Sashita's ISRAEL Blog

Theme song: “leaving on a jetplane…”

It’s a little strange to be approaching the end of my stay in Israel. End of a frame, end of another chapter. This end inevitably brings with it the vision of an uncertain future filled with big hopes, underscored by secret doubts. That’s the nature of the beast I suppose.

A couple weeks ago I went to יום הסטודנט- “Yom haStudent” (Student Day)- a holiday marked by big celebrations in the major cities of Israel. The highlight was a concert by Shlomo Artzi. The career of this famous Israeli folk singer spans 4 decades. He is as old as the Arab-Israeli conflict and his music continues to win the admiration of both young and old. During my first week in Israel I was watching late-night TV with friends and eating home-made hummous. Food= delicious, TV= obnoxious. Shlomo Artzi came on, his unmistakable motifs in part veiled by the grainy reception. I knew nothing back then (and arguably little has changed), so a friend explained to me the artist’s significance.  On Yom HaStudent, standing in the middle of a huge Israeli crowd, listening to Shlomo Artzi live gave me a keen feeling that I have come full-circle. This brought an emotion of satisfaction, punctuated by sadness.

Why sadness? Because below me and above me I saw a giant crowd of people, citizens, natives swaying rhythmically back and forth, their mouths shaping the patterns of soulful expressions as one. These people were sharing a moment in time and space, the energy of the common bond seeping into every heart and forming an invisible network of interconnected, interdependent lights (like bulbs on a Christmas tree or candles on a menorah…whichever fits the setting best).

And I? Where was I in all this? In this familial experience I am inevitably an outsider. My role is to observe and take in, to study and remember, to internalize and capture. But, my mouth cannot shape the Hebrew words, nor can my brain comprehend the poetic meaning. I do not have flashbacks to childhood, perhaps sitting in the family living room, mother backing fresh Challah (braided Shabbat bread) and humming under her breath to the tune of Shlomo Artzi on the radio. I do not have the necessary background to truly connect to and melt into this moment.

I feel this all the time really. And everywhere. The most poignant (or painful) time I can remember was in Tanzania in 2006. I was there for my friend Aasiya Somji’s wedding (I hope she reads this, I have never shared this with her). The whole trip was truly out-of-this-world. Amazing, fascinating, educational, unforgettable. I keep going back in my mind to the evening before the wedding. The whole family was assembled at Aasiya’s parents’ apartment. Young and old, women in colorful saris, skirts, hijabs (veils). I too started to gradually blend in. I mastered a long blue skirt out of a beach pareo; the day before all the women (me included) got beautiful henna on our arms; my legs didn’t feel as sore from eating while sitting on floor pillows; and I was slowly beginning to relinquish the childhood manacles of my commitment to a knife and a fork. However, the mirage of my ability to fit in began to crumble as soon music was introduced. Aasiya’s family began to softly sing songs in Swahili. Then followed rhythmic dancing. Then the grandmothers took over with mournful tunes in Urdu, the language of their ancestors. When I noticed slight moisture forming around one woman’s eyes…I had to step out.

I went to the roof of my apartment and stood in the middle of the night overlooking the quiet African neighborhood. I was touched to the core by the solemnity of the evening. Members of this family are dispersed all around the world but today, as they were giving away their daughter, they had the opportunity to share this night together, to reconnect, to learn each other anew.  I admired this evening, these people. I was filled with so much respect and gratitude for being allowed to be a guest and a part of this celebration. But also I became overwhelmed by my own yearning to feel like a part of something bigger than me, to reconnect also, to melt into this family unit or this community. I craved to also feel like an inseparable part of this greater soul-organism. But then too I lacked the tools…the background.

Their joy in sharing took me back mentally to the last time I felt really at home. I was young, maybe 14 or 15. I was in Russia, in деревня Патриаршая- “derevnya Patriarshaya” (my grandma’s village home). It was night. We were sitting on benches around the fire. There was one guitar, there were fifteen to twenty voices and we all sang. One of my favorite songs is called Выхода Нет- “Vyhoda Net” (“No Escape”) and the lyrics go: Девочка с глазами из самого синего льда, тает под огнем пулемета…должен же расстаять хоть кто-то… (“ A girl with eyes of bluest ice is dying under bullet fire…will noт one being melt…”)

You see, I knew exactly what a special, meaningful, rejuvenating and grounding power some evenings have. It is so important to be able to once in a while feel these in your own blood.

