Travel Log #22

November 20, 2009

My expectations have been left in the dust; This country has exceeded them by far. For a while now, I have been trying to find a word that conveys what I feel and I have concluded that one does not exist. However, one comes close, if we define it in my own terms. The word is "safe" and I know that probably sounds crazy, but it's true. I feel safe and protected and I do not feel alone.

Perhaps that is what I mean by "safe"--I am surrounded by people who do not have to hear a story of pain and worry of life lived on edge because they understand in the truest and most legitimate way possible. It is their story, too, and I don't have to explain a thing. That understanding is the starting point and it begins with a glance.

I just passed through security to get on the train and the guards were surprised to find out that I'm not from here. But perhaps I want to be. Why? Because everywhere I go, I meet incredible people without whom I cannot imagine the rest of my life. I make it a point to make them crucial pieces of my life. En masse, they return not only empty words, but actions.

I leave Ashkelon for the army in about two weeks. Like Worcester, I am not too pleased with Ashkelon on an aesthetic level. It is what lies beneath the surface that counts. My family here truly makes me a part of them, includes me in the good the bad, and the ugly. And believe me, it can get ugly. But I choose it and they choose me. And the good by far outweighs the bad. My personal relationships with each of them are precious to me and I cannot abandon them.

B's younger brother, Benny, helped me break into the music scene in Ashkelon. I played at a bar/restaurant in Afridar (a neighborhood in the city) called Hanassi. On the menus, there is an Israeli Uncle Sam pointing. He wants me. "Hanassi" means "president". Benny has also helped me meet with people connected to the music business, got me an audition, etc. I have also been playing for other people and have been hired twice. Thanks to Benny, I am known in Ashkelon. That's what good friends are for. He is 32 years old, divorced, hunting for new companionship, and has three children, aged 7, 4, and 2.

B's husband, N, is a rabbi, a psychotherapist, a scholar, a kabbalist, and one of the nicest, calmest people I've ever known. Of the entire family, I met N first. It was he who invited me over for Shabbat, which started my entire life and involvement with the family.

There are five children of whom I've met four. The daughter, A, is eighteen years old and is in the United States, probably permanently. She is about to be officially engaged. So young. I know. But that's the way it is here. And age is different here anyway. And eighteen-year-old is an American twenty-four. At nineteen, push it up to twenty-seven. At twenty, to thirty.

Anyhow, Moshe is the oldest at twenty-seven, is married, and has one child who just turned a year old, Bat-Tzion. Yossi is second at twenty-three, is married to Miri, twenty-two, and they have Ze'ev who is also a year old and four-and-half hours older than Bat-Tzion. That's right. Hours. I spent a lot of time with Yossi, Miri, and Ze'ev, helping to paint Ze'ev's room, hanging out, making dinner, just talking. They live about a ten minute walk from me.

Next comes Hershey, at twenty, in the army, opposed to relationships (for himself), and so dedicated to his job that he complains about getting time off. Then, of course, there's A., in the States, and then Kobi, who just turned thirteen and had his bar mitzvah last week.

November 21, 2009
To make Kobi happy, I have sacrificed my thus far absolute refusal to partake in facebook applications and have become a diligent player of "Happy Aquarium". "It's a nice game," Kobi insists, and constantly asks me to "check" for him. I steal coins from the virtual treasure chests and virtually feed my virtual fish in their virtually clean tank that I constantly virtually clean.

With B., I sit and listen and she listens back. I go over early on Fridays and help her prepare food for the hordes of people who are forever milling about the house. Of course, I'm not usually one for domesticity, but the conversation detracts from the monotony of peeling eight thousand vegetables and actually makes it quite enjoyable. Or perhaps I am changing.

The thought of children has always detested me. Of course, when I'm in the midst of them, all is well and I love it. But the prospect of children? Disgusting. Until now. Now, there is Ze'evik and there is Bat-Tzion, and even older children like Benny's, and I love them even though they drive me crazy.

