Tag: history

What is Yoga without Sexual Assault?

Stains on the Lineage: Ashtanga's Reckoning

          On September 6th, 2025, an anonymous collective of Ashtanga yoga practitioners on Instagram (@1percenttruth_) accused Taylor Hunt, longstanding Ashtanga yoga teacher, of “inappropriate sexual behavior.” They alleged that, among other forms of physical and emotional abuse, Hunt frequently coerces female students into sexual relationships. Two weeks have passed since their bombshell, and in that time, countless students and prominent leaders from the Ashtanga community have come forward to corroborate these claims.

          The entire episode reeks of déjà vu. Back in 2018, a series of sexual assault allegations against primary Ashtanga guru and founder, K. Pattabhi Jois, very nearly destroyed the lineage. The esteemed yoga teacher was posthumously accused of groping, humping, and even fingering his female students under the guise of providing postural adjustments.

A Common Thread: Abuse Across Modern Yoga Traditions

          The Ashtanga case is only the latest in a long line of global yoga/ sexual assault scandals. Throughout the 1970s and 80s, guru Satyananda Saraswati of Yoga Nidra faced investigations for child sexual abuse, and Integral Yoga guru Satchitananda Saraswati made headlines in 1991 for molesting his students.  Bikram Chowdhury, creator of Bikram Yoga, accumulated five sexual assault-related lawsuits by 2014. The #MeToo movement in 2017 spurred a new onslaught of allegations, with Pattabhi Jois and Kundalini Yoga’s Yogi Bhajan joining the list of offenders. Nowhere in the yoga world feels safe – every lineage is a new can of worms, writhing with slimy intent underneath thin tin lids of ‘spiritual detachment.’

          Every time these gurus come under fire, their respective communities are forced to grapple with the realization that their yogic teachings are ethically compromised. Some teachers, feeling that their philosophies are irrevocably tainted, close the doors of their studios permanently. Some condemn their gurus’ actions but refuse to abandon their pedagogies – instead opting to change the names of their studios (‘Bikram Yoga’ became simply ‘Hot Yoga’) or adopt new trauma-informed techniques (now, instructors often ask consent before providing posture adjustments). Still others reject the entire tradition of guru-disciple lineage (guru-śiṣya paramparā), which, they claim, feeds into cycles of sexual violence. They call for a “post-lineage yoga:” a movement that rejects the autocratic guru in a good-faith effort to democratize yoga, even as it flounders with the complexities of spiritual authority and orientalist epistemology.

          Abuses are so interwoven in every fiber of these yogic traditions – from the modern brand names to the ancient education model – that perhaps the very fabric of yoga is sullied beyond redemption.

          The question remains, then: what is yoga without sexual assault? Other lineage-based communities, such as Indian classical music, have successfully curbed misconduct by improving oversight and enforcing ethical standards. Yet, in the yoga world, sexual assault continues unabated, festering in the intimate and vulnerable confines of studios and ashrams. Why do these spaces – intended for healing and soul-searching – so often become ones of exploitation and coercion? And how does yoga itself abet these harmful patterns? The answer, I believe, goes much farther back than New Age misogynists and #MeToo. 

Predatory Metaphysics: Gender & Power in Pre-Modern Yoga

          Today, over 80% of global yoga practitioners are female. But in premodern India, circa 7th-13th centuries CE, yoga was a male-dominated tradition. Yogins (male practitioners of yoga) make frequent appearances in medieval ritual texts, art, and literature; they are usually human men who, by virtue of devout spiritual practice, have attained god-like metaphysical powers.

          Yoginīs (female practitioners of yoga), on the other hand, are rarely mentioned. In texts on Tantric yoga, they are overshadowed by male ritualists; women, after all, are thought to be mere distractions from the spiritual path. When yoginīs do appear in ritual texts, they are terrifying and grotesque; fierce witch-like spirits who fly over the cremation ground, their feet turned backwards and their hair splayed wild as they accost innocent men. This textual canon reflects an age-old paradigm of patriarchy: men are impressively powerful, but women are only dangerously so.

          The yoginī’s distinct role in medieval texts points to a long history of sexual skulduggery in yoga. In 7th century Tantric yoga texts like the Brahmayāmala Tantra and the Siddhayogeśvarīmata, the yoginī is a female ritual partner who provides bodily fluids for the male ritualist’s cāru (impure offering). These fluids are attained through a variety of sexual rites, in which the yoginī’s body is worshiped as a vessel for shakti, the divine feminine energy.

          The 9th-10th century yogic text, the Kaulajñānanirṇaya, describes yoginīs as goddesses themselves and prescribes male practitioners to invoke them through ritual. This text promises that the yoginīs will appear to any successful (male) ritualist and “kiss” him with their vulvas, thus bestowing him with their supernatural powers. In such rituals, the yoginī exists to benefit the yogin; whether worshiped as a ritual object or as a divine being, the woman must surrender her sexual power for a man’s spiritual gain.

          This gendered power dynamic is itself an outgrowth from an older, classical school of philosophy: Samkhya. In the Samkhya-Yoga ontology, women are potent sources of shakti: the fertile feminine force that animates the cosmos. However, premodern yogic texts were written exclusively by men and for men. Therefore, these texts tend to concern themselves not with the female practitioner, but with the male practitioner’s cultivation of feminine power. These texts suggest that yogins need not spend their own shakti – they should instead harvest it from yoginīs, who, of course, are assumed to have no use for it themselves.

On the Restoration of Tattered Textiles

          Up until 2018, those who testified against K. Pattabhi Jois were dismissed and often met with vitriol. He was a great man and a great yogi, his defenders roared; how could he have hurt you? Yet, as many eyewitnesses have since confirmed, Jois’s abuses were hardly discreet. They were committed openly under the bright fluorescents of Ashtanga studios, so thoroughly entrenched in the practice itself that no one dared – for decades! – to question the master and his ancient methods.