Its interesting how this narrative is revealing that the true meaning behind experiences for me is somehow viscerally connected to music. Even now as I think about my home in Minneapolis…the word HOME is punctuated by a clear Salsa beat.

So one might ask, what is the problem with feeling out of place in a foreign country in Africa or in the Middle East? Girl, why do you go there if not to observe and learn?

I so much appreciate all my opportunities (and by God, I am the one diving head first into all these places!). In the last couple weeks I have  been coming to terms with leaving and trying to mentally organize my thoughts and feelings. The truth is, as I sit here today, I am feeling that all the travelling is making me yearn more and more to find my own roots. For a short while I would like to quit the struggle of a tough little weed temporarily thrown into someone else’s lush garden. I want to find a place in my own flower bed. I am feeling that we can only blossom into our full and brilliant bloom when nourished by our own rich soil. A soil that will not hold anything back, which will not leave any nutrient hidden. Now all I gotta do is discover that kind of soil for myself….

(Coming up….some zesty reflections on the Israel/Turkey/Gaza/flotilla business..)

MAGIC EYES….

My last day in Cairo. All my traveling companions had left and I was spending a day alone, roaming around the now familiar streets, peeking into book shops. I was on a quest: to find a good historical account of the life of Cleopatra. I was needing some inspiration about a tough female who didn’t take crap or ‘no’ for an answer. Pyramids of Giza

Egypt is different from other Arab countries I have visited of late, because of the deep history of its civilization. I am not sure that ANY country in in the Middle East can boast the deep ancient history of Egypt. Palestinians might talk to you about 500-600 years of the Common Era- the history of Prophet Mohammed, “May peace and blessings be upon him” (thats how its said…so I gotta also….). In Damascus, Syria they might teach you about the ancient grandeur of this city, since Damascus is believed to be the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world. In Jordan, people might focus on the Colonial history and the partition of Middle East by the French and the British in the beginning of the twentieth century. In Lebanon, they will be eager to provide a chronological account of all the recent (and not so recent) Israeli invasions, complete with a detailed tour of the bombed bridges and recently restored buildings. However, without even addressing the Neolithic period, Egypt, as a unified dynastic state, dates back to 3150 B.C.E. I am no historian…but that is a long time. I am certain that for everyone, young and old, even those who have never set foot outside their hometown, just the word “Egypt” immediately evokes images of lavish pharaohs, gigantic pyramids with mysterious tombs and mummies. When you see it with your own eyes though…it is really quite impressive.Downtown Cairo

Even the kind of patriotism one encounters in Egypt is different. It is more grounded, more visceral. Jordanians are proud of, say, their developed infrastructure. Lebanese boast their Westernized mentality and lifestyle. (There is a reason Beirut used to be known as the “Paris of the Middle East.” Now, the Lebanese people, from what I saw, are very eager to reestablish themselves as the peacefully joyous, licentious and lavish nation that they once were. After all the recent threats to their sovereignty: the long, bloody civil war; occupation by Syria; attacks by Israel- most Lebanese just want to forgive, forget and move on).

The Palestinian nationalism differs from that of Egypt. Since the sudden and surprising arrival of the State of Israel, the Palestinian nationalism is extremely defensive, high-pitched, nervous, and neurotic even. They live for a hope for, a dream of, and Idea of a state, rather than a reality. It is the patriotism for an order that might someday come to be…not the one that ever existed before or exists now. However, in Egypt, the love of their country seems not to be rooted so much in their government, their infrastructure, their lifestyle or an idea of a redemptive struggle. It is not even rooted entirely in the people. The love that Egyptians express for their country goes deeper into the earth itself. This love finds it origin in the depths of history, in the ancient underground tombs. This love saturates the soil, the desert, the mountains. It bubbles to the surface at the origin of River Nile and spreads its nourishment throughout the vast expanses of the country. Life was attracted to the banks of the Nile from the beginning of time. The patterns of flooding and recession of its waters (which dictated either good crops or drought) have ruled the lives of the people stronger than all the successive kingdoms, invasions and governments combined. This River and the rich agricultural soil surrounding it, IS the true mother of this country. I heard many Egyptians harshly criticize their political system, poverty, corruption, but I forget the last time I have heard criticism followed by such intense proclamations of loyalty: “But….I Love Egypt, I can’t imagine life anywhere else!”Boats on River Nile

I guess recently, this love might have been aided by the fact that Egypt won the African Soccer Cup. While in Cairo, I watched Egypt utterly destroy its mortal rival- Algeria, and then in the final game, bring the victory home with a decisive goal against Ghana. Egypt is the most successful nation in the African Cup’s history, winning the tournament a record seven times. This year, Egypt reclaimed the title for the third time in a row. The demonstrations in the streets, all night long, were incredible. There is nothing like a major sports victory to boost a country’s self esteem. Festivities before the soccer match..

