An American Jew At Large in the World, Part 2: Climbing the family tree

(Part 2 out of 2, continuing a piece on my experiences exploring my Jewish heritage and identity in the Middle East and Europe)

I didn't intend to go to Antwerp at all, actually. I was in Normandy with a terrible cold considering heading south to somewhere warm, preferably where I could find the vitamin C I so desperately needed growing on a tree in citrus form. But before I could reserve my ticket, I got a surprising response to an e-mail I had sent several weeks before

I had met Matthieu and Kersan in China, several months back. They were the owners of the guesthouse I stayed in on the Tibet/Yunnan border. Matthieu was a fellow travel originally from Belgium: he had met Kersan while on a trip in Asia, and they had fallen in love. Kersan was from a little village just over the border in Tibet, but she had overcome her circumstances to study in big-city Xi'an and later . They had decided to buy a beautiful old traditional Tibetan monstrosity, restore it into a guesthouse, and turn it over to a manager before moving to Belgium. I stayed at their guesthouse for 4 nights and greatly enjoyed drinking and talking with them about their interesting lives.

When I got to Europe, I wrote to them to ask if they had completed the expected move but heard back nothing for almost a month. As I prepared for the shift to Italy, however, a message from Matthieu arrived. They had, indeed, moved back to Antwerp, to his childhood home: they had a free bedroom and Kersan wasn't working yet. Would I like to come and stay for a few days? I embraced the spontaneous opportunity and wrote back, "Absolutely!"

There are a lot of reasons to love Antwerp. It has some great museums, amazing beer, interesting architecture, and of course fabulous chocolate. But for me Antwerp had a special draw. My mother had told me the story of being contacted when she was young by an Orthodox Rabbi from Belgium named Chaim Kreiswerth who said he was a long-lost relative from the shtetls of Poland. He had come to see her multiple times in the States. My mother knew he would be an old man now, but she encouraged me to seek him out. Antwerp has one of the largest orthodox Jewish communities in all of Europe, and this man had been an important, beloved leader. Wouldn't they love to meet another member of the family? she asked. Wouldn't it be interesting to learn something about our collective history?

Given my own drive to uncover details about my family's past, I decided to take the initiative. On a Friday around noon, I walked down to Hoffy's Restaurant, arguably the best Jewish restaurant in Antwerp, located in the "Jewish quarter" directly adjacent to the diamond district. The deli was filled with Orthodox men in dark coats, with long beards, and sidecurls. Nobody looked twice at me, and I ordered a very expensive but delicious plate of traditional goodies, from kugel to latkes. I read my book and watched the men talk amongst themselves, some coming in to buy challah or other food for the sabbath celebration in a few hours. I was feeling very much "with my people," eating beloved dishes even in a far away country. The warm feeling became confidence, and I stopped the waiter and asked if anyone here knew Rabbi Kreiswirth. His face immediately creased into a smile. "I'll get the manager," he said.

My confidence increased. Mr. Hoffy himself arrived, doffing his stiff black cap. When I asked after Rabbi Kreiswirth and told him I was a distant relative, he was thrilled. "We're always glad to meet someone connected to his family. That man was a great friend and leader to all of us," he told me. He wrote a name and phone number on a slip of paper for me. "This man, H, was the Rabbi's best friend," he said, "call him and arrange to meet him." He offered me the deli's phone to use.

The old man on the phone was happy to hear from me and said he would be glad to meet. When was I available? Could I meet after Shabbat?

I hesitated. "Well, I said, I was thinking of take the train tomorrow." There was a quick silence I didn't register at the time. "That's fine," he told me, "You can come tonight before sundown. Better make it quick, it gets dark fast here in the winter." He didn't have a car and instructed me give the phone to Mr. Hoffy, who could perhaps give me a ride. There was some discussion in Dutch. Mr. Hoffy gave me back the phone, "They won't drive you over," H said. "You're leaving on Shabbat. To them, you're already finished. You're going to hell. You aren't one of them, so they won't help you." Indeed, when I hung up the phone there was no one around. Mr. Hoffy walked past and gave me a chilly glance. He did not return my smile or word of thanks. I walked out of the deli, and no one watched me go.

