A New Exhibit On Jewish-American Beauty And Fashion Is More Than Skin Deep

[CrackSmokeRepublican]

In the Eye

A New Exhibit On Jewish-American Beauty And Fashion Is More Than Skin Deep

BOSS TWEED: A circa 1910 studio photograph of a woman in suit

By Bret McCabe | Posted 9/28/2005

At the Jewish Museum of Maryland's Feldman Gallery through April 16, 2006  

Filled with flapper dresses and hand-made traditional gowns, a 1930s permanent-wave machine and contemporary rhinoplasty surgical instruments, wigs and a tortoise shell handbag, and advertisements from Baltimore's department stores of yore, it's easy to walk into Hello Gorgeous! Fashion, Beauty, and the Jewish-American Ideal at the Jewish Museum of Maryland and mistake it for a different kind of exhibition than it is. Everything here was made to be worn, made to be displayed, or made to be groomed; made to manufacture these beautiful things wearable or groomable; or made to advertise the very same. The entire Feldman Gallery has the initial still of a museum's decorative-arts wing.

What bubbles to the fore of Gorgeous as you cycle through the show, though, is what is not actually on display. A subtle—arguably too subtle—theoretical framework provides the argumentative lines connecting the dots between a fox-fur muff from Mano Swartz, a brass menorah, the tools of clothing manufacturing, and a hot-pink party dress purchased at Loehmann's in the 1980s. Gorgeous is the story of the formation of "Jewish-American" as a cultural identity, the story of Baltimore's late-19th- and 20th-century Jewish textile industry and its merchants, and the story of how both influenced and shaped American fashions and notions of beauty—the reward of the archival and research efforts of curator Melissa Martens. The show is also an understated look at what it means to be an American, a less flattering mirror back on the ever-shifting culture that helped shape the first two.

Moving clockwise through Gorgeous limns the arrival of Jews in America—along with stigmatized dress and body stereotypes that started in the old world—and eases into the story of immigrant reinvention, through the rise of a Jewish-American merchant and textile industry (as in Baltimore's clothier Henry Sonneborn and Hutzler Brothers' department store), and eventually arrives at the "identity" known as Jewish America as personified by media icons such as Woody Allen, Joan Rivers, Sarah Jessica Parker, Barbra Streisand, Dustin Hoffman, and others. It's a journey told entirely in subtle details. A stunning black-velvet dinner ensemble circa 1925 is displayed as an example of how Jewish-American women responded to the changing fashions of the Jazz Age, when women's magazines boldly proclaimed that no woman should "look dowdy."  

It stands adjacent to Beth Rose Manko's circa 1900 hand-made overdress for a wedding gown, and the 25 years separating the two items look like light years. The velvet dress is flashy and sophisticated, exuding a liberating vibe complementing the attitude of the woman wearing it. The overdress' Victorian Age prim propriety is seen in its high collar and elbow-length cap sleeves, its flattering but concealing ankle-length, its lone concession to the special occasion the ornate white-on-white embroidery. Only a generation apart, but already the velocity of acculturation is stripping the traditional off the outer layer of cultural identity.

Such an erosion isn't exclusive to Jewish Americans, nor is the speed at which fashion changes over a short period of time. What makes the cultural vectors followed in Gorgeous so poignant is how the exhibition illustrates the changing nature of what it means to fit in as an American and the changing industrial processes that enabled fashion to change so readily, played out in Baltimore's Jewish-American communities. One section of the exhibition looks at the local textile and fashion trade, which includes a 1917 World War I U.S. Army coat produced by Henry Sonneborn and Co., the breakthrough 50 percent cotton/50 percent polyester raincoat invented in 1954 by Israel Myers, who founded London Fog, and a 1890 wall-sized china cabinet built in replica of the Howard Street Hutlzer's Palace store, which displays an assortment of ads and trinkets from the store's storied past.

And you don't need to be a fashionista to know that clothes make more than the man. Just as the old-world Jewish stereotypes were rooted in grafting bigotries onto cultural differences, running just beneath the surface of Gorgeous is a look at how assimilation sometimes only displaces assumptions that arise elsewhere. The rhinoplasty instruments are housed alongside make-up and Ruth Handler's "Barbie" doll in exhibition boxes. And their curved, forged surgical steel are hard, invasive reminders of how far people are willing to go to approach some cultural notion of beauty—a subject sure to come up in Emory University's Professor Sander Gilman's Oct. 20 talk "The Rise of Cosmetic Surgery: How the Jews Invented Beauty."    Peering at them offers a quiet indictment of the force of America's cultural hegemony of homogenization—but it's only a chill you'll get if you allow your brain to wander there.

http://www2.citypaper.com/eat/story.asp?id=10934

[CrackSmokeRepublican]

Algerian Jews came to France in the droves via Masonic "helpers". Now the Muslims-Africans come in droves and riot in the South. The football team is a mess. It's all about the Jews...like they want to forget the French people of European extraction... f'n interlopers thinking they are "native" after all these years... --CSR

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http://people.bu.edu/karkin/Rhinestones.pdf

Rhinestone aesthetics and religious essence: Looking Jewish in Paris

KIMBERLY A. ARKIN  
Boston University

A B S T R A C T
I explore the paradoxical construction of race
through fashion among the Parisian children and
grandchildren of upwardly mobile immigrant North
African Jews. Faced with the conflation of North
Africanity and inassimilable difference, Sephardi
youth escaped some forms of French racism by
enacting others. By essentializing and
individualizing Jewishness through conspicuous
consumption, they made Frenchness possible for
"Arab Jews" in ways foreclosed to Arab Muslims. But
these same practices also helped fashion and
biologize their exclusion from the French nation.
Rather than encourage the deconstruction of
"modern" identity narratives, Sephardi youth
liminality thus encouraged the reessentialization of
class, ethnicity, religion, and nation. [national
identity, youth culture, minorities in Europe, race,
Jewishness, France]

On October 27, 2004, I attended a sixth-grade Jewish history class
at a government-funded Jewish day school on the outskirts of
Paris. As in most such day schools, the students were overwhelmingly
the children and grandchildren of the approximately
55,000 Tunisian, 50,000Moroccan, and (to a much lesser extent)
125,000 Algerian Jews who immigrated to France in the decades following
French decolonization (Bensimon-Donath 1971:2; Laskier 1983:342;
Taieb 1989:57). That morning, students were talking about anti-Semitism
in France, envying my luck at coming froma place where Jews literally wore
their identity on their sleeves. I thought they were confusing the United
States with Crown Heights, in New York City, so I insisted that most U.S.
Jews were not ultra-Orthodox and, therefore, were indistinguishable from
non-Jews. "That isn't true," one of the girls shot back, "you can always tell
if someone's Jewish because of the tˆete juive (lit. Jewish head)." Her classmates
overwhelmingly agreed.