I see Ze'ev the most and miss him terribly when I'm not with him. Miri facetiously asks "Do you want one?" and to keep up appearances I say, "No. Absolutely not." And then to temper that I say, "At least not now," which is most certainly the truth. But I play with the babies and I laugh with the babies and I hold the babies to sleep. There is something quite special and calming in those actions, and the notion of building a person up from nothing, from a clean slate, is a realization of hope. But I think adoption is more up my alley, because I couldn't bring myself to damn someone I love so much to exist in a world such as this one. i can do my best to shield those already here from this place that rolls without reason and that sails on chaos; I can do my best to show them how to ride.

"You have already borne us many children, darling," says the angel, Micha'el. "They ride on the air and on the seams between the worlds of linearity and Eternity."
"Do they have hearts like me," I ask, "or are they cursed to Holiness like you?"
"They are not human, so no hearts. Yet they are not angel, either, so no curse of Holiness. They are somewhere in between."
"Like Uriel. Are they subjected to your discipline like him? Is it my fault?"
"No, darling. Your children are somewhere in between the lines of thought and flesh. I am of thought and you are of flesh, and what you produce is a product of us both."
"And what about what I want?" I say. "What of my wish?"
"I have told you," says the angel. "You must accept what you are."

And half of me struggles and half of me rests.

I am once again caught up in my own dichotomy.

As Nasikh once wrote: "No two days pass alike in this world; There is no garden that could avert autumn". And so, too, none that could avert spring.

The world, I know, is not pretty; but it is also what we make of it. I desire beauty and thus, alongside the terror and the chaos that is this world, alongside all that snuffs out life as if it were nothing more than the blink of an eye, I see beauty. I create beauty. I incorporate it into myself and love the world completely, for without the darkness, I could not comprehend the blessing of light and I must not take even that which seems most inconsequential for granted. Life is short, after all, and I do not let it pass by. I cannot, despite the fact that it must always be lived alone.

Travel Log #21

November 9, 2009

We are given a question and a task in Tel Aviv: walk along the streets we tell you and find the landmarks (this is the task); discuss the city as an entity (this entails the question). We are given some passages to think about:

"By this point I'm starting to wonder if Tel Aviv is simply ground zero for escapism. Has Judaism's prophetic tradition been jettisoned in favor of Dionysian revels in what Zionist leaders proclaimed the first Hebrew city?" asks Michael Z. Wise. Wise goes on to quote Dov Alfon: "There is escapism. But it's not exactly escapism. It's a real will to live. It's a hymn to life. . . . [It is n]ot the American perception of finding happiness, but happiness on a daily basis." This leads to the questions of "What is the problem about the Tel Avivian search for happiness?"; "What is un-Jewish about it?"; and, finally, "Should/Can a people who has traditionally defined itself as 'a nation that dwells alone,' as 'a kingdom of priests,' and as 'a light to the nations' aspire to happiness?"

It is just like Berlin. In theory, that is. One city searches for forgiveness from a traumatizing past perpetrated by itself and the other searches for happiness from a traumatizing past and present in world where survival makes right and wrong a moot point. The cities are tangent to one another. However, I cannot offer too much in the way of commentary regarding Tel Aviv. I have not experienced this city as I have Berlin, nor its so-called "happiness", which might perhaps better be labeled vanity. I have spent a few theoretical hours walking the streets of Tel Aviv; in other words, not enough time to acquaint myself with a ghost or a jinn, as I did in Berlin. But Berlin flaunts its ghosts and its shame. Tel Aviv flaunts happiness. I suspect that there is something crucial missing from this picture.

The descriptions are different, yes, but in light of the questions posed, I am wont to place both cities on the same spectrum, for similar and identical inquiries have been made into the natures of both cities, and ultimately about the countries of which they are a part.

The problem of the search for happiness? There is never a problem with a pure pursuit of happiness. Everyone is entitled, for I do believe in deeply, and hold proud the notion "[t]hat all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness". I will take my liberties and interpret this as someone of the contemporary age so that "all men" can be read as "all people" and so that the "pursuit of happiness" means much more than the pursuit of land. The problem? The problem is that it is a nice theory but w hen put into practice allows a very few amount of people to attain true happiness and commits a very large number to a living hell, and a life of unfulfilled dreams. We are not all dealt the same luck.

