when I think of recent users of the Swastika who have trivialised and diminished the suffering of those who suffered under National Socialism, it isn't upper class toffs who immediately spring to mind...
Thursday, January 20, 2005
Sixty three years ago today: Participants in the Wannsee conference decided on the Final Solution of the Jewish problem.
And here is something interesting - survivors of the Lodz Ghetto get a chance to see previously unpublished photos of life in that ghetto taken by Henryk Ross. Some recognize themselves or people they knew.
And here is the book with a selection of the photos for us all to see.
And here is something interesting - survivors of the Lodz Ghetto get a chance to see previously unpublished photos of life in that ghetto taken by Henryk Ross. Some recognize themselves or people they knew.
What I soon realized was that this collection had the potential to revolutionize the way we understand life in the Holocaust: To date it had been formed by a rather selective use of Holocaust photography and of oral and textual evidence of survivors. Survivors such as Mr. Ross had made photos available to the public that were wholly in keeping with the interpretation that Jews in the ghetto were at the mercy not only of the barbarism of the Germans but also of the Jewish ghetto administration itself. As a result, the traditional iconography depicted the members of the Jewish Council and of the Jewish police in the most unfavorable way imaginable, while depicting all other ghetto residents as passive victims.
Now, with the complete set of photos we could compare them with the photos that had been used before in publications and exhibitions and see how our image of the Holocaust has been dominated by survivor memories. What emerges from the complete set of Mr. Ross's photographs, unlike from previous oral and textual survivor testimonies and Mr. Ross's previously disseminated pictures, supports the view that all ghetto residents had to face the same kinds of dilemmas and that the contrast between the Jewish Council and "ordinary Jews" in the ghetto was not one of black and white. It is a chronicle of the breaking down and reconfiguration of competing bonds of human solidarity in the face of violence. A chronicle that makes the Nazi Holocaust even more diabolically cruel for its victims than survivors could express.
Now, with the complete set of photos we could compare them with the photos that had been used before in publications and exhibitions and see how our image of the Holocaust has been dominated by survivor memories. What emerges from the complete set of Mr. Ross's photographs, unlike from previous oral and textual survivor testimonies and Mr. Ross's previously disseminated pictures, supports the view that all ghetto residents had to face the same kinds of dilemmas and that the contrast between the Jewish Council and "ordinary Jews" in the ghetto was not one of black and white. It is a chronicle of the breaking down and reconfiguration of competing bonds of human solidarity in the face of violence. A chronicle that makes the Nazi Holocaust even more diabolically cruel for its victims than survivors could express.
Look what I've found - The famous lost post!
The specter of civil war.
You’ll laugh, but one of the reasons Bish and I decided to get married when we did was the fear that if we waited too long, we wouldn’t be able to afford to buy an apartment because the prices would go up. The reason that this would happen, we reckoned, was that a Palestinian state would be established before too long, and tens of thousands of evacuated settlers would descend on Tel Aviv. This was 1988 (although we only actually tied the knot in 1989). Weren’t we the optimistic ones?
Prices did go up, and we were right in investing in real estate when we did (with the kind help of our parents), but not for the reason we thought. Prices went up mainly because of the influx of immigrants from the former Soviet Union countries that came pouring into Israel following the fall of Soviet communism.
* * * *
Is it any wonder I’m acting the ostrich these days? How can I write about the public debate going on about the discussed disengagement from Gaza and a few settlements in the north of the West Bank and about what we probably have in store, when it’s all so horrible?
In the heat of the argument (not recently, I haven’t been in the mood for any good political arguments recently, but in the past, when I was more clearly identified as a Lefty), people have asked me what I would do if it were my home that had to be evacuated, if it was me that would have to move?
I’m maybe the wrong person to ask such a question. I’m not very house proud. These days, I live in a rented flat out of choice. I’m easy.
On the other hand I love Tel Aviv. I don’t want to live anywhere else, besides perhaps Mitzpe Ramon, if I could make a living there. So if I had to leave Tel Aviv for peace, would I?
Say I was living in disputed territory, and that by moving to an area that was also kind of disputed but more internationally accepted I would, in the short run, save lives and get the international community off our backs, and, in the long run, solve a demographic problem and perhaps even increase the feasibility of real peace between my people and our main current enemy, without completely compromising chances for future survival and hopefully even considerably improving them, would I leave? (you can breath now…)
You betcha. With tears in my eyes and sadness in my heart. But then again, maybe I wouldn’t be living in such an ultra-‘disputed area’ in the first place.