Mrs. Amsallem,1 the teacher, who had been half listening while preparing
her lesson, suddenly entered the conversation. A self-identified Ashkenazi,
or European, Jew, she angrily denounced as racist any attempt to link
Jewishness to physical appearance, even when clothing provided the identifying
marker. She banged on the table for silence and told the following
story: Her son had gone with three or four Jewish friends to the Champs
Elys´ees. One of those friends was wearing a Lacoste baseball cap. While
walking down the street, her son and his friends passed a group of Jewish
boys they did not know, and one of those "idiot Jews" beat up the kid in the
baseball cap. "A Jew hit another Jew," she shouted, "because of his hat!"
Mrs. Amsallem's accusation of student racism is counterintuitive. In analytical
terms, fashion and race point to diametrically opposed conceptions
of identity. If fashion is consciously constructed and always ephemeral,
race is presumed to be given and unchanging. But the two seem inextricably
tied in the baseball-cap tale. How and why? How can one understand
the relationship between student discussions of legible Jewish physiognomy
and a story about fashion-driven intra-Jewish violence? What is
the connection between clothing and Jewishness in contemporary
Paris? What might it suggest about how young
Sephardim negotiate national and religious identities? And
what might it imply about youth understandings of Jewish
diaspora, including a Jewish future in France?
The beating of the boy in the Lacoste baseball cap
provides a window onto the racializing practices of some
Parisian Jewish adolescents. I argue that in contemporary
France, where being "Maghrebin," or North African, is associated
with delinquency, poverty, and religious fanaticism,
the children and grandchildren of North African Jewish
immigrants escaped some forms of French racism by
enacting others. Many objectified, essentialized, and individualized
Jewishness through conspicuous consumption,
thereby making Frenchness possible for young "Arab Jews"
in ways foreclosed to Arab Muslims. But the same practices
also underwrote young Jews' alienation from France. By
consuming signs and symbols of global Jewishness, these
young Sephardim enacted a particular conception of diaspora
that denied its local roots. In the process, they both
biologized and fashioned their exclusion from the French
nation.  

Young, liminal, and (anti)racist?

Academic and political conversations about contemporary
"youth" in France do not typically include Jews. Since
the first "headscarf affair" in 1989,2 French scholars have
explored "Arab" teenagers' rejection of universalist social
norms and embrace of totalizing ethnoreligious imaginaries.

 For many of these social
scientists, Muslim youth make up a "new dangerous class"
that threatens the French social order through archaic values
and violence (Beaud and Pialoux 2003). In different
ways, both the Right and Left link this threat specifically to
Islam. On the right, commentators privilege an imagined
Muslim will-to-domination that makes minority status intolerable
(Brenner 2002; Taguieff 2002). On the left, writers
see fundamentalist Islam as the only stable source of values
in destitute communities abandoned by the state and
excluded from the nation (Cesari et al. 2001; Kepel 1987;
Wihtol de Wenden 1999). Both sides often view Muslim
youth practices as a retreat from "modernity," emphasizing
young people's supposedly premodern, essentialist assumptions
about gender, race, and social organization.
Whereas French social scientists accuse Muslim youth
of dragging French society back to the dark ages, much
English-language theoretical and ethnographic literature
emphasizes the potential for liberation contained within
youth identity and culture (Bhabha 1994; Hall 1990;
Hebdige 1979). Although theorists of this bent acknowledge
that this potential is not always realized, it seems to
reside almost inevitably in the multiply determined liminalities
of many contemporary youth, who are depicted,
in Homi Bhabha's (1994:1) terms, as "in-between" social
roles (child–adult; consumer–producer), cultures (country
of origin–country of residence), even epistemological conditions
(sincerity–authenticity; see also Hall 2002; Jackson
2005:175). For many of these authors, the link between social
liminality and anti-essentialism has been reinforced in
the contemporary moment by massive migration and rapid
social change—phenomena that make totalizing identity
narratives almost impossible to maintain. As a result, even
when youth claims about community and identity may
appear essentializing, some writers insist that the practices
on which those claims are based undermine assumptions
about bounded, continuous traditions (Dolby 2001;
Gopinath 1995; Jackson 2005). Youth are thus described
as "resisting" or denaturing hegemonic discourses, often
through consumption practices (involving clothing, music,
drugs) that create "sutured" or hybrid identities, thereby
calling attention to otherwise unspoken social categories
and assumptions.

None of this fits my story. Some middle-class Sephardi
teenagers engaged in the essentializing practices typically
attributed to disadvantaged, Arab Muslim youth, calling
into question interpretations that reduce youth identity
practices to class or Arab Muslim difference. At the same
time, Jewish teenagers used widely circulating commodities
to construct ethnoreligious identities, therefore presumably
accepting identity as a malleable, situational "choice."
Their choices, however,were overdetermined, structured by
racialized logics of national inclusion, by the inherent ambiguity
of difference in France, and by the simultaneous individualization
and naturalization of identities common in a
rapidly changing global economy (Comaroff and Comaroff
2009). Adolescents thus understood their self-fashionings
as reflections, rather than constructions, of Jewish authenticity.
This strange doubling is not a retreat from modernity
but part and parcel of its contradictions. It powerfully illustrates
the ways in which the social forces presumed to undermine
"modern" conceptions of self—particularly race as
a mode of reading interior essence from exterior form—may
lead to renewed essentialism. In France, this has produced
a generational reracialization of Jewishness precisely as its
biologization has faded from French national discourse.

