EQUALITY & DIVERSITY OFFICER: Simon de Montfort

Dr Samuel Lebens believes it is. This is his tale of two cities: an old, welcoming one, and a modern city that he says tolerates hatred of its embattled Jewish minority

I was privileged to grow in up in Leicester; a beautiful city with fantastic schools, and a vibrant multi-cultural community. I cherish the ethnic diversity of my childhood.

Now, I'm studying to become a Rabbi where the study of Judaism is the only religion on the curriculum.

But, so moved was I during my youth by the wealth of multicultural wisdom around me that I chose to take a GCSE in Sikhism – a strikingly elegant religion with an egalitarian ethic.

I was also struck by the beauty of the other religions that surrounded me: Hinduism, Islam, and Christianity. These experiences, I carry with me in to my adult life.

As a leader of the National Union of Students (NUS), I was in joint charge of their campaign against racism and fascism.

I recall a motion that was debated at a national conference. The motion called for the NUS to condemn the practice of women wearing a headscarf.

My childhood experiences in Leicester had inoculated me from the xenophobia that motivates this suggestion.

I was among the first to stand in front of the 1,000 students at the conference, to defend a woman's right to dress as she pleases.

I couldn't be moved by the notion that Islam is inherently bigoted or prejudiced. My childhood included too many counter examples to any such claim.

I grew up in a Jewish community that felt safe within this multicultural environment.

Leicester has never been home to a large number of Jews. But we've always been proud of our association with it.

Indeed, the number of Jewish mayors that have graced Leicester's City Hall is vastly disproportionate to our numbers.

Growing up in that community, habituated to the tolerance around me, gave me a confidence in my minority identity. I owe that to the city of Leicester.

But let me describe to you another city.

At best, it can be described as a city that tolerates the anti-Semitism in its midst.

In the past few years, I have found it is almost impossible to walk down its main streets without having anti-Semitic abuse hurled at me and my family.

Cars slow down, with windows opened, in order to unleash a bloodcurdling howl of Jew-hatred.

I don't feel comfortable to dress, outwardly, as a Jew in that city.

It is a place to which I fear to bring my children; I don't want them to know the face of anti-Semitism.

A young relative of the Rabbi, in that city, had a pellet gun shot at him indiscriminately. The synagogue there has been the target of repeated acts of vandalism.

Recently, anti-Semites located the home of its only Orthodox Rabbi.

They hurled bricks through its door in the middle of the night. The fear that such an attack can strike into the hearts of a young family is barely describable.

When will the next brick come? Will it still be a brick, or will it, God forbid, be something worse?

How are they supposed to explain the attacks to their children? It is the sort of fear that can drive a family, and even a community, out of a city.

The city I'm now describing is also Leicester; the Leicester of my adulthood.

Not since Simon de Montfort, who was known for his Jew-hatred, has Leicester been so overcast with the shadow of anti-Semitism.

Leicester's Jewish community is shrinking. It is unlikely to last as a viable community for another generation.

Its youth are attracted to larger centres of Jewish life. But, under the leadership of its vibrant young Rabbi and his wife, the community has been host to something of a renaissance.

Leicester would like to believe its greatest asset is its communal cohesion.

Mercury reporter Adam Wakelin's recent feature expressed his dismay at the attacks on our Rabbi and his family, but concluded that Leicester is, nevertheless, a tolerant town.

"Once upon a time we made socks and shoes," he wrote. "Now we do diversity. Rather well, usually."

But Leicester should be under no illusion about the scale of the problem it faces.

Very few of Leicester's Jews dress outwardly as Jews (in skull caps, and fringes on the corners of their clothes).

But, when a Jew does walk around dressed in traditional garb, there's almost bound to be to be a confrontation.

Community cohesion might be good, generally, but if even one religious identity cannot flourish there, then it cannot be said to be a city that "does diversity".

What are Leicester's faith communities going to do? What is the council going to do?

Other than issuing reassuring statements, how are they going to combat the rise of anti-Semitic attitudes?

Many of the anti-Semites who have confronted me in Leicester were of clear religious affiliation, and belonged to ethnic minorities themselves. They should have known better.

I haven't a clue who's responsible for this most recent spate of attacks; I certainly won't jump to any assumptions.

However, Councillor Sood was surely right to claim that "attacks on one religion are attacks on all religions".

Until the rank and file membership of faith groups in Leicester take this lesson to heart, those communities have a duty to do more than issue reassuring quotes, however heartfelt.

I appreciate their support but what are they actually going to do? What are you going to do?

The last chapter of Leicester's Jewish history is currently being written.

It could be a glorious ending: an old, venerable community, winds down, merging with larger communities elsewhere.

Alternatively, the last chapter could be one in which the Jewish community is hounded and bullied out of its city by an anti-Semitism that almost goes unnoticed.

Which of these cities does Leicester want to be?

Dr Samuel Lebens is studying towards Rabbinical ordination and lives with his wife and two children in Israel.

Thursday, 2 June 2011

BUILDING TOLERANCE

Photo of Leicester Orthodox Synagogue by Ben Ravilious (with permission)

A follow-up article in today's Leicester Mercury, after it reported the attack on the home of the Rabbi of Leicester Hebrew Congregation on its front page last Saturday (28 May)

Building Tolerance

What happened to Rabbi Pink and his family was cowardly and creates fear. That is what we are working against

By Adam Wakelin

It was a throwback, the kind of headline you don't expect to see any more. Certainly not in Leicester. Yet there it was, on Saturday's front page: "Rabbi's home attacked by racist thugs".

