Annapolis, Annapolis, that's all we've been hearing about for the past ten days. The media is obsessed: will they issue a joint statement, will the Arabs show, will they shake hands with us - endless conjecture that fills reams of newspapers and hours of airtime, day after day. The pundits' din is so loud that it's impossible to know what's really going to transpire there, although yesterday's cartoon in Haaretz said it all: Ehud Olmert and Abu Mazen stand before the gate in an imposing wall around the Naval Academy, where the conference will take place. The balloon reads, "Let's ring the bell and run away!" Amos Biderman is a genius.
Amidst all the hype, here are a few things that happened here this week, most of which were not reported by the press:
-'Avodah Aravit,' (Arab Labor), a new tv show, premiered on prime time last Saturday night. Written by the Arab journalist Sayed Kashua (whose weekly column in Haaretz I have enjoyed for a long time and whose book I loved), it protrays an Israeli Arab who works as a reporter for Jewish newspaper and who is continually conflicted about his dual identity. Politically incorrect stereotypes abound on both sides and their portrayal seems to ironically serve the noble cause of political correctness. For example, the journalist's father berates him for being seen wearing a seatbelt in the village but when he is interviewed for a radio program on the subject of the unusually high rate of Arabs in traffic accidents he blames the state for neglecting the road infrastructure in Arab villages. It's clever and thought-provoking and just might have a chance at bringing us closer together by forcing us to laugh at ourselves.
-M., A close friend of mine from Jerusalem, flew out to Brazil recently to be with her sister, who was diagnosed with cancer. By the time she was able to book a flight her nerves were completely frazzled, so when she missed her connecting flight in Madrid by moments, she fell apart in the aiport. Weeping miserably in a chair at the locked gate, she was approached by a man who offered to help her. Despite her refusal of his assistance he accompanied her to the ticket counter, took care of her bags, arranged for a flight the next day and drove with her to the hotel. "He was like an angel who was sent to take care of me," M. explained breathlessly. When she finally calmed down enough to have a friendly conversation with him she asked where he was from.
"The West Bank," he said.
Tell that to the guys in Annapolis...
-A., a Palestinian Moslem, regaled me with the following story: at work he happened to walk by the secretary's desk when she was out and the phone was ringing. He answered it and attempted to help the young woman on the line. After discovering that the person she was seeking wasn't in, they kept talking.
"You have such a nice voice," she said to him. "Why don't you come and visit me at work?"
Never one to turn down an opportunity for a romantic adventure, A took directions and promised to come the next day.
"But don't be intimidated by my headcovering. I wear it, but I'm not committed to being a religious Moslem."
"That's okay," A. assured her. "I have a beard but I'm not committed either."
"Is it scratchy?" she inquired.
"No," said A. "I use conditioner."
For all those of you that thought the Hamas takeover was complete: Don't lose hope!
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
What's New in Gaza?
Yesterday the media reported undeniable signs of the breakdown of Hamas rule in Gaza. Deep fissures have appeared in the organization's hierarchy, with extremist elements shoving aside Ismail Haniyeh and Hamas International to dictate a hard line. This military wing of the organization is planning a Hamas takeover of the West Bank as well, while the 'moderates' evidently have concluded that the coup in Gaza was a huge mistake. Amidst all this intrigue Hamas fired directly into a crowd of 200,000 Fatah supporters who came out to commemorate the three-year anniversary of Yasser Arafat's death, killing at least seven people and wounding fifty-five.
Not a few in Israel are rubbing their hands maliciously over the disintigrating violence amongst the Palestinian factions, victorious in yet more resounding proof of the barbarity of our enemies. When Lebanese Christian Phalangists murdered Palestinians in Sabra and Shatila Menahem Begin famously quipped, "Goyim kill goyim and the Jews get blamed." Although violent infighting is a deeply ingrained aspect of Palestinian political culture, in this case we can conclude that "goyim kill goyim and the Jews pay the price." The chaos and violence in the Palestinian camp is not beneficial to Israel - on the contrary. The Palestinian leadership vacuum and the apparent inablity of our neighbors to put aside tribal, sectarian interests for far-reaching nationalist aspirations means we are further from an agreement than ever.
Some pundits in Israel are still awaiting the White Knight of Palestinian national redemption, a charismatic, powerful and pragmatic leader who will claw his way to the top of the Palestinian political heap and create order from the chaos and a political horizon from the bickering. Some say that if Israel would just release Marwan Barghouti from prison, he could do the job. When I read these desperate pleas I'm reminded of a conversation I had not long ago with a Palestinian associate of mine from work.