Arab, Jew, Arab Jew

What appeared at first glance to be a story about Jewishon-
Jewish violence turned out to be more complicated. The
teacher's recitation provoked a shocked murmur among the
students. One boy denounced the story as a lie. Another
noted that the teenager dressed in the Lacoste cap had "provoked"
the unknown boys by disguising himself as a rebeu
(rebeu is the slang, double inversion of the word for
Arab). Because everyone knows how rebeus dress, the student
continued, the boy had been "disguised" and had betrayed
his Jewishness; it was therefore "normal" that he had
been beaten. A third boy—seeming rather unsettled by the
turn of the conversation—whispered to his neighbor that he
wore Lacoste eyeglasses. He was reassured when the neighbor
insisted that eyeglasses were always "Jewish."
Chalala therefore worked to create legible distinctions
between Parisian Arabs and Jews. Although much French
discourse presumes that these two terms refer to mutually
exclusive, diametrically opposed, and easily identifiable
groups of people, the Lacoste baseball-cap incident
belies such assumptions. It is proof that, despite discourse
about the "Jewish head," some North African Jews and Muslims
may bemore physically and culturally similar than different.
They sometimes share physiognomy: the dark skin,
eyes, and curly hair ironically mentioned by many youth
as evidence of the "Jewish head." They often share cultural
markers: last names, parents and grandparents who
speak Arabic, culinary traditions, musical tastes, and even
traditional religious rituals (cf. Allouche-Benayoun and
Bensimon 1998; Friedman 1988; Goldberg 1978). They may
also share physical spaces. This particularly applied to day school
students. Although Sephardim generally have been
much more upwardly mobile than North African Muslims
(Bensimon-Donath 1971; Benveniste 2002; Tribalat
1995:163, 176–182), in 2004 many day-school families still
lived in heavily immigrant-populated neighborhoods, explaining,
at least in part, the choice of Jewish rather than
public schools.4 Day schoolers were therefore far more
likely than other Parisian Jews to share buildings, street corners,
and public transportation with North African Muslims.
They were also far more likely to be "mistaken" for
Arabs. In a school hallway, a nervously giggling 13-year-old
girl told me that she had often been "taken" for an Arab.
During an interview, a 16-year-old boy claimed that an adult
"Tunisian," who had broken up a fistfight he was having
with an Arab boy, took him for an "Arab Tunisian."
Whether or not Sephardi adolescents recognized the
danger, there were obviously serious material consequences
to being taken for Arab in France: regular police
harassment, employment and housing discrimination,
racist violence. "Chalalisme," therefore, can be understood
as an overdetermined response to this threat, deploying
and deflecting at least two colonially inspired discourses
that might result in the conflation of young Sephardim and
Arabs: the collapse of Arabness into poverty and of North
Africanness into fanatical Islam.

Arab poverty and Jewish "class"

Chalala asserted and enacted affluence through sartorial
splendor (Ferguson 2002; Newell 2005). Whether adolescents
paid full price for Diesel jeans at Replay on the Rue
Etienne Marcel or bought counterfeit versions in Parisian or
Israeli markets, the very terms of chalalisme conflate Jewishness
and wealth. All teenagers who dressed according
to its stylistic canons looked "rich," projecting an aura of
upward mobility and seamless integration into the French
economy. An article on chalalisme published in the French
weekly Paris Observatoire in late April 2004 underscored
This conversation only makes sense in light of adolescent
presumptions about "Jewish" dress. Since the late
1980s, young Parisian Jews have called their own distinctive
consumption patterns "chalala" (pronounced sha-la-la). I
was told that the children of Tunisian retail clothiers had pioneered
chalala in the 1980s, but no one I spoke to could
explain the etymology or meaning of the term. This silence
made chalala all surface and no substance, a fitting gloss
for a complex of highly visible (and variable) consumption
practices. In 2004, dressing chal meant wearing ostensibly
expensive, tightly fitted, brightly colored, virtually unisex
garments. Some adolescent girls and boys described the
typical chal outfit as a "uniform that costs 500 euros," consisting
of body-hugging, acid-washed jeans made by the
Italian company Diesel; skin-tight T-shirts in Day-Glo colors
manufactured by the Danish-owned, U.S.-based company
Von Dutch; and Converse high-top sneakers in colors
matching the shirts. Other brands—notably the French
flagship brand Lacoste—were shunned. Boys tended to favor
racing jackets covered in advertisements or slogans, and
girls zip-up sweatshirts. Both boys and girls wore their hair
long (longer, however, for girls) and gelled into large, asymmetric
styles.

Adolescents very often accessorized their clothing
choices with Jewish or Israeli symbols. Boys and girls carried
camouflage pencil cases marked with the name of the
Israeli army in Hebrew (Tsahal) and English (Israeli Defense
Forces [IDF]). Many boys wore Israeli army kippot (sing.
kippa), the Jewish male head covering, and, occasionally,
T-shirts that were similarly militarily marked. Students of
both sexes tied red string bracelets to their wrists, indexing
the purchase of a wish or blessing from religious figures
at the Western Wall in Jerusalem. They also wore necklaces
or bracelets adorned with a giant sky-blue bead bought in
Israel, IDF dog tags engraved with their names, pendants
representing Israeli paratroopers, and Jewish stars in every
possible size and color. Girls favored Jewish stars covered
in brightly colored rhinestones that matched their T-shirts,
sneakers, and earrings. Boys seemed to prefer large silver
stars or small, stylized scrolls marked with a star. Symbols
thought of as Jewish identity markers in other contexts—
for example, the chai, the Hebrew word for life—were relatively
rare, the result, explained one high school student, of
their general illegibility; if only Jews could recognize them,
their communication value was considered too limited. The
five-fingered hand worn by both Jews and Muslims in the
Mediterranean basin was almost entirely avoided.

Chalala therefore worked to create legible distinctions
between Parisian Arabs and Jews. Although much French
discourse presumes that these two terms refer to mutually
exclusive, diametrically opposed, and easily identifiable
groups of people, the Lacoste baseball-cap incident
belies such assumptions. It is proof that, despite discourse
about the "Jewish head," some North African Jews and Muslims
may be more physically and culturally similar than different.
They sometimes share physiognomy: the dark skin,
eyes, and curly hair ironically mentioned by many youth
as evidence of the "Jewish head." They often share cultural
markers: last names, parents and grandparents who
speak Arabic, culinary traditions, musical tastes, and even
traditional religious rituals (cf. Allouche-Benayoun and
Bensimon 1998; Friedman 1988; Goldberg 1978). They may
also share physical spaces. This particularly applied to day school
students. Although Sephardim generally have been
much more upwardly mobile than North African Muslims
(Bensimon-Donath 1971; Benveniste 2002; Tribalat
1995:163, 176–182), in 2004 many day-school families still
lived in heavily immigrant-populated neighborhoods, explaining,
at least in part, the choice of Jewish rather than
public schools.4 Day schoolers were therefore far more
likely than other Parisian Jews to share buildings, street corners,
and public transportation with North African Muslims.
They were also far more likely to be "mistaken" for
Arabs. In a school hallway, a nervously giggling 13-year-old
girl told me that she had often been "taken" for an Arab.
During an interview, a 16-year-old boy claimed that an adult
"Tunisian," who had broken up a fistfight he was having
with an Arab boy, took him for an "Arab Tunisian."
Whether or not Sephardi adolescents recognized the
danger, there were obviously serious material consequences
to being taken for Arab in France: regular police
harassment, employment and housing discrimination,
racist violence. "Chalalisme," therefore, can be understood
as an overdetermined response to this threat, deploying
and deflecting at least two colonially inspired discourses
that might result in the conflation of young Sephardim and
Arabs: the collapse of Arabness into poverty and of North
Africanness into fanatical Islam.

