04 July 2007
I thought Israelis were very patriotic for theUSA today. On the ride back from campus this morning, the neighborhood ultra-Orthodox were in droves along the road waving and screaming at passers-by; the same revelers created bonfires and set other things on fire, in good American fashion; and walking past the Interior Ministry office, I noticed they took the day off along with the postal workers and other civil servants.
Maybe I was hoping for a little bit of fireworks here, but it turns out Israelis weren’t being patriotic for America on this fine Independence Day. The ultra-Orthodox were protesting the newly appointed government ministers, the rise in bread prices or a myriad of other topics in the best way they know how: burning down their own neighborhoods. The civil workers were on strike, for reasons unreported in the papers today. Oh well, there’s still plenty of illegal fireworks to be shot off and beer to be consumed in this country of ours.
Despite (or perhaps because) I grew up in The Nation’s Capital, I’ve never been that patriotic. I’m a big supporter of nationalism in general, but the USA itself hasn’t been one of my passions. Sure I can’t stop watching reruns of “The West Wing” and I’ve always looked forward to the fireworks on the National Mall. Sure I met up with friends tonight and we ended up drinking Miller Genuine Draft beer. Not to mention I’m up at a very late hour listening to Ray Charles sing the best version of “America the Beautiful” ever recorded. But these are all symbols and clichés, and while they bring up great memories for me they have no patriotic weight.
But listening to the Israeli national anthem? That one gives me chills every time I hear it.
Happy American Independence Day from the land that inspired the quote on the Liberty Bell: “Proclaim liberty throughout the generations…”
05 July 2007
03 July 2007
02 July 2007
So much to update and most I’ve already forgotten.
I finished another round of supervising birthright israel buses, this time as school already had resumed. When reading for each class amounts of 20 pages in English per week, homework for Arabic is already manageable, and being bored is one of the nicer ways of describing the state of affairs with my studies at the present time, taking off two weeks was exactly what I needed. Three of the four latest buses were comprised of participants who’ve already graduated college, creating a relatively calmer atmosphere and great bonding opportunities with them. Even with a few bouts of drama and one hospitalization for dehydration (I lost the bet with a colleague on this one), it was an excellent experience. Some good stories as well.
To add to the excitement, my mom and one of my aunts were here for the past three weeks. A combination of work and vacation for my mom, my aunt hadn’t been here in 34 years and so they traveled around the country, and we met up for a family friend wedding (playing The Muppets and 60’s British pop music during the processional) and quality time in Jerusalem. Originally I was going to hang out with them here and there, definitely when they would be in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, but the last group of buses came a few days after they arrived. At first I was hesitant to take the job because they were coming and undoubtedly wanted to see me. I decided to take the job, not necessarily because I needed the money, but because I want to make this situation as “normal” as possible. When a relative visits you from another state, often you don’t take off the entire time they’re in town to be with them. Even though a 6,000 mile flight is not a visit to another state, this place is going to be my home for the foreseeable future and so it feels great to have friends and especially family coming to visit as if it’s a routine event. Let’s hope more are coming in the near future, including both of my parents.
Last night I met up with colleagues and we all ended up meeting at an “Only in Israel” type of event in the covered section of the shuk (outdoor market). Crammed into one of its alleyways, with a café as its epicenter, is a Greek music dance party. The trio face the café entrance while the participants crowd around on either side, some a table strewn with empty glasses and bottles, others hovering around. Perspiration mixes with the cool breeze, leaving an eerie glaze on the olive-skinned revelers under the fluorescent lights. At the same time the music transports us to a more Aegean location, it’s clear we’re in the market where only hours before fish heads and sugared pecans would have welcomed us.
Off to sleep in a slowly cooling apartment. We’ve been smacked by a two-week heatwave which I luckily avoided by being on the road and away from home, where the antique air conditioner isn’t working. The cool evening breeze that typifies Jerusalem in the summer is slowly coming back, along with my favorite parasitic house pet: the mosquito.
*I just noticed that this hasn't been updated in quite some time. To the handful of readers who read this, thanks for not nagging me to update, and I promise to try to write more often*
So much to update and most I’ve already forgotten.
I finished another round of supervising birthright israel buses, this time as school already had resumed. When reading for each class amounts of 20 pages in English per week, homework for Arabic is already manageable, and being bored is one of the nicer ways of describing the state of affairs with my studies at the present time, taking off two weeks was exactly what I needed. Three of the four latest buses were comprised of participants who’ve already graduated college, creating a relatively calmer atmosphere and great bonding opportunities with them. Even with a few bouts of drama and one hospitalization for dehydration (I lost the bet with a colleague on this one), it was an excellent experience. Some good stories as well.
To add to the excitement, my mom and one of my aunts were here for the past three weeks. A combination of work and vacation for my mom, my aunt hadn’t been here in 34 years and so they traveled around the country, and we met up for a family friend wedding (playing The Muppets and 60’s British pop music during the processional) and quality time in Jerusalem. Originally I was going to hang out with them here and there, definitely when they would be in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, but the last group of buses came a few days after they arrived. At first I was hesitant to take the job because they were coming and undoubtedly wanted to see me. I decided to take the job, not necessarily because I needed the money, but because I want to make this situation as “normal” as possible. When a relative visits you from another state, often you don’t take off the entire time they’re in town to be with them. Even though a 6,000 mile flight is not a visit to another state, this place is going to be my home for the foreseeable future and so it feels great to have friends and especially family coming to visit as if it’s a routine event. Let’s hope more are coming in the near future, including both of my parents.
Last night I met up with colleagues and we all ended up meeting at an “Only in Israel” type of event in the covered section of the shuk (outdoor market). Crammed into one of its alleyways, with a café as its epicenter, is a Greek music dance party. The trio face the café entrance while the participants crowd around on either side, some a table strewn with empty glasses and bottles, others hovering around. Perspiration mixes with the cool breeze, leaving an eerie glaze on the olive-skinned revelers under the fluorescent lights. At the same time the music transports us to a more Aegean location, it’s clear we’re in the market where only hours before fish heads and sugared pecans would have welcomed us.
Off to sleep in a slowly cooling apartment. We’ve been smacked by a two-week heatwave which I luckily avoided by being on the road and away from home, where the antique air conditioner isn’t working. The cool evening breeze that typifies Jerusalem in the summer is slowly coming back, along with my favorite parasitic house pet: the mosquito.
*I just noticed that this hasn't been updated in quite some time. To the handful of readers who read this, thanks for not nagging me to update, and I promise to try to write more often*
24 May 2007
23 May 2007
On one of my few breaks from working the last two weeks, I read online that there would be a bus from Jerusalem going to a midnight produce picking in honor of the upcoming holiday of Shavuot.
One of the more popular service projects that birthright israel groups undertake is with a group called Table to Table, where students glean fields for fruits and vegetables. According to the Torah it’s a commandment for landowners to leave the corners of their fields unpicked so those who are poor can come and harvest for themselves. The holiday of Shavuot this week entailed bringing the first fruits of the harvest to the Temple as an offering, and The Book of Ruth which is read on the holiday details how the poor would glean the fields.
We arrive at a field in the seemingly middle of nowhere, driving on a dirt road with a green field in the distance illuminated by a row of floodlights and dotted with people. The crop du nuit is potatoes, grown in rows that have already been ravaged by school kids. Some may be above the soil, instructs the guy in charge, and some may need to be dug out with your hands.
It’s an amazing sight with native English speakers, girls in yeshiva and Ethiopian teens gathered in a field in the middle of the night with the same thought on their minds: Not getting dirty. Watching the teens run around and pelt each other with potatoes, I thought back to DC public elementary school and going as a class to a pumpkin patch for Halloween. Perhaps I’m reading into this too much, perhaps it’s the rampant racism in this country, but there’s some connection between people in a lower socio-economic bracket and not “getting into” picking produce on a farm for fun.
As much as I am and most likely will always be a city guy, there’s something in me that awakes when in nature. As the director finished his words, I’m on all fours wearing a backpack and clawing through the dense soil looking for potatoes. After 90 minutes, the skin on my hands is raw, my thumbs about to fall out, and many a designer fingerling potato has been found.
Soon we’re all spent, and we make our way to the bus and back to Jerusalem. As I didn’t get to participate with my buses in their service project, it was a great opportunity. Just like working again for birthright israel I left the program exhausted, needing a shower, and feeling great about myself.
School is re-starting after more than a month on strike. The Student Union and the government agreed on a plan to freeze any tuition hikes for the next two years, and allocate more funds to academic scholarships. The universities decided not to cancel the semester, and instead extend it 2-4 weeks into the summer. Meanwhile I haven’t been in class since before Passover, nearly two months ago. Looking over the last material covered in my Arabic course, I’m even more confused about it than before.
If you’ve read the last few posts here, it’s pretty clear I’m not psyched to go back to school. I’m looking into other possibilities to continue my studies in this country, but in the meantime attempt to soldier through the next 4-6 weeks.
On one of my few breaks from working the last two weeks, I read online that there would be a bus from Jerusalem going to a midnight produce picking in honor of the upcoming holiday of Shavuot.
One of the more popular service projects that birthright israel groups undertake is with a group called Table to Table, where students glean fields for fruits and vegetables. According to the Torah it’s a commandment for landowners to leave the corners of their fields unpicked so those who are poor can come and harvest for themselves. The holiday of Shavuot this week entailed bringing the first fruits of the harvest to the Temple as an offering, and The Book of Ruth which is read on the holiday details how the poor would glean the fields.
We arrive at a field in the seemingly middle of nowhere, driving on a dirt road with a green field in the distance illuminated by a row of floodlights and dotted with people. The crop du nuit is potatoes, grown in rows that have already been ravaged by school kids. Some may be above the soil, instructs the guy in charge, and some may need to be dug out with your hands.
It’s an amazing sight with native English speakers, girls in yeshiva and Ethiopian teens gathered in a field in the middle of the night with the same thought on their minds: Not getting dirty. Watching the teens run around and pelt each other with potatoes, I thought back to DC public elementary school and going as a class to a pumpkin patch for Halloween. Perhaps I’m reading into this too much, perhaps it’s the rampant racism in this country, but there’s some connection between people in a lower socio-economic bracket and not “getting into” picking produce on a farm for fun.
As much as I am and most likely will always be a city guy, there’s something in me that awakes when in nature. As the director finished his words, I’m on all fours wearing a backpack and clawing through the dense soil looking for potatoes. After 90 minutes, the skin on my hands is raw, my thumbs about to fall out, and many a designer fingerling potato has been found.
Soon we’re all spent, and we make our way to the bus and back to Jerusalem. As I didn’t get to participate with my buses in their service project, it was a great opportunity. Just like working again for birthright israel I left the program exhausted, needing a shower, and feeling great about myself.
School is re-starting after more than a month on strike. The Student Union and the government agreed on a plan to freeze any tuition hikes for the next two years, and allocate more funds to academic scholarships. The universities decided not to cancel the semester, and instead extend it 2-4 weeks into the summer. Meanwhile I haven’t been in class since before Passover, nearly two months ago. Looking over the last material covered in my Arabic course, I’m even more confused about it than before.
If you’ve read the last few posts here, it’s pretty clear I’m not psyched to go back to school. I’m looking into other possibilities to continue my studies in this country, but in the meantime attempt to soldier through the next 4-6 weeks.
20 May 2007
18 May 2007
I just got back from two weeks of supervising four Taglit-birthright israel buses, worked with more than a dozen staff, met more than 160 students, traveled from the Lebanon border to the “banana straightening factory” in the south near Dimona (as the you-know-what is euphemistically called), survived a heatwave in the mountains and rain in the desert…and school is still on strike.
It felt natural going back to work for Taglit, with the long hours and alcohol/hormone-fueled student drama. It felt great to be an accessible educator again, getting students to think and ask more questions. It felt exciting to travel through this country again and stay in some rather nice places (chalet in the North with a hot tub). Most of all it felt amazing to be doing something, feeling challenged and useful. Certainly says volumes on both the last two weeks and graduate school thus far.
I’m experiencing some interesting hangovers from the last two weeks (no, not the type experienced by my students during the trip from alcohol they theoretically weren’t supposed to have): I’m always hungry, after endless feedings from hotel buffet lines; my apartment looks smaller and smaller in comparison to hotel rooms; and I have a great tan (albeit of the farmer’s variety).
More to come after a night of gleaning the fields and some research into what’s next.
I just got back from two weeks of supervising four Taglit-birthright israel buses, worked with more than a dozen staff, met more than 160 students, traveled from the Lebanon border to the “banana straightening factory” in the south near Dimona (as the you-know-what is euphemistically called), survived a heatwave in the mountains and rain in the desert…and school is still on strike.
It felt natural going back to work for Taglit, with the long hours and alcohol/hormone-fueled student drama. It felt great to be an accessible educator again, getting students to think and ask more questions. It felt exciting to travel through this country again and stay in some rather nice places (chalet in the North with a hot tub). Most of all it felt amazing to be doing something, feeling challenged and useful. Certainly says volumes on both the last two weeks and graduate school thus far.
I’m experiencing some interesting hangovers from the last two weeks (no, not the type experienced by my students during the trip from alcohol they theoretically weren’t supposed to have): I’m always hungry, after endless feedings from hotel buffet lines; my apartment looks smaller and smaller in comparison to hotel rooms; and I have a great tan (albeit of the farmer’s variety).
More to come after a night of gleaning the fields and some research into what’s next.
02 May 2007
02 May 2007
The strike continues, with several attempts to end it to no avail. Meanwhile, I'm going back to work for Taglit-birthright israel, supervising four buses from Hillel for close to two weeks. Besides getting paid (!), this will be an excellent respite from the boredom that has crept into my everyday life lately.
Anyways, gotta get back to packing and hopefully a small nap before greeting my first bus at the airport at 3am!
The strike continues, with several attempts to end it to no avail. Meanwhile, I'm going back to work for Taglit-birthright israel, supervising four buses from Hillel for close to two weeks. Besides getting paid (!), this will be an excellent respite from the boredom that has crept into my everyday life lately.
Anyways, gotta get back to packing and hopefully a small nap before greeting my first bus at the airport at 3am!
24 April 2007
22-24 April 2007
Sunday wound down quickly as everyone got ready for Memorial Day. As stores and restaurants closed early, I ventured out with a friend to the Kotel (Western Wall) for the official state ceremony. The original plan was to go to a local ceremony, but I got convinced to try to find a place at the state one. We get there early enough to get a standing spot by the barricade, several yards from the seats for select soldiers and bereaved fmailies, and appropriately far from the speakers' podiums. To our left were all my former students from Hebrew U -- a bit awkward but they were too excited to be there. At one point an Orthodox couple came up to us and the husband said to his wife "These nice people are going to move for us, so you can stand here and the men will move to the left, won't they?" After hearing the man huff and puff for a few minutes over no one's response, I turned around and told him that "that's not how it [gender separation, normal for praying at the Kotel] works on Yom Hazikaron." They left and I managed to calm down, furious at yet another American's insolent need to not speak Hebrew in Israel. Who's commemoration was this anyways?
The ceremony would get started in a few minutes, as the speaker a few feet from my head announced (I was the tallest for quite some distance in the growing crowd). The giggling yeshiva girls behind us were silenced by an irate Israeli woman, and in came the honor guard. Then the acting President & Speaker of Knesset. Then the IDF Chief of Staff. The one-minute siren went off. The ceremonial flame was lit with the help of a widow of a soldier from the Second Lebanon War, who it was announced used his body to shield his fellow soldiers from a grenade. The Israeli version of "Taps" was played. The President and Chief of Staff spoke humbly about consolation and security vs freedom. Mourner's Kaddish and the funerary prayer El Maleh Rahamim was said. The National Anthem was sung. And it was over.
In 30 minutes a wave of emotions washed over the attendees, myself included, in a way no other ceremony has. Short and meaningful, a great way to remember.
We decided to try for another commemoration, tihs one a night of classic songs about soldiers and lost loved ones. As we didn't reserve the free tickets in advance (as many didn't) we waited for a long time for any chance of getting in. After standing at the box office for a long time, many people had given up and gone. I was about ready to do the same, until we moved to the entrance door. More waiting, they finally found us seats which ended up being better than had we ordered in advace -- center orchestra.
The event was practically like Yom Hazikaron assemblies in high school: roses and candles strewn about the stage, readings and performances, and the Anthem at the end with no applause throughout. The difference? Besides two popular musicians' performances, there was the classic Israeli activity of communal singing. The words are projected on a big screen, but instead of the synthesized sounds of karaoke, there's a live band and everyone sings. All the classic songs of love, endless metaphors of gardens and beaches, and the multi-generational audience sang together songs as old as the State itself. A great way to end a powerful evening.
The next morning, after not sleeping well at all, I got up early to trek to Har Herzl, Israel's Arlington Cemetary. I was invited by a family friend and former colleague to go with her family to visit the grave of her husband's brother, killed in the Yom Kippur War of 1973. I ran to catch the bus, only to end up getting off to grab some water (it got real hot all of a sudden). At the central bus station, free transport was being provided to the cemetary. The traffic got heavier and heavier, and we eventually were let out to trek the last few blocks on foot. At the entrance teenagers were giving out bottles of water, flowers for the graves and booklets of the prayers -- all for free. What a potential moneymaker, my American mind thought, and here they were giving away expensive flowers out for free.
We met at the gate, and walked quickly to the section where the grave is located. As we're running to get there, the two-minute siren goes off and we instantly stop where we are frozen in thought. The siren ends and we walk to the grave, up on a terrace with other graves of soliders from the same war and lots of family members at each one. Each grave says the persons name, their parents, their place and date of birth, and where & when they were killed. Each family had their own way of honoring their relative, from cleaning the tombstone to the types of strewn flowers. Family reunions were taking place, a seemingly odd choice of location but incredibly dignified and warm. We listened to the official ceremony through loudspeakers, the event taking place on the other side of the ridge. The Prime Minister spoke well, the pomp ensued, a 21-gun salute punctuated the air, and everyone sang the Anthem in a loud unison. Shortly afterwards, we left with everyone else. Once again, powerful and brief.
