Pesach chores are over! Now I can start enjoying myself. But actually, the Seder was great fun. The reason I like having it at our place is because then we can invite both sides – my family and Bish’s. And they all get on great. Who would believe it?

This year I finally remembered to invite my cousin from the north and her family enough time in advance (in previous years I left it so late I was eventually too embarrassed to call her), and the best thing was having my aunt, Dad’s sister, who was over from England.

I don’t know how we always manage to have so much food. When it’s still in list form, it seems like there isn’t going to be enough. I made an extra zucchini pie, just in case, and I had contingency plans – extra stuff stashed in the freezer – for a starvation disaster. Even when everyone had arrived, and the food was all set out on the kitchen table (I remembered to clear space on the table this year – I’m getting better at this), it seemed like it couldn’t possibly feed everyone. It was only when it was all finally on the table and people were digging in that we realized, yet again, that there was an obscene amount.

The good thing is that there is plenty left over. I’m not going to have to do any cooking all week, which is a waste really, seeing as I’m home anyway.

I’m home anyway. Wow, I’m finding it hard to get used to that. This is the first Pesach I’ll be home all week for fifteen years, besides when I had Youngest, of course, and that doesn’t really count, because I spent most of hol hamoe’d (the ‘weekdays’ of Pesach, which are regarded as a sort of half holiday) in the maternity hospital worrying about matza-(unleavened bread)-induced constipation (as if childbirth-induced constipation wasn’t enough).

We always worked half days in Pesach so it was a waste to take time off. I’d have had to pay for a full day off, although if I worked I would only be working till twelve thirty every day, so it wasn’t worth it. This year they’ve sent us all home to save money and we only have to pay two and a half days of leave for the four work days we’ll be off. With Hag days, Shabbats and Fridays I’ll be home for a full nine days!

The only thing wrong with last night’s Seder is that we didn’t manage to get things back on track after the meal. I love the songs, and R.T., Our Sis and I always have a royal time with the food blessing and the songs. R.T. is hilarious after a glass of wine or two, or four, but it just didn’t happen this year. The kids got their afikoman pressies and that was that. Never mind. Next year.

Shabbat Shalom and Happy Pesach!

New kitty update:
We've changed her name - Billy. (I tried for Matilda again, but no one took any notice). I'm quite happy with Billy.



She's a poor little street kitten, as you can see, only a few weeks old.

Shoosha is actually being quite wonderful, all things considered. She's cautious and mildly hostile (more than usual). She's sniffing around a lot (Shoosha) and is jumpy (again, more than usual). Bish reckons she realizes that this is only a tiny helpless kitten and not a real threat.

We've asked Eldest not to touch Billy at first, seeing as she's Shoosha's main human. She was a bit sad about this, Billy is so teeny and cute, but she understands. She shed quite a few tears yesterday when Shoosha hissed at her, but now they're best friends again.

Billy, on the other hand, is already showng signs of being friendlier than Shoosha. Eldest is a bit worried about this. She doesn't want everyone to love Billy and not Shoosha. She's so sweet is Eldest.

We've been encouraging Youngest to bond with Billy. She's always a bit jealous of Shoosha and Eldest's special relationship.

News Flash!
Shoosha has a little sister. I've just adopted her at the pet shop. She hasn't got a name yet. Shoosha is sulking in the bedroom.

Eldest isn't home. She doesn't know.

Update: Shoosha isn't sulking anymore. She's just sleeping.

Update: Okay, we've probably made every mistake in the book about bringing a new cat into the home. The people in the pet shop should have told us, very naughty of them. We're learning. She's called Bilbee, that's Hebrew for Pipi Longstocking.

It's not so much that I don't have anything to say, it's that everything I have to say is work related and far better left unsaid.

Never mind. I'm off work from Friday till the following Sunday. Nine whole days of NO WORK. As kids say in this corner of the globe: YESH!

Look what was stuffed in my letterbox.



They want me to buy some posh expensive apartment they’re building near the Yarkon River. Well, I would love to, if I could afford it. I think I’ll have to make do with the nice photo of the Yarkon on the leaflet.

A week before Seder Night
I’m starting to get panicky. A little voice in my head is yelling "Help! Help! I can’t take it! It’s too much!" This is an excuse to go and lie down and read my book about the meaning of street names in Tel Aviv. It's so boring I always fall asleep.

Organizing Seder Night is really not so difficult. I've done it before. There is a trick, you see. You delegate. Everyone brings something. If I play my cards right all I will have to do is make the hardboiled eggs and set the table.

Not that setting the table for Seder Night is such an easy thing. There is quite a lot to remember and prepare. And of course, you have to get your brother-in-law to bring over the spare folding table on time. You can’t really set the table if you haven’t got one...

But I’m still in denial. I should be making lists. I should be making phone calls and organizing things. Instead I’m moving between not thinking about it and panic. That book with the street names is getting a lot of use.

Mum would have had the table set by now. I can hear her in my head, "There’s only a week left till Seder Night and you haven’t set the table yet?!"

Oysh.

(Cross posted on Israelity)

Hearts growing strong

Naomi Remen, a physician who uses art, meditation and other spiritual practices in the healing of cancer patients, told me a moving story that illustrates the process of healing the heart, which accompanies a healing of the body. She described a young man who was twenty-four years old when he came to her after one of his legs had been amputated at the hip in order to save his life from bone cancer. When she began her work with him he had a great sense of injustice and hatred for all "healthy" people. It seemed bitterly unfair to him that he had suffered this terrible loss so early in life. His grief and rage were so great that it took several years of continuous work for him to begin to come out of himself and to heal. He had to heal not only his body but also his broken heart and wounded spirit.

He worked hard and deeply, telling his story, painting it, meditating, bringing his entire life into awareness. As he slowly healed, he developed a profound compassion for others in similar situations. He began to visit people in the hospital who had also suffered severe physical losses. On one occasion, told his physician, he visited a young singer who was so depressed about the loss of her breasts that she would not even look at him. The nurses had the radio playing, probably hoping to cheer her up. It was a hot day, and the young man had come in running shorts. Finally, desperate to get her attention, he unstrapped his artificial leg and began dancing around the room snapping his fingers to the music. She looked at him in amazement, and then burst out laughing and said, "Man, if you can dance, I can sing."

When this young man first began working with drawing, he made a crayon sketch of his own body in the form of a vase with a deep crack running through it. He redrew the crack over and over and over, grinding his teeth with rage. Several years later, to encourage him to complete his process, my friend showed him his early pictures again. He saw the image of the vase and said, "Oh this one isn’t finished." When she suggested he finish it then, he did. He ran his finger along the crack, saying, "You see here, this is where the light comes through." With a yellow crayon, he drew light streaming through the crack into the body of the vase and said, "Our hearts can grow strong at the broken places."

From Jack Kornfield’s book A Path with Heart, pg. 48.

Yesterday I stood in a queue for an hour and a quarter in Dizengoff Center shopping mall in Tel Aviv. Hundreds of people stood there in line along with me, quiet and orderly, some chatting to the people they had come with, others making new friends. And more and more were joining the queue all the time.

It moved forward very slowly, but no one pushed; no one tried to cut in; no one complained -- I didn’t hear even the faintest of grumbles.

For thirty years I’ve been standing in queues in this country. I have never experienced a queue quite like this one. So what was this, a flash mob of German tourists?

Not quite.

These were people who had come to give blood for the national pool of bone marrow donors, in the hope of helping to find a match for three year old Omri Raziel. These were people in the business of giving. It was an act of selflessness. They had come because of their compassion for this little boy and his terrible suffering, in the hope that maybe they could save his life.

They weren’t standing in queue for themselves, so it made no sense for them to be angry or impatient or grabbing. And so many of them came, all over the country, that by lunchtime there were no test tubes left anywhere for the blood samples.

Now all we can do is hope they find a match. To pay for testing all the blood samples little Omri's family needs to raise over a million dollars. You can help too.

I’m utterly fed up of blogger.com, but I don’t have the time or the energy to create an alternative right now. Passover next week… 21 guests… nothing ready… no plan… aaaaahhhhhh… change the subject.

As you can see I’m in denial.

The day before yesterday my blog disappeared. Some blogger.com bug, apparently. Luckily Bish the superhero saved the day. Yesterday I wrote an excellent post and blogger.com erased it.

Grrrrr.

A reminder
For everyone in Israel, tomorrow is the donation day for little Omri Raziel. If you haven’t donated blood for the national bone marrow bank you will be able to do so in these blood donation stations (Hebrew). They need money too, because it is all very expensive.

Breakfast
God is the tiny brown insect
crawling along my teaspoon.
If I am not very careful
I will drown it when I wash the dishes.