Arab poverty and Jewish "class"

Chalala asserted and enacted affluence through sartorial
splendor (Ferguson 2002; Newell 2005). Whether adolescents
paid full price for Diesel jeans at Replay on the Rue
EtienneMarcel or bought counterfeit versions in Parisian or
Israeli markets, the very terms of chalalisme conflate Jewishness
and wealth. All teenagers who dressed according
to its stylistic canons looked "rich," projecting an aura of
upward mobility and seamless integration into the French
economy. An article on chalalisme published in the French
weekly Paris Observatoire in late April 2004 underscored

precisely this point. It featured a picture of a girl wearing
a large fluorescent-pink rhinestone Jewish star and matching
T-shirt, earrings, and belt and quoted her as saying, "I'm
rich, and I want to showit" (Cabourg andGourdon 2004:22).
Young Sephardim contextualized these claims to
wealth within a Jewish–Arab opposition. Echoing mainstream
French stereotypes, many adolescents insisted that
Arabs were uneducated and had too many children, which
left them poor and dirty. Using the language of the Far
Right, some claimed that Arabs "foutent la merde partout,"
a harsh expression that means "make a mess" and has implications
of filthy (shitty) national disorder. In keeping with
such assumptions, Jewish adolescents of both sexes routinely
contrasted their ways of dressing, which they described
as "classy" or simply "dressing well," with what they
imagined as "Arab" sartorial practices. I was told repeatedly
that, whereas Jews care deeply about what they wear
and can afford to dress nicely, "Arabs don't care" and cannot
afford to buy good clothes. When I asked what Arabs
wore, I was almost invariably given a description of a male
dressed in nondescript running pants, hooded sweatshirt,
and uncoordinated sneakers. Not surprisingly, adolescents
also claimed that Arabs favored "cheap" French brands, like
Lacoste and Adidas. Both of these brands are actually quite
expensive.
For Jewish youth, chalala's sumptuousness thus helped
produce legible distinctions between North African Jews
and Muslims on street corners in working-class neighborhoods
like Cr´eteil and Sarcelles. At the same time, it also
made claims to the bourgeois Jewishness of Paris's chic 16th
arrondissement. Prior to the waves of North African Jewish
immigration that began in the 1950s, the vast majority
of Jews living in France were Ashkenazim. Although a
large plurality of this population was itself of relatively recent
German or eastern European origin,most Jewish Holocaust
survivors were from families that had been French
for generations, if not centuries (Birnbaum 1996; Marrus
and Paxton 1981). As part of an attempt to negotiate
Ashkenazi Frenchness—which was intermittently (and
often virulently) challenged from emancipation through
World War II—elite French Jews and Jewish institutions
participated in a civilizing mission that paralleled French
colonial efforts in North Africa (Abitbol 1985; Graetz 1996;
Schwarzfuchs 1980). The binary oppositions that helped
structure relations between the colonizer and the colonized
also inflected metropolitan Jews' understandings of North
African Jews, creating an iterative language (Comaroff and
Comaroff 1987; Gal 1991; Herzfeld 1987) through which
Jews might "Westernize" Jewishness vis-`a-vis Islam and naturalize
Ashkenazi Frenchness vis-`a-vis "backward" North
African Jews. As a result, while the French Jewish establishment
played up Jewish and Muslim differences in its public
communications with colonial officials—insisting that
North African Jews were civilizable whereas "Arabs" were
not—internal Jewish writings characterized North African
coreligionists as illiterate, impoverished, superstitious, and
materialistic "Arabs" (Abitbol 1985; Schwarzfuchs 1980:44–
46).
These kinds of oppositions still appear in contemporary
Parisian perceptions and performances. In 1992, a letter
written to the editor of a prominent Jewish weekly objected
to the widespread use of the term S´efarade—which is
a Frenchification of the Hebrew word for Spain—to characterize
North African Jews. The troubled reader noted:
"It is not possible to accept the erroneous extension by
which, for the last few decades, our North African coreligionists,
who are Arab Jews, have become Sephardim"
(Hasson 1992: 2). Many Sephardim routinely performed
their own playful or uncomfortable versions of this Othering.
Moroccan- and Tunisian-born teachers in a Jewish
school joked about Ashkenazim viewing Maimonides as an
"Arab" and described Ashkenazi–Sephardi couples as having
"mixed" marriages. Julie, an upper-middle-class college
student from a Moroccan family, offered her own less humorous
account:

Sometimes I'm ashamed of the way [Sephardi] people
behave. . . . Over there in the street, there are all these
kosher butcher shops. All those who double park in
their big SUV Mercedes and who block the entire street
without thinking about it, I find that shameful. . . . I'm
ashamed when there's a woman yelling in a restaurant,
or who has a bizarre reaction, or who doesn't realize
that the person across from her is not Jewish and
starts to say: "the Arabs, I want to kill them" or "one
should only marry Jews" or something like that. . . . I
think it gives people a negative image. . . . It's true that
I'm Sephardi, but I think Sephardi Jews have created a
very bad image. Ashkenazim are more reserved, more
discreet, much more integrated as well. They melt into
the crowd. For an Ashkenazi, unless he has a very distinctive
family name, you won't know he's a Jew.

As this quote suggests, the language of symbolic capital,
particularly "taste"—discretion, the sense not to be
racist (at least in public), the rejection of ethnicized
clannishness—was routinely mapped onto ethnohistorical
differences (Bourdieu 1984). It was thus through the semiotics
of class that young Jews attempted to negotiate the
intra-Jewish distinctions that help over determine Sephardi
Arabness. However, bourgeois Jews, whether Sephardi or
Ashkenazi, did not necessarily accept this vision of universal
Jewishness as economic and symbolic capital, as money
and taste. Julie associated "bad" Sephardi behavior with the
cultivated visibility and the ghetto bling of double-parked
Mercedes SUVs. She was not alone. Mrs. Amsallem ironically
showed her own "racist" colors by describing the
lack of taste she thought evident in her students. Angry
about their reactions to her story, she told me they were

"arrivistes," or social climbers with money but no culture.
"You won't find kids like them among the Orthodox," she
noted, "because they have other values. You also won't find
kids like them among the Liberals [Reformed Jews]; they are
just like Mr. and Mrs. Anyone who have their own practices
and go about their lives without needing to show everyone
what they are. But in this socio-economic group, this
kind of attitude [excessive attention to dress and racism] is
common."
Thus, bourgeois Jews, most of whom did not live
in mixed, blue-collar neighborhoods, contested chalala
as a mode of universal Jewishness, often reinscribing it
within a classed and ethnicized Ashkenazi–Sephardi divide.
Chalala's conflation of Jewishness with wealth and upward
mobility, however,may have become emblematic of Jewishness
among many non-Jewish minority youth. Crimes involving
anti-Semitic insults were often (although certainly
not always) property crimes. According to adolescent and
newspaper accounts, thieves peppered victims,whether actually
Jewish or not, with anti-Semitic slurs while trying to
steal cell phones or wallets.5 Sephardi adolescents also associated
theft with anti-Semitism; some explained that any
property crime against a Jew was anti-Jewish because everyone
knew Jews had money. At least in part, growing anti-
Semitism in France may be a terrible sign of just how successful
North African Jewish claims to upward mobility and
establishment status have been in poor mixed neighborhoods
(Silverstein 2008;Wieviorka 2005).