The rest of the day was a communal daze, with few cars on the road and few people out and about. It felt like a religious holiday, but without the rabbinic prohibitions against work. After taking a nap, I started making plans for the start of Independence Day. The music on the radio was amazing as always: the classic Israeli songs from the army entertainment troupes, classic singers, and more. Hebrew may not be the best language to convey facts and science, but it dones a great job with poetry and emotions. Combined with a sound stemming from traditional Jewish themes and pop structure, true classics.
I slowly got myself together and off I was to Tel Aviv. I met a friend from college at his place and walked to a party thrown by high-school friends around the corner. Their place was a huge apartment on the up-market street appropriately called Rothschild Boulevard. I saw a friend from high school who moved back to Israel eight years ago, as well as people from all parts of my life, stocking up on drinks before hitting the town. The target: a block party in the gentrified neighborhood of Florentin. After some time, we were off.
The crowd got bigger and bigger, until we were surrounded by people dancing to music pumping from the nearby apartments, a blend of Jamaican dancehall and house music that provided enough ethnicness for the crowd. The intersections were full of 20-somethings and stands of alcohol on sale. A party like this could never happen in Jerusalem. Not just the huge gathering of people outside with little security -- but the hordes of well-dressed young people who can stay out until dawn at a party. I stayed out for a while, witnessing all sorts of drama unfold, until my ability to stay upright began to fade. Let's just say there's a huge difference between 20 and 25 when it comes to staying out late and partying. I made it back to Jerusalem very late (birds chirping and night slowly dissipating) and woke up too late for another party.
Creating new rituals where the background is Jewish is mesmerizing. Everything about the last 48 hours felt Jewish, depite its secular content. Aside from a great 48 hours of reflecting and honoring this new country of mine, it got even better: I got asked to work again for birthright israel and Hillel, coordinating four buses starting next week for a very good price. From being bored at school and the lack of school (strike keeps going and going and going...) to feeling deflated from my last job experience, this is exactly what I needed to hear. We'll see what happens should school restart, but it'll be great to be doing something again that brings me some satisfaction.
Sunday wound down quickly as everyone got ready for Memorial Day. As stores and restaurants closed early, I ventured out with a friend to the Kotel (Western Wall) for the official state ceremony. The original plan was to go to a local ceremony, but I got convinced to try to find a place at the state one. We get there early enough to get a standing spot by the barricade, several yards from the seats for select soldiers and bereaved fmailies, and appropriately far from the speakers' podiums. To our left were all my former students from Hebrew U -- a bit awkward but they were too excited to be there. At one point an Orthodox couple came up to us and the husband said to his wife "These nice people are going to move for us, so you can stand here and the men will move to the left, won't they?" After hearing the man huff and puff for a few minutes over no one's response, I turned around and told him that "that's not how it [gender separation, normal for praying at the Kotel] works on Yom Hazikaron." They left and I managed to calm down, furious at yet another American's insolent need to not speak Hebrew in Israel. Who's commemoration was this anyways?
The ceremony would get started in a few minutes, as the speaker a few feet from my head announced (I was the tallest for quite some distance in the growing crowd). The giggling yeshiva girls behind us were silenced by an irate Israeli woman, and in came the honor guard. Then the acting President & Speaker of Knesset. Then the IDF Chief of Staff. The one-minute siren went off. The ceremonial flame was lit with the help of a widow of a soldier from the Second Lebanon War, who it was announced used his body to shield his fellow soldiers from a grenade. The Israeli version of "Taps" was played. The President and Chief of Staff spoke humbly about consolation and security vs freedom. Mourner's Kaddish and the funerary prayer El Maleh Rahamim was said. The National Anthem was sung. And it was over.
In 30 minutes a wave of emotions washed over the attendees, myself included, in a way no other ceremony has. Short and meaningful, a great way to remember.
We decided to try for another commemoration, tihs one a night of classic songs about soldiers and lost loved ones. As we didn't reserve the free tickets in advance (as many didn't) we waited for a long time for any chance of getting in. After standing at the box office for a long time, many people had given up and gone. I was about ready to do the same, until we moved to the entrance door. More waiting, they finally found us seats which ended up being better than had we ordered in advace -- center orchestra.
The event was practically like Yom Hazikaron assemblies in high school: roses and candles strewn about the stage, readings and performances, and the Anthem at the end with no applause throughout. The difference? Besides two popular musicians' performances, there was the classic Israeli activity of communal singing. The words are projected on a big screen, but instead of the synthesized sounds of karaoke, there's a live band and everyone sings. All the classic songs of love, endless metaphors of gardens and beaches, and the multi-generational audience sang together songs as old as the State itself. A great way to end a powerful evening.
The next morning, after not sleeping well at all, I got up early to trek to Har Herzl, Israel's Arlington Cemetary. I was invited by a family friend and former colleague to go with her family to visit the grave of her husband's brother, killed in the Yom Kippur War of 1973. I ran to catch the bus, only to end up getting off to grab some water (it got real hot all of a sudden). At the central bus station, free transport was being provided to the cemetary. The traffic got heavier and heavier, and we eventually were let out to trek the last few blocks on foot. At the entrance teenagers were giving out bottles of water, flowers for the graves and booklets of the prayers -- all for free. What a potential moneymaker, my American mind thought, and here they were giving away expensive flowers out for free.
We met at the gate, and walked quickly to the section where the grave is located. As we're running to get there, the two-minute siren goes off and we instantly stop where we are frozen in thought. The siren ends and we walk to the grave, up on a terrace with other graves of soliders from the same war and lots of family members at each one. Each grave says the persons name, their parents, their place and date of birth, and where & when they were killed. Each family had their own way of honoring their relative, from cleaning the tombstone to the types of strewn flowers. Family reunions were taking place, a seemingly odd choice of location but incredibly dignified and warm. We listened to the official ceremony through loudspeakers, the event taking place on the other side of the ridge. The Prime Minister spoke well, the pomp ensued, a 21-gun salute punctuated the air, and everyone sang the Anthem in a loud unison. Shortly afterwards, we left with everyone else. Once again, powerful and brief.
The rest of the day was a communal daze, with few cars on the road and few people out and about. It felt like a religious holiday, but without the rabbinic prohibitions against work. After taking a nap, I started making plans for the start of Independence Day. The music on the radio was amazing as always: the classic Israeli songs from the army entertainment troupes, classic singers, and more. Hebrew may not be the best language to convey facts and science, but it dones a great job with poetry and emotions. Combined with a sound stemming from traditional Jewish themes and pop structure, true classics.
I slowly got myself together and off I was to Tel Aviv. I met a friend from college at his place and walked to a party thrown by high-school friends around the corner. Their place was a huge apartment on the up-market street appropriately called Rothschild Boulevard. I saw a friend from high school who moved back to Israel eight years ago, as well as people from all parts of my life, stocking up on drinks before hitting the town. The target: a block party in the gentrified neighborhood of Florentin. After some time, we were off.
The crowd got bigger and bigger, until we were surrounded by people dancing to music pumping from the nearby apartments, a blend of Jamaican dancehall and house music that provided enough ethnicness for the crowd. The intersections were full of 20-somethings and stands of alcohol on sale. A party like this could never happen in Jerusalem. Not just the huge gathering of people outside with little security -- but the hordes of well-dressed young people who can stay out until dawn at a party. I stayed out for a while, witnessing all sorts of drama unfold, until my ability to stay upright began to fade. Let's just say there's a huge difference between 20 and 25 when it comes to staying out late and partying. I made it back to Jerusalem very late (birds chirping and night slowly dissipating) and woke up too late for another party.
Creating new rituals where the background is Jewish is mesmerizing. Everything about the last 48 hours felt Jewish, depite its secular content. Aside from a great 48 hours of reflecting and honoring this new country of mine, it got even better: I got asked to work again for birthright israel and Hillel, coordinating four buses starting next week for a very good price. From being bored at school and the lack of school (strike keeps going and going and going...) to feeling deflated from my last job experience, this is exactly what I needed to hear. We'll see what happens should school restart, but it'll be great to be doing something again that brings me some satisfaction.
22 April 2007
21 April 2007
One of the purchases I made while in the States, which I previously mentioned, was a large stack of magazines. Among those purchased are what I would call “grooming” magazines. Yeah, I bought them, so what of it? Granted, they push a lifestyle that is bent on buying brand labels and looking one’s best.
You were expecting a counter-argument here?
While some of these magazines try to transcend materialism by writing about current events, some of them end up turning their columns into soapbox rants, with poorly developed arguments and nonexistent research. One of the magazines notorious for this type of writing, after an interview with Justin Timberlake and a spread of a man with slicked-back hair dressed in various Italian labels, decided to publish what reads as the intro of Michael Chabon’s forthcoming “The Yiddish Policemen’s Union.” Chabon is the same author who wrote “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay,” the historical fiction novel that paralleled the origin of the comic book industry among Jews in the 1930’s.
The previewed pages spell out another dimension where there’s a Jewish states in Alaska, full of Ashkenazim who seem to have found familiar roots in the frozen tundra of North America. It reads like a combination of a season of Northern Exposure, an Isaac Bashevis Singer story, the Haaretz weekend section and numerous portrayals of Jews in American media, highbrow and lowbrow. While the average two hours of primetime American sitcoms probably contains a handful of Yiddish words popularized in popular culture over the course of a century, Chabon goes the extra mile in using terms and references that only Jews well-educated in their own history would know (e.g., “the big Litvak lady” at the “Polar-Shtern Kafeteria”). Even the setting in Alaska parallels the Jewish Autonomous Region in Siberia that Stalin set up in the hopes of solving “the Jewish question” through mass emigration to the other side of the USSR.
The chapter raises all sorts of issues, from usage of Yiddish or Hebrew as a Jewish lingua franca to Israel vs. Diaspora relations, written expertly by the author. After a few paragraphs of reading on a jetlag-induced narcoleptic afternoon, filled with streets named after Jewish thinkers and visions of a snow-covered shtetl with signage in English, I instinctively yelled out “WHAT THE...IS THIS DOING IN DETAILS MAGAZINE?!”
There are plenty of American Jews who have and do critique aspects of their identity in the mainstream media, much to the chagrin of the established Jewish community who becomes worried that these skeletons in the closet will be exploited by others or misunderstood by the vast majority out there otherwise unaware of the basics of Jewish identity, not to mention current issues and dilemmas. I tended to vaciliate between the two sides, usually based on whether or not I agreed with the the speaker. Living in the Jewish States, it's all viscerally academic.
I’m curious as to why a magazine such as this, otherwise hawking designers and high-end liquor, would not only choose to print literature but one so chock full of cultural essentialism. Is the readership of this magazine really the departments of Judaic Studies in top-tier colleges who swap advice over the latest in men’s fashion in between lectures on the Essenes?
I’m interested in seeing content of the May edition, even if it’s priced 400% more in Israel. In the meantime I’d suggest picking up a copy of Guilt & Pleasure. It may be funded by a mega-philanthropist, but it’s very insightful reading that’s meant to be discussed in a salon-style meeting and (hopefully) won't leave you itching to send a check to the ADL.
It’s finally getting warm here, taking a walk on Shabbat for the first time in a while on a nearby path past rosemary bushes so full of bees it sounded like the NASCAR race on TV you inadvertently flicked onto with the remote control.
The student strike continues on, and on the docket now are the ultimate in Israeli experiences: Memorial Day and Independence Day, 48 consecutive hours that fill the average Israeli with an extra helping of intense emotions. Teenagers have been selling Israeli flags with clips for cars all along the streets, with cars zipping by with at least one or two adorned flags. The local newspaper not only put out an official guide to all the memorial ceremonies and Independence Day celebrations, but published their list of the 100 most defining Blue and White concepts (even after last year’s Top 10 versions in the Haaretz and Yediot Ahronot papers, this is a must read for anyone looking for an understanding of Israeli society).
Here sales for coolers and beachwear are for Independence Day and never for Memorial Day, not like we do back in the States where we turn both into a moneymaker. Somehow the idea of a Memorial Day sale on grills and women’s clothes doesn’t fit into a country where the jury’s literally still out on the last war, not to mention practically everyone in this small country knowing someone who’s died in a war or terrorist attack (also included in the commemorations). That being said, tomorrow I’m hoping to buy a TV (at long last!) before the first of two nationwide sirens sound in the evening that announces the start of Memorial Day. I may not get cable installed for a few days' more, all I need in the meantime is a regular broadcast channel to watch the ceremony marking the end of Memorial Day and the beginning of Independence Day. Called "The Torch Lighting Ceremony," this ceremony annually broadcasted live from Har Herzl (the national military and political cemetery in Jerusalem) is the height of patriotism and nationalist kitsch. Think every patriotic symbol, performance and speech you've ever seen witnessed and then condensed into a square plaza.
More to come in the next few days.
One of the purchases I made while in the States, which I previously mentioned, was a large stack of magazines. Among those purchased are what I would call “grooming” magazines. Yeah, I bought them, so what of it? Granted, they push a lifestyle that is bent on buying brand labels and looking one’s best.
You were expecting a counter-argument here?
While some of these magazines try to transcend materialism by writing about current events, some of them end up turning their columns into soapbox rants, with poorly developed arguments and nonexistent research. One of the magazines notorious for this type of writing, after an interview with Justin Timberlake and a spread of a man with slicked-back hair dressed in various Italian labels, decided to publish what reads as the intro of Michael Chabon’s forthcoming “The Yiddish Policemen’s Union.” Chabon is the same author who wrote “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay,” the historical fiction novel that paralleled the origin of the comic book industry among Jews in the 1930’s.
The previewed pages spell out another dimension where there’s a Jewish states in Alaska, full of Ashkenazim who seem to have found familiar roots in the frozen tundra of North America. It reads like a combination of a season of Northern Exposure, an Isaac Bashevis Singer story, the Haaretz weekend section and numerous portrayals of Jews in American media, highbrow and lowbrow. While the average two hours of primetime American sitcoms probably contains a handful of Yiddish words popularized in popular culture over the course of a century, Chabon goes the extra mile in using terms and references that only Jews well-educated in their own history would know (e.g., “the big Litvak lady” at the “Polar-Shtern Kafeteria”). Even the setting in Alaska parallels the Jewish Autonomous Region in Siberia that Stalin set up in the hopes of solving “the Jewish question” through mass emigration to the other side of the USSR.
The chapter raises all sorts of issues, from usage of Yiddish or Hebrew as a Jewish lingua franca to Israel vs. Diaspora relations, written expertly by the author. After a few paragraphs of reading on a jetlag-induced narcoleptic afternoon, filled with streets named after Jewish thinkers and visions of a snow-covered shtetl with signage in English, I instinctively yelled out “WHAT THE...IS THIS DOING IN DETAILS MAGAZINE?!”
There are plenty of American Jews who have and do critique aspects of their identity in the mainstream media, much to the chagrin of the established Jewish community who becomes worried that these skeletons in the closet will be exploited by others or misunderstood by the vast majority out there otherwise unaware of the basics of Jewish identity, not to mention current issues and dilemmas. I tended to vaciliate between the two sides, usually based on whether or not I agreed with the the speaker. Living in the Jewish States, it's all viscerally academic.
I’m curious as to why a magazine such as this, otherwise hawking designers and high-end liquor, would not only choose to print literature but one so chock full of cultural essentialism. Is the readership of this magazine really the departments of Judaic Studies in top-tier colleges who swap advice over the latest in men’s fashion in between lectures on the Essenes?
I’m interested in seeing content of the May edition, even if it’s priced 400% more in Israel. In the meantime I’d suggest picking up a copy of Guilt & Pleasure. It may be funded by a mega-philanthropist, but it’s very insightful reading that’s meant to be discussed in a salon-style meeting and (hopefully) won't leave you itching to send a check to the ADL.
It’s finally getting warm here, taking a walk on Shabbat for the first time in a while on a nearby path past rosemary bushes so full of bees it sounded like the NASCAR race on TV you inadvertently flicked onto with the remote control.
The student strike continues on, and on the docket now are the ultimate in Israeli experiences: Memorial Day and Independence Day, 48 consecutive hours that fill the average Israeli with an extra helping of intense emotions. Teenagers have been selling Israeli flags with clips for cars all along the streets, with cars zipping by with at least one or two adorned flags. The local newspaper not only put out an official guide to all the memorial ceremonies and Independence Day celebrations, but published their list of the 100 most defining Blue and White concepts (even after last year’s Top 10 versions in the Haaretz and Yediot Ahronot papers, this is a must read for anyone looking for an understanding of Israeli society).
Here sales for coolers and beachwear are for Independence Day and never for Memorial Day, not like we do back in the States where we turn both into a moneymaker. Somehow the idea of a Memorial Day sale on grills and women’s clothes doesn’t fit into a country where the jury’s literally still out on the last war, not to mention practically everyone in this small country knowing someone who’s died in a war or terrorist attack (also included in the commemorations). That being said, tomorrow I’m hoping to buy a TV (at long last!) before the first of two nationwide sirens sound in the evening that announces the start of Memorial Day. I may not get cable installed for a few days' more, all I need in the meantime is a regular broadcast channel to watch the ceremony marking the end of Memorial Day and the beginning of Independence Day. Called "The Torch Lighting Ceremony," this ceremony annually broadcasted live from Har Herzl (the national military and political cemetery in Jerusalem) is the height of patriotism and nationalist kitsch. Think every patriotic symbol, performance and speech you've ever seen witnessed and then condensed into a square plaza.
More to come in the next few days.
17 April 2007
17 April 2007
Part 1
I arrived back in Israel Sunday afternoon, exhausted and rather disoriented. The flight back from JFK via Madrid was decent, save the non-defrosted kosher meals and the Israeli who had to make friends with everyone on the plane. I shot him a look of annoyance every time he tried to make eye contact.
Flying on Iberia to and from Israel was an interesting linguistic experience, as my six years of learning Spanish flooded back into my immediate brainwaves like blood rushing to one’s head after getting up quickly. Soon I was mimicking the stewardesses’ Castilian accents, full of lisps that came in handy as they were just as adamant as Americans in speaking their native tongue. Spanish and Hebrew blended into one seamless language full of long vowels and absent of the sound of the letter of my first name. The Madrid airport was visually impressive, the duty-free extensive but not as good as Israel’s (not that I could afford anything) and the little food that wasn’t covered in Spanish ham decent (read: a salad and a thick omelet sandwich that makes the thin Israeli version even more pitiful than it already is).