I’m not sure how this happened. I thought I’d be busy until Purim and then I would have more time to, you know, do my thing (= as little as possible). But Purim has been and gone and I’m busier than ever.

I don’t even have time to explain. Tomorrow I’m off for a much needed, and long planned and anticipated, meditation weekend, before coming back straight for my Caf? Diverso deadline, school trips, scout trips (big maybe, there’s a story there, but I have no time to tell it), Seder Night for twenty one hosted by little old scatter brain here, etc etc.

This is one of the best posts about cats, if not the best.

Very interesting post about the revival of Hebrew in modern times on Rishon Rishon.

Allison pointed out this post, by Laura at 11D. She says maybe blogging is not going in the direction we were expecting.

Karen Alkalay-Gut about living and creating in Tel Aviv. I especially love the poem at the end of April 1st.

Guess what? I made Story of the Month on Cafe Diverso for April. That means my story will be on the home page all month. Scroll down, it's at the bottom.

It's called Why was this night different?

An excerpt:

Why was this night different?

Mum sat quietly smiling at her place by the big, festive dining table Bish and I had set out in our living room for the evening. She was so tiny, so fragile, no more than a shadow of the plump bundle of energy we had always known. She had been diagnosed just three weeks before, and even though the chemotherapy she would be starting, after the Passover holiday, gave us hope, I think we all knew deep inside that it was the last Seder Night she would be with us. Little did we know that by the end of the evening, Seder Night would have changed forever, and not only for our family.

Every year in the spring, on Seder Night, the whole extended family gathered to retell an ancient story of how our ancestors were freed from slavery in Egypt, to embark on a journey into the desert that would eventually lead them to the land of the Fathers. Religious and secular alike, on the first night of Passover, Jews in Israel and in the Diaspora took part in telling the story to the next generation. The sages of old had bequeathed a memorable way of passing it on.

You can read the rest here.

Preparation for Yom HaShoah
My youngest’s class will be responsible for the Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Day) ceremony at their school this year. I personally think they are too young, it’s usually done by the fifth graders, who are a year older, but the teacher thinks it’s a good idea.

They began the preparations a few weeks ago with a trip to Yad Vashem’s branch in Givatayim, on the outskirts of Tel Aviv. They were shown a film about Auschwitz and a writer came to talk to them. I asked Bish to go with them, because I know my little one is sensitive to the subject of the Holocaust and I just wanted one of us to be there.

Yesterday was the second stage of the preparations, a workshop at school with the parents. One of the parents, a history teacher, talked to the children about Nazi ideology. I thought this was a very wise choice, which helped the children put the Holocaust into some sort of historic and philosophic context. Children in this country are bombarded with difficult imagery and rhetoric from a very young age. It is important for them to understand that there was an idea and logic (however warped) behind the incomprehensible evil.

After this we split up into little groups of children and parents, and talked about how the Holocaust touched us personally. This we tried to express visually by making collages.

After breakfast, we were fortunate enough to be able to listen to a wonderful woman called Hannah Gofrit. Hannah has written a book for children about her experiences as a child in the Holocaust. The children had all read her book and the whole session was just her answering their questions. But what answers!

The children tended to ask very specific, technical questions about details that they hadn’t understood in her story, such as ‘How did you breathe when you were hiding in the cupboard and in the sack of potatoes?’ And out of these simple questions she conjured up for us a very powerful, compelling image of what her life was like – the deprivation, the helplessness, the fear, the mental exhaustion, the minute by minute struggle to survive, for years.

She spoke so wonderfully, with such strength and optimism, without even the tiniest hint of self pity, that it didn’t really register with me at first, the horror. Hers is a story of survival.

When it hit, it hit hard.

Her answer to how you breathe in a sack of potatoes – when you are a child hiding in a sack of potatoes, you become a potato. And potatoes don’t breathe.

Cross posted on Israelity)

Okay okay, so it’s not as bad as it sounded yesterday. A person is allowed to have a bad day.

Luckily my art class was great last night. My fellow students probably thought I was a raving lunatic, I was that weird (or maybe just silly). But I really didn’t care. I’m actually a bit embarrassed to say what I did. It sounds so silly. I’ll only say that I spent part of the lesson sitting on the floor completely wrapped in cardboard wrapping (I’m blushing just to be writing that).

If I was all artsy fartsy I could say it was the artist being the art or some rubbish like that. Our teacher said it was a pity she hadn’t brought a camera, but that wasn’t it at all. I wouldn’t have done it if there was a camera. I wasn’t acting. I wasn’t attention seeking. I was playing.

I think that as we grow older we forget about playing. Do you know what I’m talking about? It’s like Picasso who, I have read, reached perfection at the age of twelve and spent the rest of his life learning how to draw as a child.

We have to learn how to play again. When we were children it came naturally, we just did it. But we have lost that natural ability, shed it like an old skin, and it was left discarded somewhere along the path, unwanted and unneeded, or so we thought.

When I say playing, I don’t mean pretending to be children and ingratiating ourselves on any kids we happen to know, although some people are good at playing with kids without any pretending, like my Bish. I’m not, but mind you I wasn’t much good at playing with kids when I was a kid myself. It’s not that.

And I don’t mean playing games, with set rules and teams and clearly stated goals. It’s not about winning or even about ‘participating’. I mean playing free, with no aim, with nothing to gain, just for the fun of it. Just because.

And that’s what I did last night in my art class. I couldn't understand why i was so happy, then I remember thinking to myself "Hey, I'm playing!"

So why did I keep wanting to apologize that I wasn’t sitting nicely by the table and creating something that could be seen and touched, something that I could take home to show Bish?

More thoughts on the decision to not grant citizenship to the children of foreign workers.
Government policy is rarely unaffected by bureaucracy and the government finds it hard to get anything done if the bureaucrats are opposed. Remember that excellent BBC series ‘Yes, Minister’? It had us rolling on the floor in hysterics, but we could just have easily been crying and pulling out our hair in despair. It was so painfully realistic it was tragic.

When Bish was toting his law draft around the relevant government ministry, the elected policy makers were all for it. It was the “professional” bureaucrats that torpedoed it. One of them in particular had no problem at all to lie through his teeth to get it thrown out, simply because it made him look bad.

My strong feelings about this subject probably stem from a personal place. It's always personal.

Recently, I’ve been feeling disillusioned and depressed by my fifteen years in one particular corner of the public service. I don’t usually talk about this here, and I probably should just keep my mouth shut, but I am so utterly fed up. I used to believe my work meant something, that it was beneficial to society.

I’m not sure if things really have got so much worse or if it’s my eyes that have now opened wide enough to witness the general laziness and lack of interest, the ineptitude, the stupidity.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s all just (un)healthy (but) normal mediocrity. Maybe instead of lowering my expectations I’ve been raising them far too high, for reasons connected not to my workplace, but to blogging and to the insights it has presented me (so much for the joys of being aware). Maybe it is a new and perhaps misguided confidence in my abilities that is pushing me to demand more not only of myself but of those around me.

Whatever the reasons, these strong feelings of dissatisfaction have been stifling my ability to express myself lately. I’ve got to get out of this bitter little rut I’m stuck in and get on with things.

Maybe I need some of that bureaucratic indifference myself so I won't be upset by it all. There seems to be enough of it going round.

I spent the afternoon reading Nathan Alterman's play "The Ghosts' Inn". I haven't read it since high school. Powerful stuff. I didn't really understand it in high school, but even so I was very moved by it.

I'd like to say something about it right now, but I'm not sure what. I think I'll just go and wash my hair.

The Horror of Bureaucratic Indifference.
Someone I know is privy to the inner workings of a ministerial committee that grants and revokes licenses to those wishing to work in a certain profession. On occasion he has commented on the arbitrary fashion in which the committee members vote to revoke licenses, unaware or uninterested in the fact that they are taking away these people’s livelihoods, sometimes unfairly, sometimes just on a technicality, destroying small businesses that have been painstakingly built up over years.

It’s not that they are bad people sitting on this committee, my friend explains to me. They are good and well meaning. It’s just that they never take the time to think of the implications of revoking a license. They don’t really regard these hard working professionals, struggling to make a living, as real people.

For many years the committee had no representative of the professionals it was discussing, and ultimately judging, among its members. They saw no need for such a representative; they were not really interested in the point of view of the people they were dealing with. In recent months, as a result of much lobbying, a representative has finally been appointed to the committee, revolutionizing its work purely by forcing its members to see the consequences of their bureaucratic indifference.

