August 24, 2022

I couldn’t help myself. On my first day of school in America, I snuck into my first grade classroom during recess at Horace Mann School in Beverly Hills and, little by little, began pulling off a giant sticker of a teddy bear from the wall. But when I noticed there was nothing beneath the sticker (and that I was pulling off a sizable amount of paint), I stopped and quickly tried to repair the damage. When the sticker wouldn’t adhere back to the wall, I panicked, pulled a wad of gum from my mouth and used it as temporary glue. Then, the bell rang and dozens of eager first graders walked back into class.  

Why had I suddenly turned into an elementary school vandal in the very country that had saved me by granting my family and I protected refugee asylum? It was simple: That morning, when I entered my adorable new classroom, I was astonished to find giant stickers of teddy bears, rather than ominous portraits of national leaders, on the walls. 

Back in post-revolutionary Iran, I was accustomed to huge, terrifying pictures of the country’s Islamist leader, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, in my classroom. You know, the same antisemitic, violence-preaching mastermind of the 1979 Iranian Revolution who, in the late eighties, infamously issued the assassination fatwa against author Salman Rushdie, complete with a $3 million reward.

Once in America, I still had a hard time believing that a classroom was a safe place, especially given that I had suffered physical abuse from teachers and administrators back in Tehran.

Once in America, I still had a hard time believing that a classroom was a safe place, especially given that I had suffered physical abuse from teachers and administrators back in Tehran. That probably explains why I didn’t trust that teddy bear wall decor in Mrs. Sadlier’s first grade classroom in Beverly Hills. 

Something was wrong. That bear must have been covering a portrait of someone sinister. Was it “President Boosh,” as my mother called him in her Persian accent? I probably should mention that it was September 1989 and we had only arrived in America three months prior. 

That first day of school, I must have been the most distrusting, cynical first-grader Mrs. Sadlier had ever met; I even rejected a charming bag of something I later learned was called “gummy bears” that she gently offered because I worried the woman was trying to poison me. 

And one day, when I accidentally lost my way in the large elementary school corridor after needing to use the restroom and re-entered her class after 20 minutes, I was prepared for Mrs. Sadlier to lower the boom. That meant that I expected her to order me to put out my hand, palm-side-up, so that she could mercilessly slam a wooden ruler against it, as I had often experienced back in Iran. But as I inched my way into the classroom, Mrs. Sadlier simply walked up to me, spoke something in English that I couldn’t possibly comprehend, and proceeded to offer me yet another small bag of gummy bears. 

What kind of a teacher was this, who rewarded tardiness with gelatinous candy? And more importantly, what kind of a country was this “Amreeca,” as my father called it?

As the days and weeks progressed, I developed a small obsession with Mrs. Sadlier based wholly on wondrous disbelief that a teacher could be kind to me. Plus, I adored her big, gray hairdo, uniquely enthusiastic voice and best of all, her inimitable perfume, which she wore every day. I never did discover the name of that perfume, but I know I’ll never forget its scent. 

Still, there were days when I cursed being in Mrs. Sadlier’s class because I just couldn’t keep up with the American-born kids and their fluent English, Guess jeans and fabulous, neon-colored Lisa Stanley-designed homework folders. One particularly awful morning, I tried my luck at Persian-to-English telepathy when I sensed that Mrs. Sadlier was going to call on me to answer a question in English that I didn’t understand; I actually attempted to send her a telepathic message that begged her to call on someone else, because I was so overwhelmed at the sight of four letters she had written on the chalkboard: “A-S-I-A.”

Naturally, given my luck, she called on me. 

I was mortified at the sight of a word with so many vowels. Ironically, it was the name of the continent I had recently escaped. 

But then something amazing happened: Mrs. Sadlier asked me to draw what I later understood to be an animal from that continent. She pointed to a picture of a large, majestic tiger in a book. Then she pointed to me, smiled and said, “You.”

That was my first moment of redemption in an American classroom. And if this leaves you cynically shaking your head, that’s truly a sad testament to the wokeism and inappropriate politicization of classrooms across this wonderful country today. 