The thing is that people we’re being exposed to on the TV a lot lately don’t believe that this disengagement will bring peace. And they have a point. I too am worried that it might turn out to be a miscalculation. I too am worried that it will be rewarding terrorism and give the Palestinians the feeling that just a few more years of pressure, just a little more blood and sacrifice, and they’ll be rid of us; and that it isn’t time yet, although I have a feeling that it is time, what with Arafat gone.
So leave Tel Aviv, never to come back, to see it in strangers’ hands, maybe destroyed, for something I don’t believe in, for something I am skeptical about happening, for something I fear will make things far worse? That’s a much harder question.
And we have to remember that that is the dilemma that is facing settlers.
But if my democratically elected government had made a decision, would I fight or would I leave quietly, even if I didn’t believe in it?
I would like to think that I would go quietly. I believe that once a decision has been made, like it or not, we should all pull together to make it work. Of course, it is quite understandable that people opposed to it would want it not to work, so that everyone would know that they were right all along. Sadly this approach could kill us all.
What I find very troubling and very frustrating are the people who are talking about our irrevocable historic God-given right to this land, all of it, even the parts inhabited by the Philistines in the olden days. It is as if two thousand years of exile caused by infighting, fanaticism, and lack of flexibility never happened. It’s like the Palestinians are air. No compassion. Worse - peace appears not to be a concept that interests them in the least. Living by the sword, on the other hand, seems to hold some romantic biblical meaning.
Scares the hell out of me.
And everyone pussyfoots around them, as if they are misunderstood children and must be treated gently. Mind you, some of them are, literally.
I know I’m falling into the trap the mass media have prepared for me. I know it, because I have become aware of the manipulations they do, and because religious people I know personally who live in the territories do have compassion, and are not frothing at the mouth with religious fervor. They show us the fruitcases and we get the impression they are all fruitcases.
I hate getting all worked up over this, especially as I personally know some of the people who will have the unenviable job of dragging these people -- men, women and children; kicking, spitting and clawing -- from their homes and from the vacant homes of those who have left quietly, should the disengagement go ahead. It’s all very worrying.
So much easier to pretend it isn’t there, and curl up in bed with a nice book.
Update: Our Sis wishes to point out that as far as she knows a fruitcase is just a case for fruit. She thinks I should have written 'nutcase'.
Well, I'm very sorry, I'm sure. Is it my fault I'm a bloody foreigner? No, it isn't! It's Mum and Dad's. I had absolutely no say in the matter.
On the other hand, I did choose to ignore that little squiggly red line underneath the word 'fruitcase' in MS Word when I was writing this post, so I can't really blame previous generations with a clean conscience.
The specter of civil war.
You’ll laugh, but one of the reasons Bish and I decided to get married when we did was the fear that if we waited too long, we wouldn’t be able to afford to buy an apartment because the prices would go up. The reason that this would happen, we reckoned, was that a Palestinian state would be established before too long, and tens of thousands of evacuated settlers would descend on Tel Aviv. This was 1988 (although we only actually tied the knot in 1989). Weren’t we the optimistic ones?
Prices did go up, and we were right in investing in real estate when we did (with the kind help of our parents), but not for the reason we thought. Prices went up mainly because of the influx of immigrants from the former Soviet Union countries that came pouring into Israel following the fall of Soviet communism.
* * * *
Is it any wonder I’m acting the ostrich these days? How can I write about the public debate going on about the discussed disengagement from Gaza and a few settlements in the north of the West Bank and about what we probably have in store, when it’s all so horrible?
In the heat of the argument (not recently, I haven’t been in the mood for any good political arguments recently, but in the past, when I was more clearly identified as a Lefty), people have asked me what I would do if it were my home that had to be evacuated, if it was me that would have to move?
I’m maybe the wrong person to ask such a question. I’m not very house proud. These days, I live in a rented flat out of choice. I’m easy.
On the other hand I love Tel Aviv. I don’t want to live anywhere else, besides perhaps Mitzpe Ramon, if I could make a living there. So if I had to leave Tel Aviv for peace, would I?