On Friday evening Youngest (at the ripe old age of nearly ten) observed that she didn’t like this country. She said she liked the way the country looked and this was home and she didn’t see herself living anywhere else, but she didn’t like the way the people behaved. I was unhappy about this observation, until Bish commented to me quietly that Youngest had been very upset by the item we had just been watching on the news about how the state had decided not to grant citizenship to a limited group of children of foreign workers, who had been born here, who had grown up here, and who were now between the ages of ten and eighteen. I must admit it had upset me as well. Maybe I too am not proud to live in a country that behaves in such an inhumane way.

Bish pointed out that the decision didn’t stem from racism or from wickedness. He said it was just indifference to the fact that these are real people, real children. Not numbers, not statistics.

It was apparently the Ministry of Finance (dear big hearted Bibi Netanyahu) that was opposed, fearing it would be costly, and the Ministry of Industry and Trade, who feared it would complicate things for them in some way. God help us.

Well, I don’t care why the decision to treat these children like human beings was turned down or by whom. I say it’s time to stop this and just do what's right. These kids have grown up Israeli and now they're our responsibility.

There are only a few hundred of them for goodness sake, a few thousand at the outside. And it's not as if they're only out to use the state. They will do their military service, they will work and pay income tax. They will raise families to love this country. They want to be here, not to ruin us or use us, but to be a part of it. They get dressed up in fancy dress in Purim, for goodness sake, even though they're not Jewish. So what if they don't qualify according to some law. They're just as Israeli as everyone else they grew up with.

Update: As always, Alisa has interesting observations:
Imshin, the two issues are not the same. Although there is very likely a considerable degree of bureaucratic indifference involved in the handling of the issue of foreign workers' children, we should not forget that the question whether to let them stay is a question of policy. I tend to agree with you (albeit very reluctantly) that they should be allowed to stay, but that is really for the politicians, not for the bureaucrats to decide.

Purim
We had such fun today! Dizengoff Street was very crowded. There were loads of people, many in fancy dress, but not enough. I don't see how you can go to a fancy dress carnival without even a symbolic silly hat or something. Any way, it was pretty hectic. There were stalls and things at the edges and Brazilian dancers. We managed to see some body painting going on before we fled. You know me and crowds, not good friends. And our visitors from England - we didn’t want them completely shell shocked.

We were a party of ten, our cousins, R.T., and us, and we’d come in two taxis and a scooter. But getting there turned out to be the easy part. The problem was leaving. No taxis to be found, we eventually got a bus to north Dizengoff, where we went for a hummus lunch at Hummus Assaf, our favorite.

It was a beautiful day, lovely and sunny. Not too cold, not too hot, just right, and most important - no rain. Amazingly, we’d managed to get everyone at least slightly dressed up. Even Bish had this horrible blond wig on. It went well with the stubble on his chin! He looked rather forbidding, but he still managed to get on like a house on fire with my cousin’s youngest daughter. There are three of them, and they all got rides on Bish’s scooter. Plucky parents!

The girls seemed to get on fine with my two, eventually, after the ice broke a bit. My girls started to discover what I have known all along – that their English is far better than they realize. Their problem was understanding their cousins’ London accents. Not quite the same as Hollywood sitcoms.

After lunch we went for a walk along the Yarkon River, which was hopping. Loads of people, walking, riding bikes, rowing. Hearing music from the other bank we made our way over towards the crowds we could see. They were selling Irish beer and they had bands playing Irish songs.

You see, tomorrow night there’s a big soccer game in Tel Aviv between Israel and Ireland. Tel Aviv is apparently full of Irish fans. We even spotted a few at the happening in the park. They got them up to sing ‘It’s a long way to Tiperrary’ and have a drinking contest.

So there were stalls and things there. We particularly liked the mock sumo wrestling. It’s good – two people from the crowd put on suits that make them look (and weigh) like sumo wrestlers and then they have a go at each other.

I’m so glad we took them out. We usually steer clear from crowded events and today really was fun, even Dizengoff.

No photos. I forgot the camera, as usual.

Our Sis had our cousins over for dinner this evening. I'm afraid we must have worn them out, because she rang to tell us that the girls were passed out on the couch. Serves her right for not inviting us!

Cross posted on Israelity.

My best friend at work is going away for two months and I'm feeling lonely.

Dolphins in Haifa Port!
I just saw them on TV. Spectacular.

Purim costumes are ready! I’m particularly proud of the Little Red Riding Hood one I made for my eldest daughter because I made it from scratch. I love that – bringing home a piece of material, folded up, lifeless, and making it into a garment that someone can wear and enjoy.

Eldest has been treated to a great cape and hood, even if I do say so myself. The material, bought in Nahalat Binaymin Street next to Carmel Market, is wonderful – I don’t know what its called, but it’s a lovely deep red and it’s heavier than satin, which is the obvious choice for costumes. I’m glad I didn’t use satin. Satin always looks flimsy and cheap. The skirt underneath is satin, red with white dots, but somehow it works.

I bought the basket (eggs and bread for grandma, wasn’t it?) in Jerusalem a fortnight ago. We went from work to visit a friend who was sitting Shiva for his father (the seven days of mourning). Riding along in the car on the way back, I suddenly spied a wicker shop, and shouted, “Stop! Stop!” So everyone had to wait while I went to buy a basket for Eldest’s costume. I was very popular, you can imagine. Oh well, they’re used to me by now.

The weather has been very sunny and nice lately so I hardly gave any thought to the fact that Youngest’s costume was a spruced up summer dress, until I heard on the news that it was going to rain on Wednesday. Wednesday is the day the kids go to school for their Purim carnivals before the Purim vacation. It always rains. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.

So this afternoon on the way home from work I searched the children’s clothes shops in the area for some sort of suitable little cardigan. Naturally, they’re stocked for summer. No little cardigans in white or pink to be found anywhere. Eventually at home I managed to find a little pink jacket that just fits, although it’s a bit tight. Not marvelous, but it will have to do.

I’ll be going out on the town with my girls this Purim. I never do that because I dislike crowds, but my cousin is coming from England with his family and we’ll be doing Dizengoff Street with them on Friday morning. The paper says there will be things going on there. I fancy the Adloyada (Purim parade) in Hatiqva Market, but everyone agrees that this will be a bit of a culture shock for our visitors’ young daughters. Hatiqva neighborhood is a poor neighborhood in the south of Tel Aviv. The market there is not as impressive as the famous Carmel Market (in fact, it can be a bit depressing at times), although the amba on sale there is reputedly the best you can get.

Still sewing fancy dress costumes for Purim. Youngest's is ready. She's a doll. Eldest's is nearly ready. She's Little Red Riding Hood. I'm particularly pleased with the red cloak. I've got to make her skirt now. A bit tricky.

Still sewing fancy dress costumes for Purim. Details soon.

Ooh look
Tel Aviv on Cafe Diverso. Taken by Merav.

Here's another one.

Actually Merav is a friend of mine.

Important message to all visitors from World Arms Forces Forum: You are very welcome, but please be advised that this blog has absolutely nothing to do with Imshin-Y#%' (Login Negev-Warrior) who has been posting on your forum in embarrassingly bad English. I have no idea who he is and I have nothing to do with the strange things he’s been posting on your forum.

And to my usual readers: Yes!! Someone is pretending to be me! Finally! A real live imposter!

Does that mean I’m, like, somebody?

No time to post. Busy making fancy dress costumes for Purim. Details some other time. I can't believe I've left it this late.

Tel Aviv
From the Steven Spielberg Jewish Film Archive – a film made about Tel Aviv in 1947 (you have to be patient if you want to watch this). 19 minutes of unabashed Zionist propaganda, probably aimed at opening the hearts and the wallets of wealthy American Jews. Parts of the narration are more than a bit embarrassing.

But the pictures are so magical for me. Tel Aviv as it used to be. Clean, sweet, optimistic. My mother-in-law says it breaks her heart to see how Tel Aviv has aged since her childhood in the young city of the nineteen thirties and forties.

Today I had lunch on Dizengoff Street with an old friend. We grew up together in Haifa and in our early twenties we shared a little apartment just off Dizengoff. Sitting together in the sun brought back such memories. Ein ma la’asot (nothing you can do about it), noisy, dirty, busy -- Tel Aviv still has its magic.

Cross posted on Israelity.

Translation, Tschernichovsky used to say (stealing it from Tolstoy?) is like a woman. If it is beautiful it is not faithful and if it is faithful it is not beautiful.

The wonderful Karen Alkalay-Gut, March 9th. So true, this always upsets me. But Karen is probably the person whose translations from Hebrew to English I most trust. She manages to be both faithful and beautiful.

Talking about translations, Bish has finally found a good translation for Rudyard Kipling’s ‘If’. There are about fifteen really bad ones, including Yair Lapid’s which is particularly annoying. Un-beautiful and unfaithful.

