Travel Log #30

March 11, 2010

Spring has arrived. The temperature is hot. Hang the laundry on the outside line and the steam rises. Sunshine is good for the clothing if not for my skin. I stay in the shade. But I make up for it by walking through the rain. When it comes. My eyes and nose are waterfalls. Allergies have set in and I'm not used to having them.

These past few weeks have been tumultuous. Circumstance put my stay here in jeopardy. But I guess, if you pray hard enough, and if Seraphim remain on your side, things have a way of working out. If you dream like you'll live forever and live like you'll die tomorrow, happiness might just give you a small taste of itself. Savour it, for it is fleeting.

As the days pass, I have nightmares about returning to America. They go like this: I am handed a basket of fruit. I am in America. The fruit looks scrumptious, full, juicy, full of flavour. The fruit is bigger and more pleasant to the eye than any I have ever seen. And then I take a giant, red strawberry from the basket. Red juice runs down my fingers. I lift the fruit to my mouth and take a bite. The fruit is bitter; the fruit is poison. I know this but swallow anyway. I look up and there is someone watching me. He is faceless, a dream person. "I want to go back to Israel," I tell him. "Where the fruit is real and tasty." Then the dream is over.

In real life I say: "I never want to leave, but I have to for a little while. Student loans rule my life." I look up and there is someone watching me. He is beautiful, a real person, not even an angel. "You're only going so you can come back again. It is one step. And when you come back, you'll be able to live well, comfortably. Don't be sad. It's just a step. And I believe him and the sadness wanes. I believe him and I smile.

In real life I say: "What will I do back there? How can I survive? What can I tell them when they ask me 'How was Israel?'?" He tells me: "Say to them, 'It was amazing, but you wouldn't understand.' It's that simple." "Because it's true." "Yes. Because it's true." And I am terrified.

Outside, a siren is wailing: up and down, up and down. It is the missile siren, and when it sounds, people think "Katyusha. Hizbullah. Lebanon." But today, it's just a test siren, to see if it's still functioning properly. The children go crazy. They don't know about the test. We tell them and they calm down. I think it's funny how I'm more afraid of going back to the States than of Katyushot. But I feel safer here and even more importantly, not alone. Maybe this is what I'm afraid of: going back to not only the loneliness but the aloneness. But like he says, I am only going so that I can come back again.

Over the weekend, Yokneam had its annual "Yoke Walk"--basically an all-day city carnival equipped with blow-up rides and hot dogs, and because it's Israel, an 11km hike. The day was beautiful, sunny, with a wonderful wind. We only have two more weeks here. Afterwards, there is Passover and a two-week break. I will spend Passover with an amazing boy and his family. Perhaps I shouldn't call him a boy. Boys who've seen combat are layered over and should be called men. But underneath every man, there is still the little boy and underneath the man here, there is the little boy who learned to carry a gun and shoot it. There is the little boy who lost a friend, or many, to combat. In any case, Passover will be spent with the boy who makes me happy.

On another note, I am finally getting really comfortable with my Hebrew. Enough to start writing in it a little. Or co-write in it a little. I don't want to stop speaking , and I know I will once I return. The language feels good on my tongue, even though I still haven't really grown into it. The point is that I want to and I want it to grow into me. It feels right. It's part of why I don't want to leave.

Because I can't explain how I've fallen in love a million times over with the air here, with the children, the hiking, with the endless fighting over politics, and even with the bureaucracy. Of course, I'm sick of it, too, but often the best and most successful marriages are founded on love-hate relationships. And like I said, I'm afraid of going back to America where there is no real conception of what this place is. There's just a yellow journalism version that paints blood and war and that mythologizes monsters out of the innocent and saints out of monsters. The distance will make it a myth for me, too, and all I'll have to remind me of what's real are these logs--and the people if they come to me or talk across the distance. For the first time in my life, I'm afraid of distance.

But distance is the test of truth, of real friendship, of real connection, of real love. And it is only whimsical Fate that drops happiness in the laps of the miserable when time is almost up. This is why the love of your life always arrives at the end, I think, so it isn't taken for granted.

In a month I move to Tel Aviv.

March 13, 2010

My internship will begin. This is something that I have mentioned but not explained.