But this wasn’t a trip to Spain. I landed in JFK several weeks ago. I watched the overweight family in front of me go through security and the TSA agents screaming and cursing at one another, and knew I was back in America. After a few days in DC, my parents and I drove to our relatives in Ohio – a nine-hour drive that I normally hate, but this was my chance to soak up some Americana. In no time I was immersed in drawls and Cracker Barrel and endless tracts of land. Pesach was its usual spectacle, at least 20 people per night at my aunt’s with the requisite family dynamics. I lead the s’darim, trying to keep a progressively fading crowd captive, and helped to instigate a family-wide debate over the nature of freedom and existence of universal values that left me as the more philosophically liberal voice at the heated table (moral relativism, onward!). Just as important, I took advantage of my cousin’s free drinks perk at Starbucks several times, not to mention making her blast one of the country music stations while driving around. A good yet abbreviated trip to the Midwest.
My inability to shop like an Israeli at duty-free (read: with abandon for the sake of a good deal) was made up for in DC stocking up on magazines, clothes and the always important Airborne.
Friends and family keep asking how the trip was, my first once since emigrating. As I summed up to one person, “It’s great to be there, it’s great to be here.” Coined in a state of delirium after sleeping for 16 hours, tihs line that would make Dr. Seuss proud best sums up my situation. Even though I know I made the right decision in moving here (a crappy school and lack of work situation notwithstanding) it was great being back in the States and it’ll be great to be back again. For me it took a trip back to the States to internalize how much I missed family & friends, and how much they miss me – a great feeling indeed. Despite the almost 24 hour voyage each way, I didn’t mind the actual act of flying, so there will be future attempts at creating a life Here and There simultaneously.
Part 2
Trying to stay up as long as possible to avoid jet lag, I pass out around 10pm only to wake up a few hours later still dressed. Ten hours later, I slowly get up out of bed in time to hear the siren marking Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Memorial Day. I was planning on going downtown to see life stop for a minute, crazy drivers and all – as it does every year – but all I managed to muster was getting out of bed and go right back to sleep. The siren, which will also be sounded next week for Memorial Day, is as much about a moment of reflection as it is about recognizing the fragility of everyday life here in Israel – the same siren, with its piercing winding-up and winding-down effect, is the same one sounded should something more immediate occur.
Several hours later, I forced myself to wake up after a self-record of 16 hours! The jetlag this time is fierce, overpowering even a second cup of coffee.
The Student Union began a strike before break was over, and continues at least through 18/4 with no reports of it ceasing soon. My interest in going back to working full-time grows with each day, as I’m finding myself more and more restless in a good way, wanting to get immersed in something impactful that can provide disposable income.
That's it for now, tomorrow's a new day of no school, a possible to Tel Aviv and the definite continuing of jetlag.
Part 1
I arrived back in Israel Sunday afternoon, exhausted and rather disoriented. The flight back from JFK via Madrid was decent, save the non-defrosted kosher meals and the Israeli who had to make friends with everyone on the plane. I shot him a look of annoyance every time he tried to make eye contact.
Flying on Iberia to and from Israel was an interesting linguistic experience, as my six years of learning Spanish flooded back into my immediate brainwaves like blood rushing to one’s head after getting up quickly. Soon I was mimicking the stewardesses’ Castilian accents, full of lisps that came in handy as they were just as adamant as Americans in speaking their native tongue. Spanish and Hebrew blended into one seamless language full of long vowels and absent of the sound of the letter of my first name. The Madrid airport was visually impressive, the duty-free extensive but not as good as Israel’s (not that I could afford anything) and the little food that wasn’t covered in Spanish ham decent (read: a salad and a thick omelet sandwich that makes the thin Israeli version even more pitiful than it already is).
But this wasn’t a trip to Spain. I landed in JFK several weeks ago. I watched the overweight family in front of me go through security and the TSA agents screaming and cursing at one another, and knew I was back in America. After a few days in DC, my parents and I drove to our relatives in Ohio – a nine-hour drive that I normally hate, but this was my chance to soak up some Americana. In no time I was immersed in drawls and Cracker Barrel and endless tracts of land. Pesach was its usual spectacle, at least 20 people per night at my aunt’s with the requisite family dynamics. I lead the s’darim, trying to keep a progressively fading crowd captive, and helped to instigate a family-wide debate over the nature of freedom and existence of universal values that left me as the more philosophically liberal voice at the heated table (moral relativism, onward!). Just as important, I took advantage of my cousin’s free drinks perk at Starbucks several times, not to mention making her blast one of the country music stations while driving around. A good yet abbreviated trip to the Midwest.
My inability to shop like an Israeli at duty-free (read: with abandon for the sake of a good deal) was made up for in DC stocking up on magazines, clothes and the always important Airborne.
Friends and family keep asking how the trip was, my first once since emigrating. As I summed up to one person, “It’s great to be there, it’s great to be here.” Coined in a state of delirium after sleeping for 16 hours, tihs line that would make Dr. Seuss proud best sums up my situation. Even though I know I made the right decision in moving here (a crappy school and lack of work situation notwithstanding) it was great being back in the States and it’ll be great to be back again. For me it took a trip back to the States to internalize how much I missed family & friends, and how much they miss me – a great feeling indeed. Despite the almost 24 hour voyage each way, I didn’t mind the actual act of flying, so there will be future attempts at creating a life Here and There simultaneously.
Part 2
Trying to stay up as long as possible to avoid jet lag, I pass out around 10pm only to wake up a few hours later still dressed. Ten hours later, I slowly get up out of bed in time to hear the siren marking Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Memorial Day. I was planning on going downtown to see life stop for a minute, crazy drivers and all – as it does every year – but all I managed to muster was getting out of bed and go right back to sleep. The siren, which will also be sounded next week for Memorial Day, is as much about a moment of reflection as it is about recognizing the fragility of everyday life here in Israel – the same siren, with its piercing winding-up and winding-down effect, is the same one sounded should something more immediate occur.
Several hours later, I forced myself to wake up after a self-record of 16 hours! The jetlag this time is fierce, overpowering even a second cup of coffee.
The Student Union began a strike before break was over, and continues at least through 18/4 with no reports of it ceasing soon. My interest in going back to working full-time grows with each day, as I’m finding myself more and more restless in a good way, wanting to get immersed in something impactful that can provide disposable income.
That's it for now, tomorrow's a new day of no school, a possible to Tel Aviv and the definite continuing of jetlag.
27 March 2007
27 March 2007
On the way to school this morning, two buses from my line came arrived at the same time -- a common occurence, as time-keeping is an abstract concept here for those who are expected. Gunning it down the narrow streets of the ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods all bus lines are obliged to cross, the driver spots a huge backup of cars at the next turn. He simply yells out in Hebrew "Traffic Jam!" and proceeds to make a detour around the street, missing two bus stops along the way which no one needed. Perhaps because we're so starved of strategic quick-thinking leadership here, I certainly felt more at ease with the driver (better than the situation the other day, when the driver started screaming at a woman who entered the bus through the wrong doors with a large suitcase and didn't understand the driver's insistence for her to get off. Everyone was holding their breaths).
As if there wasn't anough corruption going on here, now we have a Finance Minister accussed of embezzling funds from an NGO and a newly appointed Justice Minister who appointed 12 ultra-Orthodox rabbis to 15 rabbinic court positions who have the power to rule on conversions, marriages and divorces. At least there's a pending petition to annul the appointments.
I'm getting ready to leave the country for a bit, the first time as an Israeli citizen and traveling on two passports. People have asked me if I'm excited to go home. I tell them I'm excited, but the word "home" gets tricky. Granted, many of my English-speaking friends here are not immigrants themselves, so I don't necessarily expect them to instinctively think about the choice of words. If I had to explain it in detail, there's home and Home -- the former being where family and friends are, and the latter being where one's dreams and ideals are. For me, it's Israel, just as for some it's on a tropical island or in the house they grew up in. There's so much potential to come from this country in which I can have a direct part for it not to be the place of dreams and ideals for me.
There's a radio ad campaign on the Army-run stations with popular entertainers doing the voice-over. The script is more or less the same:
Celebrity:"You know all the trails in South America. You've hiked all over India and Thailand. But when was the last time you hiked a trail in Israel?"
Announcer:"Getting connected with Israel. Because Israel is us."
The Diaspora Israel activist in me loves this ad, agreeing that there's so much to discover and appreciate in this small country. The Israeli inside me says "chool" (an acronym for "out of the country/land") is the place to recharge one's batteries. I'm not sure if either side is totally convincing but just in case I'm bringing last week's extended weekend section of Yediot Ahronot to read in the airport with it's "51 Reasons to Live in Israel" guest column (I'm slowly witching back to the Hebrew newspapers, which are much more interesting and entertaining than the overtly pretensious English ones). I'm looking forward to the comfort and challenge of being back in the States, not to mention my 6-hour layover in Madrid to rev up my Spanish.
Ahead of Passover, the Yahoo! frontpage ran this AP article about a bus turned into an oven for baking matzah. Notwithstanding the fact that they spelled the plural of matzah "matzos," the combination of the words "bus" and "oven" resurfaced all the Holocaust jokes in my head. It's gross to be sure, but a sign nonetheless of my new Israeli identity -- laughing at the horror of it all.
A woman the other day in the supermarket was shopping for Kosher for Passover products. As I was picking up a few things, her fingernails-on-a-chalkboard American voice announced to the entire store "I hate this country, everything's got Kitniyot in it!" Had I felt better I would have retorted with something witty in Arabic or even Yiddish, as her attitude was not only offensive to those who do eat Kitniyot during Passover, but goes to prove the anachronistic nature of a Tradition that only causes more grief during an otherwise joyous holiday.
For those who don't know what I'm talking about: "Kitniyot" are legumes/beans/rice/corn/soy/etc., that were unfamiliar to Jews living in the shtetls of Europe several hundreds of years ago. While totally unrelated to the five grains mentioned in the Bible as prohibited from being leavened ("hametz") during the holiday, Ashkenazim nonetheless decided to ban the consumption of kitniyot during the holiday, lest they be confused with the real deal.
While there is a notion that one follows the traditions and customs of one's father, there's also a Rabbinic decree that "the law of the land is the law" applying to the potential conflict between Rabbinic law and non-Rabbinic law. If the US government demands all foods to be labeled with a list of ingredients, isn't that enough to prove that the contents don't have hametz and are thus K for P?
My Rabbinic rulings have a lot of sway, so don't be surprised to see them plastered up in large black print on the walls of your local neighborhood (as is done in this country).
Whatever, bring on the hummus and soy milk this Passover!
A long post indeed -- if you made it this far, a fantastic video from Passover 2006 as a reward.
Have a Happy and Meaningful Feast of Freedom!
On the way to school this morning, two buses from my line came arrived at the same time -- a common occurence, as time-keeping is an abstract concept here for those who are expected. Gunning it down the narrow streets of the ultra-Orthodox neighborhoods all bus lines are obliged to cross, the driver spots a huge backup of cars at the next turn. He simply yells out in Hebrew "Traffic Jam!" and proceeds to make a detour around the street, missing two bus stops along the way which no one needed. Perhaps because we're so starved of strategic quick-thinking leadership here, I certainly felt more at ease with the driver (better than the situation the other day, when the driver started screaming at a woman who entered the bus through the wrong doors with a large suitcase and didn't understand the driver's insistence for her to get off. Everyone was holding their breaths).
As if there wasn't anough corruption going on here, now we have a Finance Minister accussed of embezzling funds from an NGO and a newly appointed Justice Minister who appointed 12 ultra-Orthodox rabbis to 15 rabbinic court positions who have the power to rule on conversions, marriages and divorces. At least there's a pending petition to annul the appointments.
I'm getting ready to leave the country for a bit, the first time as an Israeli citizen and traveling on two passports. People have asked me if I'm excited to go home. I tell them I'm excited, but the word "home" gets tricky. Granted, many of my English-speaking friends here are not immigrants themselves, so I don't necessarily expect them to instinctively think about the choice of words. If I had to explain it in detail, there's home and Home -- the former being where family and friends are, and the latter being where one's dreams and ideals are. For me, it's Israel, just as for some it's on a tropical island or in the house they grew up in. There's so much potential to come from this country in which I can have a direct part for it not to be the place of dreams and ideals for me.
There's a radio ad campaign on the Army-run stations with popular entertainers doing the voice-over. The script is more or less the same:
Celebrity:"You know all the trails in South America. You've hiked all over India and Thailand. But when was the last time you hiked a trail in Israel?"
Announcer:"Getting connected with Israel. Because Israel is us."
The Diaspora Israel activist in me loves this ad, agreeing that there's so much to discover and appreciate in this small country. The Israeli inside me says "chool" (an acronym for "out of the country/land") is the place to recharge one's batteries. I'm not sure if either side is totally convincing but just in case I'm bringing last week's extended weekend section of Yediot Ahronot to read in the airport with it's "51 Reasons to Live in Israel" guest column (I'm slowly witching back to the Hebrew newspapers, which are much more interesting and entertaining than the overtly pretensious English ones). I'm looking forward to the comfort and challenge of being back in the States, not to mention my 6-hour layover in Madrid to rev up my Spanish.
Ahead of Passover, the Yahoo! frontpage ran this AP article about a bus turned into an oven for baking matzah. Notwithstanding the fact that they spelled the plural of matzah "matzos," the combination of the words "bus" and "oven" resurfaced all the Holocaust jokes in my head. It's gross to be sure, but a sign nonetheless of my new Israeli identity -- laughing at the horror of it all.
A woman the other day in the supermarket was shopping for Kosher for Passover products. As I was picking up a few things, her fingernails-on-a-chalkboard American voice announced to the entire store "I hate this country, everything's got Kitniyot in it!" Had I felt better I would have retorted with something witty in Arabic or even Yiddish, as her attitude was not only offensive to those who do eat Kitniyot during Passover, but goes to prove the anachronistic nature of a Tradition that only causes more grief during an otherwise joyous holiday.
For those who don't know what I'm talking about: "Kitniyot" are legumes/beans/rice/corn/soy/etc., that were unfamiliar to Jews living in the shtetls of Europe several hundreds of years ago. While totally unrelated to the five grains mentioned in the Bible as prohibited from being leavened ("hametz") during the holiday, Ashkenazim nonetheless decided to ban the consumption of kitniyot during the holiday, lest they be confused with the real deal.
While there is a notion that one follows the traditions and customs of one's father, there's also a Rabbinic decree that "the law of the land is the law" applying to the potential conflict between Rabbinic law and non-Rabbinic law. If the US government demands all foods to be labeled with a list of ingredients, isn't that enough to prove that the contents don't have hametz and are thus K for P?
My Rabbinic rulings have a lot of sway, so don't be surprised to see them plastered up in large black print on the walls of your local neighborhood (as is done in this country).
Whatever, bring on the hummus and soy milk this Passover!
A long post indeed -- if you made it this far, a fantastic video from Passover 2006 as a reward.
Have a Happy and Meaningful Feast of Freedom!
20 March 2007
20 March 2007
It may be that the only sound at night that wakes me up is the buzzing of mosquitoes, but there's never a dull moment in Israel:
-A nationwide civil defense drill is taking place as I write, announced to the public by the "best" sound around: an air-raid siren. They canceled the siren for the communities around Gaza & the North, thinking it would be too traumatic for them. As if students here in the library didn't clutch their bags and look outside with trepidation when it sounded.
-The threat of a nationwide strike looms in the air, as the Trade Federation gave the government until today to pay back wages. As I've said before they have every right to strike...EXCEPT if it goes over a week, in which case my flight plans to the States could be screwed up as the strike would include airport workers.
-I haven't been feeling well for the past few days -- my self-diagnosis says it's most likely strep throat, but this afternoon I'm making my first trip to the doctor. Since I rarely go to a doctor in the States, this'll provide some extra fun.
Eight days till I'm back in the States and still lots to do....
It may be that the only sound at night that wakes me up is the buzzing of mosquitoes, but there's never a dull moment in Israel:
-A nationwide civil defense drill is taking place as I write, announced to the public by the "best" sound around: an air-raid siren. They canceled the siren for the communities around Gaza & the North, thinking it would be too traumatic for them. As if students here in the library didn't clutch their bags and look outside with trepidation when it sounded.
-The threat of a nationwide strike looms in the air, as the Trade Federation gave the government until today to pay back wages. As I've said before they have every right to strike...EXCEPT if it goes over a week, in which case my flight plans to the States could be screwed up as the strike would include airport workers.
-I haven't been feeling well for the past few days -- my self-diagnosis says it's most likely strep throat, but this afternoon I'm making my first trip to the doctor. Since I rarely go to a doctor in the States, this'll provide some extra fun.
Eight days till I'm back in the States and still lots to do....
11 March 2007
11 March 2007
The last few days have been wamer than usual, allowing us to shed those coats and long sleeves and expose our pale arms. Even though it's suppsoedly going to rain this week and get colder, it's definitely a nice respite and hopefully a sign of things to come for Passover.
Purim came and went, the drunken debacle it always is. I went to a friend's for the reading of Megillat (scroll) Esther, dressed as a blonder and preppier version of myself (no hair bleach was used in this costume -- we've evolved from high school. If pictures exist, I'll begrudgingly provide a link for you).
Last week the Israeli Grammy award ceremony took place, and despite not having a TV they were broadcast on the all-Israeli music radio station. As if the American version isn't disappointing enough, the Israeli one was down right embarrassing. Like many forms of art in contemporary Western society, music is by and large turned into a side dish for commercials, and so what gets played to a larger audience is appropriately called "Middle of the Road" or MOR, so as to appeal to the (lowest) common denominator. As a result, four of the six nominees for Song of the Year sounded so similar in their dulling balladry that I just about fell asleep at 9:30pm. Granted, this is a larger debate about whether music and all forms of art should be inherently accesible to all sectors of society, or if there are 'levels' of culture; but we're talking content and substence here, not how much it costs to experience art (a different yet connected subject).
