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)

A Public Service Announcement for Fido and Fluffy

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

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

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 . . .

(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

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

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!

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

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?

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

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