The transformation was so quick that it was still sinking in as I took the tram downtown to H's apartment. He greeted me at the door-- no sidecurls or dark coat, just a hint of a beard and a bright-colored tracksuit like a retiree in Boca Raton. He welcomed me into his sparse apartment and sat with me for an hour telling stories of his friend, my cousin several times removed: of the Rabbi's childhood studying Torah in rural Poland and Lithuania; of his miraculous escape during World War II when a Nazi soldier found him in hiding and told him to run while the soldier shot in the air; of a man he saved from a false charge of prostitution. He said he could remember the Rabbi mentioning that he had some "non-practicing" relatives in the United States. And he apologized for the behavior of the men in Hoffy's. "The Rabbi was my best friend and my teacher," he said. "He never cared how people observed, if they wore sidecurls or how they kept the Sabbath. He didn't judge people: he thought that was God's job. His job was to protect and to help. Since he passed, the communities here fight amongst themselves and they don't think as he did. It's as I said. They don't see you as a Jew so you aren't worth their time. I think it's a shame. I take the Rabbi's teaching. It is not ours to judge."

After my powerful experiences in Slovenia and in Prague and Terezin in the Czech Republic this was a totally unexpected development. I had felt like I was finding my spot in the enormous quilt of Jewish culture and history, with threads leading back to Europe and ahead to a life in the United states. I was glad to have those threads: they may not have represented a whole family history, but by almost literally walking in the footsteps of my ancestors I had felt more complete, connected. And yet here were these people who had welcomed me, however briefly, who were at least in some ways "my people," and they had rejected me. I was stunned, saddened, even a little angered. After a few more minutes of interesting conversation-- H challenged me to consider what I would do and where my allegiance would lie if a Holocaust situation arose in America, a situation he considered inevitable-- I bid H goodbye and thanked him, walking bewildered onto the street.

The feeling of rejection stuck with me for several days. It had really started to undermine my sense of self until I started to focus more on what H had said about Rabbi Kreiswirth. Of all of the Jews I'd met in Antwerp, it was Rabbi Kreiswirth I agreed with and respected the most, even if we'd never actually spoken. He had been a world-renowned scholar; he had brought together several feuding communities of Jews and been a beloved leader; he had championed tolerance and aid to the needy over religious dogma. And so I realized: I may not keep kosher; I may not rest on Shabbat; I may not even celebrate with a sabbath meal. But Judaism has a part in my life and myself, and the drive to do good and respect others has a part, as well. I may not be following the tradition of the Jews of Antwerp as a whole, but I am following the tradition of one in particular. And for now I am happy to be a credit to his legacy and to the family tree we share.

REWIND: India, 2--Mountains and tombs

A summary of my Indian odyssey, part 2:

Manali
Exhausted from 4 days of Indian Bus Hell, I settled gratefully into Appleview Manali, a Ladakhi guesthouse recommended to me by a friend from university. The hostel was set outside the modern town, in a lovely apple orchard owned by members of outlying villagers. I slept copiously, ate delicious homemade food cooked by the married couple who owned the guesthouse, and admired the view of the Himalayan foothills from all four corners of the guesthouse´s flat-topped roof. Occasionally, I ventured into town to explore a shrine to the goddess Kali, see a street magician perform, and watch the motley throng of soldiers, monks, wandering salesman, dirty-clothed backpackers, sleek-suited businessmen, old Ladakhi women in robes, and old Tibetan women in rainbow pinafores that converges on this town, which feels drawn from some ideal Tibetan Wild West.

The view from Appleview Manali

Some things are universal-- a street magician performs in Manali

After I was suitably recovered, I did something I had thought I might never want to do again: I got back on a bus. This was no ordinary journey, however. Our van convoy left Manali at 3 AM, traveling in a pack of 4 over the second-highest road in the world, traversing the Himalayas, and arriving in Leh, the capital of the semi-autonomous Ladakh province of India 22 hours later. In the course of the trip we waited patiently as we were engulfed by herds of goats on narrow mountain roads, stopped for chai and instant noodles in yurts on windswept plains, held our breaths as blood pounded in our heads in high passes piled with snow, and broke down twice. The landscape outside my window looked more to me like the moon than anything on earth.

A sampling of the most stunning pictures from my 22 hours of my trip


This is where we broke down

Leh
*My Indian visa was set to run out much earlier than I preferred, so I only had a few days in which to pack all the beauty of Ladakh, an ancient civilization on par with Tibet (that has in fact been at war with Tibetans on and off for millenia.) I wandered the winding, beautiful streets of Leh´s old town; explored the ruined castle that lies in the dry mountains above the city; stumbled on a traditional Ladakhi archery festival.

One day I took a car trip over an enormous mountain pass to Pangong Lake, which lies 1/3 in India and 2/3 in Tibet, a stunning drop of blue in thousands of empty miles of forbidding desert and mountains. Another day I went horseback riding through the stony plains outside of town, then hiked my way through the 2 most famous Buddhist monasteries, Thiksey and Shay, which slope up mountains to amazing views at their topmost points.

