 11, she felt added urgency to her spiritual growth.

As a result, she became more consistent in waking up early to daven the morning “Shacahrit” prayers. “You can’t fight evil with evil,” she said. “God needs our prayers, and we need to pray in a meaningful way, not just saying things by rote.” Mendel also tried to live up to other Torah values, such as being more tolerant of other people and greeting people with a pleasant demeanor. And, whereas prior to Sept. 11 a day off from work might have meant taking in a movie, she now tries to use that time to find a Torah class.

“All the other things we worried about are nothing compared to what is happening now,” Mendel added. “You’re defeated if you give up optimism, but you also have to put in the effort. It’s not enough to be a better person, you have to be a better Jew.”

Although they have never met, Tom Eisenstadt, a financial advisor with Merrill Lynch, agrees. The Calabasas-based family man and founding member of The Calabasas Shul felt a shift in priorities after Sept. 11. Some things seemed less important: He slacked off on his previously strict exercise regimen and even, to some extent, his diet.

Eisenstadt admits to being frustrated by this lessening of resolve to exercise, and is trying to get it back. He attributes this in part to increasing stress at work, since his business is affected by the slumping economy. However, like Mendel, he has been more motivated in spiritual matters, and has also been more consistent in davening each morning. “Relationships are all about communication, and the more you communicate the better the relationship,” he says. “Davening is a way to building that relationship with God.”

People could choose to look at Sept. 11 in one of two ways, Eisenstadt said: Either God was involved or He was not. “As Jews, we learn that everything God does is for the good, even if we can’t understand it. Understanding that somewhere, somehow, this was good makes it easier to live with this horrific tragedy.”

Very shortly after Eisenstadt and his wife moved into their new home last October, they hosted a class by Rabbi Avrohom Czapnik, director of the Jewish Learning Exchange, on Jewish responses to Sept. 11. Czapnik, who taught several well-attended classes on the subject, noted, “People wanted understanding, and still do, but I don’t see people wearing Sept. 11 on their sleeves. As Americans it has been hard for us to grasp the concept of pure evil. We always want to understand the other perspective, but the Torah teaches us that there is such a thing as raw evil, as well as objective good. People can hear this now easier than before, that certain things are simply transcendent.”

Czapnik noted that Sept. 11 helped many people appreciate what Israel has been enduring for so long. “Just as Americans don’t want to negotiate with Al Qaeda, they can more easily see why Israel doesn’t want to negotiate with the PLO.”

Many local Jews found that Sept. 11 fostered an even stronger alliance with Israel. Ira Mehlman, a Marina del Rey public relations consultant, ramped up his involvement with the Israel Emergency Alliance (IEA), a media watchdog group that also runs the web site StandWithUs.com. Mehlman, already a member of the IEA, became a board member after Sept. 11, and worked to help organize the Solidarity Walk for Israel held last December, as well as other IEA activities.

“I’m trying to educate myself as best as possible regarding threats to Israel and the U.S.,” Mehlman said. “The alliance tries to confront anti-Israel activism on college campuses and in the media, and we’ve had growing visibility and impact.” Mehlman views his work with the IEA as an important mitzvah. “I find this more meaningful than if I just picked another ritual to practice, even though the rituals have their own value.”

A native New Yorker, Mehlman knows of several people who died in the attacks; they were from his old neighborhood of Neponsit. At one time, his mother worked on the 86th floor of one of the towers. “I think everyone was affected in some way,” he said. Mehlman plans a solidarity visit to Israel over Pesach, where he will meet up with family members, some of whom live in Israel.

Family, and the need to feel closely connected to them, was probably the biggest reaction that Denise Koek, an actress and writer, had after the attacks. Koek said, “I had a realization that I wanted to be with my family more than ever, especially my two children. It just felt more pressing. If after a week or so I don’t hear from my brothers or father, who live out of town, I call them or start e-mailing like crazy.” She also felt more motivated to move ahead in her career, trying, as she said, “to seize the day.”

