Outside a gray classroom, painters and plasterers are giving
a face-lift to the hallways of the 42-year-old building
of the Schechter Institute of Jewish Studies in Jerusalem.
Inside, Dr. Pnina Galpaz-Feller, a professor of Bible and
Ancient Studies, discusses a different kind of makeover.
During an exorcism of sorts that she witnessed in Zaire
in 1980, she recalls how the shaman "sprinkled himself
with water to purify his own spirit.
"Then he put on an ancestral mask," she says,
spreading her fingers over her face to illustrate the point.
Her cropped gray hair frames and animates her features
like an incongruous halo.
"Then he started making the most incredible sounds
with his voice, more like vibrations, or screeches, I don't
know how to describe it," she continues.
The mask was made of dried leaves and shells, and two teeth,
said to belong to an ancestor of the man being exorcised
of a dybbuk.
The ceremony was frightening, Galpaz-Feller recalls. But
then it seems that masks were invented in the first place
as a means of invoking fear.
It is believed that the first such disguises were used
to persuade men to go out and hunt dangerous animals.
A "tribal leader would put on the real head of a dead
lion. Then he covered his body with the lion's skin. Another
tribesman pretended he was a warrior who wanted to kill
him. It was like a simulation game. In this way, they got
courage for the real hunt," notes the 50-year-old professor.
Galpaz-Feller is a mask maven, or mask "freak,"
depending on how squeamish you are about the subject. She
owns 213 masks, which she has collected from 30 years of
traveling to such places as India, Tibet, Indonesia, Japan
and Africa.
Her collection includes a metal death mask from Nepal,
where they are popular.
Death masks, she explains, originated in ancient Egypt,
where it was believed that the soul would roam around after
a person died, and that a mask on a mummy could act as a
map, so the soul could return to its owner.
Also in her collection is a heavy, bronze mask from southern
India used to ward off demons.
The Japanese Noh mask, one of 70 masks used in this genre
of theater, is made out of papier m‰ch*. A leather
half-mask from the commedia dell'arte hails from Italy,
and is quite rare.
But for serious mask freaks, nothing beats the shamanistic
mask from Indonesia, complete with two real teeth, real
hair and, get this, lice.
Not surprisingly, Purim, a day of masquerading, is one
of Galpaz-Feller's favorite holidays. Besides being a way
to purge demons, it also has an international flavor, paralleling
the costume days celebrated by other cultures such as Mardi
Gras in New Orleans and the carnival in Brazil.
She also views such masquerade festivals as a tradition
followed by a variety of cultures, such as Judaism, to ease
and mirror the transition from the cold of winter to colorful
spring.
"Purim is a very physical holiday. You have the meal,
the costumes, the mishloah manot, the noise makers during
the reading of Megillat Esther, the drinking. Everything
appeals to the senses," Galpaz-Feller says.
The similarities among different peoples regarding the
ritual of masquerading could also help build bridges of
understanding. This is all the more reason why more Jews
should be more appreciative of Purim, and learn about its
traditions, she adds.
"Nowadays, Israeli children don't know enough about
the Bible. My sons studied in yeshiva and even they don't
know enough. All they know is Gemara (Talmud)," she
maintains. "People all around the world know the Bible.
Christians are devoted to the Old Testament, but the people
in Israel don't know the Bible." She even links the
need for more awareness about Purim to the nation's struggle
for survival. "If we don't get in touch with our own
traditions, we have no right to be here."
In fact there is a lot to admire about Megillat Esther,
the story of Purim, because it is more colorful and detailed
than other parts of the Bible, and offers a lot of lessons
about life, Galpaz-Feller says.
Her energetic fingers leaf through the story, stopping
at the first example she encounters in Chapter 1, the description
of King Ahasuerus's garden court and feast: There were hangings
of white, fine cotton and blue, held with cords of fine
linen and purple, upon silver rods and marble pillars; the
couches of gold and silver were on a pavement of green and
white and shell and onyx marble. The drinks were served
in gold goblets - no two goblets alike - and royal wine
in abundance, according to the bounty of the king.
"Think about the sacrifice of Isaac. Abraham walks
for three days until he gets to Mount Moriah, but we are
never told anything. I'm dying to phone him and find out
what he was thinking about on the way ... but here in the
Megilla, I have all these descriptions," she says.
What else does the Megilla teach us about life? For one
thing, it shows us how appearances are often only skin deep.
The story "is symbolic of chaos. 'You kill me. I'll
kill you.' All the characters are masks. The king is dressed
up as a king, but he has no power. He is dysfunctional,"
Galpaz-Feller says.
"Haman is only evil on the outside. Inside, he is
totally impotent. He has no power. And look at Mordechai.
We see him first as a babysitter, taking care of Esther,
and then as a listener who sits at the gate, as if he is
wearing the costume of a spy. He is always changing his
clothes, because the whole story is about clothing (b'gadim),
which is betrayal (b'gida). Clothes hide the truth."