Keeping to this subject, a foreign girl traveling in Egypt might get a jolting boost to her self-esteem. (But only if one is into that sort of thing…which…the writer of this humble tale is definitely NOT). Why? Because the Egyptian ‘shabab’ (or ‘young guys’) simply cennot let a female tourist pass by without making a scene. English, clearly, is not their top subject, so I have been able to compile all the remarks intoone short list. Imagine, you are a 5 foot 5 (ok, maybe 4) girl. You have a tight ponytail, dirty tennies, and what you feel is a generally unassuming appearance. You are walking along, minding your own business, trying to keep a low profile. Oh but NO. In Egypt, such a thing is impossible! The most common thing you will be asked by random strangers is “where are you from?” If you say you are from America, they will say: “Oh! OBAMA! We like!”. If you mention you are from Russia, you might get: “Oh! Russia! Beautiful!” That’s pretty harmless. However, then they might look you in the face and escalate the conversation to: “ Oh! Mazzzhhhiiiik eyes! (with this peculiar emphasis on the letter ‘g’). And finally, the linguists in the group sometimes take it to the next level by complimenting you on your “Nice ASS!” At this point, your blood begins to boil, but from experience you know, that attempting to engage them will just further suck you into the mud. Even trying to retaliate in Arabic by saying (‘Ayb Aleik’- ‘shame on you’) does not work. So you keep walking, clutching your purse, knuckles turned white from irritation.

However, there was one particular incident when we (my friend Audrey and I) could not help but act particularly unlady-like. It goes without saying that our clothes automatically give us away as foreigners. But, may I mention, that while I at least dye my hair dark in a pathetic attempt to blend in…my friend Audrey’s hair is utterly and un-apologetically RED. So, through no fault of her own, she might as well have a shimmering billboard sign attached to her head, with the invitation: Please harass me, Harass me now!” So, we were walking along the Nile River in Luxor. We were a little tired, maybe a little hungry, maybe needing a beer….and some already familiar Egyptian enthusiast shouted in our direction: “Ooh…i like the BACKSIDE!” We felt fury bubbling up from the bottom of our tippy-toes all the way to our chins and simultaneously shouted a universal : F**K YOU!” Pretty sure they got the message.Locals taking pictures with Audrey

So why why why I am recounting the minute details of our petty trials and tribulations. First, to demonstrate the particular daily anxiety one experiences when traveling to Egypt. While by no means all people are like this, I did notice that the amount of harassment in Egypt easily topples what I have encountered in other countries of the Middle East. I am not sure why this is. I think a lot has to do with government corruption, unwisely distributed resources and the consequent jarring lack of education among Egyptians. Furthermore, some of it definitely has to do with the media and the perception of Western women. And a big part comes from society’s (and Islamic) rules. The Egyptian society, like in most of the Middle East, is very religious. This means that people cannot date until they are married (or engaged). Even engagement is a period when a couple can go out for coffee, for lunch, they might even steal a brief moment of privacy and engage in the dangerous act of hand-holding. But nothing more. So, I will carefully suggest that there exists a degree of frustration that finds an outlet in catcalling and harassing in the streets. Especially to foreign girls, who probably symbolize all that is allowed in the West, and forbidden in Egypt. Bedouin guide on Mt. Sinai

Another factor that, in my opinion, puts a strain on society is the particular pressure, which is placed on the men. In order to marry, a man must not only reach the age of maturity, but also get an education, establish a career, and save up enough money for a house. The pressure on the women is to stay pure, untouched and loyal. While the pressure (self-imposed also) on the men is to be able to provide for all the needs of their stay-at-home wife and children. This distances the time of marriage to late twenties if not early- to mid-thirties. At first I thought it was wild but with time, I understood that this is the norm.