In the end my time in Ladakh presented only a taste of a world I had also glimpsed in Zhongdian during my travels in China. I found this universe, culturally, geographically and politically different than any I knew, to be fascinating, much like the frustrating, amazing, gorgeous world I had also discovered further south. Some travelers I've met refer to I.N.D.I.A, as in "I'm Never Doing It Again." But I know I have only had a taste and that I want to return for a deeper experience.

The view from my guesthouse

Ladakhi archery

Downtown Leh, with the ancient palace in the background

Yours truly, on the way to Pangong Lake (the sign says "Border Roads Organization Himank Welcomes On World Third Highest Pass, Chang La)
Pangong lake, one the most beautiful places I will ever go

Monks in class at Thiksey monastery
A stunning 3-story Buddha at Thiksey. He's sitting on the floor below.
Thiksey

Agra
*Of course, no trip to India is complete without a visit to the country´s international icon (or at least, so I felt.) So during my few days back in Delhi I boarded an early morning train and visited Agra. The city was dirty, but interesting, with a fascinating market quarter. The Red Fort palace complex was beautiful, even as I melted in heat that reached 48 degrees Celsius (almost 120 F!) My experience at the Taj Mahal was frustrating-- the list of items you cannot bring in include flashlights, iPods, books that are not guidebooks, any kind of food, and I had all of these things in my bag. Once I had resolved the matter of where to keep my bag, the enclosure itself was mobbed with people (I found out later it was the run up to an important festival.) But even debilitating heat, beauracracy, and crowds couldn´t dim the beauty of this building. As I remarked to Faith, and later to other friends around the world, the capacity of the human race to find infinite ways to make architectural beauty continues to stagger me. And stagger I did, back to the train, on to Delhi, and toward the international airport, where a 5 am flight awaited to take me to a cultural universe far, far from the Himalayas. I was bound for a month in the Middle East.

48 degrees!(!!!)

REWIND: China

Another unit in my "rewind" series, giving you a taste of my trips until such time as I can post more in detail (likely when I return to the states)...

Arriving in Yunnan province, China (in early April) was different than most of the other arrivals on my trip-- for me it was a real homecoming, as long-time readers of this blog know. I spent almost 6 months in Yunnan during university studying Mandarin; learning about Chinese history, religion, and economics; and doing anthropology research for my undergraduate thesis in Anthropology, which focused on the storytelling traditions of the Lisu indigenous group in northwest Yunnan. The entirety of my visit to Yunnan this time around had a nostalgic, affectionate feel, as I revisited old haunts, met old friends and, in the last section, took my parents to meet some of the people who opened their homes and lives to me during my research.

Kunming:
*I spent almost a week in Kunming, the capital of Yunnan, but it wasn't a particularly eventful week. I had lunch with old teachers; saw one of my friends from the semester abroad, Mike, who was in town doing research on a Fulbright grant; spent an inordinate amount of time in my old favorite restaurants and cafes (most significantly Salvador's, the best western-style coffee shop in the city, which had been the victim of a terrorist attack since my last visit.) I stayed in Mike's apartment for the duration of my visit, but he had to go back to the US unexpectedly to look at graduate schools. It turned out to be a great set up, though, as I caught the first serious cold of my entire trip and was basically flat on my back for most of the week, sleeping and watching internet TV but not having to worry about getting anyone else sick or dealing with a hotel staff/ loud hostelmates.

On campus at Yunnan Normal University, my home for spring semester 2007
Zhongdian
Once I started feeling better, I made my way to Zhongdian (also known in Tibetan as Gyelthang), a tourist boomtown on the edge of the Tibetan world, only a short trip from the border of the TAR (Tibetan Autonomous Region). I had been for a brief trip with my classmates during the semester abroad and had been deeply affected by the atmosphere, which truly is different than anywhere else, and the mix of cultures I learned about during our stay. My entry from that time ("Kham is Calm," which can be found in the 2007 archive of this blog) marveled at the amazing serenity I felt while exploring the Songzanlin monastery outside of town. I returned to Zhongdian hoping to reclaim that feeling and delve a little bit deeper into the world whose surface I had only brushed three years ago.

*I stayed in a guesthouse belonging to a bicultural couple, Mattieu and Kersan, he from Belgium, she from a Tibetan settlement a couple of hours north toward the border, who were friendly and very interesting to talk to. The guesthouse was beautiful, and every morning their cook/helper made me a traditional Tibetan breakfast of flatbread with honey, yogurt, fruit, and (instead of butter tea) coffee. I would sit out in the brisk spring sunshine enjoying the view of the new temple and town rooftops before starting my day.

