World Hero
A lot of ordinary people here are mainly worried how a dingbat like him came to be working in Dimona in the first place, even if it only was as a technician.

Did you catch him on the TV yesterday? Pompous. Pathetic. It was embarrassing. What a disappointing figure for world hero!

And you’d think in eighteen years of prison, he’d have found a few minutes to learn some decent English, especially as that’s the only language he claims he means to speak from now on. Mind you, from the few words he said in Hebrew, he doesn’t speak that very well, either. And does it in a very weird accent.

I’d love to stay and chat a while about…well, what can I call him, the village idiot? But I’m going away for a few days.

posted by Imshin 13:32

At last I’m a real blogger.
Yesterday we invited a tiny little homeless kitten to come and live with us. She said, surprisingly, meow meow, which we took for a yes. She’s black, extremely adorable, and her name is Shoosha. I wanted Matilda, of course, but no one else did.

It’s amazing how fast we found her, or she found us, after we put the word out on the street that we were available to be adopted by a cat. In a few days we had discovered lots of lovely catty people, two nice young vets, and a very friendly pet shop, just round the corner, all of whom were happy to meet new cat people, and extremely grateful that we were taking in a little waif.

This isn’t our first cat. Once upon a time, there was Tallulah, named after Tallulah Bankhead. As a teenager, I once tried to read the actress’s autobiography for some reason, having picked it up in a secondhand book store, but couldn’t make it past page 2 of unbearable, self-centered drivel. Tallulah was a lovely cat though.

We found her a new home after we returned from our famous 'desertion' of Tel Aviv during the 1991 Gulf War (This is what the mayor called it at the time. Not surprisingly, he didn't remain mayor for very long after that). Well, semi-desertion, we came in to work every day. While we were gone Bish came home every day to keep her company and make sure she was alright, but we couldn’t bring her into the overcrowded air-raid shelter in Herzliya, in which we were living along with three and a half other families.

We had been surprised that Bish hadn’t had one asthma attack all through the war, even though the air-raid shelter was damp and dusty. It had to be the cat. And I was pregnant. We decided it was best to give her away. We find for her a young Russian immigrant who missed the pet he had had to leave in Russia.

So why are we taking a chance again? Well, years of Eldest's yearning, for one thing, along with our inherent cat-peopleness. Oh, and I suppose Our Sis’s transformation had something to do with it. Our Sis used to be one of those annoying people who fall to pieces whenever a cat is anywhere near: sneezing uncontrollably, runny bloodshot eyes - a real pain. While we had Tallulah she never came near us.

And then one day, as if by magic, her allergy disappeared. No more sneezing, no more runny eyes, etc. Now she shares her home with two cats, along with all her other animals (and a few humans). So we reckoned we could give it a try too. So far so good.

posted by Imshin 20:16

I really think you should read Omri's Holocaust Day post.

And this presentation, brought to my attention via Naomi Ragen's mailing list.

Thank you, Dave, for sharing your family's story.

From Anthony of Black Triangle - Primo Levi: If This Is A Man.
posted by Imshin 18:45

What to say
Eldest was upset and offended that some of the boys had laughed during the film. I asked her not to judge them too harshly. The fact that they had laughed didn’t necessarily mean that they didn’t care. It probably meant that they couldn’t cope with the emotions the film aroused in them, or that they couldn’t risk the embarrassment of being caught with the hint of moisture in the corners of their eyes, when the lights came back on.

Eldest is so sensitive and delicate. It’s not easy for me, as her mother, to see her sadness and pain, as she struggles to grasp the horror. I instinctively want to protect her.

We discussed responsibility and Europe, and the Germany and Germans of today. I asked her if she felt it would be fair for us to cast blame, even if it is only in our minds, on a German girl of her own age, for instance. After all, even such a girl’s grandmother was probably only a child during World War II.

I suggested she tried to feel what it must be like to be a German girl, and how difficult it must be for her to come to terms with the past. She understood, but I could see that she was still torn, needing an identifiable target for her anger. But there is none, and I think that is the truth we all have to deal with. This is hard enough for most adults.

How can thirteen year olds possibly cope with it all?

posted by Imshin 16:17

Sorry about the language before. I've changed it.

Both girls came home yesterday visibly shaken by films they'd been shown at school. I was very upset by this. I'm going to have to work it out before I can talk about it. Maybe later today, if I have time.

I read over my "humor" piece. It's a disaster.

For Israelis: Don't forget the siren at ten. It can be a bit of a shock for the first split second, if you're not waiting for it.
posted by Imshin 05:53

Tonight is the beginning of Holocaust Memorial Day. This is a time to remember, learn and teach. It’s not as if we don’t remember, learn and teach all the year round, how can we not? But this is a day set aside specially for that.

I’m doing this online writing course, and just my luck I had to write a humorous piece this week. It’s due in tomorrow. I have had it in mind all week, worrying about how I could possibly write anything remotely funny, when I’m feeling heavy inside. I managed to jot something down yesterday, planning to read it again today before sending it off. But today I found I couldn’t bear to read it, so I just sent it. I hope I haven’t made too many spelling mistakes.

Bish says that there is nothing you can’t joke about. He jokes about dying all the time.

Some day I would like to visit Poland and see where my family came from. From what I’ve seen on TV, Poland isn’t too hot, especially the villages. The Sephardis here laugh at the Polish Jews that, with all their airs and graces and snobbery, where they came from wasn’t much to boast about either. But I want to see anyway. And I want to see where they most likely ended up, the ones that didn’t get out on time. I want to smell the air, and feel the gravel under my feet. I know I’m only on this earth by chance.

My mother once said that after the war, family members that had survived started arriving. And they sat in the living room and told their stories. At first the grown ups thought that maybe it would not be suitable for the child to hear, but the relatives told their stories in Yiddish, so the grown ups reckoned she wouldn’t be able to understand anyway.

What they didn’t realize was that she had grown up during the war in the same house as her grandparents and she had learnt to understand their language.

So she sat undisturbed, and she heard it all.

I couldn’t care less about Rantissi. Good riddance.

Maybe you would like to visit the Yad Vashem site.

posted by Imshin 19:12

home