Enjoy the slightly blurry,
metaphysical pics of the outdoor market at night full of partygoers
31 July 2007
29 July 2007
Despite being one swelter of a day, the heatwave started to break this afternoon as the breeze that pours through my southern window returned, along with a very overcast sky. The temperature read 80 F on my alarm clock, which it hasn’t registered for some time. If this was summertime in my native DC, it would the sign to get inside as the heaven are about to send down a huge storm. Even here, overcast skies are a very ominous event.
At about 7:30pm, the sky got darker and as I looked outside I could’ve sworn I saw rain fall. To further investigate, I took out a rather empty garbage bag to the communal trash, just to see – alas, no rain. The branches of the willow tree across the street were waving about furiously like pompoms in the hand of an overeager cheerleader. Just as I convinced myself it was raining, a rumble seemed to come from outside the window.
Thunder?! I excitedly asked myself. Nope, the roaring boiling of water in my electric kettle.
I went to a party in the shuk, at first reaching what looked like a bar mitzvah party back in the States – out-of-date music, Jews awkwardly dancing, and a lot of people standing by the walls. Hoping we found the wrong party, turns out the Greek music party that took place the other week was going strong. Pictures above.
Despite being one swelter of a day, the heatwave started to break this afternoon as the breeze that pours through my southern window returned, along with a very overcast sky. The temperature read 80 F on my alarm clock, which it hasn’t registered for some time. If this was summertime in my native DC, it would the sign to get inside as the heaven are about to send down a huge storm. Even here, overcast skies are a very ominous event.
At about 7:30pm, the sky got darker and as I looked outside I could’ve sworn I saw rain fall. To further investigate, I took out a rather empty garbage bag to the communal trash, just to see – alas, no rain. The branches of the willow tree across the street were waving about furiously like pompoms in the hand of an overeager cheerleader. Just as I convinced myself it was raining, a rumble seemed to come from outside the window.
Thunder?! I excitedly asked myself. Nope, the roaring boiling of water in my electric kettle.
I went to a party in the shuk, at first reaching what looked like a bar mitzvah party back in the States – out-of-date music, Jews awkwardly dancing, and a lot of people standing by the walls. Hoping we found the wrong party, turns out the Greek music party that took place the other week was going strong. Pictures above.
27 July 2007
27 July 2007
It’s hot here. Despite a daily regimen of several popsicles and cold showers, nothing can compete with the heatwave that stubbornly sits on the city. The air-conditioner that I’ve valiantly avoided using all this time needs to be fixed, helping my apartment turn into a walk-in humidor.
Today is hovering around 38 degrees Celsius, to which everyone has responded by lowering their inhibitions and proudly displaying their sweat marks. Today is also the start of several weeks’ of festivals, fairs and celebrations falling under the banner “Jerusalem Summer, A Special Summer for Everyone,” this year being the 40th year of the unification of the city.
One of the day’s events was a block party on an alley off of the pedestrian mall in the city center. While this pedestrian mall is home to tourist traps and equally annoying tourists, this alleyway is home to a café/bar normally unapproached by non-locals. There were vendors of all kinds, serving alcoholic drinks varying from the local arak to the more European shandy and even the dreaded Red Bull energy drink with vodka. The live bands may have a song or two on mainstream radio, but the tourists would have no context for their sounds (HaGirafot, MC Karolina, Soulico), providing a nice change of pace to the normal street music (Russian violinists playing Israel's Best Hits, Korean Christians singing a capella, American hippie-wannabees trying to capture the sound of their parents' generation). The scene was definitely young: the hipster-meets-Eurotrash look of Mohawks, white-rimmed sunglasses, slip-on Keds and t-shirts with incomprehensible English; the forced hippie look of flowing pants or skirts, meter-long dreadlocks and looks of smugness-cum-chill; and the occasional clueless who stumbled onto the scene. While it was fun and a nice break from the doldrums that usually encompass central Jerusalem, and the wind finally returned to cool off the pulsating crowd, it was still too hot to be outside.
