Apple Pie in Jordan
Sustainable Apple Pie writes about her exciting journey across the border:
As some of you know, about a third of my friends in the Middle East are Jordanian. I have studied with them in Israel and have grown as close to them as any good friend I could have. Which is crazy, when I think about it, because two years ago I would have been able to honestly tell you that I had never spoken to an Arab- Palestinian, Jordanian, Egyptian, American, or otherwise.
This weekend, however, I found myself crossing the border from Eilat to Aqaba and on a bus heading north to Amman. It was my first visit to Jordan and I was equally nervous and excited. Nervous because despite my many Arabic-speaking friends, my Arabic consists of only a few words: mabrook (congratulations), shukran (thank you), keif allik (how are you?/what’s up?), majnoun (crazy), salaam (peace). Excited because I was going to a wedding of a friend and was to meet up in Amman with ten other friends from Israel also there to celebrate the occasion.
I crossed the border in Aqaba with my friend Ruba (Jordanian, from Amman) and took the Trust Company bus to Amman. Arabic music and movies were shown with the sound at full blast the entire four hours. Arrived in Amman and was picked up by Ruba’s sister and husband and taken back to her home. Her family greeted me with kisses on the cheek (one on the left, then two on the right) and tried to feed me everything they had in the house. Then it was off to meet the rest of the group who had gathered at my new favorite bookstore Books Cafe. It is situated in an amazing building with the first floor an English and Arabic bookstore, the second floor a beautifully painted and furnished cafe, and the rooftop a bar with a fantastic view of the city. But Books is only open until about midnight, so we had to move ourselves to a new location. So it was off to the Dove Hotel’s Irish Pub. Irish, because the walls are painted green and they have pictures of Guiness on the walls. Drunk internationals mingle with locals, dance on the small dance floor, and puke outside on the street. Classy. At 2 am, we were all tired of the scene and ready for bed.
The next morning, we woke up early for a 9 am tour with our personal tour guide, Mohammed (an alum from our program) who took us through downtown Amman. We ate breakfast at Hashem, the restaurant in Amman which is now open 24 hours a day and incredibly popular with both tourists and locals because of its INCREDIBLE falafel. After that, we burned some calories by climbing the stairs to the top of the Roman Amphitheatre and sat at the top in the shade discussing environmental issues in Amman and Jordan (I have the most amazing friends!). Then it was time to tackle the souq (that’s shuk in Hebrew, or market in English). Blocks and blocks of fruit stands, meat, fish, clothing, housewares. Far too overwhelming for me to be able to purchase anything.
Back to another friend’s apartment, T., our main headquarters during our stay. T. is an American Jewish woman living in Amman and studying Arabic for the year. We completely took over her apartment, but she was an incredibly gracious host. But had no qualms with reminding us to conserve water and clean up after ourselves. In Jordan, every house receives water from the municipality for two hours each day. Almost every home has some sort of cistern in which to store that water so that there will not be a shortage, but it definitely happens from time to time. Our showers had to be about 2 minutes long, primarily rinsing off the sweat and grime that had accumulated over the course of the day.
We had one last outing before heading to the wedding. Rainbow Street, where every Friday there is a small craft market in which independent artists sell their wares to a much higher class than what we experienced at the souq. At the end of the market is the Royal Conservation Society of Jordan’s main headquarters, Wild Jordan. It is a gorgeous building highlighting the many nature reserves in the country, promoting eco-tourism, and has an incredible view of the city from it’s outdoor restaurant which serves healthy, fresh food. I ate a Strawberry Muesli Parfait from the dessert menu, yum!
Back at the apartment, we rushed to get ready for the wedding and it felt a little bit like prom: putting on each other’s make-up, sharing clothes, exchanging jewelry. We arrived at the hotel in time to see the bride and groom making their way up the stairs accompanied by family, friends, a group of drummers in traditional Syrian costume. All of it being videotaped in one of the most elaborate wedding videos I have ever seen. The bride and groom went to get photographed and the guests seated themselves at tables in the ballroom awaiting their return. When they came back the lights were turned down low and they began a night of dancing with a slow dance. Soon, the tempo picked up and we danced the night away to Arabic music that was so loud that it is still stuck in my head.
It was amazing. I know I have used that word way too much in this post, but that is about the only word I have to describe the night: Amazing. Amazing. Amazing.
The dancing ended at 1 am and we went out on the town for more fun (this time with a bit of alcohol). Got back at 3:45 am when the call to prayer started echoing across the city. Beautiful.