What was most striking about the ceremony, and what ultimately brought some excitement to it, was a protest by a singer named Eyal Golan, one of the most popular singers of Mizrahi music. Mizrahi, literally meaning "Eastern," is a hodgepodge of Greek/Turkish/Arab/Western pop music defined by its sound, the accents of its singers and the topics sung (normally God, love and/or one's mother -- very similar to Country music). Golan wore a shirt that protested the fact that the nominees did not represent this sector of this industry.
The mid-1990's were seen as a breakthough for this genre, with the mainstream success of Mizrahi music and what was seen as the emergence of an Israeli melting pot. Perhaps the introduction of Mizrahi music into radio stations would mean better socioeconomic conditions for the "Mizrahi" community, composed of immigrants and children of immigrants from an area stretching from Morocco to Iran (read: non-European).
On the one hand, Golan had every right to protest. A substantial percentage of the population listens and supports this type of music, itself very diverse; press promotion of concerts are small and confined to one page, while MOR take up at least two pages of the weekend paper; and the most popular radio stations play a handful of Mizrahi songs (and usually the most watered-down sounding ones) in their daily rotations, lending itself to looking like the American phenomenon of the token minority on TV channels.
On the other hand, Mizrahi music suffers from the same blandness that exemplifies MOR: Over-production, more often than not sounding like it's performed on the same child's electronic keyboard I had in the 80's; covers of very recent songs that don't bring any innovations; and lyrics that are increasingly predictable. Mizrahi music is said to have reached a milestone with the popularity of Zohar Argov, known as "The King" here. The song "Eizo Medina" (What a Country!) by Eli Luzon, however, encapsulates the social frustrations that the community faces, in their own sound, in a way Americans take for granted with the protest songs of the 1960's. If there were more songs like Luzon's in any Israeli genre (there are, but in very small numbers), then perhaps we'd be cookin'.
Anyways, enough of my ranting for now -- I have to finish the reading material for a class.
The last few days have been wamer than usual, allowing us to shed those coats and long sleeves and expose our pale arms. Even though it's suppsoedly going to rain this week and get colder, it's definitely a nice respite and hopefully a sign of things to come for Passover.
Purim came and went, the drunken debacle it always is. I went to a friend's for the reading of Megillat (scroll) Esther, dressed as a blonder and preppier version of myself (no hair bleach was used in this costume -- we've evolved from high school. If pictures exist, I'll begrudgingly provide a link for you).
Last week the Israeli Grammy award ceremony took place, and despite not having a TV they were broadcast on the all-Israeli music radio station. As if the American version isn't disappointing enough, the Israeli one was down right embarrassing. Like many forms of art in contemporary Western society, music is by and large turned into a side dish for commercials, and so what gets played to a larger audience is appropriately called "Middle of the Road" or MOR, so as to appeal to the (lowest) common denominator. As a result, four of the six nominees for Song of the Year sounded so similar in their dulling balladry that I just about fell asleep at 9:30pm. Granted, this is a larger debate about whether music and all forms of art should be inherently accesible to all sectors of society, or if there are 'levels' of culture; but we're talking content and substence here, not how much it costs to experience art (a different yet connected subject).
What was most striking about the ceremony, and what ultimately brought some excitement to it, was a protest by a singer named Eyal Golan, one of the most popular singers of Mizrahi music. Mizrahi, literally meaning "Eastern," is a hodgepodge of Greek/Turkish/Arab/Western pop music defined by its sound, the accents of its singers and the topics sung (normally God, love and/or one's mother -- very similar to Country music). Golan wore a shirt that protested the fact that the nominees did not represent this sector of this industry.
The mid-1990's were seen as a breakthough for this genre, with the mainstream success of Mizrahi music and what was seen as the emergence of an Israeli melting pot. Perhaps the introduction of Mizrahi music into radio stations would mean better socioeconomic conditions for the "Mizrahi" community, composed of immigrants and children of immigrants from an area stretching from Morocco to Iran (read: non-European).
On the one hand, Golan had every right to protest. A substantial percentage of the population listens and supports this type of music, itself very diverse; press promotion of concerts are small and confined to one page, while MOR take up at least two pages of the weekend paper; and the most popular radio stations play a handful of Mizrahi songs (and usually the most watered-down sounding ones) in their daily rotations, lending itself to looking like the American phenomenon of the token minority on TV channels.
On the other hand, Mizrahi music suffers from the same blandness that exemplifies MOR: Over-production, more often than not sounding like it's performed on the same child's electronic keyboard I had in the 80's; covers of very recent songs that don't bring any innovations; and lyrics that are increasingly predictable. Mizrahi music is said to have reached a milestone with the popularity of Zohar Argov, known as "The King" here. The song "Eizo Medina" (What a Country!) by Eli Luzon, however, encapsulates the social frustrations that the community faces, in their own sound, in a way Americans take for granted with the protest songs of the 1960's. If there were more songs like Luzon's in any Israeli genre (there are, but in very small numbers), then perhaps we'd be cookin'.
Anyways, enough of my ranting for now -- I have to finish the reading material for a class.
28 February 2007
28 January 2007
Not having a television and a properly working computer at home, I've been engaging in a rather surprising activity: reading. I know, it scares me too, but I'm engrossed in Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man," given to me as a high school graduation present by one of my English teachers (as I never got into English Honors in high school, wherein they read this book, it was an interesting gift at the time which I'm only now appreciating.) As a I'm a huge fan of Self/Other discussions and wit-filled writing, this book is hitting the spot and getting me to think out loud about a lot of different issues, such as the following:
One of the great materialistic things about Israel for me is that clothing fits me, between the size and style norms. Granted, the propensity for what Americans would call "Eurotrash" here is very high -- to the point of it becoming ridiculous. Perhaps it's a product of getting older, but some of the stuff they sell here is too much even for me.
That being said, there's a handful of Israeli clothing stores, and that's it. If we take my belief that clothing should be both practical and some outward reflection of oneself, then this country tends to eventually look the same and become lazy -- lazy, in terms of outward appearances. Perhaps I'm missing the point and it means that somehow Israeli society as a whole has evolved to the point of looking inwards....Then again, with hairdressers on every block in every town here, not to mention the general Americanization of consumer culture here, that last comment is pretty much a joke.
(No kidding about the hair -- there are four different salons on two adjoining blocks in my neighborhood. And I haven't even mentioned the styles: mohawk with a mullet among teenage Jews, shaved on the sides with a Jheri curl on top among Arab teenagers.)
More important than aesthetics, however, is one of many criticisms leveled at the aforementioned "Americanization of consumer culture" here (or perhaps more appropriately, the development of consumer culture in Israel as part of a general Americanization); namely, the abundance of "Made in China" products. I have a lot to say on this matter, especially from my involvement in high school with the Free Tibet Movement, to the extent that I try as much as possible not to buy products with the above label. As a sad result, there's a lot of places in this country where I cannot shop, or if I do most products -- be they clothes or otherwise -- are out of reach. It's actually not so sad for my wallet.
Just as in America, or perhaps here more, the abundance of "Made in China" as a brand is staggering and gets me (at least) thinking about the need for material goods over values. I liken this phenomenon to Israel selling weapons to CapitalistCommunist China and prizing normalization of itself over values inspired by its prophetic heritage. For those who are engaged in the Jewish community and current politics, "Prophetic heritage" has become such a cliche that I have a hard time using it here; yet one of the main reasons I moved here -- like many other Anglos -- was to fulfill philosophy through action and make a difference.
Sorry if you were expecting something different here, but one can only write about the weather and frightening middle-age women in Israel for so long.
Don't worry, plenty more to be said soon about getting my laissez-passer and finalizing my resignation.
Not having a television and a properly working computer at home, I've been engaging in a rather surprising activity: reading. I know, it scares me too, but I'm engrossed in Ralph Ellison's "Invisible Man," given to me as a high school graduation present by one of my English teachers (as I never got into English Honors in high school, wherein they read this book, it was an interesting gift at the time which I'm only now appreciating.) As a I'm a huge fan of Self/Other discussions and wit-filled writing, this book is hitting the spot and getting me to think out loud about a lot of different issues, such as the following:
One of the great materialistic things about Israel for me is that clothing fits me, between the size and style norms. Granted, the propensity for what Americans would call "Eurotrash" here is very high -- to the point of it becoming ridiculous. Perhaps it's a product of getting older, but some of the stuff they sell here is too much even for me.
That being said, there's a handful of Israeli clothing stores, and that's it. If we take my belief that clothing should be both practical and some outward reflection of oneself, then this country tends to eventually look the same and become lazy -- lazy, in terms of outward appearances. Perhaps I'm missing the point and it means that somehow Israeli society as a whole has evolved to the point of looking inwards....Then again, with hairdressers on every block in every town here, not to mention the general Americanization of consumer culture here, that last comment is pretty much a joke.
(No kidding about the hair -- there are four different salons on two adjoining blocks in my neighborhood. And I haven't even mentioned the styles: mohawk with a mullet among teenage Jews, shaved on the sides with a Jheri curl on top among Arab teenagers.)
More important than aesthetics, however, is one of many criticisms leveled at the aforementioned "Americanization of consumer culture" here (or perhaps more appropriately, the development of consumer culture in Israel as part of a general Americanization); namely, the abundance of "Made in China" products. I have a lot to say on this matter, especially from my involvement in high school with the Free Tibet Movement, to the extent that I try as much as possible not to buy products with the above label. As a sad result, there's a lot of places in this country where I cannot shop, or if I do most products -- be they clothes or otherwise -- are out of reach. It's actually not so sad for my wallet.
Just as in America, or perhaps here more, the abundance of "Made in China" as a brand is staggering and gets me (at least) thinking about the need for material goods over values. I liken this phenomenon to Israel selling weapons to CapitalistCommunist China and prizing normalization of itself over values inspired by its prophetic heritage. For those who are engaged in the Jewish community and current politics, "Prophetic heritage" has become such a cliche that I have a hard time using it here; yet one of the main reasons I moved here -- like many other Anglos -- was to fulfill philosophy through action and make a difference.
Sorry if you were expecting something different here, but one can only write about the weather and frightening middle-age women in Israel for so long.
Don't worry, plenty more to be said soon about getting my laissez-passer and finalizing my resignation.
27 February 2007
27 February 2007
My computer is still possessed by some reincarnation of a Luddite, whom I'm convinced was blind in his/her life in the early 19th century, as my computer continues to function and play music off the internet but refuses to display anything after 10-15 minutes. As such, I've become a major fan/addict of WOXY.com, a former independent radio station outside of Cincinnati that has since begun broadcasting online. The WOXY Vintage station in particular is fantastic, with playlists that rival my iPod in diversity and weirdness.
The other saving grace is the computer lab on campus, with a very fast internet connection and very noisy student. Despite a colored laminated sign by each individual computer with a picture of a cellphone crossed out with a thick red line, everyone talks on their phone or at least lets it ring at the highest volume possible.
The strike proposed by the National Student Union on Sunday -- the first day of school -- was cancelled, yet there's still the strike planned for Wednesday by the Labor Federation. While one report claims it's not going to be a comprehensive strike, which would include the airport and banks, who knows? If there is one, it's supposed to begin tomorrow at 6AM....As long as it doesn't affect the buses, workers of the State unite!
(I'm really not that selfish, they're striking over a very legitimate cause -- not being paid after being promised)
Lots more to say, especially with the fact that I've been living here for 6 months now and tomorrow marks the Septennial of my first tiem in Israel. For now, gotta register for some new classes, finish up with my former job, and go to class.
My computer is still possessed by some reincarnation of a Luddite, whom I'm convinced was blind in his/her life in the early 19th century, as my computer continues to function and play music off the internet but refuses to display anything after 10-15 minutes. As such, I've become a major fan/addict of WOXY.com, a former independent radio station outside of Cincinnati that has since begun broadcasting online. The WOXY Vintage station in particular is fantastic, with playlists that rival my iPod in diversity and weirdness.
The other saving grace is the computer lab on campus, with a very fast internet connection and very noisy student. Despite a colored laminated sign by each individual computer with a picture of a cellphone crossed out with a thick red line, everyone talks on their phone or at least lets it ring at the highest volume possible.
The strike proposed by the National Student Union on Sunday -- the first day of school -- was cancelled, yet there's still the strike planned for Wednesday by the Labor Federation. While one report claims it's not going to be a comprehensive strike, which would include the airport and banks, who knows? If there is one, it's supposed to begin tomorrow at 6AM....As long as it doesn't affect the buses, workers of the State unite!
(I'm really not that selfish, they're striking over a very legitimate cause -- not being paid after being promised)
Lots more to say, especially with the fact that I've been living here for 6 months now and tomorrow marks the Septennial of my first tiem in Israel. For now, gotta register for some new classes, finish up with my former job, and go to class.
11 February 2007
11 January 2007
At NYU we were warned about drug-dealers in Washington Square Park, and for women to be careful of their surroundings. What do we have to be careful of at Hebrew U? Packs of wild dogs.
Getting ready for a meeting in the evening, I heard the odd sound of dogs barking on campus. As the campus, like all of Israel, is overrun with feral cats (cats are to here what squirrels are to the States), the sound of barking dogs was very strange. I looked out the window, and sure enough dog after dog was pouring into a walkway between buildings, to the extent it looked like a remake of the scene from "A Christmas Story" where the next-door beighbors have a horde of bloodhounds that terrorize the protagonist's family. Ten dogs were now swarming the campus -- I called campus security, who promptly said "we already know the situation" and "we're taking care of it, someone from the Municipality is coming." The thought of running to my meeting for fear of running into this pack of wild dogs had me laughing to myself, something I definitely needed.
From the last post, not much as changed with work, I'm progressively unhappier there. I didn't get a job offer I was hoping for, but they promised to find work for me in the next few weeks.
Meanwhile, the lack of recent posts has to do with the fact that my computer is once again going blank on a regular basis. I've diagnosed it as either a faulty screen, an overheating battery or the fan is not working well enough -- because of the last two, I end up putting the laptop in the fridge to chill, on the top shelf just under the freezer with its beard of ice. It really does work, and back in the States I've seen a "cooling" mat for laptops that I'm intending to buy (I was actually thinking of buying it before moving here, but for some reason I didn't).
Two more finals to go, both in prerequisite classes, so I can hopefully be done with htem and start the process of writing a thesis.
At NYU we were warned about drug-dealers in Washington Square Park, and for women to be careful of their surroundings. What do we have to be careful of at Hebrew U? Packs of wild dogs.
Getting ready for a meeting in the evening, I heard the odd sound of dogs barking on campus. As the campus, like all of Israel, is overrun with feral cats (cats are to here what squirrels are to the States), the sound of barking dogs was very strange. I looked out the window, and sure enough dog after dog was pouring into a walkway between buildings, to the extent it looked like a remake of the scene from "A Christmas Story" where the next-door beighbors have a horde of bloodhounds that terrorize the protagonist's family. Ten dogs were now swarming the campus -- I called campus security, who promptly said "we already know the situation" and "we're taking care of it, someone from the Municipality is coming." The thought of running to my meeting for fear of running into this pack of wild dogs had me laughing to myself, something I definitely needed.
From the last post, not much as changed with work, I'm progressively unhappier there. I didn't get a job offer I was hoping for, but they promised to find work for me in the next few weeks.
Meanwhile, the lack of recent posts has to do with the fact that my computer is once again going blank on a regular basis. I've diagnosed it as either a faulty screen, an overheating battery or the fan is not working well enough -- because of the last two, I end up putting the laptop in the fridge to chill, on the top shelf just under the freezer with its beard of ice. It really does work, and back in the States I've seen a "cooling" mat for laptops that I'm intending to buy (I was actually thinking of buying it before moving here, but for some reason I didn't).
Two more finals to go, both in prerequisite classes, so I can hopefully be done with htem and start the process of writing a thesis.
31 January 2007
31 January 2007
I'm sick again, the second time this winter. This never happened in all my 25 years in the States, so to say "this sucks" would be an understatement. The weather has changed from bright, sunny and warm on the weekend to cold and rainy once again. While it's great that the rain returned...
I woke up this morning with a painful itch in the back of my throat, making me wince every time I swallow. As I began to go about the day, my sinuses felt like they were going to implode. I got through my work, and decided to go to SuperPharm to get throat lozenges. Wouldn't you know it, the day I'm sick and need to go there, only one register is open, and the guy behind it is not only a moron in that he can't properly ring up the woman employee who cut in front of me in line, but doesn't have the guts to say "sorry for the wait;" instead he proceeds to give me the same cold shoulder that I'm giving him. There's something about working in a convenience/pharmacy/toiletries store, whether it's Superpharm, Duane Reede or the infamous CVS that makes people turn into idiots, or else they're just hired that way. Either way, yet another thing in common with the States.
I have to now go back to the accursed store for better throat lozenges that have medication other than Ricola's elderberry extract flavor. Not to mention at some point soon keep working on my take-home test on Lebanon. Take-home tests: sounds like a great idea, until the attached procrastination kicks in and forces you to watch clips of "West Wing on YouTube. And/or makes you sick for the second time in a month.
I'm sick again, the second time this winter. This never happened in all my 25 years in the States, so to say "this sucks" would be an understatement. The weather has changed from bright, sunny and warm on the weekend to cold and rainy once again. While it's great that the rain returned...
I woke up this morning with a painful itch in the back of my throat, making me wince every time I swallow. As I began to go about the day, my sinuses felt like they were going to implode. I got through my work, and decided to go to SuperPharm to get throat lozenges. Wouldn't you know it, the day I'm sick and need to go there, only one register is open, and the guy behind it is not only a moron in that he can't properly ring up the woman employee who cut in front of me in line, but doesn't have the guts to say "sorry for the wait;" instead he proceeds to give me the same cold shoulder that I'm giving him. There's something about working in a convenience/pharmacy/toiletries store, whether it's Superpharm, Duane Reede or the infamous CVS that makes people turn into idiots, or else they're just hired that way. Either way, yet another thing in common with the States.
I have to now go back to the accursed store for better throat lozenges that have medication other than Ricola's elderberry extract flavor. Not to mention at some point soon keep working on my take-home test on Lebanon. Take-home tests: sounds like a great idea, until the attached procrastination kicks in and forces you to watch clips of "West Wing on YouTube. And/or makes you sick for the second time in a month.