Koek also stepped up her involvement in her synagogue, Congregation Beth Shalom in Santa Clarita. Before Sept. 11, Koek and her family may have attended services monthly; now it’s at least double that. “It feels like a tonic to go to shul, and to have that sense of community there,” she observed. Koek joined the membership committee, where she helps plan recruitment activities, and also applied her comedy-writing skills for the shul’s Purim program.

Immediately after the attacks, nearly all shuls were packed to capacity, but that ebbed in most cases. However, Koek observed that people seem quicker to come to shul now even after vague threats, such as when the FBI issues its occasional warnings. She also credits the shul’s rabbi, Steven Conn, for being “really attuned to people’s more intense needs for spiritual leadership.” Overall, Koek said, “I’m sad that what happened occurred, but I’m very encouraged that more people acknowledge that there is more to life than material things, and place more emphasis on interacting with your religious community.”

Conn is still trying to nurture the closeness and strength felt so keenly among his congregants after Sept. 11. Conn said, “I do see that people still look at family in a new light, and some people have made life changes that may be subtle, but have important impact. We always think there will be tomorrow, but we don’t have forever to make our lives what we want them to be, and what God wants them to be.”

Similarly, Deborah Goldberger, a “professional volunteer” whose previous career experience included children’s television production and development, business consulting and even translating (from Arabic) for the Department of Defense, found that Sept. 11 reconfirmed her decision to retreat from the professional world in favor of being a stay-at-home mother to her 11-year-old twin daughters. In fact, at the time of the attacks, Goldberger was chaperoning her girls’ class trip to Colonial Williamsburg, Va. Although they couldn’t fly back, they took a bus straight through for nearly 50 hours to return home, just in time for Rosh Hashana.

While trying to reassure the children (and even some of the other chaperones), Goldberger said, “I learned that I was much stronger and more independent than I thought I was. The hardest thing was worrying about being on the road over Rosh Hashana, which was a very distressing thought. All this made it clear that it was right to focus on my family, that I shouldn’t feel torn about not being so involved in the work world.”

Goldberger’s relief at arriving home just before Rosh Hashana was immense. “My Judaism grounds me,” she said, and since that time, she has lit Shabbat candles more often, and taken her family to shul more often, too. “It took a long time to recover from that trip, but it did validate my need for spirituality. It’s okay to reprioritize, and this idea has really stuck.”

Reprioritizing values, and reinforcing others, also felt urgent to Richard Fauman, an observant Jew in the television industry. On the Shabbat immediately after Sept. 11, Fauman was seized by an idea offered in shul by Rabbi Nachum Braverman of Aish HaTorah in Los Angeles. “He said that it was time for us to wake up to our spiritual obligations, and that we need to stay awake to respond in an appropriate and elevated fashion,” Fauman recalled.

Inspired, Fauman followed the rabbi’s advice and found a chevruta, a partner with whom he could study Torah and also foster one another’s personal growth. Fauman did this with a few different people, and would either meet or phone each of them weekly. They exchanged lists of goals in personal, spiritual and even financial areas. They checked on one another’s progress and offered encouragement when needed.

“We all had a sense of urgency and immediacy right after Sept. 11,” Fauman recalled, explaining how he and some other volunteers were able to organize the “Spiritual Responses to Sept. 11” conference in only five weeks, drawing nearly 400 participants as well as renowned speakers from around the country. Unfortunately, Fauman believes that in the past few months, he and others have been “falling back asleep” again.

“My sense is that there has been little practical action in the city as a result [of Sept. 11],” he said, and noted particular disappointment in the Orthodox community, whom he believes were among the most likely to view Sept. 11 as a wake-up call from God for enhanced spiritual development.

“Six months later, I’m fighting to regain that sense of urgency that I had before, even though I’m doing more Jewishly than ever. But I don’t think it’s enough. Each day, though, I add the prayer that Braverman suggested we say during davening: ‘Hashem, please give me the time I need to the make the changes I need to make in my life.'”

