Diversity

It had a documentary feel to it. I was an observer in a world that was foreign to me. I was the stranger. They stared at me wondering what I was doing in their world.

We walked until he decided to stop. A good place to take pictures, he said. I was his 'assistant'. He zoomed in and focused his lens. He was taking pictures of letters today. An experiment, he told me.

Williamsburg had lots of Hebrew letters. On the buses, on the storefronts, on the entrance to shuls and yeshivas. People stared at us at they walked by. They had suspicious looks on their faces. And interest. Why was this man taking pictures in their neighborhood?

No one stopped us. No one ran out screaming at us to 'please leave Williamsburg'. I heard Yidish being spoken all around me. I wasn't sure how well they can speak English. I know some yidish, but their accent is different.

We stopped in a park to sit down. I smiled at the kids as they rode past on their bikes. They stared at me, the stranger in their midst, with curiosity and hesitation. Perhaps I was akin to the man whom their parents warned never to take candy from.

We are both Jews, yet we are worlds apart. We come from the same nation, we serve the same G-d. But we dress differently, we talk differently, we act differently. I am not welcome in their world, because I am different than them. I am not so sure how welcome they would be in my world either.

It is an odd feeling. Like brothers who have never met. We feel like strangers. We treat each other like strangers. But at the end of the day, if you strip away the clothes, the speech, the customs, you discover the heart and soul, the neshama. We are both Jews.

So tell me, are we really that different?