the exile within

Male circumcision is one of the only Jewish rites still practised unanimously amongst secular Israeli Jews. Although a majority of men in Europe and the US are circumcised, performing this under a religious pretext (and very much in a religious setting, i.e. in the hands of a male rabbi with a scalpel and only a wine-soaked pacifier as a source of comfort) seems a bit archaic. Enter the power of convention. 

“Why do I need my son to be different than everybody else?”

One may as well take to dyeing red hair black for its unpopularity. Comparing penises is not something I remember doing much throughout my childhood, and even if some children do, the idea that they would be so unforgiving of an extra piece of skin as to effect serious psychological damage is, from my experience, quite detracting. 

“He would join the army and stand out in the showers, he doesn’t need that.”

I say that will be the least of his worries at that point. In fact the highest rate of army suicides seems to be among circumcised males. 

Like many religious practises designed to protect the community and its individuals from both physical and spiritual harm, circumcision has largely lost its practical benefits with the advance of good hygiene and sexual contraceptives. For those not affiliated with the concept of a spiritual covenant with a male God authority, circumcision remains a habit fuelled by either medical myth or aesthetic preference. 

I attended a “Brit” (Covenant) - a circumcision celebration - last week. It was hosted by a friend of the family; a single mother who has bravely adopted two children from a wrecked family ridden by drugs and violence. To complete the adoption procedures, she has had to contend that the children become Jewish - their real mother is not. Since the boy had not been circumcised at the customary age of 8 days, he had to undergo the operation now, at the age of 4. This was performed in a hospital under anaesthesia. 

It was one of those happenings that do not seem certain of their own purpose and thus gain a special air of festivity. We have punch and we are here to celebrate. It is not so important what. Some strange conflation between the Covenant and Hanukkah was attempted by a skullcap-wearing member of the otherwise secular suburban community, but this too was quickly washed away by the synthesised sounds of karaoke. 

Outside, I take to the swings in the playground. A little sand gets in my shoes but it’s worth it. 

“Check it out! Look at it fly!”, my 7-year old cousin prides himself on the successful release of a helium-filled balloon. “Shahaf, if you are in London and you find that balloon, remember it was from me.”

“OK, I’ll remember.”