More coverage to come, hopefully with pictures.
It’s hot here. Despite a daily regimen of several popsicles and cold showers, nothing can compete with the heatwave that stubbornly sits on the city. The air-conditioner that I’ve valiantly avoided using all this time needs to be fixed, helping my apartment turn into a walk-in humidor.
Today is hovering around 38 degrees Celsius, to which everyone has responded by lowering their inhibitions and proudly displaying their sweat marks. Today is also the start of several weeks’ of festivals, fairs and celebrations falling under the banner “Jerusalem Summer, A Special Summer for Everyone,” this year being the 40th year of the unification of the city.
One of the day’s events was a block party on an alley off of the pedestrian mall in the city center. While this pedestrian mall is home to tourist traps and equally annoying tourists, this alleyway is home to a café/bar normally unapproached by non-locals. There were vendors of all kinds, serving alcoholic drinks varying from the local arak to the more European shandy and even the dreaded Red Bull energy drink with vodka. The live bands may have a song or two on mainstream radio, but the tourists would have no context for their sounds (HaGirafot, MC Karolina, Soulico), providing a nice change of pace to the normal street music (Russian violinists playing Israel's Best Hits, Korean Christians singing a capella, American hippie-wannabees trying to capture the sound of their parents' generation). The scene was definitely young: the hipster-meets-Eurotrash look of Mohawks, white-rimmed sunglasses, slip-on Keds and t-shirts with incomprehensible English; the forced hippie look of flowing pants or skirts, meter-long dreadlocks and looks of smugness-cum-chill; and the occasional clueless who stumbled onto the scene. While it was fun and a nice break from the doldrums that usually encompass central Jerusalem, and the wind finally returned to cool off the pulsating crowd, it was still too hot to be outside.
More coverage to come, hopefully with pictures.
25 July 2007
24 July 2007
The cool breezes on which I last posted are all but gone, leaving us in full-fledged summer with little relief in the evenings. It’s back to crossing the street just to walk in the shade, two shekel (50 cent) popsicles every few minutes and extending one’s stay at a store or friend’s apartment to absorb their air conditioner’s bounty.
The other day was Tisha B’Av, “the saddest day in Jewish history” or more perhaps “the Jewish Friday The 13th” when we commemorate the destruction of the two Temples and a whole host of other catastrophes. Jews seem to always fight wars in the summer, with the heat potentially getting to their heads. Despite or because of its mood, the book which is read to commemorate the day, Lamentations, is one of the most powerful in the Bible. True, it’s full of gore and gloom as the author, traditionally ascribed to the melancholy prophet Jeremiah, describes the destruction of the First Temple at the hands of the Babylonians; but it’s so angst-filled and existential that the former teenager in me eats it up every year. We may be asking to return to the days of old, where devotion to our national deity entailed blood sacrifices and the subsequent communal barbeque on the Temple Mount; but when else during the calendar year do you hear Jews chanting, in the traditional Near Eastern poetic form of parallels within a verse, “Why have You [God] forgotten us utterly/Forsaken us for all time?” (5:19) Combined with the melody used to chant the scroll, and you got one public fast that predates that puts the Gothic outlook to shame.
After the open house at the Interdisciplinary Center the other week, I decided to apply. I only took one class in International Politics as an undergrad and I barely passed, being completely turned by the theory-based approach. True, my whole four years was about learning in an interdisciplinary manner, and the idea of being a diplomat floods my mind with images of Embassy Row in DC and cocktail parties with English being only one of several languages used to recall witty anecdotes, both of which compel me to start walking towards the Foreign Ministry under the blazing Mediterranean sun – but would that be enough to get in?