Say I was living in disputed territory, and that by moving to an area that was also kind of disputed but more internationally accepted I would, in the short run, save lives and get the international community off our backs, and, in the long run, solve a demographic problem and perhaps even increase the feasibility of real peace between my people and our main current enemy, without completely compromising chances for future survival and hopefully even considerably improving them, would I leave? (you can breath now…)
You betcha. With tears in my eyes and sadness in my heart. But then again, maybe I wouldn’t be living in such an ultra-‘disputed area’ in the first place.
The thing is that people we’re being exposed to on the TV a lot lately don’t believe that this disengagement will bring peace. And they have a point. I too am worried that it might turn out to be a miscalculation. I too am worried that it will be rewarding terrorism and give the Palestinians the feeling that just a few more years of pressure, just a little more blood and sacrifice, and they’ll be rid of us; and that it isn’t time yet, although I have a feeling that it is time, what with Arafat gone.
So leave Tel Aviv, never to come back, to see it in strangers’ hands, maybe destroyed, for something I don’t believe in, for something I am skeptical about happening, for something I fear will make things far worse? That’s a much harder question.
And we have to remember that that is the dilemma that is facing settlers.
But if my democratically elected government had made a decision, would I fight or would I leave quietly, even if I didn’t believe in it?
I would like to think that I would go quietly. I believe that once a decision has been made, like it or not, we should all pull together to make it work. Of course, it is quite understandable that people opposed to it would want it not to work, so that everyone would know that they were right all along. Sadly this approach could kill us all.
What I find very troubling and very frustrating are the people who are talking about our irrevocable historic God-given right to this land, all of it, even the parts inhabited by the Philistines in the olden days. It is as if two thousand years of exile caused by infighting, fanaticism, and lack of flexibility never happened. It’s like the Palestinians are air. No compassion. Worse - peace appears not to be a concept that interests them in the least. Living by the sword, on the other hand, seems to hold some romantic biblical meaning.
Scares the hell out of me.
And everyone pussyfoots around them, as if they are misunderstood children and must be treated gently. Mind you, some of them are, literally.
I know I’m falling into the trap the mass media have prepared for me. I know it, because I have become aware of the manipulations they do, and because religious people I know personally who live in the territories do have compassion, and are not frothing at the mouth with religious fervor. They show us the fruitcases and we get the impression they are all fruitcases.
I hate getting all worked up over this, especially as I personally know some of the people who will have the unenviable job of dragging these people -- men, women and children; kicking, spitting and clawing -- from their homes and from the vacant homes of those who have left quietly, should the disengagement go ahead. It’s all very worrying.
So much easier to pretend it isn’t there, and curl up in bed with a nice book.
Update: Our Sis wishes to point out that as far as she knows a fruitcase is just a case for fruit. She thinks I should have written 'nutcase'.
Well, I'm very sorry, I'm sure. Is it my fault I'm a bloody foreigner? No, it isn't! It's Mum and Dad's. I had absolutely no say in the matter.
On the other hand, I did choose to ignore that little squiggly red line underneath the word 'fruitcase' in MS Word when I was writing this post, so I can't really blame previous generations with a clean conscience.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Funny how once you’ve got into the habit of thinking via your fingers tap tap tapping at the keyboard, it’s hard to stop.
I have completely shut down to current affairs recently. I’m not sure why, although I could get into dime psychology if I were so inclined (I’m not). Even losing that post I wrote about disengagement is fishy. I was iffy about publishing it anyway.
I dislike watching the news. The newspapers don’t interest me. And come to think about it, some interesting things have been happening round here. But I just don’t want to know, let alone write about it.
This blog being sort of current affairs orientated for so long, I was at a loose end until the offer from cafeDiverso arrived. That sort of woke me up, gave me a new direction, some much needed discipline. So I thought it would be a good opportunity to pack in the blog. Bish was dead against. He said I was getting cobwebs between my fingers. And he was right as usual.
Seeing as my stats are dropping anyway, I might as well keep it up and just write whatever comes into my head. I’ll crack the riddle of my aversion to current affairs in the end, or not, and in the meantime you’ll get to read my cognitive wheels creaking round. Or not. You don’t have to. There’s no quiz at the end and no report card. Don’t you just love being all grown up?