As I apprehensively contemplate the future (and those who know me well will attest that I am always apprehensive about something), living and working in Cairo is presenting itself as an accessible option. However, I am absolutely not sure if I would be able to handle it. It might turn out to be a necessary, but a rather bitter pill to swallow.Downtown Cairo

However, I am not completely pessimistic. By the end of our trip, Audrey and I got smart and finally found a way to retaliate against our tormentors. In Cairo, like any gigantic city (20-22 million people..) there are many, MANY beggars. Audrey and I, as Americans: the walking symbols of all that is wealthy and prosperous, were continuously asked for “baksheesh” (or “change” in Egyptian dialect). So, when the next Egyptian dude who wanted to show off to his friends, came up to tell us how beautiful we are, and asked to get to know us, and if he may take a picture with us—the poor fella found himself completely dumbfounded when the two American girls stretched out the palms of their hands, a sheepish expression on their faces, and demanded BAKSHEESH! Given time, I think we could seriously line our pockets.Tourism Police…guards everywhere…not to monitor, but to protect the tourists.

Living the Dream…

As people in the United States are feverishly preparing for the most special day of Gift-giving, food-eating and wine-drinking, I am at a place where “Christmas spirit” is quite imperceptible. I did see some gaudy Santa Clause/Nativity scene images at Wadi Nis-Nas, a local Arab-Christian Neighborhood. Other than that, its just a regular autumn day in Israel.

However, I must mention that the celebratory week of Hannukah has just ended. Hanukkah marks the rededication of the Temple of Jerusalem after its desecration by King of Syria Antiochus. It was memorialized every night by the lighting of Hanukiot: a special 9-candle Candelabrum.

Its really interesting that, much like Christmas in the United States, Hannukah seems to have gained a pop-cultural significance which, outside of certain communities, seems to outshine the religious meaning of the holiday. For example, the nightclubs in Haifa were sending invitations to ‘special’ Hannukah parties. What does it mean: same location, same DJ, same overused songs (“Tonight’s Gonna be a Good Night…”), just a pause in the middle for an announcer to light traditional candles, and for the sweaty crowd to takes shots of extra celebratory vodka.  

“HaZira”- Salsa Club in Tel Aviv

For the Minneapolis dwellers in the audience, to me this looked as if they would have put a Nativity Scene in the middle of the Loring Pasta Bar Salsa night…

In terms of my Scholarship-related activity, the most memorable visit so far was to a Rotary Club in Karmiel. The president of the club, Dalia, is a Jewish-Israeli, a professional psychiatrist with a private practice, and a fantastic, warm and energetic woman! Her husband works in the same field and got his Ph.D. in Psychology from Dartmouth. They live in a small house in Karmiel and co-own a stable of Arabian horses, whom they raise to compete in International tournaments, and who have received countless awards in Europe and in Israel. Dalia and her husband co-own this horsestable with a Muslim family from a neighboring village. And…they are best friends. They work on the horses, have family dinners and hang out together all the time. This kind of crossing of religious/cultural boundaries is, to say the least, RARE, and in my personal experience here: Unprecedented!

Now, this brings me to impressions of the country as a whole. My reader might be surprised, or even unnerved by the fact that each of my introductions of the people I met are accompanied by a cataloging reference to their ethnic/religious affiliations. Are we not supposed to look past these differences? My answer is NO. In the peaceful U.S. we have not yet come to a point where we can stop classifying each other according to religion/ethnicity/race/immigration status. And this is ESPECIALLY true in Israel! The various ethnic/religious/national groups are roughly patched together forming a giant quilt with no order or coordination. In places, the pieces are held together with nothing but 2-3 thin stitches, and it seems that the whole construction threatens to split at the seams. The image is dramatic, but even the locals will tell you that it is accurate.

Just within Israel proper (the boundaries of which are debated) there are Jews and Arabs. Among the Arabs there are Muslims, Christians, Bedoins and Druze. Among Jews, some are West European, some are Russian, some are Arab (from Morocco, Iraq, Egypt), some are Ethiopian. These backgrounds, of course, connote differences in status and treatment by society at large (read: degree of discrimination). The Druze are the most integrated into Israeli society. Even though they live in their own villages/towns, they serve in the Israeli military and are accepted as a non-threatening community. The Christian Arabs are viewed more favorably than the Muslims, even though they are still looked-down upon and the youth, for example, is rarely admitted to nightclubs. In general, Israel is still a new country that is trying to find its identity.

