Aliyah and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Important Life Skills, or How to take someone's temperature rectally without waking them up

2011-02-24T09:53:00.013+02:00

I always knew that once I became a mother, I would add new things to my skill set, but "What to Expect when You're Expecting" - while informative - can't possibly cover it all. The following is just a short list of the things I've learned how to do in the past two months:

1. How to shop for the entire week's groceries in ten minutes or less

2. How to prepare bottles, brush your teeth, surf the internet, fold laundry, cook dinner, and more with only one arm

3. How to appreciate the fact that any number of baby bodily-liquids ended up on your shirt, your pants, your hands, even your face (!) but NOT your mouth

4. How to survive on surprisingly little caffeine when you're sleep-deprived but breastfeeding/pumping doesn't allow the triple-mochaccino with extra whipped cream and cocaine that it would take to make you even semi-alert

5. How to laugh when all you want to do is cry - this one is EXTREMELY handy come 5pm when the baby needs to cry out some of the day's stress, you know your husband isn't coming home for at least 2 hours, and you realize at least ONE of you (you or the baby, not your husband, he's living it up on the train ride home) needs to maintain composure

My favorite - or at least most proud - how-to that I've learned thus far happened this past Sunday, in the wee hours of the morning (by the way, a time of day I've come to know well since Ella is sleeping like a champ but makes so much noise that I can't). Yes, how not only to take her temperature rectally but how to do it without even waking her up. (And no, I'm not for hire for any number of strange jobs - alien anal-prober at the top of the list)

This whole experience was due to Ella's most recent round of vaccinations. This girl is really a trooper. She only cries a bit when they give her shots and calms down immediately afterwards with just a little soothing. (Of course, this could be due to what Nadav labeled "the rhino effect" - i.e., to take down a rhino, you have to have a BIG tranquilizer - and well, Ella is no rhino, but she ain't no pip-squeak either!)

Anyways, they always warn you that after vaccinations, babies can get a fever, have diarrhea, and/or be fussy for a day or two. Alternatively, they can just fall asleep. Ella chose the latter reaction the day of the vaccinations and seemed to have passed the whole experience without incident. Or so we thought . . .

Saturday, I discovered she had a mild fever, and I was instructed to give her some Tylenol and just check her overnight to make sure she didn't have a fever. So, intent on protecting my young from danger with the determination of a mother lioness, I set my alarm for 1 am and went to sleep (very lioness-like indeed). When 1am rolled around, I got up quietly and felt Ella's head as lightly as I could, so I wouldn't wake her up. As everyone knows, babies don't need any more encouragement to wake up in the middle of the night. They are quite happy to be wide awake - eating, pooping, playing, cooing, gurgling, or crying - when the rest of the world is sleeping soundly. That is, the rest of the world except their parents.

She felt fine, but I decided to take her temperature just in case. So, I picked her up with the light hand of someone defusing an explosive and carefully laid her on her changing table. This would be an excellent time to discuss the merit of baby pajamas that do NOT have 473 buttons, but unfortunately for me, that very night we had dressed her in an outfit with about 474 . . . And then I had to open the onesie under this outfit, not to mention the loud "squuuaaatch" sound of me opening her diaper.

Ella, meanwhile, was sleeping soundly (so was her father, for that matter, a mere 2 feet away). Without going into too much detail, her temperature was checked, her diaper was closed, and I was able to put her - sound asleep - back to bed without incident.

When she woke up at 4am to eat, Nadav found her clothes open, legs splayed, under her covers - the only evidence of our nightly adventure. I told him in the morning that I could now proudly boast of my new skill - taking rectal temperatures without waking the recipients. With a somewhat worried expression, he looked at me and said, "I just hope you're not doing that to ME at night."

Lactation, Shmactation . . . or Taming the Tiger

2011-01-10T09:56:00.012+02:00

As you can probably tell from the title, this is a blog about milk and its source - no, not cows. Breasts.

So, if you think you'll feel uncomfortable reading about the process of feeding a baby "the natural way," or if the idea of me breastfeeding makes you feel uncomfortable, you should probably stop reading now. Should you continue, know that I've tried to soften some parts of the description, but it's also my intention, that if some random woman happens to find my blog one day from a Google search, to provide her an insight into my experience, so that maybe, if she's experiencing the same thing I have, she'll feel a little bit better about herself and her decisions regarding nursing her baby.

And thus, the adventure begins.

I bought a book before giving birth called "The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding." The title is beautiful. The cover of the book, too, features a beautiful red-haired, long-locked woman, cradling her child, looking down on him peacefully, as he happily nurses from her fair-skinned breast. I WISH this could have been our experience thus far.

However, as I told Nadav one of my many tear-filled nights over the last six weeks, "The Womanly ART of Breastfeeding?!? It needs to be called 'The EXTREMELY DANGEROUS AND POSSIBLY PAINFUL SPORT of Breastfeeding!!" This is not to suggest that some women don't: a) succeed at first suckle and go on to have wonderful breastfeeding relationships, b) work through initial mishaps to find a comfortable way of nursing, or c) endure pain (possibly even more than me) and heartache, yet stick it out because of ideological beliefs or possibly will power rivaling that of Helen Keller.

Yet, I think, there are many other women who experience a lot of pain, both physical and emotional, due to this experience - which is SUPPOSED to come so naturally - who decide to wean early because they reach a breaking point. I fall in this group.

My breastfeeding relationship with Ella started about 2 minutes after she was born. Despite being purple, covered in goo, and a bit shocked by her entry into the world, she already had the latch of a champ. Everyone was worried about her nose being the right position to breathe while she nursed the first time, but I could already tell, this girl was not going to let anything keep her from getting a meal. Let's just say if she were one in a litter of puppies, she'd be the one pushing the others out of the way to get dinner.
Blame it on her size at birth (a hefty 4.065 kg, 8 lb 15 oz) , or simply attribute it to a healthy zest for life, but this kid knows what she likes - and she likes a lot of it: Milk.

By the time we left the hospital two days after she was born, the pain and rawness in my nipples had already begun. I "phoned a friend" and gotten some moral support from a friend's mother who is a lactation specialist, but what I needed was face-to-face assistance. Another lactation specialist visited us at home four days post-hospital. What she had to offer was primarily support for my intuition (no need necessarily to time feedings, it's ok to sometimes let your baby sleep with you - you won't roll over her, etc.) and some techniques. It helped us a bit, but all the technique in the world couldn't calm a milk monster of this magnitude.

To make a long story short, the daily, sometimes hourly test of my will power and pain tolerance continued for a grand total of three and a half weeks before I broke down and gave her a bottle of formula. The morning I gave her the bottle, it was like she knew that I'd reached a low point, and she looked up at me as if to say, "Mommy, it's ok. Ripping this bottle's nipple in half won't be half as much fun as ripping YOUR nipples in half, but I forgive you." But on a serious note, she DID look at me as I spoke to her while giving her the bottle, and it made me realize that you can breastfeed with love, but you can also give a bottle with love. Of course, this is an idea I would have quickly and easily imparted to a friend in need, but it took me a while to understand it myself, to internalize it, to feel ok about it and not feel somehow ashamed or embarrassed at myself for making this decision.

In the meantime, I tried to keep breastfeeding while also pumping milk for her and supplementing with formula every once in a while, and my reward for my good intentions was mastitis, a breast infection. After this, I actually decided to try to suppress my milk production and move entirely to formula, which in hindsight was not the best decision. I'm paying for this now with a lower milk supply than I previously had, but like they say, hindsight is 20/20.

After taking antibiotics and recovering from the infection, I finally saw the lady who would help me make the wisest decision I've made thus far regarding breast feeding: taking a break from breastfeeding, pumping milk for Ella and supplementing with formula when necessary. I knew upon my first conversation with her that her holistic approach to the whole process, and openness to me breastfeeding for years or weaning immediately, was right for me. Ella and I visited her and discussed our situation and all our options, and here we are today, me in one piece and Ella growing like a weed - both of us happy.

This saga seems to have a happy ending - Nadav once described Ella's latch on my breast as similar to "one of those National Geographic specials where the tiger takes out an antelope in the wilderness." Well, my dear milk monster, it seems you have been sated and my breasts will live to see another day.

Ella's Firsts. . . Or How Ella Became a Superstar

2010-12-29T16:44:00.009+02:00

So, I've been meaning to write things down about Ella's first days and weeks on Earth so that way I can remember them years from now. I've yet to write a thing and it turns out I should have, so I can remember them in the much more short-term. I'm certain there were a few things that should have made the following list, but my sleep-deprived Mommy brain has forgotten them already. It's amazing how even the smallest goal for the day can go undone when there's a hungry, poopy, crying, needing-to-be-entertained munchkin in the house. But here's the short list, with a short description of her most exciting outing yet, a trip to the photographer.

A few of Ella's firsts:

2 days old: Ella comes home from the hospital

5 days old: Our first trip to the park together

12 days old: Ella's first trip to Tipat Halav (health services for children) - she has gained 200 grams since she left the hospital (weighing in at a whopping 4 kg!)

13 days old: Umbilical cord falls off and Ella joins the rest of the belly-buttoned human race

13 days old (it was a big day for her!): Ella's first photo shoot

So, our trip to get professional photos done - for free, in exchange for using our little baby's photos to market the photographer's foray into newborn photos - was, in short, eventful. I'd been instructed to feed Ella right before setting out for Yael the photographer's studio and keep her awake for at least an hour beforehand. Yael also told me to wear black, so we could take some photos of me holding Ella and to bring an extra change of clothes, since we'd be doing the photos without Ella's diaper on (make a mental note of this instruction - it will prove relevant later on).

So, we set out - full of vigor and purpose . . . and promptly got lost. Luckily, I am a whiz with a Gush Dan (Tel Aviv metropolitan area) map and we made it to our destination on time. While we traversed the Givatayim suburb of Tel Aviv, Ella, who was not a happy camper, was soothed by Grandma Linda in the backseat and the sounds of a church mass on the radio - yeah, go figure.

We made it to Yael's and Ella had fallen asleep, which meant she wasn't particularly sleepy once we went upstairs. The fact that I then stripped her down to her diaper also didn't make her particularly calm. So I nursed her in the hope that she would fall asleep on me - as she is wont to do.

Well, no luck there. She was as wide awake as if I'd breastfed her a venti frapuccino. After countless attempts to lull her, Yael changed the set and we did some photos of me holding Ella in all sorts of strange positions. She was a willing - yet not entirely agreeable - model. She locked her legs straight when we tried to fold them. She turned her head away from the camera, leaving us no choice but to position ME in the other direction. And best of all, she peed on me - and all over the drape Yael had spread out on the floor.

Figuring this kid was not going to sleep, I told Yael maybe we'd just call it a day. But she persisted and with her baby-charming ways, managed to put her to sleep. Then the real fun began. We were on our way to dreamy, adorable pictures of Ella on a big pile of white towels. They would be so cute! But Ella must have felt she needed to make an artistic statement and proceeded to shoot poop onto 3 of the 4 towels. Oh, Ella!

After that, we managed to get the towels turned where Ella's "creative expression" was hidden and Yael photographed Ella looking much more calm and adorable than she had behaved that morning.

All in all, it was a trying morning. Mommy's wrists and back (not to mention other parts) hurt, Ella was exhausted and cranky, Grandma was tired but elated at the beautiful pictures, and it was decided that Ella - while adorable - will not be pursuing a career in modeling.

Thanks to Yael Elad: www.yaelelad.com

The Best Laid Schemes

2010-12-25T15:27:00.015+02:00

The best laid schemes of mice and men – and apparently, women – go often askew. Or in our case, entirely askew. Sure, I had a birth plan. In today’s developed world, this is quite common. An outline, detailed or not, of how you’d like to see your birth experience play out. My birth plan was to have a natural, unmedicated birth. The goal was to use Hypnobirthing techniques (meditation and breathing) to remain calm—the basis of Hypnobirthing being Grantly Dick-Read’s book Childbirth without Fear, which advocates the idea that fear of birth leads to tension and this tension leads to pain.

As it turns out, either I was full of unrecognized fear that led to pain, or quite simply, childbirth is painful. The truth is, I was under no illusion that it would be easy or entirely pain-free, but I was hoping that my months of preparation emotionally and physically (prenatal yoga) would help me come through the process with a beautiful baby girl and somewhat (at least a little bit?!?) unscathed myself.

Life, or nature, it seems, had other plans for me. As I look back at my birth plan now, I think EVERY SINGLE ASPECT OF IT went ENTIRELY the opposite. Truly, without exception, everything I had envisioned did not turn out how I had thought I wanted it to. Well, the baby still arrived, but that was sort of an assumed part of the plan that I didn’t include in the written version.

And so, now, a short and hopefully not-too-graphic version of the day of Ella’s arrival into our world and lives:

Wednesday, 3am: Contractions start. They’re slightly uncomfortable and coming around every 10-15 minutes. I breathe through them just fine and let Nadav sleep a bit.

By 8 am they are coming more frequently, but I stop timing them due to the tediousness of timing 50 second contractions every 10 minutes.

As the day goes by, the contractions eventually get stronger, slightly longer and more frequent. Around 2:30pm, we decide to head to the hospital, a mere five-minute drive away, and call our doula to meet us there.

While in the women’s ER, with a fetal monitor strapped to my ginormous belly, contractions are getting stronger but it turns out I’m just under 3cm dilated, so they send me outside to walk around a bit, in the hopes that I’ll progress soon and be sent up to a delivery room. About 10 seconds later, my water breaks and I go back in to be checked again. They tell me that I’ll now be sent up to the delivery room—which I’m looking forward to, since there I can take a hot shower and hopefully get some relief from the increasing pain. Now is an important time to mention that the hospital we’re in—Ichilov in Tel Aviv—is a VERY busy hospital for births and has 15 delivery rooms, twice the amount of most other hospitals in Israel. Due to this, TONS of women go there. So, I only get into the delivery room around 4:30pm, thus enduring my contractions in the hallway, hanging on Nadav and moaning for the world to see.

Upon arrival in the delivery room, we tried a variety of methods to cope – hot shower, music, breathing, movement—in short, all the “typical” natural childbirth methods of dealing with pain. Around 4 hours later, and seeing I’d only progressed to 4cm dilated, I finally broke down and asked for an epidural. Unfortunately, for me and for another 12 or so women, the anesthesiologist was called away to anesthetize a woman having an emergency C-section. Which means, we waited and waited and waited and waited—and I moaned and groaned and contemplated just jumping out the window and ending it all—when finally around 2 hours later, I got the epidural—in the middle of a contraction (try holding completely still during THAT!). It helped. I could still feel the contractions, but it was like going back to earlier in the day concerning the intensity of them. I could breathe through them again and thought maybe, just maybe, I’ll survive this after all.

With my entire lower body now relaxed due to the drugs in the epidural, within an hour-and-a-half, I dilated to 10 cm and we were on course for pushing little (or big!) Ella out. It took 2 hours and 15 minutes and I can honestly say it was the most excruciating pain I’ve ever felt. One thought that crossed my mind was, “How, if this little girl is supposedly coming out of me soon, can I still feel her feet in my ribs?” Another was, “Isn’t the epidural supposed to be helping this pain?!?”

Nadav and my doula, Michal, were amazing – helping me get through the whole process in one piece. Also, our supporters who held down the fort outside and popped in to give words of encouragement—my mom, and Nadav’s parents—were great. Afterwards, they told me that my mom, Linda, and Mina, Nadav’s mother, were standing at the door, pushing with me every time! At one point the midwife asked me if I wanted to touch her head. I must have looked at her with a strange expression (which meant, please no!), because she asked me again, in English the second time, and I said to her and Nadav, “No, that’s ok, I’m getting the full experience from this vantage point!” (Well, maybe it wasn’t quite so eloquent, but those were my thoughts)

As she FINALLY came out—after some Pitocin to help make my contractions more consistent and an episiotomy (dear G-d, this was TRULY my worst fear and I somehow survived it)—it’s like everything faded into the background as they placed her on my chest and her purple body, also exhausted from our efforts, wriggled up close to me. I exclaimed something like, “Oh my G-d, she’s amazing” and all the anguish I’d felt just seconds before was covered by a cloud of euphoria. The little girl that we’d been waiting for and dreaming about was finally here.

Everyone outside—the grandparents—cried. I don’t think Nadav or I did, but if I have to give an answer why, I think it has to do with the fact that they’ve raised children and they know, more than we can at this point, just how much of a miracle a child is, all the joy that she’ll bring to our lives.

In the week since Ella’s birth, I’ve experienced a range of emotions – marveling at her adorable facial expressions, which bring me a sense of calm and satisfaction, as well as letting myself breakdown at the thought of another painful breastfeed at 3am (thank G-d, we’re finally improving our technique).

Sometimes, I just look at her and wonder how this little 9lb body rode around in my body and in the end came out of me. Welcome Ella Miriam Rotem, to the world. We love you and wish you a lifetime of happiness and wonderful experiences.

The Missing Piece

2010-11-21T08:52:00.004+02:00

It hit me yesterday. Week 36 and counting here at Chateau Rotem-Feinberg, and suddenly I felt it. There’s something missing. No, someone. There’s someONE missing. There’s a little person, a unique entity who already has cutie-pie clothes, a stuffed lilac Huffalump, books and even a yellow ducky-covered swing waiting for her – but where is she? Well, she’s a future Tel Avivian, so she must be stuck in a traffic jam.

In the meantime, I’m making preparations – largely in the form of lists – since my pregnancy-fogged brain is as sharp as a tack – shoved into a piece of gum. It’s like the gears just don’t work anymore. (Ask me sometime about how fun it was writing a PhD proposal with this level of clarity) There’s a list of things to put into my bag for the hospital. I’ve started packing it, but nobody seems to mention to you, “Oh, yeah, you’re gonna need all those things in the lead-up to the main event, so it’s not so convenient to have them all packed away.” More than once this week, I’ve rifled through the bag looking for essentials (slippers, pajama pants that actually still fit over my butt, etc.). I’ve got another list going of things that we need to do before the baby comes, including such thrilling tasks as:

1. Clean trunk (no, SHE won’t ride there, but some of her aforementioned paraphernalia will probably need to)
2. Check that car seat fits in back seat (positive, but apparently it doesn’t recline enough for newborn necks – what happened to the days of just strapping babies in a papoose and hoping for the best?)
3. Clean closets (since the dresser/changing table we ordered may arrive AFTER our little bundle of joy and she apparently, in utero, already owns more crap than Nadav and me put together)
4. Clean kitchen cabinets, inside and out (yes, I know, completely unrelated to a baby, but nesting is apparently expressed in a variety of random ways)

So, I’m sure with all these lists, we’re completely prepared for Operation Baby. Except . . . I’m not an idiot, and I know that no matter how prepared you think you are, the moment you actually become a parent, your life changes forever, and the only thing on your list is something along the lines of “Love her, support her, respect her, nurture her, be there for her, whenever she needs you and even when she doesn’t, no matter what, you’re a parent now.”

We’re looking forward to it, to say the least.

Size Matters

2010-08-01T10:44:00.002+03:00

While the title of this blog could give my husband the impression that what you’re about to read is a glorious ode to his manly qualities, I’ll go ahead and tell you now that it’s G-rated and more focused on the “fruit” of his loins than his loins themselves.

It just hit me – I’m halfway there. More appropriately, the darling little fetus growing inside of me (yes, I’m going to assume she’s darling already, I mean, just look at her mother) is halfway to the point of being a full-grown baby, who will hopefully enter our lives in a more visible – and of course, noisy – manner come December. I’ve known all week that I’m 20 weeks along in my pregnancy. But yesterday when I read that she’s around 10 inches long from head to foot, and without a ruler in the house (especially one with the English measurement system) to be found, I started trying to imagine about how long 10 inches is. This morning, as I started working on my computer, I realized that the screen is 11.6 inches. Ok, so assuming 10 inches is an estimate, and assuming that she’s actually a bit longer since she’s got Nadav’s genes in her, she’s the size of my laptop screen! Now THAT is something substantial.

Sure, I felt connected to her since I found out I was pregnant, but the amazing thing about pregnancy, at least my experience has been, that each milestone brings with it another level of realization about the crazy endeavor you taking part in. The first, truly glorious (not to mention relieving) time we saw her little heart beating on the screen at the ultrasound around 9 weeks. The next time we saw it – and heard a computerized version of it – at our 13 week ultrasound. And, of course, this past week, as I’ve begun to feel her squirming (or I’d like to think dancing) around in my belly.

My new comprehension about her size is apparently just one more step on this journey towards bringing a new life into the world. It’s funny that I’m likening her to my laptop. Just last night, I commented that Nadav’s grandmother is knitting up such a storm that there must be pink yarn fuzz flying out her windows – a friend on Facebook then asked me if she could knit him a laptop cover, and I said, “No, she’s too busy making baby clothes.” I guess babies and laptops have more similarities than I realized.

For those interested, I’ve now posted (below) some of my (mainly bodily function-related) insights from earlier in the pregnancy – written back when the info was still “classified”. But as with every conspiracy – there comes a time when the truth comes out: in this case, due to photographic evidence received by the court, in the form of documented growth of aforementioned belly.

2010-08-01T10:36:00.002+03:00

April 29, 2010
My Streak is Broken

I'm reminded of "The Dinner Party," that Seinfeld episode where Jerry eats a black and white cookie and it makes him throw up, ending his 14 year (or something like that) non-vomit streak. I'm not sure the last time I vomited, but let's just say that whatever streak I had, it's gone after this morning's events.

In any case, grilled cheese is certainly not on my list of things to eat in the near future (I know, weird that I had grilled cheese for breakfast, but's like the only thing I could think of eating, and apparently, even IT was the wrong one).
Now, I'm working from home (which I'd planned to do anyway) and nursing myself back to a normal (whatever that means during pregnancy) feeling stomach situation with chocolate biscuits and sips of water.

Eventually, I'll have to shake myself out of this stupor and eat something normal, but I don't wannnnaaaaa . . .

May 5, 2010
To puke or not to puke . . .

So, no, not that I'm trying to equate myself with the Bard himself, but I gotta say, yesterday it was a real dilemma. I felt soooo horrible, and was a second away from throwing up for about 5 hours straight, not to mention wonderful heartburn, something I've only experienced during pregnancy. Anyways, nature played its course, deciding for me that vomiting was the way to go, somewhere around 5 pm, and I felt much better (everything is relative, remember) afterwards.

Anyways, today I am giving a presentation in my thesis advisor's seminar class, around 2:30, and I'm REALLY hoping that my stomach cooperates. I've decided that if I even feel like I have to vomit beforehand, I'm just gonna do it (oh, how I hate it, I will usually do ANYTHING to avoid it). It's not worth the risk of being in the middle of presenting my research and suddenly having to excuse myself. "And previous researchers have found that. . . " (wretching sound) Yeah, not worth the risk.

May 20, 2010
I feel like a failure (or "Does projectile vomiting warrant a sick day from work?")

I feel like a failure. I should, I guess. I failed not one but two tests today. I should have known when I woke up this morning that I was not going to do well. Last night and this morning, the omens were there: grumbling tummy in the middle of the night since I hadn't eaten enough before going to sleep, and in the morning, I barely peed. Just to catch you up to speed, I was on my way to blood and urine tests this morning at the local clinic - about a 10 minute walk away - and I had to fast the night before. I got there, didn't have to wait very long and went into the nurse's room. Blood pressure: Check. Weight: Check. Height: Check (well, kind of, I am apparently 2 cm shorter than I've been telling everyone). Blood test: Check. She stuck me, got a good vein the first time around and I didn't even feel woozy at the sight of the needle poking out of my arm.