We need to keep things in perspective, of course. Religious and cultural tolerance isn't coming off the rails just because a few brain-dead bigots took it upon themselves to break Rabbi Shmuli Pink's windows.

Even so, it doesn't sit easily with how we like to see ourselves.

Part of who we are, of what we've become, is that people in this city all rub along relatively happily.

Leicester has never knocked anyone flat with the force of its personality, but it has forged an identity from its respect of different cultures.

Once upon a time we made socks and shoes. Now we do diversity. Rather well, usually.

And the Jews, Leicester's oldest and perhaps least visible minority, have done more than most to build those bridges – and much else.

There are many notables from a community that has never numbered more than 700 to 800.

Children of all creeds and colours chase the pigeons around the fountain in Town Hall Square.

The fountain was bought for us by a Jew: Wealthy businessman, philanthropist and four-times mayor Israel Hart.

He also paid for the building of Leicester's first branch library and laid out Spinney Hill Park.

Goldsmiths Library, another landmark, was paid for by the industrialist Mac Goldsmith.

The illustrious Dr Dub, a deputy director of public health in Leicester, could have earned handsome sums from a private practice. Instead, he chose to pioneer the treatment of the city's children.

Dr Frank May, a Leicester businessman, was given the Freedom of the City for his charitable endeavours. Three city mayors have been Jewish.

"A lot has been achieved by a small community," says Aubrey Newman, an emeritus professor of history at the University of Leicester.

"It has always punched above its weight."

If confirmation is needed of how big a part the Jewish community has played in Leicester's public life you only need look at the names of donors who helped pay for the building, in 1897, of the synagogue in Highfields.

Jews and Gentiles sit side by side on that board in the synagogue's vestry – a statement of unity and an acknowledgement of the contribution made to the city's economic and civic prosperity by Jews.

It was a community that had come a long way in a short space of time.

Simon De Montfort may have infamously banished the Jews from Leicester in 1231, but a formal Jewish community didn't really establish itself in the city until the 1870s.

A lot has been made of De Montfort's edict and the indelible stain his actions left on a city that has founded its future on tolerance.

His greatest crime was being a man of his time, believes Prof Newman.

There have never been anti-Semitic riots in Leicester, says Prof Newman. Even De Montfort's medieval purge wasn't entirely successful.

He didn't have dominion over all of the city and there is evidence Jews did remain.

That's not to say life was without its bumps and bruises.

The book Jewish Voices: Memories of Leicester in the 1940s and 50s has first-hand accounts of how hard it could be.

"One of my earliest memories is being told by the twins who lived across the road that they weren't allowed to play with me. Why? Because I was a Jew," said Rifka Mayers.

"I learnt at an early age to deny who I was – it made being at school safe."

Bernard Besbrode told a similar story. "At school you lived with anti-Semitism," he said. "I know all the names. I've been called all the names."

Mathilda Applebaum was at Wyggeston Girls' School in the early 1950s. The rather fine hedge now in Regent Road is testament to those less enlightened times.

"We had to stay out of assembly and scripture lessons so we did gardening," she said.

Others had different experiences.

"I never experienced anti-Semitism," said Katherine May. "We had lots of non-Jewish friends who, when they entertained us, made sure they provided all the food we could eat."

The late 1970s and early 80s were another troubling time as Swastikas started appearing on walls and the National Front went on the march against Asians, blacks and Jews.

The idiots didn't get their way. That doesn't mean prejudice ever completely went away.

Leicester is a world in one city now, and it has a world's worth of problems to absorb. Not always successfully.

When tensions explode in Palestine and Israel, it has ramifications much closer to home.

"I have some wonderful friends in the Muslim community. We are working hard on community cohesion and mutual respect," says Tony Nelson, the Jewish vice-chairman of Leicester's Council of Faiths.

"Down at grassroots level it is perhaps a different story. There is an awful lot of vitriolic stuff on the internet – and young people are impressionable.

"No-one can condone what happened to Rabbi Pink and his family. It was cowardly and it creates fear. That is what we are working against."

A lot is being done to defuse tensions and tackle prejudice.

Three colleges in Leicester have a Jewish chaplain. The synagogue holds open days for schoolchildren.

A Family of Abraham dialogue group has been established to bring members of the Christian, Muslim and Jewish communities together.

The St Phillip's Centre, established to build bonds between faiths, takes roadshows into schools and colleges.

Laurels aren't being rested on. But that doesn't make the fear go away.

A couple of Jewish people who spoke to the Mercury for this story didn't want their names going in the newspaper.

Why? They feared repercussions. Putting your head above the parapet is something some in this community are still instinctively fearful of.

Last year's Mitzvah Day, which saw progressive and orthodox Jews standing outside supermarkets to collect cash to help victims of domestic violence, was momentous in its own modest way.

It was the first time the community had rattled a tin under the noses of the Leicester public and said, hey, we're Jewish, we're doing something good here, help us out.

The reaction was overwhelmingly positive.

What happened to Rabbi Shmuli is a setback.

"It's very depressing and quite concerning that a major religious leader has been attacked," says Riaz Ravat, an interfaith worker at the St Phillip's Centre. "Our thoughts and prayers go out to him.

"The Jewish community is doing a sterling amount of work to tackle prejudice and misunderstanding.

"These incidents illustrate that we are on a journey and we have to keep plugging away."