After vacation, I traveled back to
Jerusalem to rendezvous with the thirty-seven OTZMAnikim for Part II Orientation, after which all of us separated into our current locations for the next three months. I headed to Yokneam with Andi and Max of St. Louis. I'll get to Yokneam later.January 23, 2010
At orientation, we got yet another debriefing on the current security situation (I remind some of you that this may be verbatim familiar--sorry):"It's been the quietest year in decades; we have no reason to assume the situation will change...but it's Israel. So they're apt to change. If something does happen, if you start exhibiting symptoms of traumatic stress--wetting your bed, lack of sleep, let us know. It's human. Be prepared for mass text messages warning you of danger.
"Be inside a building.
"Be thirty seconds from a bomb shelter."
There are two kinds of sirens: The warning siren goes up and down; the Shabbat siren is flat.
So much for tornado drills, right?
There's a slightly different procedure for every place we are: inside, outside, this position, that position. But we all know that hiding under a desk won't do shit if the bomb drops on top of you.
When Part II Orientation was over, all of us got on different buses, going three different directions: South, West/North, and Very North. I got on the "Very North" bus and headed to the city of Yokneam. "City", of course, is a relative term. A "city" in Israel is
any area with a population exceeding twenty-thousand. That hardly goes for a town in the United States, most of the time, but like I said, everything's relative. In Yokneam, a city named after the biblical king who once ruled this area, we are surrounded by history. Half of this history has been unearthed by dedicated archaeologists and half has been left as-is because, I suppose, history is made by the men who live it and piling our own time upon the old sediment is just as well. We are history, too.
any area with a population exceeding twenty-thousand. That hardly goes for a town in the United States, most of the time, but like I said, everything's relative. In Yokneam, a city named after the biblical king who once ruled this area, we are surrounded by history. Half of this history has been unearthed by dedicated archaeologists and half has been left as-is because, I suppose, history is made by the men who live it and piling our own time upon the old sediment is just as well. We are history, too.Yokneam lies in the geographic region, Megiddo, the region "Armageddon" gets its name from and the place from which the earth, according to the Christians, will initially open up and start eat all of us bewildered, unyielding sinners. It is also home to the birth of the Carmelite Order of the Catholic Church, so on nearly every mountain peak, you can find a Carmelite monastery.
Like I said, history runs deep here. This is the place where the Prophet Elijah hung out in biblical times, and where he proved the omnipotence of the Israelites' deity over the god, Ba'al, before being whisked away to Heaven, body and all. The contest was, of course, a bloody one, where the four-hundred-and-fifty priests of Ba'al over which he won were routinely slaughtered for their inferior faith in the inferior god. Elijah also happ
ened to win back the faith of the ancient Israelites who had, as per usual, fallen into the practice of worshiping the more tangible deity, because that seemed more practical than worshiping the incorporeal "All-Mighty" God of whatever it is they were--and we are--supposed to believe in.
ened to win back the faith of the ancient Israelites who had, as per usual, fallen into the practice of worshiping the more tangible deity, because that seemed more practical than worshiping the incorporeal "All-Mighty" God of whatever it is they were--and we are--supposed to believe in.The point of all this is, of course, that I live in Yokneam now, which apparently lies right on the biblical fault of Armageddon. Max, Andi, and I live on a street called HaRimmon, which alternately means "pomegranate" or "hand grenade". Take your pick. A pomegranate is the officially designated Jewish fruit--six-hundred-and-thirteen seeds for six-hundred-and-thirteen mitzvot. It's pretty incredible if you think about it. About five minutes away and down a hill and by foot is the entrance to the city, at a shopping center. This is a highly convenient location not only because of the grocery store but because its parking lot serves as the city's central bus station.
Our apartment is in a neighborhood called Wadi, after the Arabic word for "dry riverbed" (don't ask, because we're in the north and there's no desert anywhere). This is considered a "bad" neighborhood in town, just like Shimshon, where we lived in Ashkelon during Part I, was considered a "bad" neighborhood. "Bad neighborhood" in Israel tends to mean "lots of Ethiopians" and/or "lots of elderly Russians. "Bad neighborhood" means "not as well-off" as the more established people (often) of paler complexion, five minutes down the street. Sounds familiar, right? But crime in Israel is much rarer than in the States (although it is on the drastic rise); people still find themselves appalled and surprised by random acts of violence; when there's a murder, or an accident, the whole country mourns. There is not the flipping of the page or changing of the channel, no "so, what else is new? Next!" that I'm accustomed to at home.
