L'Shanah Tovah!

Some of you know that, since arriving in Oslo in July, we have been making sporadic efforts to visit the one synagogue here. These involved (1) visiting the synagogue in person, but finding no way to gain entrance or leave a calling card, so to speak; (2) visiting the synagogue’s website to get email address and phone number and then both emailing and calling them several times but never getting a response; (3) stepping up effort (2) as the High Holy Days approached but still with no luck; (4) contacting our friend, Anna, the librarian for the new Jewish Museum here (created a few years ago with reparations money from the Norwegian government in recognition of Norway’s collaboration in sending approximately 700 of Norway’s 1500 Jews to the camps). Anna was leaving town the next day so could not help beyond giving us the name and number of a synagogue member who might be able to help; (5) calling this synagogue member who somehow misunderstood our call and believed we were asking ourselves to dinner at his house on Rosh Hashana (to which he said No, I have too many guests already); (6) receiving the next day an email from someone at the Temple, affirming that there would be Services on Rosh Hashana but not telling us WHEN; (7) preparing to just show up on Rosh Hashana at a time that seemed appropriate to us. But as we were readying ourselves, Bram began showing signs of illness, so we gave up and stayed home.

Yom Kippur? We didn’t even try. 

In fact, I booked a roundtrip ferry ride to Copenhagen for that weekend, driven by the realization that this was the last weekend of the season that Tivoli, the grand old amusement park, which opened in the 1840s, was open, and not by any intentional disregard for piety (although the fact that I did this shows a lack of piety.) By the way, the ferry ride to and from was marvelous, and Tivoli was both beautiful and lots of fun.

Relaxing on board the ship.

Fun on yet another ride.

Tivoli palace at night.

We happened to be wandering on foot around downtown Copenhagen on Yom Kippur, and when we came across the synagogue, I wanted to stop. Surprisingly, the synagogue is surrounded by a high iron fence. At the gates, which were locked, stood three armed guards, who immediately approached us and wanted to know what we were doing lingering in front of the synagogue. I told them that we were Americans, currently living in Oslo, and that we wished to see the synagogue. They shook their heads no, and appointed one among their triad to deal with us. She said that we couldn’t be admitted to the synagogue grounds without identification, and when offered our American passports, she indicated that these were inadequate. I am still not sure what kind of identification would have worked. We were told that we could take a photo of the synagogue and they pointed down the street, suggesting a good vantage point. I didn’t think it looked better than where I stood so gathered that they were indicating indirectly that they themselves were not to be in any of the photos.

Copenhagen synagogue half a block from the entrance.

So we walked back down the street, where we encountered a woman on her way to Services. She must have heard us speaking, as she approached us and began speaking in English. “Don’t you know what today is? It’s Yom Kippur!” I assured her that we knew this. After I explained that we were Americans from Oslo, she relaxed a little and admitted that she too, was an American, but has lived in Denmark since 1969. Then she explained the reason for the high security: the Copenhagen synagogue was bombed in 1985, along with an adjacent nursing home. She said that one person—a North African non-Jewish man, in fact—was killed. Later, I looked up the incident on the web and saw that 27 were injured. The website did not mention any deaths, so perhaps his was not immediate but a result of injuries. That bombing can’t alone—to my mind—explain the intense security almost 30 years later, so I gather that there have been other incidents, not necessarily violent ones, that have led the synagogue to feel that it and its members are somehow under assault. I don’t know this for sure, however.

We learned from this woman that the rabbi of the synagogue is a Melchior, and that a Melchior was the rabbi there during World War II (most of Denmark’s Jews were saved from the camps through the help of the Danish underground), and that the family has a lock on the rabbinate throughout Scandinavia. So I googled the Melchiors when we got back to Oslo and found that, indeed, the rabbi at the Oslo synagogue is a Melchior and that his father is the Chief Rabbi of Norway, even though he now lives in Israel. Apparently, he emigrated there in the 1980s and then entered the Knesset, where he was in a coalition with Labour, when they—oh, so long ago!—were in power. He works with Muslims and Christians in Israel to promote peace, through a two-state solution. I read an interview he did with journalist dubious about the two-state idea. Melchior stated that there is a powerful Israeli lobby in America, but that they are not the ones obstructing a two-state solution; it is the Israelis themselves who are responsible for this and they must lead the way to sanity.