What surprised me the most when I came here, is the “Siege-mentality” prevalent among Israelis. In many places in American, and expecially in Europe, Israel is viewed as a financial and military powerhouse. The country is backed by U.S. money, has an obscene defense budget and has possession of nuclear weapons. In many ways, Israel is made to look like a regional bully. However, most people INSIDE Israel have a potent sense of living in a country that is perpetually IN A STATE of War. This mentality is not only a result of recent wars for Independence with the surrounding Arab Countries; or of the continuing sporadic violence with Palestinian Hamas and Lebanese Hezbollah; and not even entirely because of the swelling of Iranian nuclear capacity. The constantly reproduced anxiety that exists within Israel proper is also due to a deeply Historic sense of vulnerability. The crowning event of the process that I am referring to is, of course, the Holocaust. But even without it, the history of Jewish persecution runs centuries before the Common Era with enslavement and liberation from Egypt; building and destruction of Two Temples in Jerusalem; the Spanish Inquisition and the expulsion of Jews from Spain; the long history of discrimination of Jews in Europe and pogroms in Russia…and only then, the Holocaust.  

A reader might ask, what is the point of this list of abuses. Indeed, every single nation/society/minority group had experienced persecution, violence and war. For me, the fact that modern Israel mentality is in the present burdened by the collective memory of persecution dating back before Common Era, is an the important element in making sense of the current Israeli reality. This burden in many ways dictates the way Israel manages both, its internal and external affairs. The fact that against all odds, Jews were able to establish their own state, here in Israel, still feels like a miracle, like a fragile silhouette, veiled in a gauze of myth.

In such a society it is almost inevitable that extra weight is placed on various group identities and affiliations, and with this comes a heightened degree of discrimination and racism. Growing up in Russia, it wasn’t rare to hear something like: “He is a really nice guy, even though he is a Jew.” Or, before I came to Israel a girlfriend, whom I love very much, but who perhaps doesn’t share my degree of sensitivity asked me: “You are going to Israel? But…there are JEWS there!” A similar blanket of ignorance is thrown on on entire groups within Israel proper. I have heard Jewish high school students refer to their Arab counterparts as “our lesser brothers.” Here I am constantly warned by the Russian Israelis not to come in contact with the Arabs or Druze, as it might be dangerous. At the same time, the Russians themselves are not exactly the most accepted community. A contemporary Russian-Israeli author Dina Rubin wrote that “Russians in Israel are treated as Jews in Europe.”

In any event, I guess I am cataloguing all these various veins of racism and hypocrysy because 1) I find it humorous. Every group is paranoid against another in order to boost their own status. And 2) because this exists Everywhere. In the same shape and form. And my, perhaps long-winded, attempt to encapsulate the anxiety among the different groups in Israel will allow the reader to imagine just how much adjusting and wiggling one has to do in all of one’s conversations with representatives from all of the above. This can get reeeally tricky really fast.

 Oh yes, and to finish, a small piece of trivia. All are aware that when the current U.S. President was running for office, much ado was made about his middle name: Hussein. Oh my Goodness: a Muslim infiltrator..an Arab-sympathizer..blah blah. I found it intersting that his first name, Barak, in Hebrew means “lightning” or “shine.” (The name of the current Israeli minister of Defense is Ehud Barak). So, my poetic conclusion is that Barak Hussein Obama with his Muslim-Jewish names, encapsulates the struggle for coexistence in the Holy Land. Its a stretch. I know.

Ok, and one last thought. There is a wisdom in the Prophets which (in rough paraphrase) states that a man should at all times carry in his pockets two pieces of paper. In the right pocket, a paper that reads: “The world was created for me.” And in the left:  ”I am nothing but ashes and dust.”  This image encapsulates beautifully the constant stuggle for meaning in our lives. On one hand, there is a sense that we can make choices and construct our lives according to our own vision. That we create our own meaning. And on the other hand, how often does life remind us of our powerlessness! How often does life throw a curveball in all our plans and exposes that our hopes and dreams are nothing but a mirage and a vapor. For this reason, I have finally understood why I enjoy so much to ride the BUS. It is because, for a brief period of time, maybe half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes, both the starting point, and most importantly, the destination, are frozen and clear!

Shalom from Afar..

It has been a while. So I now decide to rekindle the delicate flame of my simple story…

In the last few weeks I have managed to start READING in Hebrew (which brings me joy), to lose my wallet and U.S. Passport (which brings me sorrow), and to become totally overwhelmed with Arabic grammar (which leaves me with a Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).

My wallet, I am pretty certain, was stolen in the Tel Aviv dormitories. Of course I panicked, searched EVERYWHERE, tugged at my hair in pain, imagined that THIS is what the coming of the Apocalypse will feel like!…  But then, I paused to reflect, thought about crying, decided against it…and just starting solving the problem. Calling credit cards, calling police, imploring the powers that be!