No, this is the best yet. Bish found it on an Israeli forum where it had been posted anonymously, by someone who said that he had no idea who translated it, but that he had found it in handwriting on a piece of paper in a drawer in his home. Very intriguing.

By the way, the photograph of the wall on March 8th (Karen's diary again) is just by my workplace. The front is the little watchmaker store I visited to have the links removed from Mum’s wristwatch after she died so I could wear it. The watchmaker was old and his hands shook and he was sooooo slow.

אם / רודיארד קיפלינג אם תוכל לשמור על שקט וקור-רוח עת מסביב לך שוררת מבוכה, אם בין מפקפקים תוסיף להיות בטוח אבל גם לספק תדע לתת לבך; אם להמתין תוכל בלא להתייגע, אם ממרמה תרחק עת היא אותך תיסוב אם בשנאה תוקף ובה לא תינגע מבלי להראות חכם מדי או טוב. אם כל חלומותיך לך יהיו לעבד אם מחשבות לך - כאמצעי בלבד אם נצחון תפגוש או מפלה נוקבת ובשניהם - בני בלע - תנהג מנהג אחד; אם תוכל לסבול דברים אשר השמעת בהיסלפם להיות מלכודת לבורים, אם את מפעל חייך תראה שוקע מטה ושוב תחל לבנות אותו מן השברים. אם לאסוף תוכל את כל דברי הערך אשר לך לערמה - ולסכנם ולהפסידם ושוב לצעוד מראש הדרך בלא להפטיר מלה על שאבד חינם; אם לבבך יוסיף לפעום ללא מנוח וגם בכבד העול, בעול יהי מושך ולא יחדל גם עת אבד ממך כל כוח כל עוד זה רצונך קורא אליו: המשך! אם בין ההמונים תחזיק במידותיך ובחצר מלכות תדע לנהוג פשטות אם לא יוכלו לך אויביך או רעיך אם כל אדם תוקיר כיאה וכיאות; אם למלא תוכל כל רגע לא סולח במלוא שישים שניות של יזע ושל דם, לך תהיה הארץ וכל אשר עליה, ועוד יותר מזה, בני - תהיה אדם!

Harry got stoned on the way to Jerusalem. Not that sort of stoned. Stoned as in had a stone thrown at him, by Palestinian kids.

Lovely post by SavtaDotty, about seeing Tel Aviv through the eyes of her visitors.

Weird
Can someone please explain this to me?

It's not me, in case you were wondering.

Afterthought: I don't know what to make of it at all. Should I be flattered or aggravated or what? I think I'll stick to amused.

A little story for Shabbat

Avraham’s Honor

The walls of the staircase leading up from Sergio’s apartment to Avraham’s were decorated with posters of popular Rabbis. Others promoted a political party - one not popular with ‘Tsfonim’ (North Tel Avivis) like us - and then there were a few well-endowed women, and some romantic sunsets. I’m sure the Crying Boy was up there somewhere too. The door to Avraham’s apartment was always open and the sound of loud Mizrahi (Eastern) music usually came wafting down through the stairwell. It clashed with Sergio’s jazz.

On the television news one evening, they showed the funeral of an old mobster, the kingpin of the sixties and seventies, who had not long returned from years in prison in Holland or somewhere, only to be murdered by old adversaries from the past. And there, filling the screen in our living room, was none other than Avraham, yes, Sergio’s Avraham, throwing himself on the fresh grave, crying out, “Sage! Sage!” for that was the dead kingpin’s nickname, “Why have you left us, Sage?”

I was always scared of Avraham, to the point that I used to be nervous about going to see Sergio, even though I always went with Dudi. More often than not, Avraham was lurking around the dirty old staircase, which reeked of urine when he wasn’t around and alcohol when he was. He’d suddenly appear from around a corner, or from behind a pillar – unshaven, sinister-looking, and shouting obscenities, frightening me half to death. Or he’d be sitting on an old aluminum chair in the entrance, with one of his unpleasant dogs and a bottle.

Dudi said he was just a poor, harmless old drunk who liked to scare people to make himself feel important. But then he and his eldest son took the old aluminum chair over to the vacant lot next to their building and started coercing people into paying them to park on it. That really freaked me out, although Avraham let us park for free. He seemed to respect Dudi for some reason I couldn’t fathom, calling him ‘Ba’al Habayit’* - Hebrew for ‘Guv’nor’.

He never spoke to me, Avraham, not one word, beyond greeting me with ‘Shalom’. He could talk for ages with Dudi, a lively twinkle in his eye, always seasoning his words with old Jewish sayings. He had that raw wisdom that is the result of a life of hardship. But he never looked at me while he spoke.

One time we were on our way up the stairs and he came down dressed only in his underwear. He didn’t see me at first, but when he did he amazed me by apologizing, not to me, but to Dudi, “I’m sorry, Ba’al Habayit. I didn’t know, I didn’t mean any disrespect. You’re not angry, Ba’al Habayit?…” And that’s when it dawned on me.

I was Dudi’s woman. By talking to me, or worse – revealing himself undressed before me, Avraham was infringing on Dudi’s rights. Maybe he thought Dudi would even be justified in harming him for such impropriety.

I wasn’t afraid of him after that. I even started going to Sergio with our little girl on a Shabbat. afternoon without Dudi. We’d go to the beach across the road first, and then go up to Sergio’s for a shower and a bite to eat.

I never once saw Avraham when I came without Dudi.


__________________________

* Literally – Owner of the House.

Ynetnews reads Not a Fish!
From my mail box:

Are you looking for a personal invitation before you mention us/link to us? OK, here it is....

Alan D. Abbey | Managing Director | Ynetnews.com | Israel's best news website - now in English.

You see, this is why I keep my site meter private. So people will actually think I have a large enough readership to be consequential.

If you were in any doubt, I am very pleased about Ynet having an English version. It’s about time too. I’m even pleaseder now that the managing director has sent me an e-mail, like I'm somebody.

Now how about some links to Israeli-Anglo blogs, Hevr'e? (Besides your own, that is)

Talking about mail, Bish made me a Gmail account. You can mail me at imshinj at gmail dot com

I have another story up on Cafe Diverso. It’s the other sample story I sent them. Actually it was up yesterday already, but I am a bit shy about it. It’s not light and trivial like Sponja, and it touches a delicate place.

It’s called ‘The Birthday Boy’. It was maybe not the wisest story to be published there so early, but stories I've sent in since will hopefully even out the impression somewhat.

On Sunday evening I sent in my next batch of stories, and have been busy rewriting stories I sent in February, according to the editors’ requests. I tell you this Cafe Diverso thing is proving to be better writing experience than any creative writing course, or even blogging. I think blogging spoils us, actually, because we have such freedom.

Writing to order, more or less, is completely different. Having to align with certain objectives; having to keep the stories to a certain length, to certain subjects; having to work out what they will find acceptable without compromising myself -- it is all very challenging. (Don't worry, John. I'm not compromising myself).

Some of you have commented on the fact that Cafe Diverso lists Israel and Palestine together on their list of countries, and on the fact there is actually no sovereign state called Palestine right now.

When they first approached me I was also struck by this, so I wrote them the following:

I find it difficult to accept that Israel and Palestine are listed on the site together. It feels to me a lack of respect for both peoples. My hope and dream is for a free and independent Palestinian state alongside a free and independent Israel, in which we two peoples who share this land will each be able to live in peace and coexistence according to our different values and beliefs. Is it not possible for there to be a separate category for Palestine and for Israel?

The answer I received from Boris Matijas, the blogs and connections editor who had contacted me (and has recently left Caf? Diverso), was this:

We acknowledge our impact yet this was certainly not our intention. This is a very delicate issue and one that resulted in much debate amongst the team. In fact we would offend someone no matter what route we took. In the end we decided to choose Israel and Palestine, with separate country profiles, and to make a concerted effort to find a Storyteller from Israel. This is why we have contacted you. Please try and understand that all of the members of our team share your vision of a solution to the problems. However we cannot change our decision at this point. We believe that our choice is the one that is most consistent with the objectives of our project. We respect very much your opinion however. Please be assured that we will create separate country categories as soon as the political powers make it a reality, even though we wholly acknowledge that many people in your countries already believe in this reality.

While I wasn’t very happy with this answer, I decided to overlook the matter. I see Caf? Diverso as an opportunity to reach people who would not otherwise be exposed to a moderate ‘middle Israel’ point of view (as someone once called it).

When I asked Killian, founder of Cafe Diverso and a really nice guy, if I could post this exchange on my blog, he asked to add that ‘our objective is to 'bridge cultural divides' and that this forms the basis of our decision.’

So I just wanted you to know.