Fashioning Jewishness

Chalala projected wealth as a means of negotiating Arab–
Jewish proximities and as a mode of transcending some
intra-Jewish divisions. It also coded Jewishness. When girls
and boys alike wore half a dozen Jewish stars in a variety
of forms, from pendants to pinky rings and charm
bracelets, they embraced Jewishness of a particular kind.
Chalala did not correspond to even adolescent standards
for religiously observant Jewishness (although a student did
tell me that the Torah prescribed its modes of distinction).
More-observant youth often saw chalala as an inadequate
or unacceptable alternative to religious practice. As one
noted, "I don't need to be chalala. I'mJewish because I keep
kosher, because I keep Shabbat, because I observe all Jewish
holidays." Two senior boys—Elie, who was visibly observant,
and Aaron, who claimed to be frustrated by the difficulty
of following Jewish law, halacha—fought over what it
meant to dress feuj (feuj is the slang inversion that means
"Jewish"). Elie insisted that he dressed feuj because he wore
the dark trousers, white button-down shirt, and large, plain
kippa associated with non-Hasidic, Orthodox observance.
Aaron chortled, pointing to his brightly colored sneakers;
tight, acid-washed jeans; and royal blue, logoed T-shirt as
truly visible signs of Jewishness.

Chalala also challenged the forms of Jewishness encouraged
in day schools. Chalala did not embrace the gender
distinctions or the concern with sobriety, modesty, and
economy that motivated school dress codes. It also did not
necessarily incorporate clothing associated with religious
observance. Many chal boys, for example, covered their
heads only in school, where it was required; some gelled
peaks into their hair that made wearing any head covering
difficult. Similarly, girls in ultra-Orthodox schools sometimes
changed from long skirts into tight jeans as soon as
they got onto the metro—an immodest act by any number
of teacher standards. In addition, school administrators,
particularly in ultra-Orthodox settings, disciplined students
for wearing chal clothing. Girls were exhorted to take
off large earrings, to cover up their exposed knees or collar
bones; boys were reprimanded for removing their kippot,
using too much hair gel, or wearing provocative slogans.
But chalala's distance from the norms of Torah observant
Judaism may also have been overdetermined.

Over the last 30 years, institutional French Judaism has increasingly
embraced visible, often public religiosity. Since
the 1970s, the Chabad Hasidim have become a durable
presence in the Parisian landscape, attracting large numbers
of second- and third-generation North African Jews,
who now dress in the wigs and dark suits of eastern European
shtetls (Podselver 1986). Even the Consistoire—
the state-recognized mouthpiece of religious Judaism—has
gone from being an agent of secularization, or at least
Protestantization,6 to an instrument for encouraging and
enforcing observance of strict interpretations of halacha
(Albert 1977). To the deep chagrin of many Parisian Jews,
the former chief rabbi—Joseph Sitruk—opposed the law
banning the Muslim veil from schools on the ground that it
would also inhibit Jewish observance, particularly the wearing
of kippot (Benattar et al. 1989).7

In these totalizing forms, Jewish orthopraxy exhibits
features resembling those that are widely criticized in
Islamic practice, particularly its cultivation of heteronomy
and gender distinction. In 2004, the Renseignements
G´en´eraux, the French equivalent of the U.S. FBI, released a
report on 300 neighborhoods described as exhibiting a dangerous
tendency toward "ethnic withdrawal" (Bensoussan
2004:3). According to the report, the signs of such a threat
were women who covered their heads and bodies, butchers
certified in ritual slaughter, shops selling religious paraphernalia,
and well-attended houses of worship. Although
Muslim practices were the target of this report, all of these
"signs" can be found in a range of Jewish neighborhoods
and are encouraged by the rabbinate and day schooling.
Does this proximity matter? Many French Jewish intellectuals
and officials vociferously deny that any such parallels
can be drawn (Bensoussan 2004; Finkielkraut 2003;
Trigano 2003). Thinkers who do compare Jews and Muslims
argue that the latter have replaced the former at the edge
of French national inclusion. For these authors, Jews and
Jewish practice no longer define the limits of the French
nation; Muslims and Islamic practices do, thereby allowing
for the relatively unproblematic inclusion of Jews within
Frenchness (Benbassa 2004; Scott 2007; Silverstein 2008). If
this is the case, even the close similarities between Muslim
and Jewish orthopraxy should not threaten Jewish Frenchness
(Scott 2007:78). But this assumes Jewish nationalization
as a stable achievement. In fact, Jewish Frenchness
appears dialectically tied to Muslim non-Frenchness, produced
through daily and contested practices of Jewish distinction
like chalala. As France and Europe are increasingly
defined in opposition to (certain) illiberal religious practices,
the fragility of these continuously reproduced differences
has become increasingly evident in a whole range
of social locations. The Stasi Commission, a government
council on secularism appointed in 2003 by then president
Jacques Chirac, denounced government-funded religious
schools that violate national law by applying ethnoreligious
admission criteria (Stasi 2004:91). For national education
officials, this would have been understood as a reference to
Jewish day schools. In 2005, a noted historian of France and
Europe and a member of a major French Jewish organization
told me that she was frightened by European Judaism's
increasing resemblance to Islam, evident in its growing insularity
and desire to repress dissent. A 2006 Women's International
Zionist Organization (WIZO) report on Judaism
in France decried Consistorial rabbis' "fundamentalist" tendencies,
specifically citing attempts to separate men and
women.8 The banalization of this kind of commentary was,
for the president of the largest Jewish student union, the
greatest threat facing French Jews. In his words, anything
that put Jews and Muslims "back to back" was disastrous.

