Sunday night at 1:30 am we delivered our two girls to the departure point for their class trip to Poland, an educational journey now de rigeur for Israeli high school students. I must admit I have mixed feelings about this trip, beginning with the cost. For many Israeli families $1100.00 is simply out of reach, and although scholarships are available this trip is clearly not an equal opportunity educational experience.
My kids were excited, but mostly about going abroad with their friends. I suppose it's a bit unrealistic to hope they'd be looking forward to the powerful emotional experience that awaits them and the deepening of their committment to the Jewish people that will surely follow. They're teenagers, after all. What most concerns them is how many outfits they can cram into the suitcase and still make the weight limit, or who gets to wear the penguin hat.
We were asked not to send the kids with more than $150 spending money each. Beats me why they need so much cash - what is there to buy in that gray, ecomically emerging country that we don't have here in Israel? And anyway, this is not a shopping trip. I can't stomach the idea of buying souvenirs from a place where memorials and death camps are the only mementos of Jewish existence.
The kids were well prepared by the educational team running the trip; they had seminars and special classes throughout the weeks preceding the departure. However, Benny and I decided to supplement their preparation with an assignment of our own. We asked our girls to interview their grandfather, who was born in Poland and lived through the Holocaust. We asked them to prepare a list of questions that would familiarize them with his personal story, since he has never actually spoken to them about his experiences. He shared happily and lovingly.
They learned he had six brothers and sisters and that he became an athiest at age twelve; that when the war broke out the extended family of twenty souls lived together in one apartment in the ghetto and most of them were rounded up and sent to the gas chambers at Treblinka. They learned that the Nazis killed his eleven-year-old brother before his eyes for stealing potatoes, and that he took his shoes before burying him, even thought they were too small. They learned that he managed to jump from a cattlecar with his one surviving brother to spend the rest of the war hiding in the forests.
Benny's persona has been deeply influenced by his father's experiences. He has little desire to seek out the landscapes of his father's childhood, but the approach of the girls' trip brought up a wellspring of emotions. He expressed his conflicted feelings beautifully in a letter the parents were asked to write, to be delivered to the kids midway through the trip.
"You are on your way to a journey that I, your father, have taken in a different form," he began. He spoke about growing up without any grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins from his father's side; about his parents' reluctance to allow him to serve in the army; about his father's experiences as the source of his Zionism.
"Your feet are treading on ground soaked with the blood of dozens of members of your family and three million of your people. It's hard to imagine the depth of evil that can turn people into monsters. It's difficult to find the strength and desire to live and love and build after you've been to hell. I hope this journey will help you understand from where you've come and to where you will return."
Teenagers are very emotional creatures. The magnitude of what they will encounter in Poland will surely affect them deeply. Hopefully they will return home with a new awareness of their identity as Jews, as Israelis and as human beings.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The Death of Optimism
Condoleeza Rice's upcoming peace conference in Annapolis was of far less interest to me this week than the fact that there was no room in the airport parking lot for my bus when I arrived to pick up my first group of the fall tourist season. After seven long, lean economic years it appears that the seven fat ones are on the doorstep. Of course, it could all go down the drain with one suicide bombing or military incursion but we've learned to live with that shadow of ephemerality hanging behind us.
I used to follow the reports on imminent summits and peace talks with great anticipation. Maybe this time there will be a breakthrough! Maybe this time the iceberg will shift! Maybe this time the leaders will make history! I remember well my disbelief and bitter disappointment after the Camp David talks between Barak and Arafat fell apart, and then the Taba talks after that, and then the outbreak of the Intifada, and then, and then, and then. I finally decided that it was too punishing to be an optimist and gave up hoping that the New Middle East was just on the horizon. Instead, I'm resigned. That's not the same as being a pessimist - rather, it's a worn out, threadbare version of optimism. It means I've accepted the fact that while the conflict is resolvable in theory, in practice both sides suffer from a dearth of quality leadership, at times in tandem and at times alternately. It means I've lowered my expectations from a possibility that everyone will rise to a historical occasion to the probability that only coercion and force will instigate change. I have no more patience for peace conferences. Call me if there's any good news. Meantime, I'll be busy working.