For a while now, I have wanted to collect first-person testimonials regarding life here in Israel in order to paint a real and as unbiased a picture as possible of this country and its disputed territories. I want to use this for a number of things: first and foremost to educate those who have been exposed to nothing but the media's version of this region and second, to create a dialogic text between testimonials to promote an understanding between different peoples. This project is part photojournalism, part interview (recorded as a sound file), and part documentary film.

My aim is to discover and demonstrate through these interviews how people interact (or not) with each other across cultural and religious boundaries, how they think of one another, and what their personal narratives are--and how this contributes to the complexities of society here. Interviewees will include Ethiopian Jews, Sephardic (Mizrachi, aka Eastern), Ashkenazic (Eastern European), religious and secular Jews, Israeli Arabs and if possible, Palestinians from the territories, African refugees, and migrant workers.

In the end, I hope to have about twenty interviews. But first I need to buy my digital recorder. Of course, I'll keep you posted.

Meanwhile, over the last week, Max, Andi, and I have met with two American groups, one from WashU business school in St. Louis and one high school group from the Weber School in Atlanta.

With the WashU group, we visited different kibbutzim in the area (Dalya and HaZorea) which participate in the fishing and water meter industries; we also went to different hi-tech businesses. At Kibbutz HaZorea, we went to see the hatchery and followed the guide through a very wild, thorny, uphill path.

Yesterday, Andi and I along with another OTZMAnik, Yael, went on a very long and beautiful hike through the countryside surrounding Yokneam with the Weber group. It's spring, so everything is green; beautiful flowers are everywhere, and the wheat is growing high. After the hike, we went on a crazy jeep ride, where we literally drove down cliffs at eighty-degree angles. We were in the air. The thrill was great--like a roller coaster. And all the physical activity was good. I feel spectacular today.

Tonight, I will hopefully be going to an open mic nearby with two friends. I hope it actually happens. It's been a long time since I've stood on a stage at a legit open mic. Once I'm in Tel Aviv this shouldn't be too much of a problem to remedy. And I know there's ballroom dancing there, too. Must check that out.

Travel Log #29

February 17, 2010
The level of professional unreliability in this country is absolutely ridiculous. There is absolutely no inkling of a service ethic. As I think I mentioned in a previous entry, our lamp exploded a few days ago and we need an electrician as the internal wires in the ceiling got fried...or something like that. The landlord actually showed up, as promised, around 8:00am this morning, checked to see if it was actually broken (yes, there's a new bulb in there), says he'll be back "soon/fifteen minutes" and leaves. Two hours later, he still hasn't shown up! We'll see how long it takes now that's I've complained.

Anyhow, what is much more interesting than trivial (but necessary) everyday crap, is the field trip I went on last week with my fifth graders, to a nearby Arab village called סכנין (Sach'nin). A few days ago, I attended a mandatory five-day seminar with OTZMA that focused specifically on the Arab/Israel conflict. we were exposed to as many people on extreme ends of the political spectrum as is possible in five days--from Right Wing settlers invoking 3,000 year histories to bleeding heart liberals like Rabbis for Human Rights. We also met with Palestinians in the disputed territories. It was good exposure and I don't think it leaned specifically towards one end of the spectrum more than another. The one improvement that I would suggest is, perhaps some representatives of mainstream Israel--somewhere in the middle.

The effect on me was rather depressing: this is the never-ending conflict. "A good one to go into," someone told me. It will never be solved and everyone is right and everyone is wrong and the average person becomes nothing but a pawn in the power game played by those in power. We are all, inescapably , gears within the Machine. I left the seminar with more cynicism than ever, and with more hopelessness. As of now, I am not completely devoid of hope, but I know that I am powerless and that words work to poison, not to heal. "Diplomacy is a kind illusion, nothing more," I thought, "and goodwill works to stall, not to progress, when it comes to the Language of Peace and Civility".