29 January 2007
29 January 2007
I'm not trying to insult anyone's intelligence when I write the following: I'm fine, nowhere near the suicide bombing that happened today. I don't assume everyone who reads this blog knows Israel's geography -- Jerusalem is in the center, and Eilat is the southernmost town in the country, a four-hour drive away.
That being said, it's rather scary that Eilat was hit. On the one hand, there hasn't been an attack in the country for a long time, in part thanks to the security buffer; on the other hand, Eilat, being a resort town for Europeans, never gets attacked and this could be a huge setback for the tourism industry in this country.
Thought I'd update the blog while taking a nap after Part 2 of my Arabic final (it went well, although I didn't remember the literal translations of some of the words that we were assumed to memorize. Once again, it's all about the assumptions here.)
I'm not trying to insult anyone's intelligence when I write the following: I'm fine, nowhere near the suicide bombing that happened today. I don't assume everyone who reads this blog knows Israel's geography -- Jerusalem is in the center, and Eilat is the southernmost town in the country, a four-hour drive away.
That being said, it's rather scary that Eilat was hit. On the one hand, there hasn't been an attack in the country for a long time, in part thanks to the security buffer; on the other hand, Eilat, being a resort town for Europeans, never gets attacked and this could be a huge setback for the tourism industry in this country.
Thought I'd update the blog while taking a nap after Part 2 of my Arabic final (it went well, although I didn't remember the literal translations of some of the words that we were assumed to memorize. Once again, it's all about the assumptions here.)
20 January 2007
20 January 2007
My computer is working for the moment, after finally deciding to reformat the hard drive (i.e., erainsg all files and starting from scratch). I saved what I could triage-wise on a USB key, completely forgetting all my Favorites page and a good percentage of mp3's (they still exist on my iPod, so we'll see what happens when I reinstall the iPod software).
All Saturday I wanted to take a walk, yet I knew it was at some point going to rain. Just as Shabbat ended, the wind picked up, the sky turned an ominous shade of mauve, and the rain began. Just like three weeks ago, it poured and poured. I guess the best equivalent to this kind of rain is a monsoon -- seasonal and when it arrives, it arrives in buckets, complete with thunder/lightning. I had an engagement party to go to, trudging through the rain to get there. After a little bit I left, only for the hail to begin. With no cars out, the sound was amplified, as if I was walking in the middle of one of those "rainsticks" they sell in nature stores. My normal way of walking home was blocked by a huge tree which had fallen over, taking some power lines with it.
It's amazing how a Mediterranean storm can make me feel like I'm back in DC.
My computer is working for the moment, after finally deciding to reformat the hard drive (i.e., erainsg all files and starting from scratch). I saved what I could triage-wise on a USB key, completely forgetting all my Favorites page and a good percentage of mp3's (they still exist on my iPod, so we'll see what happens when I reinstall the iPod software).
All Saturday I wanted to take a walk, yet I knew it was at some point going to rain. Just as Shabbat ended, the wind picked up, the sky turned an ominous shade of mauve, and the rain began. Just like three weeks ago, it poured and poured. I guess the best equivalent to this kind of rain is a monsoon -- seasonal and when it arrives, it arrives in buckets, complete with thunder/lightning. I had an engagement party to go to, trudging through the rain to get there. After a little bit I left, only for the hail to begin. With no cars out, the sound was amplified, as if I was walking in the middle of one of those "rainsticks" they sell in nature stores. My normal way of walking home was blocked by a huge tree which had fallen over, taking some power lines with it.
It's amazing how a Mediterranean storm can make me feel like I'm back in DC.
19 January 2007
19 January 2007
My computer has gotten possessed by some sort of demon, which in a fit will cause the screen to start flickering, eventually turning the screen completely gray with several white horizontal lines placed in a way that would make a great design for a sweater at Gap, but not on my computer. If I start up the computer in "debugging mode," it seems to help. The demon is probably a Luddite, and as a result I haven't spent hours on You Tube or a new site I just hear about from a friend with full TV shows and movies.
Where to start? Last weekend I went up to Tel Aviv for a few hours to see good friends from college. As soon as I got out of the minibus, I took a deep breath of Central Bus Station air, full of smashed Russian beer bottles and illegal migrant workers, and was so happy to be in Tel Aviv/out of Jerusalem. We sat outside at a café notorious for poor service, and I absorbed the warmth and view of the sea.
Flash forward a week and it's surprisingly warm here in Jerusalem. So much so that I opened the windows in my apartment. While it's great that it's somewhere in the 60's today, we haven't had any rain since the Great Flood two weeks ago. If the dew point is at a certain level (I never understood the dew point), everything is covered with a skin of moisture, and when one inhales the moisture fills one's lungs. An odd feeling, but that's life on a mountain surrounded by desert.
Sunday brings another strike by the Student Union, making students go a bit berserk because exams are soon approaching; not to mention the new overseas students for the spring semester arrive on Sunday for registration. More than 200, to be exact. Hebrew U is going to have an amount of students that it hasn't seen in several years, which is amazing, even if I'm still part-time staff.
The computer is starting to flicker again, especially when I started playing a movie. Damn. I'm hoping it's a software problem that can easily be fixed.
My computer has gotten possessed by some sort of demon, which in a fit will cause the screen to start flickering, eventually turning the screen completely gray with several white horizontal lines placed in a way that would make a great design for a sweater at Gap, but not on my computer. If I start up the computer in "debugging mode," it seems to help. The demon is probably a Luddite, and as a result I haven't spent hours on You Tube or a new site I just hear about from a friend with full TV shows and movies.
Where to start? Last weekend I went up to Tel Aviv for a few hours to see good friends from college. As soon as I got out of the minibus, I took a deep breath of Central Bus Station air, full of smashed Russian beer bottles and illegal migrant workers, and was so happy to be in Tel Aviv/out of Jerusalem. We sat outside at a café notorious for poor service, and I absorbed the warmth and view of the sea.
Flash forward a week and it's surprisingly warm here in Jerusalem. So much so that I opened the windows in my apartment. While it's great that it's somewhere in the 60's today, we haven't had any rain since the Great Flood two weeks ago. If the dew point is at a certain level (I never understood the dew point), everything is covered with a skin of moisture, and when one inhales the moisture fills one's lungs. An odd feeling, but that's life on a mountain surrounded by desert.
Sunday brings another strike by the Student Union, making students go a bit berserk because exams are soon approaching; not to mention the new overseas students for the spring semester arrive on Sunday for registration. More than 200, to be exact. Hebrew U is going to have an amount of students that it hasn't seen in several years, which is amazing, even if I'm still part-time staff.
The computer is starting to flicker again, especially when I started playing a movie. Damn. I'm hoping it's a software problem that can easily be fixed.
08 January 2007
After weeks and weeks of resisting getting sick, the cold/flu/virus/whatever that been spreading through Jerusalem finally caught me. This morning I was able to get to my 8.30 class relatively on time, which definitely meant something was different. As the morning progressed, the pressure in my head increased. After grabbing lunch on campus with a great friend from high school, I told work I had to go home. I had to stop at the pharmacy downtown, and unfortunately took the bus with the scenic tour of Jerusalem. The pharmacy, part of a chain in Israel, was having a Buy One Get One Free sale, so the customers and staff were going insane. The pharmacist was kind enough to explain the difference between two different types of cold medicine, and I was soon enough out of there.
Looking at the box, which contained both day & night medications, I regretted that it included the dreaded pseudoephedrine, but my throbbing sinuses couldn't wait. I got home, took the pills and ate food, and tried to rest by watching a movie. Turns out watching "Donnie Darko" (an amazing movie) while on Dexamol Cold daytime formula leads to some odd feelings, one of which being a near-complete blurring of time. Not quite sure if I was asleep or not, I got out of bed, made sure to eat something, and eventually met up with two friends for a drink. My drink being hot tea.
After weeks and weeks of resisting getting sick, the cold/flu/virus/whatever that been spreading through Jerusalem finally caught me. This morning I was able to get to my 8.30 class relatively on time, which definitely meant something was different. As the morning progressed, the pressure in my head increased. After grabbing lunch on campus with a great friend from high school, I told work I had to go home. I had to stop at the pharmacy downtown, and unfortunately took the bus with the scenic tour of Jerusalem. The pharmacy, part of a chain in Israel, was having a Buy One Get One Free sale, so the customers and staff were going insane. The pharmacist was kind enough to explain the difference between two different types of cold medicine, and I was soon enough out of there.
Looking at the box, which contained both day & night medications, I regretted that it included the dreaded pseudoephedrine, but my throbbing sinuses couldn't wait. I got home, took the pills and ate food, and tried to rest by watching a movie. Turns out watching "Donnie Darko" (an amazing movie) while on Dexamol Cold daytime formula leads to some odd feelings, one of which being a near-complete blurring of time. Not quite sure if I was asleep or not, I got out of bed, made sure to eat something, and eventually met up with two friends for a drink. My drink being hot tea.
07 January 2007
07 January 2007
PS: One of the other rules I forgot to mention in the previous post was that I am also forbidden to get involved with any one named Tiffany, Brittany, and Brandy.
The strike last Wednesday really did happen: The gates to the university were closed, covered in posters and locked with thick chains. The main gates for cars and buses were blocked. There was a gate open for campus staff only, which I begrudgingly entered. Anyone who showed a student ID to the security guard would be heckled by an intimidating member of the Student Union, wedged into the entrance.
After a 2-hour meeting which was uneventful, to put it mildly, I ran out of the building to get off of campus. Members of the Student Union were blowing whistles at any student they saw, despite the fact that the overseas and pre-college prep students were not affected by the strike. While they stated in an email/communiqué that due to the upcoming finals period, they will wait to wage a protracted strike until next semester, I am nonetheless impressed with how well the protest went, even though pictures from the protest showed them burning tires. As if Jerusalem wasn't polluted enough.
Regardless of the strike, I was in a hurry to get off of campus to see my mom. She was asked to co-staff a 2-week trip for DC area college students, many of whom I know as birthright israel past participants. Although I have lots of friends in Israel, and plenty of work to keep me busy, it's a whole other experience to have a family member be here. Despite keeping a very busy schedule, we managed to see each other several times in the course of her program, including coming over for lunch this past Saturday.
On top of my mom's visit, I have lots of friends visiting from the States now. Friday night dinner saw the reunion of several friends from DC, all of us managing to resort to our once-usual conversations on politics, Israel and Jewish identity. I've definitely missed those meals, as they fed my native Washingtonian soul. This week sees no less than ten people from various walks of my life passing through Israel, and with the semester for overseas students over, I can actually go out during the week to see them, and even invite them over to my recently-cleaned apartment.
This past weekend saw one of the most vicious storms in recent memory. The rain began Friday afternoon with buckets of rain pouring down on a friend & me, as we bought food for Shabbat dinner. The rain never let up, eventually escalating into hail, and then very dramatic bouts of thunder & lightning, eerily bright and booming. In Israel, it's not very common to have long thunderstorms with thunder that rattles the windows. Those of us from DC who were at dinner are used to this kind of weather, albeit not normally in the winter. I couldn't help but think about the native-born Israelis in Jerusalem, who are not only unaccustomed to such weather, but don't have the happiest of connotations with bright flashes of light and crashing noises. On the plus side, the Kinneret/Sea of Galilee, Israel's main freshwater reserve, rose by 5cm this past weekend.
PS: One of the other rules I forgot to mention in the previous post was that I am also forbidden to get involved with any one named Tiffany, Brittany, and Brandy.
The strike last Wednesday really did happen: The gates to the university were closed, covered in posters and locked with thick chains. The main gates for cars and buses were blocked. There was a gate open for campus staff only, which I begrudgingly entered. Anyone who showed a student ID to the security guard would be heckled by an intimidating member of the Student Union, wedged into the entrance.
After a 2-hour meeting which was uneventful, to put it mildly, I ran out of the building to get off of campus. Members of the Student Union were blowing whistles at any student they saw, despite the fact that the overseas and pre-college prep students were not affected by the strike. While they stated in an email/communiqué that due to the upcoming finals period, they will wait to wage a protracted strike until next semester, I am nonetheless impressed with how well the protest went, even though pictures from the protest showed them burning tires. As if Jerusalem wasn't polluted enough.
Regardless of the strike, I was in a hurry to get off of campus to see my mom. She was asked to co-staff a 2-week trip for DC area college students, many of whom I know as birthright israel past participants. Although I have lots of friends in Israel, and plenty of work to keep me busy, it's a whole other experience to have a family member be here. Despite keeping a very busy schedule, we managed to see each other several times in the course of her program, including coming over for lunch this past Saturday.
On top of my mom's visit, I have lots of friends visiting from the States now. Friday night dinner saw the reunion of several friends from DC, all of us managing to resort to our once-usual conversations on politics, Israel and Jewish identity. I've definitely missed those meals, as they fed my native Washingtonian soul. This week sees no less than ten people from various walks of my life passing through Israel, and with the semester for overseas students over, I can actually go out during the week to see them, and even invite them over to my recently-cleaned apartment.
This past weekend saw one of the most vicious storms in recent memory. The rain began Friday afternoon with buckets of rain pouring down on a friend & me, as we bought food for Shabbat dinner. The rain never let up, eventually escalating into hail, and then very dramatic bouts of thunder & lightning, eerily bright and booming. In Israel, it's not very common to have long thunderstorms with thunder that rattles the windows. Those of us from DC who were at dinner are used to this kind of weather, albeit not normally in the winter. I couldn't help but think about the native-born Israelis in Jerusalem, who are not only unaccustomed to such weather, but don't have the happiest of connotations with bright flashes of light and crashing noises. On the plus side, the Kinneret/Sea of Galilee, Israel's main freshwater reserve, rose by 5cm this past weekend.
02 January 2007
02 January 2007
Tomorrow there is a planned general strike on campus by the Student Union. While I understand the strike is about the proposed increase in tuition at public universities, the concept of an organized group of students striking, not to mention canceling classes, is foreign territory. The last new I heard is that classes are cancelled, it's going to be hard to get onto campus, and they're going to let campus workers in the gates. I have a staff meeting at 10am, and while I'm planning to go, there's the issue of having to potentially cross a picket-line.
I may not take my father's advice to heart all the time, but there a few principles I've been taught to live by him: Don't get involved with a woman who's from New Jersey and/or a Republican, and never cross a picket-line. The first tenet is pretty easy to live by, but I've never encountered an instance where the second one would need to be followed. After I graduated from NYU, the graduate students held a strike in front of the library – had I been there, I would not have entered the building. Regardless of the issues and whether I support them or not, this is a legal demonstration that is planned, enshrined in Israel's young democracy, and as such should there arise the issue of facing a "mishméret shovtím" (in this country, of course there's a parallel phrase in Hebrew for a picket-line), I would have to go all the way to campus only to turn around.
To add to the sanity that is tomorrow, I'm volunteering with my old job, Taglit-birthright israel, at the "Mega-Event" this Wednesday and Thursday nights. The M-E is non-creative title for thousands of participants from around the world who come together at the convention center here in Jerusalem to hear politicians, philanthropists, and celebrate their ability to be in Israel for free. I'm manning the Alumni Association booth, and as such will be likely to bump into lots and lots of people I know, plus all the familiar sights I've grown to love: The Brazilian/Argentinean fights, the drunk American students, and the roll-call of countries present and the subsequent upping the ante of who can scream the loudest longest when their country is named.
Tomorrow there is a planned general strike on campus by the Student Union. While I understand the strike is about the proposed increase in tuition at public universities, the concept of an organized group of students striking, not to mention canceling classes, is foreign territory. The last new I heard is that classes are cancelled, it's going to be hard to get onto campus, and they're going to let campus workers in the gates. I have a staff meeting at 10am, and while I'm planning to go, there's the issue of having to potentially cross a picket-line.
I may not take my father's advice to heart all the time, but there a few principles I've been taught to live by him: Don't get involved with a woman who's from New Jersey and/or a Republican, and never cross a picket-line. The first tenet is pretty easy to live by, but I've never encountered an instance where the second one would need to be followed. After I graduated from NYU, the graduate students held a strike in front of the library – had I been there, I would not have entered the building. Regardless of the issues and whether I support them or not, this is a legal demonstration that is planned, enshrined in Israel's young democracy, and as such should there arise the issue of facing a "mishméret shovtím" (in this country, of course there's a parallel phrase in Hebrew for a picket-line), I would have to go all the way to campus only to turn around.
To add to the sanity that is tomorrow, I'm volunteering with my old job, Taglit-birthright israel, at the "Mega-Event" this Wednesday and Thursday nights. The M-E is non-creative title for thousands of participants from around the world who come together at the convention center here in Jerusalem to hear politicians, philanthropists, and celebrate their ability to be in Israel for free. I'm manning the Alumni Association booth, and as such will be likely to bump into lots and lots of people I know, plus all the familiar sights I've grown to love: The Brazilian/Argentinean fights, the drunk American students, and the roll-call of countries present and the subsequent upping the ante of who can scream the loudest longest when their country is named.
30 December 2006
The snow came, freaked everyone out, and has just about disappeared. The resulting pandemonium on the faces and in the voices of Israelis, coupled with the instant turning of freshly fallen snow into grey slush, brought back warm memories of DC. Although it may be cold here, bright blue skies trump any possibility of slush turning into ice.
Shabbat was spent catching up the news and much needed English-language magazines on culture and music. I have just about lost all patience for the two English newspapers in Israel, which either suffer from a horrible translation job or a lack of coverage beyond the often self-enclosed English-speaking communities here in Israel (known as "Anglo-Saxons"). As for the magazines…they cost a bloody fortune here, but well worth it. If this MidEast Studies gig doesn't work out, I'm going into the print importing business.
The snow came, freaked everyone out, and has just about disappeared. The resulting pandemonium on the faces and in the voices of Israelis, coupled with the instant turning of freshly fallen snow into grey slush, brought back warm memories of DC. Although it may be cold here, bright blue skies trump any possibility of slush turning into ice.