I was lucky enough to be with a few really good people, they were my true Southern gentlemen. They poured me a glass of the clear liquid and assured that everything will be ok. And one Israeli friend Ben told me of a Morroccan aphorism, which is told to small children when they lose or break a toy: “Really, you were supposed to injure yourself, but God spared you, and just made you lose a material posession.” So there you have it….I guess…

Speaking of God. The more I travel, the older I grow, the more I realize how powerless I am in the face of everything that happens to me. More than that, I am so powerless in my own reactions to things that befall. Melancholy will visit, seemingly for no concrete reason, and I am powerless in the face of this affliction. So I trudge along, hoping and expecting something GOOD to happen. Like…soon. Like…right about NOW. And then I lose my wallet…TAKE THAT Sasha! You felt bad before…how do you feel now??

So, still speaking of God, a couple weeks ago I visited Jerusalem. In Arabic: القدس (the Holy). The holy of all holies. There I met an Arab shopowner, with whom I bargained for a piece of embroidered cloth. I knocked the price down by half because, as he and his sons were yelling to each other                        (“هي تحكي عربي”) “She speaks Arabic.” (I recall this with a smile, because my current Arabic class has totally diminished any sense of swagger I ever entertained about my language abilities..). In any event, I got my cloth and we started talking. The man isn’t just a simple shop-owner. He comes from a historic family, which stayed in Jerusalem for nearly 300 years, living in the same house, even when most people fled during the war of ’48. He is also a jewelry maker, who designed one-of-a kind pieces for the Queen of Spain and the wife of the President of Poland, among others. He is also a Palestinian Arab who is heavily involved in peace programs in Israel. He, in collaboration with other Arab and Jewish civilians, organize groups of Palestinian and Jewish children, bring them to on trips to Europe and foster dialogue for understanding and peace. Through joint trips, activities, games, competitions, they try to break the pervasive sense of fear an hatred that permiates the air.  The attitude toward one another as barbarian, an immoral being and a threatening force. They do good work, even in the face of all obsticles. So, this shop owner told me about this. One of his best friends involved in the project is a professor of Psychology…..at the Univeristy of Haifa (thats where I live)…and I currently HAPPEN to be in his class! As you might recall, we started this conversation with talking about God….

So, I armed myself with his contact information and a hope of getting involved in such a project..and moved along to the Wailing (Westen Wall). Now a tiny bit of history. The Wailing wall is perhaps the most important Jewish religious site. It is located in the Old City of Jerusalem. In 19 BCE Herod the Great rebuilt the destroyed temple of King Solomon on Temple Mount. 

 Today’s Western Wall formed part of the perimeter wall of this temple. However, Herod’s Temple was destroyed by the Roman Empire, with the rest of Jerusalem, in 70 CE. Then in 691, the Muslim Caliph Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan built the Dome of the Rock on the site of the famous temple.

Therefore, now, Jews pray at the Wall, as the only remnant of their holy temple. And ironically, in the nearest proximity, in fact, ON TOP of the ruins of their famous temple, rests one of the holiest sites of Islam. As the story goes, the Dome of the Rock houses just that…a rock, from which prophet Muhammad ascended to heaven. Someone even told me that on this rock, you can spot an edge of the FOOTPRINT of Prophet Muhammad. In any event…one word: DRAMA.

So, as I was approaching the famous wall, in my head I had a purely historical/tourist perspective. This is a famous historical site, this is the center of three monitheistic religions. I was taking photos on the sly and feeling guilty about it. I mean, all around me, women were crying (it is divided into 2 sections: 3/4 for men, then a barrier, then a slim section for women). Anyway, women of all ages, with headscarves, were crying, pressing their hands and foreheads to the wall, reciting prayers, reading the Holy Torah.

I came forward with my torn jeans and lip gloss. I looked around, and decided to touch the wall. Everyone does it. I should too, right? Just to say I did it. I reached over and pressed my palm to the cool, smooth stone. I looked down at my feet and tears just started falling down my face. Tears and tears, falling and falling. As if I was alone. As if I found a place of refuge. As if I could finally let all of my bottled up strength go…. In my head was my pain, and the pain of the people in my life, my father, all the insecurities, fears, mistakes. All the hopes. I have never experienced anything like it. Not upon contact with a holy site. It was a very beautiful experience.

But to end on a positive note, it is still 65 degrees and sunny. So HAH!