The truth is that when I first entered this country, I felt so small and meek, because I understood reality: To be a penniless child refugee who didn’t even speak English in Beverly Hills, no less, was a nearly insurmountable challenge. In fact, it was an all-out liability. But there was Mrs. Sadlier, who knelt down beside me and saw within me a tiger, when all I saw within myself was a mouse.

I’ve been blessed with many life-changing educators in America, but in hindsight, my first grade teacher may have been the most important educator of my life.

I’ve been blessed with many life-changing educators in America, but in hindsight, my first grade teacher may have been the most important educator of my life. Let’s face it: I was so traumatized and distrusting when I began school in this country that the first teacher to whom I was assigned could have really broken me. Or, in the case of Mrs. Sadlier, truly redeemed me. 

My eternal gratitude to my own teachers over the years motivated me to jump at the chance to compile this week’s cover story, which asks community leaders to share memories of a particular teacher that shaped their lives. But my loving obsession — yes, I was slightly obsessed — with so many of my teachers in America has also inspired me to devote a series of columns to these wonderful educators. This column is a love letter to Mrs. Sadlier and my first grade classroom; future columns will be devoted to other individual teachers and grade levels. 

Thanks to Mrs. Sadlier (and a healthy, daily dose of ESL, also known as “English as Second Language” classes during schooltime), I grew more fluent in English as each day passed. And then, one December afternoon, as I sat in ESL and watched a fellow Iranian first grader enjoy the taste of his snow-white Elmer’s glue paste, I had an epiphany. When ESL ended, I snagged the bottle of paste and re-entered Mrs. Sadlier’s class. 

The meek mouse that had marred my self-perception was gone. I may not quite have morphed into a tiger yet, but I understood my own potential. And I trusted and loved Mrs. Sadlier enough to rectify my original sin. 

When Mrs. Sadlier dismissed the students for the day and left the class herself, I stealthily re-entered the classroom before the custodian locked it and walked straight up to the giant teddy bear sticker I had tried to peel back months earlier. I pulled off my wad of gum, opened the bottle of Elmer’s paste and applied it to the back of the sticker with my fingers. I then adhered that smiling teddy bear back to the wall, comforted by the realization that no one was out to get me.

The next morning, I greeted Mrs. Sadlier in English and, after reading all of the vowels on the chalkboard correctly, happily accepted a bag of colorful gummy bears.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning weekly columnist and an LA-based writer, speaker and civic action activist. Follow her on Twitter @TabbyRefael

Last November my husband, Jeff, mailed a payment to one of his vendors. We soon learned that the check had been pinched in the mail and cashed at a local bank. Jeff sent another payment through Zelle, and we no longer send any checks in the mail.

To our surprise, our bank, “Bank A,” didn’t refund the stolen money—more than $2,600.00. In contrast, they had been very good about covering any losses from a compromised credit card. They now claimed they could do nothing until the bank that had cashed the check did their own investigation, which might take up to ninety days. This seemed outrageous, but we had our lives to live. We waited.

The months ticked by. Fall turned to winter; winter turned to spring; spring burst into summer. Jeff’s repeated inquiries with Bank A over the phone and in person yielded a big fat nothing. Instead, they continued to point the finger at “Bank B,” which was clearly flummoxed by the intricacies of this deeply complex “investigation.” Promises by Bank A to escalate the matter were so much dust in the wind. By the way, these two banks are among the largest in the country, each with trillions in assets. I was reminded of the famous government argument to bail out large corporations during the 2009 recession, because some companies were just “too big to fail.” Now I began to wonder, perhaps some companies were just too big to succeed.

Now, older and I hope wiser, I chose not to let the bank saga rob me of my menuchat hanefesh—my emotional tranquility. It’s just too valuable. In a way, I felt this situation was a test.