"Tell me," I entreated him, "Which Palestinian political figure do you most identify with?"
"Not a single one of them," he snarled. "They're all corrupt. The really honest ones are either forced out or killed."
When I asked him what the future held he just shrugged. If Palestinians cannot be idealistic about their own leadership then Israel is downright foolish to search for a light at the end of the tunnel. Leading the Palestinians is as simple as herding a collection of street-wise tomcats.
But what can the Israeli politicians say to the people who want a peace process, who are tired of living at war and willing to make considerable concessions? That there's no one to talk to? It makes us look bad, so we'll fly to Annapolis and and go through the motions of the political process, knowing all the while that what we pretend to accomplish there might end up causing more damage than the controlled inertia we have managed until now.
It's hard not to be cynical but I still retain a glimmer of optimism. Olmert's political butt is in a sling and he needs a significant achievement to erase the damage of the second Lebanon War. In addition, the American political window is narrowing. The Bush administration has been the warmest and most understanding of Israel in the history of the two countries' relations. Our prime minister views the waning days of this presidency as the last chance to achieve significant progress with American backing. Perhaps we will yet be surprised...
Not a few in Israel are rubbing their hands maliciously over the disintigrating violence amongst the Palestinian factions, victorious in yet more resounding proof of the barbarity of our enemies. When Lebanese Christian Phalangists murdered Palestinians in Sabra and Shatila Menahem Begin famously quipped, "Goyim kill goyim and the Jews get blamed." Although violent infighting is a deeply ingrained aspect of Palestinian political culture, in this case we can conclude that "goyim kill goyim and the Jews pay the price." The chaos and violence in the Palestinian camp is not beneficial to Israel - on the contrary. The Palestinian leadership vacuum and the apparent inablity of our neighbors to put aside tribal, sectarian interests for far-reaching nationalist aspirations means we are further from an agreement than ever.
Some pundits in Israel are still awaiting the White Knight of Palestinian national redemption, a charismatic, powerful and pragmatic leader who will claw his way to the top of the Palestinian political heap and create order from the chaos and a political horizon from the bickering. Some say that if Israel would just release Marwan Barghouti from prison, he could do the job. When I read these desperate pleas I'm reminded of a conversation I had not long ago with a Palestinian associate of mine from work.
"Tell me," I entreated him, "Which Palestinian political figure do you most identify with?"
"Not a single one of them," he snarled. "They're all corrupt. The really honest ones are either forced out or killed."
When I asked him what the future held he just shrugged. If Palestinians cannot be idealistic about their own leadership then Israel is downright foolish to search for a light at the end of the tunnel. Leading the Palestinians is as simple as herding a collection of street-wise tomcats.
But what can the Israeli politicians say to the people who want a peace process, who are tired of living at war and willing to make considerable concessions? That there's no one to talk to? It makes us look bad, so we'll fly to Annapolis and and go through the motions of the political process, knowing all the while that what we pretend to accomplish there might end up causing more damage than the controlled inertia we have managed until now.
It's hard not to be cynical but I still retain a glimmer of optimism. Olmert's political butt is in a sling and he needs a significant achievement to erase the damage of the second Lebanon War. In addition, the American political window is narrowing. The Bush administration has been the warmest and most understanding of Israel in the history of the two countries' relations. Our prime minister views the waning days of this presidency as the last chance to achieve significant progress with American backing. Perhaps we will yet be surprised...
Monday, November 5, 2007
Sometimes the Light Flickers
It was hard to be a light unto the nations this week. Almost every day a new dilemma arises requiring difficult decisions to be made. A kassam rocket hit a main power line in Sderot and knocked out the town's electricity for several hours. How ironic that this accidental direct hit came in the midst of an ongoing discussion about retaliatory measures for the constant rocket fire coming from the Gaza Strip. The long-suffering residents of Sderot have advocated erasing the town of Bet Hanun from the map: if they're going to torture us, we'll make them even more miserable than we are. Base human instinct demands eye-for-an-eye justice but the rational, moral voice always takes the upper hand. It is at once laughable and commendable that while Hamas bombards us from schoolyards day after day our generals are knocking their heads against the wall trying to come up with another creative suggestion for punishing the Gazans because the lawyers have concluded that flipping the switch on Palestinian electricity doesn't comply with international law. Our uncompromising moral standards are a small comfort to a family whose house has absorbed a direct hit by a kassam rocket, but do we have a choice?