          For the yoginīs of the Ashtanga lineage, their shakti is not really their own. It is policed by men, crafted according to male standards, and eventually stolen: an impure offering to the deified male guru. Taylor Hunt – like K. Pattabhi Jois and many other yogins before him – gains power by draining that of his students. He elevates his own status by violating women.

          The Ashtanga community is forever indebted to the teachers and students of 1percenttruth_ who are bravely working to expose physical abuses in yoga. But an insidious system of gendered metaphysics continues to pervade yoga spaces around the world, perpetuating a worldview that both enables and justifies the exploitation of women’s sexuality. Sexual assault is not just a taut thread that wrinkles a few lineages; it is the loom upon which these yogic traditions are woven. As we extricate one from the other, we must be prepared for the entire tapestry to unravel.

Acknowledgements

  • Amelia Wood for her important work on abuse in yoga.
  • Theodora Wildcroft for her bold attempt at redefining yogic education – I admit that I harbor a healthy skepticism of post-lineage yoga, but ultimately, it is the only way forward.
  • Christian Novetzke, Shelby House, and the other members of the Spring 2024 JSIS public writing workshop, who supplied invaluable edits and discourse for this piece.
  • The brave students and teachers at @1percenttruth_ , and everyone else who has survived abuse in a yoga space. Thank you for sharing your stories. We believe you. You are not alone.

Featured image (“Dakini with Consort”) courtesy of The Huntington Archive at the University of Chicago

A Meditation on Yoga

          “Inhale, arrive on your mat.”

          It was my very first yoga class, and I was there because I aspired to touch my toes.  

          “Exhale, shiiiiine your love outward like a rainbooowwww,” the Lululemon-clad instructor crooned, “and remember: yoga is whatever you make it!”

          Throughout the 18th and 19th centuries, westerners viewed yoga as an esoteric tradition: practiced on the fringes of orthodox Indic societies by magicians and priests; shrouded in superstition. But when Hindu monk Swami Vivekananda spoke about yoga at the 1893 World Parliament of Religions in Chicago, and when the physical fitness revival of the early 20th century swept the globe, yoga exploded into the mainstream. Hindu nationalists hailed yoga with a newfound vigor, touting its indigenous character. New Age hippies were equally enamored; since the 1950s, yoga studios have popped up around the globe, attracting celebrities from Marilyn Monroe to Adam Levine, while brands like Alo Yoga and prAna have seized the athleisure market. Suddenly, yoga is no longer a secretive lineage from the ‘exotic East,’ but a popular fad – a stretching routine. Yoga is…just exercise?

          “Inhale, stay.”

          I closed my eyes and an ethereal sitar tune began to play, transporting me to the Indian subcontinent of millennia past.

          The earliest known definition of yoga appears in India’s oldest text, the Rig Veda, dated 1500 to 1000 BCE. In these ritual prescriptions, yoga means ‘to yoke’ or ‘to connect;’ it is the action of harnessing a horse to a war chariot, therein submitting the horse to the charioteer’s will. Several centuries later, in the Upaniṣadic texts, yoga became a series of exercises for one to restrict the body and discipline the mind, usually as a means to seek metaphysical power or attain mystical union with god. The 3rd century BCE Kaṭha Upaniṣad asserted that yoga is “firm restraint of the senses.” As one harnesses a horse to a chariot, yoga harnesses the mind to the body. I was starting to understand this form of torture self-restraint as the instructor reminded me to return to my breath, even though we had been sitting criss-cross-applesauce forever and I couldn’t feel my feet. Whether the goal is to commune with the cosmos or simply to condition your quads, yoga is control.  

          “Exhale, downward dog!”

          I pressed myself up, relieved to distract my mind, only to discover a new kind of fatigue igniting in my legs and shoulders. My body began to shake, and I fought the urge to collapse back to the ground. Evidently, yoga is as mental as it is physical. In the Bhagavad Gita, the god Krishna tells royal warrior Arjuna that yoga is “skill in action.” He commands Arjuna to be a yogi to fulfill his divine duty–of slaughtering his own family on the battlefield. Like Arjuna, I failed to see the purpose of my excruciating position, and like Krishna, my teacher was strangely militant about demonstrating yogic willpower – albeit through core workouts, not holy war. Yoga, then, is the discipline to do what you may not want to; the patience to serve a greater good that you may not yet understand. Yoga is control.

          “Inhale, three-leg dog!”

          The room burst into a silent symphony of swaying limbs. The yogis around me contorted themselves into incomprehensible shapes, touching their toes in a thousand ways that I never thought possible. The teacher rattled off foreign words: śvānāsana, añjaneyāsana, uttānāsana…

          Āsana means “seat” or “posture,” and it is one technique by which yogis discipline their bodies in pursuit of spiritual power. Around 200 CE, āsana appeared as the third precept in the Yoga Sutra, an aphoristic text on yoga philosophy. At that time, however, the list of āsanas was limited to those suitable for seated meditation: sukhāsana, padmāsana, and vajrāsana. It wasn’t until much later, in the 13th century Haṭhapradīpikā, that āsana was elevated to a foremost priority. The Haṭhapradīpikā codified 84 total postures, and furthermore recommended bandhas (muscular locks), mudrās (gestures), dṛṣṭis (gazing points) and prāṇāyāmas (breath restraint techniques) to train and constrain the body. Yoga is control.

          “Exhale, warrior two!”

          The pace of class quickened, and the postures began to flow together, fast and fluid.  

          “Inhale, reverse triangle!”

          The music intensified, matching the rhythmic pulse of breaths in unison.

          “Exhale, extended side angle!”

          A bead of sweat dripped off my forehead.

          “Inhale, half-moon!”

          My feet hurt. My breath burned in my throat. I wanted very badly to be done. 

          “Exhale, chaturanga dandasana!”

          Really? Push-ups? I thought this was supposed to be relaxing.