The Height of Fashion
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Shabbat Afternoon Hatikva
We were sitting on our third floor terrace on a warm Shabbat afternoon. It was one of the perfect Jerusalem days – not uncomfortably hot, not borderline cold; the air just lapping lightly at your skin with no unwelcome humidity to mar the moment. My wife Jody and I were reading the paper, eight-year-old Aviv was kicking a ball around in the courtyard downstairs, and the older kids were playing the card game Set.
Then I heard it. An amplified sound that echoed off the buildings incoherently in a language I didn’t immediately recognize. Imagine the “blah-blah-blah” voice of the adults in the old Charlie Brown cartoons – that’s pretty much what I was listening to.
My first thought was it was an emergency announcement, a policeman on a blowhorn warning people to stay away from some area where a suspected terrorist was loose. But there were no sirens and the voice sounded more enthusiastic than stern.
Maybe it was from one of the local muezzins – the loudspeakers that sit astride area mosques and call the faithful to prayer five times a day. Depending on where you live in the city (and your religious preference), this call can be quite inspiring – or rather jarring, especially the one that goes out across the eastern part of the city before dawn.
But now the amplified voice began to take shape – it was clearly Hebrew. And I began to discern other sounds in the background: a crowd, cheering.
The proverbial light bulb went off over my head: the audio reverberating all through southern Jerusalem on this sunny Shabbat afternoon must be coming from far away Teddy Stadium where a local soccer match was being played. The excited voice I heard…that was the announcer probably introducing the players as they strode onto the field.
Soccer on Shabbat…it’s as American as apple pie. But this is not America, it’s Israel, and instead of apples, here it’s a political hot potato.
Shabbat afternoon soccer is a desecration of the holy day, say some. It’s a perfect way to spend the day following synagogue and a family meal, say others.
For immigrants from the U.S., the debate is mostly moot; we didn’t grow up in a rabid soccer-playing culture like our Israeli fellow citizens, or for that matter like our English-speaking cousins from the U.K., Australia and South Africa. So we look on, like the bemused outsiders we so often are, as proposals make their way to the Knesset that go so far as to ban Shabbat soccer…or, alternatively, to move Israel’s weekend to accommodate Israelis of all religious persuasions.
Shifting the weekend to a more Western-standard Saturday-Sunday (vs. Israel’s current Friday-Saturday that gives us only four days of overlap with most of our overseas workmates) would not only solve the soccer dilemma, but the shopping one too. Both soccer and shopping could be concentrated on the newly created Sunday day off.
It sounds attractive though I’m not holding my breath. Given the importance of Shabbat to so many Israelis (no matter how they celebrate), most people would probably take off early on Friday afternoons to get home before sundown. That would leave us with a four and a half day workweek, making Israel the productive equivalent of, well, France (not exactly a model of hardworking inspiration).
As I sat on my terrace and debated the trade offs between work and play, it occurred to me that all these discussions were missing the point. Because for at least one neurotic oleh (Hebrew for immigrant), the booming narrator and the amplified crowd were doing only thing really well: disturbing my relaxing Shabbat afternoon of leisure. Politics shmolotics, this was just annoying.
I tried to ignore the uninvited surround sound, but some underused part of my brain was doing laughable Hebrew-to-English translations in the background while I tried to read the weekend paper.
I was just about ready to head inside and shut the door on a beautiful day when, suddenly, the loudspeakers began to blare a new tune. Someone was singing now. My universal translator stepped up to the plate.
As long as deep in our hearts
The Jewish soul sings
And forward to the East
To Zion, looks the eye
I can name that tune…it was the Hatikva. Bouncing off the rooftops, from luxury apartment building to 1950s-era tenement and everything in-between sounded the proud words and melody of the Israeli national anthem.
Our hope will not be lost,
The hope of two thousand years
To be a free nation in our land
The land of Zion and Jerusalem
As the music ended and cheering erupted from far away, I realized I had unintentionally stood up to face the direction of Teddy Stadium. So then, this time very consciously, I turned slowly, nearly180 degrees, to orient myself in the direction of the Western Wall at the heart of the Old City of Jerusalem.
Yes, the sounds from the stadium had certainly been annoying. But where else in the world can these inspirational words envelop an entire city? A Shabbat afternoon Hatikva might not have been the exact reason we moved to Israel in the first place…but it was a pretty good reason to stay.
To all who are celebrating Yom Yerushalayim – Jerusalem Day – today, chag sameach…happy holidays. And next year…in Jerusalem!
———-
This article was cross-posted at This Normal Life.