After nine months, I gave myself permission to become angry. I have never reacted well to situations where I am ignored, stonewalled, dismissed, patronized, or otherwise given the bum’s rush. In cases like this over the years, I’d raise my voice and speak very harshly, enjoying my ability to rake someone over the coals but also knowing that anger is a really bad middah (character trait) and that I needed to tone it down. Now, older and I hope wiser, I chose not to let the bank saga rob me of my menuchat hanefesh—my emotional tranquility. It’s just too valuable. In a way, I felt this situation was a test.

Still, we had banked with Bank A for more than twenty years, and it was time to push harder after nearly a year of polite but pointless inquiries. Just short of a “make my day” mindset, I strode into a local branch, metaphorical guns blazing. I demanded to speak to the manager, who came out from her office, looking alarmed. She invited me to sit down in an outer cubicle, clearly not wanting to be locked up with an unknown and possibly dangerous customer in her private office. Through nearly gritted teeth I said, “I’m not leaving until I know you have done something to help me with this case. The bank’s behavior has been appalling.” My anger was real, but I watched my tone. It wasn’t easy. 

After hearing me out, she reached “Mary” from the corporate office. Mary assured me that this was now marked an URGENT situation, and with satisfaction, I jotted down my newly issued case number, as well as Mary’s phone number and extension. Mary invited me to call if I needed any further help and promised I’d hear from someone within a week. 

I did. Another lackey from corporate called singing the same chorus: they could do nothing without hearing from Bank B. This was so insulting that I hung up on her. Yes, that was rude and I shouldn’t have done it. Following that, Bank A sent us a letter saying that if Bank B didn’t conclude their investigation within another ninety days, they would close our case and we would not recover our money. Say what? So much for the URGENT tag on the file folder. I left three messages with Mary. She never called back.  

I decided to explore possible legal remedies. This was no longer about the money; it was about my refusal to let this King Kong of a financial institution treat us so shabbily. Fortunately, in my research I learned about the Comptroller of the Currency, a government agency that oversees the nation’s banks, where I could file formal complaints. I loved the threatening-sounding name of the agency, went online, and got busy writing my carefully documented complaints against each bank. A friend of mine who is a local business attorney helpfully showed me that on page eighteen of their own checking account customer agreement, Bank A was violating their implied promise to protect clients in a circumstance like this. This was duly noted in my complaint. A few days after filing, my complaint against Bank B was rejected, as we were not their customers (and never, ever will be). But—voila! Within a few days, Bank A bolted awake from their customer service coma, suddenly dancing as fast as if someone were aiming a six-shooter at their Ferragamo loafers. We received a new letter from them, sourly announcing the return of our stolen funds. They offered no apology for their lack of responsiveness or our inconvenience.

At long last. At the point of a government gun.

We’ve all faced situations like this, where we as individuals are stopped by an Iron Curtain of a soulless bureaucracy (large or small), one that refuses to listen to us, refuses to use common sense or to right a wrong. We feel demeaned when we are treated as if we don’t exist or don’t count. And when we have been loyal customers for many years, this treatment only adds insult to injury. 

I believe in fighting the good fight, in forcing people to be accountable, and I encourage others to take reasonable measures toward that end. But as I’ve learned from long experience, while I cannot control any institution’s inept or crooked behavior, I can control how much I’ll allow it to leach from my menuchat hanefesh. That belongs to me and will always be preciously guarded.

Judy Gruen’s most recent book is The Skeptic and the Rabbi: Falling in Love with Faith.

There’s an old joke about two guys on a camping trip who see a bear heading in their direction. The first guy starts to panic, but the second guy calmly begins to lace up his sneakers.

First guy: “Are you crazy? You can’t outrun that bear.”

Second guy: “No, but I can outrun you.”

The point is that everything is relative. 

In a week during which Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas once again attempted to minimize the horrors of the Holocaust, we were reminded that even the so-called “moderates” in the Palestinian leadership are not that moderate. It’s all relative.

His shameless insults reminded us that the path to peace is far more complicated than either the Abraham Accord advocates or J-Streeters would have us believe.