Shabbat was spent catching up the news and much needed English-language magazines on culture and music. I have just about lost all patience for the two English newspapers in Israel, which either suffer from a horrible translation job or a lack of coverage beyond the often self-enclosed English-speaking communities here in Israel (known as "Anglo-Saxons"). As for the magazines…they cost a bloody fortune here, but well worth it. If this MidEast Studies gig doesn't work out, I'm going into the print importing business.
27 December 2006
27 December 2006
Any reader of this blog will quickly understand that I am missing the entire Christmas season. Looks like we got a little bit of the season spirit here.
After a long dry spell here, it began to rain last night. No drizzle, no sprinkling -- serious downpours with thunder & lightning. The rain continued through this morning...then turning to hail...then sleet...and finally at about 2pm, snow.
The snow went in and out in terms of intensity, but think snowflakes were soon covering the entire area, eventually sticking to the ground. My view from campus of Jordan got fuzzier and fuzzier with time, until it was a total whiteout. The Israeli students and staff were flipping out, getting their pictures taken outside. They all kept asking me if it felt like Christmas, which of course it did. Soon enough the Israelis, myself included, started acting like Washingtonians in a snowstorm -- freaking out. Rumors were spreading of classes being cancelled, and everyone was abuzz with what would happen with the multiple high-profile programs at Hillel tonight. By 4pm, all events and classes were cancelled, even mine which was supposed to be at one of the dorms.
WOOHOO! Snow Day in Israel! We had it comin', not getting off for Christmas.
I get on the bus, and as we pull into the winter wonderland, I turn my iPod on the random shuffle mode. What comes up as the first song? "Snowstorm," by an indie rock group named Galaxie 500, only to be followd by the Xmas carol "Joy to the World" in Arabic. Coincidence?
Getting home was surprisingly unadventurous, through the slick and mucky streets and the incredible views of this city under snow. The pictures above are from my balcony at around 6:30pm, so the lighting isn't as dramatic as it was before.
I'm still doing my homework, so as to fulfill the requirements of Murphy's Law for school to be cancelled tomorrow. My street hasn't been plowed nor treated with snow, and when I left campus, the outside walkways were filled with slush and liable to freeze over into ice tonight.
If I dare to venture outside tonigh , I'll bring the camera.
23 December 2006
23 December 2006
I don't know what others dream in their sleep. Sometimes it's several different thoughts or experiences from the last few days that are mushed into one seamless narrative that is on par with work by Dali. And then there are dreams which fall somewhere between memories and predictions that leave me with constant bouts of deja vu.
Take the other weekend for example. I was helping lead a group of overseas students to Eilat for the weekend. Eilat is the southernmost town in Israel, located on the Red Sea, with Jordan and Egypt visible from the city center. In the past 6 months, I have had two dreams about Eilat which left me rather reluctant to go down there.
The first was connected to a beach that I grew up going to on the Delmarva Peninsula (I've taken a vow of silence in naming this place, for fear that the encroaching tourism from other locales will soon reach it). The ocean has been slowly but surely encroaching on the beach, to hte point where every few years the parking lots on the other side of the sand dunes are covered in water. My mind equated this already tiny piece of land with Eilat, with my entire extended family trying to flee the encroaching water by driving endlessly. The second was again had my entire extended family as cast, this time going on a vacation to Eilat. The land got progessively narrower and and narrower, to the point that at the last hill overlooking the town, once could see the ferries that took passengers to Eilat, which was now an island in the middle of a raging sea.
There's a lot more for me to explore in this country, and every time I take the train here I'm amazed at how big the land feels here....yet we're still talking about a country whose length is less than that when I drive with my parents from DC to our realives in Cincinnati. Part of immigrant absorption here is not just the culture and bureaucracy, but the compactness of things. Interesting that this lesson got taught through dreams.
It's Christmastime and I'm missing it intensely. I've downloaded more than a dozen songs, watched "Charlie Brown Christmas" and "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" online, and my mom (who just arrived the other day staffing a trip here, definitely nice to see her), brought me my CD of a famous Arab singer and her Semitic covers of classic Christmas songs, and a copy of "A Christmas Story," a true classic that I grew up watching.
It's going to take a long time to get the Christmas affinity out of me. There's something about the lights, artificial happiness, and constant biblical-themed programming on cable stations that gets me very excited in a way that Passover only can vis a vis Jewish holidays. Despite living in Jerusalem, there's very little awareness and visiblity that it's Christmastime. The other week I had to go to the city center by chance, and lo and behold the main pedestrian throroughfare was decked in lights. The parallel road was covered in icicle lights, leaving me speechless. The flower stores in the shuk are selling poinsettias, almost tempting me to buy one.
I make no apologies about my connection with Christmas, not when I sang carols with the overseas students while in Eilat, and not tomorrow when I listen to them on the way to work and classes.
I don't know what others dream in their sleep. Sometimes it's several different thoughts or experiences from the last few days that are mushed into one seamless narrative that is on par with work by Dali. And then there are dreams which fall somewhere between memories and predictions that leave me with constant bouts of deja vu.
Take the other weekend for example. I was helping lead a group of overseas students to Eilat for the weekend. Eilat is the southernmost town in Israel, located on the Red Sea, with Jordan and Egypt visible from the city center. In the past 6 months, I have had two dreams about Eilat which left me rather reluctant to go down there.
The first was connected to a beach that I grew up going to on the Delmarva Peninsula (I've taken a vow of silence in naming this place, for fear that the encroaching tourism from other locales will soon reach it). The ocean has been slowly but surely encroaching on the beach, to hte point where every few years the parking lots on the other side of the sand dunes are covered in water. My mind equated this already tiny piece of land with Eilat, with my entire extended family trying to flee the encroaching water by driving endlessly. The second was again had my entire extended family as cast, this time going on a vacation to Eilat. The land got progessively narrower and and narrower, to the point that at the last hill overlooking the town, once could see the ferries that took passengers to Eilat, which was now an island in the middle of a raging sea.
There's a lot more for me to explore in this country, and every time I take the train here I'm amazed at how big the land feels here....yet we're still talking about a country whose length is less than that when I drive with my parents from DC to our realives in Cincinnati. Part of immigrant absorption here is not just the culture and bureaucracy, but the compactness of things. Interesting that this lesson got taught through dreams.
It's Christmastime and I'm missing it intensely. I've downloaded more than a dozen songs, watched "Charlie Brown Christmas" and "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" online, and my mom (who just arrived the other day staffing a trip here, definitely nice to see her), brought me my CD of a famous Arab singer and her Semitic covers of classic Christmas songs, and a copy of "A Christmas Story," a true classic that I grew up watching.
It's going to take a long time to get the Christmas affinity out of me. There's something about the lights, artificial happiness, and constant biblical-themed programming on cable stations that gets me very excited in a way that Passover only can vis a vis Jewish holidays. Despite living in Jerusalem, there's very little awareness and visiblity that it's Christmastime. The other week I had to go to the city center by chance, and lo and behold the main pedestrian throroughfare was decked in lights. The parallel road was covered in icicle lights, leaving me speechless. The flower stores in the shuk are selling poinsettias, almost tempting me to buy one.
I make no apologies about my connection with Christmas, not when I sang carols with the overseas students while in Eilat, and not tomorrow when I listen to them on the way to work and classes.
12 December 2006
12 December 2006
Postscript to the previous post: You absolutely have to click on the link for the Lottery here, www.pais.co.il. Click on the blue button at the bottom of the screen and you can see the taped lottery drawing from tonight. All I wanted were the numbers, and instead I good a huge dose of laughter.
In anticipation for the drawing, there's a studio that looks lie it's from the early 1990's (i.e., contemporary Israeli), with an orchestra andsingers performing everything from "The Impossible Dream" in Hebrew, "If I Were a Rich Man," "Money, Money, Money", and the drawing is set to a live jazzed-up redntion of the theme song from the promos. This is too good.
Much to my astonishment, I did not win. The most I got in one row (the ticket looks a lot like Powerball from the States, but a LOT more expensive) was two. Oh well, better luck next time, right?
Postscript to the previous post: You absolutely have to click on the link for the Lottery here, www.pais.co.il. Click on the blue button at the bottom of the screen and you can see the taped lottery drawing from tonight. All I wanted were the numbers, and instead I good a huge dose of laughter.
In anticipation for the drawing, there's a studio that looks lie it's from the early 1990's (i.e., contemporary Israeli), with an orchestra andsingers performing everything from "The Impossible Dream" in Hebrew, "If I Were a Rich Man," "Money, Money, Money", and the drawing is set to a live jazzed-up redntion of the theme song from the promos. This is too good.
Much to my astonishment, I did not win. The most I got in one row (the ticket looks a lot like Powerball from the States, but a LOT more expensive) was two. Oh well, better luck next time, right?
11 December 2006
11 December 2006
Tomorrow, in my required course entitled "Problems and Methodology in MidEast Studies," I'm giving a short presentation ("Refarat," the Hebraized form of "report") on the biography of the late Edward Said. I'm working on polishing up the 15-minute report now, including translating it into Hebrew (I'm not quite at level of original compositions in Hebrew).
A few things struck me as I was reading up on his life:
-For a moment, skip his politics and ideologies regarding Israel, American Jews and the West. The trained English professor was intellectually and academically dishonest. In his seminal work "Orientalism" he not only chose works that proved his already-formualted thesis regarding the West's inherent racism and feelings of superiority over the East (and thus left out even more evidence that contradicts his thoughts), but he lumped together writers and thinkers with varying levels of academic background and respectability. His insistence to generalize and leave out other, non-supporting examples sounds a lot like, um, his argument against the West's generalizing of the East.
-"Orientalism" was introduced as an upcoming topic to the class last month, so people could read it. From the reactions of students, I have to unfortunately assume they never read it as an undergraduate. Again, say what you will about the man and his influence on making my field of study one bug subjective mess in the States, but this is a pretty important book. And these students are only now reading it??
-This Methodologies class feels incredibly out of place in Israel. The class is an ongoing discussion on history and social theory, with philosphy thrown in for good measure. For a system that's that seems driven (at least by the students and administration) on final examinations and a "getin & out of class fast" policy, this class is out of place. Mind you, I think it's great.
I broke down this evening and bought a lottery ticket for tonight's big 50 Million Shekel drawing ($11.5 million). Supposedly half of Israel's adult population has bought a ticket in this drawing, whose promotion has gone on for way too long. You can see the promo at www.pais.co.il, but I'll explain its significance: The zero in the "50" is shaped like a hamsa ("five" in Arabic), a common Middle Eastern symbol meant to bring good luck and more importantly keep away the Evil Eye. Just as some people will say "tfoo tfoo tfoo" to ward off bad luck, many in ths neck of the woods will say "hamsa hamsa hamsa." The jingle, "50 Million, Let's hope it's for me" is set to the tun of a recent and famous Mizrachi ("Oriental") song that anyone in Israel recognizes.
Granted, the liberal arts-NYU alumnus-DC liberal in me wants to tear apart the promotional posters in the name of ending the commodification of the socio-economic lower class' cultural and ethnic traditions for the sake of a product that naturally preys on the lower classes...but I still haven't found the corresponding word for "commodification" in Hebrew. Not to mention I cannot stand Marxist theory.
It's interesting, I bought a ticket, and that's all for now.
Tomorrow, in my required course entitled "Problems and Methodology in MidEast Studies," I'm giving a short presentation ("Refarat," the Hebraized form of "report") on the biography of the late Edward Said. I'm working on polishing up the 15-minute report now, including translating it into Hebrew (I'm not quite at level of original compositions in Hebrew).
A few things struck me as I was reading up on his life:
-For a moment, skip his politics and ideologies regarding Israel, American Jews and the West. The trained English professor was intellectually and academically dishonest. In his seminal work "Orientalism" he not only chose works that proved his already-formualted thesis regarding the West's inherent racism and feelings of superiority over the East (and thus left out even more evidence that contradicts his thoughts), but he lumped together writers and thinkers with varying levels of academic background and respectability. His insistence to generalize and leave out other, non-supporting examples sounds a lot like, um, his argument against the West's generalizing of the East.
-"Orientalism" was introduced as an upcoming topic to the class last month, so people could read it. From the reactions of students, I have to unfortunately assume they never read it as an undergraduate. Again, say what you will about the man and his influence on making my field of study one bug subjective mess in the States, but this is a pretty important book. And these students are only now reading it??
-This Methodologies class feels incredibly out of place in Israel. The class is an ongoing discussion on history and social theory, with philosphy thrown in for good measure. For a system that's that seems driven (at least by the students and administration) on final examinations and a "getin & out of class fast" policy, this class is out of place. Mind you, I think it's great.
I broke down this evening and bought a lottery ticket for tonight's big 50 Million Shekel drawing ($11.5 million). Supposedly half of Israel's adult population has bought a ticket in this drawing, whose promotion has gone on for way too long. You can see the promo at www.pais.co.il, but I'll explain its significance: The zero in the "50" is shaped like a hamsa ("five" in Arabic), a common Middle Eastern symbol meant to bring good luck and more importantly keep away the Evil Eye. Just as some people will say "tfoo tfoo tfoo" to ward off bad luck, many in ths neck of the woods will say "hamsa hamsa hamsa." The jingle, "50 Million, Let's hope it's for me" is set to the tun of a recent and famous Mizrachi ("Oriental") song that anyone in Israel recognizes.
Granted, the liberal arts-NYU alumnus-DC liberal in me wants to tear apart the promotional posters in the name of ending the commodification of the socio-economic lower class' cultural and ethnic traditions for the sake of a product that naturally preys on the lower classes...but I still haven't found the corresponding word for "commodification" in Hebrew. Not to mention I cannot stand Marxist theory.
It's interesting, I bought a ticket, and that's all for now.
29 November 2006
29 November 2006
I get all sorts of looks when I say the following, but I could care less what others think: I like Christmas, from the near seizure-inducing flashing lights and metallic tinsel, to the cartoons and music I have memorized over the course of many years, to watching Midnight Mass from The Vatican on NBC. I will find some way of celebrating the holiday in this country -- I'm sure I can find some Christians hawking some Xmas gear (there's always good Jesus memorabilia to be had near the Church of the Holy Sepulcher), find a recipe for egg nog that doesn't leave friends stricken with salmonella, download music and movies (including an album of classic songs in Arabic, which I left back in DC), or go shopping until my wallet shows signs of wear-and-tear.
I've been thinking about Christmas, despite the 62 degree F weather here, especially after going to the supermarket. Slowly but surely, the cheap Menorah wax candles are making their appaearance, along with sufganiyot (more or less a jelly doughnut), a traditional food during Hannukah (hell, anything deep-fried is traditional food on this holiday). I was joking the other week with some of my Israeli co-workers that the only flavor North Americans know from sufganiyot is "red," that indeterminate filling that's somehow a combination of strawberry/raspberry/cherry/Red #4 yet tastes like none of the above. Once they understood I wasn't making a mistake with my Hebrew, they erupted in laughter. So far I've seen "Red" and Dulce de Leche, but more should be coming.
Despite how great it is to see Hannukah goods front and center in a store, instead of in the back corner with the numerous jars of borscht and boxes of matzah, I miss the tinsel and vain attempts to mask a decidedly Christian holiday with consummerism. Sigh.
On the socio-economic flip side, we're in the middle of a general strike here. The Trade Federation in Israel is pretty powerful, able to collpase everyday society with one cellphone call. No flights are leaving or entering the aiport, garbage isn't being collected, banks and post offices are closed, and a whole host of other basic services are halted.
How is this affecting me?
Not so much:
-I took out a lot of money the other day from the ATM. Today, the lines were ridiculous at every ATM on campus, since once the strike began they won't be refilled till it's over.
-Garbage collection is every other day on alternate sides of the street. Regardless of sides, the can are piled to the brim and slowly cascading into the streets.
-There's a package waiting for me at the Post Office, which will continue waiting for me for the time being.
For those of you in the States, soak up your Wal-Mart ads, auto-sensor Santa Claus robots that make you jump with their bellowing greetings, and the nonstop playing of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" that quickly becomes psychological warfare and less of a holiday greeting. I'm envious.
The weather forecast on weather.com said it was going to rain this weekend -- instead it's going to continue being in the low 60's, brigh and sunny, deep blue skies, and incredibly dry. Everyone has been getting sick lately, and I made sure to stop at the drugstore to pick up a new bottle of vitamins, Samubcol which is available in the States and is incredibly effective, and Israeli generic acetaminophen. A co-worker of mine who shares an office laughed at my American ways when she was getting sick and I popped a few aspirin. The next day, she was home sick and I was at school/work as normal. Neurosis some times has its benefits.
I get all sorts of looks when I say the following, but I could care less what others think: I like Christmas, from the near seizure-inducing flashing lights and metallic tinsel, to the cartoons and music I have memorized over the course of many years, to watching Midnight Mass from The Vatican on NBC. I will find some way of celebrating the holiday in this country -- I'm sure I can find some Christians hawking some Xmas gear (there's always good Jesus memorabilia to be had near the Church of the Holy Sepulcher), find a recipe for egg nog that doesn't leave friends stricken with salmonella, download music and movies (including an album of classic songs in Arabic, which I left back in DC), or go shopping until my wallet shows signs of wear-and-tear.
I've been thinking about Christmas, despite the 62 degree F weather here, especially after going to the supermarket. Slowly but surely, the cheap Menorah wax candles are making their appaearance, along with sufganiyot (more or less a jelly doughnut), a traditional food during Hannukah (hell, anything deep-fried is traditional food on this holiday). I was joking the other week with some of my Israeli co-workers that the only flavor North Americans know from sufganiyot is "red," that indeterminate filling that's somehow a combination of strawberry/raspberry/cherry/Red #4 yet tastes like none of the above. Once they understood I wasn't making a mistake with my Hebrew, they erupted in laughter. So far I've seen "Red" and Dulce de Leche, but more should be coming.
Despite how great it is to see Hannukah goods front and center in a store, instead of in the back corner with the numerous jars of borscht and boxes of matzah, I miss the tinsel and vain attempts to mask a decidedly Christian holiday with consummerism. Sigh.