But if what has been written about Tel Aviv is true, that is happiness is Dionysian, then the problem is not the city's pursuit of happiness, but rather its happiness as "escapism" that is "not exactly escapism". It is a symptom of the "real will to live", and it is a will to live right now, in the moment. All of this begs the question of what has awoken these people to "real life". I am not saying that this is problematic. I am going to examine the nature of this particular happiness.

The "real will to live" comes from somewhere--the real threat of no tomorrow, the real possibility of never having another chance at simple pleasures like a good coffee or a day at the beach. It puts things in perspective: the ephemerality of existence, the significance of a single moment, of a single life. This is a society where life is sacred above all else, and not one of martyrs where glory can only be achieved in death. Each individual is worth an entire world, each tear is valued with as much weight as a smile.

But it is also a society where Reality is harsh, and where childhood has a definite and dated end. On the other hand, young children can still walk the streets unattended and without fear of danger, where strangers will do you favors, where the strangers will love you for no rhye and no reason other than that it's right, no questions asked. I have never experienced this before, especially on this level.

Of course, there are issues, many elephants in tiny rooms. The focus should not be on only ones of these issues, but on many. In particular, more should be focused on what is being done about them here, on the ground. A balanced picture is the only one worth anything.

Yesterday, as you have probably guessed, I attended an educational seminar day in Tel Aviv. We met a lot of children at the Rigozin School in the south of the city and learned about the situation in whic foreign workers from all over the world find themselves. Many have overstayed their visas (usually good for five years) and face deportation. Yet for the children of these workers, many of whom were born in Israel, education is a right. They speak Hebrew fluenty and consider this country their home. The result is often a crisis of identity: who are they? They have never been to their countries of ethnic origin but also face prejudice from the greater Israeli society, from both Jews and Palestinians. They are taking away work, after all. Some have received permanent residency and are proudly entering the army. Other children at the school are African refugees from Sudan (Darfur), Somalia, Eritrea, Egypt, etc. The children here are from every place imaginable: Africa, South America, the Philippines. The list goes on.

When it comes to refugees, we have those elephants in the room. There are over 10,000 African refugees in Israel now, with more crossing the border from Egypt every month in numbers reaching about 600. They pose a great dilemma in this country, as do other refugees: how can the country say no to helping those seeking refuge from persecution and almost certain murder considering its people's own history as Jews? On the other hand, if Israel is to remain a Jewish country, which mean the maintenance of a Jewish majority, how can it tolerate the stresses of an added non-Jewish population that not only pressures its morals but its financial capability to handle the non-tax-paying burden. One argument is to shoot them as they cross the border--no bodies, no worries--like the Egyptians do. Another argument is to take them in as Israel currently does, but this leaves them with a semi-illegal status and the inability to work. Yet another argument states that granting these refugees permanent residency, work permits, and equal opportunities in this society would strengthen Israel's support base around the globe once these refugees return home, which is their overall ultimate hope. All dilemmas aside, the refugees remain here and continue to cross the border and have become a very real part of Israeli society, albeit a controversial one.

Travel Log #20

October 21, 2009

Old age is not for me. I am volunteering right now at a nursing home with my friend, Miri, who is B's daughter-in-law. I have been spending a lot of time with Miri because she's wonderful, has the best baby ever, and doesn't speak too much English which makes me speak Hebrew.

Miri works here and loves it. I find it enjoyable but know for a fact that I never want to even broach this state of existence. Second childhood has no place on my time line. I had my chance at childhood and it's gone. I would rather go out in my prime.

There is one woman here who wanders around, makes frequent stops in front of me, and screams in my face in Russian, then laughs at me--in my face. It is a toothless laugh. Another woman cries. They tell me she wants to go to sleep but the doctor won't allow it. A man cries for food. The nurses feed him cookies. A woman dances and smiles, pats me on the shoulders, clings to me. Rattles off something in Russian.

These people are treated like young children: play ball, ring toss. Wheel chairs and catheters and I.V.s. Children come to visit their parents and now they are the parents. I wonder what has been lost beneath the blanket of senility, what history has been erased and replaced with vacancy. These people have no future but the grave and eternity, whatever that might bring, and what remains of their past, privy to the memories of those to which it was once conveyed. But what if the family is gone? And more, what if the younger generation is destined for this fate, too?