          “Inhale. Pause.”

          I laid down on my back. The sensation of movement lingered in my tissues as my breath slowed.

          In the Yoga Sutra, āsana is merely a step taken to prepare oneself for samādhi: a pure state of meditative consciousness. Yoga is citta-vṛtti-nirodhaḥ: “the stilling of the turnings of the mind.”

          “Exhale. Rest.”

          I dropped into śavāsana: the pose of the corpse. The air in the studio quieted. My body softened, my mind stilled. For a time, I was neither sensing nor sleeping, but simply experiencing. Yoga is the absence of sensory intake; both this moment of uncanny stillness and every moment that builds up to it. First, yoga is just exercise, and then it is control. But ultimately, yoga is surrender.

The Truth About Birthright Israel- Part Two

          In my previous post, I wrote about my “Birthright” trip to occupied Palestine in 2018. “Taglit-Birthright Israel” is an Israeli government program that sponsors ten-day trips for all young Jews. I am Jewish on my mother’s side, so I decided to take advantage of the program.

          Before embarking on my journey, I was quite unfamiliar with the socio-political controversies surrounding modern Israel. This ten-day trip certainly opened my eyes, and I was shocked by how viscerally I was confronted with conflict.

          Yet, I had several Jewish peers who went on “Birthright,” and when they returned, they were enamored and entirely uncritical of the Israeli government. They spoke of forming lifelong relationships, connecting with their heritage, and of course, the delicious Israeli food. I was deeply disquieted by the differences in our experiences, which appeared to me as blatant indoctrination. Is a free ten-day trip really all it takes for young people to overlook human rights violations?

A Precursory Disclaimer on Antisemitism

          Jews have been systematically persecuted since the advent of Judaism, circa 1000 BCE. Around 70 CE, the Romans destroyed the Jewish State of Israel, causing Jews to scatter across the globe. In the centuries to follow, Jews were pushed out of Russia, Austria, Germany, and many other countries across the globe, forced to seek asylum in foreign lands where they were despised due to religious conflict and ethnic stereotypes. The most obvious example of this hatred is the Holocaust, wherein 6 million+ Jews were murdered on the sole basis of their ethnic identity. These antisemitic biases and crimes persist today, as evidenced by the Pittsburgh Synagogue Shooting in 2017 and, more recently, the infamous hip-hop artist’s public hate speech towards Jews.

          I provide this context to remind my readers that Jews have been and still are a targeted minority group throughout the world. For this reason alone, I felt it important to write a separate article on the beauty and complexity of Jewish culture that I experienced while in occupied Palestine.  By splitting my travels into two separate articles, I acknowledge that I risk conveying a holistic view of Israel as entirely good or entirely bad. To the former, this trip taught me a lot about global politics and Jewish history. To the latter…well, let’s just get into it.

Some Quick Historical Context

          Zionism — a nationalist movement that espouses the creation of a Jewish homeland — emerged in the late 19th century. Jews yearned for a place to call their own; a spiritual center; a refuge free from discrimination, abuse, and violence. The new Jewish state, named Israel, was established in 1948 in the region historically known as Palestine. Zionists claim that this region, often regarded as The Holy Land, belongs to the Jews, for Jewish texts describe Jerusalem and surrounding areas as a sacred site for Judaism—the Promised Land.

          One tiny problem: the Promised Land had already been promised to others—specifically, the Palestinian people, who had settled on that land for centuries preceding 1948.

         This territory has been a source of conflict for so long that many consider it irreconcilable, and indeed, the conflict continues to this day. Since 1948, Israel’s military occupation has forced Palestinians into smaller and smaller areas in the West Bank and the Gaza Strip. Those who remain with their homes and communities in occupied Palestine face daily persecution from Israeli Defense Forces, which often culminates in destruction of Palestinian property or bodily harm. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict has consistently affected civilians and produced a disproportionate number of casualties from the Arab side, in large part due to Israel’s resources and military power. I implore my readers to research the continued violence against Palestinians in their ancestral homeland. Vox is a good place to start.

The "Birthright" Agenda

NOTE: I will continue to refer to my Taglit trip as “Birthright,” because I do not feel that Jews have any more birthright over that land than the people who have resided there for centuries. Furthermore, I use the terms “Israel” and “occupied Palestine” to refer to the same region; “Israel” in the context of the Jewish nation-state, “occupied Palestine” everywhere else.

Step One: Get them while they're young

          In the wee hours of dawn, I stepped afoot an Israel-bound plane with forty other young Jews. In my first attempt to make friends, I struck up a conversation with a girl seated next to me—a fellow brown-skinned, dark-haired, Jewish girl who could, like me, pass for “ethnically ambiguous.” I must have mentioned that I speak some Spanish (studied in high school and later in college) because she exclaimed,

            “Cool! I love Mexicans! I love your culture!”

            She’s confused, but she’s got the spirit, I thought. Chuckling, I said, “I’m actually half-Indian, half-American Jewish.”

            “Oooooh, so can you speak Indian?”

            Um…. there are 22 scheduled languages and hundreds of regional dialects spoken in India, none of which are called “Indian.” My father speaks Bengali, and I study Hindi. Common mistake—I didn’t fault her.

            Yet, this encounter set the tone for many of my future interactions with my fellow “Birthright” travelers. While many of them proved knowledgeable about Jewish customs and Israeli history, they also turned out to be uneducated, tone deaf, or even willfully ignorant to other cultures—especially Palestinian culture. For many of my peers, “Birthright” was their first time traveling outside of their home state, let alone by themselves or internationally. At age 20, I was older than most of the individuals in my group, who were primarily fresh out of high school and extremely impressionable to the ideas proposed by our tour guide and group leaders. I believe the “Birthright” agenda is heavily targeted towards those who have limited prior cultural exposures.

