In Yiddish, of course

To many it is the language of an older generation that didn’t identify with a particular place but a culture – it has been the language of European Jews much more than Hebrew.

By CHAVI MOSKOWITZ
YOUNG ULTRA-Orthodox Jewish children play in the alleys of Jerusalem’s Mea She’arim. (photo credit: MAŁGORZATA MACIEJEWSKA)
YOUNG ULTRA-Orthodox Jewish children play in the alleys of Jerusalem’s Mea She’arim.
(photo credit: MAŁGORZATA MACIEJEWSKA)
One week ago Simonas Alperavicius died. A man who inspired both those within his community, and those lucky enough to come into contact with it. A man who, when asked why he chose to remain in Vilnius, Lithuania, after the war, replied that he could go to Israel, but then he would just be an old Jew playing cards on the beach. His response revealed his dedication to passing the torch to the next generation of Ashkenazim in Vilna.
He felt he had important work to do in the community – from sharing his stories of the city’s vibrant Jewish past to teaching young people what it means to be a Jew – in Yiddish, of course.
Dov Ber Kerler, the Dr. Alice Field Cohn Chair in Yiddish Studies at Indiana University, recalls Alperavicius as a man of great intellect with a sharp mind, who defied the stereotype of a Lithuanian Jew. He was not cold, but an emotional man and very humane. Simonas wasn’t a Yiddishist, but he was very supportive of all attempts to create something in Yiddish, for him Yiddish was simply a fact of life.
They are a dying breed, men like Alperavicius, who know who they are and understand the importance of protecting where they came from, the inherent cultures and the corresponding tongue. In this case it is Yiddish, and without his presence in Vilnius its situation would look slightly bleaker.
So, what is Yiddish? To many it is known as the language their grandparents spoke when they didn’t want the children to understand. Over time, many funny-sounding words have been lovingly adopted from Yiddish into the English language, particularly in the United States, where “oy!”, “schlep”, and “meshugene” are uttered by Jews and non-Jews alike.
It is still unclear precisely where and when Yiddish came about, but most scholars agree that the earliest roots can be traced to Germany, which is where the first Ashkenazim are believed to have made their home. Ashkenaz historically referred to an area in Germany, and the Jews that lived there were Ashkenazim.
Yiddish quickly became their universal language, and throughout modern history, Yiddish has been the language of European Jews, much more so than Hebrew.
It was during the medieval period that the heart of Yiddish culture began to make its home in the East. The “Ashkenaz” of Germany began to move eastward, and consequently the word “Ashkenaz” described a people or an imaginary space as it were, rather than a specific place. The Yiddish language stands as a metaphor of the Jewish experience in Europe. It is an amalgamation of components of the languages with which the Ashkenazim came into contact; their movements from western to eastern Europe can be identified as the smattering of Slavisms in the eastern variations of the language.
In discussions of modern Jewish history, the Holocaust and the creation of the State of Israel tend to be the focus.
Although this makes sense to a degree, it has contributed to a growing tendency to ignore the rich culture and history that was murdered along with the Jews of Europe. There is much dialogue about what it means to be Israeli and its significance, the Hebrew language, and one’s identity as a Jew in Israel, but what about all that was lost? Who were our grandparents and great-grandparents before they were Israeli?
That which fails to be mentioned is our heritage, a Jewish identity vastly different from that of most modern-day Israelis’ sense of self. We spend a lot of time focusing on the destruction of the Jewish people in Europe and the creation of a new Jewish state and identity in Israel, and proportionally little time learning about what it meant to be a Jew less than 100 years ago. Yet this is what defined the history of the Ashkenazim for far longer than where we are now.
A Yiddish identity challenges the very foundation of an Israeli identity. Yiddish is funny-sounding, full of complaints and with the only words that can truly describe the Shoah.
Hebrew is confident and allows us to a certain extent to forget the past and speak objectively about who the Jews used to be. Hebrew defines contemporary Israeli identity and separates the Ashkenazim from their former selves. To disregard Yiddish as something of the past does a disservice to those that hold it as part of their heritage.
Understanding heritage is the key to understanding the future of identity formation.
Most Israelis, and Diaspora Jews for that matter, have difficulty understanding why Jews would want to study Yiddish, so when they hear about Polish goyim immersing themselves in the rich culture, history and language of the Ashkenazim their puzzled looks tell all. Many fail to grasp how inextricably linked the history of Jews in Poland is with the history of Poland itself. As Jews look more and more to modern Israel to inform their sense of Jewishness, young Poles learn about Yiddishkeit to inform their sense of Polishness.
“There is the memory of the Jewish people even in the language,” Warsaw resident Agnieszka explains of her native Polish. She was reminded of this throughout her childhood, being often told that she did things in a Jewish way, unaware of what exactly that meant. She began to learn Yiddish, in her hometown of Warsaw, to better understand the culture that informed these comments.