So, in Wadi, on Rechov HaRimmon, I'll hear some more Russian and Amharic. I'll live next door to an (oh my god) black person. I'm ok with that. More people may wield weapons per capita here than in the US but they don't tend to use them unless there's an actual security situation. And everyone's trained to use the weapons. Everyone goes through military and m
ilitary ethics training (at least that's what I've heard), but the guns, outside of a military context, are hardly ever fired, although the guns are everywhere. They're everywhere and it doesn't phase me at all. In the US, I'd spazz over them.
Our apartment, of course, doesn't have any guns, unless you count the explosive door making gunshot noises every time it opens. In any case, the light in this apartment is amazing. We can go through the entire day, until nightfall, without turning on a single light anywhere. (If it's sunny out.)
When we got here, the landlord was painting. Apparently, the previous tenants had only left the night before. They left behind six tropical sippy cups in the dish rack.
We have an oven but it's not really calibrated properly--apparently we need to turn the fan on "TURBO" whenever we use it...and the cookies and cakes still don't come out very well; we have a gas stove; a full-sized fridge; an occasional ant infestation; and some good kitchen storage space; and of course, we have a דוד (dude)--will explain later; and the apartment came fully furnished! I even got a full-zed bed. I seriously almost died of joy. Andi and I share a room and Max has a single on the other side of one of our walls. The only problem with the apartment is the acoustics--you can literally hear everything, everywhere. Between our wall and Max's room, there's an open window extending from the ceiling and down about a foot and a quarter. The landlord is supposed to come fix i
t, along with the washing machine (I ended up doing my laundry by hand in the sink and was reminded of my domesticity in Germany).
The apartment is also freezing! And we can't use the heat because it either spews out fumes that make me sick for a week or it blows the fuse. So, we wear a lot of layers. And at least the shower is amazing, as long as the sun is shining...which brings me to the דוד (dude).
Now, I probably should have mentioned the דוד a lot earlier, because we had them in Ashkelon, too. Axctually, they are common all over Israel. So, that brings me to what the דוד is. Basically, a דוד is a water boiler. In order for us to have hot water, we have to turn it on for fifteen to thirty minutes before using the shower (but no longer than an hour-and-fifteen minutes or else it will explode and then it's bye-bye hot water for the remainder of our stay wherever). The only problem with the דוד here in Yokneam, is that it is dependent on solar panels. This generally isn't an issue in Israel, unless we're in the rainy season, which we are right now.
And also, since it's Israel, I haven't had a proper shower since I got here in September. SO even though the water's steaming and the pressure is amazing, I can't forget that I'm in Israel. The lack of water here is so severe that we have to turn the water on, get wet, turn it off, lather, turn it on, rinse, turn it of. For a seven minute "shower" which is really a "bathing period", the water is on for a total of maybe forty-five seconds. Like I said a few months back, according to the Jerusalem Post, the country is supposed to be out of water by late spring or early summer of this year--despite the rain! Another thing about m y shower before I talk about the rain: although the water pressure is good, the h
ose has an issue, so when we turn the water off (which you've learned is often), we have to be prepared for the shower head to fall and smash on the ground when the pressure goes from great to zero.
But, like I said, its the rainy season. Last week, it rained non-stop for at least three days. I lost count. We shouldn't complain. We prayed for rain, right? Even so, as people die in flash floods and as water from the north overwhelms the south, it won't be enough, most likely. The Kinneret is that thirsty. So even as we suffer a deluge, we pray for the miracle of water so that its price won't have to double as desalination plants kick into high gear. We pray for the miracle of water. I'm used to that one, aren't I? I'm also aware that miracles work in both directions, so I am very careful about what I wish for. I grew up in a drought, after all. And the drought has recently ended. With a price.
Well, when I say I grew up in a drought, I mean half. For the first half, I grew up in a swamp. No need to worry about water except too much of it. Then, I moved and the water stopped coming, so everyone prayed for rain and they got it, but people paid the price--flooding, property damaged, ruined, lives lost. So, like I said, be careful what you wish for because you just might get the miracle but know that it works in both directions. You might get too much.
Our apartment is in a neighborhood called Wadi, after the Arabic word for "dry riverbed" (don't ask, because we're in the north and there's no desert anywhere). This is considered a "bad" neighborhood in town, just like Shimshon, where we lived in Ashkelon during Part I, was considered a "bad" neighborhood. "Bad neighborhood" in Israel tends to mean "lots of Ethiopians" and/or "lots of elderly Russians. "Bad neighborhood" means "not as well-off" as the more established people (often) of paler complexion, five minutes down the street. Sounds familiar, right? But crime in Israel is much rarer than in the States (although it is on the drastic rise); people still find themselves appalled and surprised by random acts of violence; when there's a murder, or an accident, the whole country mourns. There is not the flipping of the page or changing of the channel, no "so, what else is new? Next!" that I'm accustomed to at home.