Now, the big show: urine test. Well, I was a bit worried since I felt dehydrated yesterday - and I'd only had half a bottle of water during my 10-minute walk to the clinic that morning - that I wasn't going to get an A plus on this test. But I did not expect such a poor turnout by my kidneys. I mean, I'm a pregnant woman, for G-d's sake. Isn't that what we do? Pee? All the time? Apparently not. This morning it was not happening and I squeezed out about enough liquid to wet a postage stamp. The nurse shook her head at me dolefully and gave me another cup to try again at home another morning.

I thought to myself: Ok, I do NOT want to fast again. And I am SURE I can pee. I mean, this is not rocket science. So, I went downstairs, filled up my trusty water bottle, and went outside to sit on a bench, binge-drink, and encourage my kidneys to start filtering away. This, it seems, was NOT the best idea. The best idea would have been for me to eat the banana in my bag, walk home slowly, and try again another day. It seems that cold water, drunk like a woman exiting the Sahara doesn't really agree with a 10-week along fetus, who at this hour of the morning would like to still be in a cozy, warm bed (preferably being fed dry Cheerios).

I drank one bottle and still didn't have to pee. So, I decided to start bottle number 2. If anyone ever asks you the question, how much water can a 10-week pregnant woman's stomach hold before exploding like the Icelandic volcano, the answer is: 1.5 bottles (or to be exact 749 ml). Milliliter 750 put me over the edge, and put my head in the bushes. "Luckily" for me, I was next to a hedge, which doesn't really allow for easy maneuver - let's just say, more discreet vomiting than this has certainly been accomplished by others. The water exited my body with the gusto of a fire hose and I managed - through a combination of leaning over INTO the hedge - to get it on my entire face, jeans, and open-toed sandals. Lovely. I did have a beautiful scarf with me (thanks Mom) that allowed me at least to wipe my face and glasses.
I wasn't sure how much I'd really thrown up, but I figured at least SOME of the water I'd drunk must still be in my stomach. So, a few minutes later, I climbed the clinic stairs once again, for round number 2 (I'm a glutton for punishment). My showing was a bit more respectable this time around, but certainly not enough, and I decided to call it a day - at least in this realm - at the early hour of 8:15. There's always next week.

Bird’s eye view

2010-05-01T10:06:00.003+03:00

A few months ago, in an attempt to make up for lost time and correspondence, I wrote an epic of an email to my friend, Beth, an artist, a dreamer, and an adventurer, and described to her my home in Ramat Hasharon, Israel. At the time, we were living in a basement apartment of a private family home, belonging to a family, whose lives we were quite acquainted with due to our close proximity. I wrote to her how despite being in the basement, we did have windows and my favorite one was at the top of the stairs leading out of the apartment. From my favorite blue recliner – located in our living room – I had a view of this window, which gave me a small, but usually accurate indication of what was going on “surface level.” I could see from there a beautiful tree, which sometimes to our chagrin and sometimes to our amazement, housed hundreds of fruit bats. I’m reminded of the silly homemade craft (sometimes a rock on a string, sometimes just a string) that’s supposed to serve as a weather monitor: “If the rock is wet, it’s raining. If the rock is hot, it’s sunny, etc. etc.”

Anyways, this tree provided me with an idea of what the weather was outside: “If the tree is blowing in the wind, it’s windy, if it’s wet, it’s raining.”

Now, from my blue chair, currently located much more in the middle of things –in our new apartment on a main street in Tel Aviv – I don’t really need a tree to tell me what’s happening. I simply open the giant window in my living room, feel the weather, hear the traffic (and of course, a few birds determined to tweet their messages to one another despite the honking cars), and know what’s going on. After all, now we’re “above the ground people,” no snobbery intended.

From here, I can see a tree (two even!) the way I think they were supposed to be seen – not by humans of course, but by our flight-blessed friends, the birds. I left a small rug out to dry on the railing guarding our picture window and yesterday a bird decided it was a much nicer landing pad than the bare railing. I’m thinking about just leaving it there – just in case he visits again.

Of course, as one can imagine, Tel Aviv is not all about nature. We can also see from our window 3 tall skyscrapers, which at night are lit up. This is Nadav’s favorite view. Me, though, I think I’ll stick with the birds.

The worst two weeks, or My renewed faith in humanity

2010-01-02T13:50:00.002+02:00

The following post was written in two sittings, one on Dec.25, Christmas morning, and the other on Dec. 28:

December 25:
I’m sitting here in the blue LazyBoy, wrapped up in a blanket, with a warm (slowly cooling) cup of coffee next to me. It’s early—7:40 am. Too early to be up on a Friday morning. All I can think of is that my body is programmed to wake up early on Christmas. What? No presents under the tree. What? No tree, even?? Well, no, but I’m ok with that. I mean, I AM Jewish, and it IS Israel. But I still would have liked to sleep in; that would have been a nice present.

It’s been a rough two weeks. In fact, as we lay in bed last night, and snuggled under the warm covers, Nadav labeled it “The worst two weeks of my life.” I’m not sure. Granting it a title such as that will require me to think a bit harder and longer. But I can say, it was a damn hard two weeks.

I feel that up until now, I’ve been in this whirlwind of activity and only now, as the week draws to a close am I able to sit down, drink something warm, breathe and decompress a bit.

It began last week, when we “lost a friend.” I realized the irony, or just ridiculousness, of euphemisms, when I said that to a friend, whose native language is not English: “We lost a friend this week,” I told her. “What do you mean?” she asked me, forcing me to be more specific. “A friend ours,” I continued, deciding in my mind how to phrase it, “A friend of ours committed suicide.” But in my head, I still think of us as “losing him.” It’s no coincidence that in Hebrew “to commit suicide” and “to lose” or “lost” are from the same root. I only realized the connection—and depth—of this fact this week. We truly lost him. To his own depression, to his internal suffering, to his fear, to something. I’ve figured out the only way I can really cope and move on is to pretend to myself that he was killed by some outside force. Accepting that someone could go against a human being’s most basic instinct—to survive—is too much for a normative person to fathom. But perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps our most basic instinct is to preserve ourselves—not only in the physical manner—and his choice (the way I see it, forced upon him by something I cannot understand) allowed him to reach that goal.

Though I knew it would take some time to deal with this loss, I thought at least we’d be able to see it in the perspective of our lives—overall, a positive, loving, supportive environment that Nadav and I have created together for our mutual benefit.

The fact that we were still able, despite the shock and the pain and the sometimes turbulent emotions we had expressed only moments before, to lay down together at night and hug one another and even laugh impressed upon me that I am truly the luckiest person in the world.

December 28:
However, as it tends to do, life surprised us yet again. The following week, we arrived at the women’s health center to have an ultrasound. Yes, the young couple (“ha-zug ha-tari”) is expecting a baby. Though I had planned to go in myself, for some reason I asked Nadav to come with me. I even said to him, “When we hear the heartbeat, I’ll want you there. And G-d forbid, we don’t, I’ll need you there.” Unfortunately, it turned out to be the latter. I was 9 weeks, 1 day pregnant. The fetus had stopped developing at 8 weeks and 3 days and there was no heartbeat. We were crushed. Yet, when I realize what the alternatives are: finding out, by accident, that I’d miscarried, or worse, losing the developing baby later in pregnancy, I am grateful that it happened this way.

“In times like these, it is always good to remember, there have always been times like these.” I didn’t think this at the time, but now it pops up in my head, and I think that thoughts like this—understanding that so many women experience this—helped me cope. The statistics vary, but I’ve found online that between 15-25% pregnancies end in miscarriage. Why do we not know this? Well, if you have a miscarriage you will. Because when women find out, they begin to open up and share their stories.

I decided that this “silence,” on such a (common) physically and emotionally traumatic occurrence, is the reason I wanted to share my experience. I’m not sure of exactly all the emotions that I’m experiencing right now, but when I think about it, the emotions I have possibly experienced, and those that have been shared with me since I have spoken with others in the past week include:
• Bewilderment – But why did it happen? What did I do/not do? What could I have done differently?
This bewilderment, of course, is accompanied by:
• Feelings of guilt – Imagining, even though you’ll never know the reason, that you may have pinpointed what happened and then blaming yourself for it.
Not to mention:
• Fear for the future – Which I have luckily managed to avoid feeling, since I have been blessed to hear the stories of other mothers with miscarriage/s in their past.

For the purpose of illustration, in my case, the week our friend died, a week before we found out about the miscarriage, I experienced severe lower back pain (before we found about our friend). Since I wanted to avoid taking medicine during this early stage of pregnancy, I tried using a bit of heat (not too much) and a bit of massage. Additionally, I visited a reflexologist. Here, already, in the span of two sentences, I have three possible “culprits” for the miscarriage:
1. Maybe I used too much heat, something that is known to be bad for the developing fetus?
2. Maybe we massaged the wrong part of the back, inducing a miscarriage?
3. Maybe the reflexologist—despite being trained to treat pregnant women—did something wrong?
Or, more likely, maybe the back pain—which since going through the miscarriage has disappeared—was an indication of problems with the pregnancy and rather than serving as a cause of the miscarriage was a sign of it.

Here, I will mention, that when discovering that a pregnancy has ended, and the miscarriage has not yet fully happened, there are several options (from what I know):
1. Waiting for the miscarriage to naturally occur
2. D & C – a surgery to remove the fetus, placenta, etc.
3. Medication to induce the cleansing of the womb

The specialist I was referred to suggested option 3, which taking my traumatic appendectomy experience into account, seemed a good option to avoid surgery and not have the miscarriage take me by surprise.

What is interesting is that you’ll find plenty of articles, especially on pregnancy websites, about “dealing with the loss,” coping with the emotional side of the miscarriage. This should, of course, be applauded—that there is an awareness of the gut-wrenching, soul-searching experience miscarriage constitutes for expecting women and their families. Yet there is strikingly less (publicly available) literature about the physical experience of miscarriage.

It is not overly shocking, when we think about the taboo placed upon menstruating women and the “impurities” traditionally associated with “womanly processes.” Most of what you’ll find are descriptions of a “heavy periods.” My dear readers, I do not wish to shock or offend your senses, but I will tell you that some women—including myself—experience much more than a heavy period. There is very strong pain—“cramping” does not do it justice, it is more similar to contractions.

In my case, I experienced two heavy rounds of this—one about 8 hours after taking the medication to induce the miscarriage and another 4 days after. I had already begun feeling a bit better, and I was (thank G-d) on my way to the doctor, when I began to feel severe cramps. I arrived in tears and doubled over in pain, and thanks to quick and competent care by my doctor and several compassionate nurses, I passed what I hope is the last chapter in this story.

Yet here it is only right for me to mention why my I granted my post a double title: The worst two weeks, or My renewed faith in humanity. Despite the rollercoaster of emotions we’ve felt in the past two weeks, despite the loss and the pain, both emotional and physical, despite the fear and the desire to never again experience either of the two experiences we’ve dealt with, despite all of this—I have witnessed and been the recipient of true compassion, in both words and actions. I have seen the true suffering of people I thought were one-dimensional, showing me that everyone has “another side.” I have heard the stories of those who have experienced what I have and conquered their doubts and gone on to have happy, healthy children. I have been called “sweetie” by an entire medical staff and received the treatment a child receives from her mother—from people who just met me. In short, I can say now that when it happens—one day, when have our child—I will be happy to bring it into this world. There are people and experiences here that make life worth living.

Our House is a Very, Very, Very Fine House

2009-05-16T12:02:00.014+03:00

With 12 cats in the yard, life used to be so hard, now everything is easy ‘cause of you.

Lately, I’ve realized just how much appreciate where I live. No, I don’t mean Israel. I mean the suburbs. Now, those of you who have heard me talk about Ramat Hasharon know that it hasn’t always been my favorite place in the world. Back when Nadav and I were dating—ahhh, the good ‘ole days—it took me longer to get to Ramat Hasharon on a bus from Jerusalem, a mere 47 miles away, than to Haifa, 100 miles away.

Then, of course, there was Nadav’s bachelor pad, home of 3 single men, 5 computers, a cat-scratched (and probably sprayed) couch, and not a bottle of Mr.Clean to be found. Tuna and tomato paste was the cuisine, and therefore, I kept my distance.

A few months before we got married, though, last year. Ramat Hasharon turned out to be a good choice for us. Nadav worked nearby, and since I was going to be looking for a new job as I had finished most of my master’s degree classes at the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, it seemed the affordable, close-enough-to-Tel Aviv choice.

Ramat Hasharon is known throughout Israel as being one of the new places for the affluent, starting-their-families Tel Avivians to move after they’ve had enough of big city life. While the house prices in Ramat Hasharon are way beyond our budget as a young couple, renting here is much more affordable than in Tel Aviv itself. Luckily, we found a half-basement apartment (we have light and air!) in a private home. It was spacious, renovated, and came with really wonderful landlords.

Despite all that, it was hard—very hard. The neighborhood we live in is a mix of a bit more established, secular Israelis and very traditional Yemenite Israelis. We didn’t find ourselves religiously or socially falling into either circle. I was moving from the Katamon neighborhood of Jerusalem, a place known for its young, religious-but-open-minded crowd to a home next to the Shas headquarters.

In addition, I was looking for a job for a large part of the time we’ve been here. While I job-searched, I worked on my thesis and ran a home business in editing and translation, but I’m a people person—and it was difficult having to leave most of my friends in Jerusalem, despite having my best friend here with me, and spend a lot of time on my own.

Luckily, I recently started working in Tel Aviv. Getting out of the house on a regular basis has been good for my heart, soul, and outlook on life.

With these new rose-colored glasses, I’ve been able to appreciate a lot of the things around me:

A few weeks ago, a mother cat brought her litter of kittens to hang out in our front yard for a while. Seeing these little guys play and bounce and experience things in life for the first time brought Nadav and me so much happiness! Unfortunately, our landlord was not such a fan and exiled them to another yard.

On the animal front, I have to mention another star in our neighborhood cast of characters: Jongo the Dog. Jongo is a jolly ole' dog, a black Labrador-looking (but probably not being) dog, who is missing a foot. Before we knew Jongo's name, we used to call him "Happy Dog" because this dog simply gushes joy. Jongo is the happiest being I've ever witnessed. His existence as a "Trumpel-dog" (maybe only the Israeli history buffs will understand this nickname) in no way hinders his love of life, plastic bottles, and neighborhood cats. My favorite interactions with him always involve one of the neighborhood cats, who know him better than we do and know that the only reason to run from him is if you don't want to get licked.

In the plant kingdom is my growing “garden.” I have turned out, after years of “practicing” on plants with less fortunate destinies, to have quite the green thumb. We now have bamboo, cacti, basil, rosemary, parsley, hanging vines, and some flowers in our little botanical collection.

Other than that, Nadav and I are taking ballroom and Latin dance lessons and will soon be going on a worldwide tour to exhibit our contribution to the world of dance.

In short, I’m enjoying married life. Despite my love affair with Jerusalem, I am getting along fine here in the traffic-jammed center of the country. And even though everyone claims Tel Aviv, the city that doesn’t sleep, is the place to be, I’m happy to be about 10 miles out, where we can still hear birds and play with Jongo.

The Spurious Claim of the "Wasted Vote"

2009-02-10T12:04:00.004+02:00

As a political science graduate student, a few things get my goat:

People who still think that the definition of democracy is black and white
People who try to talk politics with you at otherwise leisurely dinners (yes, studying politics, reading new about politics, and writing a thesis about politics actually IS enough for me)
And the term “wasted vote”

Maybe I’m just being idealistic here (never been accused of THAT before), but I think a vote that is put in the ballot box is NEVER a wasted vote. You see, I come from a country where there really only are two choices on election day. Ok sure, I get to participate in electing candidates for a variety of offices, but the differences between the policies and areas of focus of each of the parties’ candidates do not vary all that much within each party (and sometimes not even BETWEEN the parties, despite what their campaign messages would have us believe).

Yet, now I find myself, the child of a two-party system suddenly placed in a virtual circus of parties—some care about the environment, others care about education, some care about security and others about the economy. In fact, some even care about IMPORTANT things such as legalizing marijuana!

And so, rather than automatically choosing a large party to defeat “the other party,” I contemplate choosing a smaller one, one that reflects my values, my beliefs. Of course, the fear of the party not passing the threshold necessary to enter the Knesset looms large before my eyes, and I think to myself, “What if my vote, my single tiny vote, prevents Israel from having a center-left government? What if MY vote is the one that allows a closed-minded, and in many ways immoral, coalition to lead my country for the next few years?” In short, what if my vote is a “wasted vote”?

But I think that on several levels, a vote that is cast is not a wasted vote. On one level, the legitimacy of Israeli democracy is strengthened by every vote cast in a secret and free manner. The participation of Israeli citizens in the process of electing their leaders is in and of itself one major reason that even if a vote gets “thrown away” because the party did not pass the threshold, one has done her civic duty—one has participated in a process banned or corrupted in so much of the world.

Beyond this simple expression of democratic behavior, I think that the thought and evaluation process that goes into choosing a party that is not “guaranteed” a place in the next Knesset is different than choosing one of the major parties. The “default” as it were is to choose Kadima, Likud,or Avoda (Labor). To decide to vote for another party is a conscious decision, a statement that “business as usual” does not reflect my values or my vision of what Israeli society should be.

For this reason, when I listen to the election results, I may be elated, I may be disappointed, but I won’t feel my vote was wasted.

Finding my Calling in Life . . . Or at least realizing my skills are valued by the porn industry

2009-01-24T22:23:00.007+02:00

And suddenly, it became clear to me why they were still looking for someone to fill his job after three months of searching.

But I’ll start at the beginning because as Julie Andrews once said (or sang), “It’s a very good place to start.”

I began looking for work a few months back. In the meantime, I’ve done some freelance work, finished some papers for school, started my thesis, banged my head against the wall (a few hundred times), and managed to find a job. Well, kind of. The short story is that after a few offers—which I didn’t want—I decided to take a part-time job in addition to my freelance editing/writing work.

Said job began a few weeks ago and consisted of me working for approximately a week after which I was informed that they didn’t exactly have a budget for me yet and would I mind waiting another few weeks to begin my position. Needless to say, I was not amused and began the soul-destroying search for work again. My somewhat more spiritual tendencies are giving my cynical side a dirty look right now implying that we should try to make all of our experiences in life opportunities to learn about ourselves. In fact, I have learned a lot about myself—and about my wonderful husband, who has managed to put up with me, the depressed troll of a job-seeker I’ve become. Yet the cynical side prevails—looking for a job, in today’s abysmal market, with a master’s degree in something other than telemarketing or secretarial duties is soul-destroying.

But then I got the call. After applying for a number of content writing jobs--because, hey, if nothing else, I know how to talk (and type) a blue streak—I got a call from a headhunter company about my resume. “Adi” informed me that my skills seemed suited to a hi-tech company looking for a content writer. “Sounds great,” I said to her. “What’s the name of the company?” To maintain their privacy (and prevent me from being sued . . . AGAIN), let’s just call them “Cool Runnings.” I’d heard of Cool Runnings before and had in fact sent them my resume a few months ago for a content writer position. Their website stated that they were a young and dynamic company which manages a number of recreational websites. They were looking for a native English speaker who “thinks outside the box.” I thought to myself, “I’m their gal. I’m a creative, liberal thinker. I’m young, hip, and well, ‘cool’ like their company name.” But no call came for several months. Only this week, when Adi spoke to me, did I realize it was the same position.

“They’re a hi-tech company in every way,” she explained. “Ok,” I said. “And the content is in the field of ‘entertainment for adults,” she continued. “Excuse me?” I asked, buying a bit of time to try to figure out if my brain correctly understood the Hebrew phrase she used—and if, in fact, that phrase meant the same thing in Israel. “Entertainment for adults,” she repeated. “Hmm. . . ok,” I said, hesitating before asking the inevitable. “So, I’m a bit embarrassed to ask,” I said, because obviously it couldn’t be what I was thinking she meant, “Is it in a bit more . . .ummm . . . blue direction?” “Listen,” she said, “It’s not a porno company or something.” “So, what do you they do?” “Dating sites, that kind of thing.” “Ok,” I thought, “Like J-date, or E-harmony.”

As it turns it, it was soooooo not like J-date (at least not the J-date I’m used to hearing about). When the company manager called to speak with me, she immediately asked me if I knew what the company did. “Content management?” I asked innocently. “Dating sites, no? Something like that?” I continued hopefully. And after a flowery speech about the fifteen million users of their website (which it is important to mention impressed me), she laid it all out for me. “We’re looking for something to write content for our sex site.” After a stunned silence, a few questions should come to your mind: 1) What “content” is there really on a sex site? 2) As popular as porn is on the internet, you call yourselves successful for having only 15 million users? 3) Do you really think most native English speakers in Israel really made Aliyah and moved to the Holy Land to write for porn sites? 4) Did you not read on my resume that I have worked for a feminist organization, a yeshiva, and have edited books in the academia? I’m sorry, sentences such as, “Hi, I’m Candy, wanna ^%&$?” never really came up in the articles I edited on the role of mass communication in modern democracies or discourse analysis in politics.

Also, can we just imagine for a moment where this job can take me in the future? I’m picturing at my next job interview, a few years down the line: “So Becky, what did you do at Cool Runnings?” “Oh, it was great, I wrote content for them.” “Really, where could we find some of your work?” “Well, don’t bother looking in the New York Times, or even the Jerusalem Post—your best bet is to probably Google ‘hot chicks’ or something of that nature.”

As I post this, I am just wondering how many people will probably accidentally arrive at my blog from searching for “hot chicks” and will be sorely disappointed at the lack of “hot chicks” on this page. Of course, now that I’ve written those keywords a few times, I’m sure my search engine optimization has gone up. Maybe I’ll have fifteen million users soon? Nahhhh . . .I think there may be too much actual content here.

Note: I did NOT go to the job interview for this position (there was just a bit of confusion regarding that point for some of my readers . . . some of whom that that maybe I should have!).

In a New York Minute

2008-12-31T20:17:00.004+02:00

It's the end of the year, and looking back, I'm sure many of us are thinking how frivolously we used our time. Of course, there were things that were well-worth the time--the day of my wedding for instance. Yet, what of all those times I zoomed about the internet looking for the perfect veil?

I turned in a paper today, for instance, on which I spent a good couple of months--time well worth it. What about all the time I checked my email, the news, the weather, Facebook, and more when I should have been working on my paper--time used less wisely.

Today, on the day so many are looking back and thinking of time and what they did with it, my friend reminded me how time really is of the essence. "A minute is so much better than 15 seconds," she said to me on the phone. On the surface, nothing exceptional. Sure, a minute is better than 15 seconds in many cases--more time to sleep, more time to get ready in the morning. Nadav often says to me when we're getting ready to leave the house, "I'll be ready in two minutes." Two minutes is no time, right?

Taking into account, though, the circumstances under which she made this comment made me realized just how much time a minute can be: it's enough time to move your family from the living room to the protected room--the one with concrete, re-inforced walls. It's enough time to run down the stairs, if need be, to your apartment building's shelter. It's enough time to pick up your child and run for dear life, for his life.

She lives in Beer Sheva and works in Sderot. A few days ago, we could have said, "She lives in a place where the rockets can't reach and works in a place where for the last 7 years, over 8,000 Kassam rockets have fallen." Now, we must say, "She now lives in a place where the rockets can reach her and her family and several hundred thousand other people." There are warning sirens, to be sure. In Sderot, they give you 15 seconds, if you are lucky and the siren sounds. In Beer Sheva, you have a minute. "A minute is so much better than 15 seconds."

I think of the millions of people who will watch the ball drop in Times Square this evening and of the countdown as the ball moves down towards ringing in the new year. Wouldn't it be amazing if everyone counting down suddenly understood that some people in the world have even less time than that to try to save themselves and their families?

Launch of an Amazing New Technology Website

2008-12-19T08:56:00.002+02:00

For all you engineers out there, looking for an efficient tool, C-to-Verilog.com offers conversion from C to Verilog. It creates hardware circuits in the blink of an eye (or the click of a mouse!) and assists you in accelerating your development cycle. My husband opened it as a hobby--if you have any engineering or programmer friends, please send them the link.

