The Spurious Claim of the "Wasted Vote"

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

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

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

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 . . .

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

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?

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!

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

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

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?

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!

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 . . .

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!")

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

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 . . .

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

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)

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

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 . . .

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)