Is it scary?

Yes. Converting to Judaism is terrifying. I am afraid of losing a sense of myself. I am afraid of being alienated from my family. I am wracked by what people may think of me. I’m scared of persecution, and petrified of living the rest of my life as an “outsider” - not being a Christian, and by virtue of being a converted Jew, not being “really Jewish” either.

J through his birth has an automatic acceptance at all orthodox Jewish social engagements. I do not have this privilege, and in the Jewish-northern-suburbs- Johannesburg-world, an exclusive social group even for Orthodox Jews, my background and convert status is going to prove tricky.

This feeling of alienation is omnipresent, and its sense heightened at Orthodox Jewish engagements. It is at these social events I find myself clinging tenuously to the notion of doing everything “right”. The death of J’s friend David’s mom is just one example:

David’s mom died at 3am on a Friday morning. At 10am that same morning J called to tell me the news. She was to be buried at 2pm that afternoon.

In the Jewish religion, I was to discover, the dead must be buried within 24 hours. In David’s mom’s case, this time period was shortened by some 12 hours, as sundown would mark the beginning of the Sabbath. During the Sabbath, no burials may take place. The Sabbath is observed strictly as a day of rest. In very orthodox circles, even menial tasks such as switching a light on and off will not be performed in observance of the rest day.

J’s call to tell me the news catches me in jeans and a t-shirt. Friday is casual day at our office. I am very fond of David, and would like to show my support. I tell J I want to join him at the funeral. After putting down the phone, and conducting a quick assessment of the situation I spiral into panic mode:

I have never been to a Jewish funeral before;
I am wearing jeans, a t-shirt and takkis (probably very inappropriate for the occasion);
It’s too late to go home and change, and still get to the funeral on time; and
Everyone is going to look at my inappropriate attire, and know that I am Christian and that I got it all wrong, and this is why Jews like J should never “marry-out” of the faith.

I call on my Orthodox Jewish friend and colleague for assistance. She advises on a dress for the occasion and tips me off on the colour scheme. I hop into my car, dash across the road to the shopping mall, and drop an obscene amount of money on a new outfit from head to toe, including a pair of rather high-heeled black boots.

We arrive at the Jewish section of the cemetery. We are slightly late, so we have missed the short prayer service conducted in doors. The funeral party has begun the procession to the gravesite. At the gravesite prayers are said, and one by one, I see Dave’s male friends and family pick up the spade from the ground, scoop soil up, and toss it into the grave. I watch J pick up the spade from the ground, and in the action of tossing soil into Dave’s mom’s grave, I think about J as a man, as a part of a community that literally helps to bury their dead. As part of a religion, that uses symbolic actions to make sense of hard experiences. A religion that uses the spade and soil, to say to the love one’s left behind, “here, I’ll help you bury the one you love, you can rely on me because I am still around”.

J’s friend Gordon, talks me through the service, explaining the different symbolic actions. I am deeply moved. So much so, that when we begin the return walk, I have forgotten my outsider status. Only the discomfort of the black high-heels sinking into the soft ground serves as a reminder that at the next Jewish funeral I attend, I will wear “practical shoes”.

Half way back, a little old man, walks over to J. I can see he is looking me up and down. I panic. I just know I have worn something inappropriate that has been deeply insulting to the Jewish community, and in everyone’s grief, they must not have had the opportunity to tell me. I feel that cold sensation run through my lungs, as the man takes hold of J’s arm. Looking at me he says, “Young lady, next time you come to the cemetery you must not wear those shoes,” I knew it, I think, I am trampling on the souls of dead people with my inappropriate black high-heels. The old man continues: “the ground is very soft, you may fall over and hurt yourself.”

Somewhere in the distance, I hear J strike up a conversation with the man, after I have mumbled a feeble “thank you”. I am so relieved, I want to laugh out loud, but the knowledge of how awkward I felt, how uncertain I think I will always feel at such occasions sobers my relief.
I return to the thought I like to torment myself with: will converting to Judaism ever make me feel part of this community?