Step Two: Lure them to Israel

          “Birthright” is a shockingly generous program. The Israeli government pays for thousands of Jewish youths to visit every year, and there’s virtually no catch, besides having to stay for the entire ten days. If you leave early, or somehow get kicked off, you only forfeit a $200 deposit. Many travelers take advantage of the free overseas flight and continue to travel around Asia or Europe after the trip ends—“Birthright” makes no conditions as to when you arrive or when you leave the country, so long as you participate in the ten days of organized travel. They’ll pay for your flight home–no questions asked!

          Furthermore, the “Birthright” budget is by no means modest. We slept in 5-star hotels, gorged ourselves on gourmet buffets, and engaged in countless cultural activities that would have burned through a tourist’s pocket. The sheer luxury of this free program raises some questions, to say the least. Yet, if you’re Jewish, you would be stupid to not take advantage of this program. In this way, the “Birthright” offer is somewhat irresistible.

Step Three: Make them feel at home

          Israel boasts a developed free-market economy, with modern infrastructure that rivals many Western countries. The country’s prosperous economy allows for sophisticated welfare programs, a powerful modern military, and high-quality education systems. As a result, many parts of occupied Palestine feel comfortable and familiar for many American travelers—perhaps even uncannily so. Indeed, the difference between Israel and its neighboring nations—Jordan, Lebanon, and Egypt—is stark. The Tel Aviv skyline, the developed roads, the thriving technology industry…these factors point to colonial power, not a young sovereign nation sequestered in the Middle East.

          From my perspective, the logic behind this step is quite clear: shower the young visitors with lavish gifts so they won’t ask questions. At the beginning of the trip, I naively wondered if “Birthright” is an innocent ploy to boost Israeli tourism. As time went on, however, I started to feel as though I had been paid for my silence.

Step Four: Promote anti-Arab propaganda

          My fellow travelers’ true colors emerged quickly. Upon arriving at our hotel on the first night, one girl became restless and irate. She began to shout about having to sit next to a Palestinian woman on the plane ride, 

          “I bet she thought she was going to Palestine, huh? Well, she’s not. This is ISRAEL!” She followed her angry tirade with a stream of obscenities, prompting one of our group leaders to step in.

            “Hey now, I spoke to a Palestinian man on the plane, and he was actually very nice…” the group leader began weakly, but we all recognized the futility of his attempt. Even he seemed unconvinced. There was no further effort to counter her blatant hate speech.

          From that interaction onward, anti-Palestinian rhetoric became commonplace among our group. Other forms of hate speech also went unpunished (the N word was popular among my group—needless to say, none of us were Black), but remarks targeted at Palestinians seemed to be encouraged, even rewarded. These sentiments were propagated by our Israeli tour guide and our American group leaders as much as my fellow travelers.

          For example, the Birthright itinerary always includes a visit to Israel’s borders with Syria and Jordan so that travelers can “gain a real understanding” of Israel’s geo-political positionality in the Middle East. This “real understanding” turned out to be a slew of propaganda which cast Jordanian and Syrian people as uncivilized, violent warmongers. Our tour guide, standing with his back to the arid Syrian plains, gestured broadly across the farmlands and said casually,

          “We always see explosions over there.” Inevitably, this remark prompted several ignorant questions: How often do they bomb Israel? Have they ever targeted a Birthright group? Are Syrian women educated? Are they all forced to build bombs? The conversation was unproductive once again, serving only to heighten fear and distrust. As for perspective gained on Israeli geopolitics, we were evidently meant to view Israel as a perfect victim, helplessly sandwiched between primitive Arab countries with no means of self-defense. Records of military spending will no doubt have a different story to tell.

The invisible boundary between Israel and Syria

          At the Dead Sea, our tour guide declared that the Jordanian government is purposefully polluting the saline water to gain control over it. He conveniently neglected to mention that Israel is equally to blame for the Dead Sea’s lowering water levels and rising number of contaminants. In reality, the two countries’ refusal to cooperate threatens the Dead Sea far more than the pollutants of either country alone. Israelites have historically accomplished great feats in water management (see Part 1), but their inability to work with Arab neighbors may cause irreparable damage to their historical and religious landmark. 

          The anti-Arab discourse came to a head in Jerusalem. On a rooftop overlooking the Old City, our tour guide began to lecture about the Temple Mount, the Western Wall, and other sacred geographies. He recounted the First Temple and its fall to the neo-Babylonians, then the subsequent Second Temple and its fall to the Romans. Then he pointed to Al-Aqsa, the plaza beyond the Western Wall. Barely bothering to conceal his disgust, he sneered, “they stole our temple.”

          Dominion over the Temple Mount, or Al-Aqsa as Muslims call it, has been central to global religious conflict for centuries. This location is a sacred site for all three Abrahamic traditions–Judaism, Christianity, Islam–whom all constantly vie for control. However, the claim that Muslims stole the Temple Mount is reductive and historically questionable. 500 years span the gap between King Herod’s Second Temple and the construction of the Dome of the Rock; if anything, the Romans should be on trial, for their temple to Jupiter was the first to replace its Jewish predecessor. Our tour guide’s accusation mirrored the broader Zionist ethic, which tends to ignore historical chronology in favor of spiritual entitlement. 

          All this hateful rhetoric against Arabs was underscored by a bizarrely cheerful spring break energy. Out of all the planned activities, my peers were mostly interested in clubbing in Tel Aviv, partying at the beach, and drinking in our hotel rooms. We were shuffled from marketplaces to gift shops to malls, urged to shop for handicrafts and try authentic local cuisine. Ironically, many of these uniquely “Israeli” dishes (shakshuka, hummus, falafel) are just shameless appropriations from Arab cultures. But my peers were far too busy spending their shekels at upscale boutiques to think critically about colonial exchange networks.

Step Five: Instill Zionist loyalty

          Much like American education, the framework of “Birthright” is infused with an Israeli nationalist spirit that strategically penetrates the pathos. The “Birthright” itinerary takes young Jews through Israel’s national cemeteries, war forts, and great historic battle sites. These morbid locations work in conjunction to illustrate the endless plight of the Jews. Simultaneously, the educational core glorifies Jewish history to justify the creation of the Zionist State.

