A note from the publisher: Cape Town lawyer Alan Smiedt wrote an amazing account of how his new-found relationship with Judaism helped him cope with the death of his parents for his Shul’s Annual Rosh Hashanah magazine.
When I read this two months ago, I asked Alan for permission to reprint it. “I have no problem with you doing that provided that it is after the Shul magazine has come out,” Alan responded. Little did I know that he would give me the go-ahead just days after I, too, had lost a parent. This is something everyone should read…
FROM MERRIMAN TO MARAIS ROAD
On the first day of Pesach 2006, my mother passed away. I made a commitment that I would honour her memory by going to Shul for the full period of 11 months. By way of introduction I must tell you that I came from a very Reform household, a once a year Jew, well, maybe once a year.
My family lived in Goodwood in a street abutting Merriman Road (one of the main roads in Goodwood) where the Orthodox Shul stood and for whatever reasons my parents decided that it would be better for me to receive a Reform Jewish upbringing rather than a conservative Orthodox instruction.
So, no ‘Cheder’ for me after school – for me it was Friday afternoons and Saturday morning at the Temple. The best thing about the Temple was the shop next door to the Shul which had the best biltong in town. We were obliged to go to Shul after lessons, so at 11 sharp off we went to Shul where most of the service was spent in working out if we were doing one page in three minutes, how long the service would last.
I had told my friends of my commitment to honour my mother. They did look at me somewhat askance wondering whether I had perhaps gone off my head or worse, was on some kind of substance as this was from somebody who had scorned the Orthodox upbringing and thought it was outdated and in need of urgent repair. Having said that, I was, however, married in the Marais Road Shul by Rabbi Franklin as my wife had refused to marry me in a Reform ceremony.
I should have realised at that point that despite my giving the impression that I was in control of my family, I really was not and that this was the shape of things to come!
Easter Monday was the first day after the funeral and the first day of 11 months of mourning. One of my friends persuaded me to go to Ohr Somayach with him.
“You an Avel.”
“A what?”
“An Avel.”
I looked nonplussed wondering what in heavens name an Avel was. My friend intervened and the crisis was averted.
‘Oi !’ What am I letting myself in for? If I thought that things would improve thereafter I was mistaken. The next challenge was to find the place in the “mamzer.” I was corrected that the correct terminology for prayer book was “machzor” not “mamzer.”
I looked right – no help from that side - left, ‘ah yes’ my friend mouthed the page to me and I was set – only to lose it a few minutes later. I had recognised one or two words on the page but by the time I thought I had it, I was poked gently in the ribs ‘Kadish’ – what was I supposed to do. If I thought that was bad – it wasn’t – a few minutes later I was poked again “Rabbone Kadish,” I was told. Now why should I have to read the Rabbis’ Kadish – I am not a Rabbi and after this experience there was no chance of my ever becoming one.
Again my friend came to my aid and said he would say it for me – G-d was smiling on me – he had averted three crises in the space of half an hour.
When I came home that day, I recall having said to my wife “Oi what have I done. That will teach me to make such promises. Do I need this? Why have I done this, maybe I have bitten off more than I could chew. Am I mad?”
There I was on day one with twenty or so men, some walking around, some singing, some clapping. This so-called morning service started at 8 and finished at 10. It was a Monday and I was later to find out that the Torah is taken out on Mondays and Thursdays and that’s what took so long.
So, came the next day, a friend took me down to Marais Road for the evening service. I was introduced to the persons who mattered. No introduction to Normie, the Gabba of the Shul, was necessary as he already knew my whole family history, full name of my son, his Hebrew name and I’m sure, if asked, my army number off pat.
Things were a little better than the day before but soon heated up during the “Drosha” when Rabbi Hayon and a congregant were arguing about whether an Eland had a cloven hoof or not – who cares? - did the Eland really care whether it was going to be devoured by Jews or Christians? Why make such a big fuss?
I started attending Saturday morning services but little did I know that my test was coming. One Saturday morning Normie came up to me: “You can do ................” – I was to get a speaking part! I remember my friend saying to me “When the Rabbi says Matana, just say yes.” I was later to find out that this is code for “Yes, I will give a donation”.
My path through the services was not easy but thanks to my friends and the Rabbis it was made easier. As I said when I was given the honour of being one of the Chatanim last year, I would come to Shul with my good friend, he would come to talk to G-d and I would come to talk to him!
I had come a long way since those days in Merriman Road. I was now well on my way forward to becoming a Marais Road regular.
Gradually as I became “one of the boys at Marais Road” I started looking forward to going to Shul every night and, what I thought was going to be a complete agony turned out to be the beginning of a spiritual journey and one that helped me mourn the loss of my dear mother.
That was the year 2006.
My life was again thrown into turmoil when my dear father passed away in January 2010 on Tu Bishvat and it gave me the opportunity of furthering my journey. This time it was relatively easy, if you can call the loss of a loved one easy, as I had done it before. I even had a regular seat!!
During my second “Aveilut” period, I was lucky enough to have Rabbis Wineberg and Silman look after me and guide me through. They continued to stimulate my interest in Judaism so much so that my wife and I, at the beginning of the year, signed up for the Florence Melton Adult Education programme!
One day when I arrive in heaven in my yarmulke and talis looking for my parents, I wonder whether they will recognise me.
“Was this the podgy little boy we worked so hard to send to the Temple, that we had to ‘schlep’ backwards and forwards from Goodwood to Sea Point four times between Friday and Sunday? What happened to that nice Reform upbringing that we have slaved for?”
I can just see my mother saying to my father “It would have been a whole lot easier if we had sent this little boy of ours down the road to the Orthodox Shul, in Merriman Road!!!!”