So, in Wadi, on Rechov HaRimmon, I'll hear some more Russian and Amharic. I'll live next door to an (oh my god) black person. I'm ok with that. More people may wield weapons per capita here than in the US but they don't tend to use them unless there's an actual security situation. And everyone's trained to use the weapons. Everyone goes through military and m
ilitary ethics training (at least that's what I've heard), but the guns, outside of a military context, are hardly ever fired, although the guns are everywhere. They're everywhere and it doesn't phase me at all. In the US, I'd spazz over them.Our apartment, of course, doesn't have any guns, unless you count the explosive door making gunshot noises every time it opens. In any case, the light in this apartment is amazing. We can go through the entire day, until nightfall, without turning on a single light anywhere. (If it's sunny out.)
When we got here, the landlord was painting. Apparently, the previous tenants had only left the night before. They left behind six tropical sippy cups in the dish rack.
We have an oven but it's not really calibrated properly--apparently we need to turn the fan on "TURBO" whenever we use it...and the cookies and cakes still don't come out very well; we have a gas stove; a full-sized fridge; an occasional ant infestation; and some good kitchen storage space; and of course, we have a דוד (dude)--will explain later; and the apartment came fully furnished! I even got a full-zed bed. I seriously almost died of joy. Andi and I share a room and Max has a single on the other side of one of our walls. The only problem with the apartment is the acoustics--you can literally hear everything, everywhere. Between our wall and Max's room, there's an open window extending from the ceiling and down about a foot and a quarter. The landlord is supposed to come fix i
t, along with the washing machine (I ended up doing my laundry by hand in the sink and was reminded of my domesticity in Germany).The apartment is also freezing! And we can't use the heat because it either spews out fumes that make me sick for a week or it blows the fuse. So, we wear a lot of layers. And at least the shower is amazing, as long as the sun is shining...which brings me to the דוד (dude).
Now, I probably should have mentioned the דוד a lot earlier, because we had them in Ashkelon, too. Axctually, they are common all over Israel. So, that brings me to what the דוד is. Basically, a דוד is a water boiler. In order for us to have hot water, we have to turn it on for fifteen to thirty minutes before using the shower (but no longer than an hour-and-fifteen minutes or else it will explode and then it's bye-bye hot water for the remainder of our stay wherever). The only problem with the דוד here in Yokneam, is that it is dependent on solar panels. This generally isn't an issue in Israel, unless we're in the rainy season, which we are right now.
And also, since it's Israel, I haven't had a proper shower since I got here in September. SO even though the water's steaming and the pressure is amazing, I can't forget that I'm in Israel. The lack of water here is so severe that we have to turn the water on, get wet, turn it off, lather, turn it on, rinse, turn it of. For a seven minute "shower" which is really a "bathing period", the water is on for a total of maybe forty-five seconds. Like I said a few months back, according to the Jerusalem Post, the country is supposed to be out of water by late spring or early summer of this year--despite the rain! Another thing about m y shower before I talk about the rain: although the water pressure is good, the h
ose has an issue, so when we turn the water off (which you've learned is often), we have to be prepared for the shower head to fall and smash on the ground when the pressure goes from great to zero.But, like I said, its the rainy season. Last week, it rained non-stop for at least three days. I lost count. We shouldn't complain. We prayed for rain, right? Even so, as people die in flash floods and as water from the north overwhelms the south, it won't be enough, most likely. The Kinneret is that thirsty. So even as we suffer a deluge, we pray for the miracle of water so that its price won't have to double as desalination plants kick into high gear. We pray for the miracle of water. I'm used to that one, aren't I? I'm also aware that miracles work in both directions, so I am very careful about what I wish for. I grew up in a drought, after all. And the drought has recently ended. With a price.
Well, when I say I grew up in a drought, I mean half. For the first half, I grew up in a swamp. No need to worry about water except too much of it. Then, I moved and the water stopped coming, so everyone prayed for rain and they got it, but people paid the price--flooding, property damaged, ruined, lives lost. So, like I said, be careful what you wish for because you just might get the miracle but know that it works in both directions. You might get too much.
Tali! I miss you!
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