It’s why I’ll never be a successful comedian . . .

2008-12-02T10:02:00.003+02:00

I realized recently that it’s been absolutely ages since I’ve written. No, I haven’t experienced any major traumas. In fact, I’ve experienced many wonderful things this year. I married my wonderful Nadav. My family came to Israel, most of them for the first time, for the wedding. But I think here is where the difficulty lies. There were many, MANY things to write about the wedding and probably even more about wedding planning. But I care too much. You see, due to my natural ability to take most unpleasant occurrences and, well, make fun of them, I would have had a lot of material during the months it took to plan the wedding. Titles that could have been included in my repertoire include:

“The perks of finding a wedding hall located directly across the street from a strip club” (yes, I know, a bit wordy, but these are rough drafts)

“The perks of finding a wedding hall located directly across the street from an auto mechanic” (oh, I’m sorry, am I lacking creativity?)

“To sparkle or not to sparkle: Fireworks lining the wedding canopy, Israeli makeup artists, and a low-key bride’s fight for survival”

As you may gather from these possible titles, planning the wedding was, in short, something of a circus—and I am glad that I have finally settled into “boring” married life.

In any case, it took a significant amount of restraint NOT to say everything I wish I could have about the conversations I was forced to endure with everyone in the Israeli wedding industry. When one makeup artist attempted to convince me why I absolutely MUST get a pedicure, she quite simply stated, “It’s for your husband.” All this time I thought he appreciated my personality and brains, it was really all for my feet!!

Of course, nobody would have cared had I simply bashed all prima donna hairstylists who really believe that anybody remember's the bride's hairstyle a week after the wedding. It was closer to home that I learned to keep my mouth shut (at least in most cases) and listen and, importantly, understand more.

NOBODY cares about the centerpieces. And NOBODY cares about veil. And truly, NOBODY really cares even about the food. Yet, people feel the need to express their opinions and in some cases even argue over these things because . . . well, that’s exactly it. Nobody really knows. People are excited. Things are changing, and fast.

In my case, I was marrying an oldest son. In my case, again, I was marrying someone from a side of the planet I didn’t know about until I was 18. Which of course means that for both families, mine and his, these were monumental changes.

What our wedding day represented was the coming together of two different families, two different nationalities, two different cultures and languages and foods . . . and the list goes on.

It wasn’t easy for Nadav’s mother to give up her first baby. It wasn’t easy for my mother to realize that, yes, I’m here, I’m staying, and I’m going to be far away from her—the same situation she created with her own mother.

All of these emotions—joy and love, as well as uncertainty and worry—were all mixed up in the whole process called “wedding.”

For these reasons, I couldn’t write and make fun of the strength of the emotions everyone was feeling. It would have cheapened it, made it somehow less special for me to view it with such cynical eyes.

And so, I forge ahead, armed with writing material concerning the Israeli job search. I’m one month in, a bit more worn for the wear, but ready—at the very least—to conquer it through humor, patience (if only), and as many cups of Chai tea as it takes.

I should have been there . . . but thank G-d I wasn't

2008-07-02T16:04:00.001+03:00

I’m sure I know this man. He must have been my bus driver at some point over the last four years I’ve lived in Jerusalem, or the last two years I’ve lived in Katamon, home to the number 13 bus line. I speak, of course, of the bus driver of bus 13, the bus that was “tipped over” by a mad man on a bulldozer in today’s attack in Jerusalem.

The shooting of yeshiva students in the Merkaz Harav yeshiva, the last terror attack in Jerusalem—a seemingly distant memory, even though it was only this past March—scared me, but I was able to keep on going. I was forced to—we were attending our friends’ engagement party and what could we do but keep drinking our glasses of wine, toast the happy couple, and try not to think about those who were at the same time being rushed to hospitals, or alternately, put into body bags.

Today, though, I was free to think about what happened. Free to listen to the radio as I made my way into Ramat Gan, where I was going to get a refund on a washing machine, of all the unimportant things in the world. Free to listen, over and over again, to descriptions of what had happened and where it had happened. Free to try and figure out from the clues the reporters gave if my friends could have been there—if, hypothetically, yesterday or everyday before that for the last four years I could have been there.

Thanks to technology, I know my friends are safe. Text messages—so impersonal yet so effective—informed me that my loved ones were fine. And as many times happens, some of the friends receiving my check-up text message were clueless about the attack even happening until I asked if they were ok.

I feel an emptiness inside and a intermittent urges to shed tears when I think about the people who could see it coming--who were trapped inside their cars or could see the bulldozer coming down the street, realizing perhaps only at the last second what was actually happening.

I just got home and, despite my news saturation for the day, decided to see if I could pinpoint where it happened—I had to know which bus had been attacked. It was mine. But more than being my bus line—it was my city, it was my home. Any of the pedestrians, making their way down the sidewalks, any of the people in cars, trying to get through Jerusalem downtown traffic, any of these people who were brutally murdered, in a most unimaginably horrific way—any of these people could have been my friends.

We moved on Sunday to Ramat Hasharon. And due to me studying at Hebrew University, I was in Jerusalem yesterday, literally meters from the attack site. I have this weird feeling—it’s similar to the feeling I get when something major happens to my family in America and I’m not there to go through it with them. It’s like I should have been there—but thank G-d I wasn’t.

Today at 6pm Israel time, thousands of people will be saying Psalm 121 for the safe release of kidnapped Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit. I guess now there will be others for whom we say this psalm:

A song of Ascent.

I lift up my eyes to the hills.
What is the source of my help?

My help comes from the Lord,
Maker of the heavens and the earth.
He will not allow you to stumble, Your Guardian will not slumber.

Indeed, the Guardian of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps.

The Lord is your Guardian, your shelter at your side.

The sun will not smite your by day nor the moon by night.

The Lord will guard you against all evil;
He will guard you, body and soul.

The Lord will guard your going out
And your coming home, now and forever.

Who needs symmetry anyways?

2008-06-16T19:22:00.003+03:00

As you plan your wedding (let me rephrase, if you are not a bride-zilla and actually talk to your husband-to-be during wedding planning), you will learn a few things about your partner. I, for instance, learned something a bit shocking about my mathematically (and therefore, one would have thought, geometrically)-inclined partner last night, as we attended a college friend's wedding near Rehovot. It turns out that Nadav does not like asymmetrical hairdos. Now, this may not seem earth-shattering, but for someone who was planning a beautifully off-center hairdo for her big day, I found this news a bit disconcerting. Luckily, I know that men don't really know much about hairdos beyond "straight," "curly," and "ponytail," so I'm just gonna go with my instinct on this one and do what I want (I know, so out of character for me).

In other news, we have a new (to us) car. There's such a feeling of freedom that comes from having wheels. Having traveled literally thousands of kilometers over the last 5 years on buses, trains, planes, and Pumas, I had forgotten what it's like to be behind the wheel. Oh, and how fun it is to piss off already angry drivers! Yesterday, in my leisurely drive around Jerusalem (I'm sorry, did the words "leisurely," "drive", and "Jerusalem" just exit my mouth in the same sentence?), for instance, I learned that unless I want to die an early death at the hands of an evil, chain-smoking taxi driver in the Holy City, I should probably not respond to their honks (even if my hand gestures are significantly cleaner than theirs, a wave!). The truth is, after the 67th honk of the morning, you sort of forget about it, and just fight your way through the traffic jam like everyone else--no mercy!!!

As a native Pensacolian, and therefore someone whose only experience of a traffic jam is waiting in line at Krispy Kreme upon its re-opening (Ok, fine, I wasn't actually there, but I was there in spirit!), it may take me a while to get used to the insane, seemingly eternal traffic jam that is Israel. I think the key to survival is making sure you have good music--luckily we have a cassette player in our "new" car.

Sunbathers of the world, unite!

2008-04-13T16:49:00.003+03:00

Those of you who read Hebrew (and know my tree-hugging, vegetarian stances) will catch the irony here . . .

And for those of you who don't, a short explanation: This sign says "Nature has no value". We visited this building site/nature reserve at the Palmachim Beach south of Tel Aviv last week. Basically, the state has sold a small "island" of land in the middle of a nature reserve to be developed by money-hungry, hotel builders--all at the expense of one of the few truly natural beaches left in Israel. At this time, there are protesters who have camped out on the beach, which the building company has tried to close off to the public, despite the illegality of such a move.

For more info and/or to get involved, visit this site.

Learning to Let Go and Watch the Snowflakes Fall

2008-02-19T09:27:00.003+02:00

I'm taking this opportunity, this snowy, windy, cancelled-class day in Jerusalem to do a little reflection.

Last night, as I listened to a few of my friends wish for snow, so work and school would be cancelled, I found myself thinking very responsibly, "But we've missed so much school already anyway from the professor's strike and the other snow day." Then, I thought to myself, "But a day off in the middle of the week would be nice." Going back and forth for a few minutes, I couldn't really decide what I wanted--snow, no snow, school, no school.

But then I realized, "Oh yeah, I guess it doesn't matter what I want, it's not really my decision anyways." And that was a freeing thought, one that I've had recently in relation to a few stressful situations in my life. There are steps we can take to influence outcomes, that is for sure. We can work hard now to hopefully benefit later. We can plan well so as to provide for a safer, more secure future. But there are forces outside of us that affect our lives in ways we could never imagine. Whether it be the stock market, a megalomaniac to the East, or an unsafe driver, there are a million things we could never see coming that could alter our situations in some way.

Conclusion? Appreciate the (s)now. I must say, as a native Floridian, snow is neither my area of expertise or my cup of tea. I have no childhood memories of building any snow creatures but a very anorexic snowman one winter in the mid-1990s. In other words, it's mainly a nuisance--a somewhat pretty nuisance, but also a darn cold and wet nuisance. Sitting here, though, instead of on the number 30 bus to the university, holding my book-laden backpack in my lap and trying not to freeze to death or get dripped on from the leaky window, is something that I can appreciate.

I can appreciate that, at least for today, there will be a nice news story in the newspapers, accompanied by pictures of kids throwing snowballs not rocks. So, it's a little bit cold and wet, but I can handle the change for a day.

Just a reminder of why diamonds are not THIS girl's best friend

2008-01-08T22:43:00.000+02:00

And since I'm too lazy to write tonight, I'll just refer you to a an article that is so clear, you won't need commentary.

Are diamonds worth this? This bride-to-be thinks not.

Remind me, what is the reason for the season?

2007-12-25T19:14:00.000+02:00

It took me 4 years, but I finally made it. I went in the New Gate of the Old City this morning not really knowing what to expect. It wasn't my first time in the Old City, or even the Christian Quarter, but it was my first time there on Christmas. Every year I say to myself that I will attend a Christmas Eve mass, and every year, the cold dark night that I must fight to get there seems much less inviting than my warm bed. This year, I didn't even make the promise. I simply broke the paradigm (wait, wait) and went in the morning (novel, I know).

The sun was shining, the birds were singing (ok, not sure about this one), and after a very uneventful ride on the number 13 bus to the center of town, I made my way to the Jerusalem's Old City. I think, in my head, I was picturing crowds of people--something similar to the pictures of the Via Dolorosa on Easter that I always see in the news. But it was empty. As I walked in the New Gate, there was only one person in sight . . . so I followed her. The truth is, my stereotypes took over, and because she looked Russian (no, she wasn't wearing bright pink lipstick or anything--it's Christmas, people), I figured she was a good candidate for a church-goer. Turns out, I was right (about the church-going part at least). As the cops always say at the end of murder mysteries, "She led me right to 'em" ('em, in this case, being Christians or monks or priests or . . .).

I followed her through the winding stone alleys and down Casa Nova Street (and no, the irony of the name of this street was not lost on me). An Israeli tour group stood in the middle of the stairs of Casa Nova, but I was not tempted for a moment to stop and listen. Some things you must experience and not simply hear about. Distracted a bit by the group, I lost my "tour guide" but it turns out, she had taken me straight to a church. I walked into an enclave and saw stone steps leading up towards what I assumed was a sanctuary.

In fact, as I saw when I stepped through the doors, it was a cathedral. I'm no architect, so I won't begin to describe buttresses or domes, but what I saw was beautiful. What I heard, though, was even more amazing. The mass that was in session rang in my bones. I sat quietly, shyly, in the last wooden pew. To my left was a nativity scene, at which entering worshippers kneeled, crossed themselves, and prayed. Around the altar which stood at the front of the the church were seated around 12 priests dressed in white robes, and throughout the gathering of about 100 worshippers, there were priests dressed in brown robes.

While I understood very little of the mass (seems my high school Latin has not remained), the few familiar Christmas carols and the story of the Nativity (un papa un bambino--is this Italian?) did bring a smile to my face.

But what brought tears was not any particular intellectual experience but rather a feeling. I think there are those in the world who refuse to enter holy places of other religions. This, for me, is hard to believe, because the warmth and hope I felt in this space is almost indescribable. It didn't matter that they spoke of "Christo" or recited the Nativity story rather than that of the Exodus from Egypt. I prayed there for my family celebrating Christmas, for shalom bayit (peace in the family) for those who need it, for my Jewish friends to find husbands, and most of all, for peace.

Perhaps my voice was the lone Jewish one in the crowd, but I have a good feeling that it, too, was heard.

A great miracle happened here!

2007-12-08T13:17:00.000+02:00

I would like to start this blog entry with a cup of hot chocolate . . . Ok, Done.

I would like to continue this blog entry with a picture that will bring most of you a smile.

No, this is neither a new age guru nor a carnie-cum-fortune teller--this is my father, sporting this year's Chanukkah gift from our neighbors, people with big hearts and obviously too much time on their hands.

Some of you may remember my previous post on my predictions for the Messiah arriving to Jerusalem in time to sort out my lawsuit with City Hall. As it turns out, this did not happen. However, due to a very nice judge who felt sorry for my pitiful new immigrant self, the fight for justice/logic/sanity has been moved to outside of legal arena. I've been spared! In essence, we are taking a Delorian back in time to go through the process that should have happened prior to a law suit being filed. So, at least no legal costs.

My expectations remain low, i.e., realistic. I fully expect City Hall to reject my appeal and say something to the effect of, "We don't care that it's not your debt to begin with. We are heartless trolls who who like to make old men cry in our offices (true story)--we are actually training to work at maximum security prisons in Guantanamo." But the intensity level of the whole situation being lowered is an accomplishment of its own, a modern-day Chanukkah miracle, if you will.

Concerning any further bureaucracy, I have talked with Mr. Claus and these people will be getting coal in their stockings this year.

My thoughts exactly . . .

2007-11-28T20:41:00.000+02:00

I Think My Phone is Cheating on my Boyfriend (or "If you're going to date via text message, buy some more phone credit you cheapskate!")

2007-11-27T21:58:00.000+02:00

Another short anecdote from my favorite source of writing material--you got it: the Jerusalem inner-city bus.

"Do you have a message to send?" the 19-year-old, clean-cut religious girl asked me.
"What?" I replied, taking off my headphones and settling into a seat at the back of the bus.
"Do you have a message to send?" she asked again.
"What are you talking about?" I replied, now fully able to hear her but having no idea what she meant.
"A text message?"
"Oh," I said, "Sure."

Let me insert here that usually I don't let strangers borrow my phone--after you've had a cell phone stolen from your hospital bed in the surgery ward, you become a bit paranoid.

But I figured since it was a text message rather than a phone call, and who knows when one day I would forget my phone at home . . .

"Sure, you can use it," I said, handing her my phone.
Five minutes later, she hands it back.

Now, me, I'm not particularly nosy, but since it took her so long, I was a little curious by this point, imagining that she'd somehow broken into my bank account through my ancient Nokia and was siphoning funds to an unmarked account in the Cayman Islands.

Luckily, the number she sent her message to was in Israel (and even to same cell phone service I have--a discounted charge!), but it's content was of questionable nature. The following is a word for word translation of the message this girl, obviously the next Tolstoy, sent to Mr.X:

"What's up, baby? : q (yes, she did the smiley face upside down) Everything is fine. What how was today HAHA Surviving the army national service Coolness the best It's true Moroccans are crazy about couscous I love it My grandma understands more HAHA A proud Moroccan I love upbeat songs and maybe a little quiet So good luck (or something like that) Return a text message to my cell phone XXXXXXXX Do you come to Jerusalem and I am really looking for a serious relationship not something silly, Name"

So, besides being completely confused by this message, I was in complete shock. A DATING MESSAGE?!? I knew I wasn't handing over my phone for a donation to UNICEF but A DATING MESSAGE?!?

All, I can say is, this is the last time a stranger uses my cell phone to discuss Moroccans' love of couscous . . . I have better things to do with my 25 agurot a text message.

Questioning the Unquestioned

2007-11-24T11:53:00.000+02:00

In surfing some friends' blogs recently, I came across something called "The Blog Readability Test" which measures: "what level of education is required to understand your blog." The blog upon which I saw this meter was a "College (Post Grad)" level blog, and I, wanting to confirm my unquestioned intelligence, decided to check my own blog. No, wait, that's not exactly accurate. I, not needing to check my unquestioned intelligence (it's unquestioned after all), thought, "How cute. But it seems a little conceited to place that meter on my blog." Of course, my wonderful fiancee thought it would be interesting to, well, question my unquestioned intelligence, and check my blog. As it turns out, placing this meter on my blog would not have provided bragging rights, but rather a reason to continue my post-graduate studies--yes, that's right, my blog is "Junior High Level" which means, in essence, that if you have braces, acne, and an unhealthy obsession with Cover Girl foundation, you are eligible to (and capable of) reading my blog.

In attempting to understand exactly why pre-Algebra taking, glitter-eyeshadow-wearing pre-teens could be my audience, and quite possibly also adoring fans, I conducted a (non-scientific) content analysis of my previous posts and came up with the following most mentioned topics:

1) Cats
2) Wal-Mart
3) Camels
4) Human/civil rights in Israel
5) Cats
6) Stories from my bus adventures in Jerusalem
7) The Disengagement from the Gaza Strip
8) Pickles
9) Saving the world
10) Oh yes, and cats.

Nadav seems to think that my overuse of felines as subject matter may be playing a role in the algorithm used to determine the "level" of my blog.

But I've decided after checking one of my other friend's blogs--someone who I truly consider a genius, a walking encyclopedia, and a clever writer--and discovering that, according this test, that one only requires a elementary school education to understand it, I'm in good company. I'm a writer of the people--apparently even awkward, Backstreet Boys-loving, Bongo-sporting middle schoolers (please excuse the dated references to my own pre-pubescent era).

No, I didn't get thrown in jail . . .

2007-10-23T12:11:00.000+02:00

I figured some of you may have worried since the last time I wrote I was describing my legal difficulties with the Jerusalem City Hall.

It was months ago--and yet, no progress has been made. We're set to have a preliminary hearing next week, just in case you are curious. I find myself wanting to be positive but unable to actually think optimistically . . . If only Judge Judy were here.

On other fronts, in the last 2 months I have managed to:
1) Finish all of my papers for last school year (just in time to start this school year)
2) Travel to America to see the folks
3) Buy a wedding dress (sorry, I would post it, but my groom-to-be is very anxious to catch a glimpse of this hot pink (note: to throw him off) bejeweled creation)
4) Oh, yeah, get engaged (reason for #3)
5) Completely forget my loving fans and horrendously neglect my blog
(note: if you are not so loving of a fan, don't comment)

In order to ease myself back into this whole "blog thing," I would like to share a few--some more comical than others--reflections on the third anniversary of my immigration to Israel.

Today's topic: "Going up . . ."

People here don't call us "immigrants." They call us "the ones who go/came up." Well, there's a certain amount of truth to that phrase, especially for someone who "came up" from sunny, flat Florida. The mountains of Jerusalem are far more impressive than the highest point in Florida (all of 327 feet above sea level); I know, I was there three weeks ago. But in my three years here, I've learned that even though Israel's dugree (direct) ways of expression--spoken or otherwise--are more abrupt, more straightforward than "Jo Ann," the cashier in one of Pensacola's five Super Wal-Marts, euphemisms exist here as well.

And this is exactly what oleh (new Jewish immigrant) is--a euphemism. To call it a misnomer is incorrect and lacks an understanding of Israeli society itself, which is, despite much of the world's view, always trying (however successfully or not) to improve itself. The Jewish concept of tikkun olam (repairing the world) is deeply ingrained in Israeli society--there are just so many ideas about what "repair" the world needs that objective progress is somewhat derailed. In any case, on the commemoration of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin, a day which holds a special place in my heart (click here for "Do I Believe in Peace?" Scroll Down), and the anniversary of my choosing to make aliyah as well as the day I actually did it, I realize that we are far, far from where we want to be and the idea that we are currently serving as a "light unto the nations" is a dream that has been overladen with reality or vice versa, depending on the day and the action in question.

As a student of the social sciences and as someone whose favorite past time is watching and analyzing people, I find it harder and harder to successfully place my world--that is, Israel--into a category. What is perhaps easier is to engage in this mental exercise and end with an oft-quoted phrase at our Shabbat dinner table, "Well, there's a lot of work to be done." This is something I would have said three years ago upon my arrival and my induction into Israeli citizenry, but I probably would have had some stars in my eyes, envisioning how it would happen while I was still alive. I still believe that "there's a lot of work to be done" and that the moral, spiritual, and social challenges that face us are gargantuan in nature. I must say, though, that every time I am disgusted by what I read in the news--another murder, another human rights abuse, another harmful act to the environment--I look and (thank G-d) successfully find an article about a law suit, a demonstration, a strike that is making our government and leaders pay attention to the problems we have.

This society is by no means perfect. But, I think, it is awake.

Stay tuned for more (admittedly tree-hugger-esque) soliloquies on the Art/Frustration/Englightenment/Satisfaction of Aliyah.

When the Messiah Comes, He’s Going Straight to Jerusalem City Hall

2007-07-19T10:33:00.000+03:00

That is, to settle his arnona (city taxes) bill. It doesn’t matter that he—or his messenger—hasn’t been around for:
a) 2,000 years according to the Christian view
b)1,400 years according to the Muslim view
c) Ever (?) according to the Jewish view

Because, apparently, you don’t actually have to live in Jerusalem to be charged city taxes.

The Story of Becky (in short)
March 30, 1982 – Becky is born to loving parents Linda and Norman
March 31, 1982-October 26, 2004 – Becky learns (in error) that the world operates according to logic
October 27, 2004 – Becky makes aliyah (becomes an Israeli citizen and moves to Israel)
November 1, 2004-January 31, 2005 – Becky lives in disgusting apartment (the kind where you wash your dishes before you eat, not afterwards) with a Rastafarian and a man who buys a drum set 3 seconds after Becky moves in
July 11, 2007 – Becky receives documentation of a law suit from Jerusalem City Hall currently pending against her for taxes she didn’t pay on an apartment she lived in for 4 months several years before

The period for which taxes were not paid: 2003-2006

Now, I assume there are no rocket scientists working at Jerusalem City Hall, but I also assume that basic math and logic would indicate that someone who was not present in the country—that City Hall had no clue even existed—could not possibly rack up a city taxes tab of this proportion. Taking into account that I actually did pay—and have receipts!!—for the period I lived in said disgusting apartment, it comes as even more of a shock and frustration.