Two days after I applied and sent everything in electronically, I got a brief voicemail message that I was accepted into the four-semester research track which includes writing a thesis. There’s so much to consider before paying the inevitable bill that will arrive – am I willing to pay the difference in tuition from Hebrew University, am I going to move to Tel Aviv to be closer to campus, will their army liaison help me in getting the academic deferment that up until now I’ve been struggling to receive – that at first all I needed to hear was that I got accepted. That’s still sustaining me as I await further developments, look for a job and figure out when I’m next going back to the States to visit.
We’ve just entered another general strike declared by the Trade Federation. Almost every public sector of the market is affected, except most notably (and importantly) the banks and bus companies. Unfortunately, the strike includes the airport which will start tomorrow morning. Not only does this mess up the hordes of tourists that have thankfully returned to the country for the summer, but a very good friend of mine from high school is immigrating tomorrow morning, technically a few hours after the airport strike begins. Even if she is able to arrive, most likely it means she won’t get her luggage and the paperwork she has to fill with the various ministries will have to wait. Welcome to Israel, indeed.
Lots to figure out and lots of motivation but little interest in going outside and into the furnace of late July.
The cool breezes on which I last posted are all but gone, leaving us in full-fledged summer with little relief in the evenings. It’s back to crossing the street just to walk in the shade, two shekel (50 cent) popsicles every few minutes and extending one’s stay at a store or friend’s apartment to absorb their air conditioner’s bounty.
The other day was Tisha B’Av, “the saddest day in Jewish history” or more perhaps “the Jewish Friday The 13th” when we commemorate the destruction of the two Temples and a whole host of other catastrophes. Jews seem to always fight wars in the summer, with the heat potentially getting to their heads. Despite or because of its mood, the book which is read to commemorate the day, Lamentations, is one of the most powerful in the Bible. True, it’s full of gore and gloom as the author, traditionally ascribed to the melancholy prophet Jeremiah, describes the destruction of the First Temple at the hands of the Babylonians; but it’s so angst-filled and existential that the former teenager in me eats it up every year. We may be asking to return to the days of old, where devotion to our national deity entailed blood sacrifices and the subsequent communal barbeque on the Temple Mount; but when else during the calendar year do you hear Jews chanting, in the traditional Near Eastern poetic form of parallels within a verse, “Why have You [God] forgotten us utterly/Forsaken us for all time?” (5:19) Combined with the melody used to chant the scroll, and you got one public fast that predates that puts the Gothic outlook to shame.
After the open house at the Interdisciplinary Center the other week, I decided to apply. I only took one class in International Politics as an undergrad and I barely passed, being completely turned by the theory-based approach. True, my whole four years was about learning in an interdisciplinary manner, and the idea of being a diplomat floods my mind with images of Embassy Row in DC and cocktail parties with English being only one of several languages used to recall witty anecdotes, both of which compel me to start walking towards the Foreign Ministry under the blazing Mediterranean sun – but would that be enough to get in?
Two days after I applied and sent everything in electronically, I got a brief voicemail message that I was accepted into the four-semester research track which includes writing a thesis. There’s so much to consider before paying the inevitable bill that will arrive – am I willing to pay the difference in tuition from Hebrew University, am I going to move to Tel Aviv to be closer to campus, will their army liaison help me in getting the academic deferment that up until now I’ve been struggling to receive – that at first all I needed to hear was that I got accepted. That’s still sustaining me as I await further developments, look for a job and figure out when I’m next going back to the States to visit.
We’ve just entered another general strike declared by the Trade Federation. Almost every public sector of the market is affected, except most notably (and importantly) the banks and bus companies. Unfortunately, the strike includes the airport which will start tomorrow morning. Not only does this mess up the hordes of tourists that have thankfully returned to the country for the summer, but a very good friend of mine from high school is immigrating tomorrow morning, technically a few hours after the airport strike begins. Even if she is able to arrive, most likely it means she won’t get her luggage and the paperwork she has to fill with the various ministries will have to wait. Welcome to Israel, indeed.
