Preparing Ourselves
For The Big Day

The big day is just about here.
Next week, Jewish children throughout the area
will return to school. There's nothing quite like
that first morning, up early, with a fresh box of
pencils and a sharp outfit, a backpack and
tremendous hope for a year of learning and new
experiences.
Education is wondrous to watch. A young
mind makes a fragile start with learning the
ABCs, then seemingly overnight takes on
physics, Talmud and literature, developing into
what may one day be the next Einstein or George
Washington or Rabbi Akiva.
It is a miracle we can never take for grant-
ed, and one we should carefully guide.
The education of children must never be in-
terrupted, even to rebuild the Temple, the Tal-
mud teaches. Yet our children's Jewish education
has been interrupted again and again. And it's
our fault.
So they don't learn Hebrew, so what, we say.
So they never attend synagogue or temple, who
cares? So they would rather watch cartoons than
learn about Jewish history, what does it matter?
It matters tremendously.
For our children, each year is a new start.
From us, it's often the same old rhetoric.
"Let's do something about Jewish education!"
we say, perhaps well-intentioned, but all-too-
rarely backing our words with actions.

It's a fact. Jewish education is the best pre-
vention for an illness about which we all com-
plain: Young men and women ignorant of their
religion, culture and heritage; boys and girls for
whom sports is more important than Hebrew;
Jews who have no interest in marrying other
Jews.
Everybody says Jewish education is good. But
is everybody actually doing something about it?
Detroit is remarkable, because we have no
lack of outstanding Jewish day schools, after-
noon programs and Jewish educators. Organi-
zations nationwide turn to this community
because dour innovative programming.
But what good is any of it if we don't take ad-
vantage?
If we as a community are serious about safe-
guarding the future — if we are sincere about
that buzzword "continuity" — then it's time we
get to business.
Support the local day schools. Send your child
to Jewish education classes (and enroll yourself,
too). Tell your son or daughter you want to put
a bumper sticker on your car that says, "Proud
parent of a child who knows Hebrew."
Just as it is a new beginning for our children,
next week also can be a first for us. It can be the
first time we make a serious commitment to Jew-
ish education.

TH E DE TRO T J E WIS H N EWS

Rosh Hashanah No Holiday
For Southfield Schools

4

While it's understandable that Southfield Schools
remain open during Rosh Hashanah and Yom
Kippur, because of a declining Jewish student
enrollment, it still doesn't make us feel any bet-
ter about the future of Jewish community in-
volvement there.
The announcement pretty much makes it of-
ficial what we've been kidding ourselves into ig-
noring. Southfield is no longer the Jewish
address it once was. When we've written this in
past pages, we've all but been accused of creat-
ing a hoax or even contributing to the Jewish
demise in Southfield.
The school system is permitting excused ab-
sences for students and granting pay for Jewish

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THE BIG WORD
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teachers who must be absent the days of the hol-
idays. The announcement, though, isn't going to
be much of a help when a Jewish family is de-
ciding whether or not to make Southfield its ad-
dress or not. Similarly, this cannot bode well for
area synagogues.
Southfield still offers tree-lined streets, cozy
homes and neighborhoods, places of worship and
good access to expressways. Now, its school sys-
tem doesn't offer Jewish holidays off. Hopefully
this will be the bottoming out of anything that
remotely symbolizes a Jewish exodus. There's
still a great deal of Jewish life in Southfield even
if school is open on Rosh Hashanah.

rixor -Teu.

AN EoDte
BUTITINIK
EMS
OUR
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Opinion

The Kindness
Of Strangers

ELIZABETH APPLEBAUM ASSOCIATE EDITOR

A curious thing happened to me
the other evening at the store.
My husband, Phillip, and I took
our two children and went to pick
up a few items. It was about 7:30
when we arrived. My daughter
was riding in the cart and my 10-
month-old boy, Yitzhak, was sit-
ting in the front (the space
reserved for children, or handbags
and coupon-holders).
We hadn't been inside long
when Yitzhak started crying.
At first, I thought he was only
tired. (His entire afternoon nap
that day lasted 15 minutes.)
Then Phil and I realized some-
thing was seriously wrong.
Yitzhak's leg had become
caught between two heavy met-
al bars in the grocery-store cart.
Phil tried to pull the bars apart
while I struggled to push
Yitzhak's leg back through and
out. But the cart was too sturdy,
and it soon became clear that no
amount of pushing and pulling
would get it open.
I ran for a store attendant,
who in turn brought a manager.
She said she would call the fire
department.
By this time, though, Yitzhak's
leg was starting to turn deep red.
"What if it takes 10 minutes for
them to get here?" I wondered.
Who knew what shape Yitzhak's
leg would be in.
Fortunately, my husband was
calm enough to order the man-
ager to get help from the store's
hardware department. He had
realized the only way to get
Yitzhak's leg out would be to cut
the shopping cart.
Yitzhak, meanwhile, was start-
ing to scream. Tears came down
his face. I felt myself in some kind
of strange movie — I knew I was
there, but I simply couldn't believe
this was happening.
Meanwhile, a crowd had gath-
ered around the shopping cart.
One man — dark, young, with
short hair — was furiously try-
ing to pull apart the shopping
cart poles. Another shopper — a
blonde woman — ripped open the
bag of ice she had just bought and

began rubbing it on Yitzhak's
swollen leg. A third man, a body-
builder type, also tried to pry
apart the poles. Someone else
urged us to get hand lotion, to
loosen the leg.
Finally (these traumatic
events that really last five min-
utes seem to endure at least 10
hours), someone came with the
heavy cutters. The young man
with the short hair quickly
grabbed them and got to work.
The poles opened and Yitzhak
was out, safely.
Everybody who knows me will
tell you I'm a cynic. I hate any-
thing that's "shared." I don't care
if you're finding your "inner
child." And if you tell me you "feel
my pain" I'm for certain going to
get sick.
I also tend to dwell on the
painful in life: Why was there a
Holocaust, why are children
abused? I wonder over and over
and sometimes literally lose sleep.
But this brief incident at the
store had a profound effect on me.
It was a kind of quiet moment of
revelation that reminded me that
maybe human beings aren't so
awful after all.
These scenes don't happen of-
ten, and usually they last just a
few minutes. Brian Friel wrote
beautifully of one in Philadel-
phia, Here I Come. A young Irish-
man, estranged from his family,
has a single fond memory of his
childhood: Sitting in a boat and
fishing with his father. He won-
ders for days if his father also re-
calls the incident. Finally he asks
him, only to be told, "No."
None of those people at the
store knew me or my family.
Probably we never will see each
other again. But many of them
— from the body builder to the
blonde woman with ice — did
everything they could to help us
in those few terrifying minutes.
Their concern, their efforts were
sincere.
"The highest form of wisdom is
kindness," the Talmud teaches.
I felt kindness this week. And
I will forever be grateful for it. fl