So, I did what any logical, red-blooded American located in a bureaucratic nightmare would do: I screamed a little while, threatened to burn City Hall down (I’m sure I could have at least a thousand gas can-toting Jerusalemites there in a matter of hours), and decided to do the only thing I could—submit a request to defend myself in the civil court of Jerusalem (conveniently, and suspiciously, located right behind City Hall—I’m sure I saw some tax clerks and judges having coffee and scones together while discussing what they will buy with my ill-gotten funds)

I may be losing my sanity, but at least I have my freedom
Going to the court was . . . to be honest, it was a lot like going to the airport. The security is pretty tight—I guess because 50% of the people there are coming for criminal trials and 100% of the people there are pissed off. (Correction: a little bit like going to the airport) Here’s what one should know when going to the courthouse:

1) Bring lots of small change (approximately 73 shekels in agurot—nickels for you Americans—because they want 87.3 copies of everything you are submitting and the copy machines operate on the smallest change in the country
2) Bring another 41 shekels for the resident lawyer you need to sign your “Declaration of Truth” who will inevitably ask you:

“So, are you from New York?”
“No, Florida.”
“Ahhhh, Floriiiiidaaaa.”
“Yes.”
“How long have you been in Israel?”
“Three years.”
“Wow, you don’t even have an accent.”
“Then, why did you ask me if I’m from the States?”
“Ha ha ha, you’re cute.”
(Me thinking but not saying, “You wanna represent me in court?”)

3) Bring a lot of patience—and absolutely no logic, because between the circus-like atmosphere and the ridiculousness of someone who I just met (and called me cute) signing something that says I am telling the truth (because he can tell, by my “beautiful smile” of course) . . . well, if you bring the opposite set of tools (no patience and lots of logic), you may not make it out alive.
4) Which brings me to my next point: Bring gratefulness—that you are actually walking out of there free and not with chains on your legs (on the way to the van that will take you to back to jail).

It’s been a bit crazy, but . . .
Justice will prevail. At least I’d like to think so. At this point, I’ve only submitted a request with the logic of my argument (and documentation) to defend myself. Hopefully, it’ll all work out. If not, I have promises from friends of:
1) “Proteksia,” or Protection/Connections to people on City Council (by TWO different people—Am I the only one without this???)
2) Taking it to the press: New York Times, here we come!
3) Burning the place down with all the records of my and other people’s false (and real) debts.*

*No one has actually offered to do this for me, but I have a feeling there are others like me out there . . . somewhere.

The Hope (I Think)

2007-06-17T17:15:00.000+03:00

I was thinking (yes, here we go). I’m not that girl anymore—you know, the one who wrote about falafel stands and the eccentricities of my new home in a place far, far from my “old home.” I’m not sure when it happened, when I changed, but if you really pushed me for an answer, I think I would say, “The moment I heard the question, ‘Is this your first war?’” Yes, these words were said to me by someone I’ve grown to respect and care for deeply, my boyfriend’s mother. When I squeaked out an incredulous, “Yes,” she did a quick tally of the wars she’d been through in Israel and the rough estimate was 6 or 7. That was when the rockets were first starting to land in the north of Israel last summer, when I lied to my parents and told them that I wasn’t in Haifa. The rockets only reached Haifa 12 hours after I left for Jerusalem, but that night, I laid in bed and wondered aloud if they could hit the room we were in. I was assured they would hit another bedroom first—as if that was some sort of assurance.

I sit here now, after reading a political cartoon on CNN, one which asks the question, “What’s the most depressing spot in the Middle East?” Luckily, my home is not listed as one of the choices, as well it shouldn’t be since I have running water, electricity, pizza take-out, and safety. But I’m in the neighborhood, and yes, I wonder, “What will be the result of the chaos that is ensuing in Gaza, in Lebanon, in Iraq?” I wonder, “Can the rumors of negotiations between Israel and Syria be true when, as Nadav says, both sides are sharpening their swords?” Why do I wonder? Not to depress myself, no. I wonder because I know that we are all very close to one another here. Trouble there means trouble here. Chaos there could mean danger here.

And yet, yesterday I sat on the beach in Haifa eating a chocolate ice cream cone, discussing which dogs on the boardwalk were cutest and which kids should probably put on bathing suits before their tushes got sunburned.

I've always said I understood it, the “Israeli”–what he is, who he is, how he thinks. But I think now I am beginning to really internalize the idea as it is a description that more and more describing . . . me. The personality one develops after living in this country for a while may quite possibly be something special to the Israeli experience. It includes the ability to be so “fed up,” as my southern step-mom would say, over the state of the world, the state of the country, the state of the courts, parliament, etc. while at the same time reserving a corner in one’s heart and mind for hoping for the best. It’s eternal optimism mixed with feelings that only the witnessing of tragedy and destruction can produce.

It's the "coming of age" of "The Hope" -- HaTikva.

The Boycott of Israeli Academics and Why the English Academia and Their Logic Wouldn't Pass a Freshman Survey Course

2007-06-04T21:33:00.000+03:00

I can't say it better than Bradley Burston already has. Check it out!

Boycotting Israel as Moral . . .

All in all, it’s just another brick in the . . .

2007-05-16T18:23:00.000+03:00

Wall. Well, because we haven’t thought about that in at least 2 weeks. The Winograd Report findings were published two weeks ago and are currently dominating the media. That is, in addition to the university and college student strike, which hits its five-week mark today. That is, along with the forty-year anniversary (either a celebration or day of mourning depending on your point of view) of Jerusalem’s reunification, for which most European and US officials refused to attend ceremonies. That is, in addition to the violence in the Gaza Strip between Fatah and Hamas, which continues, with over 40 killed in just the last 3 days. And, last but not least, alongside over 30 kassam rockets hitting Sderot and the surrounding area, bringing an Israeli Air Force response of the bombing of Hamas’ operational headquarters in the Gaza Strip.

So, as one can see, perhaps the Separation Fence, has moved down—if only temporarily—on the list of “hot topics” for the media to report.

But, if only in my little corner of political ranting and raving, I am choosing to write about it today. After all, what better day than today, when I not only saw it while walking through the park near my house but also from the other side, an occurrence which happens less frequently.

Today, I visited Gush Etzion. Like my map, or not, I just chose it for ease’s sake. In any case, I visited Efrat, Bat Ayin, and Kfar Etzion (3 of the 21 settlements/communities which comprise Gush Etzion, or the Etzion Bloc). We spoke with the mayor (or head of the “city” council), and let’s just say that I learned a lot—among other things about human nature, the strength of ideology, and the everyday “reality” (what I may call “fear”) of living in Judea and Samaria (aka, the “West Bank”).

For some time now, the Separation Fence has lost the ideology of “being only a security measure.” While that was its original purpose, it became clear very quickly, once its route was moved from the Green Line (1967 borders) eastward, that people were starting to think about the future—i.e. that this wall was not just a security measure but rather a future border. And if this becomes the border, well, let’s just say, you don’t want to be on the wrong side. While most of the media we, on “our side of the wall,” hear about the Separation Fence is its infringement on the human rights of Palestinians, I learned something today—every Gush Etzion resident we spoke to today does not want the wall, not just on its current building-path, but rather not at all. I’ll be honest and say that I never really thought about how the settlers in the West Bank felt about the wall. I guess I just assumed that they wanted “us” (Inside the Green Line folk) to include “them” (Outside the Green Line folk) when planning it, making certain that the Jewish settlements north, east, and south of Jerusalem would remain connected to the state of Israel.

Among the reasons intimated to us were the following:
1) They don’t feel it will improve security. (I, as a Jerusalemite who is able to live more safely largely due to this wall, feel differently.)
2) The havoc it is already wreaking on the ecological environment, including forests, animals, and nature reserves. (This is something that speaks to my granola roots.)
3) The human rights violations of both the Jews and the Palestinians in the area that are already being caused or will be caused by a wall of this nature.

Where do I find myself, then? Stuck somewhere in the middle, I think. I guess I’m enough aware of the reality of a state’s need to provide its citizens with security to realize that leaving “borders” completely open is not the best idea. Then again, the path the wall has taken has left numerous people cut off from their families, sources of income, and proper medical care. I guess I’m enough aware of human rights and morality to know that this is also not acceptable. So, what’s the verdict? Well, let’s talk, first, about how we arrive at one.

What I learned today about human nature is that if you believe in something enough, perhaps it makes it easier for you to deal with the contradictions and conflicts to which you are a daily witness. If I believe enough in the State of Israel as the home of the Jews, as a nation-state, as an entity with which we cannot live without—then the human rights abuses you see in front of your eyes (which may not bother me or may deeply bother me) can be viewed as a "necessary evil."

Does that make me a heretic, then? That I am not willing to give up on human rights for all, on citizenship rights (whether they be Israeli or otherwise) for all? Does it make me less Jewish, or simply more democratic? Does it make me "left wing," or simply humanitarian-minded? Does it mean I'm "looking for trouble," or simply that I'm paying attention?

Don't answer these questions; I'm working on them meanwhile.

Next installment (to come after our next field trip): The Wall--A view from the north (i.e. Kallendia)

A Public Service Announcement for Fido and Fluffy

2007-05-09T23:11:00.000+03:00

From the Ha'aretz News Website:
18:42 Leopard breaks into Sde Boker community, eats dog and two cats (Ch.2)

Ok, so, since when do leopards have to "break in" anywhere? And does it seem weird to anybody else that a cat would eat another cat?

The Office of Homeland Security Hates Me for No Apparent Reason

2007-04-29T20:49:00.000+03:00

I have nothing better to do with my life than send empty packages across the Atlantic Ocean. This is probably what my step-father thinks.

I am trying to smuggle in Commie literature and marijuana in "tea bags" to Pensacola, Florida. This seems to be what the Office of Homeland Security thinks.

I am never again sending a package to America. This is what I think.

Two weeks ago, to the day, I packaged a book of short stories by Etgar Keret, The Bus Driver who Wanted to be G-d (for the title story, click here) to send to my step-dad, Hampton. While I was at it, I decided to include a few Roiboos tea bags--if you don't know what this is, try it!--for my mom.

The short story is that it arrived in a state the U.S. Postal Service calls "damaged." While we are not mail-delivery experts, the rest of us would probably just say "empty."

Yes, it was empty. Filled with nada, nothing. The envelope (again, the empty envelope) had been packaged inside another envelope and had been forwarded on to its lucky recipient.

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

Satisfaction Guaranteed

2007-04-29T14:56:00.001+03:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again: You can find ANYTHING (including shampoo, salsa, diapers, fish food, garden hoses, Christmas lights, and shotguns) at Wal-Mart. Read about their latest product - Camels.

Bones of prehistoric camel found at Wal-Mart site

There are No Cats in America . . .

2007-04-19T16:53:00.000+03:00

(And the streets are paved with cheese . . .) These, my friends, are the hopeful words of my friend Fievel Mousekewitz.

As a kid, I loved "An American Tail," and growing up in a mainly non-Jewish world, I had no idea that Fievel and his family were a part of "Russian-Jewry." It was the words of Fievel that came to my head last night as I saw what is, quite possibly, the most ridiculous thing I have seen in Israel. Well, I guess I cannot go that far. After all, this is a country where even the diapers are labeled "Kosher for Passover" (click here for my expose on Kosher for Passover products) And to be fair to Israel, I did grow up in a place where the trucks are larger than my current apartment. (Let's just say, "It's a draw." There are ridiculous things everywhere). What did I see? Well, in the "development" town of Herzliya Pituach (Hebrew speakers will get this joke), I saw, near a mall filled with expensive stores which is located on the beach, a sign for a "Planned Feeding Area" for cats. Fievel would have cried.

You see, Fievel dreamed of a land without felines. Had he arrived to Israel instead of America, he would have been deeply disappointed. That is, or eaten immediately. Israel has many, many, many (keep saying "many" to yourself) cats roaming the streets, yowling in the night, and scrambling out of dumpsters when you least expect it (i.e every time you try to throw away trash).

I myself have fed many a cat and even saved a small kitten from dying of malnourishment and disease. Even I, friend of the felines, was a bit shocked by the organized "soup kitchen for cats." Not because cats don't deserve it, but rather because people do.

Last week I visited the towns of Ramle and Lod, two cities located between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, which make me happy I live in the neighborhood I do. Ramle and Lod are what is called "mixed cities," meaning that their populations consist of a significant number of both Jews and Arabs. The reality on the ground is harsher, though. "Mixed," in most cases, translates to "separate," and "separate," in most cases, translates to "separate and not equal." Both of the towns, unfortunately, have in many respects been left to die. Both the Jewish and Arab populations suffer from low socio-economic statuses. However, the resources, rights, and privileges granted to the Arab communities--or rather, the lack of them--left me with a hole inside. As is the case in many poor areas, there is a huge problem with crime and drugs--I saw two drug deals go down in the few short hours I was there--and even those people who have been able to succeed are limited in their opportunities. For instance, the "all white" country clubs in 1950s America have found their "all Jewish" answer here in Israel--neighborhoods where even if you have the money to buy the house, you don't have the right blood to do so.

And so, I think now to myself, that the irony is just a bit too much for me to bear. One town where even the cats are looked after. And another one, a short 20 minute drive away, in which citizens of Israel live without municipal services such as water and electricity. When I think about the best way of addressing these issues, I come up with many simple answers that apparently the local and federal government seem to think are impossible or perhaps, simply, not worthwhile.

So, what is the answer? That is how I sign off now. With a question, with doubts, and as always, with hope.

May His Memory Be a Blessing

2007-04-17T19:56:00.000+03:00

Why? Because he was mentally unstable.

Why? Because America's gun laws are too lax?

Why? Because violence is now a way of life, a heroic, praised method of dealing with your problems.

Why? Only G-d knows, and maybe not even G-d.

Where can we feel safe? At home of course. But yesterday's "massacre," as CNN has now labeled it, proves that even there you aren't safe. Shot in their dorm rooms, their home away from home. Shot in their classrooms, the place that is supposed to open you up to the world, to culture, to history, to knowledge.

And whose story touches me the most? (I apologize to all the others for singling this man out) Liviu Librescu. The cruel irony, the cruel coincidence of his death. A Holocaust survivor, murdered years later on Holocaust Remembrance Day so far away from the place of the atrocities he witnessed as a child. In my eyes, a true hero.

Holocaust Survivor Saved Students' Lives

May his memory be a blessing.

Three Things I Learned This Week

2007-04-05T21:23:00.000+03:00

Yes, yes. I know, it's been . . . well, too long, since I have written. But here's the deal. School (MA in Political Science at Hebrew University), Work (Translating/Writing for the Reform Movement in Israel), and Love (1.5 years with the world's "best" dresser; "best"=he likes blue . . . a lot . . . so much so that an entire blue outfit--something resembling Papa Smurf--is high on his list of favorite outfits), and Life (see above) has been keeping me very busy.

That is, until now.

Last week, as the holidays--Passover and my 25th birthday--descended upon us in a frenzy of cleaning up bread crumbs and drinking ourselves silly in Jerusalem's newest "Irish" pub, Dublin's, so did a period of freedom for yours truly. Freedom from Egyptian slavery, yes, and freedom from the "daily grind." School is on hold for two weeks and work for one week. I've been sleeping in, hiking, eating matzah-ball soup, watching movies, and buying kitchen appliances--all in all, a good vacation.

But despite the blender-buying excursions and the attempt to be creative in the culinary world ("What can I make with matzah, a cucumber, an egg, and the tail of a newt?"), I have had time to think. And I've learned a few things this week:

1) On your birthday, always drink one less beer than you think you should, especially if you live in a country that has beers with stronger alcohol content than the one you went to college in. Note: You cannot trust your friends to cut you off because sometimes they are more intoxicated than you are.

2) Do not celebrate your birthday (read: drink too much) on a night when the clocks change to Daylight Savings time. That hour of sleep is crucial to your post-birthday recovery.

3) "Kosher for Passover" labels have gone too far in this country. This just in: Kosher for Passover diapers have been spotted in several supermarkets in the Holy Land.

But there is actually a fourth thing I learned this week, something more serious than the light-hearted comments above. And that is that life is precious. Today, now, I am waiting to hear that someone's brain surgery--to remove a tumor from her brain stem--has gone well. That she will be healthy, pain-free, and without side effects. That she will return to be the wife, mother, daughter, sister, aunt, teacher, friend, living being that she was before the tumor was found.

At the end of the Passover seder, we say, "Next year in Jerusalem!" sometimes not even realizing that neither of these things are promises, but rather, hopes. Today, I saw the Jewish "pilgrims" pouring into the city I call my home to visit the Kotel (Western Wall) in order to be present for Birkat ha-Kohanim (Priestly Blessing, now conducted by those who are part of the Kohayn Tribe). This Sunday, Easter, Christian pilgrims will make their way along the Stations of the Cross, retracing the steps of Jesus, their connection to the Divine. These people, all of them, are here in an attempt to touch something holy, something beautiful. I hope they find it, I hope we find it. This year, next year, wherever we may be.

Don't call me "Sweetie," Sweetie!

2007-03-15T20:06:00.000+02:00

Sarcasm. Ahhh, those bitter words that often come from bitter people. Words that mean something entirely different than their original intentions. It only seems appropriate, that upon my research of the topic (i.e. I googled it) I came upon the following article:

Israeli psychologists draw conclusions from how brain-damaged people comprehend sarcasm – or not

Seeing as my story involves two Israelis (one, myself--NOT brain-damaged, and another an extremely rude clerk--quite certainly brain-damaged), I was a bit amused. The article basically indicates that there is an "anatomy of sarcasm" and someone who has had brain damage in the part of the brain that allows one to understand sarcasm, well, doesn't understand it.

Luckily, despite the numerous times I've been dropped on, hit on, and fallen on my head (if you're interested, I have stories that involve a crow bar, a dunking booth, and sports balls of numerous kinds), at this stage, I do not have brain damage.

And therefore, I was perfectly capable of understanding the sarcasm from the Evil Clerk at the Hebrew University Student Union. I won't go into all the details, but the punchline of the story involves Evil Clerk saying to me, "I told you that you are in the right office, sweetie (read: moron)." Well, I am sweet, but since my "anatomy of sarcasm" was functioning properly, I caught on quite quickly that she did not really think that I am sweet.

And so, figuring that she already had me labeled (wrongly, by the way), I proved her point, and told her, "Excuse me, there's no need to talk to me that way," which probably didn't affect her conscience at all seeing that she is an Evil Clerk.

But I felt better, and since the world revolves around me, that's all that matters (sarcasm).

Groundhog's Day Can Sure Distract You From the World

2007-02-01T15:05:00.000+02:00

It’s easy to forget—very easy, in fact. With the high of starting a new job, the busy-ness and stress that accompany exam period, and the “New Year for the Trees” and Groundhog's Day approaching, it’s quite easy to let my mind drift, slowly slowly (or perhaps quickly, quickly), away from the feelings, ideas, and people by which I was so bothered a mere two days ago.

Among the reason for my writing this little piece is to let you all know that I’m ok. More than a few people expressed concern for my emotional state following the last blog—none suspected I would jump off a building, but a few worried that I was depressed.

So, the point is . . . we have a lot of work to do. One of the most interesting replies to my blog was from a friend who wrote me this:
"It’s like we are in a room with a giant TV and lazy boy recliner and Xbox and a big bowl of chips and every thing on the outside of the room is falling apart. And instead of looking out or reaching out we just turn up the volume and pretend like it will all go away."

Well, kind friend, as you pointed out, it—and we could all name at least ten social ills facing our world today—won’t go away, especially not on its own.

But rather than this turning into a Vietnam/Iraq/Occupation/Marxist sit-in (go ahead and assume what you’d like about me, but remember that maybe you don’t know me as well as you think you do), I’d rather share with my readers (all 23 of them) the people whose lives I had a glimpse into this week. First Round: Ex-Gush Katif Residents-Current Nizan Residents.

After leaving the Hebrew University at 3pm sharp (original time of departure was set at 2:30), we traveled southwest to the “town” of Nizan. Nizan, despite being a town founded in 2005, has a much longer history. For you see, the inhabitants of Nizan were previously, proudly, residents of Gush Katif. Whatever your political leanings are—Jews should be in the territories, Jews shouldn’t be in the territories, only biblical Philistines should be in the territories—the current story of Nizan’s residents is a sad one. The Israeli government promised the Gush residents that after the Disengagement—either referred to as the “evacuation” or the “expulsion” depending on your feelings concerning the event—they would receive compensation for their homes, land to build homes on, and social support. As sometimes happens when governments promise things, the promises were not completely kept.

Twenty-one months after the Disengagement, the land suggested for their future homes has in many cases not even been procured by the government, and meanwhile they live in temporary (imagine slightly better than FEMA trailer) housing. The residents have set their priorities, and keeping their previous communities together is admittedly the highest one. A woman, Caroline*, who lived in Neve Dekalim (in Gaza) for 14 years explained to me: “When you’ve experienced such intense experiences with your neighbors, your friends who have taken the place of your relatives, they are your family and you can’t leave them. When you’ve experienced years of terror—while living in your home—they are your protection, the people who check on you and care about you. It’s impossible to live without them.”

In addition to the high incidence of health and relationship problems, caused by stress, is the financial hardship the families are experiencing. The ageism that exists in the Israeli job market, the lack of training for the tasks demanded of them in a non-agricultural setting, their geographical location, and the uncertainty that looms over their heads contributes to a 50% unemployment rate.

Caroline was asked, “Why don’t you go out and protest—-hold demonstrations in front of the Knesset (Parliament) building?” She answered, in an exasperated voice, “I just don’t have the energy—we protested so much before and it did nothing. Then, we protested for something ideological, something we truly believed in. Now, it just doesn’t seem worth it.” The argument that was left stuck in my throat? It seems like your family, your life, your future is worth it. And yet, I could understand her.

We were told—our varied group of high school and university students, professors, and more—that “You may think, when you walk into these 'Cara-villot' (Caravan + Villa = Cara-villa), that it doesn’t seem as bad as we are making it out to be.” The truth is that after our walk around the neighborhood, I was thinking that. “But you have to compare it to what we had before.” And to me, then, her argument fell apart. Because all I could think of was that they now possess what some people would dream of possessing-—perhaps her former neighbors in the Gaza Strip, if you catch my drift.

But the other side is this—there are Gush residents who took out loans to build homes in Gush Katif—and no matter how subsidized it was, it was still a good chunk of money to be invested in their futures. Now, they do not have their homes, but they still have their mortgages. They do not have jobs, but they still have their daily living expenses. And so, the money comes from their retirement funds or the money they were given to build new homes inside the Green Line. “There goes the roof” is the saying in Nizan—the money for the roof that is. “There goes the foundation” is the more dire circumstance—and yes, some of them have said it already.

*Caroline is not the real name of the woman I spoke to.

Second Round (coming soon): Sderot--The "Beauty" of a Development Town

Are we down for the count or not?

2007-01-30T21:25:00.000+02:00

Is it possible that I chose to live in this country? Yes, yes, I think I did. No, this is not going to be one of those, “The funniest thing happened to me today on the bus ride through the city” blogs. This is going to be closer to “The crisis we are facing in our country today is one of great proportions, coming from so many directions that one can get dizzy trying to catch a glimpse of them all.”

I got home this evening, after a two-day educational tour around the southern part of the country, to find out there was a terror attack in Eilat yesterday. Before I glanced down at the colorful “Yediot Ahronot” (“Latest News”) newspaper carelessly thrown on the dining room table and the horrible news gracing the front page, my roommate asked me, “How was it?” “Well, I can’t say it was enjoyable,” I said, in my first attempts to shed off the emotional, physical, and daily hardships of the people I met on my trip, “But it was an experience I needed to have.”

Only after I had dinner and relaxed a little did I notice the paper and the headline, “Terror in the Vacation Town.” What I cannot get over is why I hadn’t heard about it. Earlier today, the director of our program said that the experiences we have had over the last couple of days were “punches in the gut” and should wake us up. The three punches:
1) Meeting settlers taken out of the Gaza Strip during the Disengagement
2) Meeting a Sderot resident and learning why the kassam rockets that fall on their town is sometimes the least of their worries
3) Meeting a Bedouin man whose village, despite all the evidence in the world, is not “recognized” by the state of Israel.