Lots to figure out and lots of motivation but little interest in going outside and into the furnace of late July.
14 July 2007
14 July 2007
Thursday was Part One of my Arabic final which would entail solely of translating an article into Hebrew with the use of dictionaries. Called in the entirely original Hebrew an “unseen,” this type of testing baffles me. If there were vocabulary words we had to know in advance, or if there were questions about the article that needed to be answered, this would prove an important test; while knowing how to effectively translate is an important skill, somehow three hours of thumbing through a dictionary seems like a waste of time.
As if the style of testing wasn’t frustrating enough, the first sentence of the article summed up everything wrong with Arabic education in this country: “What’s Israel’s differentiation between an ‘agent’ and ‘spy’”?
I grew angrier and angrier as I translated the article, as it was clear we’re learning Arabic for the sake of working in the security services in the near future. Never mind understanding our neighbors in the way Spanish is taught in the States, let alone getting some history, culture, and society enrichment…we need to learn how to translate from the Arabic “the two spies were sentenced to seven years, one of which was commuted.” I left the test foaming at the mouth, cursing the school out as I made my way home.
How did I get over this? By going to an open house of a new degree program at the Interdisciplinary Center, the first private university in Israel. After a long time of planning and waiting, they’re finally ready to open an MA in Government program with a focus in either Diplomacy & Conflict Studies or Counter-Terrorism with an optional research track. My two good friends from NYU and I went, salivating over the program and its teachers. The registrar of the program is a fellow NYU graduate; the classes sound incredibly interesting; the place bills itself as an elite insitution of higher education; the three of us together again in a self-described elite school.…I know I’m not content at Hebrew U and often fantasize about leaving without a definite plan, but the morning at the IDC in Herzliya seemed to fit together.
Shabbat was spent eating at friends’ and catching up on sleep. Saturday was filled with cool breezes rushing through my apartment, carrying along with it the bells from the Monastery of the Cross, located in the nearby valley and thought to be the spot where the tree from which The Cross was made grew.
Thursday was Part One of my Arabic final which would entail solely of translating an article into Hebrew with the use of dictionaries. Called in the entirely original Hebrew an “unseen,” this type of testing baffles me. If there were vocabulary words we had to know in advance, or if there were questions about the article that needed to be answered, this would prove an important test; while knowing how to effectively translate is an important skill, somehow three hours of thumbing through a dictionary seems like a waste of time.
As if the style of testing wasn’t frustrating enough, the first sentence of the article summed up everything wrong with Arabic education in this country: “What’s Israel’s differentiation between an ‘agent’ and ‘spy’”?
I grew angrier and angrier as I translated the article, as it was clear we’re learning Arabic for the sake of working in the security services in the near future. Never mind understanding our neighbors in the way Spanish is taught in the States, let alone getting some history, culture, and society enrichment…we need to learn how to translate from the Arabic “the two spies were sentenced to seven years, one of which was commuted.” I left the test foaming at the mouth, cursing the school out as I made my way home.
How did I get over this? By going to an open house of a new degree program at the Interdisciplinary Center, the first private university in Israel. After a long time of planning and waiting, they’re finally ready to open an MA in Government program with a focus in either Diplomacy & Conflict Studies or Counter-Terrorism with an optional research track. My two good friends from NYU and I went, salivating over the program and its teachers. The registrar of the program is a fellow NYU graduate; the classes sound incredibly interesting; the place bills itself as an elite insitution of higher education; the three of us together again in a self-described elite school.…I know I’m not content at Hebrew U and often fantasize about leaving without a definite plan, but the morning at the IDC in Herzliya seemed to fit together.
Shabbat was spent eating at friends’ and catching up on sleep. Saturday was filled with cool breezes rushing through my apartment, carrying along with it the bells from the Monastery of the Cross, located in the nearby valley and thought to be the spot where the tree from which The Cross was made grew.
05 July 2007
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…”
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…”
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.
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