          Through all of this, my group was drinking excessively, hooking up with one another, and attending “Birthright”-sponsored EDM mega-events that celebrated the founding of Israel. At the mega-event I attended in 2018, a sponsor implored the audience (thousands of Birthright travelers) to act as ambassadors and sway public opinion in Israel’s favor when we returned home. I was shocked by his bold request, but when I glanced around me, my peers were smiling and cheering—they had been drinking for hours by that point. I guess alcohol makes the propaganda go down easier. 

          There was also a distinct undercurrent of peace symbolism throughout the trip.  I mentioned in Part 1 that we were each given a dove to release for seemingly no reason. Later, we took a tour of an olive oil factory, where the saleswoman really emphasized the olive branch imagery. 

          And then there were the IDF soldiers. “Birthright” includes a multi-day mifgash (encounter) with Israeli peers, who are almost always active duty in the Israeli Defense Forces. On my trip, our IDF peers traveled with us for six days. 

          For background, Israel mandates conscription for every citizen over the age of 18. Men are expected to serve a minimum of 32 months, women 24. Arab Israelis are notably and explicitly exempt from service, as are a few other groups such as religious women and married individuals. The Israeli Defense Forces is somewhat notorious with the United Nations for its perpetual war crimes in conflict against Palestine, so I was fascinated (and somewhat terrified) to meet the young soldiers in person and pick their brains.

          As it turned out, my IDF peers had little to say because they had nothing to admit. One day, I sat with an American friend and an IDF soldier, a woman named Einav, for lunch. My American friend mentioned a video he had seen the previous week, of an IDF bombing of a Palestinian civilian area.

          “Do you support this?” he asked Einav.

          “That wasn’t us,” Einav responded immediately, impulsively.

          “What do you mean?” my friend asked, puzzled. “You can see the soldiers in IDF uniforms in the video. You can see them, see?” He pulled out his phone and showed her his news source. Her eyes skimmed the screen and without hesitating:

          “Video footage can be doctored. Don’t believe everything you see on the internet,” Einav scolded. My American friend looked at me, jaw dropped. Is she required to cover for her country? Or does she truly believe that Israel is blameless?

          Further inquiries were met with sharp denial. Trying to convince her felt futile, so the topic was dropped, unresolved.

Step Six: Encourage marriage within the religion

          Our IDF peers were not just there to make us doubt the media narratives against Israel. They were also there for our socializing and fraternizing pleasure. They slept with us in our hotel rooms, and our group leaders did little to discourage frisky co-ed behavior. In fact, I can recall several instances when “Birthright” organizers encouraged the development of romantic relationships between group members. We were each slept 4 to a room, but that didn’t stop my fellow travelers from…enjoying each other’s company.

          Subliminally, I had known that this is the motivation behind “Birthright”—to promote marriage within the religion. An ongoing longitudinal study called the Jewish Futures Project shows that Jews who go on “Birthright” are significantly more likely to marry another Jew than those who don’t. What I did not expect, however, was their complete lack of subtlety. More than once, we were told to “look around you—your husband or wife is probably standing in this group!” Everyone told us in plain terms to fall in love on “Birthright,” marry another Jew, move back to Israel, and have Jewish babies.

          The part they didn’t say out loud?

          Those Jewish babies grow up to be Israeli citizens and, inevitably, IDF soldiers. “Birthright” is a soft power tool of demographic engineering and military recruitment, designed to insure the Jewish majority in future generations so that the Israeli state may continue to occupy Palestine. 

          Despite my tour guide’s efforts to portray the Zionists as innocent victims of Arab violence, Israel has blood on its hands. Israeli occupation of the West Bank and the Gaza Strip, as well as the innumerable war crimes committed against the Palestinian people since 1948, have been solely enabled by Israel’s mandatory conscription law. By participating on “Birthright,” I was a gullible pawn in this master plan.

Step Seven: Lure them back

          After everything I experienced during my ten days in occupied Palestine, I could hardly believe it when, at the end of the trip, my fellow travelers were heartbroken to leave. They shared teary goodbyes and sappy lectures about how the trip had changed their lives, how they would miss everyone so dearly, and how proud they were to be Jewish. Many vowed to move to Israel, while others promised to spread the good word when they returned home.

            Frankly, I could not participate in their festivities; my feelings were the opposite of theirs. My “Birthright” trip had disillusioned me so completely that I did not ever want to return to Israel. I did not want to advocate for Zionism. I did not want to marry a Jew. When I left Israel, I didn’t even want to BE a Jew anymore. I felt deeply ashamed by the violence initiated by my ancestors and perpetuated by my peers. I could not believe that these geopolitical conflicts, seemingly so ancient and abstract, could manifest themselves before my eyes so tangibly. Furthermore, I could not believe that kids my own age were willing to overlook these conflicts for a free vacation.

          Most of all, my heart ached for the Palestinian people—those who still live under apartheid rule, and those who have died in the fight. “Birthright” did not introduce us to those people, nor acknowledge their oppression. “Birthright” relies on the anonymity of Palestinians to tell its twisted tale of nation-making and justification. “Birthright” abets Israeli occupation in Palestine by spreading misinformation and indoctrinating thousands of young Jews every year.

          “Birthright” is a violent colonial institution. That is the truth. And while I can only speak for my own experiences, I hope that my Jewish peers will also soon recognize their ethical obligation to speak out against Israel. 

FREE PALESTINE!