Then there is the issue of role-playing, such as the various
personae adopted by the heroine, Esther. You have to dig
a little to find out what she is really about.
"First she is silent. Then she wears royalty. She
puts on a costume and begins her role as a woman, and plays
out some hidden aspect of her personality. Before she takes
on this role, she is deaf and dumb," the professor
says.
This brings us to the reason we wear costumes on Purim.
Galpaz-Feller notes that the Hebrew word for wearing a
costume, lehit'hapes, is from the root lehapes, which means
"to look for." "When we are dressed up in
costume, you have to look for the real person, the truth,
underneath the clothing, which covers the truth, or acts
as a mask to the truth," she says.
"But once a year, at Purim," says Galpaz-Feller,
"you can change your costume. Why do we wear costumes
on Purim? Because the whole Megilla is a series of costumes.
"Wearing costumes enables us to express other aspects
of ourselves. We can express our dark sides, the evil side
within all of us. This is how the Torah tells us how to
live."
Galpaz-Feller also feels that masquerading can be a form
of exorcism, to rid ourselves of evil thoughts and ways.
"The mask allows us to act out our anti-social drives
in socially acceptable ways. I can play at being evil on
Purim. The mask allows us to play with the bad parts in
our souls and get them out. It is very cathartic,"
she says.
It is this cathartic element that Purim shares with Yom
Kippur.
"Twice a year, the rituals of both days offer catharsis.
Both are different ways of cleansing the soul. The Torah
teaches us to cleanse our souls," she says.
"The Tikunei Hazohar compares Purim to Yom Kippur
(Purim k'Kippurim) the holiest day in the Jewish year. Just
as we cleanse ourselves on Yom Hakippurim through fasting
and praying, so on Purim we cleanse ourselves through eating,
drinking, speaking and wearing costumes," Galpaz-Feller
adds.
She quotes Swiss psychologist and psychiatrist Carl Jung
as writing about how "our persona is also a mask. I
wear a persona of the teacher, for instance. Our inner side
is hidden. On Purim, I allow my hidden parts to show."
Every year, before Purim, Galpaz-Feller brings some of her
213 masks to her graduate classes in Women's and Jewish
Studies at the Schechter Institute, an affiliate of the
Jewish Theological Seminary of America and the Masorti/Conservative
Movement in Israel.
Both students and teacher at the school in the Neveh Granot
section of Jerusalem, dress up.
"You can't tell who is the teacher and who are the
students. It is totally liberating," she says.
Even the ancient Greeks were aware of the cathartic value
of pretend play at the theater, They were known to place
value on letting slaves and prisoners enjoy the masquerade
of a stage show from time to time, she says.
The vicarious identification of the audience with characters
on a stage enables a sublimation of drives, some hostile
and violent, in a totally acceptable, harmless way.
"Look at the carnival in Brazil. Once a year, poor
people dress up for a grand spectacle. In Brazil the government
subsidizes the carnival because they realize not only the
effect it has on the participants, but what a good tourist
attraction it is for spectators. It is organized chaos,"
Galpaz-Feller continues.
"In southern India, in the Kathakali theater, the
audience watches the masters paint the faces of the actors
for three hours. Then, a two-hour play follows, in which
the actors are wearing masks painted on their faces,"
she adds. "Poor people can totally get out of their
misery during these five hours. Everyone is transformed,
not only the actors."
Galpaz-Feller has a reputation for being one of the liveliest
lecturers at Schechter, where her classes "touch both
the heart and the mind," says Beth Uval, a guide at
Neot Kedumim, the Biblical Landscape Reserve, who audited
a course on Exodus last year. "Her teaching is personal,"
Uval adds.
In December, Galpaz-Feller was awarded the seminary's Kekst
Prize, a two-year stipend.
Galpaz-Feller frequently lectures for free at schools and
synagogues. Twice a month she speaks on ancient cultures
and Judaism on Israel Radio.
She admits to not always having understood the deep need
that masks and costumes fulfill. Like all people driven
by an obsession, the roots of her interest in masks emerged
from her own family experience.
"I used to make elaborate costumes for my sons every
Purim. I loved to buy the material and sew. But my boys
never wanted to wear these home-made costumes. All they
wanted was to be cowboys.
"'What kind of Israeli mother was I,' I asked myself,
'allowing my children to wear a store-bought vest, a simple
black mask, and a plain plaid shirt, with a holster strung
around their waists? What will the neighbors say?'"
She laughs now at her former ignorance. "My sons were
frail, thin and short. On Purim, they wanted to be tough
guys. Eventually, I understood how powerful masks can be."
Galpaz-Feller is so conscious of the mask she wears that
she manipulates it with ease. She guards her private life,
keeps it well-hidden behind a smiling, open persona.
Just as, at Purim, the merrymakers should drink ad sh'lo
yeda, that is, as Galpaz-Feller explains, "You have
to stop drinking right before you lose control," so
too she stops her performance right before the conversation
turns personal.
All the professor reveals is that this year for Purim she
would like to dress up as Barbie, since she has recently
put on some weight.