My comments on the matter seem to have struck a chord. Cafe Diverso’s Palestinian storyteller also seems to have remarked on the issue, and now they are rethinking the policy. I’ll keep you updated.

Man and the Desert - the fun begins!
We finally went on our first real excursion with Avner Goren yesterday, in our Man and the Desert course, after it was cancelled last month due to rain. Bish chickened out at the last minute. I reckoned it was the early wake-up that broke him. So it was just R.T. and me. And a bunch of other people of course.

Listen, if any of you ever get an opportunity to listen to this person speak, in a language you can understand, do not hesitate. He’s wonderful. He brings the distant past to life in such a vivid, exciting way.

We visited two sites on the edge of the desert. One was a hole in the ground called Beer Tzafad on the outskirts of Beer Sheva.



It’s an interesting archeological site dug in the 1950’s that sadly has been neglected over the years.

The other was Tel Arad, which is desert today, but is believed to have had more rain 5000 years ago and therefore was on the edge of the desert.



See how green it all is. Hard to believe it will all dry up soon, and if you visit there in the summer all you’ll see is yellowy-brown land. The white stuff is flowers, by the way.

Naturally, the batteries of my camera finished just after I took this and before we had actually entered the site. So I’ve googled. There are plenty of photographs, although everyone seems more interested in the Israelite fortress with its temple, than in the Canaanite city which absolutely blew me away.

For one thing this was a big place, considering how long ago it was built (3100 BC).



A planned city with a great city wall, complete with watchtowers, some rounded and some square. The communal area includes buildings believed to have been a palace and a temple area. The roads were planned and there was even a primitive water system (Not the well you can see in some of the photos. That was from the Israelite period, 1400 years later). In Tel Arad you can see the typical Canaanite dwelling of the time, which is called the Arad house by archeologists.


(The reconstructions are by L. Ritmeyer, from the Israel Nature and Parks Authority leaflets. I hope Mr. Ritmeyer will not mind my use of his drawings here. They're too small to be copied and used elsewhere)

After Arad was abandoned and ruined between 2000 – 2400 BC probably as a result of economic changes that were going on in Egypt, Arad’s main market, it wasn’t built again as a city. The Israelites later built the fortress, as I’ve said, on one corner of it. This apparently made it an interesting dig, because the findings from that period were not buried under generations of later constructions.

Contrary to popular belief, Avner says that Jericho was not the oldest city in the world. The wall, dating back to 5000 BC, that had thought to have been a city wall turned out to have been a protective barrier to stop the water from the Jordan River from flooding the village that was there. The town came much later. Even the archeologist who had made the original claim accepted her mistake. The Palestinians continue to market Jericho as the oldest city though, for tourism reasons, and who can blame them?

Arad was one of the earliest cities though, and the site is very impressive, especially when consumed along with Avner’s explanations, and even though only a small part of it has been excavated.

I must say I’m looking forward to an evening lecture we’re having with Avner as part of the course, the week after next.

:-)
My first little story appeared on Cafe Diverso today. It's called Sponja.

Happy Birthday SHOOSHA!
We're not certain that this is really her birthday, seeing as she was born in someone's backyard or under a bush or something. But this is the date on her innoculation card and that's good enough for us.

She seemed very happy with her special birthday tuna fish treat.I know she wasn't interested why she got it, just as she had no inclination to pose for a birthday photo, but the girls were very excited and they have been extra attentive to her all day.

Prayers needed.

Baghdadi Tortilla
After my Spinning class every Sunday morning, I spoil myself with some posh sandwiches for my lunch from the CafeNeto coffee shop near the underground car park. Today I noticed they had nicely wrapped tortillas. I’d never had a tortilla before that I could remember, so I thought I’d try that. There were different kinds and I opted for the Baghdadi Tortilla, which looked good and was the least expensive.

Well, it was absolutely scrumptious, but I was amused that they’d called it a tortilla. This was none other than an Iraqi pita (also called a Laffa). It was a yuppie, gourmet, snobby, Ashkenazi version of an Iraqi pita, but an Iraqi pita nevertheless.

Ah, but would I have bought it if the snazzy little wrapping had had Iraqi Pita written on it, rather than the more exotic Baghdadi Tortilla? I think not. An Iraqi pita is popular, down-to-earth street food, not something for which you pay a lot of money in a snooty coffee place that doesn’t even serve an ordinary ‘Ness’ (that’s instant coffee, short for Nestle, although the cheapish Elite powdered instant coffee in a can is still unbelievably popular here).

You should have seen the pitiful looks they gave a young man who came in asking for a ‘Ness’ at this place, while I was there last week. Poor guy, he was completely mystified. Even more so when he discovered that they didn’t serve ‘Botz’ either. (‘Botz’ - literally ‘mud’ - is Turkish coffee that hasn’t been boiled in a finjan but just mixed with boiling water, sugar added for the froth, and then allowed to settle).

(Cross-posted on Israelity)

It was a meeting of the hevr’e from the reserve unit. Do you remember I told you about these meetings? One of the hevr’e had a birthday. They’d come from all over the country.

They’d been together for years. What hadn’t they been through together? Two Intifadas of combat reserve duty for a start.

But it was a birthday party in a Tel Aviv nightclub that got them.

One of them had brought the invitations to his wedding next month. He was going to give them out to his hevr’e that evening.

He was badly wounded. His lovely bride was killed.

I saw on TV that Zaka, those religious guys who pick up the body parts, came tonight instead of last night because of Shabbat. I don’t know why, I’ve never done this before, but I just got on my bike and went to see.

I took some photos.

Our Sis just rang to say my nephew was just next to that nightclub last night, when the terrorist attack occured. She got a call from him at 11:20pm and he said, "Mum, I'm alright." She didn't know what he was talking about, because it hadn't been picked up by the media yet but she could hear the ambulances in the background as they spoke. I told her I hadn't even thought of him. I'd thought he was safely in the army!

Oy, Israelity is making me nervous. I’m trying to think of something wise and witty and interesting to write there about the wonders of life in Israel, but nothing is coming to mind.

Some commenters find the idea of Israelity boring, but I suppose these are the sort of people who would think Not a Fish boring, so that’s just tough as far as I’m concerned. People who think life should be all excitements and noise and balagan (sorry Rinat, I don’t mean you) are probably of the mental age of the kids in my youngest daughter’s scout troop.

I hate that these people seem to think that if something is boring to them it has no right to exist. Well, the first time I heard a record of the popular Israeli comedy threesome "HaGashash HaHiver" (The Pale Tracker), at the ripe old age of nine with limited knowledge of Hebrew and even less understanding of Israeli humor, I didn’t get it and I was bored out of my mind. I actually remember saying to myself "So this is what they mean when they say 'being bored'". These days I split my sides listening to "HaGashash HaHiver". Boring is definitely relative.

Just got back from a parent-kids meet at scouts. I am in shock. In short: the louder you shout the better. They call it morale. I call it noise. I can’t believe I was once a madricha (leader) in scouts of kids that age and got them to shout just as loud.

Was I mad? No, I was twenty five years younger. Makes you realize how much the way you see the world changes with age.

Sunny day
Allison did a good job of describing the strange morning after feeling.

Lying in bed looking at the bright morning sun reflected on the half closed shutters, I wondered if Youngest and her friend sleeping over at our apartment were awake yet. Just before the sound of their chatter answered my question, I remembered last night’s terrorist attack and realized that everything was so quiet.

You somehow expect the ambulance sirens to just go on and on. But we didn’t even hear them last night. I was watching a sweet Australian romantic comedy with that Welsh guy who stole the show in Notting Hill. He flies off on a deckchair with helium balloons tied to it and comes down in some little town in Eck Velt where he falls head over heels with the only traffic cop in town.

Bish heard about the terrorist attack when the film was over and I was in the shower. My first thought when he came to tell me was, "Oh my God, what if Eldest and her friends had got bored in their sleep-over party and had decided to go out instead?"

Now the likelihood of this happening was less than slim, not even slightly realistic, but it was late, I was tired, and I’d been feeling uneasy about Eldest as it was. She had forgotten her sleeping bag and we’d been trying to contact her all evening. Needless to say she wasn’t answering her cell phone (duh!) and, bad parents that we are, we’d neglected to get the phone number and exact address of the friend throwing the party. We knew the building, but not the last name or the floor number.

Apparently she had been trying to call us as well at one point, but there was something wrong with Bish’s cell phone. It never rains.

Lesson: Just because a child happens to be a very dependable and reliable teenager (tfu tfu tfu) AND she has her cell phone with her (and you’ve checked the battery is charged), doesn’t mean you don’t need to know the telephone number at the place she’s staying.

Honestly, you’d think we’ve been parents for about three days.