Strict adherence to totalizing, highly gendered forms
of religious observance thus may very well threaten the
boundaries between Judaism and Islam, Jews and Muslims,
Sephardim and Arabs. Chalala partially avoided this
trap by secularizing, individualizing, and neutering Jewishness.
It was fashion, not orthopraxis, a refraction of the
forms of consumer "choice" familiar to all Parisians, not
heteronomous submission to divine will. Although consumption
is never rooted in the choices of an autonomous
subject, it is experienced and described as such. This may
be particularly true at the heart of the world of Western
fashion, where individual idiosyncrasy is cultivated
around the edges of the latest couture styles and brands
(Bourdieu 1990). As a result, adolescents thought of their
consumption practices as an authentic reflection of an already
constituted self, not as a means of constructing that
self. Whereas long skirts and head coverings, for example,
could be seen as producing appropriate (gendered) Jews,
one did not wear Diesel jeans and a Jewish star to become a
Jew, but to illustrate that one was essentially Jewish.9 And
this was an essential Jewishness undifferentiated even by
gender, a critical religious formof distinction largely leveled
by the way chalala feminized male dress—those necklaces,
rings, and elaborate hairdos—while masculinizing female
comportment—those Israeli army symbols and the often
violent talk about "killing" Arabs that accompanied them
(Auslander 1996; Kuchta 1996).10

Rhinestones and race  

If adolescents acknowledged chalala as a choice, they also
understood it as a choice rooted in race. This understanding
too may have been overdetermined, a response to the abstract
individualism prescribed by Republican conceptions
of national belonging and to the more general problem of
identity in the contemporary world. Wendy Brown (2004)
has argued that racialization in the French context has long
been a mode of individualization, one that allows for the
disaggregation of potentially threatening "national" identities
while simultaneously rooting identity in a collective
essence. She notes, "Defined neither by belief nor filiation,
the racialized [19th century] Jew became highly individuated
as well as physiologically, intellectually, and emotionally
saturated with Jewishness" (2004:7). In this imaginary,
Jewishness exists whether or not it is expressed through
practice, at least in theory allowing for individual assimilation
without the loss of collective identity. But it can also call
particular kinds of (collective) comportment into existence.
This is precisely how many young Sephardim seemed
to see Jewishness. They imagined it both as an interior
essence and as an indelible, inevitably visible ontology
(Gilman 1991). Adolescents slipped between sartorial codes
and "Jewish" physiognomy, insisting that ethnoreligious
identity was somatically fixed and universally legible, with
or without distinctive clothing. Some argued that Jewishness
was visible through the gaze because the "Jewish soul"
shines through the eyes.11 Like the students in the Jewish
history class I attended, many other Jewish youth talked
about the tˆete juive, which they vaguely defined as physical
characteristics presumed to make Jewishness legible to
Arabs, "the French," and other Jews.

This account of individually carried, transparent, and
inescapable Jewishness also may have helped compensate
for the growing indeterminateness of identity itself
(Comaroff and Comaroff 2001; Comaroff and Comaroff
2009). Two high school girls at an Orthodox school begged
me to read their favorite novel, Un cri sans r´eponse (Kramer
1990s), a story about a U.S. girl who immigrates to Israel, attends
an Orthodox school, and observes halacha. But she
is not "really" Jewish; a Reform rabbi more interested in
money than Judaism converted her Christian mother for
profit. The protagonist's lack of authenticity, the difference
between her practices and essence, is the central anxiety
of the book, one that leads the main character to leave Israel,
undergo an Orthodox conversion, and advocate the
exclusion of those (like herself) who threaten the halachic
"purity" of Israeli Jews.

That the protagonist is an immigrant, someone whose
background cannot be known in what is an otherwise
established local community, is hardly accidental. This
displacement creates the possibility for dangerous infiltration
and, through the specter of marriage and reproduction,
threatens the very survival of the ethnoreligious
community. These themes resonated with adolescent concerns
about immigration, intermixture, and the loss of homogenous
community. Still identifying themselves as "Moroccans"
or "Tunisians," youth talked about their families'
North African homes as lost paradises where Jewishness
was a self-evident fact of everyday life, ingrained in the tiniest
details of ordinary existence. There were no questions
about who was Jewish and how. Chalala as racial presumption
and practice offered a means of recuperating this self evidence,
reconstructing a face-to-face Jewish community
through transparent adolescent legibility. It allowed Jewish
adolescents to display a connection to other Jews whom
they might never meet but would recognize instantly. Actually,
it ensured that they would meet.

But, as the baseball-cap story suggests, adolescent
racial imaginaries ultimately undermine the self-evidence
they seek. The criteria Sephardi adolescents used to describe
the tˆete juive were profoundly ambiguous. Dark skin
and dark curly hair are somatic markers just as likely to
exclude Jews (particularly, although not exclusively, Ashkenazim)
as to include non-Jews (particularly, although not
exclusively, Muslims of North African origin). This is precisely
why chalala was so crucial to the creation and maintenance
of ethnoreligious distinction. It is also why that significance
had to be denied. Many adolescents were thus
careful to insist that they read physiognomy, not clothing.
The boys on the Champs Elys´ee might not have thought
twice about beating the baseball-cap boy because they presumed
his dress reflected the Arab physiognomy they were
sure to find under the hat. The boy who denied the truth of
the story also refused to admit that clothing could produce
identities; understanding Jewishness as race should make it
impossible to confuse Jews with anyone else. This also explains
the furor of the student who denounced the beaten
boy as a traitor who "deserved" what he got. For him, preserving
the presumed isomorphism between surface and
essence justified the violence.

Domesticating diaspora

I have suggested that chalala was a creative response to
French national identity concerns that implicated young
Sephardim in complex ways. It was therefore a distinctly
French form of Jewishness. But like a dialect, it designated
an even more particular geosocial field. Its existence and
form were tightly tied to the specificities of Parisian life.

The same clothing in a different part of France—or outside
France—would not have meant the same thing. In Montpellier
or Marseille, for example, the bright colors, racy cuts,
and unlikely combinations of chalala blended into a more
general "Mediterranean" aesthetic—a stark contrast to the
relatively somber colors and bourgeois style of Paris. With
their particularly marked bodies and practices, young Jews
mapped out Parisian "Jewish" spaces. They gathered in defined
locations, patronized particular Parisian stores, and
stopped to snack at certain restaurants: the Opera metro
stop, with its regional rail-line connection, the Rue de Rivoli
or Rue Etienne Marcel in the heart of the garment district,
the Marais on Sundays when its shops were the only ones
open in Paris, the Palais du Fruit restaurant that served only
fruit and therefore could pass as "kosher." As one teenager
told me, everyone knows where to go to meet and hang out
with other Feujs.