While the groups represented are very, very different is many, many ways, a common thread wove them all together—I don’t believe in the state anymore; I can’t make a difference; nobody, nobody cares about our lives.

And then, the fourth punch in the gut arrived—the terror attack which killed three people, that, like I said, I can’t believe I didn’t hear about.

The rain that started to pour down as we left the south, the flood that greeted our return to the Holy City, is close, very close to my mood right now.

So, what do you when you’re punched in the gut? Well, you hunch over for a bit, try to regain your breath, and then with your first full intake of air, thank G-d you’re ok. So, that’s what I’ll do for now. In the coming days, I’ll write more about the specific experiences above because the things I heard were said in vain if nobody else knows about them.

Words of "Wisdom" from the 1950s

2007-01-17T19:32:00.000+02:00

It is too seldom remembered in the American society that working girls and career women, and women who insistently serve the community in volunteer capacities, and women with extracurricular interests of an absorbing kind are often borrowing their time and attention and capacity for relaxed play and love from their children to whom it rightfully belongs. As Kardiner points out, the rise in juvenile delinquency (and, he says, homosexuality) is partly to be attributed to the feminist movement and what it did to the American mother. --Robert Lane, American political scientist, 1959

Snow, Strikes, and Other Great Reasons Not to Go to School

2007-01-04T11:21:00.000+02:00

And then, I remember, I live in country with a socialist tendency. There was no school yesterday--all the students of major universities (and some smaller colleges) --numbering 125,000 in total--decided to strike in order to show their protest to the plan to increase the tuition next year to something unpayable by most Israelis seeking higher education.

The week before, on Wednesday, we had snow and classes were canceled in the afternoon. This week, students formed a picket line at the major university entrance gates and wrapped the doors/gates in chains to prevent potential "scabs" from entering the university. (Note: No teachers were harmed in the shooting of this film) The exception would be the international students--those who attend a special school at the university that provides classes in English--who are already paying ridiculous amounts of American dollars to attend classes.

There are several reason why this fight does not necessarily affect me but why I support the cause:

1) I don't have classes on Wednesdays, so I did not face the moral dilemma of whether or not to strike. But I have to say, if I did, theoretically, have class on Wednesdays, I would also not go. Students Unite!

2) Because I am a new olah (a new immigrant, of the right age, by the way), the government is paying my tuition, so I guess if they decide to raise the tuition, they will have to pay a higher cost for me. However, I know that morally it is my fight to fight--after all, this could the tuition I have to pay for my own kids one day. Also, if they raise tuition to such a high level, the government may take away this benefit from new young immigrants looking to study in Israel.

There are many details of the whole tuition-raising process that are causing suspicion and anger among students and faculty, but in short, here are a few:

1) A committee was appointed by the Ministry of the Treasury--government officials and senior professors. Noticeably missing were any students. AFTER the demonstration--a call from the committee chairman for students to join the committee.

2) Past promises--from another committee--to decrease the tuition have yet to be enacted. And now, they are talking of substantial tuition raises.

You may think that professors would be upset with the whole deal. But from what I've heard--keep in mind I study in the liberal (not only in name) arts--teachers are supportive. That teachers showed up to teach yesterday is part of the strategy organized by the student union and the academic faculty's union--they may need a new card in the future (i.e. the teachers also striking). However, I heard several teachers say, "Of course you all shouldn't show up."

And so, what could I do but not show up? The "other reason not to go to school," strolling the pedestrian mall in town popping into bookstores on a beautiful sunny day.

Studying in a Winter Wonderland

2006-12-27T15:45:00.000+02:00

So, I guess my professor is not having office hours. He warned us: "If it snows on Wednesday, I will not be in my office." Let's hope he's at home sipping hot chocolate and sitting next to the fireplace.

I admit it--I lied. I said, "I don't want snow; it will only make my little bedroom--fondly referred to as the 'Mini-Frigidaire'--even colder". But as I sit inside now, surrounded by "Patterns of Democracy: Government Forms and Performance in 36 Countries" and "Theory and Methods in Political Science," I can't help but gaze out the window. Now that I look out my picture window to the snowy neighborhood of Katamon, I take back my words and think to myself that is really is beautiful.

And I realize that in a world that often concentrates on the ugly, bad side of things, we have to take advantage of every chance there is to see the beauty.

Unfortunately, this snow has been accompanied by a lot of rain, strong winds, flooding, people's houses falling down and a high number of road accidents (Article). However, there are some good things going on. For instance (from the Jerusalem Post): In light of the expected freeze, the Jerusalem Municipality rented hotel rooms for the city's homeless to at least give them a roof over their heads.

Let's just wish everyone else a safe (if wintery) week.

A few pictures for your enjoyment:

Don't be scared . . . he's only 8 inches tall!

And by the way, since I don't have a fireplace, can someone sit by one for me?

They can get along-so why can't we?

2006-12-20T13:06:00.000+02:00

I Made an Illegal Turn . . . and Obviously My Country Did, Too

2006-12-17T10:54:00.000+02:00

I turned left yesterday when I wasn't supposed to. No, this is not a joke about Derek Zoolander and his inability to turn left--this is real life (or at least the semi-real life adventures that make it to my blog not entirely rewritten for attempted comic relief). Yes, I broke the law. The feds chased after me through the quiet streets of Rechavia after breaking the simplest of traffic laws. (Well, if by chased you mean sitting at home watching reruns of Eretz Nehederet , the Israeli "Saturday--errr, Friday, Night Live," then yes.) No, there were no cops, but there was the realization that Jerusalem--at least in the aspect of prohibited left turns whenever you need them--is turning into Tel Aviv, AKA "The city that never sleeps (because everyone is still driving around trying to turn left)."

So, in a car rented by a friend who needed my help moving but who still hasn't gotten her Israeli driving license, I embarked on my first Israeli driving experience after my driving test (make that one plural) over a year ago. My trusty Israeli side-kick, after seeing that it was very clearly marked that the turn I needed was illegal . . . encouraged me to do so anyway. So, I turned.

And it seems our country as a whole did, too, this last year.
I woke up this morning to read the headline, "Rich, poor gap deepens despite major economic growth." Honestly, this is the type of headline that could appear in almost any country's newspapers, so it didn't initially shock me. That is, until I read the article (http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/802011.html).

Two chilling facts from the report published by the Adva Center:
*The highest paid individuals in Israel earn 50 times more than those earning minimum wage.
*55 percent of 17-year-olds failed to earn high-school diplomas in 2005.

Ok, so we are living in an increasingly capitalist society that targets the salaries to the sectors that bring in the money. This is understandable. But this country was built on socialist roots--we are supposed to actually care about inequality, about the fact that poverty in Israel has changed from an anomaly to a set trend for a large percentage of people.

The report emphasizes that growth is a good thing, but it must be managed by and alongside a public policy that takes into account other sectors of society--one that can "spread the wealth."

I know the argument against this--But if they are earning the money, why must they give it up? The answer is simple: Because construction workers, merchants, street sweepers, bus drivers, teachers (!), gardeners, at-home parents, nurses, and more make up and support the society that allows certain individuals to earn 421,000 shekels a month while others earn a meager 3,000 a month.

I'm not an economist, but I I don't think it takes a mathematical genius to see the major negative aspects of this situation:
1) Such a large socio-economic gap is currently not good for Israeli society as a whole--when at least 600,000 children go to bed hungry every night, when 25% of the population is living below the poverty line and their precarious positions are only sinking each year.
2) Such a large socio-economic gap will not be good for Israeli society in the future.
One must only read the second fact above--the rate of young adults not acquiring even the most basic of educational goals--to be assured of this.

So, why have we turned the wrong way, when to some of us, the right way seems like such a clear choice? I am not sure of the answer to this question, but in the meantime, we can't afford to make any more wrong turns.

The First Thanksgiving (Minus the Pilgrims and the Native Americans and the turkey and . . . )

2006-11-26T22:55:00.000+02:00

The numbers were not looking good. It was Friday at 11am and this year's Thanksgiving was in danger of being taken over by foreigners. No, I'm not talking about Pilgrims who were anxious to infect Native Americans with new germs. I'm talking about something slightly more serious here--non-Americans who have never sat and watched 14 straight hours of parade coverage-football marathons while stuffing their faces with turducken (a very sick prospect if you ask me, but click on the link anyhow http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Turducken), pumpkin pie, sweet potatoes, and whatever else doesn't run away from them.

That's right--7 people were coming to dinner and the number of Americans was 2. 2/7 is not good odds if you are trying to have a real Thanksgiving dinner in a middle eastern country where finding cranberry sauce is only slightly easier than establishing a peace treaty. And then my friend Zach called. "I just wanted to wish you a happy Thanksgiving since I know it's your favorite holiday of all time."

He's right, and I was doing my best to bring Thanksgiving to my humble little apartment in Jerusalem and the natives of the land. Since we wouldn't be having a real turkey this year (or a turducken, for that matter), I had invested in a bit of multi-colored construction paper and made place cards for everyone in the shape of turkeys (or my hand, you know the deal--trace your hand, now cut it out and make the thumb the turkey head and so on . . . ). So, Zach was invited (a real "Mer-ken"), and the gap decreased by one.

The number of countries represented at Thanksgiving dinner on Friday was slightly lower than the number on the UN Security Council: United States (Florida, Michigan, and North Carolina), Israel, Norway, United Kingdom, The Netherlands, and Canada.

The cranberry sauce was found and brought by the Dutch ambassador, but unfortunately, the British emissary screwed it up. To be fair, she apologized after the American contingency explained to her that it is absolutely essential that the cranberry sauce maintain its molded can-shape, with the rings visible to the naked eye, and that mashing it for aesthetic appeal wasn't acceptable. The Norwegian (and her American liaison) brought banana nut bread and chocolate cake and a variety of Thanksgiving (and Southern) delights were provided by myself and my Israeli consul general.

Overall, it was a great night. But if you were paying attention, you may have noticed there's a problem with my story. Yep, that's right--we did it on Friday. But you know, maybe the Pilgrims did, too. I mean, when you're cooking a turducken on a spit, it takes a little bit longer . . .

Driving Without a License

2006-11-23T20:38:00.000+02:00

As I headed towards Mahane Yehuda (one of Jerusalem's famous open air fruit/vegetable/meat markets) this morning, I decided that today was the day to buy an agala. I won't give you the literal translation of the word because the one my roommate provided finds favor in my eyes.

"You bought a little-old-lady-cart?" she said, when I informed her of my purchase.
"I bought a cart."
"Where is it?" she asked.
"In the corner over there."
"It's plaid!"

Indeed, it is plaid. My plaid little-old-lady-cart.
But if you ask me, it's a necessity--not of being an old lady, but of being a true shopper of the shuk (market).

First, having a cart allows you to intimidate other shoppers. In the crowded alleyways of the shuk, this is essential. Not only do vegetables rolling off huge piles threaten to dampen your progress as your make your way towards your favorite tomato guy (you know the one, he sings about it being the tomato's birthday and that's why it's on sale), but little old ladies (note: ALL with their plaid carts) often attempt to trample you on their way to the cheapest whole-shiny-smoked fish (if you are imagining it being gross, you are correct).

Second, pulling your cart around relieves stress. I speak now not only of the back pain and finger pain (hold 27 plastic bags full of peppers and olives in your hands and you'll understand what I mean) which inevitably accompanies a shuk visit, but also of the stress my boyfriend likes to express in the following sentence, "Don't send me there--no, not on a Friday--no, anywhere but there." My exercise for relieving this stress is as follows:

1) Pull your cart without watching where you are going (this is a skill one learns very quickly once moving to Israel).
2) Run over as many people's toes as possible.
3) When you feel a bump (someone's left pinky-toe being taken off in one fell swoop), turn around with a shocked look on your face and say, "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to."
4) Turn back around and smile devilishly.
5) Repeat steps 1-4 in every alleyway of the shuk.
6) Join the witness protection program because the little old ladies with their carts will probably recognize you next week and come after you brandishing cheap-whole-shiny-smoked fish.

The third, and certainly not final, benefit of having a little-old-lady-cart is that it allows me to use my driving skills for something. Since I received my driver's license (a disheartening story which can be told at another time or . . . NEVER), I have not driven in Israel. Wait, I once moved someone's car to another parking space--it was thrilling. If you don't use it, you lose it. And just to prove how close driving a car is to driving an agala, the man who sold me the little-old-lady-cart (despite my being under the legal age limit) asked if I had a license to drive it.

As I headed out the store, with my new cart in tow, he called after me, "Have a good trip!" And I did--except you know, I have to say, prices just aren't what they used to be when I was a kid.

93 Seconds . . . Longer than a Lifetime

2006-11-21T09:12:00.000+02:00

I did it. I finally did it. Yep, I spoke in class. And not just to say, "Here," when my name was called on the roll. No, I said . . . something, something intelligent even.

"What's the big deal?" you ask. "You, of all people, are not afraid to talk." In fact, it could even be said, that I'm . . . talkative. Well, what happened to me was aliyah. Moving to a new country can significantly affect how you talk, when you talk, and with whom you feel comfortable sharing your old wisdom in your new language.

The first time I noticed my lack of willingness to participate in conversation was when I was in a group of Israelis who assumed my Hebrew was good enough for them to continue speaking in Hebrew instead of translating everything for me or conducting the conversation in English for me. I, like many olim (immigrants), assumed that I knew what was happening in the conversation. I've heard so many times over the years--in fact, said it myself: "Oh, I understand everything that people say to me; it's just hard for me to form sentences of my own." Let me clear things up. You, I, think we understand everything that is being said, but the more Hebrew you learn, the clearer and simultaneously more confusing things become. Because the more you learn, the more you realize you don't know. The words that before were lost in a sea of quickly spoken Hebrew words now stick out--and you realize you have no clue what they mean and how much of the conversation you are really missing.

This is what university in Israel for olim is all about. Realizing that, "Wow, there are a lot of things I still don't know." That and, to be fair, how much you do know compared to the people around you. A few weeks ago, I sat in a political philosophy class listening to Israeli students speak about "American culture," a central topic in the reading for the week. I must say, Israelis, in many ways, are able to capture the essence of American culture in a way I never thought they were capable of doing. They are outsiders looking in and this gives them a certain objectivity. However, there was something missing--"Oh, right, they've never seen 'Saved by the Bell' or gone trick-or-treating and they make fun of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches." That's why they don't truly understand. It hit me. Who am I? I'm American sometimes. I'm Israeli sometimes. Oh, yeah, I'm an immigrant.

About speaking in class, though, some of you would argue, "But your Hebrew is great (i.e. your American accent barely comes out when you speak--It's always there, waiting to pounce at the most embarrassing opportunity!)" I'll say it once: It doesn't matter. Speaking to a taxi driver, speaking to a friend, speaking to a doctor--these are not the same as speaking in front of 50 people in a class. However, this week, my opportunity (read: moment of greatest fear) finally arrived--I had to present Plato's "Cave Allegory" since my slacker group members had not read it.

I boldly (read: with a shaking voice and looking at my notes--written in Hebrew--every few seconds) explained the allegory. And after one repetition in the middle--where I got a little nervous after not knowing how to say what I wanted--and a faked smile, I finished. I survived. 93 seconds of pure hell.

But the teacher said, "Very good description." So, I figure, maybe . . . sometime during the next two years of my master's degree, I'll do it again.

Oh, right, I have to give a ten-minute presentation next week.

I'm an aunt (and a hunted species)

2006-11-17T10:36:00.000+02:00

I'm an aunt, I'm an aunt, I'm an aunt (come on, sing with me, to the tune of "Yellow Submarine", right, if you didn't try, then you don't know that it doesn't go with that tune--I was actually humming "Stars and Stripes").

Yes, little seven-pound nineteen-inch cute as a button Stephen Michael was born yesterday morning. My brother's sister (Those of you who are paying attention will notice that this person is me. In fact, it is my brother's wife who gave birth on Tuesday. For some reason, I kept saying it wrong to everyone I told.) gave birth at 8:09 am in Pensacola, Florida. According to all sources present, he has 20 toes and fingers (inclusively) and is:
1) very cute*
2) very small
and 3) reminiscent of his father (except he has more hair!)
*See pictures above for proof of his cuteness.

Now is the time I feel it--that is, exactly how far away I am. I sit here in the university library behind a pile of books in a language not exactly my own and wonder if Little Stephen would find the book "Reexamining Democracy: Essays in Honor of Seymour Martin Lipset" interesting at all. I wonder if I'll get to spend time with him and if he'll know who I am. Will he study political science like me? Or will he choose a more "profitable" educational field like zoo-keeping or astronaut-ing? I wonder if his first word will be "Mama." Perhaps it will be "Democrat."

So many questions and so much time for him to explore the world. It's inspiring, I think--Little Stephen's new venture into the oxygen-breathing sector of the universe.

(And now a bit of irony)
On another note, in our weekly telephone conversation, my mother reminded me that every time one of her co-workers finds out where I live, he/she gasps and says, "Are you scared? Isn't she scared?" The answer is usually "No." But as I walked through one of Jerusalem's nicer neighborhoods last night on my way to meet friends for a drink, I encountered a chilling reminder of how much hate exists in the world. The graffiti I saw scrawled on the stone wall surrounding a beautiful house reminded me of the graffiti so common on random walls in Jerusalem--"wise" pronouncements of "Death to Arabs", "Death to Gays (or insert "Animals", which is a fond nickname of some sectors of society for non-heterosexuals), "Death to Rabbits" (a play on words and the slogan "Death to Arabs" in Hebrew)--graffiti that more often than not stays up longer than the current parliament coalition. Except this time, I was the target. No, it didn't say, "Death to Kind, American-ish, Liberal-ish, Idealist, Humorous, Likes Spaghetti Girls in their 20s". What was written was far more explicit (and you ask yourself, "Gee, how can it be more explicit than that?")--"Death to Vegetarians."

So, as I walked home last night, I looked over my shoulder . . .
Not for rabbit/gay person/Arab hunters, but for the guy who could see my low-iron content and knew . . .

Hate, abuse, and suffering--Served up hot and fresh

2006-11-08T16:24:00.000+02:00

"For if you think that by killing men you can avoid the accuser censuring your lives, you are mistaken; that is not the way of escape which is either possible or honorable; the easiest and noblest way is not crushing others, but to be improving yourselves" --Plato, "Apology" (Socrates' Defense)

This week has been a bloody, fiery week. It's been a week of buses being re-routed, parades being re-routed, and lives of human beings--yes, human beings--being re-routed. So you won't have to guess what the above statements hint at, I'll tell you.

Yesterday, my bus was re-routed, from its usual course through one of Jerusalem's ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods, on the way home from the university due to the violent and non-violent protests of ultra-Orthodox Jews (in their own neighborhoods, thankfully) against the gay pride parade set to take place this Friday. Last year's parade was marred by the stabbings of three marchers. This year, it is not uncommon to see posters in certain neighborhoods advertising a reward of 20,000 shekels for anyone who kills a marcher. I wonder, "Is it possible that I live in a city like this?" I wonder, "Did the people in Selma, Alabama have this thought, too?"

The parade--or the "parade," since as I write this, the Israeli Supreme Court is in session to determine whether a "safe" parade can indeed take place in our city--was given a new route yesterday. The original route by-passed the aforementioned neighborhoods. The second route by-passes them even more.

Oh, but don't worry. The number of people within Israel who hate each other has not yet exceeded the number who hate each other across the formal and informal borders of the country. The numbers of those killed in Gaza by a misfired Israeli artillery shell this morning continue to go up as well (http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/785380.html). As do the number of Palestinian women who are sexually, physically, and emotionally abused according to a recent report by the Human Rights Watch (http://jurist.law.pitt.edu/paperchase/2006/11/palestinian-authority-ignores-violence.php).

I think about the US mid-term elections, whose results have just about come in by now. I think about the issues on the ballot and in the news. And I think to myself, "If only we could think about 'stem-cell research' here. If only the minimum wage was the biggest thing on our minds here." But I realize that America's continued presence in Iraq (and Afghanistan, has everyone forgotten Afghanistan) is life-and-death just like the things facing us here. But it's on the other side of the world compared to America--oh, right, it's in our neighborhood--it seems less real.

I was always told--and sometimes I still believe it--that the world is not any more violent now than it was throughout world history. "We just have news now--up-to-date, live feed, instantaneous broadcast news--that brings hunger, poverty, massacres, and terrorism to our doorsteps faster than the pizza delivery man can bring us a sardine-and-onion thin-crust pie." But proximity to the violence makes me think otherwise.

So, what do we do? No, no really, what do we do--to improve the chance (if not the reality) of peace, to guarantee (if not living to an old age) at the least the chance to graduate from high school, to value life in such a way that forces us to change our trajectory course that we claim was set so long ago but that in reality we choose anew every day?

Do I believe in peace?

2006-11-02T22:18:00.000+02:00

I recently received an email from an acquaintance who told me: "I've been talking with a lot of people who are ready for eternal peace." It was nice to hear it, because around here, it's a bit harder to find those people.

The first person who comes to mind is the man who murdered Israeli Prime Minister Yitzhak Rabin eleven years ago today. He wasn't thinking about peace, eternal or not.

I think next of Hamas, who has upped its ransom demands to 1,200 Palestinian prisoners in Israeli hands in exchange for the Israeli soldier they kidnapped over 3 months ago.

I think now of the Moroccan man who is $12,000 richer after winning a Holocaust cartoon contest sponsored by the government of Iran.

These people they don't believe in peace. They don't even hope for it.

Now I think of myself. I hope for a perfect, eternal peace, but do I believe in it or at least the possibility of it?

No. I don't.

I am an optimist. I believe in the goodness of humanity. I am in personal ways working towards the goal of coexistence. I think we can arrive to a situation better than the one we are in right now. But I don't believe in a complete peace.

Why? Because of the people above.

Why? Because I've been here a little too long to continue closing my eyes to the reality in front of my face.

Why? Because for every prayer of peace that rises towards the sky, a bullet flies into an innocent human being.

So, why am I here-that is, if I think the situation is hopeless? The answer to that question lies in the meaning of today--the 11th anniversary of the assassination of Yitzhak Rabin.

This story does not start eleven years ago, but rather three. I was in Arad, Israel and was taking part in a group discussion, "Where were you when you heard about Rabin's assassination?" Like asking an American where he was when he heard of Kennedy's assassination, everyone had a story--everyone but me. I couldn't remember. I was thirteen years old, and yet, I didn't know. I imagine to myself now that I first heard of it in Sunday school, as it happened Saturday night Israel time, and that would have been the first opportunity for me to hear of it. But I don't know, because at that point, Israel--a place that is so important to me today--was not even on my radar screen. That night, though, three years ago, something inside of me clicked, and I knew--knew--that this would be the last time that something happened in Israel of such great import that I didn't know about. That was the day that I decided to make aliyah, to make Israel my home.

Knowing myself, knowing my dedication to positive interactions of human beings in the world, knowing the steps Rabin took to achieve peace in Israel--it seems fateful that this should be the day my decision was made.

And so, I sat this morning on my balcony, looking out into the cloudy morning, wondering where we are headed? I looked down to the nursery school playground next to my apartment building and listened to the children shrieking and laughing and . . . living. They had no idea what day it was, and thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be great if they never had to learn of the hate that causes something like this day? Wouldn't it be wonderful if by the time they grow up this chapter of violent history is over?" Yes, it would. But something tells me it won't be.

And it's not ok. But . . . there is still beauty in the world. There is still happiness and love. There is still, well, a little spark of hope that makes me think, "It won't be perfect, but it will get better . . . someday."