And this is when I knew (nearly exactly) where she was and what she was doing. How is it going to be when she’s a bit older and really out on the town?

I know it’s selfish of me to be thinking about my own kids when other people’s kids were actually killed and injured last night. I guess it’s instinctive.

Update: More and more.

Nothing to say 2
Did you notice the mad scramble to point the finger at Hizbullah? ("It's not us. It's them")

Yeah, whatever.

Nothing to say
A nightclub near the beach in Tel Aviv: 4 murdered, nearly 50 wounded.

Like a bad penny.
You remember Jihad Ja’ara, don’t you? He was one of the main ‘heroes’ of the Bethlehem Church of the Nativity siege in 2002. Not greatly loved by local Christians at the time according to an article that appeared in the Washington Times in May 2002:

BETHLEHEM, West Bank — Residents of this biblical city are expressing relief at the exile to Cyprus last week of 13 hard-core Palestinian militants, who they said had imposed a two-year reign of terror that included rape, extortion and executions.

[…]

Palestinians who live near the church described the group as a criminal gang that preyed especially on Palestinian Christians, demanding "protection money" from the main businesses, which make and sell religious artifacts.

According to Bethlehem residents, one of the group's top leaders, Jihad Ja'ara, 29, traveled around town with an M-16 rifle, terrorizing the community.

[…]

Residents also said that Mr. Ja'ara and another top leader, Ibrahim Abayat, took nine Muslims whom they suspected of collaborating with Israel into an apartment near Manger Square and fatally shot them.

Ja’ara ended up living the life of Reilly near Dublin with Rami Kamel. They managed to grumble about this.

The exiles live an hour outside Dublin in an isolated village cut off from Ireland's tiny Arab community. They spend their days practicing conversational English, watching television and cooking meals.

"We are in exile, an isolated exile," Jaara said. They rarely go out. This has been a cold and miserable summer, even by Irish standards. They would like to buy warm clothes, but they say the 118 euros they get each week from the government are barely enough to live on.

Jaara said the only luxuries they allow themselves are occasional telephone calls to their families in the West Bank - and to the other exiles. He said the government promised to grant his wife and four children temporary visas, but he can't afford the expense of a visit.

So sad.

We next heard of Rami Kamel last year, when he found love in exile. Naturally, we were touched.

Not wanting to spoil their marital bliss Ja’ara left the love birds' nest to wander the streets, unchecked and unmonitored by Irish authorities. I remember commenting on this at the time, but I can’t find it now.

It was round about this time that Ja’ara’s nephew attained the exulted state of after-life martyrdom by blowing himself up on an Israeli bus, killing 10 people and injuring 50 others. Ja’ara wasn’t allowed to attend his nephew’s funeral. Heartbreaking.

And now he’s back to his old tricks, even though there are negotiations to bring the ‘Church of the Nativity exiles’ back, seeing as how peace has broken out.

Yesterday a Tanzim activist from Tulkarem by the name of Salam Buakana (Abu al-Id) from Tul Karem was indicted for planning to carry out terrorist attacks. According to the indictment, Abu al-Id contacted Jihad Ja’ara in Ireland, requesting his assistance in planning and funding the attacks.

Ja’ara promised to help and contacted Kais Ubaid, who you’ll remember as the former Arab Israeli who is Hizbullah’s coordinator for the territories and the man behind the abduction of Elhanan Tenenbaum. According to Maariv

They decided that Ubaid would fund the terrorist cell and Ja’ara would be operations officer, deciding on the targets and timetable for carrying out the terrorist attacks.

Ubaid sent money from Lebanon, with which the cell bought a car and booby trapped it. On 8th September 2004, at lunchtime, the car bomb was detonated next to a military patrol near Baqa al-Sharqia in Samaria. It only caused light injuries to the people in the patrol, but the armored jeep was badly damaged. Immediately after the event al-Id called Ja’ara and Ubaid, reporting that the mission had been accomplished, and asking for permission to take responsibility in the name of the al-Aqza Martyrs Brigade, in revenge for the death of one of their activists. Soon afterwards, Ubaid sent another $2500 for further terrorist actions.

The indictment … details a further long list of (similar) terrorist attacks perpetrated by the cell under the instruction of Ja’ara and Ubaid ...

[…]

A short while before the arrest the cell was planning, instructed by Ja’ara and Ubaid, to perpetrate an attack on a synagogue full of worshippers, in a way reminiscent of Baruch Goldstein’s massacre in the Cave of Machpela (in Hebron, 1994, if I am not mistaken - IJ). The indictment says that the explosive charge that Ubaid supplied was intended “for the perpetration of a terrorist attack in a synagogue … with the help of an Israeli Arab”. Ja’ara instructed the members of the cell to find a synagogue that would be hard to approach for rescue forces. The arrest of the eleven members of the cell prevented the massacre.

(My humble translation)

I couldn’t find a link to this story so I’ve scanned the article that was in yesterday’s Maariv. It’s in Hebrew. If that’s no problem for you, you can read it here.

The real world
I spent the evening shift at work filing. Papers. You know, that’s the stuff they knock down trees to make. The stuff that has been rendered unnecessary by… erm… computers.

Not at my place of employment. Oh yes, we still have paper in the public sector in this corner of the Middle East, and plenty of it. Maybe I should say even in this corner of the Middle East, seeing as how we're regarded as this amazing hi-tech empire. Of course, that's in the private sector. The public sector is chronically understaffed and under funded, so sadly we're probably the last ones in the world to enjoy Israel's technological advancement.

There is something so Sisyphean about filing. It never ends. And it bores me so much, I put it off and put it off until it gets so out of hand, I'm like that little girl in that fairy tale who forgot how to tell the little pot to stop making porridge. It takes over. It gets scary. It pours out into the corridor and out into the street. And the more I put it off, the harder it is to do it when I finally get round to it.

To ease my procrastination I have deviously developed a simple but ingenious system of filing in two stages. This creates a situation whereby every piece of paper is easily located if needed, even if it is yet un-filed (properly filed that is), and the real filing (I have to do it in the end) is far less tedious. I'm quite proud of my little system.

What a pity I'm going to be replaced by a computer in the foreseeable future.

Dan Halutz: Centerfold.
Israeli newspapers traditionally supply their readers with a shiny photo of new presidents, prime ministers, chiefs of staff, etc. A lot of people still stick these up on the wall. You often see them decorating small businesses.

When I was little I used to love them, and I confess that on the morning after PM Yitzhak Rabin was murdered I put his commemorative photograph on the wall of my office, where it stayed for a few years, till I moved office and didn’t take it with me.

Someone must like Dan Halutz in Yediot Aharonot, new appointment for IDF chief of staff. He didn’t just get a shiny photo in this morning’s edition. He got a whole centerfold.

Adrian’s Cathy officially became a Brit. This is very strange for me. I’m happy for her, of course. It is a very exciting thing to happen. But it’s been making me think.

I was born a Brit, you see, and I still have the passport to show for it. I even occasionally trot off to the British consular place to renew my passport and the girl’s passports. I politely wait there for hours and hours while they process what seems like thousands of would-be immigrants or foreign workers or something from the far east or somewhere who are probably being thrown out of Israel and would rather go somewhere better than back home (at least, that was what happened last time I was there).

I always have a funny feeling at the British consular place because they have this big picture of the Queen, which seems strangely out of place on the (can’t remember which) floor of the Migdalor Building on 1 Ben-Yehuda Street.

When I find myself actually in England it’s all very familiar. The smells and the sights seem like home. But then again they’re not.

I can hardly understand the accent spoken in the city of my birth and I find it very difficult to handle things like the strangeness of the money, trying to work out which way to look when I’m crossing the road, etc, although these are things I feel I should be able to manage, and that don’t bother me at all, when I’m in other places that aren’t Israel. Do you know what I mean?

What happens when I go to England, I think, is that I feel disoriented. I should feel at home, and I don’t. And I do, sort of. Like it was a place I dreamt this very vivid dream about. It’s too loaded and weird to be a holiday.

That’s probably why I haven’t been for a while. In case anyone was wondering.

All this has nothing to do with Adrian’s Cathy, of course. I’m happy for her, only I'm finding it difficult to identify.

I think I’ll just send Our Sis as my emissary to England, for now (I’m not paying, though). Have a good time, Our Sis.

Afterthought: Maybe I should just go and stop l'balbel bamoa'ch.

I can't believe I didn't see this before. It's Gil. Yes, our Gil.

Scroll right down for the photo of Elysa, who is incredibly beautiful. Or just click here.

New blog and I'm on it!
Israel21c has started a blog. It's a group blog. I've just posted my first post there. I've never been on a group blog before. This is fun.

Hmmm. I wonder if it's too long.