*I went to visit that new temple, which the people of Zhongdian erected after their town because something of a tourist mecca, and took a spin around the largest prayer wheel in the world. Afterward, I happened get into a long conversation with one of the monks. He asked me a lot of questions about American life and told me about what it's like to be a monk and about his home life.

The largest prayer wheel in the world Prayer flags against a backdrop of spring cherry blossoms *I went back to Songzanlin Monastery, which had changed a great deal (including the addition of a large and obtrusive tourist gate and a price hike) but was still equally affecting and beautiful inside. There I made friends with a pair of monks, one young and one old, who told me they were grandfather and grandson. They were delighted to talk to me, the younger taking my camera for a spin around the prayer hall and the older admiring my girth (the subject of much unfortunate admiration in that part of the world) and engaging me in a simple political discussion. When I told him I was American, he smiled. "Bush, Dalai Lama" he said happily, showing me two clasped hands. "England, Dalai Lama; France, Dalai Lama"-- the clasped hands again. Then his expression darkened. "China, Dalai Lama," he said, and his fist drove into his open hand.

At the monastery
Grandfather and grandson
*During my first trip to I had met several members of Khampa Caravan, a Tibetan-run tour company that ensures that the money from its tours goes straight to the Tibetan community in the area (rather than opportunistic businesspeople who have flocked to the city to take advantage of the tourist boom.) I decided I wanted to make a day trip into the countryside outside of Zhongdian, and Khampa Caravan seemed like a good place to start. I contacted the company, and in the course of deciding on a drive north toward Deqin I made friends with the Caravan with whom I was corresponding, whose name was Dolma.

One Dolma rounded up several of her Tibetan friends, and we all drank strong Tibetan wine and talked into the night as the Lhasa Cafe emptied around us. During my first trip to Zhongdian I had met a few Tibetans who I was told had been educated in India, but I never really thought about what this meant. Discussing my new friends' life histories, however, I started to understand the amazing strength Tibetan refugees in Yunnan and Sichuan provinces must have. Each of the men pictured below left his home in the Chinese countryside between age 11 and 13. He took a bus to Lhasa (3 days), then walked-- yes, walked-- over the Himalayas for 17 more, often with no food and little to drink. He then had to sneak over the border into Nepal, bus to the Indian border, and hope to claim refugee status there. If he succeeded, he could stay in India until his education was complete 5-10 years later, never seeing his family and recieving letters a few times a year if he was lucky. If he didn't (as in the case of the gentleman in the middle of this picture), he would be sent back to Lhasa, where he would have to start the 17-day walk all over again.

As the liquor flowed, we began trading songs and stories from our respective cultures. The cafe was empty by this time, and I got goose bumps as the voices of my new friends, strong with drink, soared in unfamiliar melodies punctuated by whoops and handclaps. (I will be sure to post some of these stories, and possibly a video with one song in the "real" entry on Zhongdian later this year.)

My new Tibetan friends
* My day trip up near Deqin was wonderful. The weather was gorgeous, the scenery stunning, and my guide well informed. We drove first up a major pass overlooking Napa Lake, then down to what locals call a "hot" valley, where prosperous artisan villages create amazing crafts, from cast iron pots of wooden sculpture to beautiful brasswork. The enormous traditional houses were bordered with cacti, certainly not an item I had had on my list of "things you would find in Tibet." The amazing day, which deserves its own entry, ended with a tortuous drive to an ancient monastery and a beautiful nunnery.

Napa lake in the spring
*Giving in to the impulse I would be fighting (and still am) for many months to do and see everything possible, no matter the stress, I arranged before I left Zhongdian to participate in a short (very short) "homestay experience." The program, new for its type in Zhongdian, was a form of ecotourism, connecting me with a farmer in a very small village outside town. He picked me up and drove me through countryside teeming with yaks and goats to his house, where I met his family, learned about his enormous 3-floor wooden house (which he built himself, over 2 years), and ate fried potatoes and butter tea. It was a too-brief, but despite the squeeze I had to make in order to catch my sleeper bus that night, a peek into daily life untainted by mass tourism (thought certainly tourism in some way) was well worth the effort

The unbelievably adorable daughter of the man at my brief homestay outside ZhongdianNujiang

I had to catch said sleeper bus because... I was due to meet my parents in Dali, 8 hours away, the next morning! Dedicated readers of this blog will be familiar with the Nujiang valley, where I did the anthropology research that made up my undergraduate thesis. I was very excited to return 2 years later, with my parents in tow. I missed the place and wanted to experience it again. More importantly, I missed the friends I had made during the tumultuous but incredibly rewarding time I spent there. And I was thrilled that I had the opportunity to share my unique experience, and this side of China (which few people get to see) with my parents-- in short, to introduce my American family to their and Pumi and Lisu alternates.