We visited an Arab "village" called סוסיה (Susya), which is right across the street from Jewish סוסיה. Arab סוסיה would better be described as a tent encampment than a village. The people live in semi-permanent tents on land that used to be used solely for farming. This family has lived on this particular plot of land for centuries. About a decade ago, the land they used for living, directly across the street, was declared an "archaeological site" by the Israeli government, so all of the residents were evicted, with no other place to go. They were also denied building permits. Hence the semi-permanent tents. Tents are less likely to be bulldozed for illegality and are not as much of a loss as are buildings if they do happen to be destroyed.

The biggest injustice in all of this is the fact that soon after the Palestinians were kicked off their land, a Jewish outpost (illegal settlement according to the Israeli government, aka no building permits) was started on the site and remains there. The difference between an outpost and a settlement in Israel's vocabulary is "building permit or not". Outposts are unrecognized by the government, receive no services, and are privy to being torn down--and are--much like the illegal Palestinian outposts. The difference is that Jewish construction is not in as much danger as Palestinian.

Ironically, the Palestinian outpost is a mixture of absolute decrepitude and cutting-edge technology: Israeli human rights groups work hard. The outpost is equipped with windmills and solar panels and the residents have pretty cell phones. Alongside this is the outhouse. And the goats.

Our guide, and resident of Arab Susya, stood silently and answered questions. He declared that the Palestinian Authority doesn't care about the everyday people. The leaders are all corrupt and on personal power trips, he said. "So this is what we have to live with." Because neither government, Israeli nor PA, has any real concern invested in the populace.
February 18, 2010
The average Israeli (at least those to whom I have spoken) all have a common reaction if the situation of the Palestinians is brought up: "How can they live like this?" and because they are powerless to do anything--to affect any real change, they shove the thoughts to the back of their minds as much as possible. The everyday news makes this difficult. But there's always "Big Brother" as salvation.

Millions of dollars in aid, from Israeli tax dollars and funds from abroad hardly make it to their goal of the Palestinian populace. Instead, they are redirected to weaponry or to private accounts. The private accounts are often located outside of the Middle East and make people like Mrs. Arafat very comfortable in France.

March 5, 2010
After all was said and done with the seminar, after we'd seen the sites of East Jerusalem and had that situation explained in a whole new light, I was more confused and more speechless and more pessimistic than ever. If we take a look at East Jerusalem, it seems pretty much like South Main, Worcester. AKA A shit hole. But the reasons for this are different from Worcester, in general. Garbage is all over the place. Buildings are run-down and scarce. But we have to ask why. Residents of East Jerusalem, specifically Arab residents have full voting power in municipal elections but only about 5% of them vote; the other 95% do not vote as a protest against the State of Israel. This ends up with the Arab population shooting itself in the foot. With no representatives to vie for them, budgets are allocated elsewhere. So, there is minimal bussing, minimal garbage collection, minimal municipal services in general because they don't vote themselves a representative. West Jerusalem is mainly Jewish and if you ask most Israelis, they want a united Jerusalem but haven't ever stepped anywhere near East Jerusalem, unless we're talking about the all-Jewish neighborhood of Talpiot.

Needless to say, this is all a part of why I left the seminar in the state I did. But the field trip to סכנין came just in time, four days later, to give me a very small, but renewed sense of hope. All year, the fifth graders at my school in Yokneam and the fifth graders at the school in סכנין have been learning about each others' cultures, languages, human and civil rights, and citizenship. Of course, the residents of סכנין are full Israeli citizens; a minority and discriminated against, but have full rights on paper. It's the story of any minority in any country--almost. What I saw here was wonderful if not very realistic in the big picture. The children played with each other, laughed, cried, exchanged words in Hebrew and Arabic, exchanged phone numbers. Perhaps one friendship will sustain itself in face of the pressures and prejudices against it from both sides.

In a few weeks the Arab children come to visit Dalyiot, the school we teach at. If more people would work to promote such meetings, perhaps there could really be change. Children are good at picking up similarities and working through differences. But I cant ignore the fact that some of the adults working on this day were against it and only there because of an order from a superior.

I had a great time. The food was amazing and our hosts kept heaping my plate with more and more food. I ended up having my picture taken during one of these heapings without noticing and it ended up in the local newspaper. Some people were excited. Others were not: "I saw your picture in the newspaper. You were doing something with a school. With Arabs," the word spat out like poison. So, I was simultaneously impressed by humanity and disappointed. But everything swings back and forth into a grey area, particularly regarding this conflict. Hence its perpetuation. I suppose all we can do is what we've always done (if we have): just hope.