When Gaza erupted in violence earlier this month, we saw that despite all the problems with Hamas, they are still not as radical as Islamic Jihad. Over years of fitful peace negotiations in the region, we have accepted that Abbas is more pragmatic than Hamas’ leaders. And last week, during Abbas’ news conference with German Chancellor Olaf Scholz, we re-learned an old lesson that in the Middle East, the most reasonable leaders aren’t very reasonable at all.

Abbas, who took over for the less moderate Yasser Arafat in 2005 and has cancelled presidential elections for the past thirteen years in order to remain in office, has been attempting to diminish the import and impact of the Holocaust for his entire adult life.

He wrote his doctoral thesis on the premise of a partnership between Zionists and Nazis and arguing that the number of Jews who perished in the Holocaust was vastly overblown. Over the years, he has repeatedly made the case that “only” a few hundred thousand Jews were killed and that the six million figure was concocted for public relations purposes. Just four years ago, Abbas claimed that Jews in Europe were massacred for centuries because of their “social role related to usury and banks.”

Such is the state of moderation in the Middle East.

Scholz did not exactly cover himself with glory, remaining silent through the remainder of the news conference after Abbas’ slurs and then shaking his hand afterward before eventually criticizing Abbas several hours later. He has been condemned in Germany and abroad for not speaking out more quickly. The fact that German law actually forbids Holocaust denial heightens Scholz’s embarrassment even further.

Yet the German leader’s reaction underscores the tenuous nature of Israel’s relationships with many European countries, and reinforces the importance of strengthening ties with its Arab neighbors. It also reminds us of the scope of the challenge that those of us who want to achieve peace in the Middle East still face. Israel’s improved relationships in the region certainly provides greater security for its people. But while praise for these efforts is entirely justified, Abbas’ hate-filled remarks are a testament to the obstacles to peace that still lie ahead.

In the three-dimensional chess game that is Middle Eastern geopolitics, other events occurred last week that could have a greater impact on Israel’s future than Abbas’ insults. While the most “reasonable” of Palestinian leaders was blaspheming the memories of six million dead Jews, Iranian negotiators were withdrawing a key demand from the negotiations over that country’s nuclear capabilities. Iran’s decision to drop the requirement that their Revolutionary Guard Corps be removed from the State Department’s terrorist organization blacklist makes a final deal slightly more likely and accentuates the mutual animosity toward Iran that binds Israel to a growing number of Arab states.

If Abbas is a moderate, permanent friendships in this dangerous neighborhood are still a long way off.

Henry Kissinger famously said that there are no permanent friends or enemies, only interests. So the juxtaposition of the negotiations with Iran and Abbas’ ugly revisionism provides a cautionary note that the stronger relationships between Israel and some of its neighbors does not reflect an eradication of age-old antisemitism in the region but rather the current and perhaps temporary confluence of goals against a common threat. If Abbas is a moderate, permanent friendships in this dangerous neighborhood are still a long way off.

Dan Schnur is a Professor at the University of California – Berkeley, USC and Pepperdine. Join Dan for his weekly webinar “Politics in the Time of Coronavirus” (www/lawac.org) on Tuesdays at 5 PM.

Throughout these past months as I have been reciting the Kaddish in memory of my dear mother, I have been reflecting on her life and the values she instilled in me and my siblings. One of her defining attributes – cited by many, and especially needed in today’s day and age – is sakranut, curiosity. 

Growing up, and continuing throughout adulthood, whenever we would discuss something, Mama would always present the other side of an argument, decision, idea, etc.  Some might call that “playing the devil’s advocate,” but really it was far from anything devilish; my mother challenged us to expand our horizons and to always consider and value other perspectives, experiences, or thoughts. This practice, unfortunately, appears to be lacking in much of our society today.

She would have really enjoyed a symposium I was recently privileged to attend, which focused on ”viewpoint diversity” in our community today.  Convened by the Maimonides Fund, colleagues from across the Jewish communal landscape learned from each other and from respected thought leaders as we considered the increasing polarization of civic – and communal – debate.