About a week after Yom Kippur, Doug received an email from someone at the Oslo synagogue. The assistant to the rabbi was inviting us to the synagogue AND telling us when services are! We were told we could come at 9 am on Saturday for regular services, where the men sit in the main sanctuary and the women sit in the balcony. Or, the message seemed to say, we could attend the family service at 11 am, which would be conducted in Norwegian and English and involve activities, songs and games. I was very happy about this development and we decided to go today, it being Sukkot. I leaned toward the early service but Doug did not want to attend a segregated service so we opted for the family service, which, by its very name, we presumed would be unsegregated.

We arrived a bit before 11 am and were surprised to find doors locked, no one anywhere, and no way to indicate our arrival to anyone inside. After standing there, dumbfounded, for about a minute, a security guard suddenly appeared. Suspiciously, he asked us what we wanted. I told him we had arrived for services. “They’re going on right now!” he responded, as if in challenge to what I had claimed. I explained to him the content of the email we had received and he said he had no idea what we were talking about. Trying not to show the umbrage I was feeling, I asked him whether we could come in or not. He decided “yes,” but wanted to scrutinize our identification cards (we showed him our Norwegian Residency Cards). After this, he somewhat apologetically admitted us.  Then we were turned over to a young woman, who was friendly but seemed not to know what to do with us. She denied any knowledge of a family service. She did walk us up several flights of stairs to the Sukkah and said that soon, others would show up.

After what seemed like a long wait, a group of young kids began trickling in. Then two young adult women came in. They introduced themselves to us, but it was clear they knew very little English. So I introduced us to them in Norwegian and that didn’t work either. We soon realized that they were Israelis and were fluent only in Hebrew. They sat down with all of us at the tables in the Sukkah, passed out song books, and proceeded to sing song after song with the kids. The words and the tunes were completely unfamiliar to us, and despite an admirable attempt by Rabbi Melissa Simon to teach me Hebrew two years ago, I remain illiterate, having forgotten all but three letters of the alphabet.

Then there was a story in Hebrew, that was translated into Norwegian by a helpful mom who wandered in. I could understand it, but the rest of the family couldn’t but it didn’t matter. At this point, Addie and Bram were just waiting for it to end, exercising their usual patience, but displaying none of their usual joyousness. This was becoming a marathon of endurance that only I seemed committed to smiling through. We were waiting things out until we could sneak home, and encouraging this feeling was the lack of friendliness that I so strongly associate with organized Jewish worship. This may show both my lack of experience and/or the extraordinariness of Shir Tikvah, our synagogue in Minneapolis. After all the confusion about gaining entry to the synagogue and the imprecision about when things were going to occur, I commented to Doug that it was like being in Latin America. “Yes, but without the warmth,” was Doug’s rejoinder. 

I puzzled over whether this lack of friendliness was a reflection of their Norwegianity (is there such a word?). Is it reasonable, ever, to engage in cultural stereotyping? Whether or not it is, we have noticed that Norwegians, in general, are very reserved, and not apt to smile at strangers) or of their experiences as a Jewish community that has suffered at least one violent assault. This occurred about 7 years ago, when shots were fired into the synagogue from the street. The synagogue’s response was to erect cement barriers in the street, which make it impossible to drive up to, or past, the synagogue. Additionally, security guards were hired and a steel, locked door installed.

Oslo's synagogue

. There are about 800 members, and because they come from a variety of religious traditions, the synagogue observes Orthodox practices, so that no one is left out.

