Kiddush is not ‘cute’

Why should doing one of the most common, essential Jewish customs, in the Jewish country, embarrass me?

By MELISSA SCHREIBER
Updated: AUGUST 31, 2018 18:11
Kiddush Cup (photo credit: Wikimedia Commons)
Kiddush Cup
(photo credit: Wikimedia Commons)
I was invited at the last minute to join a successful hi-tech company that is a client of mine on their yom kef (fun team-building weekend) at the Dead Sea.
As their freelance marketing writer, they liked me to work from their office for several hours a week and be part of the team. Since I was the only non-Sabra and the only non-employee, I knew I would feel a little out of place and shy… but a free weekend of luxury at a five-star hotel? How could I refuse?
After a day that began with a jeep tour in the Negev and continued with a Swedish massage and some alone time in the spa Jacuzzi, it was time for dinner.
It was a Friday. The sun had set, and Shabbat had begun. We all poured into the dining hall along with the rest of the hungry hotel guests and seated ourselves at tables of six in a corner of the room designated for the firm’s employees. I was a little apprehensive as to where to sit; although everyone was always sweet to me, I felt more like a little sister to them that they thought of as “cute” but foreign and naive – not someone they would actually be friends with or take seriously.
I’ve always hated feeling unwanted.
Bar called out “Meleesush” and motioned for me to come over to her table. Grateful for her kind gesture, I sat down across from her.
People in the company’s corner of the room were already rising and filling up their plates from the buffet. At first, I figured that they were reversing the typical order and collecting their mass quantities of food before saying kiddush. When I saw people sit down and begin eating, however, I realized that none of them had any intention of saying kiddush at all.
A feeling of disappointment rushed through me. Well, just because they’re not saying kiddush, I thought, doesn’t mean I can’t. I would make my own. It would be a fadiha (an embarrassing situation) for sure, and it would only make me feel even more out of place, but I would do it anyway.
I walked over to the front of the room and found myself a birkon (blessing book), two hallah rolls and a mini bottle of grape juice. I brought them over to my table, where each seat aside from mine was now occupied. Everyone was busy chatting and eating; I told myself to just do it. I opened the birkon, poured myself a glass of grape juice and mustered up the courage to quietly say kiddush while standing, as is customary, although every other table guest was sitting.
I tried not to notice people’s heads popping up and looking at me, and carried on, my eyes glued to the birkon.
Awkward.
But I did it.
Once I finished, I went to wash my hands, returned to my seat, said the blessing over the bread, and began my meal.
Nobody at my table mentioned anything to me about this so as not to embarrass me, I guess. Or simply because they didn’t care.
This thought saddened me, and maybe even angered me a bit – embarrass me?! Why should doing one of the most common, essential Jewish customs in the Jewish country embarrass me?! And if they simply didn’t care… well, why was that any better? The fact that it was so common now for Israelis my age from central Israel to basically not care about anything to do with their Jewish heritage was something that I’ve become used to, but the fact that I’d become used to it was even more upsetting.
As did the fact that I hesitated before deciding to say kiddush myself.
I guess I was the target of my own anger.
I’m not even observant. Yes, I grew up in a modern Orthodox home in the US, but after making aliyah, I gradually moved more towards being merely “traditional” (whatever that means). I believe that people should do what they want and feel is right for them when it comes to practicing religion, and sometimes I’m not sure what’s right for me. But practicing your religion and showing respect for it are not the same thing. Right now, it seemed that everyone was just ignoring it, or looking down upon it.
After the dinner ended and we got up from our seats, Daniella came over to me with a few other employees I didn’t know well and said, “We just wanted to tell you that we saw you saying kiddush.
Kol hakavod; eizeh hamuda [Kudos, what a cutie].” I smiled and thanked them, but the truth is, Daniella’s comments just made me feel small. I know she didn’t mean to be patronizing, but that was the effect that she had.
On the way back to my room, I thought about it more. Keeping a Jewish tradition in the Jewish homeland was not “cute.” I decided that I was proud of myself for doing something that I feel is important, despite the discomfort that came with it. I’m no tzadika (righteous person) and don’t pretend to be. But that night I decided that there was no way I was not going to continue practicing these traditions and hopefully one day pass them down to my children.
It’s the least I could do – and I’d be damned if I would ever let myself be made to feel small about it again.
Born and raised in Boston, the writer made aliyah right after graduating from NYU in 2006. She currently lives in Ramat Gan and works as a freelance writer. mschreiber84@gmail.com