          If you are interested in supporting the fight to Free Palestine, please consider donating to one of the following organizations:

Medical Aid for Palestinians 

Palestine Campaign 

United Palestinian Appeal 

Jewish Voice for Peace

          If you would like more context on the Israel-Palestine conflict, please visit the following resources:

United Nations 

The Iron Cage by Rashid Khalidi 

The Israel-Palestinian Conflict by James L Gelvin

Arabs and Israelis: Conflicts and Peacemaking in the Middle East by Abdel Modem Said Aly, Shai Feldman, & Khalil Shikaki

Historical States of America

          A lot of people were surprised to hear that I embarked upon my cross-country road trip alone. As tempting as it was to recruit a friend to come along, traveling solo is just so liberating—and so much easier, frankly! All I had to worry about was me- my belongings, my schedule, my bucket list. I made time for the things I wanted to do and rested when I was tired. Plus, I had plenty of friends to meet up with along the journey, so I never had to worry about getting lonely.

          Now that I’m home safe and sound, I am very proud to announce that only two things went wrong on the entire trip. I did lose my debit card in Virginia, but I had several other cards, so I was able to cancel it immediately and move on with no further thought. However, the biggest catastrophe was a story that I started in my previous article. Not only did I become frighteningly ill in a muddy festival campground, but I also inadvertently passed my illness (at the time, I thought it was food poisoning!) to my friends Georgia and Aron in Columbus. We all made it out alive, but the saga continues…

          Apparently, some stomach viruses (like norovirus) can be transmitted both through improper food handling and through interpersonal contact. I blame an order of unsettling tater tots at Lost Lands for my breakthrough as Patient Zero. That’s why I thought nothing of it when Skyler reported feeling ill on the morning of the Eberhart wedding, almost two whole weeks after I had recovered from my infirmity. However, Norovirus is highly transmissible and apparently, quite rampant around this time of year. My best guess is that Skyler was in the wrong place with the wrong person at the Cleveland Airport.

          Being the great sport that he is, Sky made it through an entire day of wedding festivities—church rituals, greeting strangers, meals, photographs—before excusing himself. It wasn’t until later that I recognized his symptoms as my own from a few weeks prior: vomiting, weakness, inability to regulate body temperature, and above all else, an intolerable, wrenching gut pain that feels like your organs are trying to destroy themselves. Never have I experienced empathy on such a direct level than when I was watching Sky suffer from the worst virus I have ever had.

            That said, Sky was feeling better as fast as he had begun feeling sick—for both of us, the dreaded norovirus lasted no longer than 24 hours. Rather than boot and rally for a dubstep festival, though, Sky simply had to make it through the drive to Pennsylvania the following morning. We bid adieu to the bridal party and set off for Quakertown: Skyler’s hometown and the current residence of his father’s family.

Q-Mart: Quakertown, Pennsylvania

          As the name may suggest, this part of Pennsylvania is historically known as the home of the Quakers, a religious group with roots in Protestant Christianity. When they gained popularity during the 17th century, the Quakers were considered radical for their beliefs in pacifism, spiritual equality between genders, and religious freedom. Their settlements in the American colonies were hugely formative for the religious ethic in the United States, though the Quakers have long since moved on from the city that adopted their name.

          Sky and I’s journey to Quakertown was much less a quest for religious freedom than it was one for family amendments. Though he has some not-so-great memories there from his childhood, I found it quite charming. Quakertown’s biggest appeal is the regionally famous Quakertown Market, a combination flea market/ farmer’s market/ bizarre liminal space that is open every week from Friday through Sunday. I heard plenty of stories about the affectionately named “Q-Mart,” ranging from whole boar heads being carted around to illicit drug deals in the corner stalls to alligators freely roaming the aisles. That said, nothing could really prepare me for the oddity that is Q-Mart. Each stall offers something unique, with some being fairly run-of-the-mill (like Sky’s stepmom’s all-natural body shop) and others being ridiculously specific (such as the vendor exclusively offering remotes).  I greatly enjoyed the few hours I spent browsing the labyrinth of the Q-Mart.

          Our other highlight from Quakertown was Sky and I’s FIRST EDIBLE FUNGUS FIND! Our eyes had been peeled since our bountiful harvest in Ohio (read about it in Magical Midwest), so when Sky told me he spotted a unique growth on a tree in his neighbor’s backyard, my interest was piqued! We ventured back to the yard one afternoon and sure enough, visible from the street, there was a massive formation of coral tooth fungus dripping off the side of the tree.

          Don’t try this at home, folks! We grabbed some aluminum foil and pried a big chunk of the growth off the tree, leaving plenty behind for the inhabitants of the nearby woods and for the purpose of future sporulation. When we got home, we double and triple checked our initial identification across several sources. When we broke the growth into pieces, tiny teeth-like gills on every surface confirmed our suspicion. We had found an edible AND choice species! With a little butter, the coral’s tooth fungus grills up in a shockingly similar way and taste to chicken. It tasted SO FRESH, too! My veggie heart was very happy. Of course, we didn’t die, so we know the specimen wasn’t poisonous.

Underwhelming Bell: Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

          Sky’s hometown is a mere forty minutes outside of Philadelphia, our country’s first capital city after the American Revolution. Naturally, I was intrigued by Philly’s rich history, so we made a day trip out to see some of the sights!

            That…was a mistake. I know that Philadelphia has an appeal for some people, but I am not one of them. First, as I was driving into the city and trying to park near the Liberty Bell (first mistake!), I took ONE wrong turn and ended up across the river in Jersey. I did not want to be in Jersey on purpose, let alone on accident! I had to pay a $5 toll just to get back into Philly!

            Then, I nearly had to square up with a meter maid. No sooner than I had stepped out of my car and walked to the parking kiosk did she come over and scan my license plate. I waved at her and told her I was paying- she insisted that I should have stayed with the car (???).

            Our first stop was the Liberty Bell, and I was pleased that the entrance fee was free because the bell was quite underwhelming. I’m not even going to make a joke about how it’s cracked. It’s just surprisingly small, standing all on its own in a big room. Then, Independence Hall was shrouded in construction. I did enjoy seeing Benjamin Franklin’s grave, though, and then sitting in the park across the street to watch the squirrels.

