Praying with the Other

S E P T E M B E R / O C T O B E R 2 0 0 7 W W W. T I K K U N . O R G T I K K U N 17 T his is how we begin Yom Kippur, at the Kol Nidrei prayer. But who are these avaryanim that we have to be granted, or grant ourselves, permission to pray with this group? We loosely translate the word as “sinners,” but let’s go deeper. Avaryanim comes from the root verb avar, to cross over or move from one place to another. The word avar as a present tense verb is pronounced “oveir” and is probably where we get the English word “over.” Avaryanim is a plural noun form, and it connotes people who have done just that—they’ve crossed over some defined line, like Jewish law, and come to a new place. There is also a connotation to this word of something , or someone, who is foreign. In ancient Egypt, we are told, the Egyptians coined a name for the family of Jacob who had recently arrived in their midst. They called them Ivrim. Ivrim is spelled with the same letters—ayin, bet, resh—of the Hebrew word avar; it has the same root. The word Ivrim implied at the time, “those who have come over here from across the river Jordan.” Me’ever hayarden. Ivrim. It was a term of suspicion put on the family of Jacob by the Egyptians, and it was almost an epithet. It was just like saying “they’re not from here.” But we Jews kept that name. We turned its meaning into a badge of identity that we continue to use to this day. We are Ivrim. Hebrews. The name became a reminder through the 240 years of exile in Egypt that no, we’re not from here. We are our own, distinct people, with a history. With a land. With our God. We mustn’t forget—we must remain who we are, and treasure that. And so, when the Ivrim were ready to leave Egypt, they managed to remain an intact people. Identity as a hedge against assimilation—this is a very modern theme. For a large portion of 2006, I worked on a project for which I interviewed people from seven different immigrant communities in Houston . I spoke with Houstonians from Africa, Vietnam, Pakistan, India, Jews from the former Soviet Union, and people from Mexico and Central America, and I asked them to tell me their stories. Through this unforgettable experience, something tugged on me, some sense of vicarious identification. I heard, in all these interviews, about escape from danger, the Passage, meeting obstacles in the new country, culture shock, language struggles, economic struggles, the fear of assimilation and loss of culture , that driven immigrant determination… and success, or not, and it all felt familiar. There were funny similarities to Jews—the people who told me, “Oh, in our culture, family is very important” or “We don’t seem to have any boundaries. Everything is every one else’s business” or “For us, education is very important,” everyone associated these things with the uniqueness of their own culture. Most worried about their language and religion getting lost in future generations. Praying with the Other by Leah Lax In the heavenly court and in the earthly court, by consent of God and by consent of this community, we are permitted to pray with avaryanim. A worker looks over the fence between Mexico and the U.S., trying to find a moment when the Border Patrol may not be looking so that he can cross. DAVID BACON 5.Religion:Politics rev. 8/7/07 10:16 AM Page 17 18 T I K K U N W W W. T I K K U N . O R G S E P T E M B E R / O C T O B E R 2 0 0 7 And every one of the immigrants I met feels a kind of fierce love for this country coupled with a sense of strangeness, otherness, that won’t go away. Some of it comes from inside...