Police state
After 21 years here, I received my first jaywalking ticket today.
Yup, my picture’s going up on the post office wall, coming on the heels of another brush with the law a few months ago which I’m too embarrassed to talk about here. Let’s just say I have lawbreaking in my blood.
My friend Harry has always warned me about crossing Jerusalem streets with the little red guy lit up, saying that the police were always lurking around corners. I sort of paid attention, but generally, if not traffic was approaching, would take my chances.
As my intern Abby recently pointed out, Israeli crosswalks are kinds of screwed up. One side of the street turns green and you can walk across to the median strip, but the other side is rarely synchronized, so you’re stuck on the median for another minute or two with cars whizzing past.
As I was approaching the intersection, I noticed to my amazement that both sides of the road had been green, but that the close side had just that instance turned red, with people still in the middle of the crosswalk. I took a couple running steps to catch up with my fellow pedestrians, to take advantage of the far green side.
Feeling great that I had managed to cross the road without having to stop in the middle, a young policewoman stood up, and walked over to me.
“Why did you cross on red?” she asked.
Another thing Harry had told me was that if you’re ever stopped in a situation like this, pretend that you don’t speak Hebrew. The cop will just get frustrated and let you go.
“Sorry, I can’t understand what you’re saying,” I responded in my best Johnny Depp/Willy Wonka imitation.
This cop was very dedicated and patient, because she switched to very broken English and explained my transgression and explained that she was giving me a ticket.
While I was standing there waiting for her to write out the megillah ticket, her partner caught two other saps, making me feel a bit better.
Leaving the scene with my 100 shekel fine, and feeling like a convicted felon, I continued to the office, where nearby construction work has made the sidewalks and the roads a potential land mine with people and cars darting in and out. Weaving my way between cars, pedestrians and the road, I looked back at my friendly, patient cop and waved.
Indie Rock – with an Israeli edge
As someone who is perpetually engaged in a love affair with music, and with indie rock in particular, as I planned my move to Israel last year, I was hesitant to leave Montreal’s lively music scene. I didn’t particularly want to trade in my Arcade Fire homecoming shows for, well, I didn’t know what. It might sound silly, but lack of good concert going experiences was high on my list of reasons not to go to Israel.
As it turns out, my fears were completely unfounded – Indie and Punk Rock do in fact exist in Israel, and are doing just fine.
Ironically enough, now my newfound love for a number of Israeli bands is high on my list of reasons to stay. Monday night I had the distinct pleasure of being exposed to a night of indie rock, with four up and coming Israeli indie bands who blew me away.
With the full album of only one of the four bands, I was mildly hesitant as I dragged a number of my friends from Jerusalem to the show with me in Tel Aviv’s Heineken Habima club. I wasn’t exactly sure how indie rock would translate from North America to Israel, and I wasn’t completely confident that bringing a number of friends with me to find out was the best decision that I could have made. I became increasingly nervous as we entered an entirely too nice building, and bought tickets from a friendly elderly man dressed in a full suit and tie (a rarity, itself, in this country). I reminded my friends not to hate me, we bought our tickets and headed to the door.
As we walked down the badly painted stairs, and the ratio of painted versus exposed concrete began to increasingly favor the latter, that sense of familiarity that I have spent the year searching for began to surround me. The carpeted hallway of the entrance gave way to metal flooring, and the neat white walls sequenced into the token black walls of any good rock venue. Hidden beneath the clean-cut entrance was just what I had been hoping for – a grungy, dimly lit room, a mish mash of tables and chairs, and plenty of room to dance.
And let’s just say that the music didn’t disappoint the venue. Though I didn’t particularly enjoy Anat Damon, Geva Alon, Primo Levy and the Genders all put on impressive shows. Israeli punk rock offers a new edge, and it’s a new edge that I’m certainly a fan of. The Genders self described ‘punk ‘n roll’ uses the political situation in Israel to perfectly recapture the rebellious, mildly offensive, and usually humorous style of American punk rock in the ’90s. They know how to rock, and are certainly not to be missed on the Israeli music scene. Geva Alon and Primo Levy, too, though less up front indie rock, put on equally enjoyable shows. Alon’s bluesy folk rock and Primo Levy’s pearl jam-esque sound would both undoubtedly translate well in the US.
Music in Israel seems to be ubiquitously poppy, and though it is clear that the bands were not mainstream by Israeli standards, minus the Genders, as one of my fellow show goers pointed out, it is arguable whether or not they would be considered indie rock in the US.