Young Jews did not, however, understand chalala as a
distinctively French, let alone Parisian,mode of Jewishness.
If 30 years ago the bourgeois practices of a relatively assimilated
Ashkenazi elite were viewed as normative for Parisian
Jews, in 2004 the ethnicized and particularly classed practices
of young Sephardim "represented" Jewishness. Young
Sephardim did more than just shift the part of Jewish practice
that could stand for the whole; they also had begun to
imagine themselves as embodying universal Jewishness. Although
rooted in specificity, this was a vision of Jewishness
that could not recognize what it excluded. Day schools attracted
a relatively homogenous population. In my experience,
virtually no Ashkenazim were day-school students.
There were also very few Sephardim like Julie, who had internalized
normative bourgeois notions of cultural capital
(Bourdieu 1984). Even adolescents with Algerian ancestry
seemed underrepresented, perhaps a function of Algerian
Jews' upward mobility and distinctive history vis-`a-vis the
French Republic.12

Lines of distinction, however did exist within schools.
Richer adolescents were accused of forming an exclusive
fashion police and shunning contact with those who
could not afford the best brands. Fully observant students
ridiculed those most implicated in chalala as superficial and
even "not Jewish." A small handful of intrepid teenagers
tried to resist the political "group think" that defined all
"Arabs" as an insidious, dangerous enemy.13 But there
was, nonetheless, an extraordinary homogeneity to student
practices. The same homogeneity followed students outside
of school. Chalalis me was one of the few ways of being
Jewish that was not, by definition, "invisible" or at least
illegible. As one of my informants noted, for some pale skinned,
fair-haired (often Ashkenazi) girls, dressing "chal"
was the only way to ensure that self-identified Jewish (often
Sephardi) boys would read them as Jews, and thus as potential
dates or wives.One fair-skinned Sephardi adolescent
darkened her skin with orange powder, presumably to look
more like her classmates. Some adolescents, tellingly, did
not even know what Ashkenazi meant. When I responded
to questions about my "origins" with the term, I was often
impatiently asked whether that meant I was from Morocco,
Tunisia, or Algeria. The forms of adolescent Jewishness
I observed, therefore, concealed their own conditions of
possibility, allowing for the projection of specificity as
generality.

Chalala helped reground these projections of Jewishness
outside France, in Israel and, to a lesser extent, the
United States. In 2004, the brands associated with chalala
were not French. Adolescents constructed elaborate stories
about those they favored, including improbably attributing
the design and production of particular brands—like Von
Dutch—to Jews. Some U.S. companies, such as Converse,
may have been de facto "Jewish," a product of the conflation
of Jewishness with "America" in teenage imaginaries.
A Jewish elsewhere was also a privileged location for buying
chal accessories. The name of a store on the Boulevard
Saint Germain that sells trendy chal clothing is an amalgam
of Hebrew and English: Eretz and Nowhere Else. Eretz
is the Hebrew word for the biblical land of Israel. The message
seemed clear: Clothes sold in Paris were both an index
of and means toward attaining a Jewish elsewhere—one
that was simultaneously Israeli and American. Israel was
also literally a source of these globalized markers of Jewish
identity. Awash in knockoffs and counterfeit merchandise,
Israeli markets provided vacationing French youth with
cheap Diesel jeans and Converse sneakers. Adolescents established
exchange networks that allowed those not going
to Israel to get the right brand at the right price. "Authentic"
versions of some accessories could only be purchased in Israel.
In theory, the red string many adolescents wore around
their wrists had to be purchased from mystic rabbis at the
Western Wall.  

Jewish preference for non-French brands symbolically
or literally bought in Israel was contrasted with Arab taste
for domestic products. Lacoste is a flagship French brand,
and Adidas, which in some contexts was also thought of as
"Arab," is, not incidentally, one of the official sponsors of
the multiethnic French soccer team. With more racist humor
than acrostic accuracy, one adolescent told me that
Adidas stood for "Attention, il y a des arabes qui squattent
ici" [Danger, there are Arabs lurking here]. This imagined
Arab preference for "cheap" French brands seemed a commentary
on assumptions about Muslims—poor, dirty, badly
dressed—but also about France. Young Jews accused France
of being complicit in the production and maintenance of
an otherwise disposable underclass. Several young Jews explained
that the French might not like Arabs, but they are
too cowardly to do anything about them. They therefore
described France as a "garbage can," an intolerable mixture
of peoples who did not belong together. By refusing
French clothing associated with Arabs, Sephardim—much
like Israel and the United States—also refused any accommodation,
let alone amalgamation, with Arabs.

Israel was not just a privileged source of chal clothing. It
was also an object of consumption that facilitated the reterritorialization
of youth identities in Israel. Many Sephardi
teenagers regularly vacationed in Israel, notably during
Passover breaks or long summer vacations. But, when vacationing
in Israel, they took the world of Parisian Jewishness
with them. Many stayed and played in a handful of
largely Sephardi, francophone "colonies" located in coastal
cities (Eilat, Netanya, Ashdod). They traveled or lodged with
extended family members and spent their time cementing
ties with French Jews who did not necessarily attend their
schools or live in their neighborhoods. Many of the adolescents
I knew carried around photo albums containing
pictures of their summer adventures with French peers on
Israeli beaches. Adolescents regularly mistook these temporary
communities of French Jews for "Israel," citing their
instant comfort in such enclaves as proof of a primordial
Jewish connection to Israel. This was quite a hard impression
for them to shake. Even physical violence between
French and Israeli youth could be recast as a minor dispute
within the larger Jewish-cum-Israeli family. Margot,
a middle-school student, showed me a picture of a friend
who had been hospitalized after being robbed and stabbed
by a group of young Israelis who apparently thought "the
French"were "ruining" their country. When I asked whether
the beating made her feel unsafe in Israel—I knew she felt
unsafe in France—Margot laughed off the question: "They
are Israelis. . . . They don't want to beat me up because of
me, but because of the French thing. I know Israelis and how
they will behave; all I have to do is avoid going out on Saturday
nights. . . . I know Israelis, but I'm not really sure what
Arabs are capable of. . . . Arabs really are ruining the country."
Even in the face of violent proof to the contrary, local
identifications were continuously mapped onto large-scale
abstractions—Jewishness and Israeliness.