Help!
I’m in hysterics. Youngest has her bi-annual piano recital this evening. She’s quite happy, reading her Einayim quarterly (this is a wonderful magazine for children, published in cahoots with the Israel museum, highly recommended). Why do I always have to be the one who has the butterflies? (Butterflies?! Now isn’t that an understatement? A minor heart attack would probably be more accurate).

I am silly. It’s quite a friendly event. First of all it usually takes place, as it is this evening, in my in-laws’ apartment. Their daughter, Youngest’s cousin, is this amazingly talented pianist of twelve and a half. So Youngest feels quite at home there, and so do we, naturally.

There are usually about six other little girls (there used to be a boy once, we’re told, before Youngest started playing, but he grew up and went into the army). The girls are of varying ages, all lovingly instructed by teacher Tanya. Talented, dedicated, and a really nice person, albeit completely incapable of ever arriving on time, Tanya is a good example of the immense contribution the immigration from the former Soviet Union countries has made to Israel (besides the influx of piano teachers bringing the prices of private piano lessons way down to something reasonably affordable).

Youngest isn’t a bad little pianist for her age, so after I’ve got over my (?!) stage fright it is an opportunity to kvell. Our Sis and I always have tears in our eyes, thinking how Mum would have loved it. Our Sis says it’s alright. She’s sitting up there with her parents, looking down, nudging everyone and saying “Look, that’s my granddaughter”.

I haven’t forgotten a gift for Tanya. I’ve been known to do that. We’ve noticed that Russian students (who arrive dressed in beautiful little dresses with white ribbons in their hair, while our kids are in blue jeans and T-shirts) always bring flowers for the teacher, so I did that for the last few recitals. This time I got her something that won’t die after a few days (unless she drops it).

Update: There were far more than seven this time. And a far larger audience than usual, what with grandparents, uncles, aunts, distant cousins from Ashdod, the guy from the grocery store across the road. You get the picture. Anyway, that would all have been okay if some nasty little girls and their parents couldn't extend to Youngest the same courtesy everyone else had extended to them when they played. It was their horrid parents fault, of course. All things considered, Youngest played beautifully. Knowing her fiery temperament, I was actually surprised she didn't turn round and wallop them.

Ynet in English, at last.

Hat tip, Allison.

I have met quite a few youngish Syrian-born Israelis in recent years. One is a friend at work. They all tell fascinating stories about how they managed to get out, which I will not repeat here, so as not to spoil it for others. All except one, who completely refuses to say anything at all about his past. He was twenty when he left Syria, so it's not that he's forgotten. The others all say that their families had been wealthy and well-connected in Syria.

My friend at work, who left as a teenager and is now in his twenties, has been rubbing his hands in glee at the rising tension between Lebanon and Syria following the assassination of Rafiq Hariri. No love lost there.

Swinging left again, slightly.
Talking about how the wheel turns, I can hardly read Naomi Ragen’s newsletters any more. She and I no longer have as much in common.

Now that it’s going to happen in the foreseeable future I have no real doubts about disengagement. No, I don’t think the Palestinians are suddenly different, that true peace is around the corner, that they don’t still plan to get Haifa and Jaffa and Tal al-Rabih (yes, I hadn’t heard of this place* either till last week, but apparently it’s where I’ve been living since 1985). However, I do think we have to give them a ladder to get out of this mess. Arafat wasn’t interested in such a ladder. Perhaps Abu Mazen really is.
_________________________

*

Some local history
I have often said here that I regard the Arab uprising in British mandate Palestine between the years of 1936 and 1939 as the real first Intifada. Here is a photograph of houses of Jewish residents on the outskirts of Tel Aviv destroyed by Arabs from Jaffa during the outbreak of disturbances in 1936.


Before 1948, a lot of Jews lived in Jaffa. During the fighting that followed the UN decision of November 1947 to divide British mandate Palestine between its Jewish and Arab inhabitants, the Jews of Jaffa had to flee to neighboring Tel Aviv, which was also under Arab attack. Here is a photograph of a tent camp that was erected to house the Jewish refugees.


Both photographs are from the Israeli National Photo Collection

All very useful stuff.
The weather has been hot and dry for a few days. We’re back in short sleeves.

This morning Bish and I joined my friends from art class in the Friday market in Dizengoff Circle. I guess you could call it a chachke market. It apparently started off a few years ago as a market for people to come and sell their old bits and bobs, but this morning a lot of the vendors looked pretty much like pros to me. It was great fun, looking at all the wonderful old stuff for sale, a stroll down memory lane.

Among other things, there were rows and rows of little porcelain figurines; many, many children’s books we read when we were young; antique-y looking jewelry; heavy old silver cutlery; ugly tea sets; some really cool old handguns; loads of wristwatches (Bish bought one); flea-bitten old clothes (I can’t believe I used to wear nearly only stuff like that at one time); and, of course, more Soviet army medals and insignia than you ever thought existed, never mind being sold on the street in Tel Aviv. We even came across a signed copy of Menahem Begin’s "The Revolt" (in Hebrew).

I think some of the shoppers were just as colorful as the wares on sale.

Shai looks at some things now that it's twelve years snce he came back. Interesting.

Ooh the results of the Jibbies.
Mazal Tov to the winners.

Oh shucks, and I was just about to badmouth my boss. Trust CNN to spoil my fun.

Losing
On the 29th November 1947, the UN General Assembly adopted a plan to divide British mandate Palestine between its two main groups of inhabitants at the time – Arabs and Jews. Although both groups felt that the details of the plan were unjust, each group reacted very differently. The Jews reacted by celebrating, believing that less than what they thought they deserved was better than nothing at all; the Arabs reacted by attacking the Jews, refusing to even consider compromise.

A terrible, bloody war ensued. Its result was that the Jews got their state. They also got part of the land that the UN had destined for the Arab inhabitants, many of whom had fled, if not involved in the fighting. The rest of the part of the country destined for the Arabs was conquered by their brethren, neighboring Arab states that had marched in ostensibly to get rid of the Jews for them, and had stayed on - Jordan in the east; Egypt in the south west. The Arab inhabitants of British mandate Palestine were left with nothing at all.

We tend to get angry at the repetitive Palestinian victim narrative, but we shouldn’t really. It’s just sad. They’re stuck in this self-destructive blame game. It leads them nowhere. No, it does lead them somewhere. It leads them spiraling further and further downwards.

The reason Zionism survived 1921 and 1929 and 1936 and 1939 and 1948 and 1967 and 1973 and 1987 and 2000 etc etc etc, was that Zionism was about the future, about building, about creativity, about putting the past behind us, about doing something new and better while making the best of some very bad situations, about forgiving, about moving on, about not looking back in anger.

Because anger paralyzes you. Then it kills you.

With all the cynicism of this day and age, I believe Zionism is still going strong, un-cool as this may sound, and what’s more, it’s still about all those things. It’s not about the Babylonians, and it’s not about the Greeks, and it’s not about the Romans, and it’s not about the Spanish Inquisition, or Martin Luther or the Cossacks or the Nazis or the fedayeen or terrorism (this list goes on and on). It’s about us and doing our best for today and for tomorrow.

Yes, you’re right. We do tend to wallow in the Holocaust, among other things. But we mustn’t forget that back in the nineteen fifties, just a few years after the fact, our leaders bravely decided that now there was a new Germany, and they publicly created a new dialogue and a new relationship with this Germany and quite a warm one at that. There was a great deal of angry public debate on the Israeli street about this issue at the time, but they did not back down, those tough leaders who made this country a reality, and now we take it for granted.
I’m so grateful we didn’t get stuck in the Holocaust. I’m so grateful we took the horror and devastation and built ourselves a brave new world out of the ruins. And there were quite a few other things we didn’t get stuck in, as well.

The minute the Palestinians, as a people, can put their anger and their indignation and their victimization behind them, and start building, the sky’s the limit. They’re every bit as capable as we were, are. And they’re lucky enough to have the whole world rooting for them. That’s a damn sight more than we ever had.

And do you know what? I bet you any money, the minute it happens, when it really happens, even with all our past disappointment in them, even with all our pain and all our dead, seventy percent of Israelis, if not more, if not far more, will be there at the sidelines, cheering them on, ready to lend a helping hand if asked, and if I know my fellow countrymen and women, if not asked, as well. (Maybe that’s part of the problem. We tend to rub their noses in it, even when we really don’t mean to.)

We’re not perfect, far from it, but at least we’re trying.

Some politicians and ministers from the Likud have been complaining of threats to their lives and the lives of their children. Bibi Netanyahu had a car tire punctured at a wedding last week. This is all very worrying.