Gnome Snatching and . . . (well, basically just gnome snatching)

2006-10-22T17:33:00.000+02:00

Captain's log, Star Date October 2006 (Becky and Nadav's trip Way Down South)

It's been said once or twice (but certainly no more than that, sarcasm, sarcasm, sarcasm) that there isn't much to do in Pensacola, Florida besides go to the beach and see the Blue Angels. The following criminal action is proof of this. Upon reaching my friend Derek's house and seeing he had the nerve not to be there to visit me . . . I snatched his gnome. No, this is not an euphemism for . . . (well, you know). I took his garden gnome. What follows is a true, sometimes scary (well, not really) story of what happens when a mind from the underworld of dis-organized crime arrives to a small town like Pensacola.

STEP #1 After the gnome was thrown into the back of Derek's dad's kidnapper van (just kidding, I used my step-dad's truck), I drove off cackling into sunset and to my grandmother's house (do not worry, no grandmothers were harmed during the filming of this movie and she will not be brought up on accomplice charges).

The following ransom note was sent to Derek's personal email from gnome.snatcher@yahoo.com, an email address created by me and my partner and crime, to carry out the felony (well, in Vermont, gnome snatching is a felony).

"Dear Mr.Stephens,

Your gnome, AKA "Target Dwarf Extraordinaire", was kidnapped recently by the Dwarf Liberation Army. We dwarfs have a major problem with garden gnomes acting like they are better than us. If you want to see your gnome alive, you must rendevous with our group one evening this week. We have attached pictures that prove your gnome is still alive and in good health. If you want him to stay that way, wear a cowboy hat to our meeting with you. You will receive further instructions soon.

(DON'T TRY TO FIGURE OUT WHO WE ARE, WE ARE WATCHING YOU . . . AND WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE!)

Signed, The DLA - See above for explantion of acronym"

STEP #2 "Proof of the villainy"
We sent the pictures (below) to prove to him we meant business.

STEP #3 "Throwing the victim off the scent of the trail"
I called Derek to make sure he checked his email. Immediately, he asked if I stole his gnome. I have an innocent face, which helped me in this conversation, and convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt, that IIIIIII had no idea what the "DLA" is.

STEP #4 "Derek notifies the police (ok, just his friends)"
Derek forwards the DLA's email to his friends and responds to the DLA's email:

"Wow! I'm intrigued, entertained and disturbed all at the same time!
(you can also throw completely puzzled onto that list) Thankfully I
do have a cowboy hat... though I'm leaving for panama city tomorrow
until Thursday afternoon for work... so please keep that in mind. I
can honestly say this is possibly the best e-mail I've ever gotten...
I suppose I'll await further instructions.

TDE-less Derek ...my little slice of the ghetto front yard just isn't
the same without him... please keep him safe! haha... whoever this is."

Signed, Derek

STEP #5 "Turns out Derek has more than one weird, sadistic friend"
Derek's friends, liking the fact that someone would be so weird to steal Derek's special Target employee garden gnome and taunt him (Derek, not the gnome), run with the idea.

Voice messages with smurf-like voices, claiming to the the DLA, flood his voice mail. He even receives another picture from a "copy-cat DLA" group (below).

STEP #6 "The culprit is revealed"
One week after the crime, Nadav and I, cowboy hat in hand and displayed clearly, arrive to breakfast at the Waffle House with Derek and find out the details of his gnome-less week. A moment before he leaves, I tell him that I have a present for him, Mr. Target-Gnome-Extraordinaire!

The evidence . . .

2006-10-22T17:03:00.000+02:00

The first 4 pictures are those the gnome snatchers took and sent with the ransom note. The last picture was sent by an unidentified copy cat gnome snatcher.

Are we there yet?

2006-09-06T17:12:00.000+03:00

"Map of Jerusalem" the sign on the sidewalk says. I pass by it while I am on the bus on my way home from the university. Suddenly a memory from 3 years ago rises from the ashes of my jumbled brain—the brain that now thinks in 2.5 languages (English, Hebrew, and a squeak of Arabic) and prohibits me from speaking any of them well. It was a Saturday night when my friends and I tried to make our way from the German Colony neighborhood to the center of the city. It was late, it was dark, but we had a native Jerusalemite with us, and we figured that improved our chances of success. We did succeed in arriving (finally), but during our adventure roaming different neighborhoods of the city, I remember coming upon a map such as the one described above and thinking that Jerusalem is a maze of streets, a labyrinth that I will probably never understand. And now, strangely enough, I do. To be honest, the streets—many of which are not labeled well—are probably the easiest part of the city to understand.

The sign I saw today hints at the complexity and yet also at the humor hidden in the stones of this holy city. "Map of Jerusalem" the sign on the sidewalk says. "But where is the map?" I ask. The side I see is blank. "Maybe it's on the opposite side." I turn in my seat in order to check the other side, and the sign answers my question with a smile and a shot glass. Instead of a map, there is an advertisement for Johnnie Walker Black Label Scotch Whiskey. "Well," I think to myself, "At least it's not Manischewitz."

So, where are we going . . . really? We have certainly not arrived to the place we want to be—the place perhaps, but definitely not the situation. Not everyone would agree, but I think one needs to know who and where he is before he can determine where he is headed. Is it possible that this is exactly the situation in which we find ourselves now, or for the last (insert your number here) ____ years? I think quickly about all the maps and plans that have been drawn, revised, burned, re-drawn, announced, voted upon, denied, agreed upon, shaken hands about, protested over, laughed about, and cried over concerning this piece of land and the fate of its peoples, and I wonder if it would have just been better to sit down with our neighbors and have a shot of Johnnie Walker. I know someone who thinks so—someone who was in war, who has seen wars, and who has had enough of wars at his tender age of 61. I've had enough at the wise age of 24. Maybe that is what it will take, enough 24-year-olds—not 60-year-olds—saying, "We've had enough." We have a problem saying it over whiskey, but perhaps with war, we know our limits.

Becky

2006-08-29T22:59:00.000+03:00

Me and My Beloved Taboule-making Computer Scientist

2006-08-29T21:40:00.000+03:00

Sing me a death song . . .

2006-08-06T18:42:00.000+03:00

I've often discussed with friends how I feel that I have a soundtrack for my life. It's composed of many different albums, artists, and genres--ranging from Frank Sinatra to Weezer to "Baby got back". I think most of us have memories that are connected to music, even those of you who cannot carry a tune and are forced to express your musical genius to the shower head and shampoo. We hear a song and it takes us back to a time, a place, a person.

Tim McGraw's "I like it, I love it", a country hit from the 1990s, makes me think of my best friend since middle school, Suzy, and the times we would sing it loud and clear on Friday nights in her bedroom. "Ride wit me" (yes, the Nelly CD found its home in my dorm room freshman year thanks to my roommate, Jada) reminds me of my first taste of true freedom--my first weekend at college--when Jada and I rode around town with the song blasting from the car and cat-calling guys for fun (as it turns out, we went to bed relatively early that night, despite all our plans to be wild).
And any, any, upbeat seventies song reminds me of my mother dancing around the living room, reliving her glory days.

What songs will I think of when I remember back to my first war? Well, I am listening to the radio now and Faith Hill, an American country singer just came on. A few minutes ago John Lennon's "Imagine" was playing--and as beautiful and contemplative as it sounds, I just don't think it's realistic. But I guess that is what is so special about music--like all art, it takes us away from reality for a bit, it helps us try to deal with the events in our lives. Music softens the blow of the sad, gruesome happenings of the world, and yet, it also has the ability to pinpoint the exact emotions we feel whether despair or happiness.

The songs on the radio now are, in general, calm. They could be love songs. They could be death songs. They could be songs you cuddle on the couch to or songs in the background in a house of mourning. I ask myself how it is that they can be the same songs--love songs and death songs. I think it's because they are both written about the important things in life. Why is love important? Because it brings meaning to our lives. Why is death important? Because it takes the physical expression of love--and the objects of our love--away. And in the case of a war, it takes it quickly, without warning, without mercy for those who are left behind. It influences the "atmosphere" of the society, if you can call it that. It plays a part in shaping the collective experience of the country--from the founding generation who fought wars until the current one who continues to do so. Songs of loss do not "belong" to any one country. Everyone--everyone--loses loved ones. But here, it seems a fate that is much too common and it is reflected in music, art, relationships, and everyday life.

Ten reserve soldiers were killed today. So, now, instead of thinking just about the parents and siblings by whom they are survived, we bring into the picture another generation--their children. These are men who served their time in the army when they were young men and have been called back as older men--to fight for their country, to fight . . . for what? I understand "the ideology". I understand why "we have to do this." I understand "what will happen if we don't." But at the same time, I understand nothing. Nothing.

There must be a limit to one's understanding of violence and hate in the world. If not, we don't have a chance. But, I guess, there are some people who believe we do.

For anyone who has lost someone, or simply lost his faith in humanity . . .

"Geulah" (Redemption) Chemi Rodner
Redemption, oh, redemption
Kiss me now, my soul
Women, they are words
They are living waters
Oh, redemption

The love between us will strengthen
And will become one day a grand silence
Like a spring . . .

That guy in the back of the church who never claps to the beat . . .

2006-07-17T16:52:00.000+03:00

I could live without it, you know. All this fame. All this scrutiny. All this condemnation and threat and cameras and political commentary and social commentary and worrying about your friends and loved ones and calling just to ask if someone is ok and slow songs on the radio and traffic jams because cars have been directed away from an attempted bombing and . . . all of you worrying.

And myself worrying. Yes, that too. I could live without that.

I have had a few pleas to “come home.”
“If it gets really bad, you have to come home.”
“If you need to, don’t worry about the cost, just buy a ticket, get on a plane and leave.”
“Where are you? Not in Haifa, right?”
“Where are you? I hope it’s not Tel Aviv because Hizbollah has rockets that will reach there.”
“Where are you? Are you back to Jerusalem (where it’s safe?!?)?”

The easiest way for me to convey what I am feeling now is to say that my rhythm is off. I was walking around Hebrew University last Tuesday, and it seems that the architects who designed the otherwise beautiful (if extremely confusing) campus had legs of abnormal lengths. There are several staircases on the campus grounds that make you wonder, “Do I take two steps or one on every step?” And then I thought about the steps—they don’t seem to have a problem. They are built perfectly fine. But, then again, so am I. The old saying, “Marching to the beat of a different drum” comes to my mind. I see a picture in my head of a man wearing suspenders sitting in the last pew of the church clapping to the gospel song being sung . . . except his claps always come between everyone else's. The rhythm, to put it bluntly, is off.

Last week, it was the university steps and the idea seemed lighter to me--like the suspendered man. Now, it strikes me as heavier. Why? Because it is life. Perhaps the dissonance I felt in the steps was a premonition for the violence that would erupt in less than 48 hours; perhaps a foreboding of the awful rhythm of life that would be created by it. People are coping, but they are acting strangely—even all of us here in safe Jerusalem. We are not being bombarded by thousands of katushya rockets. The sun is shining. The birds are chirping. But life—which was previously lived to a rhythm of falafel and avoiding traffic accidents—now follows the metronome of hourly radio newscasts that bring us news of more fear, more danger, and more injuries.

I’m not scared. Israelis have never been under the impression that “all is clear”, that there aren’t more than a few people who would rather we not be here. But I’m sad. I’m so . . . sad. It seems like the goals I have in my life—to create and promote positive interactions and peace, to have an open mind towards other cultures, tikkun olam (making the world a better place) in short—have no chance in a world with people like those in Hamas and Hizbollah.

I don’t want you all to be scared, to think that I walk to work through a trench lined with barbed-wire. I’m ok. And, statistically, the chance that I won’t be is very small. I cannot imagine what all of you are feeling when you read and see the news. I know what it is like—how CNN, Fox, and ABC portray what Israel is like/not-like/doesn’t like/etc. It’s not so long ago that I lived in the America. But I didn’t have a loved one here. If I were there now, in America, I would. I would worry as much as, if not more than, I did when Hurricane Katrina hit the US and I wasn’t there to see with my own eyes that my family was allright.

I’m wondering, with the “current situation” (as Israelis like to say), if my career as a comedic writer is over. I hope not. Actually . . . I know it’s not. Things will get better. When and how remains to be seen, but they will get better. And there will always be a need for jokes about backwards clothes, doctors who sing Disney theme-songs while operating, and the never-ending antics of Becky Feinberg.

Also, I know it’s no man missing teeth talking about how it was to ride through the tornado in a trailer . . . but I was on the news. Well, it wasn’t actually me—it was my house. Well, it wasn’t exactly my house, but it was my intersection. And it didn’t actually happen in my intersection, but for that, I’m grateful.
http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1150886023917&pagename=JPost%2FJPArticle%2FShowFull (Please note, that I am just using this link so you can see where I live—the article does not go with the picture, so trust me on this one--and remember, the news always presents what it wants you to think! The attempted bomber was caught further away.)

Kris Kross Will Make You . . .

2006-07-07T11:08:00.000+03:00

I think I just realized what this whole blog thing is about--to whine and complain. Oh, sorry, that's just what most people do on their blogs (and at home, and at work, and in the supermarket line, and . . .the list goes on). I've managed to keep it under control this last year and half since I started my blog and perhaps to a lesser extent since I moved to Israel. Perhaps it's my naturally sunny (read: denial-focused) nature that allows me to be so positive.

In any case, since I haven't written in a while, I thought I would tell you about some of the nice things going on in my life.

1) Today, one year after receiving the skirt I am currently wearing, I am finally wearing it correctly. That is to say, I received a hand-me-down skirt one year ago and have been wearing it backwards (proudly, I must mention) without realizing it. When it was first pointed out to me a week ago that I was indeed wearing it backwards, I said to myself, "I am such a dolt!" (I didn't actually say this of course, because I am not really sure what the word dolt means, and not wanting to be a true dolt, I just thought it) But then, my positive nature taking over, I thought, "But I've received so many compliments on this skirt." And that is when I realized that maybe we're all a little turned around in our lives, and I was the only one expressing it outwardly. Who knows? Perhaps I'll start a self-awareness fashion trend.

2) I finished my first Hebrew novel, "Arba-ah Batim v'Ga-a-guah" (translated something like, "Four Houses and Longing"). Now that deserves a party--a big one--with LOTS of people wearing backwards clothes. To celebrate, I bought Amos Oz's "A Tale of Love and Darkness" (in Hebrew). Don't worry, by the time I finish this one, we'll all be living on different planets in the galaxy drinking moon juice and I won't expect you to come to the party.

3) I'm finally going to start my master's degree this fall. That is exciting. Three years after finishing my first degree (Israeli English for "Bachelor's"), I am going to delve into the world of academia once again. Let's hope I can handle it. Let's hope they can handle me! After a bit of confusion, I WILL be pursuing my MA in Political Science. The degree is in a specific track called "Democracy and Citizenship Studies." One day, with a lot of effort, a little luck, and a lot of Cheetos, I will be Becky Feinberg M.A. I guess it's just not the same when it's an "A" instead of a "D".

Other than that, I'm still dating my wonderful, patient, funny (because he understands my jokes! finally someone understands my jokes!), and sweet boyfriend, Nadav. We, G-d willing, will be visiting the Redneck Riviera (I say this with the utmost respect and longing for my beloved birthplace) at the beginning of October. If you are in the neighborhood, we will meet up. I'll be the one wearing the backwards skirt.

(If you somehow missed the giant rap duo of the early 90's, Kris Kross, please note that they wore their clothes backwards--that is about the extent of their talent)

Dwarf (Sized) Pickles and Random Moments . . . . Hosted by Becky Spice

2006-05-15T17:47:00.000+03:00

The title of this blog almost doesn't need more explanation--at least not to be funny, that is. To be understandable, perhaps it does need a bit more. Dwarf-sized pickles. It sounds like the name of a teenage garage punk band, right? A kid named (or rather, nicknamed, much to his mother's discontent) "Bonehead" turns to his friend "Munchies" and gives him a high five, "Way to come up the name, man." "Yeah . . . . mannnnn."

But the truth is, you cannot make up this stuff. I ate a dwarf-sized pickle last week, really. I had no idea when I bought the jar or even after I opened it and tasted them for the first time. It was only on Tuesday as I wondered to myself, "How do you say mini-gherkin in Hebrew?" did I look at the label. Turns out it's, "Dwarf Pickle." Well, I guess you could say then that my addition of the word "sized" to the title is just my commentary or hopeful thinking. I can imagine that most people would rather imagine these pickles are made for dwarfs or at least a company makes fun of their size rather than actually being made out of them. Well, that is what I am hoping. I would rather my pickle company be a cruel kid in fourth grade making fun of the short kid (come to think of it, I think I was that short kid) than a cannibalistic cult who for some reason has decided that eating small, mystical creatures from the Lord of the Rings is better than eating normal sized human beings.

That is one funny thing from my week.

What else happened? Oh, yes, I apologized for bumping into a mannequin. It's actually more correct to say that I apologized to the mannequin. I felt pretty good about myself for saying, "Excuse me" in country where short people with canes (not dwarfs, old people) hit your shins and run over you get on the bus. You do hear "Excuse me" a lot in Israel. But there is also a noticeable silence many times when the expected "Sorry" or "Excuse me" floats into the universe instead of coming out of someone's mouth. In any case, I felt pretty good about myself for being polite . . . that is until the bastard stared at me in stony silence. Let me just say, "I can be Israeli, too." That's the last time I say excuse me to a store mannequin.

That is another funny thing from my week.

Ah, yes. I was the star of a horror movie last Monday. Monday, thank goodness*, was a very warm day. *Note: I said thank goodness until I became the star of a horror movie. Now, I say, "Monday, oh-my-freaking-G-d-I-think-I-almost-died-from-disgust-and-heart-failure, was a very warm day." As I was saying, spring finally came. How lovely. Spring. Birds chirping. Kittens (400 of them) being born on our little street. Flowers blooming. Oh yes, and invasions of bugs. Invasions of LOTS of bugs (it is important to mention that they were not dwarf-sized). Not outside. Not even in the hallway. In the bedroom, MY bedroom, on MY B-E-D! One minute I was speaking on the phone and the next my wall and bed were covered by tiny, flesh-eating (well, not really) insects all trying to make their way to me (maybe I'm being egotistical here) and not stopping even after I attacked them (my killer instincts have sharpened since my TWO encounters with hand-sized spiders in my room). The boogers (there is no other word for them but this favorite Southern-ism) were out for blood. So, I did what any respectable girly-girl would do--I saved my Popples (if you have to ask what this is, you have missed a fine generation of stuffed animals) and headed for the hills. That is, I sprayed the room, closed the door, and slept in my roommate's room. Thank the Lord this was a one-time (I hope) occurrence. After speaking with several Israelis on the topic, it turns out that every spring, on the first very warm day, thousands of bugs stream out from their holes in search of the season's first falafel. It's like Groundhog's Day, except Poxatawny Phil is not as disgusting (who ever thought you could say that about a furry, tunnel-dwelling rodent?). They come out, scare innocent girls like myself, and leave (perhaps for Bermuda). Now I am armed for WW3 (not as funny of a joke here in this part of the world). I've got Raid, I've got a BZZT light (you know, the light that goes "BZZT" when the bugs fly into it), and I bought Popples an African bush hat with a net. WE are prepared here in room number 4 at address Ezrat Yisrael 15.

That is the third funny thing that happened this week.

The fourth is that I walked out of a soup restaurant (where, ironically, I did NOT eat soup--I know, I'm so avant garde!) and was run over by a marching band. It was 9pm at night, I was a bit tipsy from my hot chocolate (not really) and out of nowhere comes a group of eight or nine traveling minstrels, playing none other than "If you wanna be my lover" by the Spice Girls. It was weird (perhaps also a bit sporty and posh if you know what I mean), very weird.

I'm sitting here on Monday afternoon, wondering if I'll go out tonight for all the bonfires (In Israel, on Lag B'Omer, we celebrate by building really . . . really big fires). I think about all the random things that happened to me last week, and I wonder if it was any stranger than any other week. I think I'll have a dwarf-sized pickle and contemplate life for a bit. Or maybe just the possibility of a Spice Girl called "Dwarf Spice" . . .

There's No Place Like Home

2006-05-05T11:57:00.000+03:00

I've decided to do a master's degree in saving the world--graduate studies in making the world a better place. Do you think I'll graduate with honors? Do you think that my dissertation will get published? Or will it get thrown into the trash, or if I'm lucky and I've changed the world a bit by the time I finish my MA, the recycling bin?

From the time I was young, I knew I cared about people. December 25, 1989--this date marks my first act of social change. I volunteered with my father and members of our synagogue preparing Christmas dinner for homeless individuals and those who simply needed something to eat on a cold, winter day. I thought about the home I would return to after we finished carrying the big vats--or, for me, a small vat--of green beans and mashed potatoes to the large tent where they would eat. I thought that it was strange that even though I was Jewish, I was probably having a warmer Christmas than they were.

I was seven years old, and even then, I knew that some people in the world do not have enough to eat; some people do not have enough money to pay for heat; and most importantly, some people do not have anyone who cares enough to help them do something about it.

When I was six years old, I wanted to do something about it. Eighteen years later, I still have this desire. Now, however, my thoughts on social change are more extensive. I know what the “it” is; I can begin to imagine what “doing something” means.

So, I've applied for a master's program in Democracy and Citzenship--a program where the focus is how to change the world--knowing that education is not the only action needed but that it is a good place to start.

As my application is processed and I simply wait for my interview with the admissions committee, I think about the homeless individuals I've encountered the last couple weeks of my life. Beyond my daily encounters with truly homeless people in downtown Jerusalem--those who sleep on the sidewalks and beg for change from tourists, from Israelis, from anyone who is willing to give--I think of others.

Where did I spend my Passover seder? With women and children. Not so different that most seders, except that they were in a shelter for people who can't go home. Why? Because they don't have a home. Home for me, for most of us, is a place where one feels safe. If we define it that way, then they are homeless. They are in the shelter in an undisclosed location because they are escaping abusive husbands and fathers. What may have been--or may never have been--their homes were places where nobody felt safe, where violence and threats were the norm, where punches and yelling replaced embraces and kind words.

What's been in the news the last couple of weeks? The week of Passover, nine people were killed in a bombing in a falafel shop in Tel Aviv, more than fifty injured. What now for the spouses who lay in half-empty beds, staring at the dent in the mattress of their loved ones who will never return? Have they yet stopped making the extra cup of coffee in the morning, realizing that there's no need, that there isn't anyone to drink it? Is this a home? Or just a premature casket to live in for the next 50 years?

What else? A man murdered his wife--and then killed himself--leaving five children behind. What else? A man murdered his wife--and then killed himself--leaving two children behind. Yes, twice, in the span of a week. The children are taken from their homes, maybe to an aunt's house or maybe to a foster home. But is it home? Is home without your parents, without your loved ones, really a home?

I met a man last week who was arrested for trying to get into Jerusalem to get his medicine from a doctor and receive some money that had been donated to his family. He was arrested--released in the end--but still put in a holding cell because he didn't have the right paper work. He lives 10 miles away from me. How is it that his home is so different than mine? How is that the place he has called home his entire life is not considered his home by others?

And now, I think about myself--about my "home situation." I have a home where I grew up. And I have a home here. Does having more than one home mean you are lucky, or is it a curse of a different kind? Am I, too, homeless? But it's not acceptable for me to say this, for me to even think this way. The sacrifices so many before me have made to make my life easier, happier, more complete prevent me from even dwelling on the thought. I think of the soldiers who are fighting wars that will hopefully make the world a little safer. And when I think a little "closer to home," the numbers I heard this week arise in my thoughts. The almost 21,000 soldiers who have died defending Israel. The 83,000 who have been totally incapacitated as a result of the wounds they received during service. The millions more who have willingly put on khaki green and beige and navy blue to fight for their right to exist, to live in a place that is (even if not exclusively) the home of the Jews.

Tuesday was the Memorial day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror, and I attended a program where we discussed our different experiences of this powerful day in Israel. One of the phrases that came up numerous times was "how lucky we are to be able to be here," in essence to have a Jewish homeland.