I have completely shut down to current affairs recently. I’m not sure why, although I could get into dime psychology if I were so inclined (I’m not). Even losing that post I wrote about disengagement is fishy. I was iffy about publishing it anyway.
I dislike watching the news. The newspapers don’t interest me. And come to think about it, some interesting things have been happening round here. But I just don’t want to know, let alone write about it.
This blog being sort of current affairs orientated for so long, I was at a loose end until the offer from cafeDiverso arrived. That sort of woke me up, gave me a new direction, some much needed discipline. So I thought it would be a good opportunity to pack in the blog. Bish was dead against. He said I was getting cobwebs between my fingers. And he was right as usual.
Seeing as my stats are dropping anyway, I might as well keep it up and just write whatever comes into my head. I’ll crack the riddle of my aversion to current affairs in the end, or not, and in the meantime you’ll get to read my cognitive wheels creaking round. Or not. You don’t have to. There’s no quiz at the end and no report card. Don’t you just love being all grown up?
I thought the FlyLady thing would be just another gimmick, but it really is good. I have had no dirty dishes in my sink for days now. And I’ve been flinging. Just a little at a time. It’s a mindset change. And it’s really nice not having any dirt dishes in the sink.
I told them about it in my art class, and we talked about priorities. I have a friend there who is the exact opposite of me in that respect. Her home is the most uncluttered, tidiest, best functioning home I know (yes, even more than yours, Our Sis). And it’s dead cool too, in this understated way. I usually walk around it with my mouth open in wonder when I’m visiting. But she says she never gets any of her own stuff done, and she is incredibly talented so this is a shame.
My problem is that I say to hell with the dishes. I want to get that little thought in my head down before I forget it, or before I don’t feel like it anymore. Or, more often than not, and this is the worst, I say I’ll just have a little shloff before I get started, and before I know it, it’s the next morning.
I told them about it in my art class, and we talked about priorities. I have a friend there who is the exact opposite of me in that respect. Her home is the most uncluttered, tidiest, best functioning home I know (yes, even more than yours, Our Sis). And it’s dead cool too, in this understated way. I usually walk around it with my mouth open in wonder when I’m visiting. But she says she never gets any of her own stuff done, and she is incredibly talented so this is a shame.
My problem is that I say to hell with the dishes. I want to get that little thought in my head down before I forget it, or before I don’t feel like it anymore. Or, more often than not, and this is the worst, I say I’ll just have a little shloff before I get started, and before I know it, it’s the next morning.
I am waiting to hear from cafeDiverso if they mean to use the two sample stories I sent. Curiosity is slowly killing this particular cat here. I’ve already written more stories for next month, due to be sent in on 1st February.
I’m so used to the immediacy of blogging. You don’t appreciate something until you experience something else. On the other hand it will be interesting to read stories two months after I submitted them. The time delay will make it like reading something someone else wrote.
Of course, there is this niggling insecure feeling (What?! Me insecure? Never!) that they will never actually use anything I send. It will all be found to be inappropriate or something. But fear not. Whatever is turned down by cafeDiverso will appear on Not a Fish straight away.
Talking about cats (as in ‘curiosity killed the…’), Shoosha is being very derelict of her duty lately. The pigeons are back. I told her I would have to sack her if she didn’t pull her (little cotton) socks up. But she just glared at me, meowed, and then walked off in disdain. That showed me!
It’s a very stormy day today. Whoever said that ‘it never rains it pours’ obviously lived in Israel. Just my luck, today is the day I’ve volunteered to chaperone a group of students from Eldest’s school on their weekly visit to a school for autistic children. I think it’s lovely that these kids are doing this, and I am very happy to do my bit to help, but I would have preferred if it wasn’t on such a stormy day.
Update: Well, the chaperone thing is off, someone sprained an ankle or something. I can't say I'm devastated. I've got a new date for April, which is unlikely to be stormy.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Listen, doo da dooo,
Do you want to hear a secret? doo da dooo...
I had neglected to read Alisa’s Hebrew bits, assuming they were the same as the English. Well they’re not! Not word by word, anyway, according to Alisa. Eat your hearts out all you non- Hebrew speakers out there!
And how did I learn this important piece of information? Because I skivved off work today lunchtime and went out with Alisa to Tel Aviv Port, lucky me!
Ooh and I saw Pashosh and Mr. Alisa too.