On the socio-economic flip side, we're in the middle of a general strike here. The Trade Federation in Israel is pretty powerful, able to collpase everyday society with one cellphone call. No flights are leaving or entering the aiport, garbage isn't being collected, banks and post offices are closed, and a whole host of other basic services are halted.
How is this affecting me?
Not so much:
-I took out a lot of money the other day from the ATM. Today, the lines were ridiculous at every ATM on campus, since once the strike began they won't be refilled till it's over.
-Garbage collection is every other day on alternate sides of the street. Regardless of sides, the can are piled to the brim and slowly cascading into the streets.
-There's a package waiting for me at the Post Office, which will continue waiting for me for the time being.
For those of you in the States, soak up your Wal-Mart ads, auto-sensor Santa Claus robots that make you jump with their bellowing greetings, and the nonstop playing of "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" that quickly becomes psychological warfare and less of a holiday greeting. I'm envious.
The weather forecast on weather.com said it was going to rain this weekend -- instead it's going to continue being in the low 60's, brigh and sunny, deep blue skies, and incredibly dry. Everyone has been getting sick lately, and I made sure to stop at the drugstore to pick up a new bottle of vitamins, Samubcol which is available in the States and is incredibly effective, and Israeli generic acetaminophen. A co-worker of mine who shares an office laughed at my American ways when she was getting sick and I popped a few aspirin. The next day, she was home sick and I was at school/work as normal. Neurosis some times has its benefits.
27 November 2006
27 November 2006
The students and staff are still glowing about Thanksgiving, which has given my professional ego a much needed inflation. With only a month left in the overseas school's semester, and approximately 8 more programs, I'm feeling better for the time being.
I was making copies of some bills today at work when I turned around too look at the view. Mt. Scopus, where I sutdy & work, is on the east side of Jerusalem and one of the highest points in this mountain town. The views from any window here are spectacular. From the stairway up to my department's office there's a commanding view of the Old City and Western Jerusalem, undulating and rolling across the hills.
The view from the copy room, adjacent to the balcony, is just as majestic. Facing east, one sees the surrounding Arab villages, Judean Desert, and a dark patch of green that is the remainder of the Jordan River before it meets its end in the Dead Sea. At the right time of day, the Moab mountains that make up the border with Jordan come into focus, their mauve (comes from Moab, the Biblical term for the area) facade seemingly a stone's throw away.
I got home by 6pm, an amazing accomplishment. Aside from nights I have programs (2 per week maximum), I'm gonna try to make this a regular ritual: I got lots of books from school calling my name.
The students and staff are still glowing about Thanksgiving, which has given my professional ego a much needed inflation. With only a month left in the overseas school's semester, and approximately 8 more programs, I'm feeling better for the time being.
I was making copies of some bills today at work when I turned around too look at the view. Mt. Scopus, where I sutdy & work, is on the east side of Jerusalem and one of the highest points in this mountain town. The views from any window here are spectacular. From the stairway up to my department's office there's a commanding view of the Old City and Western Jerusalem, undulating and rolling across the hills.
The view from the copy room, adjacent to the balcony, is just as majestic. Facing east, one sees the surrounding Arab villages, Judean Desert, and a dark patch of green that is the remainder of the Jordan River before it meets its end in the Dead Sea. At the right time of day, the Moab mountains that make up the border with Jordan come into focus, their mauve (comes from Moab, the Biblical term for the area) facade seemingly a stone's throw away.
I got home by 6pm, an amazing accomplishment. Aside from nights I have programs (2 per week maximum), I'm gonna try to make this a regular ritual: I got lots of books from school calling my name.
25 November 2006
24 November 2006
Turns out there is an Autumn in Israel. Yesterday and today, a muted smell of autumn was detectable -- a combination of crisp, dry air and fermenting leaves still holding on to the last drops of moisture.
Thursday night was the annual Thanksgiving dinner for overseas students at Hebrew U, organized by yours truly. As the night started, I began to feel like I had just turned in a 20-page paper: Relief and freedom. In three weeks, I had managed to organize a 5-figure event at a hotel with dinner and a live band, sell 100 tickets, and annoy the hell out of multiple businesses in the greater Jerusalem area. Normally this job takes two months with a volunteer staff of at least a dozen...but why should anything be normal? Sleep, serenity, sanity: who needed those for three weeks?
The night turned out great, the students were happy, my colleagues and supervisors were happy, and I slept incredibly well Friday night. I'm hoping the rest of this semester (i.e., one more month) goes by much more chill than the last month, where I've managed to make some small and medium-sized mistakes and incur the wrath of two different organizations.
On a much more positive note, I caught up on some reading by going to the bookstore and buying a whole stack of the magazines I grew to like from the States (though considerably more expensive here, even if they're European in origin).
Next week it's off to the university's fitness center, in the hopes of getting a membership.
20 November 2006
20 November 2006
First, let me say that I'm completely exhausted. Maybe it's because of the Thanksgiving dinner I'm planning for 150+ people, maybe it's because I have yet to find a balance that makes school a priority and allows work to be done as well....I'm pooped.
This evening, after shopping for decorations for Thanksgiving, I met up with a friend at the Save Darfur rally in downtown Jerusalem. As opposed to the last rally, where there were only a handful of English-speaking yeshiva students and a bullhorn for the few speakers, this rally was notably different. It took place in Zion Square, the epicenter of downtown Jerusalem, with a full stage, sound & lighting systems, and a bigger array of speakers. The crowd was still overwhelmingly English-speaking, but more speeches were in Hebrew, more rabbis and teachers spoke, and attention was paid to the 250 Darfur refugees currently in Israel, mostly incarcerated as security prisoners. I never got into Darfur as much as others -- Tibet was always my cause, and in the absence of working on that, joining the rally on a cold Jerusalem night felt appropriate.
I left the rally early with the same friend, grabbed food, and bumped into another student from my Arabic class. It was finally a relief to talk with another student, an atmosphere that's definitely missing from campus. He said something profound about the course, which in retrospect I've heard before and currently couldn't say as succinctly (certainly in Hebrew): The MidEast Studies and Arabic Departments are full of wannabe intelligence and security-minded students. All our reading comprehensions for homework, he pointed out, are about "Gen. Chief of Staff said" and "the bilateral communiqué between Iran and Yemen" and so on. Hell, even one of the dictionaries we have to use is published by the Defense Ministry. Whereas in the States MidEast Studies is plagued by partisanship and subjectivity, here it's so pareve (neutral), lacking any cultural enrichment, no wonder it's so connected with the defense establishment.
Off to do Arabic homework and dream of a post-Thanksgiving 2006 reality.
First, let me say that I'm completely exhausted. Maybe it's because of the Thanksgiving dinner I'm planning for 150+ people, maybe it's because I have yet to find a balance that makes school a priority and allows work to be done as well....I'm pooped.
This evening, after shopping for decorations for Thanksgiving, I met up with a friend at the Save Darfur rally in downtown Jerusalem. As opposed to the last rally, where there were only a handful of English-speaking yeshiva students and a bullhorn for the few speakers, this rally was notably different. It took place in Zion Square, the epicenter of downtown Jerusalem, with a full stage, sound & lighting systems, and a bigger array of speakers. The crowd was still overwhelmingly English-speaking, but more speeches were in Hebrew, more rabbis and teachers spoke, and attention was paid to the 250 Darfur refugees currently in Israel, mostly incarcerated as security prisoners. I never got into Darfur as much as others -- Tibet was always my cause, and in the absence of working on that, joining the rally on a cold Jerusalem night felt appropriate.
I left the rally early with the same friend, grabbed food, and bumped into another student from my Arabic class. It was finally a relief to talk with another student, an atmosphere that's definitely missing from campus. He said something profound about the course, which in retrospect I've heard before and currently couldn't say as succinctly (certainly in Hebrew): The MidEast Studies and Arabic Departments are full of wannabe intelligence and security-minded students. All our reading comprehensions for homework, he pointed out, are about "Gen. Chief of Staff said" and "the bilateral communiqué between Iran and Yemen" and so on. Hell, even one of the dictionaries we have to use is published by the Defense Ministry. Whereas in the States MidEast Studies is plagued by partisanship and subjectivity, here it's so pareve (neutral), lacking any cultural enrichment, no wonder it's so connected with the defense establishment.
Off to do Arabic homework and dream of a post-Thanksgiving 2006 reality.
13 November 2006
9 November 2006
As I haven't written in some time, on account of both not having an internet connection in my apartment and the encroaching cold outside, I thought I'd restart this blog with two vignettes.
(1)
Jerusalem is burning, literally. For the past week, there have been riots in the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood of Mea She`arim every night. Every night, regardless of when I left campus, the ritual was the same: My bus would approach the neighborhood from across the intersection, only to make a sharp detour around the entire area. Only once did the bus driver announce the change; otherwise, as the bus was filled with college students going home for the night, there was an unspoken understanding of what was going on. Police cars and red tape would block every street entering the neighborhood, and if one looked hard enough beyond the barricades, one could see dispersing hordes of males of all ages. The detour was abnormally packed, making an already long trip even more unbearable.
In the morning, so long as there wasn't another riot, the bus would take its original route and showcase the events of last night to all its passengers: Garbage either in large piles, or strewn about in stream-like lines alongside the curbs; Green garbage cans turned black from the smoke of burning trash, some still smoldering with thick black smoke; And the occasional fire, still raging, with pedestrians quickly walking by without a notice. The bus passengers would be glued to the windows, astounded at the third-world setting they were witnessing.
The smell of the smoke from the riots has engulfed the entire city, even on days with the bluest of skies. If one left a window open, whether on the west side of town or all the way on the east side up on Mount Scopus, the pungent smell was impossible to ignore. The association with something pleasant began to change in me, not entirely, but slowly reaching a darker period of history: September 12-14, 2001. When the smoke from the wreckage of the World Trade Center and the two planes changed direction, all of lower Manhattan (and my apartment at the time) was permeated with the smell of Burnt. This week couldn't be over sooner, because the smell is getting intolerable.
(2)
Bus 28 from Mount Scopus on a Thursday night is a sight to be seen. I had to go to the phone company's store to pick up an external modem, which is by the central bus station, and thus a different bus line from my normal one. I'm one of the first to get on, which means I have a window seat. Slowly but surely, the bus fills with students with duffel bags. The majority of students at Hebrew U are not locals, so they live in the dorms or in town. As this is somewhat of an elite university, there are no classes on Friday and few activities on Thursday night, meaning students can go home. At each bus stop the bus picks up more and more students with duffel bags, to the point where the bus is just as stuffed as the bags. Most people have two bags, one of clothes to be worn and one to be washed. People are crawling into the bus at this point, gasping with the contortions of their bodies for the last cubic centimeters of space to claim as their own. The sight of all these students, grungy guys and headscarved Muslim women alike, going home for the weekend was very sweet, even if they were clamoring about the bus.
The bus entered the main streets of Mea She`arim, but went through similar neighborhoods. At one point, in the middle of one of Jerusalem's many steep hills, an ultra-Orthodox man pushed his way onto the bus. I could clearly see him from my seat, and from his body movements it was clear he knew there was little chance of him entering; yet something internal made him try. He forced the bus doors to open to such an extent that the bus' engine shut down. The students are obviously not happy, and all I think of is walking in the middle of this neighborhood and getting attacked just for not wearing a 17th century Polish fashion trend (a friend of mine, only hours before, was on a bus that was stopped by protesters, when they hurled a flaming garbage can into the streets. The passengers were forced off the bus and my friend safely got home on foot). I gave the guy such a dirty look, hopefully it was part of the reason he didn't get on the bus.
--
The rest of this story has to do with getting an internet connection, which I'll detail in its absurdity here very soon
As I haven't written in some time, on account of both not having an internet connection in my apartment and the encroaching cold outside, I thought I'd restart this blog with two vignettes.
(1)
Jerusalem is burning, literally. For the past week, there have been riots in the ultra-Orthodox neighborhood of Mea She`arim every night. Every night, regardless of when I left campus, the ritual was the same: My bus would approach the neighborhood from across the intersection, only to make a sharp detour around the entire area. Only once did the bus driver announce the change; otherwise, as the bus was filled with college students going home for the night, there was an unspoken understanding of what was going on. Police cars and red tape would block every street entering the neighborhood, and if one looked hard enough beyond the barricades, one could see dispersing hordes of males of all ages. The detour was abnormally packed, making an already long trip even more unbearable.
In the morning, so long as there wasn't another riot, the bus would take its original route and showcase the events of last night to all its passengers: Garbage either in large piles, or strewn about in stream-like lines alongside the curbs; Green garbage cans turned black from the smoke of burning trash, some still smoldering with thick black smoke; And the occasional fire, still raging, with pedestrians quickly walking by without a notice. The bus passengers would be glued to the windows, astounded at the third-world setting they were witnessing.
The smell of the smoke from the riots has engulfed the entire city, even on days with the bluest of skies. If one left a window open, whether on the west side of town or all the way on the east side up on Mount Scopus, the pungent smell was impossible to ignore. The association with something pleasant began to change in me, not entirely, but slowly reaching a darker period of history: September 12-14, 2001. When the smoke from the wreckage of the World Trade Center and the two planes changed direction, all of lower Manhattan (and my apartment at the time) was permeated with the smell of Burnt. This week couldn't be over sooner, because the smell is getting intolerable.
(2)
Bus 28 from Mount Scopus on a Thursday night is a sight to be seen. I had to go to the phone company's store to pick up an external modem, which is by the central bus station, and thus a different bus line from my normal one. I'm one of the first to get on, which means I have a window seat. Slowly but surely, the bus fills with students with duffel bags. The majority of students at Hebrew U are not locals, so they live in the dorms or in town. As this is somewhat of an elite university, there are no classes on Friday and few activities on Thursday night, meaning students can go home. At each bus stop the bus picks up more and more students with duffel bags, to the point where the bus is just as stuffed as the bags. Most people have two bags, one of clothes to be worn and one to be washed. People are crawling into the bus at this point, gasping with the contortions of their bodies for the last cubic centimeters of space to claim as their own. The sight of all these students, grungy guys and headscarved Muslim women alike, going home for the weekend was very sweet, even if they were clamoring about the bus.
The bus entered the main streets of Mea She`arim, but went through similar neighborhoods. At one point, in the middle of one of Jerusalem's many steep hills, an ultra-Orthodox man pushed his way onto the bus. I could clearly see him from my seat, and from his body movements it was clear he knew there was little chance of him entering; yet something internal made him try. He forced the bus doors to open to such an extent that the bus' engine shut down. The students are obviously not happy, and all I think of is walking in the middle of this neighborhood and getting attacked just for not wearing a 17th century Polish fashion trend (a friend of mine, only hours before, was on a bus that was stopped by protesters, when they hurled a flaming garbage can into the streets. The passengers were forced off the bus and my friend safely got home on foot). I gave the guy such a dirty look, hopefully it was part of the reason he didn't get on the bus.
--
The rest of this story has to do with getting an internet connection, which I'll detail in its absurdity here very soon
15 October 2006
15 October 2006
Even though I prefaced this whole keeping-a-blog-venture by promising I wouldn't harp on more superficial differences between Israel and the States, I have to share just one.
At the end of Sukkot is another holiday that gets lumped into the former. I won't go into its significance or what happens on it, except to add that one of the additions that are added to daily prayers are two lines, praising God who "makes the wind blow and the rain fall" and asking to "give dew and rain for a blessing." Regardless of where on is in the world, at the end of Sukkot one adds these lines and continues to say them until the next Passover, so as to coincide with the rainy season in the Land of Israel.
The weather reports have said that today it would rain. This morning I looked out at my balcony and at the road, and sure enough, at some point last night, it rained. "Amazing" isn't really the word to describe this liturgical and meteorological synchronicity – more like "right on time." The first rain in modern Israel is the official start of winter, and Israelis react to winter a bit like Washingtonians react to rain or other weather patters: they don't really know what to do with themselves.
Even though I prefaced this whole keeping-a-blog-venture by promising I wouldn't harp on more superficial differences between Israel and the States, I have to share just one.
At the end of Sukkot is another holiday that gets lumped into the former. I won't go into its significance or what happens on it, except to add that one of the additions that are added to daily prayers are two lines, praising God who "makes the wind blow and the rain fall" and asking to "give dew and rain for a blessing." Regardless of where on is in the world, at the end of Sukkot one adds these lines and continues to say them until the next Passover, so as to coincide with the rainy season in the Land of Israel.
The weather reports have said that today it would rain. This morning I looked out at my balcony and at the road, and sure enough, at some point last night, it rained. "Amazing" isn't really the word to describe this liturgical and meteorological synchronicity – more like "right on time." The first rain in modern Israel is the official start of winter, and Israelis react to winter a bit like Washingtonians react to rain or other weather patters: they don't really know what to do with themselves.
11 October 2006
This morning was very much in the same vein as the movie "Groundhog Day," where each day repeats itself over and over again. Again I woke up waiting for a call from the IKEA delivery man…except for the fact that he actually called this time. Around noon the guy showed up, all too eager to get the boxes out of his responsibility. As soon as he was gone, I got to work. In the course of five hours I assembled a bed and bed-side table which fit together. While I was assembling the various pieces, all sorts of thoughts went through my head; the most frequently occurring one being "Is this really going to support the mattress and me?" The bed's structure is a mix somewhere between a traditional bed, a futon, and a K'nex set. After assembling the wooden (read: plywood) frame, one has to add several metal beams, rods, and flat sticks that all connect to one another, after which one adds the futon-like wood beams.
In the end, with my hands feeling like they're riddled with arthritis after holding the tools too tight, my second room looks like a slice of Scandinavia in the Middle East. Since I have an, er, affinity for the Nordic lands (I'm always willing to be sponsored to travel to Iceland), I'm definitely happy with the room. Now if only I could find furniture for the first room…
10 October 2006
10 October 2006
I'm sitting on my kitchen-nook floor, waiting for the delivery of my new bed, mattress, bed-side table and drawer pieces from IKEA. They said they would be here between 10.00 and 16.00, and I'm at the half-way mark now. Still trying to figure out how to orient my soon-to-be bed, I took the opportunity to clean the floor in the second room. I have to use some special cleaning fluid especially for parquet and wood floors, which ends up doing a decent job and smelling of not-too-powerful flowers.