It's also the enemies from within that force us to agonize. Recently a court ruled that Yigal Amir, the man who assassinated Yitzhak Rabin twelve years ago, is entitled, like any other prisoner serving a life sentence, to hold the circumcision ceremony of his newborn son in jail. Appallingly, the ceremony took place on November 4th, the exact day that Amir murdered Rabin. On the news we saw the family arrive at the prison , the assassin's brother brandishing an arrogant smile and the 'v' for victory sign for the cameras. When Amir held that child in his arms, it was as if his deed had gone unpunished. The hunger for vengeance demands that the child should suffer, so his father will suffer in turn. The ultimate desire for true justice will never allow this to happen.
Everyone with an opinion is screaming at the top of his lungs to make his voice heard. The media are all over everything and the pundits always play the devil's advocate. What should we do? Which decision is the right one? What are the long-term implications?
Who in his right mind would ever choose to be prime minister of this country?
It's also the enemies from within that force us to agonize. Recently a court ruled that Yigal Amir, the man who assassinated Yitzhak Rabin twelve years ago, is entitled, like any other prisoner serving a life sentence, to hold the circumcision ceremony of his newborn son in jail. Appallingly, the ceremony took place on November 4th, the exact day that Amir murdered Rabin. On the news we saw the family arrive at the prison , the assassin's brother brandishing an arrogant smile and the 'v' for victory sign for the cameras. When Amir held that child in his arms, it was as if his deed had gone unpunished. The hunger for vengeance demands that the child should suffer, so his father will suffer in turn. The ultimate desire for true justice will never allow this to happen.
Everyone with an opinion is screaming at the top of his lungs to make his voice heard. The media are all over everything and the pundits always play the devil's advocate. What should we do? Which decision is the right one? What are the long-term implications?
Who in his right mind would ever choose to be prime minister of this country?
Monday, October 29, 2007
My Children's Journey
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.
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.
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...
Monday, September 24, 2007
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
Each summer I look forward to buckling the safety belt in my space ship and returning to my planet of origin, the state of New York. Accessible in under a mere twelve hours, this alternate universe is a source of great spiritual juvenation for my Israel-weary soul. Amongst my chief pleasures are the daily education of the morning New York Times, the no-questions-asked, full-refund return policy in all the stores at the mall and bike-riding along the Hudson River on a flat path beneath the gentle rays of the sun. (This year, honorable mention goes to the Orangetown Jewish Center for Adon Olam sung to the tune of "The Sloop John B.")
An environment as relaxing and as nurturing as this one often spurs a reconnection to my American Jewish roots which, although impossible to deny, are often eclipsed by the dominant Israeli reality in which I've chosen to make my home.
A book which brought me back deep into my native milieu this summer was "The Yiddish Policemen's Union," an enormously entertaining concoction by Michael Chabon who, although only in his mid-forties, retains a hard-core Jewish sensibility uncommon to our generation. His story tells of a classical noir detective in search of a murderer in a fictional Jewish colony established in Alaska after World War II. Chabon masterfully marries the Jewish and the American, infusing a well-worn literary genre with a zany but believable cast of Yiddish-speaking characters representing the best and the worst of the Chosen People. Only trueblood members of the American subset of the Mosaic tribe possess the keys to unlock the full meaning behind the cultural innuendos and sly one-liners that pad the story line. To read it is to feel part of an exclusive, clandestine club formerly persumed doomed to extinction but now revealed to be alive and well.
Another powerful reminder of my roots this summer came in the death notice of Carolyn Goodman, a lifelong activist who was arrested at a protest against the police killing of an unarmed immigrant in New York when she was eighty-three years old. Perhaps more notably, Carolyn was the mother of Andrew. Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner were two Jewish young men from New York who travelled to the southern United States in the summer of 1964 to help register black voters. Together with James Cheney, a black Mississipian, all three were abducted, murdered and buried in a dam by the Ku Klux Klan. Although the principal perpetrator was acquitted by an all-white jury in the '60s, the case sparked the passage of the landmark Civil Rights Act of 1964.
Despite its shocking and tragic end, I believe the journey of those two boys represents the quintessential expression of being Jewish in America: the privilege and the duty to ensure freedom and equality for all those as oppressed and unfortunate as the Jewish people once was before arriving in this great country. I find their story to be a source of continuous pride and an inspirational example of the fulfillment of the responsibility of being Jewish.