          Sky and I walked a few blocks away from city center to South Street, another hallmark of Philadelphia culture. We explored Repo Records, a used bookstore called “Mostly Books,” and enjoyed the extensive mosaic street art by Isaiah Zagar. His mosaic murals were once confined to one wall of a small building near his studio—an effort to revitalize the downtown area. As his unconventional public art grew in popularity, his murals began to stretch across other buildings and infect other parts of Philadelphia. In 2002, Philadelphia Magic Gardens purchased the property on which his mosaics resided to preserve his work for future public enjoyment. And here we are, publicly enjoying it! I found this story quite interesting, as Zagar’s mosaics were one of the few things in Philly that I did not find unsightly and disgusting.

          Sky and I decided rather quickly to ditch our downtown parking spot and head up towards Manayunk, the neighborhood where my friend Madison lives! Madison and I met when we were roomies in Hyderabad in 2019. Since then, I’ve seen her in a lot of different places, from New York to Tennessee to Colorado, but I hadn’t seen her new apartment in Philly. When we arrived, one of my other friends from Hyderabad and Madison’s partner, Eli, was waiting for us, as well. I got to meet their turtle, Edmund, and we all enjoyed a delicious dinner of Thai takeout. I spent just one night with them before seeing Sky off (he sadly had to go back to work in CO). I journeyed to my next destination the following day, but not before completing my quest for the holy grail: a plant-based Philly cheesesteak. Silly, I know, but I found one made from tofu that tasted nothing like cheesesteak. It still hit the spot!

Taylor Swift's Infuriatingly Massive Beach House: Westerly, Rhode Island

          Madison, Eli, and I formed a caravan as we headed north to Allison’s place of residence in Westerly, Rhode Island. Allison is another of my good friends from Hyderabad, and it is rare that we all get together, so Madison, Eli, and I were happy to make the arduous drive through Connecticut for a chance to reconnect. Did you know that there is only one highway that goes through CT—I-95—and it is apparently plagued by bumper-to-bumper traffic at all times of the day?  The drive was infuriating.

          However, it was all worth it when we made it to Allison’s family’s gorgeous house, located just five minutes from the beach. A little shack with a sign boasting “Fresh Lobster” welcomed me to New England, and I could already feel a shift from the volatile atmosphere of Philadelphia and New York. As I pulled into her neighborhood, I spotted an impressive patch of fungus, featuring suede boletes (edible!) and Coker’s amanitas (highly toxic!), though it took me the better part of my stay to accurately identify these species.  

          Allison, who has been bragging to us about her New England upbringing for years, was more than happy to take us around Westerly. The first iconic stop was East Beach, which hosts a lighthouse that is especially quaint at sunrise and sunset. We stopped in the first night and witnessed a brilliant display of oranges and reds as the sun rose behind low clouds. East Beach is also where Taylor Swift has her beach house, which is—you guessed it—infuriatingly massive. I mean, no one even lives there most of the year! We did spot someone moving around in the living room, though…maybe her parents?

          On the second day, we visited the Newport Island cliff walk to take a scenic stroll above the beach and ogle at the other coastal mansions. We also went to the Umbrella Factory, a cute little village of local shops and restaurants that offer a variety of adorable Rhode Island souvenirs. The Umbrella Factory was also home to a full pond of ducks, a coop of rowdy chickens, a bamboo forest, some goats, and a very angry looking alpaca. As tempted as I was by all the handmade shell windchimes, I was plenty satisfied befriending the animals and discovering little families of grey bonnet mushrooms among the towering bamboo.

          On my final day in the smallest state in the country, Allison and I returned to East Beach for the sunset, and what a lovely way to bookend this section of the trip! As the sun sank below the watery horizon, creating an ombre of fiery tones on one side, the full moon rose on the other side, creating a breathtaking fade of pinks and purples. It was the most stunning sunset I have seen in a long time.

Cannoli Feud: Boston, Massachusetts

          When my time in Rhode Island was up, I took the commuter rail from Providence into Boston, where I was met by Cecelia, yet another of my friends from Hyderabad. Cecelia is the coolest and wisest art history nerd you’ll ever meet, so you can imagine my delight at being able to go on a walking tour of this historical city with her.

          We bustled twelve miles across the city that day as we hit all the sights: Boston Harbor, the Freedom Trail, Faneuil Hall, Boston Common & Gardens, Trinity Church, Boston Public Library, Capitol building, and the Hatch Memorial Shell outdoor amphitheater. We even got to witness a [pretty pathetic] reenactment of the Boston Tea Party!

          Cecelia brought me to Flour, her favorite sandwich shop in the city. For dessert, she enamored me with a thrilling tale of two feuding Italian American families who have long competed for best cannoli in Boston. Ultimately, she brought me to her personal favorite, Modern Pastry, and I have nothing to compare it to, but it was a pretty damn good cannoli! We each built our own, with Cecelia opting for crumbled pistachios on the ends while I went with the more traditional chocolate chip-dipped ricotta filling.

Olde Mystick Village: Mystic, Connecticut

          After Boston, I had officially reached the northernmost point of my route. I stopped in Connecticut briefly on the way back South and decided to take a gander through the famous Olde Mystick Village. Much like the Umbrella Factory in Rhode Island, Mystick Village boasted an assortment of hippy dippy and other novelty stores. Allison and I had a blast sampling exotic honey flavors at Sticky Situations and fancy spreads at Extra Virgin Oil Store. I was completely enthralled by several other niche stores, such as Alice in the Village, an Alice in Wonderland themed tea shop, and Cloak & Wand, a Harry Potter inspired metaphysical supply store. While wandering through Dharma Jewel, a “Tibetan” store (I say ironically because the owner was white), Allison and I got a kick out of the exorbitant prices of henna cones, as we both remembered learning to do henna with cones that cost 10 rs. (about $0.13 USD) in India. Of course, the white shop owner had something to say about the cost of importation.