Do you want to hear a secret? doo da dooo...
I had neglected to read Alisa’s Hebrew bits, assuming they were the same as the English. Well they’re not! Not word by word, anyway, according to Alisa. Eat your hearts out all you non- Hebrew speakers out there!
And how did I learn this important piece of information? Because I skivved off work today lunchtime and went out with Alisa to Tel Aviv Port, lucky me!
Ooh and I saw Pashosh and Mr. Alisa too.
Sunday, January 16, 2005
The Star and the Sword by Pamela Melnikoff
When I left England for Israel at the ripe old age of nine, my school presented me a book as a school leaving prize. It was a local Jewish school. The headmaster was a friend of the family. He called me into his office one day and asked me to choose a book from the pile on his desk.
This is what I chose.
It was later presented to me in front of the whole school, during a ceremony bidding farewell to all the school leavers, mainly eleven year olds leaving for high school. They had added a dedication on the inside of the front cover with my name in print. I couldn't have been prouder.
I read this book over and over again for years afterwards. I think it was one of my most beloved childhood friends. I still have it. It has survived many many of Bish’s book throw-out fests.
And even though I haven’t read it for a while, I can safely say that it is still one of my most favoritest of books ever. I am so happy to see that it is still available.
When I left England for Israel at the ripe old age of nine, my school presented me a book as a school leaving prize. It was a local Jewish school. The headmaster was a friend of the family. He called me into his office one day and asked me to choose a book from the pile on his desk.
This is what I chose.
It was later presented to me in front of the whole school, during a ceremony bidding farewell to all the school leavers, mainly eleven year olds leaving for high school. They had added a dedication on the inside of the front cover with my name in print. I couldn't have been prouder.
I read this book over and over again for years afterwards. I think it was one of my most beloved childhood friends. I still have it. It has survived many many of Bish’s book throw-out fests.
And even though I haven’t read it for a while, I can safely say that it is still one of my most favoritest of books ever. I am so happy to see that it is still available.
Saturday, January 15, 2005
We are Seven
William Wordsworth
--------A SIMPLE Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
1798.
William Wordsworth
--------A SIMPLE Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--Her beauty made me glad.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said
And wondering looked at me.
"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
"Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."
"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be."
Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."
"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."
"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.
"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.
"And often after sunset, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.
"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
"So in the church-yard she was laid;
And, when the grass was dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.
"And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."
"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in heaven?"
Quick was the little Maid's reply,
"O Master! we are seven."
"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"
1798.
Rainy Shabbat morning nostalgic musings.
For a short while when I was young I thought everything had to be beautifully designed, cold, tidy. This was before I realized that my own personal untidiness was not something I was ever going to outgrow, and that I was destined to live my life amid uncontrollable clutter. No beautifully designed modern apartment for me. I'm far too lazy to be bothered to do what has to be done to have such a home. And if I ever find myself with one, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
Now I'm an ugliness groupie. The little makolet (grocery store) on the corner (sadly there are not many of them left); trees along the sidewalks decorated with homemade notices for apartments to rent, lost dogs, cosmeticians (these days, municipal workers take them down minutes after they’ve been pinned up); a little river of rain water flowing into a drain at the edge of the road, blocked with leaves, plastic bags, the remains of a discarded red umbrella (as long as there’s rain, we’ll always have that).
Life - unplanned, un-designed, just comfortable ugly.
Israel has become more ‘designed’ in recent years than ever before. I find it hard to connect. It seems false.
Some of it is nice. This ‘retro’ trend is nice, even though it tends to be too precise. Hip Sixties/Seventies style restaurants with wooden window frames and aluminum chairs and tables never quite manage to capture the wonderful yuckiness of the real thing.
Do you know what I really miss? I miss real honest-to-God kitsch. I miss Shimi Tavori.
Update: Oh dear. Dad's trying to fix me. Look what he just sent me. I'm feeling panicky. Didn't I just say I liked clutter, or something like that? I joined though. I'm a pushover. Apparently I am now a FlyBaby. Here goes nothing.
For a short while when I was young I thought everything had to be beautifully designed, cold, tidy. This was before I realized that my own personal untidiness was not something I was ever going to outgrow, and that I was destined to live my life amid uncontrollable clutter. No beautifully designed modern apartment for me. I'm far too lazy to be bothered to do what has to be done to have such a home. And if I ever find myself with one, I wouldn’t know what to do with it.