The memory of the Jewish people is present in Poland not only in the language, but also visibly, in the form of misused Jewish structures or objects. The remaining synagogue in Poznan was until recently used as a swimming pool, and storefronts bearing mezuzot no longer house Jewish businesses but cellphone shops and supermarkets.
“The visual reminder of the Jewish life that once inhabited those structures inspires young people to dig deeper,” says Aleksandra from Wroclaw. People have begun to realize that Yiddish culture is connected with their familiar Polish history and are starting to take action.
Malgorzata (Gosia) from Kalisz says that many young Poles whose grandparents came from cities with a Jewish majority, like her grandmother, may have had some Jewish or Yiddish language influence without being aware of it. Her grandmother still uses some Yiddish words. “Yidish iz a shlisl tsu der yidisher kultur [Yiddish is the key to Yiddish culture] and therefore a key to understanding an important piece of Polish history.
The culture of our grandparents was connected to this Yiddish culture even if they weren’t Jewish,” says Gosia.
What is now one of the most homogeneous countries in Europe was once a place where multiculturalism and coexistence abounded. Poles, Lithuanians, Ukrainians, Belorussians, Germans and Jews called Poland home before the Second World War.
“My generation has lost this sense of multiculturalism,” Gosia continues. “We are all Polish, Catholic, unlike before, when there were so many cultures living together in Poland. It is vital that we realize this and remember it. I’m trying to spread Yiddish around me as much as I can, because I think that it’s my sense of life.”
The multicultural Poland that once was has begun to open itself to the possibility of regaining its sense of diversity and cultural variation. This generation of Poles will certainly be a catalyst in continuing the tradition of Yiddish in Poland.
YIDDISH HOLDS a distinctly unique power, one that can bring people together – from hassidim to secular Jews to non- Jews intrigued by the rich culture and history surrounding the language. In Israel, Yiddish can even encourage interaction between two groups that are otherwise at odds in this holy land – Jews and Arabs.
How does the language of Old World Jewry connect Arabs and Jews in modern day Israel? Perhaps the more important question is: Why? The plight of Yiddish and its speakers is immediately intelligible to members of any group that has been oppressed or discriminated against throughout its history. The language is not just a means of communication. It is a preservation device that carries the stories of a people’s struggles to maintain its cultural identity in the face of great prejudice.
Relating to Yiddish doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with the language itself. The story and values that are associated with it may be enough to entice people.
Yiddish carries those qualities central to traditional Jewish identity formation, qualities that perhaps aren’t inherent in the Hebrew language or that it intentionally refutes; most prominently the Jew as the Other.
The story of Yiddish is a universally relatable one – a David and Goliath-esque historical, cultural struggle. Perhaps for Arabs, particularly Arab Israelis, learning Yiddish is a way to find common ground with their Jewish Israeli counterparts.
At Bar-Ilan University, 25 percent of students enrolled in courses at The Rena Costa Center for Yiddish Studies are Arab. This is unique to Bar-Ilan, but this phenomenon, non-Jews taking a serious interest in Yiddish language and/or culture, is also seen in Poland, where Polish students taking Yiddish courses often outnumber the Jews. Arabs in Israel are perhaps able to connect with Yiddish in a way that Hebrew doesn’t allow them to.
It is, in fact, the story of Yiddish that tends to draw in Arab students rather than the prospect of studying the particulars of the language, says Ber Kotlerman, academic director at The Rena Costa Center for Yiddish Studies.
Ninety-six Arab students take courses in the department, only seven of whom study the Yiddish language. Some Arab students feel a connection to Yiddish because they have worked with Yiddish speakers, or have expressed interest in participating in the Yiddish theater program that Bar-Ilan intends to build.
Kotlerman says that taking Yiddish has, in fact, less and less to do with ethnicity. It is just as likely that an Arab student or a Jewish student who is not Ashkenazi decides to take Yiddish as someone of Ashkenazi heritage.
Despite the fact that it is important to understand how Yiddish informs Ashkenazi identity, it is just as important for Yiddish as a language to be normalized within contemporary Israeli society. Choosing to take on the study of Yiddish, not for its link to heritage or Jewish identity, but for its qualities as a spoken language, is a choice that helps to positively change the perception of Yiddish as a language.
A sincere interest in Yiddish comes often from unexpected places, and more often goes ignored where it should be explored. Every few years a discussion regarding the revival of Yiddish emerges, this is not a new concept.
Perhaps more pertinent would be the renewal of interest; Yiddish has never stopped existing, most simply fail to notice its presence.
Indiana University’s Prof. Kerler says that Yiddish doesn’t need any favors, and the discussion that Yiddish must be preserved is unproductive. Yiddish is perhaps not as alive as other languages, but it is alive.
He continues, “Yiddish is there and I am contributing to it because I too, am here, not because I need to prove anything. Speaking about Yiddish in clichés only serves to make it less real.”