Don't Tread On Me: New York City, New York

          Sadly, my time in New England had come to an end. Luckily, the drive southbound through Connecticut was far more pleasant than it had been northbound, and I rolled into Mount Vernon, New York City right on time to check into my AirBnB and meet up with my friend Jen. Jen and I met when we studied abroad in Yucatan, Mexico, and we bonded over our mutual fondness of the moon! Funnily enough, Jen was the last friend who I visited, in New York City, just as the COVID restrictions hit the first time. We said goodbye to one another in a panic as the Big Apple shut down on a frightening scale. Thus, seeing Jen in NYC again was a fabulous way to bookend the pandemic (if I can be so bold as to assume the worst of it is over).

          Jen moved upstate because of the pandemic, so we were both equally excited to get back into the city and check out some its exciting exhibitions. Our first stop was “Treasures,” a free public exhibition hosted by the New York Public Library. “Treasures” displayed just that: treasures of all origins and values from throughout American history. Some highlights include the original written draft of the Bill of Rights, original illustrations from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, set models of famous Broadway musicals In the Heights and Sunday in the Park with George (rest in power Stephen Sondheim!!!), and the original written draft of George Washington’s farewell address. Seeing the latter document in our first president’s own handwriting made me more emotional than I was expecting. Much of his advice is more relevant than ever now, especially his pleas to avoid political polarization.

          We stopped at Jajaja, a vegan taco restaurant in the West Village, for some scrumptious plant-based eats since Jen and I are both vegetarian. 

          Then, we booked it over to “Happy Go Lucky,” an immersive art experience that I found in an internet search. Unfortunately, I cannot be pressed to recommend this exhibit to anyone. The design was poorly thought out and even more poorly executed. Very little about this exhibit could honestly be considered “immersive.” However, there were some fun moments, and the employees served us chocolate popcorn as a treat at the end!

          After the art exhibit, we were on to Fraunces Tavern, where George Washington delivered his celebratory speech just after the British troops withdrew from the American colonies. This building now doubles as a museum, with a replica of the original tavern upstairs, and a functional, old-timey tavern on the first floor. This museum was also surprisingly moving, with several thoughtful exhibitions that critically examined the modernization of old flags and patriotic phrases such as “Don’t Tread on Me.” Of course, Jen and I stopped for a drink on the way out. You know, to get the full American experience! Then we made our way over to Clinton Street for a dinner at Ivan Ramen. We both enjoyed veggie noodle bowls before trudging back to the train that would take us North to our AirBnB.

National Mall: Washington D.C.

          The next day was another long day, as I had never been to Washington D.C. and I had only allotted myself a single day to explore it all. In hindsight, I would have planned several more days in D.C. Admittedly, I was expecting my tour of the national mall to be extremely dull and dry (i.e. “this is where President Carter stood when he spoke on October 11. This is where President Reagan stood when he spoke on May 14. Etc.). I could not have been more wrong! Our nation’s capital, even the downtown area, is full of art, nature, and knowledge. The best part of all: it’s 100% FREE!

          I had no one to meet in D.C., so let me tell you, I speed ran the National Mall like no other. I started in the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History and invested the most time there, it being my most anticipated destination. I enjoyed every exhibit, and especially loved how every path through the museum seemed to paint a narrative of life, death, and rebirth. The exhibit of taxidermy animal specimens was striking—until I wandered into the next room and saw each of the specimens’ intricate skeletons! The exhibit on Egyptian history also resonated greatly with me.

          Next, I meandered down the National Mall and visited each of the public gardens: the National Gallery sculpture garden, the Hirshorn sculpture garden, the Smithsonian pollinator garden, the national botanical garden, and the Enid A. Haupt Smithsonian garden.

         At Cecelia’s suggestion, I went inside the Hirshorn (Smithsonian Museum of Modern Art) to peruse the new Laurie Anderson exhibit. Thank goodness I did, because it was one of the most powerful collections of art that I have experienced since before the pandemic.

          Laurie Andersen, a multi-media artist, built each of the rooms in this exhibit. Many featured small projections mapped onto innovative backgrounds, with people and animals repeating phrases in monotone. Others showed videos of Andersen’s performances, excerpts of her writing, and parts of her photo projects. The one that stood out the most was an experiment she performed where she would fall asleep in public and then document the dreams she had while sleeping. Her writing on the topic has certainly stuck with me for many months. My absolute favorite part of this exhibit, though, was the room that was painted floor to ceiling with nonsense phrases. Just a few unrelated sculptures filled the room, with the main attraction being the hand-painted words scribbled across every surface. Some of my favorite Andersen gibberish includes:

          “Books are the way the dead talk to the living”

          “Who owns the moon?”

          “The many kinds of silence: The silence after you’ve said something really stupid. The silence in the middle of a deserted street at midnight. The silence after you’ve prayed.”

          I took my sweet time marveling at Laurie Andersen’s meticulous paint job. Then, realizing that I had only a few hours before everything on the National Mall closed, I practically ran to the Library of Congress. I did not get to go inside due to construction, but I did get to view the exterior of the building, as well as the US Supreme Court Building, the US Capitol Building, and the Washington Monument. I finished up my afternoon in the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum, which was also mostly closed for construction, and then took a sunset walk to see the White House and some of the other stunning architecture in Washington D.C.

          There’s no way I could have accomplished that much if I had anyone else with me, and I still feel like I need another week in D.C. to check out the hordes of museums I missed. There you have it- that’s why you should travel alone. Because you can see three museums, five gardens, and five national monuments in a single day if you resist the urge to stop for ice cream. After visiting so many cities that were integral to the history and creation of America, I absolutely had newfound awe for my country, and I still had plenty of awe-inspiring destinations to hit. Make sure to subscribe so you can get notified of my next article documenting my travels through the American South and its stunning natural scenery!