Even if there are abusive parents and murder? Even if there are bombings and discrimination? Even if there people sleeping on the streets? Yes, even if there are all of these things and more, it's our home. And we'll quiet the noisy children. We'll fix the broken shingles. We'll make it so that one day, every one gets a seat at the dinner table.

And I hear the question already: "And if we don't succeed?" The answer is that in many ways, we already have and-- "And if don't succeed?" it interrupts my answer mid-sentence. The answer is that there is no choice, we will.

2006-03-05T16:49:00.000+02:00

Becky on Mt Hermon

Wrestling with Tigers

2006-02-26T18:03:00.000+02:00

Israel. It means “wrestling with G-d,” something I anticipated doing when I made aliyah. After all, I live in the holy city of Jerusalem. I didn’t, however, anticipate wrestling with tigers, another experience afforded to me here in my humble abode.

Yesterday was my one-month anniversary of freedom. One month ago, I was released from the Bikur Holim hospital** in Jerusalem, Israel. One month ago, I walked home from the hospital, hunched over in pain and ready to lie down from my long journey—the one block home from the hospital.

Being in the hospital can work wonders on your life (and your appendix). My hospital story goes like this . . .

December 29th, 2005, I flew to the United States for my brother’s wedding.
January 20th, 2006, I set foot in Israel again.
The Sunday after my arrival, January 23rd, I woke up in the middle of the night in more pain than I’ve ever felt.

The scene: 1am, Becky’s Bedroom, where sugar plum fairies dance to the bass rhythm of Nadav’s snoring and Becky rolls over once again, holding her stomach, and promising G-d that if it the pain stops, she’ll never again eat tomato-cream sauce and chocolate cake in the same meal, for real this time.

“Nadav . . .”
“Mrrmpght . . .”
“Nadav?”
“Yeah?” (sleepily)
“I’m really hurting . . .”
“Mrrpghth”
“Nadav?”
“Yeah, can I do something? Do you think you should go to the hospital?”
“Maybe . . . I’ve never had pain this horrible from eating a bad food.”
“Ok, (mmrthphopth) I’ll call my mom (she’s a nurse).”

After describing my symptoms in several languages, it was decided that I should go to the hospital, with a likely case of either food poisoning (my bet) or appendicitis (Nadav’s mother’s idea). After succeeding in waking my soundly sleeping roommate, we asked which hospital to go to. “Anywhere but Bikur Holim,” she replied. (See starred name of hospital above for comic relief and the set-up of the continuation of this story)

So, we walked the 300 yards to . . . Bikur Holim. We didn’t know where the ER was, so while Nadav ran to find it, he asked some guys walking down the street at 2am to “watch me.”
“Becky, these guys are going to watch you?”
(Note: I forgot my glasses at home)
“What, you’ve asked random guys walking the streets at 2 am to ‘watch me’?!? Have you lost your mind?”
As they got closer, I saw heard American English and saw they were 19-year-old yeshiva kids, coming home from a night at the bar. “Ok, fine, just hurry,” I replied and tried not to look like I was dying.

We made it to the ER and what Nadav anticipated being a “walk-in-walk-out” visit (his later justification for taking me to the only place UN-recommended by my roommate) became a hospitalization, a surgery, and a scar the size of the Eiffel Tower.

My hospital room, which was a steamy 102 degrees Farenheit, housed, not native plants of the tropical rainforest, but rather an old religious woman, a survivor of Auschwitz, whose first language was Yiddish and who snored like a lumberjack. She was in need of a pacemaker and heart medication, and before she would agree to either (in the end, she agreed to neither), she needed to check with her rabbi. The third occupant was a religious woman who—like me—was also having stomach pains and who—like me—waited an inordinate amount of time for an ultrasound. My final roommate was a Muslim young woman with a broken nose, who, so sweet and quiet, cried in pain until a nurse found her and chastised her in Arabic, “Why didn’t you tell me you were in pain?!?”

To enrich your vision of the scene, remember, I was in the “Surgery Ward,” which means, “Everyone is fasting in preparation for surgery (and so therefore weak and falling over) or everyone has already had surgery (and so therefore drugged up on painkillers and falling over). Please note that all over the world the usage of hospital gowns that bare your ass to the world when you are least prepared to handle the situation is encouraged.

To further enrich your image, let me just tell you right now, that there are lots of things in Israel that on the cutting edge of technology. Bikur Holim hospital . . . not one of them.

Enter . . . . my doctors (not one of which was born in Israel, America, England, Western Europe, oh forget it, anywhere but Russia)

I guess my real question about my doctor is . . . why did he seem so professional when explaining to me the necessity of an appendectomy and having me sign the documents, and as soon as I agreed, he turned into Binky the Clown?

“Did you make pee pee?” he asked me, after my first round of injections of anesthesia pre-operation.
“No, I forgot.”
“Ooops, you’re going to have to use a bed pan.”
“Urgh.”
(Becky using bed pan to the background music of “The Pee-Pee Song” performed by Surgeon Binky)
“Oh, G-d, this is the guy doing the surgery . . . . this cannot be gooooo . . . wow, that feels good . . . why is this mask over me . . . woooooo”

Awake.
Hell.
Pain.
Cold, freezing, shaking visibly off the bed, PAIN.
Rambling in Hebrew, English, Jibberish.
Throat burning from breathing tube being ripped out while conscious.
Lips burning from tape being ripped off while conscious.
Tears streaming, body convulsing, lungs bursting, flashes of roommates, friends, my love, touching my hair, my legs, lights dimmed, beeping, beeping, beeping, sticky, everywhere. Sleep.

Morning. I’m alive. I feel like I’ve been run over by a bulldozer, but I’m alive. Nadav slumped over on a cot the length that he was when he was 4 years old. Can’t move without his help. They’re telling me I have to urinate. But I haven’t drunk anything in 36 hours, eaten anything in more. “Well, you really need to. Let us know when you have.” “Okkkkkkk . . . ”

And that, as far as I can tell, is what being in the hospital is about. Everyone caring about your bodily fluids, etc. They wouldn’t let me eat for two more days, but they somehow expected me to do, well, the impossible. I wanted to explain that theory of matter we learned in sixth grade, something about matter not being created from nothing. But, I was on painkillers, which means I basically just sat around reading, sleeping, getting my cell phone stolen, and walking to the bathroom propped up by an IV stand while trying not to let people see my ass.

And then the day I was able to do number #2 (you know what I mean), they let me go. I got out alive. I felt better. I feel better. I do wonder why in a city that has wireless internet in its entire downtown and each person owns two cell phones they didn’t use micro-surgery, why I’m left with a two-inch gash for which the only response I have is, “Well, you should see the tiger I wrestled with—now he looks bad.” But, I’m ok. I made it out. I saw the concern in my friends’ eyes. They saw the appreciation in mine. And I came to realize what most people who make it out of the “darkness” of anesthesia and surgery realize—that wrestling with tigers is like wrestling with G-d. You come out knowing what’s important in life, even if they did forget to give you your appendix in a jar.

I'll Be a Millionaire in No Time

2005-11-10T09:06:00.000+02:00

I guess I just didn't think I was worth that much. I'm not referring here to my self-esteem. I'm talking about my "marketability" in the job-world. Perhaps, because it was my first "real job," I was willing to settle for less. 23.75 per hour sounded good. For all you Americans reading this, remember, I'm talking shekels here, not dollars. I won't outline the exchange rate for you here, because, well, then you'd get just as depressed as me about how little I was earning. One of the common things you hear when you move to Israel and start working is, "You can't compare your Israeli salary to what you were earning in your cushy American job." Let me just be honest, though. I was never in what one would call a "cushy American job." Most of my amazing career opportunities in America were in what we in the food service industry like to call "The Culinary Arts World." My venture into this career arena first began at the tender age of sixteen. I had my whole life ahead of me. I had a new (and by new, I mean, 1988) Chevy Cavalier. It was the summer of 1998, or as I like to refer to it, "The Summer of Dreams," and--as I found out soon enough--Big Macs. I landed myself a prime position in a world-famous gourmet restaurant. I haven't been all over the world, but I've done enough traveling to know that this fine establishment is indeed world-famous. Where there is human being with a craving for french fries (or "chips" as some of the world calls them) there will be the illustrious golden symbol of capitalism and globalization. Yes, McDonald's.

At McDonald's, I learned a lot. First, when a supervisor asks you what your availability is, do not ever say, "Whenever," because "Whenever" could--and did--mean 5:45 in the morning . . . every day of the week. Second, there are a lot of mean people in the world who are just looking for some sweet high school girl on whom to take out their anger. Third, there are a lot of high-school girls in the world who are much smarter than most of the customers who frequent McDonald's. And fourth, earning minimum wage sucks.

I've been in the work force now for over eight years (ten, if you count my foray in the world of landscaping--a very dangerous profession I might add*). Eight years, and I am now earning per hour . . . what I earned as a sixteen-year old working at McDonald's. It's thrilling. I love to speak on the phone to my American friends and hear them complain about their entry-level salaries. I usually just smile, grit my teeth, and commiserate with them, "Yeah, it does suck," while continuing the thought in my head, "That you are earning twice as much as me."

The saying is true; you cannot compare Israeli salaries to those in America. However, the ideas that "The exchange rate compensates for the lower salaries because of . . . " and "The prices on everyday commodoties is lower because of . . ." are simply not true. Yes, I pay very little for rent. But I also have two windows in my lovely room--one at the top of my 15 foot ceiling and one--yes, I'm being honest--that opens to the kitchen. Yes, I pay $160 rent for my bedroom, but I have a washing machine in it. Yes, I pay comparatively little rent . . for my cozy (read: small) room in an apartment with 3 other girls. But, on the up side, the real estate market is looking up in my downtown Jerusalem apartment. I have a room that constantly grows because the paint chips and the sand walls fall down daily. And if you're a polar bear, it's a prime location (no heating in the winter!).

It may sound from all of this that I'm having a hard time--in work, in my living situation, in life in general. But it's actually quite the opposite. In work, as you may have gathered from the title of this essay, I just received a raise. It was an exercise in evaluating and valuing my self-worth and, additionally, in becoming an adult. Asking for a raise is no easy task, but my discussion with my boss was less painful than I anticipated, and she was happy to offer me five more shekels an hour.

My living situation, although the description I just gave sounds less than pleasant, is actually great. I love my roommates, and they love me (and the washing machine I brought with me when I moved in). My apartment is conveniently located to everything, and I have a variety of bakeries within close (perhaps too close) walking distance. Additionally, I roll out of bed in the morning (roll, rather than get up, you just read the part about the bakeries), walk 100 yards, and I'm at the bus I need to go to work every morning.

In addition to that, I guess it's time now to reveal the big secret: I'm . . . ha ha . . .just kidding. I'm not getting married. I'm not pregnant. I'm not moving to China. But I am dating an amazing guy named Nadav. We've been friends for quite a while, and about two months ago, each of us decided that the other is pretty cool and perhaps worth a shot. (By the way, I'm cooler than he is!)

In any case, life is good. And with my new five shekel per hour raise, I'll be a millionaire in no time. In fact, because of the exchange rate (4.5 shekels to the dollar), I'll even get there 4.5 times as fast. And don't worry, when I move in to my mansion, you'll be the first to know.

*About landscaping being a dangerous profession (for those of you who don't know the story), I'll post an educational essay soon about lawnmowers, engine belts, and how NOT to stick in your hand in them.

I'll see you tomorrow . . .

2005-09-29T20:15:00.000+03:00

I am constantly amazed at the scenarios and the people that I encounter on the bus here in Israel. It seems like every essay I write is somehow influenced by my bus travels. I think it’s because on a bus, you simply have time to think. And watch. And hear. And see the same things over and over again. And realize that sometimes the things that you think are distanced from you are in fact the every-day, well-known, well-loved bits of your life.

My morning starts with the smell of ______. I would like to fill this blank with a variety of nice-smelling things--coffee, doughnuts, flowers, vanilla--but in fact the answer is . . . old urine. While my house is situated on a beautiful side-street with flowers, grapevines, and enough cats to film another segment of “Planet of the Apes” (except with cats, of course), my bus stop leaves a bit to be desired. It’s next to a parking lot that people seem to have mistaken for a public restroom. What I realize each morning as I stand in the place as far away as possible from the smell (Note: This location changes each morning depending on wind speed and direction) is that my life is filled with people whose names I don’t know.

The first two people I encounter each morning after leaving my little street are a Philipino man and a cranky teenage girl.

The Philipino man wears a baseball-cap and he’s a caretaker for an elderly religious man. He hasn’t told me, but I’m sure that’s what he does. Here in Jerusalem, that’s what you do if you are Philipino. You care for elderly religious Jews with money. You spend your days speaking English and your nights off speaking Tagalag.

The teenage girl, well, she’s a bit more of a character. She--in all her I’m-too-cool-for-this-place glory--has the ability to gross me out anew each morning. You see, she likes to wear her pants too big--hanging down over her shoes--and think she’s somehow original for a high-schooler. The part that grosses me out is the bubble gum that she chews. I think she first sees the scared look on my face. Then, and only then, does she pull the saliva-covered hot-pink gum from her mouth and begin to twirl it around her fingers, swinging it around and around and around. With each revolution, the look on my face exhibits more disgust. Eventually, I turn away and see the bus (Wait! My bus!) pass me without stopping.

The next person I meet, or in this case fail to meet, is the bus driver who passes me by without stopping if I’m not standing exactly next to the urine-smell bus stop. He’s--how should I say this?--not exactly my friend.

In the next 14 minutes, while I wait for the number 7 bus to pass again, I do one of two things:
1) Respond, “Fine” to the obligatory, “How are you?” asked by the male twenty-something bus security guards who speak only to men with dark skin or girls between the age of 20-27.
OR
2) Say, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Russian” in both Hebrew and English to the Russian-speaking individuals who stop to ask me directions and because of my complexion and appearance assume that I too am from the far reaches of Moscow.

I board the number 7 bus eventually and see my favorite driver. At the next stop, the two blonde supermodel types (Are they Swedish?) get off at the stop near the shuk (open fruit and vegetable market). There’s a chance they are doing a photo shoot at the market, but unless raw fish and falafel stands are the up-and-coming place for photo shoots in the modeling world, my guess is that they are the common German-tourist volunteers and they are working in the soup kitchen there.

As we stop near the market, a black-clad religious man and his school-uniformed daughter board the bus. They are loaded down with plastic bags full of fruits and vegetables. As we pull up to the central bus station, one of the stops on the route, an onion rolls past me and a woman in seat facing the back positions her feet and blocks it with the ease of a seasoned soccer player. I see she’s played “Shuk Onion” before.

The next person of interest is the religious man with Down’s syndrome I see waiting at the stop at the beginning of the ultra-religious neighborhood we drive through on my way to work. I don’t speak to him. We don’t even ride the same bus, but I can’t help but wonder where he’s going every morning.

Suddenly, a grapefruit hits my foot, and I look up just in time to see my favorite person on the bus--a little baby being swung around by his loving father as if he’s a tennis racquet. He’s by far my favorite because, well, he wears the best kind of pajamas invented (the kind with the little footies), and he sleeps through everything as we make our way through speed bumps, construction, school children, and more.

By now we’ve reached the next to last stop of the route, and everyone but me and the guy who’s fallen asleep gets off. The driver talks to himself, now that there is a bit of quiet. Once, he looked up in surprise when he saw me sitting in the back. By now, he knows I’m still there, but I guess he trusts me enough to reveal his secrets.

As I get off the bus, making sure not to forget my packed lunch in the seat next to me, I think to myself, “Am I ready for today?” I think, “Where did all those people go? What are they doing?” And then I think, “How would they describe me--the girl whose name they don’t know?”

She’s the girl who wears the silly glasses, who sits listening to her MP3 player. The girl who smiles when she receives a text message from her new boyfriend, the girl who is making her way to work in an English-speaking microcosm in this crazy little country. She wore an orange backpack until the zipper broke, and now, she’s changed for something a little more toned-down. She’s nice enough. She’s calm enough. She’s pretty enough. She’s . . . well . . . we don’t know her name, but that’s ok. We’ll see her tomorrow.

Finding the Peas in the Pea Soup

2005-08-23T18:59:00.000+03:00

I once read a bumper sticker that said, "World Peas." Get it? World Peas=World Peace. I think it was meant to be joke. It's not that I've lost my sense of humor here in Israel, but sometimes I feel like it's easier to find "peas" here than "peace."

My sweet Israeli boyfriend told me that I need to calm down. It's kind of funny actually that an Israeli--someone from a country where old ladies beat you up in supermarket lines--would tell me--calm, little, American me--to calm down. I was moving to a new apartment, and the moving guy (ie Lucifer) was giving me an extremely hard time because, well, if you haven't noticed:
1) I'm a girl
2) I'm not Israeli
3) I'm someone who hired an Israeli moving guy and therefore agreed to an unspoken contract that I was looking for someone to verbally, mentally, and financially abuse me.

So, I basically told him to quit being such an ass. Turns out that was NOT a good idea and he threatened to quit on me in the middle of the move. I had to backtrack, and I learned a serious lesson: You can THINK someone is an ass, you can even whisper to your dog, "Hey, this guy's an ass!", but if someone has your bed, closet, and underwear in the back of his truck, you shouldn't tell him outright.

Anyways, the move went fine. MY move went fine. But this past week, if you haven't heard the news . . . for the last 16 months . . . there are a lot of other moves happening here in Israel. The disengagement started last week. Jews living in Aza (Ie The Gaza Strip) and the Northern Shomron (Ie The West Bank) received their eviction notices, and were moved--some more willingly than others--to new places (places, because they may not necessarily be homes) inside the Green Line. For the last 6 months we've been bombarded with posters, ribbons, bumper stickers, even buses that say: Jews do not expel Jews, Sharon is a Nazi, The Disengagement is another Holocaust, The Disengagement is worse than Pea Soup, etc.

I've seen them all. And I think I've found my favorite. First you need to understand that "Yehudi Lo Mi-garesh Yehudi"= "Jews do not expel Jews."
Now you can understand my favorite poster (reminiscent of "World Peas"):
"Yehudi Mi-karev Yehudi"="Jews bring other Jews closer"

It's a play on the popular statement in rhyme and meter.

It doesn't really translate well, but let me take on an imaginary tour of Jerusalem. There are parts of the city where if you show your shoulders and knees, you may get a rock--or at least a dirty look--thrown at you. There are parts of the city where you can buy pork. There are parts of the city where everyone on the bus is muttering prayers and Bible verses beneath his breath. There are parts of the city where you'll only hear Russian/Arabic/Hebrew curses being muttered beneath someone's breath. There are parts of the city where no head is covered by a kippah, a wig, or a black hat. There are parts of the city where when you get on the bus, the combined worth of the wigs you see women wearing is larger than the national debt.
So the idea of a Jew bringing another Jew closer--and let's be honest--in a place where sometimes the only reason you want to do that is to strangle the other Jew is a great idea. The poster shows two men:
1) facing away from the camera
2) with their arms around each other.

Both of these things speak truth. First, that we're really not all that different from each other. Religious Jews and non-religious Jews. Russian Jews and Middle Eastern Jews. Jews and non-Jews. Dare I take the leap and say even Jews and Arabs?

But the second part also makes a statement. Perhaps the intent of the the anonymity of the pictured men is meant to convey, "This could be anyone, even you." However, with the current situation always in mind, the idea I take from it is more along the lines of, "You can cross the line, but only so far. You wouldn't want to actually be labeled as someone who does ____, would you?"

And THAT is the crux of the problem. It's not necessarily exactly what someone thinks, but rather how he acts. I'm a firm believer in the idea, "Good intentions pave the road to hell." One can do his best. And it IS important. But how someone acts--how far he goes to prove his conviction--is more important. Let's take parenting as an example. If a parent wants to teach a child the lesson that stealing is wrong, he must first, not steal himself and second, punish the child if he steals. If a parent wants to teach a child not to be racist, he must first, not use racial slurs, and second, discipline the child if he does.

And if a state wants to prove that it is indeed a democracy and cares about equal rights and the rule of law, it must . . .(and here we arrive, finally, to my opinion on the disengagement from Aza):
1) make painful concessions even in the face of a nationalist/religious ideology that argues against them
2) show the world, but more importantly the unfortunate and perhaps even unintended victims of its policies, that it is willing to "put its money where its mouth is"
3) take a step to change the status quo.

Stagnance is perhaps one of the worst problems facing social, political, and economic systems in the world today. One would not argue that a fascist party staging a revolution to overthrow a democratic regime is a good idea simply because it is change, but let's revert for one moment back to the World Peas idea.

My question (perhaps a silly one) to all of you is: Do we actually see the peas in pea soup? That is to say, do we see the parts that make up the whole? If we begin to, and I have, it then becomes impossible to say, "But what about the terror that will inevitably come after the disengagement," because you know that one of the "peas" is a little kid who would much, much rather play soccer than learn how to throw a molotov cocktail. It becomes impossible to say, "But it is Jewish land," because you see each one of the 1.8 million "peas" that lives in one of the most crowded areas in the world, and then you see their Jewish counterparts' villas. I wouldn't say I'm a leftist. I'm simply say I'm for World Peas and all the other vegetables out there.

Random Babies, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb

2005-07-20T10:39:00.000+03:00

I cracked the other night, and by "cracking" I mean I burst out in laughter. It had been a tense week, during which I constantly thought about the following topics:

1) Find a new apartment
2) Find a replacement for old apartment
3) Arrange discount for city taxes
4) Visit advisor at university
5) Think about the fact that in less than 3 months I will be starting my master's degree in a foreign language
6) Work
7) Find apartment for my friend
8) The disengagement from Gaza and how I feel about it
and
9) Deal with the fact that there are not 1, not even 2, but no less than 4 guys who are interested in me right now

That, number 9, is what made me break and let out the laugh that brought me back to the ridiculousness of reality.

I titled this blog after the movie "Dr. Strangelove, or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb" because I realized two things today. First, I considered the possibility that perhaps I am NOT, by nature, a relaxed person. Second, the "bomb" that is life in Israel can make you a little stressed, and you're entitled to be that way. In the past, some of you may have gotten the impression of me that I am in fact a relaxed person. Well, it turns out that is one side of my personality. Luckily that side is usually in control. But, for instance, this morning when I woke up at 6: 30 am to arrive at the City Municipality to arrange for a discount in taxes (a feat more difficult than climbing Mt.Everest), arrived and found out that, for some reason, TODAY (of all days) they were not accepting applications for this, I muttered a few expletives and the other side came out.

I think you can give into this other side sometimes--it's healthy. But you can't let it control your life, your actions, your ideals. The thing that comes to mind right now is the disengagement, of course, because this is the only thing you seem to hear or read about these days. I think about how Israeli culture is one that flows, has an undercurrent of "It'll be ok." However, it is not this attitude that is shaping the country right now. It is the other more tense "We'll fight for our ideals even if it means dividing the Jewish people" attitude that is controlling our political ideologies, our outward political statements, even our attire.

Living in Jerusalem, one is bombarded (I suppose this is a very left-wing stance to take, for if I were more right-wing I could say "encouraged") by the color orange. Orange, for those of you don't know, is the color of the "revolution" (after Ukraine's recent political upheaval)--the fight against what seems to be the inevitible evacuation of Jewish communities in the Gaza strip. But it is exactly this doubt, or perhaps a proven certainty, of inevitability that encourages those who are anti-disengagement to move onward with their demonstrations (sometimes non-violent, sometimes not).

Something important to remember is that nothing in this region is inevitable. One need only look to the "inevitable defeat of the Jews" that five Arab countries claimed during the 1948 Israeli War of Independence to the "inevitable existence of a Palestinian state" to grasp that things change here overnight and what is signed, sealed, and delivered one day can be overturned the next.

