Inside and out - Nech does Judaism in Hong Kong

I've been a bit busy since returning from Thailand and have been unable to devote enough time to write a good post for that. So for this week, check out a little reflection I wrote in response to a prompt asking for essays on Jewish experiences abroad:


I am a Jew studying abroad in Hong Kong.

I’ve eaten Sabbath dinner with a local Jewish family, translated my Hebrew name for dozens of people, and befriended the other Jewish exchange students. I’ve compared Jews’ and Asians’ material success in my Hong Kong Society class , debated Sabbath prohibitions with a religious friend, explained the dietary laws to locals, and squirmed while being served baby octopus, diced dog, and congealed pigs’ blood.

Through it all I sensed my Jewish roots hanging over me.

When I felt my religion most, however, I was nowhere near Jews, holidays, rituals, or even food.

I was walking back to my room one Thursday morning after class, hoping for a quick nap that would enable me to stay awake for the five lectures still to come. As I was crossing the bridge-link, I noticed a Chinese boy struggling with two pieces of luggage. He was panting, sweating, and taking breaks every few steps. He hadn’t even reached the stairs.

Dozens of other students passed by. And I, too, after stopping for a brief moment of pity, continued down the steps.

A few words, though, kept reverberating in my head. “Thou shalt not see thy brother's ass or his ox fallen down by the way, and hide thyself from them – thou shalt surely help him to lift them up again (Deut. 22:4);” “thou shalt surely assist him (Ex. 23:5).” The poetry of the Biblical Hebrew rang even stronger, “hakeim takim imo;” “azov ta’azov imo.”

I am living in a different society with very specific rules. I cannot make eye contact with an elder or point the teapot at anyone during Yam Cha; I should avoid tipping waiters and putting soy sauce on my rice. I must wait to unwrap gifts, use both hands when giving an item, and belch loudly after a hearty meal to declare my satisfaction.

The Lonely Plant culture guide says nothing about a twenty-three year old chemistry student holding a Mickey Mouse duffel.

I reached the bottom and looked up. He fumbled to reposition his bags as he approached the stairs; his face betrayed a sense of defeat. I turned around, walked back up, and offered him a hand. His name is Xie Ni, shorthand for one of the few Mandarin phrases I know. It means, “thank you.”

I am living in a different society with very new people. I am sleeping across from Sun-Tan and Fai instead of Mordechai and Daniel. I am learning about Confucius and Mao instead of Moses and Akiba. I am wearing a white string from a Buddhist monk in a forest temple instead of a red string from an old woman at the Western Wall.

I am no longer living in a Jewish bubble. But as far as I’ve gone from external Jewish influences, they remain powerful within.