By Sophia Madeb, Arts and Culture Editor
In the past, the first image that came to my mind when I thought about the new year was a group of loved ones huddled on the couch, wearing silly hats and waving streamers that were probably bought from the 99 Cents store down the block. Their smiles stretch wide as their eyes are locked onto the television screen, watching the timer tick down: one minute, then 10 seconds, slipping to five, then four, three, two… until a loud “one!” is screeched, followed by a chorus of “Happy New Year!” Hugs and kisses fill the room, exciting plans and positive goals for the future are discussed amongst one another. It’s a time to set new challenges — a fresh start.
I initially believed New Year’s Eve was the chilly night of December 31. In my childhood town of Rochester, in Upstate New York, the streets were lit up with festive lights leftover from the holidays. Although, as time progressed, I have come to recognize, the true sense of a new year arrived not in January, but in that transitional season when summer decides to leave, as leaves fall from the tree, a time in September, or sometimes landing later in October, welcoming in Rosh Hashanah.
The weeks leading up to Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur are a time for spiritual preparation. Commandments and traditions are used as a way to properly close off the year, feeling ready to start off the new year with a fresh slate. We continue working on ourselves, are thankful for all the good experiences, accept the mistakes we made and ultimately, on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we are cleansed from our wrongdoings. However, it took me many new years to acknowledge the significance of Rosh Hashanah as a Modern Orthodox Sephardic Jew.
Growing up as a Middle Eastern Sephardic Jew in a secular town, it was difficult for me to connect with Judaism, and I barely comprehended the significance of intertwining faith into one’s life. I went to a Jewish school and had a good handful of friends there, but, because they were Ashkenazi, many of my traditions were different from theirs.
As a result of living in a secular town, every year my family would drive a long six hours to Brooklyn, to celebrate Rosh Hashanah at the home of my Teta and Jido, my Lebanese grandparents. Despite Brooklyn being in the same state as Rochester, it felt like entering a new world. A world rooted in a rich culture to which I could not help but feel a certain connection.
I could not help but think about how many people with the same religion and background lived in one area, supported by a community who urged to give back to one another, whether it be by supporting the local Jewish schools, pushing for stronger Jewish education, helping to start up kosher restaurants, donating to make each and every shul as beautiful as the next one and giving to organizations such as Kesher, which helps young adults continue learning and growing spiritually.
Both of my grandparents were raised in Beirut, Lebanon, immersed in a culture very different from my very American upbringing. As a child, I thought Rosh Hashanah was simply about dipping apples in honey and singing a sweet little song. I also knew some families put a fish head on the table, a tradition that disgusted me. I always thought that the pungent smell could fill up the largest of arenas. Thankfully, my Teta always said, “We do not eat fish, we eat lamb. We want to be like a strong head that walks the earth, never following anyone’s tail.”
I loved Rosh Hashanah at my grandparents’ house. In Rochester, it was just my immediate family, but on the holidays we got to be with my grandparents and my cousins. We became the newest offshoots of a series of roots that led back to the base of a tree, all following the same traditions. Rosh Hashanah became a time of unity, of coming together with people that care for one another, eating food that is part of a certain culture and that has a reason and significance to it. Everything on our table was there for a reason. Each person there was notable, filling my physical heart and spiritual soul with a sense of security, wrapping around me like a warm hug.
These Rosh Hashanah nights were not only the beginning of a new year but also the opening chapter of my understanding of what it means to walk the path of a practicing Jew, proud of my culture. Beyond these nights, I had rarely been involved with my Sephradic heritage, yet I came to see it is not something backwards in restrictive ways and traditions, but as a source of lively customs that inspire me to grow into a better person.
But the holiday would always come to an end, and going back home was bittersweet. A six-hour drive became the closest thing I could get to understanding my Sephradic culture.
Then, when I was nine years old, my parents told me we were going to move permanently to Brooklyn. I was so happy. They told me I would be going to a yeshiva that would give me a deeper connection to both my religious and Sephardic identity.
I believe that moving to Brooklyn was the best decision my family ever made. I started learning more about my beautiful religion and rich heritage. At times it was overwhelming, and my thoughts were plagued with feelings of confusion, doubt, and suspicion, leading me off the path of growth for a moment in my life. This was mostly due to the feeling that there were too many holidays and commandments, filled with complex mitzvot. I simply could not keep up. I was drowning in the beautifully twisted depths of Jewish law.
Nevertheless, it took only one of my teachers to bring me back. She wisely told me that G-d created each and every person with different identities and unique personalities. Not all the mitzvot are meant to resonate with everyone, because not everyone will naturally like, wish or want the same thing. However, each person creates a path through the commandments for them to intimately connect with G-d in their own personal way. G-d did not make all the mitzvot expecting us all to relate to all of them, but He created a variety because He wants all of his children to connect with him in the way that is best for them.
I knew that I felt a connection to Rosh Hashanah. The holiday always brought out these hospitable sentiments of togetherness for me. Even as the weather cooled, it was the time of year I felt the warmest. As the trees began losing their partners of beloved leaves, I felt less lonely. The world is such a big place, filled with so many people, yet everyone I loved was in the same place, shrinking the world to one small room.
I am not perfect. I make mistakes, and that is because I am human. However, my faith teaches me that G-d wants to hear my repentance, urges me to grow and gives me the chance to begin each year with a clear conscience and mindset, especially at this time of year. Additionally, following the laws and having confidence in my faith, known as bitachon, is not only something to strive for to enhance my life. It is one of my main paths in creating a closer relationship to G-d.
As a result of both of my desire to grow in faith and my deep love for Sephardic culture, Rosh Hashanah has always been a holiday that is about unity to me. Especially in today’s world of uncertainty, with contradicting politics and fast-paced social norms that are constantly progressing or regressing, we as Jews should come together for the holiday of unity. I believe that is Rosh Hashanah.Whether through shared culture, synagogue, friends or family, finding a common ground and shared experience can make the dark times and difficult challenges a little brighter.
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