It's not just me. The seven lean years have affected us all. Today I met my friend Hussam, a Palestinian bus driver. He's got a brand new bus and a steady source of well-paid work from an Israeli guide who really likes him. "It's great," he told me. "The only problem with these groups is that they're all pro-Israel. I pick up an Indonesian group at the Egyptian border and they're already singing 'Heveinu Shalom Aleicheim' when they get on the bus." He smiled at me. "What am I gonna do? I just shut up and drive."
What would Ehud Olmert and Abu Mazen say about this devil-may-care attitude, while they're busting their butts to save their political careers as they hurl us all through this last window of opportunity? If I could, I'd ask them to wait outside my bus in the morning, as the tourists are loading up in front of the hotel. There's an Arab kid there selling Jerusalem beaded bags and ten caps for ten dollars. He's blond and scruffy, with buck teeth, and he's ubiquitous - he pops up in parking lots all over the city, each time with different merchandise. He's probably about seventeen but he's been buzzing around for years now, hustling whatever he can sell from bus to bus, indefatiguable. I always assumed he was from a poor family, coming out to work at such a young age and looking a little neglected. But today I noticed something surprising about him - he had braces on his teeth! Whether he's an orphan who's been saving up diligently all these years for orthodontia or whether his parents finally decided to do something about his teeth, it wouldn't have been possible without the upsurge in tourism.
So for those headed to Annapolis, think well before you pull anything dramatic. We don't really expect you to change the Middle East, make peace or even demonstrate significant progress. Just steer the ship on an even keel. Keep it quiet enough around here so that a body can make a living. We've all got kids that need new computers, a school trip to concentration camps in Poland and straight teeth. Let us work quietly. It's the least you can do for us.
I used to follow the reports on imminent summits and peace talks with great anticipation. Maybe this time there will be a breakthrough! Maybe this time the iceberg will shift! Maybe this time the leaders will make history! I remember well my disbelief and bitter disappointment after the Camp David talks between Barak and Arafat fell apart, and then the Taba talks after that, and then the outbreak of the Intifada, and then, and then, and then. I finally decided that it was too punishing to be an optimist and gave up hoping that the New Middle East was just on the horizon. Instead, I'm resigned. That's not the same as being a pessimist - rather, it's a worn out, threadbare version of optimism. It means I've accepted the fact that while the conflict is resolvable in theory, in practice both sides suffer from a dearth of quality leadership, at times in tandem and at times alternately. It means I've lowered my expectations from a possibility that everyone will rise to a historical occasion to the probability that only coercion and force will instigate change. I have no more patience for peace conferences. Call me if there's any good news. Meantime, I'll be busy working.
It's not just me. The seven lean years have affected us all. Today I met my friend Hussam, a Palestinian bus driver. He's got a brand new bus and a steady source of well-paid work from an Israeli guide who really likes him. "It's great," he told me. "The only problem with these groups is that they're all pro-Israel. I pick up an Indonesian group at the Egyptian border and they're already singing 'Heveinu Shalom Aleicheim' when they get on the bus." He smiled at me. "What am I gonna do? I just shut up and drive."
What would Ehud Olmert and Abu Mazen say about this devil-may-care attitude, while they're busting their butts to save their political careers as they hurl us all through this last window of opportunity? If I could, I'd ask them to wait outside my bus in the morning, as the tourists are loading up in front of the hotel. There's an Arab kid there selling Jerusalem beaded bags and ten caps for ten dollars. He's blond and scruffy, with buck teeth, and he's ubiquitous - he pops up in parking lots all over the city, each time with different merchandise. He's probably about seventeen but he's been buzzing around for years now, hustling whatever he can sell from bus to bus, indefatiguable. I always assumed he was from a poor family, coming out to work at such a young age and looking a little neglected. But today I noticed something surprising about him - he had braces on his teeth! Whether he's an orphan who's been saving up diligently all these years for orthodontia or whether his parents finally decided to do something about his teeth, it wouldn't have been possible without the upsurge in tourism.
So for those headed to Annapolis, think well before you pull anything dramatic. We don't really expect you to change the Middle East, make peace or even demonstrate significant progress. Just steer the ship on an even keel. Keep it quiet enough around here so that a body can make a living. We've all got kids that need new computers, a school trip to concentration camps in Poland and straight teeth. Let us work quietly. It's the least you can do for us.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
The Holidays Are Over
Finally! The questionably normal pace of life is back on track now that Rosh Hashana, Yom Kippur and Sukkot are safely behind us. Although the holidays were intended as a source of joy the non-stop cooking, endless overeating, hoardes of Israelis crowding the tourist sites and the round robin of teenagers alternating between the couch facing the television and the computer can certainly test one's ability to celebrate.