Six Months Later Read More »

Never the Same

Danny, 10, can recite the Five Pillars of Islam: faith, prayer, charity, fasting and pilgrimage.

Jeremy, 12, understands the difference between Predator armed drones and Global Hawk surveillance drones; between 500-pound "dumb" gravity bombs and 2,000-pound "smart" precision-guided bombs.

Gabe, 14, knows that Pastun and Dari are the spoken languages of Afghanistan while Pastuns, Uzbeks and Tajiks make up the main ethnic groups.

Zack, 18, can locate most of the "stans" — Afghanistan, Pakistan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan, Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan.

Since Sept. 11, on a practical and comprehensible level, my sons have learned about the religion of Islam, the military capability of the United States, the ethnicity of Afghanistan and the geography of Central Asia.

On an impractical and incomprehensible level, they have learned that their world can change horrifically and irreversibly in a split second.

They have learned that evil exists.

"Your lives will never be the same," I told them on Sept. 11. Even more than Dec. 7, 1941, altered the lives of their grandparents and Nov. 22, 1963, altered the lives of my husband, Larry, and myself.

Some changes happened immediately. I put a halt to Zack’s early decision application to an East Coast school. I forbid visits to theme parks, stadiums and venues with large gatherings. And I replenished and expanded the emergency supplies.

In the following few weeks, in a warranted and comforting burst of patriotism, we adorned our car windows, garage and boys’ bedroom walls with American flags. My younger sons replaced pop singers and athletes with firefighters and police officers as their heroes. And we mourned the victims, crying as we read their encapsulated biographies in The New York Times "Portraits of Grief."

Six months later, our lives are still not the same.

Yes, the fear of immediate danger is less palpable.

Larry and I have let Zack apply to three East Coast colleges. We have allowed Jeremy to visit Magic Mountain and Gabe to visit CityWalk and Century City. We have resumed going out to dinner, though less frequently, and supporting our faltering economy, though less enthusiastically. We have taken down all the flags except for a child-made felt flag that hangs in the front hall.

But I still nervously await the next terrorist attack on United States territory.

I still cry easily, this last time when journalist Daniel Pearl was first kidnapped and then viciously murdered.

And I find myself agreeing with Dr. Chris Giannou, head surgeon of the International Red Cross, who has spent 20 years in war-ravaged countries, including six weeks in Afghanistan last fall. He said, "For me, the world is divided between the bad and the worst, not the good and the bad."

But my sons, at least outwardly, are more optimistic.

"It’s not as if I walk into Dad’s office [on the 40th floor] and think, ‘Oh no, an airplane’s going to fly into the building.’ You can’t worry about that stuff," Gabe says.

"I can’t think about the terrorists all the time. It’s too sad. It’s what Osama wants us to do," Jeremy adds.

Perhaps their youth affords them more resiliency. Or affords them no basis for comparison, unlike their grandparents who witnessed World War II, or Larry and me who lived through the assassinations and upheavals of the late ’60s and ’70s. Or perhaps they’re repressing fear is too painful to surface.

I see their anxiety, however, when they talk about Israel, when they read about yet another suicide bomber in this increasingly volatile and seemingly insolvable conflict.

"It seems so unfair," Zack says, "that I get to plan for college while my Israeli friends have to go into the army."

These friends include our beloved "adopted" son, Ya’ir Cohen, who lived with us two years ago for three months and visited last October, as well as the other Israeli teens from Tichon Chadash High School who participated in Milken Community High School’s Israel Exchange Program.

They also include Gabe’s friends from the A.D. Gordon school in Tel Aviv, who visited Heschel Day School last year as part of The Jewish Federation’s Tel Aviv-Los Angeles Partnership 2000.

My sons’ concerns are heightened by having experienced Sept. 11. By knowing how it feels to have their own country unexpectedly and brutally attacked.

But despite the world situation, which he reads about in detail in the newspapers, Danny is enthusiastically making plans for his birthday party in April.

Jeremy, as Cantor Jay Frailich of University Synagogue says, "is really cooking" as he learns his prayers and aliyot for his bar mitzvah in June.