Travel Log #28

February 13, 2010
Yokneam is a quiet place. I like it. No pubs, no crowds of people screaming, shrouded in drunkenness. Excellent gelato. There are a lot of children; this is a town filled with the young. About ten years ago, the mayor (who is still the mayor) came up with an initiative that would bring young people to one of the oldest towns in Israel and that would also rejuvenate it economically. Today, Yokneam is a center for high-tech business. Those in the industry brought their young and upcoming families with them. So, like I said, there are a lot of children.

Four days a week, I, along with Max and Andi, go into work at an elementary school where we primarily teach English. Between the three of us, we work with grades 1 through 6. I, personally, work with 2 through 6, but mainly with the 4th and 5th grades. We work one-on-one with the students who need extra help and it's really amazing to see our efforts actually bearing fruit: the children are learning! The children are improving.

At first, I wanted nothing to do with them--the thought of children does not sit well with me. But I tried anyway and ended up loving them. They're so sweet and, a rarity these days, interested in learning things. When we walk into a classroom, we're bombarded with squeals of excitement and hugs and a contest over who gets to have us sit at their table.

A few weeks ago I was sick for a week and one of my fourth grade classes made me Get-Well cards, all of which were absolutely adorable.

Another surprise is that I'm also teaching math--second grade math, but still. This is me. And math.

Sometimes, as part of the English lesson, I bring in Therem and teach them a song. They absolutely love this. Edna, the English teacher I spend most of my time with, asked if I could bring her in again this week, so we'll see.

February 15, 2010
The school is the most organized of our volunteer activities. However, there still remain days like today, when there is absolutely nothing to do. Welcome to Israel, land of organization. I ended up hanging in the office with the secretary, Zohar, and we taught each other English and Hebrew. She may be one of my interviewees, for the photojournalism/conflict journalism project I'm working on for my internship during Part III. I'll explain that in more detail later--probably in a later post.

Anyhow, I don't only teach at the בית-ספר (school); I also teach at the local youth center (בית נוער) in the evenings. The students there are high school age and I teach them guitar and English penmanship, reading comprehension, and writing. They are high school seniors, preparing for their בגרות (bagroot--exit exams). My students are amazingly motivated and fantastic, and serious about learning.

Of course, there are the typical issues: how can I teach them guitar if they don't have guitars of their own to practice with? Sure, they can borrow mine during the lesson, but that's only an hour or so a week and we share the guitar between at least three people. My girl student had intolerably long nails for playing guitar, so I told her to cut them. And she did! The next week, she was incredible! I was so impressed. The boys are good, too, but their attendance is more intermittent.

The Youth Center is sometimes an enigma. Most of the kids go to have a place to hang out, play ping-pong, air-hockey, and fooze-ball, and use the computers. They come to stay off the streets. There are leadership programs, and a pre-army program called אחריי (Ach'a'raii--After Me). My favorite is the cooking program, with a great guy named Gid'on. He makes pita from scratch in a stone oven, and pizza, and is always handing out tea. Gid'on is Kurdish and taught me and Andi some words in Kurdish. Turns out Kurdish has its etymological roots in Chaldean, just like Hebrew, and where we would say things like "לחם" (lechem--bread) in Hebrew, we would say "לחמה" (lach'ma) in Kurdish.

Other than this, I'm not really sure what we're doing at the Youth Center. The administrators, or coordinators seems to have some very undefined idea of having some kind of grandiose impact n the place--but every time we suggest something, they shoot it down as "unrealistic" and "not good enough". I was personally berated for "doing a great job, but it's not good enough--what else can [I] think of?" Nothing, truthfully.

I don't really have answers to these questions. I came here to build connections with people. I came here so that those connections would bring me closer to understanding Israel. Place=people who live in that place. I told my inquisitor this. Not good enough. Think of something else.

"What do you think the children would find interesting?" he asked.
"Well, when I was their age--" I began.
"No. Don't think like this. This is bad thinking," he cut me off.