Jerusalem was overrun, as usual. Benny and I took advantage of the single quiet day on Yom Kippur to go for a bike ride. Keep in mind that Yom Kippur is national bike riding day in Israel thanks to the complete absence of vehicles on the road during those hallowed twenty-five hours. As soon as the last crumbs have been wiped from the chins of those feasting on the final meal the streets fill up with kids on roller blades, skate boards, scooters, bicycles and anything else with wheels that parents forbid kids to ride in traffic. Since I rediscovered the bicycle this summer my husband was excited to introduce me to the daily ride he usually takes to work, along one of the few bike paths in Jerusalem. He warned me that the way there was mostly uphill but that we would coast back on the return trip. We set out in the appropriate gear and pumped along a decent incline until we reached the Monastery of the Cross.
After a brief respite via Sacher Park we mounted the last low hill through the backstreets of Nahlaot, cutting over Jaffa Road towards the tv building. Concentrating intently on managing my energy for those inclines, I didn't realize Benny was leading us straight into Dosland - one of the ultra-orthodox neighborhoods adjacent to his office. Breathing heavily, I suddenly found myself, in sleeveless black spandex, penetrating a gaggle of frum women and children congregated on the sidewalk. If the intrusion of two indecently dressed heathens wasn't insulting enough, my thoughtful husband rang his bell - after all, he didn't want anyone to get run over. I waited for the insults or the stones to come raining down on us but surprisingly, no one said a word. I suppose that on Yom Kippur, all is forgiven.
During Sukkot I escaped to other venues. A friend and I spent a day in Tel Aviv, wandering some of the original neighborhoods of the city, a subject which intrigues me more and more. We learned about the founders of Tel Aviv, mapped out a touring route, discovered some local artists and lunched on dim sum. The pulse of Tel Aviv is impossible to ignore, throbbing everywhere with people eating at outdoor food bars serving exotic fare, walking the boulevards and just keeping rhythm with the pace of the city. The average age of the people on the streets is more characteristic of a college campus than a large metropolis. It's a wonderfully exhuberant city but the humidity spoils it all. One is never without a sheen of sweat, twenty-four, non-stop hours a day. The one thing they can never take from us in Jerusalem is the weather. We returned home wistfully but resolutely.
Our other jaunt was a visit to a dear friend in Shoham, a small town started from scratch about fifteen years ago near the airport on obsolete agricultural fields . Conveniently situated in the suburban sprawl of Tel Aviv, the town has served as a magnet for up-and-coming middle class Israeli families and has grown rapidly to about 25,000 inhabitants. However, it still retains a small town atmosphere and our friends invited us to the annual Muses of Sukkot festival, held in the large public park. After waiting a quarter of an hour at the entrance to the city to go through security we made our way through the crowds towards a free performance by a well-known Israeli dance troupe. A relatively short distance, it took ages to reach our destination because our friend kept stopping to chat with people she knows along the way. The dancers were young and, well, not terribly inspiring. We moved on to a small tent to find places for the circus acts performance, which promised to be exciting. Twenty minutes early, we procured excellent spots on the ground right in front of the stage and proceeded to wait while the tent filled up with over-achieving, bourgeois Jewish parents determined to ensure an unobstructed view for their whining, bratty kids. The family next to us had a pizza delivered to the tent and we looked on enviously as they ate with gusto. Finally, the palm of a hand appeared from behind the curtain and a clown emerged to begin the show. The music was great but somehow, the only thing that got moving were the vertebrae in our spines as we contorted our bodies to relieve our aching backs. Benny threatened to walk out in the middle and my teenaged daughters, who didn't exactly come along willingly, informed us that we were done for the evening. I was the last person who would argue with them.
Our final outing was to the beach. We ended the holiday with our toes in the sand after bathing in warm, gentle waves and watched the sun go down over the Mediterranean. Life is back to normal, including my morning access to the computer that I missed so much. But alas, it may not be over yet. The teachers are threatening a three-month strike, starting tomorrow (they had to go back to school today - otherwise they wouldn't be paid for the vacation). I can't say I'm excited about having the kids back at home again. Where is the state responsible for educating my children? Visit me next week to find out what desperate measures hundreds of thousands of Jewish parents will take to keep their kids in school. Meantime, pray for us...