In an hour-and-a-half, I got to dance. It is a reversal: I dance with the young. They are four feet tall and ten years old. They are patient and respectful and excited to help me with Hebrew and to learn my own native language.

Truly committing to learning another language is one of the most difficult tasks I have ever undertaken, but I will master it. This past week, I have taken advantage of what OTZMA offers me: I have created for myself a life. I have seen Miri or other parts of the family every day this week. I get called up to go places, to advance my own life, to sing, to hang out. Miri speaks about as much English as I speak Hebrew, or less. I carry around a dictionary and my notebooks full of words. Soon, my Hebrew will surpass her English. That is the point.

Here is an important fact that I must bear in mind: I have always loved language. I have defined myself in words--English words, by the way I write, the way I read, by the way I understand and convey ideas, by the way I love manipulating language more than almost anything else. Yet for all the investment in language, I am a master of only one. And here that mastery is worthless. What gets lost in translation? What is not even able to be said? How many people can I not know or not know fully because of the barrier of language? And for those who understand but not completely, what is lost in the inability to comprehend the nuances? Too much to fathom. But as I experience this, I continue to write, and as I focus on another language, my own is apt to decline. So writing is good practice.

Now, I am with my ten-year-old dancers. Felix, the regular teacher, and my friend, is not here today, so his daughter is teaching. A Russian mother is sitting next to me and won't stop talking and nitpicking at everything. The class can't progress. I suppose this anal retentiveness is what Felix meant when he told me "They're Russian. They won't change," on the first day I met him. Today, I'll sit on the side. I only dance when Felix is here. The kids get very excited when they see me, though, and their smiles and enthusiasm make me happy. Perhaps I will sing to them later since Therem is with me today. Tomorrow, I come back, but to tutor Yivginy in English (no idea how to really spell his name). Afterwards, I might get on a train to go home. Otherwise, I'll catch it in the morning.

Last night, B. invited me to go to one of the English Speaking club's events: the monthly play reading group. We read 'The Good Woman of Sechuan' by Brecht. I was privileged enough to have seen an amazing production of this show in the past year at Clark. The meeting was great! We each played a few parts and discussed it critically when we were finished. Damn, I missed that. In the end, I am destined for academia. I am sick to death of it and I know the toll it takes, and the petty bureaucracy of university politics, etc. But I love it. Too much to quit it forever. What I am doing now is an experiment: if I am to spend my entire life theorizing, teaching, and writing about that theory, I must know if it is legitimate in actuality, otherwise, the theory is a waste of time.

A different subject: it is well known that water is a precious and absolutely necessary commodity in this region. Syria has no water, a major reason for its want of the Golan back, and a major reason Israel won't give it up. Top news story in the Jerusalem Post yesterday spoke of the water crisis in Israel. Severe drought, water sanctions (that include golf courses), etc. The sanctions have saved more water than anticipated, but it is still not enough. Even with rain this year, if it rains, it will not be enough. Israel will run out of water by next year. As in mid-2010. Solutions are already well underway.

It is said that the water of Ashkelon is better than nearly every other place in the country. Its source is different. A good portion of Ashkelonian water comes from the local desalinization plant. THere are many others scheduled to be opened, others being built, and others in the planning stages. The solution is a good one, but desalinized water is at least twice as expensive as naturally fresh water. Indeed, there is the Mediterranean, with water, water, all around and perhaps, an expensive drop to drink. Some say the entire conflict in this region is about water and resources (BBC, NYTimes, etc) claim that the average Israeli uses ten times as much water as their counterparts in the surrounding Arab countries. Perhaps an interest in the trading of technology (like the desalinization) would improve the lives of everyone and make the water cheaper, as it will be in greater demand.

More on the information front. Each Sunday, we have had an "educational seminar". This past week's was on "Communities of the Negev". We began at 7:30 in the morning, all half asleep. Some fully asleep. Just for the record, I never sleep in Ashkelon. I finally bought pillows but the lack of air conditioning in stifling heat and no fan (money diverted to overly expensive notary) makes for sleepless nights. The good news is that my friend Benny (B's brother) might lend me a fan. Let's hope. Or let's hope it cools down.