This movement also happened in the opposite direction,
from more general global discourses to local practices
(Appadurai 1996; Tambiah 1990). Some young Jews also enacted
(albeit in aestheticized form) the violence associated
with global discourses about Israel and its military. At least
since the 1980s and the failed Israeli war in Lebanon, Jewish
institutions and individuals have accused the French
and European presses of being pro-Palestinian, pro-Arab,
and anti-Israeli (i.e., Benzimra 1982; Grunewald 1982; Knoll
1982; Seroussi 1984). Since the outbreak of the second intifada
in 2000, that refrain has been renewed. During my
fieldwork, several people told me that they had cancelled
subscriptions to newspapers such as Le Monde, the left leaning
newspaper of record, citing disgust for its pro-Arab
positions. Others talked about the nightly news as being focused
too exclusively on Arabs. A journalist employed by
a Jewish newspaper began his talk at a Jewish community
center with a version of the "David and Goliath" story regularly
used by the French media. The story, which had aired
on France 3, was about a Palestinian man who reportedly
had lost all nine of his children to Israeli shelling of Gaza at
the beginning of the second intifada. Two years later, while
on a mission to Gaza, the journalist met the man, who assured
him that all nine of his children were alive and well.
The audience at the community center laughed knowingly.
The French press does focus on the structural inequalities
that have accompanied the Israeli occupation of Gaza
and the West Bank. Israel is often depicted as favoring
force over negotiations, responding "disproportionately" to
Palestinian attacks, and acting cavalierly with Palestinian
lives (i.e., Axel 2004; Balibar and Reberioux 2004; Bˆole-
Richard 2008). The coverage of "Operation Cast Lead," Israel's
2008 military operation in Gaza that was aimed at
stopping Hamas rocket attacks, was no exception. Young
Jews condemned the media depictions as "racist," while simultaneously
adopting them as positive charters for Jewish
behavior. By wearing Israeli flags, IDF T-shirts, and camouflage
school accessories, adolescents literally wrapped
themselves in the fetishized surfaces of a militarized Israeli
identity. They also sometimes enacted the aggressive self defense
associated with the Israeli military. I heard that boys
occasionally started or sought to provoke ethnicized violence,
often by using Israeli symbols. Girls seemed to talk
about violence rather than engaging in it, but their rhetorical
displays were also a performance of militarized Jewishness.
Jennifer, a 16-year-old aspiring pop singer, described
in detail how she "bashed in the head" of an Arab girl
who had told her Israel killed Palestinian babies; she also
stopped in the middle of her story to humiliate a classmate
she accused of being pro-Arab. Yaelle, a middle-school student,
explained that she wanted George W. Bush to win the
2004 U.S. presidential election because "he would kill Yasser
Arafat, all the Arabs, and all the Yasser Arafats of the world."
One of her classmates disagreed: "He's been president and
hasn't killed the Arabs yet; so I don't want him to win!"14

Jewishness thus became synonymous with mainstream
French stereotypes about Israel: an aggressive self-defense,
a refusal to turn the other cheek or to compromise. This
conflation of Jewishness and a militarized Israeli identity
was also confirmed through interactions between young
Jews and Muslims. Corresponding to what Stanley Tambiah
(1990) has called "focalization" and "transvaluation," the
dramatic increase in youth-on-youth violence over the last
seven or eight years has become a mode of canalizing local
economic, social, and religious identities into a single
global narrative—"Arabs" have turned into Palestinians and
"Jews" into Israelis and their U.S. allies. For young Jews, this
was such a powerful lens for understanding daily interactions
that even people described as physically black were
characterized as "Arab" when associated with hostility or
aggression. This kind ofmapping of large-scale abstractions


onto messy local realities motivated non-Jewish youth at a
demonstration against the Iraq war to chase and beat young
Jewish bystanders; regardless of the Jews' actual politics,
they stood for the United States, Israel, and those oppressing
Arabs. It also may have been why those bystanders, who
were part of the traditionally socialist and therefore secular
Zionist organization Hashomer Ha'tzair, were wearing
kippot, thus visibly conflating multiple forms of Jewishness
with their political opposition to the demonstrators. The
same kind of telescoping up to global narratives and down
to local affect and practice occurred every time someone
wrote "Israel assassin" across a billboard for a weekly Jewish magazine.
It was also part of what motivated the beating
of the boy in the baseball cap. An incident structured by local
ambiguities and frustrations was understood as yet another
shot in an imagined global war between Israelis and
Palestinians.

Conclusion

Mrs. Amsallem called students who used clothing to determine
identity "racists." This is seemingly counterintuitive.
If young Jews constructed and read identity from
clothing, presumably they were antiracists, far better described
as bricoleurs who consciously called attention to
the constructed, performative aspects of identity. But Mrs.
Amsallem was right. Although inextricably tied to fashion,
Jewish youth practices made claims about essence;
they were not thought of as modes of enacting a postidentitarian,
postmodern self. These claims and their mode
of declaration were overdetermined, a desperate but creative
response to the double exile—as Arabs and as Jews—
that threatened Sephardim in France. The stigmatization
of Arabs in French national imaginaries encouraged young
Sephardim to elide their Arabness through public projections
of individualized, secularized Jewishness. Forced to
enact the essentializing logics of the French public sphere
to partially escape them, young Jews constructed commodified
identities that they understood in ontological terms.
The results of these enactments were just as paradoxical
as the process. The very practices that made Sephardi
Frenchness possible also made it inconceivable. The illusion
of local and global Jewish homogeneity projected
through adolescent practices encouraged Sephardim to understand
religious and national communities in Herderian
terms. Rather than embracing the political definition
of Frenchness long associated with French Jewry, young
Sephardim recognized the ways in which French national
identity has always been rooted in a fantasy of essential
sameness, particularly whiteness and (post-)Catholicism.
As a result, for many youth, the presence of both Arab Muslims
and Jews in France was problematic, a violation of "natural"
law that endangered France and both groups. France
became a dangerous "garbage can" precisely because it
allowed for—and perhaps even required—forms of social
intermixture that threatened young Jews' conceptions of
community. Thus, an astounding proximity was discernible
between far-right discourses, despite their association with
anti-Semitism, and those of some young Jews.
This "integralist" conception of community informed
how chalala reterritorialized Jewishness (Holmes 2000).
Despite adolescent claims, Israel was not an idealized
homeland because of primordial attachments to the land
and its current occupants. Rather, Israel's ethnonationalism
and much publicized discomfort with non-Jewish
populations—particularly Arab Muslims—helped young
Sephardim transform it into a literal extension of their
families and friends. Even adolescent fascination with the
United States—the sighs about the "beauty" of being a
Jew there—fits into this logic. In addition to conflating the
United States with Israel, French national discourse also associated
U.S. "multiculturalism" with ghetto-ization, meaning
the juxtaposition of mutually exclusive, relatively autonomous
ethnic groups. Althoughmany in France saw the
U.S. scenario as a cautionary tale about the dangers of recognizing
ethnic difference, young Jews understood it very
differently, as a configuration that preserved the boundaries
between and purity within ethnoracial groups. This too is
deeply ironic. For over 200 years, European Jews fought
to destroy the physical and ideological walls that enclosed
them. Today, young Jews may be retreating behind those
walls, immuring themselves in the mobile ghetto of chalala
while dreaming of its territorial incarnations in Israel and
the United States.

For many social scientists, diaspora and transnationalism
are modes of belonging that challenge the hegemony of
the nation-state and liberate minorities from the straightjacket
of nationally linked ethnoracial categories. But such
a "progressive" view of globalization and postmodernity ignores
the ways in which both diaspora and transnationalism
are locally constructed, intimately tied to the very categories
they purportedly transcend. In the case of some
young French Jews (and perhaps some young French Muslims),
the issue is not just that the local inflects the global.
It does. But, more significantly, the local is the global, or
at least it is often experienced that way, with potentially
serious consequences for the possibility of pluralism in
France.

American Ethnologist  Volume 36 Number 4 November 2009