Now I'm an ugliness groupie. The little makolet (grocery store) on the corner (sadly there are not many of them left); trees along the sidewalks decorated with homemade notices for apartments to rent, lost dogs, cosmeticians (these days, municipal workers take them down minutes after they’ve been pinned up); a little river of rain water flowing into a drain at the edge of the road, blocked with leaves, plastic bags, the remains of a discarded red umbrella (as long as there’s rain, we’ll always have that).
Life - unplanned, un-designed, just comfortable ugly.
Israel has become more ‘designed’ in recent years than ever before. I find it hard to connect. It seems false.
Some of it is nice. This ‘retro’ trend is nice, even though it tends to be too precise. Hip Sixties/Seventies style restaurants with wooden window frames and aluminum chairs and tables never quite manage to capture the wonderful yuckiness of the real thing.
Do you know what I really miss? I miss real honest-to-God kitsch. I miss Shimi Tavori.
Update: Oh dear. Dad's trying to fix me. Look what he just sent me. I'm feeling panicky. Didn't I just say I liked clutter, or something like that? I joined though. I'm a pushover. Apparently I am now a FlyBaby. Here goes nothing.
Friday, January 14, 2005
Remember the summer of ’77?
Of course you do. It was the summer we had that magical date 7/7/77. At the age of twelve it seemed meaningful for some reason.
What else? Virginia Wade won Wimbledon. And Elvis died.
It was also the summer my parents dumped R.T. and me with our grandparents in England and went off by themselves to sunny California.
Now it wasn't as if I didn't appreciate being able to spend time with my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, and it wasn't as if they weren't all very kind to me, doing their best to entertain me. It was just that after a while I wanted to go home already.
R.T. was fine. He still had loads of friends in England and was busy most of the time. I had lost touch with mine. I was bored.
Boredom is probably why I remember those momentous events listed above. Instead of spending the summer at the beach and/or investigating leaves and dissecting ants (unlike my poor deprived children, my parents did not make me live in the middle of a concrete and asphalt jungle), I watched most of Wimbledon’s Ladies Tournament, a novelty because it wasn’t shown on Israeli television (not surprising, seeing as there was only one channel and even that was run by the state and was still in black and white for years to come).
If I had been in Israel, I doubt I would have heard of Elvis’s untimely overdose of barbiturates, or whatever it was. I’d have been too busy wandering around the apartment building inhabited by that boy I had a crush on, in the hopes of bumping into him (Not! I was far too shy).
And if I had been in Israel, I certainly wouldn’t have got into Grandma’s bad books for my shameful exhibition of lack of respect for the Royal Family.
I wasn’t English anymore, see? I was Israeli now. But, unfortunately for me, 1977 also saw the celebrations of Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee and royal fever was at its pre-Diana peak. So when Grandma called me to come quickly into the morning room, because the Queen was on the telly, I just stayed in the kitchenette (I don’t know why it was called that, it was far bigger than most Israeli kitchens) and kept on munching my chocolate biscuit.
Grandma was not amused. She was even less amused when I announced that she wasn’t my queen. I was in the bad books all summer.
* * * *
I thought about Grandma (Aleiyha Hashalom) this week while reading about young Prince Harry’s latest antics. Good thing she wasn’t around to witness it.
Of course you do. It was the summer we had that magical date 7/7/77. At the age of twelve it seemed meaningful for some reason.
What else? Virginia Wade won Wimbledon. And Elvis died.
It was also the summer my parents dumped R.T. and me with our grandparents in England and went off by themselves to sunny California.
Now it wasn't as if I didn't appreciate being able to spend time with my grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, and it wasn't as if they weren't all very kind to me, doing their best to entertain me. It was just that after a while I wanted to go home already.
R.T. was fine. He still had loads of friends in England and was busy most of the time. I had lost touch with mine. I was bored.
Boredom is probably why I remember those momentous events listed above. Instead of spending the summer at the beach and/or investigating leaves and dissecting ants (unlike my poor deprived children, my parents did not make me live in the middle of a concrete and asphalt jungle), I watched most of Wimbledon’s Ladies Tournament, a novelty because it wasn’t shown on Israeli television (not surprising, seeing as there was only one channel and even that was run by the state and was still in black and white for years to come).