Anyhow, our first stop was a Bedouin village called סגב שלום (Segev Shalom). There, we learned a lot about the Bedouin of today and put their contemporary situation into historical context, visited Sde Boker, where Ben Gurion spent his last days, went to a goat farm, and met with an American group that lives here known as the Hebrew Israelites.

October 24, 2009

Let's begin with the Bedouin. As of the most recent census, 170,000 reside inside Israel; 110,000 in the נגב (Negev Desert); 10,000 in the central region, and 50,000 in the north. In 1998 there were only 53,000 in the Negev.

In 1948, most fled or were expelled beyond the borders of the newly founded State of Israel. They fled to Gaza, Jordan, Egypt, and to the Sinai. Of the 65,000 Negev Bedouin, only 11,000 remained.

In the 1970s, the Israeli government established seven urban towns and promised municipal services to the Bedouin, like running water, education, and sanitation in exchange for a renunciation of ancestral land. Throughout the '70s and '80s, tens of thousands of Bedouin resettled in these towns. To date, about half the Bedouin community lives in these governmentally recognized towns. The other half live in 39-45 unrecognized villages and receive no services. Israel claims that only 40% live in these villages while the Regional Council of Unrecognized Villages claims it is 50%. Over the past few years, tensions between those living in Recognized and Unrecognized villages are growing. In all cases, Islamic Fundamentalism is on the rise amongst nearly all of the Bedouin youth. In addition, many have ceased referring to themselves as "Bedouin" and prefer the label "Negev Arabs" because the Bedouin and nomadic way of life is over.

It is important to understand that the relationship between Israel and the Bedouin as opposed to Israel's relationship with the Palestinians has, until recently, been very different. The Bedouin have typically served in the army and been proud of this fact; they helped form the State and do not view its formation as the Nakba. Recently, they have stopped serving in the army because they have not seen benefits in the way of equal respect or social status in return. They see themselves treated as second-class citizens, like other Arabs with full citizenship. In addition, they are looked upon as traitors by the Arab world. The Bedouin living in recognized villages are seen as traitors by those who live in unrecognized ones.

So, again we have a people with no place. It is a vicious cycle and I bear in mind that I cannot separate myself from it.

Travel Log #19

October 15, 2009

So, what's this country like in reality, forget about the theory? Genuine is the first adjective that comes to mind. The people are genuine and actually care about each other. And it has nothing to do with status quo or money. It does have to do with politics. Everything here has to do with politics, but politics can sometimes be ignored, or at best, avoided for the time being, and we are on our merry happy family ways again. Yes, family. It's one big one here with the love-hate relationships abounding. As usual, I acquire surrogate families. I am in love with this place.

Of course, I have my qualms. You've read a little bit about them. The Religious Authority, etc. And the fact that people here smoke like chimneys in a New England winter. I'm constantly suffocating on second-hand smoke and therefore am either high off the nebulizer medication or exhausted from suffocation. But I'm good at prevailing in the face of ailments.

Food here is delicious and amazingly cheap. Since I am extremely frugal, I have been living on lettuce, cabbage, and tomatoes. For a treat, I get snitzel. All kinds of snitzel: sesame, regular, Asian, on and on.The goat cheese is also very good and to replace the kefir I got addicted to in Germany, I have found some of the best yogurt possible.

When I got to volunteer, I walk about ten minutes down the street. The street is filled with benches that are filled with people. The poeple sit around talking and playing chess and drinking שוקו (shoko). שוקו is chocolate milk in a bag. Terribly popular. Terribly addictive. Now, I have this theory about why. I mean, chocolate milk is always addictive unless, of course, it's sour. But שוקו goes beyond normal chocolate milk addiction. The first time I cut off the corner and started sucking that שוקו down, I was overwhelmed by a long-lost familiar feeling of comfort--and then it hit me. It's the ultimate pseudo breast milk experience: with chocolate. It's like breast feeding all over again with chocolate as the reward. Now, who would refuse that, particularly the overgrown, overtaxed subconscious that's been longing for a return to infancy since it ended?