Gabe is engrossed in rehearsing his lines for Milken’s spring production of "Comedy of Errors," in which he’s playing Dromio of Syracuse.

And Zack is enmeshed in the final semester of his senior year.

Yes, their lives will never be the same. They have permanently lost their naiveté and sense of invincibility. But perhaps, despite the sadness and the uncertainty, I could benefit from their forward-looking attitudes.

As Robert Frost said, "In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on."

Never the Same Read More »

Divided We Stand

One Friday night, I was at a local rabbi’s house for Shabbat dinner, and he said to me: “The Jewish Journal should be a newspaper that unites the different denominations of our community.”

“Rabbi,” I responded, “during this last hour alone I have heard two mentions of excommunication — and that’s within the Orthodox community. In addition, I’m not even certain that the two frum sides of town [Hancock Park and Pico-Robertson] actually get along with each other. So how do you expect one newspaper to bridge the gap between Conservative, Reform, Reconstructionist and Orthodox when there’s so much dissension among those who are alike?”

The rabbi and I left the discussion for another time, but the question lingered with me.

It’s about more than one Jewish newspaper. It’s about our town.

I ran through many parts of it on Sunday while competing in the Los Angeles Marathon. We ran through Pico-Robertson and Fairfax, skimming by Hancock Park. We also ran through different non-Jewish neighborhoods, where kids of all colors slapped our hands, fed us Gatorade and sprayed welcome hoses on us in the shimmering heat. Religious women had a water table out in front of the Anshe Emes Synagogue on Robertson, and a band of Sikhs in white also cheered us on. It got me to thinking — and I had a lot of time to think during the five hours of the marathon — about this new city of mine, Los Angeles. How different it is from New York and Jerusalem, my other hometowns.

Like New York, there is much diversity, but also, between denominations, a muted animosity — or perhaps a distance that would sooner group Orthodox Jews with Orthodox Christians and Reform Jews with human rights activists than with each other.

This week, as we devote a special section to Orthodox Life, Jonathan Rosenblum asks, “What ever happened to Jewish unity?” from a religious perspective (page 32). But the fault lies on all sides. Certain groups do “outreach” to Muslims, to Christians, to everyone but our own community. Others can only identify with those who are like themselves.

It scares me, I guess, having lived for so long in Jerusalem and having seen the terrible rift between the secular and the religious, which left me — a traditionalist — stranded somewhere in the middle. To close that divide, it’s less like building a bridge and more like moving the prehistoric land masses back together after they are already on other sides of the world.

Israel’s religious conflict has made Jews strangers — or enemies — to one another. There are a few organizations that work toward introducing ultra-Orthodox people to secular people to show them that once you know a person as an individual, he or she ceases to become a number.

How many of us can talk of that kind of intermingling in Los Angeles?

Some people say that the Jews living in the Diaspora can teach Israelis how to get along, the way two Jews would here. But I fear that we are coming closer to their divisiveness.

How can the Orthodox accept Reform Jews if the latter are an anathema to the former’s religious practice? And how can a Reconstructionist Jew tolerate an ultra-Orthodox Jew when one has selected to lead a less fundamental lifestyle?

How can one newspaper offer divrei Torah without alienating the young secular Jew and run an Arts story without offending a religious Jew? (Don’t answer that.)

But really, how can we all get along, if by the choices we’ve made to be Orthodox, Conservative, Reform or Reconstructionist we are by definition rejecting the other options?

I recently went back to this rabbi’s house for Purim. Reform, Conservative, Orthodox, they were all there. Perhaps it was the Nahafoch-hu, the world turned upside down as it is in the megillah. “Purim is the holiday where all the differences can be put aside,” the rabbi said at the holiday meal. “We can all share words of the Torah, enjoy the seudah and come together.”

Dialogue, tolerance, diversity — all overused buzzwords in today’s world. But in this community — a patchwork of thousands of individuals, affiliated and unaffiliated — is perhaps something worth looking into before it’s too late.

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