The shtetl, those quaint little Jewish towns dotting the landscape in pre-WWII Europe, often elicits heartwarming nostalgia, much of it due to its association with Fiddler on the Roof and other media. But those who know the history are aware that despite the shtetl having such warm, beautiful communities where one could be Jewish publicly without having to worry, things didn’t end well for the Jews of the shtetl: pogroms, forced conversion, and finally, annihilation in the Holocaust.
Today there are no old school shtetls left. But we do have our own version.
During the week I am usually on the road, traveling the country in support of Jewish grad students everywhere. But come sundown on Friday as Shabbat approaches, I’m always relieved to retreat to my quiet neighborhood of Pico-Robertson, a center of Jewish life on the westside of Los Angeles. Although it’s mere blocks from Rodeo Drive, our neighborhood feels more Fiddler than Real Housewives. Like Anatevka in the film, it is peppered with characters and bustling with Jews and non-Jews alike who all love the camaraderie and unity that a strong community can offer.
Pico is a big city neighborhood where people actually know their neighbors, and where you’re likely to hear Hebrew, Farsi, Russian or even Yiddish. On Yom Kippur the streets are empty, on Hanukkah the windows radiate with the menorah’s lights, and before Sukkot the sidewalks are clogged with kids selling Sukkah decorations. And every Friday before sundown, the streets fill with people walking to one of the dozens of synagogues of all denominations in the area, greeting friend and stranger alike with “Shabbat Shalom.
”The local “shul” that I attend is my safe haven, a welcome refuge from the constant work I'm involved with during the week supporting Jewish grad students amidst rampant antisemitism. Our shul is where we celebrate our family lifecycle events, where our kids meet up with their friends every Shabbos, where we learn, pray, fress, and spend our holidays. Without question, it’s the focal point of our private lives. And it has always felt safe.
Until this past Sunday.
This week this little shul I go to became the most famous synagogue in America, with every news outlet and politician, even President Biden, mentioning it by name. But it wasn’t because of the boundless good that the congregation does, nor its warmth or holiness.
This past Sunday our shul was targeted by an angry mob of hundreds of anti-Israel protesters who swarmed the entrances, harassed and bear sprayed members, and stormed through our peaceful neighborhood wreaking havoc and targeting and brawling with local Jewish residents.
When I saw these terrible events unfolding, I couldn’t help being reminded of the shtetl again – but not in the heartwarming way I usually am, but in the other way, the dangerous way that should make any Jew in our wonderful country nervous.
My fellow shul members and our greater community are shaken up by the loss of innocence we’ve experienced. Many of them wishfully hope that this will just blow over. But having watched similar situations develop and deteriorate on campus over the last nine months, I can’t harbor such illusions.
People often ask me what our students need from us the most right now, and I immediately answer them that they truly appreciate just walking into a safe place on campus to express their Jewish identity. Where they could connect to their roots, in their own little grad school shtetl.
What our JGO students have been experiencing the entire last year in their “shtetls” should be a warning for all of us. To whatever extent we stand up for our students on campus is what sets the precedent for our entire community. If we won’t support our own Jewish students, then no one else will support us when the mayhem reaches our doorstep.
In the meantime I’m back at work, and come this Friday nothing will stop me from going back to my shtetl, and our shul. And while I’m there, I’ll be thinking of our Jewish community shtetls around the world, and praying for a happier ending this time.