Where do we come from, and where do we go? My last story took place over a trip with my two oldest childhood friends. We drove way into upstate New York, to the Finger Lakes region, to spend a weekend hiking, boating and touring. One night we stayed at a bed-and-breakfast deep in the countryside near Ithaca. Hundreds of miles from New York City and set back from a lonely country road, the inn was as remote from my regular world as I thought possible. The house, decorated in classic Victorian style, was built on land that came into the owner's family at the time of the American Revolution. The proprietress, an elegant older woman, served a breakfast of apple pancakes, sausages and homemade blueberry bread by candlelight. We learned that she and her mother had both grown up in this home, but it turned out that she had a daughter living in Jerusalem, just a few blocks away from me! Here's her story:
The innkeeper, the mother of three boys and five girls, flew to Israel a number of years ago on business and took her youngest daughter with her, who was then nineteen. Attractive and outgoing, the daughter made friends quickly with Israelis her age she met in Jerusalem and was out with them each day, returning to the hotel around ten in the evenings. On their last day in Jerusalem she met a soldier on guard duty at Damascus Gate. When she finally arrived back at one am she informed her mother that she was in love and that she was staying in Israel. (And her mother let her!) The husband was Jewish, of middle-eastern background and early in the relationship they argued frequently about Yeshua (Jesus, in Hebrew). Then one day the husband had a religious experience, converted to Christianity and has since become a preacher in the church. All this, within minutes of my house on Gelber Street. Who knew?
There's no place like home...
An environment as relaxing and as nurturing as this one often spurs a reconnection to my American Jewish roots which, although impossible to deny, are often eclipsed by the dominant Israeli reality in which I've chosen to make my home.
A book which brought me back deep into my native milieu this summer was "The Yiddish Policemen's Union," an enormously entertaining concoction by Michael Chabon who, although only in his mid-forties, retains a hard-core Jewish sensibility uncommon to our generation. His story tells of a classical noir detective in search of a murderer in a fictional Jewish colony established in Alaska after World War II. Chabon masterfully marries the Jewish and the American, infusing a well-worn literary genre with a zany but believable cast of Yiddish-speaking characters representing the best and the worst of the Chosen People. Only trueblood members of the American subset of the Mosaic tribe possess the keys to unlock the full meaning behind the cultural innuendos and sly one-liners that pad the story line. To read it is to feel part of an exclusive, clandestine club formerly persumed doomed to extinction but now revealed to be alive and well.
Another powerful reminder of my roots this summer came in the death notice of Carolyn Goodman, a lifelong activist who was arrested at a protest against the police killing of an unarmed immigrant in New York when she was eighty-three years old. Perhaps more notably, Carolyn was the mother of Andrew. Andrew Goodman and Michael Schwerner were two Jewish young men from New York who travelled to the southern United States in the summer of 1964 to help register black voters. Together with James Cheney, a black Mississipian, all three were abducted, murdered and buried in a dam by the Ku Klux Klan. Although the principal perpetrator was acquitted by an all-white jury in the '60s, the case sparked the passage of the landmark Civil Rights Act of 1964.
Despite its shocking and tragic end, I believe the journey of those two boys represents the quintessential expression of being Jewish in America: the privilege and the duty to ensure freedom and equality for all those as oppressed and unfortunate as the Jewish people once was before arriving in this great country. I find their story to be a source of continuous pride and an inspirational example of the fulfillment of the responsibility of being Jewish.
Where do we come from, and where do we go? My last story took place over a trip with my two oldest childhood friends. We drove way into upstate New York, to the Finger Lakes region, to spend a weekend hiking, boating and touring. One night we stayed at a bed-and-breakfast deep in the countryside near Ithaca. Hundreds of miles from New York City and set back from a lonely country road, the inn was as remote from my regular world as I thought possible. The house, decorated in classic Victorian style, was built on land that came into the owner's family at the time of the American Revolution. The proprietress, an elegant older woman, served a breakfast of apple pancakes, sausages and homemade blueberry bread by candlelight. We learned that she and her mother had both grown up in this home, but it turned out that she had a daughter living in Jerusalem, just a few blocks away from me! Here's her story:
The innkeeper, the mother of three boys and five girls, flew to Israel a number of years ago on business and took her youngest daughter with her, who was then nineteen. Attractive and outgoing, the daughter made friends quickly with Israelis her age she met in Jerusalem and was out with them each day, returning to the hotel around ten in the evenings. On their last day in Jerusalem she met a soldier on guard duty at Damascus Gate. When she finally arrived back at one am she informed her mother that she was in love and that she was staying in Israel. (And her mother let her!) The husband was Jewish, of middle-eastern background and early in the relationship they argued frequently about Yeshua (Jesus, in Hebrew). Then one day the husband had a religious experience, converted to Christianity and has since become a preacher in the church. All this, within minutes of my house on Gelber Street. Who knew?
There's no place like home...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)