It was this point that I found particularly interesting. Walking into this scene, there was no question that it was an indie show – it perfectly fit the bill. Had I simply been handed Geva Alon or Primo Levy’s album, however, neither indie rock, nor even emo, would have made the list of adjectives used to describe it. The music was unfamiliar, but the scene was second nature.
It’s cliché, but it’s amazing how music – and even a music scene – can translate so well universally. Lost in the underground world of the Heineken club, listening to the indie/punk/garage band stylings of the Genders, I wouldn’t have been surprised had the bar tender responded to me in French instead of Hebrew. My Montreal nostalgia was in full force, but truth be told, I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. More so than ever, Israel really felt like home.
Tres bien
Ronley reports from Tel Aviv:
Last night the city of Tel Aviv and France put on a massive fireworks display.
According to some reports over 250,000 people attended.
The fireworks were “shot off” from boats off the coast of Tel Aviv/Jaffa (opposite the Dolphinarium) – it was done by the same team that lit up the Eiffel tower on the Millenium and the opening ceremony at the Olympics games in Athens.
I went to watch the fire works with Rimonah. I knew that it would be pointless to take a car into TA. And so we caught a bus at 18:45. The fire works were supposed to start at 20:00.
The bus ride, from Ramat Gan – usually takes 20 minutes, but after 40 minutes of traffic, and seeing that the bus was not getting there we decided to get off and walk the rest of the way (about 8 blocks). So we joined the heavy stream of people all making there way toward the south end of the coast of TA/Jaffa.
So we joined the heavy stream of people all making there way toward the south end of the coast of TA/Jaffa.
Once we reached the Tayelet we got onto the beach and continued to try get as close as possible. There were people everywhere, making themselves quite comfy on the beach using beach furniture, if they were lucky enough to find any, sheets, and some people had brought their own fold up chairs.
We chanced upon a stack of beach beds which were unguarded, as the teen who rents them out was no where to be seen,
People were quickly taking these beds and setting them out, and so we did too. We got very comfortable in anticipation of the fire works show. The time was 20:15 and it was beginning to get quite dark.
Shortly afterwards the beach bed salesman came back in hysteria calling for everyone to return the beds. No one complied. And in fact I was quite happy to pay the boy 10 shekels or what ever he may have wanted. Luckily he refused payment, as he rushed off to go shout at the people beside us who were laying out on the beds.
He noticed that the more he shouted and rushed about, the faster his beds were disappearing, so he decided to stay put and guard the rest of the pile from the public. Had he charged 10 shekels per bed he would have made a fortune, In fact I should have taken the opportunity in his absence to charge people 10 shekels. I would have come away a rich man…
At 20 45 the fireworks began. They were simply gorgeous, and extremely impressive lasting until about 21:05.
Then we had to make our way home.
Rimonah checked her timetable for a bus back to Modi’in and we decided that the best place would be to go to the central sus station, So we headed off in that direction.
The crowds heading off in all directions was enormous. Virtually impossible to walk at a fast pace, and anyone who wanted to drive out of there was quite stuck…
Finally we got to Dizengoff Street and thought to catch a bus, but realized quite quickly that no bus would arrive due to the crowds and traffic. So the quickest way to get to the bus station would be to walk (about 5 or 6 km).
Along the way we bought a real fruit juice freshly squeezed. I chose a fruit mix, and Rimonah chose an Apple and Pear mix (Without ice).
Walking through Tel Aviv towards the bus station was quite an experience. Hordes of people all in excellent spirits, (if they were not in a car) were walking in all directions, every restaurant was full, everyone eating something – falafel or pizza or what ever.
Eventually we got to the bus station – at 22:50 in time for Rimonah to catch her bus at 23:00
and I went off to find a bus to Ramat Gan.
Because I got onto my bus at the beginning of the route I had a seat, but the next stop filled the bus very quickly , which got so packed that the bus driver did not even stop at the next stops until someone wanted to get off.
I finally got home at about midnight, extremely exhausted but so happy that I had gone to view the largest firework display that Israel has ever seen.
License to Camp
Every year come May we’re amazed. One day it’s cold and rainy and the next, summer is upon us with temperatures in the mid-80s Fahrenheit. Sweaters get packed away, shorts and sandals come out.
May also signifies the start of camping season. Which got me thinking about our last camping experience in Israel.
“We’re going with another couple of families out to the President’s Forest,” our friend Rafi said, referring to the woods just west of Bet Shemesh. “Would you be interested in joining us?”
I conferred with my wife Jody and the kids. They were into it.
“One thing I need to tell you, though,” Rafi added. “No one has a gun. I don’t think it should be a problem, but I felt you should know.”