Jews here, or at least some, also feel that there is hostility to them. When we first arrived here, we met with Anna from the Jewish Museum (who is not Jewish herself), who told us “it is not safe to be a Jew here in Oslo.” The anti-semitism, in her telling, is coming from the Muslim immigrants. Twenty-five percent of Oslo’s population are immigrants; the largest contingents are from Sweden and Poland, but they are not as noticeable here as those from South Asian and Africa, many of whom are Muslim, and some of whom wear the hijab. According to Anna, these kids openly make anti-semitic comments at school. A recent study of school kids in Norway showed that over 30% of Jewish children had experienced bullying of some kind. The Israeli press has written about anti-Semitism in Norway. However, the press there has refused to lay the blame solely with Muslims. They suggest it is those of Nordic heritage who are driving the hostility to the Jews. As evidence, the journalists point to Norway’s criticism of Israel’s treatment of the Palestinians. 

I do not agree that criticism of Israel’s policies and behaviors as a State are the same as anti-Semitism. It’s fallacious, as I expect that some of those who wield the accusation well understand. However, this doesn’t mean that there is not anti-semitism in Norway that does not have Islamic roots. In our neighborhood, for example (which sits on the edge of a posh shopping district) and is largely Caucasian, there are the remnants of several posters advertising a neo-Nazi rally of some kind; their appeal is to white youth, not Muslims. Additionally, the so-called Progress Party (the FrP) just won 16% of the vote here. This is down from the 25% is snagged in the last election, before the party was partially discredited when it became known that the mass-shooter, Anders Breivig, had been an FrP member. The FrP is very anti-Muslim (they sponsored legislation a couple of years ago to ban the hijab), but this is not because they are pro-Jew. They are pro “traditional” Norway, i.e. the Norway of myth that is peopled only by the blond-haired and blue-eyed. (This is of course mythic as anyone who has paid a visit to an exhibit on the Vikings will immediately realize. But what use is history anyway?) 

Poster remnant a half a block from our apartment.

The accusation of anti-Semitism stings here because of World War II and what happened here. Norway had few Jews but half of them were sent to the camps. Yes, Norway was occupied by the Nazis, but it also had a Quisling government that fully cooperated with the invaders. A visit to the Resistance Museum here will make clear that there were many Norwegians who wanted nothing to do with the Nazis. Their extraordinary cleverness and bravery are astounding. (With the help of the Resistance, half of Norway's Jews escaped to Sweden or elsewhere.) Given its name, the museum offers only the admission, in one sentence, that some Norwegians welcomed the Nazis. In fact, this figure may be as high as 30%. (I recommend Jo Nesbø’s Redbreast, his best book, and one that discusses the zeal of some Norwegians for what the Nazis could offer.) In response to Israeli accusations of anti-semitism, the Minister of Education (who leads one of the socialist parties and has been critical of Israel’s foreign policy) mandated a program of anti-anti-semitism in the public schools. (I assume that this program will go forward despite the results of the recent election, which gave a victory to the conservative parties and means that neither the socialist parties nor Labour, will be party of the governing coalition.)

 The Resistance Museum (the execution ground, where the Nazis shot many Resistance fighters is just outside the building)

After the Sukkah activities, we were directed to the sanctuary. The kids were to go up on the bima with Doug; I was not allowed, but could go up to the women’s area. Addie and Doug both seemed concerned about my exclusion but I was eager to head up to the balcony and observe. I had glanced into the sanctuary and had no interest in going in. It reminded me, in layout, of a Lutheran church, complete with a raised altar above the bima approached only by climbing narrow, steep stairs. It felt austere and cold. There was a rabbi on the bima, chanting in Hebrew; he faced the ark rather than the worshippers. I had not seen that since my visit, as a guest of my best friend, to a Catholic Church. It was a few years after the Second Vatican, but the priest still offered the prayers in Latin with his back to the congregation. As a child, I had found this unfathomably strange, and as an adult, I felt the same way.