*After an exhausting but amazing trek up the valley from Dali (10 hours in a van, but what scenery!) we spent my mother's 60th birthday in Fugong, the geographic and culture center of the Lisu tribe in Yunnan. I took my parents to the market, walked them around town, and introduced them to Mr and Mrs X, who had nursed me to back to health when I had fallen ill with dysentary 2 years prior. Things went similarly wonderfully south in Liuku. After my cell phone was stolen in Taiwan, and all my Chinese contact information with it, I had been sure I would not be able to track down the numbers of all the friends I made in Nujiang. But a mixture of luck and guanxi (the complicated net of Chinese reciprocity that connects everyone socially and practically) connected me with everyone I could have hoped to see. The reunions were truly lovely.

Lisu with their bags and baskets in Fugong
My Fugong Family meets my real family-- Mr and Mrs X, me, and my parents


Nujiang scenery
*The highlight of the Nujiang trip was a 2-day stay with the Xiong family outside Lanping. Long time readers will remember Limei, my Pumi translator who attached herself to me during my stay in Liuku and with whom I stayed in the countryside at the very end of my time in Yunnan. Limei's family had long been inviting mine to come and visit, and this was an experience I wanted my family to have. So this time I brought my parents, too-- and an important gift, a sit-walker for Limei's mother, who is unable to walk due to debilitating arthritis.

Those two days were powerful in a way I'm not sure I can explain, especially not in a round-up format like this one. In depth description will have to wait until the full-length entries. But suffice to say that living with a peasant family for 48 hours was a remarkable experience for my parents (and for me, too, although I knew what to expect.) We ate meals cooked over an open fire from chickens slaughtered hours before; we slept in the simple wooden house lined with newspapers; we peed in the potato fields. At night a group of Pumi from the village descended, curious to see the visitors, and after many rice wine toasts took to singing and dancing around the fire and insisting that we join them. And the family was so, so grateful for the walker. They cannot treatment or surgery for Mrs. Xiong, who suffers terribly and gets around by dragging wooden stool across the ground. When I left, they called me their seventh child. "You are our American family now," were their parting words.

Dinner with the Xiong family

Xiong life
Our blended family together (My parents and I are wearing the traditional clothes we were given as gifts)
Mrs. Xiong playing a traditional Pumi instrument

*Our last stop was Lanping, where we arrived in time for the Sunday market, an amazing blend of vegetables, medicinal herbs that Yi and Hmong women bring from the high mountains, trinkets, practical items, and exotics (like jade from Burma.) A visit to the market was one of my favorite parts of a weekend in Lanping, and it was wonderful to be able to share this with my mother, who came along to wander.

Burmese jade traders
Some of the wares(note the porcupine quills)

I think these women are Yi, although they might be Hmong-- some kind of hill tribe wearing head gear I'd never seen before
We were reluctant to leave the market, but time was short-- we were due at the Dali airport to leave for Vietnam!

My Left Foot, Volume Two

So the good news is that my foot is not fractured. After much hullaballoo, an under-construction hospital building (what optimists would refer to as "Radiology"), and much cajoling in order to get them to give me a lead apron, I took two sets of X-Rays and the doctor, "couldn't see a big problem." I don't really know what this means, but I looked at the X-rays and there wasn't anything in there that screamed "fracture," so I'm taking it as a win. That doesn't mean it doesn't hurt, though. I'm hobbling along with one crutch and trying not to think about it too much.

After some sad goodbying with my interpreter and her sister (whom I'd gotten pretty close to, they're the only Chinese people I've met so far who share my sense of humor and we giggled a lot together) I hopped a bus to Gongshan, the northernmost city in the Nujiang Valley. We went to Bingzhongluo, another town one hour north, today, and were within one hour's drive of Tibet. I kind of wanted to tell our driver to gun it and not look back, but... not so interested in getting caught by the law, and I didn't have my things with me. Tibet will come another time.

Anyway, I've been here a day and a half now and will be here another day and a half. I'm getting tired, but this last week should be fun-- back in Lanping with Jackson, Linda, and Xiong Li Mei, who is on summer vacation. I'll get to visit Xiong Li Mei's village and help her tend goats, which is her job when she's home from school. It'll be an adventure, that's for certain.

And when I have blogger access again (I'm having my mom post this as the computer I am is lacking a crucial plug-in to get into blogger): my Kashgar entry.