Peace, سلام, שלום

Hiking the explosive Golan Heights

Last weekend we went on an two day hiking trip to the Golan Heights.

A little history:

The Golan Heights remains a highly contested area of land on the border of Syria and Israel. Two-thirds of the area is currently governed by Israel. Most international organizations and large powers (including U.S.) consider the Golan Heights to be territory occupied by Israel and not part of Israel proper. Israel has controlled most of the Golan since the Six Day War in 1967. The outcome of the 6 Day War between Arab Nations and Israel is just one of the many examples of divergent narratives in the area. In this war, Israel struck first. Therefore, Syria argues that Israel was (and is) a clear aggressor. Israel, on the other hand, claims that the strike was preemptive, as an Arab attack was inevitable. In any event, the Golan Heights, whether ‘occupied’ or ‘rightfully annexed’, serve as a vital strategic barrier between Israel and Syria. The area also provides a rich terrain for long and difficult hikes.

We hiked 7 hours, two days in a row, slept in the open air, bathed in mountain waterfalls and brewed thick Arabic coffee on the fire.

  It was nearly 50 degrees C =120 degrees F  Rare pools of water Swimming in natural pool: COLD! Everywhere, there are still landmines left over from the 6 Day war. They are barb-wired off. Israel claims that the Syrian army planted the bombs. Syrians claim that Israel did.  40 hikers cooking dinner. MEAT! Hand making and ‘grilling’ pita bread This rock fell onto the branches of the tree, and over the decades, as the tree grew, the rock was literally lifted off the ground.  Hikers’ ART. The bubble gum memorial!

Hebrew is Damn Tough!

Haifa is in the North

Classes have started. I am learning the Hebrew alphabet and two words: SUPER HARD! I don’t remember the last time when I was not at all familiar with the characters of a language. The Arabic alphabet now feels like native…so its hard to deal with the ‘trauma’ of piecing together these various letters, complete with various dots and hooks. Hebrew has 22 letters…but each letter is written differently: one way for script and one for print. So in all…it feels like 44! Writing out the letters feels like navigating a winding, slippery mountain path. One wrong move, and all is lost. Nonetheless, I now learned how to write my own name and I am able to fluently read exactly one word: Haifa!

I went SALSA dancing for the first time witha  group of International students. What can i say…salsa in Haifa leaves much to be desired. As far as I can tell, there are two main groups that dominate the teaching “market”- “Latin Beat” and, the name i like, “Clear Mind.”  The “Clear Mind”-ers look like a paramilitary unit, with their dance sneakers and black t-shirts with matching logos. From what I saw, they have a tough time staying on beat and often confuse the ONE and the FIVE.

Nonetheless, they do not lack pride in ther art. For those who know, Alex “Liquid Silver,” an legend of the salsa world, has come to Haifa twice with workshops. This is what one guy called “training UNDER” Alex..)…

My friend Julia and I were standing by the bar and talking. An older guy asked her to dance. She said ‘no.’  He turned to me, and I also declined. We were tired. Then one of the “t-shirts” looked at us and said: “If I asked you to dance and you said ‘no,’ I would just lift you off your chair and make you!” To this, in a lighthearted manner, I tried to explain that ‘No” means NO. The “t-shirt” looked at me like i was an idiot, leaned in raising his voice and pronounced: “YES, but I am a COACH, you SEE!” all the while pointing at the logo of his chest. I guess even without the mastery of dance, Haifa salseros do not lack self -assurance.

But, to end on a positive salsa note, a couple salseros do drive to Tel Aviv every 2-3 weeks specifically to dance. Thats where the real stuff is! So, I got some numbers and was invited to tag along in the next couple weeks. Hurray for networking!

Anyway, this is my sketch for now. This weekend I am going on a 2-day hike in the Golan heights, complete with waterfalls, sleeping in tents and swimming across some impenetrable parts of the trail….

And to finish…this first week has been tough, mostly because of having to settle countless practical details. I also miss a couple people very much and feel a bit of an empty space. Having said that…I really feel that I am in an absolutely right place for me right now. No matter how hard, be it practically or emotionally, I know that I am meant to be here at this point in my life. That gives me strength. I can only describe my general attitude to everything as “zen.” I go about as if guided.

This fills me with confidence.

Success: I bought a TOWEL!

ah yes, when traveling for a long time one does not have a choice but to abandon the habitual comforts of home.