These threats are coming from the extreme right wing opposition to disengagement. However, Tzvi Hendel, Knesset member from the National Unity party, told Yediot Aharonot that he thinks it is a conspiracy to de-legitimize the far right. Bish chuckled at this and said he remembered Arik Sharon saying exactly the same thing before Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated. How the wheel turns.

Remember Zakaria Zbeidi? Tali Fahima’s ...erm... friend from Jenin, and, by the way, also charismatic commander of the Al-Aqtza Martyrs Brigade in the north of Samaria? Well, since peace has broken out the Israeli media is all over him, much to the frustration of the families of his victims.

Here is an amusing excerpt from an interview in Maariv’s weekend magazine:

Do you know "Eretz Nehederet" ("A Wonderful Country" – a popular Israeli TV satire)?

"Yes. I laughed when I saw what they did with Suha Arafat and the money, and that they laughed about Arafat that he was dead, not dead, dead, not dead. I heard that they want to do a character of me on the program. If they do something like that I’m stopping the hudna."

Reading this, Eldest said that now they have to do him. I said you never know. They’re probably all lefties on Eretz Nehederet. They mightn’t want to have it on their conscience. It’s on tomorrow night. Not to be missed now.

Sharon or Peres?

"Arik Sharon is a gever (a real man). When there was war in the Jenin (refugee) camp he came here to the headquarters himself. With a weapon, a helmet, everything. He was up front, like me. He killed us, yes, but I see him as a military commander. He’s not a liar. He puts everything on the table, like Abu Mazen (PA chairman Mahmud Abbas). Shimon Peres is weak. He’s like a critically ill patient in hospital with an oxygen mask."

Oh dear, oh dear. What will the Europeans say?

I love the "like me" bit.

It’s silly I know, I don’t know anything about the new Shabak (Shin Bet) head Yuval Diskin, but there was something about how he seemed slightly embarrassed by the media interest in him on the item on channel one’s newsreel, last night; about how he mouthed ‘Ma ha’inyanim?’ (‘How are things?’) to an unseen journalist he obviously recognized standing next to the cameraman, that made me feel reassured that this guy got the job, that people like him are still looking after our safety.

Mother's Day is BACK!
This morning Eldest wished me Happy Mother's Day and gave me a big hug. It took me a while to understand what she was talking about.

Mother's Day? What Mother's Day? Didn't she know they cancelled Mother's day years ago? Now we have Family Day. Political Correctness gone haywire.

Instead of my dear daughters - whom I schlepped around inside me for nine long months; breastfed for about the same; over whom I lost sleep, night after night for years; with whom I rushed to the doctor and to the hospital and to this clinic and that clinic; about whom I will probably worry myself silly till my dying day - bringing me home nice little hand made cards from kindergarten or school on Mother's Day, I had to go in early to said kindergartens and schools on my only free day of the week, with homebaked cakes I had had hysterics over baking because I am such a pathetic baker, to give talks about my work which I had lost sleep over because I am so shy of an audience (even of six-year-olds). Then I would have to grab for food for my daughters from the communal Family Day meal, before it had all gone. Family Day! Bah!

And now Mother's Day is making a comeback. I want my little hand made cards! Waaaaaaaa!

I'm so spoilt. I have the best girls in the world. They always make me little hand made cards for my birthdays. I even still have a few from previous Family Days.

Waaaaaaa!

Update: The girls sent me the most gorgeous bouquet of flowers to work, with Bish's help. Absolutely lovely, all greens and oranges. It brightened up my whole day. Could I possibly be more fortunate? (tfu tfu tfu)

An end to hostilities
Is it over? Can we sigh in relief? I hesitate to say I’m hopeful. We’ve been down that road before. But all of a sudden, there is this tiny little warm spot that I can feel in my heart. Is this hope, after all?

Killian from Cafe Diverso called me today. He’s so nice and so sincere. Worries and upset are in the past.

Update: I'm such a softie. Watching the summaries of the Sharm el-Sheikh speeches on TV I couldn't help feeling a bit choked up. I couldn't.

The Jibbies

And finally: The finals!

So it’s the finals of the Jewish and Israeli Blog Awards and guess what? I’m made it to the finals in both categories I was nominated in: Best Overall and Best ‘Life in Israel’. You can go and vote for...erm... whoever you like (looks up at the ceiling and whistles)

Please forgive me for disappearing like that. (Thank you for worrying, David).

I have been worried and upset about a certain aspect of the Cafe Diverso thing. I think it would be disloyal to write about it here. This is difficult because this is a place I should be able to let off steam. On the other hand, I don’t let off steam about work here, and I have quite a lot of steam to let off about work.

Hmmm. Now I realize why I haven’t been writing much lately. I need to get more neutral things to let off steam about.

What I plan to do is post some of the stories I write that are not suitable for Cafe Diverso.

My sample stories were accepted, by the way, and will appear there some time in March. Of course, it’s been so long since I wrote them that by now I’ve decided I don’t like them. By March I will absolutely hate them.

Of course, I did write them in a hurry for my application…

Blogging is so much better. You write something. You let everyone see it immediately, then you forget all about it until two years later you get hate-mail about it from some nutcase, and you have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.

I’ve just found this very interesting and informative site with loads of information about terrorism.

All this running around at night is obviously a shock to my system. Spent today in bed.

I wonder where Rinat is. I don’t know, these media people will do anything for rating.

Update: I think I've guessed.

I was awake at half past four this morning, my mind chattering away, planning my post about our lovely evening with the Bogner's last night. But it's half past six in the evening now, the post isn't written yet, and in any minute my friends are going to pick me up for our art class. We're having an early lesson this week, because we plan to go out on the town afterwards.

Bish and I are going out tomorrow night as well, and the only reason I'm not going out on Thursday is ... no time, I'll tell you later.

And we told the Bogner's we never go out. Oy, the embarrassment. They'll never believe us again in our lives. A week like this hasn't happened since... actually I don't think I've ever had a crazy week like this. And I haven't told you about my weekend yet.

So excuse the non-blogging. I'll be back!

Update: David beat me to it, and did a far better job than I could have. Hilarious.

You'll never guess who Bish and I just had dinner with in a fancy restaurant in Tel Aviv. I'm tired now, I'll tell you tomorrow.

I hope they got home alright.

Hatshepsut supplies us with some interesting statistics.

Just because some people are technologically primitive doesn't mean that they are socially unsophisticated. Even the most well-meaning people seem to make that mistake, perhaps based on a naive romantic notion that a more simple style of living somehow makes people less complex and therefore better. Besides being incredibly patronizing, this is unwise.

Travelers to societies radically different from their own should always remember that what they see is just the outer surface, like the exterior of a house. Learning to understand a society properly, actually getting into the rooms of that house, requires one not only to live in it but to really invest oneself in it, and a ghetto of foreigners is not good enough, mind.

Bu then again, many people have this tendency to go all starry-eyed about going native. Maybe to really understand a society, a culture, one has to grow up in it.

Then again, I could be wrong.

More on Hannah Senesh
David Boxenhorn (Rishon Rishon) has details of just how they tortured Hannah Senesh, just in case you really feel you have to know.

An Endorsement
Riding home from work today, along the banks of the Yarkon River, I came to the conclusion that the Best ‘Life in Israel’ Blog is, regrettably not Not a Fish, nor any of my other friends on the list, but Anglosaxy.

I know I’m far too emotionally involved in what happens here to do a good job of describing life here. Ashley tells it like it is. Go vote for him.

And while we’re on the subject of doing a good job at describing life in Israel, I hope you’re keeping up with Lisa’s story. I’m finding it hard to read. Some of it touches painful places for me.

Not because 2
I was so unhappy about yesterday’s post that I obsessed about it all through my art class. My fellow students and teacher were very nice about it, although I must have been a real pain. I spent two days on that post and I’m still not satisfied with it. Everything I write seems to come out all wrong.

What used to get me with regard to Hannah Senesh was the old ‘what if’ question: the ‘what if they hadn’t sent her on that fool’s errand’ question; the ‘what if we lost a great poet or playwright’ question; the ‘what a waste’ question.

But that’s all just silly when you think about it. More likely than not, she would never have matured into a writer; more likely than not, she would never have even published any of her poems. I think she was the sort of person that, more likely than not, had she lived, would not have pursued the kind of life that would have made her well-known. She would have been one of those hundreds of thousands of Israelis who, in the early years, quietly and modestly went about building this country. In which case she would never have touched my life, not directly, anyway, not in a way I would have known about.

But she did touch my life and enrich it.

And I only ever heard of her because she was sent on that fool’s errand, and because she ‘didn’t talk’, and because she stood up to the Nazis the way she did.

(So much for being cynical about national heroes, as is fashionable these days.)