Upstairs, however, was entirely different. There, we could hear the chanting of the men, but with the exception of perhaps three women, whose heads were covered by scarves, no one was really listening or taking it seriously. Instead, they sat in groups of two or three, many of them a mix of young women and old. They whispered and laughed softly, they intermittently hugged each other or draped arms around each other. In the instances when a woman entered with an infant, everyone gathered around to fawn over the baby, and take turns holding it to give the mother a break to relax. In the balcony, it was as if the service were background music that helped create a mood for this time and place where women, relations or friends, to gather and catch up with each other. And yet, despite the inattention to the services, the women did periodically stand, as was apparently called for by what was happening down below. When the kids finally approached the bima (about 30 minutes after we’d been told this would happen), many of the kids looked up to scrutinize the faces in the balcony and wave; the women smiled and waved back.

When the service finally ended, we headed for the oneg. But it was not yet time to chat people up. We’d not yet said Kiddush. Several people walked through the crowd with small glasses of “wine” (which tasted like sherry, but was nonalcoholic), and then encouraged us to find a place, somewhere. The room was packed so we ended up back in the Sukkah, in at the back but left with a bubble of space around us, as if no one else wanted to stand too close, even if it meant squeezing themselves together. We attracted stares, too, but no smiles, even when I tried smiling at some kids and older people. The rabbi eventually entered, said the prayer and we broke bread. Then a man and woman stood up and invited us to partake of the oneg, indicated that it was being provided by Israel for Israel, a group eager to promote love and respect for Israel among the Norwegian people and seeking people and ideas for making this happen. I wanted to raise my hand and suggest that Israel stop expanding the settlements, but decided that would not increase the warmth in the room toward us.

While waiting for a chance at some coffee (not really coffee; here, at public events, you are offered hot water and instant coffee), I heard English being spoken, so grabbed my opportunity and struck up a conversation. It turned out that the woman was American, from Brooklyn, studying at the University of Oslo through a fabulous program (no longer being offered, unfortunately) that offers full scholarship plus expenses to undergraduates around the world. Upon hearing my story about our difficulty making contact with the synagogue, the woman averred that she had had the exact experience last year when she arrived in Oslo. Is it because of fear of terrorism that no one responds to calls from unknown people, I asked? The woman didn’t think so. Her explanation: “Norwegians are lazy.” 

I decided to ask someone else. Again, I heard American English. I approached the person who turned out to be a Norwegian who had picked up a pretty nearly infallible American accent from four years of study at the University of Florida. I told him how surprising it was for us, as Americans, to experience the security and suspicion at the Oslo synagogue, and told him that things in America are very different. There is a lot of hatred right now, he explained, but “Soon, both countries will be the same.” I felt hopeful, and assumed he meant that this hatred, based on the lack of familiarity between Norwegians Jews and the newly arrived Muslim immigrants would dissipate over time. Instead, he continued,  “Do you know how many Muslims have immigrated to the U.S.? I hope you will do something about this. These people are filled with hate. In the U.S., things will soon be like they are here.” Then he left to catch up with his wife before I could respond.

Meanwhile, Addie and Bram were taking full advantage of the extravagant oneg, eating lunch and at least five desserts. Doug and I were ready to go but we had a siddur, a gift from Shir Tikvah, to pass to the rabbi. We had been warned by another synagogue member that, it being shabbas, the rabbi would not be able to accept our gift. We decided to give it a try anyway. Rabbi Melchior greeted us warmly, accepted the siddur, and welcomed us to attend synagogue while we are in Oslo. “We are an Orthodox synagogue but we are a LIBERAL Orthodox synagogue,” he said. This did not seem like the place and time to ask him for his definition of “liberal.” As we walked home, I felt that I would like to attend services again and talk to more people. But I don’t think we will do this again soon.