At the same time, outside my porch, are hordes of people walking towards the starting point for the annual Jerusalem March, with helicopters constantly circling above the area. On the Pilgrimage Festivals (Passover, Shavuot, Sukkot), when pilgrims would arrive at the Temple to offer sacrifices, modern-day Israelis now celebrate by taking to the streets of the capital city in the tens of thousands. Apparently the starting point could be reached via my street, so all morning people passed by – some with baseball caps, some without; some clutching bottled water, others with backpacks; some by themselves, others in finely choreographed groups. Every few minutes I'd hear tambourines and indiscernible singing slowly yet rhythmically approaching. Thinking it would be a group of Hare Krishnas who made a few wrong turns along the way, I'd rush to the window to get a glimpse – instead it would be groups representing youth movements, companies and businesses, or interest groups walking in formation and singing songs about Israel or Jerusalem. For a bunch of Jews, who at least in services I've been to can't seem to continue clapping synchronically to a beat, they got their marching band skills down pat.
Now it's past the window of time I was supposed to sit by and expect a call 30 minutes ahead of the delivery's arrival. I call the moving company, who gives me the number of the driver. Fine, I think, he's a few minutes late of a 6-hour block because of the March, so I'll roll over and play Genteel American. The driver says he wasn't supposed to make the delivery until tomorrow between 11.00 and 13.00 because of the march! I asked if someone was going to bother telling me this news, and said I'd see him tomorrow. I attempt calling back the company – I say attempt, because I called back at least 10 times before I got through to someone again. I'd like to think they Caller ID'd my number and were practicing a sentence that somehow becomes harder to say when in possession of an Israeli National ID: I was wrong.
At this point I'm furious, and as soon as someone comes on the line, I start speaking in rapid-fire Hebrew, demanding to know why no one bothered to let me know about the delivery time change. The woman who answered the phone is caught and says "You're right, I apologize." If I was a little more clear-headed, I would have asked for a refund of the delivery charge, but I was so angry I hung up the phone. At least she apologized, I said to myself, trying to calm down. I eventually realizing there wasn't anything else to do (call the company back and demand someone be reprimanded for this? Please.), so I got to work on making dinner. A huge serving of carbohydrates later, my food coma has calmed me down and I'm interested to see if the driver tomorrow apologizes as well (or if he's got the nerve to ask for a tip).
I'm sitting on my kitchen-nook floor, waiting for the delivery of my new bed, mattress, bed-side table and drawer pieces from IKEA. They said they would be here between 10.00 and 16.00, and I'm at the half-way mark now. Still trying to figure out how to orient my soon-to-be bed, I took the opportunity to clean the floor in the second room. I have to use some special cleaning fluid especially for parquet and wood floors, which ends up doing a decent job and smelling of not-too-powerful flowers.
At the same time, outside my porch, are hordes of people walking towards the starting point for the annual Jerusalem March, with helicopters constantly circling above the area. On the Pilgrimage Festivals (Passover, Shavuot, Sukkot), when pilgrims would arrive at the Temple to offer sacrifices, modern-day Israelis now celebrate by taking to the streets of the capital city in the tens of thousands. Apparently the starting point could be reached via my street, so all morning people passed by – some with baseball caps, some without; some clutching bottled water, others with backpacks; some by themselves, others in finely choreographed groups. Every few minutes I'd hear tambourines and indiscernible singing slowly yet rhythmically approaching. Thinking it would be a group of Hare Krishnas who made a few wrong turns along the way, I'd rush to the window to get a glimpse – instead it would be groups representing youth movements, companies and businesses, or interest groups walking in formation and singing songs about Israel or Jerusalem. For a bunch of Jews, who at least in services I've been to can't seem to continue clapping synchronically to a beat, they got their marching band skills down pat.
Now it's past the window of time I was supposed to sit by and expect a call 30 minutes ahead of the delivery's arrival. I call the moving company, who gives me the number of the driver. Fine, I think, he's a few minutes late of a 6-hour block because of the March, so I'll roll over and play Genteel American. The driver says he wasn't supposed to make the delivery until tomorrow between 11.00 and 13.00 because of the march! I asked if someone was going to bother telling me this news, and said I'd see him tomorrow. I attempt calling back the company – I say attempt, because I called back at least 10 times before I got through to someone again. I'd like to think they Caller ID'd my number and were practicing a sentence that somehow becomes harder to say when in possession of an Israeli National ID: I was wrong.
At this point I'm furious, and as soon as someone comes on the line, I start speaking in rapid-fire Hebrew, demanding to know why no one bothered to let me know about the delivery time change. The woman who answered the phone is caught and says "You're right, I apologize." If I was a little more clear-headed, I would have asked for a refund of the delivery charge, but I was so angry I hung up the phone. At least she apologized, I said to myself, trying to calm down. I eventually realizing there wasn't anything else to do (call the company back and demand someone be reprimanded for this? Please.), so I got to work on making dinner. A huge serving of carbohydrates later, my food coma has calmed me down and I'm interested to see if the driver tomorrow apologizes as well (or if he's got the nerve to ask for a tip).
04 October 2006
After a few days that truly felt like autumn, this morning the summer heat made a resounding return. Assuming that it stays around for only a few days, the humidity-free warmth feels good.
I went to a garage sale hoping to find some inexpensive furniture that I still need – the apartment was located in a nearby neighborhood called Nahlaot, full of small pastel-colored houses that look like an artist colony artificially placed in Jerusalem. This apartment was incredible (if anyone's looking), and the middle-age couple was selling it and moving to somewhere smaller.
No luck on the furniture, though I did get a nice bathroom mat. The walk back provided some great free entertainment. A policeman was directing traffic at a busy intersection that normally has a very long wait for pedestrians. The traffic lights were working just fine, so perhaps there was a motorcade that just went by. Regardless, the policeman was taking his time letting the east-west traffic pass, holding up a quickly enlarging line of north-south traffic that was losing what little patience they already had. As their honking became more constant, the policeman kept letting the other traffic flow, even if there was only one car. From his slight facial expressions, one could tell, as a passerby said to me in his American-accented Hebrew, that he was punishing them for their honking. The cars sat for what must have been close to ten minutes. My sense of humor is hoping that the policeman, on a whim, picked a random intersection and used the authority of his reflective chartreuse vest and powder-blue uniform shirt to create some chaos in the Holy City.
The rest of the day was spent cleaning my apartment. I was in the middle of cooking when the phone rang – a job applied for several hours beforehand was calling me to schedule an interview. Just like finding my apartment, I don't want to jinx this one (even though I already told a few people) – suffice it to say I would be working for one of my former employers in a job I can definitely do.
After a few days that truly felt like autumn, this morning the summer heat made a resounding return. Assuming that it stays around for only a few days, the humidity-free warmth feels good.
I went to a garage sale hoping to find some inexpensive furniture that I still need – the apartment was located in a nearby neighborhood called Nahlaot, full of small pastel-colored houses that look like an artist colony artificially placed in Jerusalem. This apartment was incredible (if anyone's looking), and the middle-age couple was selling it and moving to somewhere smaller.
No luck on the furniture, though I did get a nice bathroom mat. The walk back provided some great free entertainment. A policeman was directing traffic at a busy intersection that normally has a very long wait for pedestrians. The traffic lights were working just fine, so perhaps there was a motorcade that just went by. Regardless, the policeman was taking his time letting the east-west traffic pass, holding up a quickly enlarging line of north-south traffic that was losing what little patience they already had. As their honking became more constant, the policeman kept letting the other traffic flow, even if there was only one car. From his slight facial expressions, one could tell, as a passerby said to me in his American-accented Hebrew, that he was punishing them for their honking. The cars sat for what must have been close to ten minutes. My sense of humor is hoping that the policeman, on a whim, picked a random intersection and used the authority of his reflective chartreuse vest and powder-blue uniform shirt to create some chaos in the Holy City.
The rest of the day was spent cleaning my apartment. I was in the middle of cooking when the phone rang – a job applied for several hours beforehand was calling me to schedule an interview. Just like finding my apartment, I don't want to jinx this one (even though I already told a few people) – suffice it to say I would be working for one of my former employers in a job I can definitely do.
04 October 2006
01-03 October 2006
Saturday night, after Shabbat ended, I ventured out with friends to witness one of the more bizarre rituals in Judaism – Kapparot. Before Yom Kippur, there's a custom to take a chicken and symbolically pass one's sins onto the chicken while circling it around one's head, after which the chicken is slaughtered for food. We decided to venture into Mea She'arim, an ultra-orthodox neighborhood in north-central Jerusalem, so you can imagine the multiple culture clashes going on. As we approach we begin to separate (I was with three females), as it's usually not appropriate for mixed couples to walk together in this neighborhood. Soon we get to our destination, plastic crates stacked atop one another, all containing white hens. The handlers, teenagers wearing kippot, and one wearing a shirt advertising a dance music record label, sold the chickens (25 NIS, or around $6) to buyers who would intone several blessings while passing the chicken around their head and the heads of their family. One guy in the corner had several crates and was actually swinging the chicken by the legs, finishing with one and bringing out another one. In the middle of all of this is the butcher, sharpening his knife and then holding it between his lips in between slaughters. His plastic apron was dripping with blood, and his table had six metal funnels running to the ground, collecting the blood from this chickens he quickly slices across the neck and then allows to flop around.
Besides the gore and what seems like an obvious question ("Do these people coming to perform the ritual, who by and large don't work for a living, have the money for dry cleaning if the chicken craps on their satin robes and/or shtreimels (fur-trimmed hats)?" I couldn't stop thinking about how the ritual we were watching was perhaps the closest one could approach Biblical Judaism in the absence of the Temple. When the Temple existed, a pilgrim would purchase his offering (sin or thanksgiving) at the gates and offer it up upon entering. What's the difference between this and that, save for location? As I started seeing this seemingly bizarre transaction going on before me in those terms, I was in awe and wanting to leave as if seeing something I'm not supposed to (like being blinded by something divine). As grotesque as this scene was, ladies and gentlemen, think about it the next time you pray for the Messiah to arrive, or jokingly sing along to that Chabad Lubavitch "Mashiach" (Messiah): this chicken-swinging and slaughtering scene is our destiny when the Third Temple is built.
First off, there are the services. I tried out two places, both of which I've been to for Shabbat. Having serious moral problems about buying a seat for services, I decided to show up and try my luck – both times it worked successfully, either finding a non-reserved seat or being assigned one whose original purchaser decided not to use.
The first synagogue I went to with a friend from DC Sunday night. I don't mind not knowing every prayer and hymn sung, I can follow along just fine in the book; the rabbi liked to mumble his Hebrew and the congregation, not knowing where they were either simply hummed along to the familiar melodies, making the experience more frustrating than necessary. The second was a place I knew I liked – there the Hebrew was crisp, clear and modern; the melodies were familiar from back home; and everyone sang along, men and women (men and women sit separately but participate just about equally in the services).
Yom Kippur is known as the Shabbat of all Shabbats (the Mother of all Shabbats, if you will) and this title became clear for the first time to me this year. Just like I wrote about Rosh Hashanah, YK is a very different experience here in Israel. For example, in the midst of the melodramatic liturgy, the prayer leader would burst into tunes normally heard on Shabbat, encouraging everyone to transcend their hunger and existential queries in order to celebrate. If you think Jews can't put on an uplifting service, you're going to the wrong synagogue. The spiritual intensity was palpable, the prayer leader in the late morning had an incredible voice, and only during the afternoon did the prayers drag, mainly because everyone was exhausted by then.
What was even more worthwhile about the day was the complete lack of cars on the road. I'm not talking a significant decrease in road travel – I mean no automobiles whatsoever. In Jerusalem it's apparently against the law to drive on Yom Kippur, with police cars passing every once in a while to enforce it. Not only does this create the visual of people walking in the middle of the street, with kids on bicycles everywhere, but it fulfills one of my many dreams: a world without cars. Sounds once muffled by the incessant honking of drivers came back into range and a level of tranquility descended on the city that the pious, secular, and Luddite could value.
Tuesday I spent what seemed like hours at Hebrew U. working out my schedule. I got the results of my Arabic placement exam, and they weren't what I expected: they put me in Year 1, much to my dismay. The advisor showed me my test, which admittedly had mistakes on it – I didn't vowel the verbs on the first page, despite there being no instructions to do as so. Like many things in this country, I was supposed to infer that on my own. Like duh!
After explaining this to the advisor, along with the fact that I had taken three years of Arabic in the States, he still put me in Year 1, though said that if it's too easy to talk with the professor as there's an outside opportunity to switch levels. Not only is it a matter of needing the next highest level academically – Year 2 only meets two times a week, with Year 1 meeting three times a week. If I'm getting a job, this shortens the amount of time I can devote to both. You can bet I'll be working hard to move on up a level.
I registered for Arabic and my other courses with little problems, at least I hope – the print-out the registrar gave me did not include the courses I already picked via Internet, and by the time I got back to the office it was closed. Hope they all show up online! I then tracked over to the Student Accounts, where I handed in my voucher for tuition from the government, only to be told there's extra fees not covered by the voucher. Of course there is, I think to myself. I get my bill and slump back to the bus stop.
Saturday night, after Shabbat ended, I ventured out with friends to witness one of the more bizarre rituals in Judaism – Kapparot. Before Yom Kippur, there's a custom to take a chicken and symbolically pass one's sins onto the chicken while circling it around one's head, after which the chicken is slaughtered for food. We decided to venture into Mea She'arim, an ultra-orthodox neighborhood in north-central Jerusalem, so you can imagine the multiple culture clashes going on. As we approach we begin to separate (I was with three females), as it's usually not appropriate for mixed couples to walk together in this neighborhood. Soon we get to our destination, plastic crates stacked atop one another, all containing white hens. The handlers, teenagers wearing kippot, and one wearing a shirt advertising a dance music record label, sold the chickens (25 NIS, or around $6) to buyers who would intone several blessings while passing the chicken around their head and the heads of their family. One guy in the corner had several crates and was actually swinging the chicken by the legs, finishing with one and bringing out another one. In the middle of all of this is the butcher, sharpening his knife and then holding it between his lips in between slaughters. His plastic apron was dripping with blood, and his table had six metal funnels running to the ground, collecting the blood from this chickens he quickly slices across the neck and then allows to flop around.
Besides the gore and what seems like an obvious question ("Do these people coming to perform the ritual, who by and large don't work for a living, have the money for dry cleaning if the chicken craps on their satin robes and/or shtreimels (fur-trimmed hats)?" I couldn't stop thinking about how the ritual we were watching was perhaps the closest one could approach Biblical Judaism in the absence of the Temple. When the Temple existed, a pilgrim would purchase his offering (sin or thanksgiving) at the gates and offer it up upon entering. What's the difference between this and that, save for location? As I started seeing this seemingly bizarre transaction going on before me in those terms, I was in awe and wanting to leave as if seeing something I'm not supposed to (like being blinded by something divine). As grotesque as this scene was, ladies and gentlemen, think about it the next time you pray for the Messiah to arrive, or jokingly sing along to that Chabad Lubavitch "Mashiach" (Messiah): this chicken-swinging and slaughtering scene is our destiny when the Third Temple is built.
First off, there are the services. I tried out two places, both of which I've been to for Shabbat. Having serious moral problems about buying a seat for services, I decided to show up and try my luck – both times it worked successfully, either finding a non-reserved seat or being assigned one whose original purchaser decided not to use.
The first synagogue I went to with a friend from DC Sunday night. I don't mind not knowing every prayer and hymn sung, I can follow along just fine in the book; the rabbi liked to mumble his Hebrew and the congregation, not knowing where they were either simply hummed along to the familiar melodies, making the experience more frustrating than necessary. The second was a place I knew I liked – there the Hebrew was crisp, clear and modern; the melodies were familiar from back home; and everyone sang along, men and women (men and women sit separately but participate just about equally in the services).
Yom Kippur is known as the Shabbat of all Shabbats (the Mother of all Shabbats, if you will) and this title became clear for the first time to me this year. Just like I wrote about Rosh Hashanah, YK is a very different experience here in Israel. For example, in the midst of the melodramatic liturgy, the prayer leader would burst into tunes normally heard on Shabbat, encouraging everyone to transcend their hunger and existential queries in order to celebrate. If you think Jews can't put on an uplifting service, you're going to the wrong synagogue. The spiritual intensity was palpable, the prayer leader in the late morning had an incredible voice, and only during the afternoon did the prayers drag, mainly because everyone was exhausted by then.
What was even more worthwhile about the day was the complete lack of cars on the road. I'm not talking a significant decrease in road travel – I mean no automobiles whatsoever. In Jerusalem it's apparently against the law to drive on Yom Kippur, with police cars passing every once in a while to enforce it. Not only does this create the visual of people walking in the middle of the street, with kids on bicycles everywhere, but it fulfills one of my many dreams: a world without cars. Sounds once muffled by the incessant honking of drivers came back into range and a level of tranquility descended on the city that the pious, secular, and Luddite could value.
Tuesday I spent what seemed like hours at Hebrew U. working out my schedule. I got the results of my Arabic placement exam, and they weren't what I expected: they put me in Year 1, much to my dismay. The advisor showed me my test, which admittedly had mistakes on it – I didn't vowel the verbs on the first page, despite there being no instructions to do as so. Like many things in this country, I was supposed to infer that on my own. Like duh!
After explaining this to the advisor, along with the fact that I had taken three years of Arabic in the States, he still put me in Year 1, though said that if it's too easy to talk with the professor as there's an outside opportunity to switch levels. Not only is it a matter of needing the next highest level academically – Year 2 only meets two times a week, with Year 1 meeting three times a week. If I'm getting a job, this shortens the amount of time I can devote to both. You can bet I'll be working hard to move on up a level.
I registered for Arabic and my other courses with little problems, at least I hope – the print-out the registrar gave me did not include the courses I already picked via Internet, and by the time I got back to the office it was closed. Hope they all show up online! I then tracked over to the Student Accounts, where I handed in my voucher for tuition from the government, only to be told there's extra fees not covered by the voucher. Of course there is, I think to myself. I get my bill and slump back to the bus stop.
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