I stopped talking and very much wanted to leave and go cry in a corner, but I endured this for over half-an-hour, where he even told my student, Shira, to go away. I wonder what is considered sadism, or if this is guy even realizes what he's doing. Probably not.

The point is, other than my students, I really have no motivation to go anymore. Plus, the guy treats me (and maybe my peers--I don't know) like I'm twelve. I walk in and he's all perky, blows over with a high-five and keeps walking. I hate being patronized.

On Sunday mornings, I have been working at an elderly day care center. Unlike the old-age home in Ashkelon, these people are totally coherent and go here mainly for socialization and informative programs. Yesterday, I conducted a seminar that I've been planning for a few weeks now on the history of American folk music, beginning with the Stephen Foster song, "Hard Times, Come Again No More:, written in 1854. I brought them all the way up to John Prine's "Paradise". For each song, I prepared a 2-4 sentence summary reviewing the song's content, and a brief background of the songwriter. All of this was then translated into Hebrew and Russian. Half of the people at the center are Russian and will never learn Hebrew--we have no common language other than actions and smiles but we get the point across.

Usually, I work with one woman, M., who was a professor of English Literature in Moscow. Her English is amazing but she has no confidence and claims that confidence and happiness have both eluded her at this, the end of her life. "I have no future. But my past was wonderful. I just cannot think of it always," she says. Everyone has a future, no matter how brief and I believe in making the best of it. For all she knows, she can outlive me.

"But I can't create happiness out of nothing," she says. It is unfortunate then, how she can create grief.

For the duration of my concert, everyone was happy, but M., I think was able to appreciate it the most. I saw on her face that while the music played, her grief was forgotten, at least for a little while. This is what makes the music worth it.

When it was over, I got bombarded by an enthused audience. Next week, I have another presentation for a different crowd. I have also possibly been hired for a real concert outside of Yokneam by one of the younger audience members.

"You should stay in Israel," a lot of them tell me, because they want my music. "You need to have a disc. I want to buy it." Discs would bring in money, but that's the Catch-22: I need money to record and produce and אין לי--so no money from albums. Maybe I'll find a rich person who wants to produce me (fat chance). Maybe I should move to Nashville.

Another volunteer activity that we at least attempt to do is package food once a week. This has not been working out as envisioned. We always get picked up way too late--so we only have half-an-hour or so--or not at all. It's very frustrating. I'm the contact person for us and I speak to the guy in Hebrew. It's hard and I think there is a large rift in the communication, but I don't think it is solely because of the language.

For instance: last Wednesday, he called at around 4:15, told me he was coming in 20 minutes. 20 minutes go by, I call him. He doesn't answer. We wait around for an hour. He never calls back and never shows up. Not to mention that we requested that he show up earlier, at something like 3:30 so that we can actually have a good amount of time to work with the packaging. But time is different here: take a time and multiply it by at least three. Apparently, after an hour, we're supposed to give up.

We have this problem with our landlord, too: "I come Friday," he says. I call him to confirm. "No. I not come Friday. I have party. I come Sunday at 7:00am." He shows up at 8:15. He rips up the apartment but does the job, closes the hole in the wall, and asks me if I'll still be in the apartment in fifteen minutes. I tell him, "Yes. I'll be here in fifteen minutes." I wait an hour. I get on with my day. I get back at 6:00 and he still hasn't shown up! He finally gets here at 7:00-ish, after Max called and yelled at him about it. He says, "Sorry. I had to go to Tel Aviv." TEL AVIV?!?! So much for fifteen minutes!. At least he wasn't "go to party in my truck with Mommy at four" again. Really, the whole thing is beyond hilarious. But none of us ever want to deal with him again. And, of course, when we think we're home-free, the light in our room explodes and we need an electrician! But c'est la vie.

I have spent the day working and studying Hebrew. My vocabulary is improving and I'm getting much more comfortable with speaking. There aren't too many words I have to ask for now in everyday conversation. It's a good feeling.

What isn't a good feeling are my dry, cracked hands, which haven't completely healed--still! My hands look like sick rotten meat. Ok. I'm exaggerating. I do not have gangrene, just dry skin. But I"m used to naturally soft and healthy hands. Not the case in this climate, apparently.