Jerusalem was overrun, as usual. Benny and I took advantage of the single quiet day on Yom Kippur to go for a bike ride. Keep in mind that Yom Kippur is national bike riding day in Israel thanks to the complete absence of vehicles on the road during those hallowed twenty-five hours. As soon as the last crumbs have been wiped from the chins of those feasting on the final meal the streets fill up with kids on roller blades, skate boards, scooters, bicycles and anything else with wheels that parents forbid kids to ride in traffic. Since I rediscovered the bicycle this summer my husband was excited to introduce me to the daily ride he usually takes to work, along one of the few bike paths in Jerusalem. He warned me that the way there was mostly uphill but that we would coast back on the return trip. We set out in the appropriate gear and pumped along a decent incline until we reached the Monastery of the Cross.
After a brief respite via Sacher Park we mounted the last low hill through the backstreets of Nahlaot, cutting over Jaffa Road towards the tv building. Concentrating intently on managing my energy for those inclines, I didn't realize Benny was leading us straight into Dosland - one of the ultra-orthodox neighborhoods adjacent to his office. Breathing heavily, I suddenly found myself, in sleeveless black spandex, penetrating a gaggle of frum women and children congregated on the sidewalk. If the intrusion of two indecently dressed heathens wasn't insulting enough, my thoughtful husband rang his bell - after all, he didn't want anyone to get run over. I waited for the insults or the stones to come raining down on us but surprisingly, no one said a word. I suppose that on Yom Kippur, all is forgiven.
During Sukkot I escaped to other venues. A friend and I spent a day in Tel Aviv, wandering some of the original neighborhoods of the city, a subject which intrigues me more and more. We learned about the founders of Tel Aviv, mapped out a touring route, discovered some local artists and lunched on dim sum. The pulse of Tel Aviv is impossible to ignore, throbbing everywhere with people eating at outdoor food bars serving exotic fare, walking the boulevards and just keeping rhythm with the pace of the city. The average age of the people on the streets is more characteristic of a college campus than a large metropolis. It's a wonderfully exhuberant city but the humidity spoils it all. One is never without a sheen of sweat, twenty-four, non-stop hours a day. The one thing they can never take from us in Jerusalem is the weather. We returned home wistfully but resolutely.
Our other jaunt was a visit to a dear friend in Shoham, a small town started from scratch about fifteen years ago near the airport on obsolete agricultural fields . Conveniently situated in the suburban sprawl of Tel Aviv, the town has served as a magnet for up-and-coming middle class Israeli families and has grown rapidly to about 25,000 inhabitants. However, it still retains a small town atmosphere and our friends invited us to the annual Muses of Sukkot festival, held in the large public park. After waiting a quarter of an hour at the entrance to the city to go through security we made our way through the crowds towards a free performance by a well-known Israeli dance troupe. A relatively short distance, it took ages to reach our destination because our friend kept stopping to chat with people she knows along the way. The dancers were young and, well, not terribly inspiring. We moved on to a small tent to find places for the circus acts performance, which promised to be exciting. Twenty minutes early, we procured excellent spots on the ground right in front of the stage and proceeded to wait while the tent filled up with over-achieving, bourgeois Jewish parents determined to ensure an unobstructed view for their whining, bratty kids. The family next to us had a pizza delivered to the tent and we looked on enviously as they ate with gusto. Finally, the palm of a hand appeared from behind the curtain and a clown emerged to begin the show. The music was great but somehow, the only thing that got moving were the vertebrae in our spines as we contorted our bodies to relieve our aching backs. Benny threatened to walk out in the middle and my teenaged daughters, who didn't exactly come along willingly, informed us that we were done for the evening. I was the last person who would argue with them.
Our final outing was to the beach. We ended the holiday with our toes in the sand after bathing in warm, gentle waves and watched the sun go down over the Mediterranean. Life is back to normal, including my morning access to the computer that I missed so much. But alas, it may not be over yet. The teachers are threatening a three-month strike, starting tomorrow (they had to go back to school today - otherwise they wouldn't be paid for the vacation). I can't say I'm excited about having the kids back at home again. Where is the state responsible for educating my children? Visit me next week to find out what desperate measures hundreds of thousands of Jewish parents will take to keep their kids in school. Meantime, pray for us...
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