Rabbi David Wolpe, senior advisor at Maimonides Fund and Max Webb Senior Rabbi at Sinai Temple in Los Angeles, anchored the discussion in core Jewish values, including machloket l’shem shamayim – argument for the sake of Heaven.  As a people, we have spent thousands of years discussing and debating everything, and, most importantly, learning how to listen and respect each other’s opposing viewpoints. The Talmud itself embodies this as each page is filled with different and almost always conflicting opinions and interpretations of each line, phrase, and word.

Haidt observed how social media has destroyed our ability to see the other side and to open our minds to opposing points.

Jonathan Haidt, Professor of Ethical Leadership at New York University’s Stern School of Business and noted co-author of “The Coddling of the American Mind:  How Good Intentions and Bad Ideas Are Setting Up a Generation for Failure,” commented on the changing culture on college campuses and its effect on mental health.  He observed how social media has destroyed our ability to see the other side and to open our minds to opposing points of view. 

I participated in several small-group discussions exploring the growing challenge in Jewish communal organizations, where we strive to balance multiple stakeholders with multiple perspectives in increasingly divided communities.  How can we discuss Israel in a constructive way with diverse points of view?  How do we best respond to antisemitism in the context of protected speech, especially on college campuses today?

As a society, we seem to have become so mistrustful and polarized we miss the gray and nuance.  We have forgotten how to have constructive conversations.  We seem unable or unwilling to respect individuals when we might disagree with their positions.  

Unfortunately, this lack of civility has also been part of our Jewish history. A few weeks ago on Tisha B’Av, we mourned among many tragedies, the destruction of Jerusalem due to sinat chinam (baseless hatred) between our brothers and sisters, who abandoned a basic tenet of Judaism: respecting diversity in civil discourse.

I feel fortunate to see some signs of hope in my daily work.  At Jewish camps across North America, the observance of Tisha B’Av helps convey critical lessons in character development, where chanichim (campers) and madrichim (counselors) create intentional communities away from home each summer.  By fostering an environment of belonging, diversity, learning, and curiosity, Jewish camps help to model our collective Jewish future.

We will soon enter the final month of the Jewish year – Elul.  We begin our preparations for Rosh Hashannah and a fresh start with renewed positivity and possibility.  We all need relief from the negativity, polarization, and exhaustion of our current civic debate.  Perhaps we can commit to changing its tone and tenor and enter a period of renewal, comfort, and growth.  

Each morning during Elul, we will sound the Shofar as a spiritual wake-up call, challenging us to look inside ourselves, to consider how we can change, learn, and grow.  How?  Let us bring the joy and spirit from Jewish camps – and the spirit of curiosity that is my mother’s legacy.

Jeremy J. Fingerman is the CEO of the Foundation for Jewish Camp.

On June 5th, 2021, Nicole Raviv stood before an audience of hundreds at the New York Islanders Stanley Cup playoffs. As she had done many times before, she began to sing the national anthem, only to discover her microphone was blown out due to technical difficulties. A true professional, she kept singing, and soon enough, the fans joined in with her. Raviv’s performance — the booming sound of thousands singing the Star-Spangled Banner —quickly went viral on sports-centered social media. Later, the performance was covered by The New York Post, The Daily Wire, Fox News, 12 News and Newsday. 

“In that moment,” says Raviv, “It didn’t matter if you were a Republican or a Democrat. We were all here watching hockey. At the time, we were debating whether to sing the national anthem before sports games. But this was a moment of unity that changed the energy in the room. Of course, we were going to sing it.” The Islanders went on to win that game, and perhaps it was sports superstition that compelled the team management to ask Raviv to do the same thing at future games, to in some way get the audience belting “Oh say can you see…” along with her. Raviv began pointing her microphone toward the stands each time she sang. The audience kept joining in, and the Islanders kept winning. 

The mainstream media spread Raviv’s name far and wide, and the Jewish journalism world quickly seized on the opportunity to highlight a display of heartwarming patriotism from a girl with an Israeli name who proudly wore a Hamsa necklace during her performances. The Jerusalem Post and Jewish Insider broke the news that America’s new sweetheart was in fact in the process of moving to Israel. 

