Yom Kippur. The ‘Day of Atonement’. The day when Jewish people around the globe are encouraged to ask forgiveness for their sins during the previous 12 months. It’s a day that for me as a child was traumatic for a number of reasons, but that has been transformed since my move to Israel into a day that I now actually look forward to.

I never had a problem fasting for 24 hours. Some people find it a terrible ordeal not being able to eat or drink even water for the period, but I rarely found it a challenge. What was difficult for me as a child growing up in Leeds in England, was going to synagogue on Holy Days like Rosh Hashanah (the Jewish New Year), and on Yom Kippur, when I felt little connection to the religious traditions of my people. 

I always found the atmosphere of the synagogue intimidating and puzzling in equal measures. How could people who supposedly believe in God, come to His house of prayer and then steadfastly spend most of the time ignoring the service, gossiping about local scandal and commenting on the fashion sense (or lack of it), of people from the neighbourhood? It all seemed to me then, (and still does now), somewhat perverse. How could people who profess to call themselves observant and know it is forbidden to drive a car to synagogue, then drive and hide the car a few hundred metres away, often blocking the side roads and driveways of local residents, before strolling in, pretending they had walked the whole mile or two from their homes? 

That’s not to say that there weren’t a good number who genuinely stuck to the rules and did respect the holiness of the Shabbat service or High Holy Days. My grandpa clearly felt it his duty to take me to synagogue, (even though he wasn’t a particularly observant Jew), as a way of connecting me to my history, my religion and my people. I respect him a great deal for that as he wasn’t in the business of imposing his views on me, but preferred me to make my own judgements on the matter.

Yom Kippur would fill me with dread at the thought of having to be interred in the synagogue environment for much of the day. To make matters easier, I insisted on sleeping-in late, then going for a walk with Grandpa to the park (he never objected), before heading up to the synagogue for the last couple of hours before the end of Yom Kippur itself.

By this point, especially if it had been a warm day, many people who were most likely unsuited to going without food and water due to medical conditions or a weak constitution, would be starting to wobble a bit. It was not unusual to hear a thud followed by a minor commotion as some unfortunate soul passed out and hit the deck. One year I recall hearing a number of ‘tumblers’ and after the third couldn’t even be bothered to look around to see who was the latest to take a dive. ‘Who was it?’ I asked a friend.
‘Mrs Goldberg’, came the reply. ‘Last year she only lasted to 3.30 and this time it’s a quarter to five, so she’s done well!’

On a couple of occasions during many childhood and subsequent adolescence, Yom Kippur fell on my birthday. What an utter and complete disaster. 26 September, the day when I was supposed to be the centre of attention, celebrating and getting presents, turned out to be the day when you couldn’t use the telephone, eat or drink, or be happy in the company of others. Marvellous, bloody marvellous! So, you can maybe understand a little of my unease at the ‘Day of Atonement’.

Yom Kippur in Israel is a very different matter, whether or not you are a religious or a non-observant Jew. It is illegal to drive a car, so from an hour before sunset the roads empty leaving an eerie silence about the land. The phone ceases to ring and people retire to the sanctuary of their homes. There are no regular TV broadcasts.  

For secular children like mine and the majority of kids in my small town and in many areas across the country, for 24 hours the land is theirs and theirs alone. Get your bicycle kids, the roads are all yours! Thousands upon thousands of children wait for Yom Kippur to be able to ride wherever they wish. Being under the age of 13, they are not obliged to fast or to apologize for their sins. They’re kids! If they have committed sins, then it is up to their parents (if they believe in such things), to ask for forgiveness for not guiding their offspring in a suitable manner.  Yom Kippur, the day that I feared most during my childhood is, here in Israel and in no other place on the globe, the one day when secular Jewish children have an unimaginable amount of freedom.

I used to fast on Yom Kippur, but I don’t any more. I respect the day, just as I do Yom Ha Sho’ah (Holocaust Memorial Day), or Yom HaZikaron, (the Day of Remembrance), but I fail to see how starving myself shows respect for those that have gone before. When in England we would pray on Holy Days, as in every other country of the diaspora, we would invariably utter the line, ‘Next year in Jerusalem’, praying that we would be able to have the strength and good fortune to be living in Israel in the year to come. Well, I’m here, and feel I am doing my bit to support the Jewish State by committing my future to this land, pledging my daughters to serve two years in the army, paying taxes to the Israeli taxman, etc, etc. 

Those that wish to follow the traditional observance of Yom Kippur continue to do so of their own free will and in whatever manner they see fit, and I respect them for that. The one thing I have a very big problem with however is ‘kaparot’, the ancient tradition amongst religious Jews that at Yom Kippur they transfer their sins onto a live chicken, swing the poor creature three times around their head, before slitting its throat and letting it bleed to death. The prayer, ‘This is my exchange, this is my substitute, this is my atonement’ is recited at the same time. 

How can you ask for forgiveness while committing such an obviously barbaric and sinful act? This archaic ritual sickens me and makes me embarrassed to be associated in any way with these people. I’m not a vegetarian or animal rights activist, (I love my chicken schnitzels and chicken soup on a Friday night), but where is the decency and humanity in these so called pious people in inflicting incalculable suffering on an innocent creature. 

If we saw tribes in the Amazon, in Africa, or in the deserts of Mongolia doing such a thing, we’d be saying what ‘primitive’ people they are, lacking in decency and any ‘culture’. In 1995 I was on the ‘black magic’ island of Ende in the Nusa Tengarra archipelago of Indonesia and was asked to be a guest at a tribal feast. As a way of showing their respect for me as an ‘outsider’, a chicken was sacrificed right under my nose. I have rarely seen anything quite so horrific and know first-hand the pain and trauma the creature feels. 

In a similar way the streets of Jerusalem and Bnei Barak are spattered with blood as Yom Kippur approaches. I think the time has come for religious Jews to look closely at this awful ritual and consign it to the history books. To pray or not to pray and to believe or not believe is the choice of the individual, but society should have standards that protect the vulnerable, whether they are humans or animals, and be judged as such.

PS. My thanks to Helen Segal of Tzur Hadassa near Jerusalem, who contacted me after hearing this blog to say that her father Mr Mendelsohn of Manchester, England, can now be added to the latest line of 'wobblers' who all but 'tumbled' due to dehydration at Yom Kippur service at his local Whitefield Synagogue. Happily a doctor was 'in the house', and after a few dodgy moments Mr M made it through to the bitter end. Well done Sir!