So far I’ve been busy trying to piece together my little existence. Getting money out of the ATM, buying food, getting a cell phone…all building blocks of life.

Language-wise this has so far been TOO EASY! i don’t speak ANY Hebrew – so its not an option. Threfore, there have been no botched attempts at communication. That makes it easy. Also, I cannot yet tell who in this country is Arab and who is Jewish. If I were to make a mistake and address an Israeli Jew in Arabic… I would probably be cursed out. Consequently, I do not use my Arabic.

However, i do speak Russian. And EVERYONE in this country is RUSSIAN! I was at the beach and did not have sunscreen. I knew that i needed to protect my pale Minnesotan limbs, so i went on a search. Walking, looking: no sunscreen stands. I approached two ladies under a tree…two very obviously Russian women (you can always tell by the burnt orange or off-purple color of their dyed hair..).  I said hi, asked where I can buy sunscreen. They told me that I would not find it, but welcomed me to used theirs (“beri nash, krasavitsa)”. Hence: Easy.

Communication with Russians here opens many doors. Even though many of them have lived here for decades, you still feel the lingering air of meeting a fellow immigrant. They still largely exist as a separate cultural community within greater Israel. Therefore, as any of you who travelled will know, the sound of common speech immediately brings an air of familiarity and warmth into the conversation. Therefore: taxi drivers give me lower rates, women at shops advise on which yogurt is best, people give me directions more readily.

Most of these Russian-Jewish immigrants speak Hebrew…some do not. Some have asked me, why do some Russian immigrants find it o.k. to find refuge in Israel, yet forego learning the language?! The reason is this: many of them escaped from the Soviet Union (and later Russia), and had to completely remake themselves. These were doctors, engineers, professors, who by immigrating, gave up their home, their careers and status in society. These highly educated professionals took jobs as street sweepers, store clerks, construction workers. At the age of 30-40 they had to completely remake themselves. By middle age, one usually expects to start reaping the benefits of hard work done in their twenties and thirties. Conversely, these immigrants had to get additional aducation, live in poverty, struggle, survive. And they made it! And therefore, many, i think, feel that they have already proven themselves beyond a reasonable doubt, and therefore learning the language is not a priority.

HELLO / SHALOM / ZDRASTVUITE / MARHABA

ahhhhh...........

Talia Dormitories from the outside

These are the four languages I have so far spoken in Isral. English/Hebrew/Russian/ Arabic.

Flight was ok, except i sat next to a weirdo. The flight from Philly to Tel Aviv (“hill of the spring” in translation i found out..) was 10.5 hours. He was sitting up in his puffy jacket, the whole time, his ticket in his left hand and his passport in his right…staring, blankly…at the dark tv screen in front of him….
 
I landed ok. Our family friend Sasha picked me up. We drove around for 3 hours, got to his house, had a great dinner with his wife and daughter. I asked them all sorts of questions. I was welcomed like family…how lucky! Then next day i hung out with their Russian-Jewish friends. All old folks….it was kind of funny, i was the only youngin. We went to a “woodsy” area up on a hill in Haifa, watched the sunset, grilled chicken, drank wine. Was good…except finally my jetlag got the best of me and i passed out on a lawnchair.
 
Now is my first day in the dorm. My apartment of 6 is still empty. I think this means that i’ll be living with all israelis…cause their classes start a week later than ours (international students). I met a couple people. 

Common Area

Its a holiday today, so a couple girls (one from Estonia, and another Ukranian from Germany) went to the beach. I have forgotten what sea water tastes like..its salty. And so clean…and soothing.

 
I still have this feeling of being in  purgatory…i haven’t taken a bus yet, haven’t really been around Haifa at all. Don’t know anything, dont speak Hebrew, dont feel self-sufficient. But….that will come. Oh, and i still dont know how to turn on the hot water in my dorm room….that kinda sucks…..

Aside from that, today filled me with an incredible sense of peace. Maybe it was  just the sea water……or maybe it is the contrast to my hectic departure….but maybe its being surrounded by multi-lingual, multi-cultural, multi-uknown people and customs….whatever it is…I hope it lasts.

And last reflections as I finish: my challenge to myself is not to loose sight of my daily experiences, to appreciate the small successes (getting hot water in the dorm) and take pride in learning new words or facts. My challenge is not to become overwhelmed by the foreignness around me. To keep my head above water and regard my experiences at an arm-lengh…as temporal occurences that will shape me…but which do not have to smother me.

Its now time to take a cold shower.

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