Raviv spent her childhood in Montreal, the daughter of Israeli parents who had immigrated before she was born, her mother the child of Holocaust survivors. “My parents met on stage — my dad sings and my mom acts, so performing is in my bloodline.” Raviv went on to study musical theater in college, and after years of attempting to “make it” as a vocal performer in New York City, she was brought on in 2019 as the national anthem singer for the New York Islanders. She dabbled in singing for the NBA, NFL, and soccer as well. “It was ironic that here I am, Canadian and Israeli, and I get my start in this world singing the American national anthem, but I guess that works,” she quips. 

Raviv eventually decided to make aliyah because of her strong family connection to Israel. “I always knew, in the back of my head, that I would end up in Israel, I just didn’t know when,” she admits. As her career grew in New York, she was brought further and further into the Jewish community, making appearances at Israeli consulate events and high-profile events within the Jewish corporate world. This only strengthened her ever-present desire to return to the homeland. “In my late-twenties, my husband and I realized that if we didn’t do it now, it would be very unlikely that we would ever do it,” Raviv explains. “I felt like I had conquered New York, and Israel was the next level, a place where my musical spirit can truly thrive.”

Raviv believes that to improve her craft and to better connect with audiences, she must be in a place, in a region, in a culture, in a language that “makes her soul happy.”

Raviv believes that to improve her craft and to better connect with audiences, she must be in a place, in a region, in a culture, in a language that “makes her soul happy.” Throughout her time in New York, she was always attempting to add Middle Eastern influences into her music, which usually fell short due to lack of competent musicians and understanding of the style. In Israel, however, her creative expression can run wild. “I find that by singing in Hebrew, I’m able to emotionally connect more to my craft, something in me opens up when I sing in the language of my people.”  Raviv will be performing in a new play at Habima Theatre in just a few weeks called “Ida,” which tells the story of Ida Nodel, a Soviet Zionist activist and refusenik, and is also in the process of crafting a new Hebrew musical about the life story of King David, which is set to run in Israel before it hits Broadway most likely next year. Just a few months into her new residency, she has even learned to sing in Arabic, a challenge she calls thrilling due to the beauty and mysticism of the Islamic world’s music.

Clearly, there were plenty of pull factors to Israel, but there were also push factors as well. Raviv noted how the environment in the United States is pressuring more Jews to move to Israel regardless of whether their soul is attached to the land or not. 

Her performance at the 2021 Stanley Cup playoffs came on the heels of the previous May, when Israel erupted into a war with Hamas. “People at the time were taking their mezuzahs off their doors. My husband worked in the Diamond District where fireworks were thrown at Jews. I would go perform, and there were people, fellow Jews, working with me who told me not to wear my jewelry on camera . . . my Magen David or Hamsa. I told them no. If I have this platform, I am going to be loud and proud.” Jewish sports fans flooded Raviv with support for representing the tribe with confidence. The positive feedback only strengthened her resolve to live among Jews in a Jewish nation for the rest of her life. 

Raviv and I later discussed why Jewish people in the arts continually shy away from standing, publicly, in solidarity with the Jewish people. This is in stark contrast to artists in the Black and LGBT communities, who tend to be unabashed in their support for causes and issues that concern their communities.  During, for example, a war in Israel or during a wave of antisemitism in the United States, a majority of Jewish artists fall silent. “In the arts, there are certain social pressures to distance yourself from your Judaism just because of the environment you’re in and the opinions of your fellow artists,” she explains. “The arts can pressure you to put on a face or a fake persona to sustain a career.” 

There is something special about Raviv’s story — of descending from victims of the Holocaust and making the move to Israel to succeed in the arts but having the pivotal moment of fame being an expression of American unity. It is often discussed that our society is too polarized, that it is on the cusp of tearing itself to shreds over conflicts of identity, which always pose a danger to Jews. That Raviv can bring an entire stadium together to honor national camaraderie while proudly wearing Judaism on her sleeve is a salute to the continued prosperity of both peoples: Americans and Jews. When America is strong, the Jews are strong.

Blake Flayton is New Media Director and columnist for the Jewish Journal.