If I had been in Israel, I doubt I would have heard of Elvis’s untimely overdose of barbiturates, or whatever it was. I’d have been too busy wandering around the apartment building inhabited by that boy I had a crush on, in the hopes of bumping into him (Not! I was far too shy).
And if I had been in Israel, I certainly wouldn’t have got into Grandma’s bad books for my shameful exhibition of lack of respect for the Royal Family.
I wasn’t English anymore, see? I was Israeli now. But, unfortunately for me, 1977 also saw the celebrations of Queen Elizabeth’s Silver Jubilee and royal fever was at its pre-Diana peak. So when Grandma called me to come quickly into the morning room, because the Queen was on the telly, I just stayed in the kitchenette (I don’t know why it was called that, it was far bigger than most Israeli kitchens) and kept on munching my chocolate biscuit.
Grandma was not amused. She was even less amused when I announced that she wasn’t my queen. I was in the bad books all summer.
* * * *
I thought about Grandma (Aleiyha Hashalom) this week while reading about young Prince Harry’s latest antics. Good thing she wasn’t around to witness it.
Thursday, January 13, 2005
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
Monday, January 10, 2005
The Supermarket
As a child I highly appreciated the express line in the supermarket checkout. Instead of standing in line for half an hour, holding my painstakingly chosen bar of chocolate, in between two old ladies who would bump into me repeatedly with their with enormous trolleys and shout at me, hoping I would go away, I could now stand in line for only fifteen minutes in between two old ladies, who would still shout at me, but without the threat of trolley violence.
The three item maximum meant that all they usually had to pay for was a loaf of un-sliced bread (they didn’t have self-service bread slicing machines in the supermarkets back then) and a dripping plastic bag of milk (cartons were yet to be heard of; glass bottles had not long been discarded).
And then one day, years later, I was standing in line at the express with my maximum three items, when I suddenly noticed that the lady in front of me had (gasp!) five items. I managed to make a complete fool of myself, before she smirked and pointed at the sign: Five items maximum. Oysh.
That was the beginning of the end. There should have been a law passed right there and then in the Knesset about the three item maximum, they should have stopped it before it got out of hand. Because if one thing is certain, and not a lot is certain in this life, it’s that it’s been all down hill since then. The five item maximum was soon six, and then eight. Now it’s ten.
These days it’s quicker to stand behind a woman with three trolleys holding the week’s groceries for a family of TEN than trying for the (no longer) express line.
But I haven’t given up on special counters yet. I have a foolproof idea to solve all aggravation in the supermarket: The Suckers’ Line (in Hebrew = frayerim, a word guaranteed to deter undesirables).
This is the line for people like me, who would rather wait in line for two hours with two items, behind that woman with the three trolleys, I mentioned before, only in triplicate, than to have to contend with the following (who will, of course, be strictly banned from the Suckers’ Line):
People who park their trolleys in line with two items in it, then proceed to gradually fill it up with the rest of their shopping, going off and coming back with more and more items, as their place in the queue moves nearer to its destiny.
People who hide baskets with groceries underneath those stands they always put by the counters with things you really don’t need but your kids can’t resist (those will be banned from the Suckers’ Line as well), and then come back after half an hour, produce their baskets as from thin air and demand to be let in before everyone in the line because they were there first.
People who park their trolley in one queue and then go and stand in another, because how are they to know which queue will be faster.
People who go through the so-called express line with fifteen to twenty items, and the checkout workers who allow them to.
People who think the express line is a place you go to get rid of the very smallest of your change, for which they have to dig to the very bottom of their very full purses (‘I’m sure I had another five agorot piece down there somewhere’).
And last but certainly not least:
People who ram their trolleys into particularly small nine-year-old girls.
I know, I’m dreaming.
As a child I highly appreciated the express line in the supermarket checkout. Instead of standing in line for half an hour, holding my painstakingly chosen bar of chocolate, in between two old ladies who would bump into me repeatedly with their with enormous trolleys and shout at me, hoping I would go away, I could now stand in line for only fifteen minutes in between two old ladies, who would still shout at me, but without the threat of trolley violence.
The three item maximum meant that all they usually had to pay for was a loaf of un-sliced bread (they didn’t have self-service bread slicing machines in the supermarkets back then) and a dripping plastic bag of milk (cartons were yet to be heard of; glass bottles had not long been discarded).