I continue down the street, the שוקו packages discarded. An old woman with a cane walks ahead of me. I see a sudden white, shiny flutter and the woman pauses. I look down in awe as she reaches down and steps out of her underpants, pockets them, and continues walking...

Travel Log #18

September 28, 2009

I have been given a Yom Kippur in Jerusalem. I suppose this can be compared to the Vatican on Easter or Christmas. All roads lead to Jerusalem in the Jewish world, whether we are religious, secular, observant, Zionist, or not. The parallel, of course, is that all roads lead to Rome, so things haven't changed much in quite a few millennia.

Now, I suppose you could say that I am experiencing a dilemma of observance. My religiosity has remained strong, but my observance of tradition has diminished. Traditions have been tainted by humans playing God, or presupposing that they know what God wants (or wanted) and how God wants (or wanted), and I have had enough of that. Each time I find myself attempting to gravitate towards observance again, I am put off. This time, perhaps, more than others.

Over the weekend, I took up an invitation to spend Shabbat with a family in Ashkelon. They are an amazing family, and if the Religious Authority were more along the lines of their philosophy and practice, I would go back to them. This family considers itself religious. For descriptions sake, I would say somewhere between Orthodox and Modern Orthodox. The important thing is that they are liberally minded, fair, and observant, all the same.

After Shabbat, the mother of the family (I will call her B here) took me to the Mikveh. "It is good to go just before Yom Kippur," she told me. "And it will be a wonderful experience for you." I assented. But the world of men lords over the world of women. It keeps us cloistered and blind behind a mechitza and it does not consider us fully fledged human beings. When we got htere, we were told that I could not partake in this experience because "the council of rabbis (across all the ethnic sects) had gotten together," and I quote directly here, "and decided to take away the rights of unmarried women to use the mikveh under any circumstance" for fear that they were only using the mikveh so that they could have "purified" pre-marital sex.

Personally, I have never heard anything so incredibly stupid in my life. Particularly because I'm going to guarantee that those "unmarried women having premarital sex" are not going to give a rat's ass about the mikveh or about being "spiritually pure" while enjoying their "unlawful carnal relations". Not to mention that the men have assumed complete control over the actions of women (unless those women would like to be disowned), have absolved themselves of any guilt in the matter, and whole-heartedly admit that they have gladly and willingly taken away our rights. This also lends to the fact that these people have no inkling of a clue about the world beyond their tiny, self-constructed "religious" ghetto where God becomes the excuse for a body of men to play the oppressive deity.

If you know me, you know I don't consider myself a feminist, but more of a person for equal rights on all plains--as proved on an individual basis. "I love this country," B. says. "Except for the fact that it is completely and utterly ruled by men. And there's nothing anybody can do about it." B. told me that she was so upset about it that when she went to dunk, she realized she had forgotten to say the blessing. I told her it was fine, typical. And then I shut a steel door in myself and closed it to the orthodoxy that has nothing to do with God but with the hypocrisy of humankind.

I spent six hours in a service today, with a sermon about "loving your neighbor as yourself". The rabbi made it explicitly clear that is was my Jewish neighbor and my Jewish neighbor only of which he was speaking. This more than irked me. The entire root of conflict lies in the separation of one group from another and of fabricated assumptions of the Other. Unfortunately, we too often become what we pretend to be, or what we are believed to be, or what we hate because in order to overcome the enemy you must understand him, and to understand him, you must become him. I try not to. But if I were to take this sermon to heart, I would be wont to be rid of ninety-nine percent of my friends and left with the one group of people from which I have continuously been rejected. I have always gravitated towards difference in order to demonstrate that there is at least one thing in common between each and every one of us--no matter our origins: our humanity. For better or for worse (and I think usually for worse, but no matter). I will love my neighbor as myself, more than myself, Jewish or otherwise, whether that neighbor loves me or not.

So much for the loving, unless, of course, the self is hated. Don't get me wrong here. I am by no means a pacifist, but my eyes have been opened long enough to see that the methodologies of violence are not working. Not that I'm certain the methodologies of peace are, either, but people can only take so much. And I would rather be able to live with myself than not, which means at least trying to avoid a corrosive conscience.