The other color you see--as if we are all attending a Gator football game all the time--is blue. Orange and blue. Blue is the color being promoted by "Shalom Achshav" (Peace Now), a group founded in 1978 during the Egypt-Israel peace talks--it's the color that says, "I support what the government is doing pulling out of Gaza." To put it bluntly, you don't see much blue in Jerusalem, but when you do, it's like a ray of hope, even if it is coupled with an orange ribbon. What this combination means, I am unsure. Perhaps it signifies that we should all just get along? Perhaps it signifies that the wearer sympathizes with the Jewish settlers who are losing their homes but still thinks the disengagement is a good idea? Or, perhaps he is a gator?

I have chosen not to display my political beliefs in the form of a ribbon. Unfortunately, my favorite 2 bags are orange, and while I've thought about adding a sign that says, "My bag is not a political statement," I realize that as soon as I did, it would become one.

How is all of this connected to the title? The following anecdotes will shed some light:

Last week, I was standing at a bus stop (don't all of my epiphanies come while I am standing there?), when a bus from Beitar (ultra-religious Jewish settlement outside of Jerusalem) pulled up. A woman, hair covered and dressed in a long skirt, got off with her baby in her arms. With her free hand, she opened the baggage compartment under the bus only to find that her stroller (there were 5 others!) was out of reach. So, I asked her if she needed help, anticipating that she would point out her stroller and I could crawl under the bus to retrieve it. Instead, she handed me her baby. A woman I don't know handed me her baby while she crawled under the bus to get the stroller. As she opened up the stroller and I held the baby, two buses arrived, one of which I needed to take. The first passed by, but the second bus driver, realizing what was happening (ie I am holding some lady's baby and therefore cannot get on the bus!) waited and let me on.

This morning, we arrived to the municipality very early to get in line in order to receive our city tax discount for being new immigrants. The plan worked perfectly. We woke up early, we took the bus, we arrived, and we were even not so far back in line. The other people in line turned out to be computer technicians who were working in the department we needed to visit, and thus, our attempts were foiled. How can you just shut down a government office with no notice to the public? How can you expect people to just take off of work/school/life to arrange their stupid city taxes? How can every employee have a different story as to what the procedure was/is/will be? These are the questions I asked myself in the few seconds I stormed out of the place. Then I looked outside, and saw some people sitting on some shady steps. "Who are they?" I asked a clerk. "Oh, those are the people who give discounts on city taxes--I guess they didn't know we were closed today either." That's when it hit me--relax, or well, have a heart attack. Because I'm not here to change a society, a way of life. I'm not here to battle against the forces of slovenly government workers, the rudeness of people who think they are more important than you, or the inefficiency of seemingly every "professional" establishment one visits.

I'm here . . . to hold random people's babies. I'm here to buy a fan and have the 75-year-old salesman ask me when he can call me (number 5 on the boy list!). I'm here to wake up early in the morning to do something "important" (like city taxes) and end up sitting in a coffee shop--out of frustration or relaxation depending on the spin--just reading a Hebrew newspaper. And all the while, the orange and blue ribbons float by and make me realize that if I have to be surrounded by people in orange and blue--in colors that promote some sort of ideal--I'd rather those ideals be the future of my people than a football game. Because we all love the Gators, but changing the world is slightly more important.

Cleanliness is Next to Godliness and Cheerleading for Millionaires

2005-05-25T17:07:00.000+03:00

We've come to that point. Well, actually, I'VE come to that point. The point where yeshiva is over, my life as a student is on hiatus, and it's time for me to have a job here in Israel. I suppose if I were looking for more permanent work--not just work until I start my MA in the fall--then I would have a better chance of finding something decent. I suppose if I wanted to work in the hi-tech industry or perhaps guard a mall, bus, government office, restaurant, holy site, park, coffee shop, museum, school, supermarket, or dog on the side of the road then I would also have more job opportunties. But neither of these is the case, and so, I'm cleaning houses to earn money. We've all heard the old adage, "Cleanliness is next to godliness," and I am hoping by cleaning in a city that seems so focused on G-d already, I will be able to raise the spiritual level (or at least the dust) of someone's home to a point that is holy. So, that's the job, and to be honest it pays well, but I want to kick some crazy Zionist who back in the euphoric 1950's said, "Even the garbage collectors are Jewish in Israel," because let's be honest, they were as excited to collect garbage as I am to clean someone's ass-lah (yes, this is REALLY the word for toilet in Hebrew).

Believe me, though. It's not all as painful as I am making it sound. I interviewed for a job a few weeks ago, and after a few days of thinking that the interview went horribly, they called back to hire me (because, let's face it, I live a 12-minute walk away and they made it clear that was a big advantage). So now, I'm working for a Scottish electrical engineer doing . . . well . . . a lot of things. During the interview they asked me if I minded doing office work as well as "on-site" work. "Well, I helped my Dad a lot when he built our house," I answered, "So 'on-site' work sounds fine," I replied. Had I know what was to come, I may have reconsidered (ie, notice the " " in the previous sentence and anticipate what crazy story is coming up).

Among other tasks, "on-site" includes:
1) Installing hi-tech telecommunication systems--ie, taking really expensive phones out of their boxes and plugging them into walls
2) Nutritional education--ie, my boss acting like a Polish mother and telling me I don't eat enough because I'm not jumping on every chance there is to drink tea with milk (man, Brits are weird)
3) Language enhancement--speaking in 3 languages at once (one of which I don't speak) while I work with a Scot, a Russian, and myself (can you work with yourself?)
4) Changing light bulbs for people who have way too much money to do it themselves

And #4 is the task on which I would like to elaborate and which is the reason for the second part of the title of this exposition, "Cheerleading for Millionaires." Tell me, if you had five million extra dollars what would you do? Well, this guy decided to buy the nicest house I've ever seen. Not that my experience among millionaires is extensive, but I cannot imagine something nicer than this house. Along with housing one of the largest Jewish libraries in the world, he has chosen pieces of art so exquisite that I was afraid to breathe inside. After we parked the car, we entered the building, and I commented to Jonny, "It's really weird that people pay you to change light bulbs. I mean, what could be simpler?" I thought to myself. "These must be only people outside of my 90-year-old great Aunt Sally who asks me to change light bulbs for them." (Pause Pause, Wait Wait) Ask me now. Ask me, "Becky, where was the light bulb you were supposed to change?" Answer: Imagine the top of the Eiffel tower. Now imagine a trapeze artist who is accustomed to hanging on with her toenails while swinging hundreds of feet in the air. Now imagine this trapeze artist in her sparkly leotard on top of the Eiffel tower looking UP at the aforementioned light bulb, crinkling her brow, and saying, "You want me to do WHAT?!?"

Yes, that's where it was. I mean, why WOULDN'T you put a light there when you have all the money to in the world to pay people with expendable lives to change it? Top of a 25-foot marble staircase. Ladder? No chance. 12-foot-tall midget pyramid? A possibility . . . but we didn't have any midgets working "on-site" with us. So, we did what any 50-year-old religious male engineer and his 23-year-old female assistant could do--we did a shoulder-sit. A what? A shoulder-sit. Looks like my four years of cheerleading actually came in handy (I mean, besides making me despise teenage prima donnas with attitudes and ironing bows with hairspray). I prayed, climbed on his shoulders, and tried not to wee myself (Scottish-ism) as I shakily held the delicate light fixture and attempted to change the bulb. It wasn't easy. And by that, I mean, "It took us 5 mounts and dismounts, one broken halogen bulb, a few curse words, a lot of laughs from the Romanian and Philipina house servants as we swayed like a drunken totem pole at the top of the stairs, a couple more chocolate cookies stolen from the cupboard, a few more curse words, one almost failed attempt (ie, me almost falling head-first over the banister) . . . BUT we did it."

It was a job well done. And for 25 shekels an hour, really, what more could I ask for? Answer: That the light . . . will last longer than I do at this job.

Senses of Memory

2005-05-11T17:23:00.000+03:00

Asaf kissed me yesterday evening. It must have been 7:58 pm. Because as he pulled away from me, the 8 o’clock siren—to signal that it was the beginning of Yom Ha-Zikaron—sounded. When it ended, he hugged me tightly, and I asked him, “Is there someone specific you think about when you hear it?” And after he told me, I thought to myself, “There is someone I think about, too.” He was never in the Israeli Defense Forces, and thank G-d, he wasn’t a victim of terror. He was a victim of cancer, and he died a year ago today.

The Day for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror. It’s doubly heavy for me because last year my grandfather, Henry, died on this day. In fact, I found out . . . right . . . about . . . now. After a heart-wrenching memorial service, a discussion full of tears—however far-removed their owners had been before this trip to Israel—I came back to my room. That’s when my mom called. “Henry passed away,” she said quietly, and yet, matter-of-factly, somehow maintaining composure during a time which would indelibly change our family dynamic forever. I lost my breath. I felt the blood in my body drain into the floor beneath me. I had to sit down. I didn’t cry, not right at first. I remember thinking how . . . appropriate? timely? his passing was, on Yom HaZikaron, a day when we mourn loved ones—loved ones of our own, loved ones of others. In Hebrew,Yom HaZikaron means the Day of Memory. That’s what it will be for the rest of my life. I’ve given a yarhzeit date to someone who wasn’t Jewish. It was April 29, I think, on the Western calendar, but in the Jewish one, it falls somewhere during the counting of the Omer, the time between Pesach and Shavuot, a time during which we mark the days in anticipation of the revelation of the Torah on Mount Sinai. That’s the feeling I remember—the feeling of my connection to G-d—not the end of April one. I have this weird thought that maybe he did it on purpose. I know it sounds crazy, but maybe it would be difficult for me to relate to Yom HaZikaron since I don’t have anybody who’s fallen in war or was murdered in a terror attack.

From a religious perspective, Yom Kippur is the defining day of the year, the day on which Jews—secular Jews, religious Jews, BuJews, HinJews, hippie Jews, rich stockbroker Jews, everyone—know that they are Jews. From an Israeli perspective, a cultural, social point of view, Yom HaZikaron is the day on which you know you are an Israeli. The day on which when you hear the one-minute siren sound, you stop on the sidewalk, you get out of your car in the middle of the highway, you stand silent and still, saying to yourself, to everyone around you, to the world itself, I am part of Am Yisrael, the People Israel. And the tears that form in my eyes are for Henry, my grandfather, but also for all the people who’ve lost their lives here, for the sake of . . . I don’t know. At one point, I would have been able to finish that sentence, clearly, eloquently. “At one point” equals “before I moved to Israel.” I came here originally as a result of my Zionist ideology. At that point, I would have been able to say that they died for “the dream of Israel” or “the hope of the Jewish people.” Now, it’s harder to say because I’m confronted with the reality of a bad situation that everyday has aspects that become worse.

So, why am I here now? Because, shockingly, I love living here. As we approach the summer, the increasing heat of the day hints at what is to come with the disengagement from Gaza, a spark that is beginning to erupt into flames. Everyday more arrests are made. More protests are staged. More roads blocked and more signs put up. More “suspicious packages” found. And yet, it was with a “suspicious package” that I began to find my answer, my completion to the sentence above.

I walked by the bus stop. I heard one of the bus security guards (the men and women who get on and off buses all day in order to keep us safe, or at least, make us feel that we are safe) say to a girl, “Is that your cell phone?” as he pointed to an abandoned Nokia sitting on the fence. “No,” she answered, after which he called into his walkie-talkie, “Ok, we’ve got a suspicious package here. Everyone, please move away.” A confused old man, in what now seems like a parody, asked me, “Is there a bomb on the bus that’s coming?” “Um, no,” I answered. “There’s a suspicious package over there,” I explained to him. “Oh? I didn’t see it.” “Well, it’s a cell phone,” I said. “Oh, are they going to blow up the bus with the cell phone?” “Well, I hope not,” I said, now a little confused myself. “Is that even possible?” I thought to myself as I walked down the road to the next bus stop. And then I realized, after the whole incident, I wasn’t even phased. I wasn’t even phased to think, that on my way to the mall, I walked past something that could have blown up. And what jarred me even more about my lack of reaction was that it was the second time this week. So, what is the answer, the conclusion to the sentence above, “People who’ve lost their lives for . . .”? I’m not sure. I’m still working on it, but the following advertisement may shed some light on the topic.

There is an ad now in Jerusalem bus stops. Who knew a bus stop could profess wisdom? It’s a sign that simply says, “Students, July is not only the Disengagement, it’s also the Psychometry (SATs).” “Students,” it seems to remind in motherly and yet simultaneously satirical voice, “July is not only the month during which the country will be ripped into pieces by the government and those who oppose it, it is also your SATs.” It says to me, regular life goes on. Even though 5,000 teachers are going to be fired because of budget cuts. Even though a synagogue was burned down in Moscow yesterday and today a Jewish cemetery was vandalized in France. Even though. . . and the list goes on. And at the end of the list . . . there’s the kiss before the siren and the hug afterwards.

What Yoram Taught Me

2005-04-20T08:59:00.000+03:00

Yoram. Who is Yoram (pronounced YO-ROM)? He's a moving guy. Yeah, not exactly the most glamorous title for someone who moves people's furniture and valuables, but well, I continue to learn everyday that all sorts of people can teach you lessons about yourself and life. Most of the time life here in Israel is no more exciting than an average day in the United States, but sometimes (yes, ahh, those beautiful "sometimes" days) it gets crazy. The following is my story of a "sometimes" day.

I found a closet (for those of you in America, this means a giant cabinet that holds all your clothes--hanging and folding; they don't know what a walk-in closet is in this country). Usually, to buy a closet like this costs around 800 shekels. I found one, used of course, for 100 shekels. I thought, "Hey, what a deal!" so I bought it. Here's the interesting part--the move. My boyfriend, Asaf (yes, he's Israeli and a handyman, so I put my trust in him concerning this issue), assured me, when I told him the measurements of the closet, that it would fit in his car. Now me, I have no mind for size/packing/fitting leftovers into tupperware sensibilities, so I trusted him. The big day arrived--time for us to pick up the closet. Turns out it is about 27 feet too big for the car (at least we figured it out BEFORE carrying it down 3 flights of stairs). "So, we'll take it apart to transport it," he said. Then we realized it is pressed wood, and old, and if we take it apart, we're pretty much doing it for the exercise and entertainment because there's no way in hell it will go back together. "So, you'll call a moving guy, chik-chock (which as best as I can translate it means "lickety-split!")." "Ok," I'm thinking. "This is still do-able. I'm still getting a great deal," I say to myself, as I contemplate the crazy amount it cost me to move from my last apartment.

The fun of calling "moving guys" began (in no way do I mean to be sexist, but I simply haven't run into any "moving girls/dudettes/women/etc." here in Israel; note: nor have I seen a female bus driver). It's 3 days before Pesach (Passover), everyone in Israel is remodeling/moving/hiring moving guys just so I can't, and it's tough, to say the least, to find someone with availability this week. The lady I bought it from is already starting to get antsy (she's awaiting a new closet of her own), and I have to move this thing pronto. Then, I speak with Yoram. From the telephone he struck me as your typical Israeli sabra (native-born Israeli) who has probably never worried a day in his life, except maybe a tiny bit when he was being shot at by Egyptian soldiers in the Six Day War.

(I've translated the conversation into English for your enjoyment).

Me: Hello, I want to move a closet and I'm just checking how much it will cost.
Yoram the Wise: I can do it tomorrow at 11 am.
Me: Ok, um, great. But how much did you say it will cost?
Yoram the Wise: Give me the address.
Me: It's ____. But again, can you tell me how much it will cost?
Yoram: What's your phone number?
Me: It's _____. How much, Yoram?
Yoram: 200 shekels.
Me: That's kind of a lot, and you don't even know how big it is. We already took everything except for the frame, and someone else told me 150?
Yoram (suspiciously): Who told you 150?
Me (not revealing that yes, someone else quoted me 150 but no, he didn't have time to do it this week): A guy named Isaiah, why do you KNOW him? (pause while Yoram thinks about my honesty/my poor bargaining skills) How about 180?
Yoram (not agreeing, but not disagreeing): Al tid-agi, motek (something like, Don't you worry, darlin')

The part I left out of this conversation is where I told him I wasn't sure and I'd have to call him in the morning, because not only did I want to move a closet from a house that is not mine (meaning I have to cooperate with the already antsy lady), but I was also supposed to do a cleaning job for people I didn't know, so I wouldn't be at my house. Anyways, we ended our conversation with him thinking I'm the typical American woman in Israel, complicating things and worrying about them needlessly.

After this, a lot of things happened in my favor:
1) My friend Joseph agreed to come to my house to be there when they delivered the closet.
2) Antsy lady would be waiting for her new closet at 11 am, too, so she'd be in the apartment.
3) At 7:30 am, the day of the big move, the people I was cleaning for cancelled on me.
4) A guy, also named Yoram, rode by my house on camel and said he could move the closet for me for 25 shekels.
5) Someone sold me a truck yesterday, and now I can move it myself.

(Note: #4 and #5 did not actually happen)
(Note: My dad did tell me when he died I would inherit the SmurfMobile, his 1984 bright blue Chevy truck. While I always shook my head in disdain at his offer, I am beginning to think it's a good idea)

So, everything's fine. And Yoram was right, I didn't need to worry.

But now, there's been a slight hitch in the plan:
1) Yoram can't come at 11.
2) Martians have invaded the holy city of Jerusalem.
3) I broke my leg.

(Note: #2 and #3 are false, but I wrote them to emphasize how much we worry about things and how we can blow the smallest thing out of proportion)

But I've made a conscious decision that I'm not going to worry. Why? Because Yoram told me not to, and well, he was right the last time.

On the Bus: In the Family

2005-03-28T14:19:00.000+02:00

The reason I've decided on a second part to this series of "On the Bus" is not because I particularly want to say more about my bus adventures here in Israel. In fact, I could write a book about them, but the reason I'm titling this "On the Bus: In the Family" is because of my brother. For those of you who don't know him, my brother is Michael. Ahh, but he is so much more than a 7-letter name could ever even hint at. My brother is a school bus driver. But again, so much more than that. For a while, Michael has tried to find his destiny in life. He's one of those amazing people whom you come across every once in a while whose sole purpose in life is to try to make others happy, to make their lives easier, even at the expense of inconveniencing himself. He's a procrastinator, for sure, and I seem to remember him flunking out of Algebra and Spanish in high school despite his high IQ and technical/computer capabilities, but I've always admired him for his ability to "go with the flow" of life. My mom says that my brother and I are the two people in her world that don't have clue where we will sleep next and yet we're the happiest people she knows. Well, now I'm living in Jerusalem (settled down in an apartment, who could have imagined), but my brother, well, that's the real subject of this post . . .

My brother lives on a bus. He's a school bus driver ("Mr. Michael" is his name, and yes, teaching kids about life while he drives is his game), and to be sure, he doesn't live on this bus, but right now, he's in the process of renovating an old school bus--to live in. I didn't take my mom seriously when she told me, but then I thought, "This is the same Michael who once told me I didn't need to change out of my pajamas--'We're just going to the 7-11'--and then we ended up all over town with me in my polka-dotted boxer shorts and a t-shirt. This is the same Michael who was a cross-country truck driver for a summer . . . for the hell of it. This is the same Michael who took apart a computer at the age of 11 . . . because he could." My brother's an amazing person who will probably worry my mother until her old age, but he'll also give her things to laugh about.

So, how does this subject concern Israel? I don't think it does, actually, so maybe I'll just have to change the title of my blog. As I approach my 23rd birthday, though, this Wednesday, I think about the people who have taught me lessons in life, and my big brother's one of those people. He's taught me that you have to do what feels right--even if it may seem crazy to other people--oh, I guess that's how this connects to my moving to Israel . . .

As spring begins to enter Jerusalem (Yes! My clothes are finally going to start drying on the rack outside!), I wish all of you a beautiful week, month, year, life!

On the Bus

2005-03-16T14:37:00.000+02:00

On the bus--this actually could be the title of my entire journey in Israel. It seems like ever since I arrived in Israel that's what I've been doing--spending time on buses. I'm sure all of you are thrilled to hear that. To be honest, though, I think this is one good way to get to know this country. No, I take that back--to get to know the people of this country. In recent conversations with friends who've decided to make their lives here in Israel on a more permanent basis, we've talked about how temporary residents in Israel, despite all of their claims to the contrary, enjoy the comforts of living in an English-speaking bubble (one that does not include riding buses!). In fact, it's very easy to do, especially in the holy city of Jerusalem. There are English-speaking neighborhoods, learning institutions, so so so many things to do without ever knowing Hebrew past "Shalom" and "Shabbat Shalom." But without attacking my wonderful "temporary" counterparts, I'll mention a few of the benefits of riding buses that I've discovered these last 5 months in Jerusalem.

My first great experience on a bus was the day I saw two little Haredi (ultra-religious) boys. What made these cute little guys different than the other little Haredi boys I see on the streets? First, they were identical twins, and second, the two were speaking sign language to one another. I was sitting in a seat facing the front, and they were facing the back, so it was easy for me to inconspicuously watch them interact. I only wish I knew sign language--Hebrew sign language : )

Today, as I sat on the number 31 bus in a traffic jam near the center of town, I looked out of the window. Actually, I first looked at the back of the head of the woman in front of me, who was looking out the window. She looked as if something shocked her, and so I then turned my head out of curiosity. There was a boy, about 8 or 9, sticking his tongue out at her, making a face. She quickly looked away, but I thought, "Well, I need something to entertain me while I just sit here," so I stuck MY tongue out at him. At first he was shocked--I guess he wasn't actually expecting someone to react. But then, he started to play along. We each made different faces until the bus finally pulled forward, and I saw his look of disappointment as we separated. It's too bad more people don't make faces like that and then burst out into laughter seconds later.

So, this wasn't on the bus but deserves mention. I was waiting for a sandwich in my favorite (French) bakery on King George Street, one of the main thoroughfares of downtown Jerusalem. I turned around and saw an old (almost ancient!) little couple sitting on the barstools enjoying some pastries. They were religious--the little, old lady had her hair covered and was wearing a skirt, and the little old man's frizzy gray hair was sticking out from under his thick-yarn crocheted kippah--and they were speaking French (just so you can picture the scene). From the pastry the little old lady was eating, more was ending up on her skirt than in her mouth, and I saw him gently reach over and brush the crumbs off of her lap without her even noticing. Love, tenderness--it almost broke my heart.

I have moments like this all the time. Of course, I also have the moments where I see a man give someone the finger for accidentally cutting him off in traffic. And there was that time on the bus where an old-lady starting screaming and hitting a man who called her a "Communist." (Here's a tip: Don't talk about Communists with people who've lived under the Communist regime!) But far more often than not, you see young people get up for old people, or old people get up for older people to give them seats on the bus. More often than not, you are able to laugh with someone about the ridiculousness of others. More often than not through the understanding of language and culture, you feel that a new place is home.

I watched the movie "The Terminal" yesterday, and while most of the movie stereotyped Americans and non-Americans (not something I particularly like, since I am now both of these things), I drew a bit of wisdom from it. In the movie, Tom Hanks plays Viktor, a man from a country in which the government has just been overthrown through a military coup. The dialogue between the airport head of operations and Viktor, in which the head of operations tries to convince Viktor to say he is afraid to return to his country (in order to obtain asylum in America), goes something like this:

Head of Operations: "There are men with guns in the streets, bombs, people are taken from their beds in the middle of the night. Aren't you afraid?"
Viktor: "No."
Head: "You're country is in the middle of a war, you have no idea what could happen to you if you go back. You're afraid right?"
Viktor: "No."
The Head of Operations continues to try to convince him of all the reasons he needs to be "afraid," when finally Viktor says, "I'm not afraid. It is my home, how could I be afraid of my home?"

And so, I'll end on that, for those of you who are worried about my safety here. I ride buses, and there is not a trip that goes by during which I don't ask G-d to keep me safe--but I am not afraid. I am home, how could I be afraid of my home?