And then one day, years later, I was standing in line at the express with my maximum three items, when I suddenly noticed that the lady in front of me had (gasp!) five items. I managed to make a complete fool of myself, before she smirked and pointed at the sign: Five items maximum. Oysh.
That was the beginning of the end. There should have been a law passed right there and then in the Knesset about the three item maximum, they should have stopped it before it got out of hand. Because if one thing is certain, and not a lot is certain in this life, it’s that it’s been all down hill since then. The five item maximum was soon six, and then eight. Now it’s ten.
These days it’s quicker to stand behind a woman with three trolleys holding the week’s groceries for a family of TEN than trying for the (no longer) express line.
But I haven’t given up on special counters yet. I have a foolproof idea to solve all aggravation in the supermarket: The Suckers’ Line (in Hebrew = frayerim, a word guaranteed to deter undesirables).
This is the line for people like me, who would rather wait in line for two hours with two items, behind that woman with the three trolleys, I mentioned before, only in triplicate, than to have to contend with the following (who will, of course, be strictly banned from the Suckers’ Line):
People who park their trolleys in line with two items in it, then proceed to gradually fill it up with the rest of their shopping, going off and coming back with more and more items, as their place in the queue moves nearer to its destiny.
People who hide baskets with groceries underneath those stands they always put by the counters with things you really don’t need but your kids can’t resist (those will be banned from the Suckers’ Line as well), and then come back after half an hour, produce their baskets as from thin air and demand to be let in before everyone in the line because they were there first.
People who park their trolley in one queue and then go and stand in another, because how are they to know which queue will be faster.
People who go through the so-called express line with fifteen to twenty items, and the checkout workers who allow them to.
People who think the express line is a place you go to get rid of the very smallest of your change, for which they have to dig to the very bottom of their very full purses (‘I’m sure I had another five agorot piece down there somewhere’).
And last but certainly not least:
People who ram their trolleys into particularly small nine-year-old girls.
I know, I’m dreaming.
I have this recurring discussion with Sigal about life in the country versus life in the city. Not that Sigal actually lives in the country, mind you. What she lives in is a little satellite town, in a dinky little house with a dinky little garden around it and with a big nasty SUV parked outside to take Dor to the kindergarten.
I’m sure her life is wonderful in her dinky little house, with Dor having all that freedom to run in and out of the dinky little garden. I’m sure it’s worth every minute of every hour of sitting in the big nasty SUV in the traffic on the way to and from work.
It’s just not my cup of Turkish coffee.
I am one of those rare exotic birds – the ideological inner city dweller. It’s not that I don’t fantasize sometimes about my own little dinky house with its dinky little garden, although knowing me it would just be a weed garden. And it’s not that I never had guilty panic attacks, when the girls were little, that they weren’t wild nature children wandering freely, investigating leaves and dissecting ants.
But I do so love being in walking/cycling/short bus ride distance from everything I could possibly ever need (although I do own a car and I even use it occasionally). And I love the bustle and the people in the cafes, and yes, even the roads full of cars and buses, especially when I can whiz past on my bike. It’s all so alive.
And if all that is not enough, I really do think this country is far too small and far too populated, for us to allow ourselves the luxury of suburban sprawl.
I’m sure her life is wonderful in her dinky little house, with Dor having all that freedom to run in and out of the dinky little garden. I’m sure it’s worth every minute of every hour of sitting in the big nasty SUV in the traffic on the way to and from work.
It’s just not my cup of Turkish coffee.
I am one of those rare exotic birds – the ideological inner city dweller. It’s not that I don’t fantasize sometimes about my own little dinky house with its dinky little garden, although knowing me it would just be a weed garden. And it’s not that I never had guilty panic attacks, when the girls were little, that they weren’t wild nature children wandering freely, investigating leaves and dissecting ants.
But I do so love being in walking/cycling/short bus ride distance from everything I could possibly ever need (although I do own a car and I even use it occasionally). And I love the bustle and the people in the cafes, and yes, even the roads full of cars and buses, especially when I can whiz past on my bike. It’s all so alive.
And if all that is not enough, I really do think this country is far too small and far too populated, for us to allow ourselves the luxury of suburban sprawl.