A gun? If someone had told me growing up, when all we had to do was roll out our sleeping bags under some magnificent Redwood tree that, 30 years later, we’d be talking about whether it was responsible to go camping without a gun…well, I would have shot the guy.
Welcome to Camping in Israel.
In our two previous camping experiences in the country (OK…we’re not big campers, so shoot me…well, er, you know what I mean…), we have gone to formal campsites surrounded by a fence with an armed patrol car making the rounds at regular intervals. Both have been crowded and noisy.
For those people who prefer to get away from the teeming masses, usually someone is packing heat…and planning to spend the night awake doing guard duty.
The families Rafi had assembled for our evening under the trees, by contrast, were a ragtag group of gunless, vegetarian, sensitive new age Anglos.
All I wanted to do was give my family a positive outdoors experience. But I couldn’t help but recall my conversation with Michael, the armed guard at our son Aviv’s school. When I told him what we were planning to do, he practically yelled at me.
“Are you crazy! You can’t go anywhere without a gun these days.” Then he added, “You should get a gun.”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” I joked. I still couldn’t believe I was having this conversation.
“Seriously. Unless you’ve got some social or mental problem, anyone can get one,” Michael said. He gave me one of those sardonic Israeli winks. I was not comforted.
“I haven’t even been in the army,” I countered.
“Never mind. It’s easy. Just go in and apply for a license.”
“I’d be too afraid of shooting myself or one of the kids,” I said in my best broken Hebrew as images of Dick Cheney flashed in front of me.
“Don’t worry so much,” Michael assured me. “It’s all instinct. You’ll do fine.”
Needless to say, the conversation did not put my mind at ease. So when we finally headed out, it was with not a small amount of trepidation.
As we got to the clearing Rafi had picked out, though, tents were being set up, the barbeque was already in motion and the kids were collecting wood for the fire. Everything looked perfectly normal. Just like I remembered from so many years ago.
I sat down on a bench and started up a conversation with Rafi’s 17-year-old daughter Tani. We talked about a number of mostly non-inflammatory subjects: schools and music.
Inevitably, though, the conversation turned to my topic du jour. Tani had no problem with the concept of unarmed camping
“I’d feel more at risk going to the mall,” Tani said, biting into a vegetarian frank.
“Who’s going to be looking for us out here, anyway?” Rafi piped in. “Pass the onions please.”
“You’ve got to live your life,” Tani added.
As the sun went down, we gathered around the campfire to sing old Israeli songs and a few American classics from the 60s. The adults passed around a bottle of wine. From time to time, I stifled a desire to yell out “Stop that singing. Drench the campfire. If we stay very quiet, we’ll be OK.”
Just then, my daughter Merav came up to me. “Abba, I need to go to the bathroom. Come with me.”
“You know where the bathroom is,” I said, not wanting to leave the song-fest. “Take my flashlight.”
“I’m scared.”
And I thought: oh no…she’s picked up on my fears. She’ll never have the kind of carefree camping experience I had as a kid. I’ve scarred her for life.
“What are you scared of, honey?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“Wild animals,” she said. “I don’t like all the sounds. What if there’s a fox?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “Or a moose,” I suggested in a faux-Bullwinkle voice.
Merav looked at me with her patented brand of withering glance (at least I thought she did, it was dark, after all…) and I promptly got up and accompanied her to the outhouse on the other side of the clearing. But as I did, I smiled to myself.
I may not know how to handle a gun, but at least now I’ve got a license to camp.
——————-
This article was cross posted on This Normal Life.
Western Aliyah
The Jewish Agency reported that for 2005, the number of Olim Hadashim (people who have immigrated to Israel during that year) was 23,000. According to the Jewish Agency, this year Israel received a record number of Jews making Aliyah from the west. From North America, 3,052; from France, 2980; from South America, 1850. The Chairman of the Jewish Agency Zeev Bielski hopes this signifies a turning-point in the perspective of Israel to the Jewish World: “I hope that this year will mark a turning point for aliyah and for participation of young people in educational programs in Israel. After several difficult years we’ve been through, we believe that the improvement in the security and economic situation will increase the feeling of security, and together with the Jewish Agency’s new “aliyah of choice” strategies, aliyah will be on the rise in 2006 as well. I am happy that so many people are choosing to come to Israel”.
So in the beginning of 2006, January 16 to be specific, along with about 150 other North-American students, I landed at the Tel-Aviv Yaffo airport to begin the semester program at Hebrew University. Indeed Bielski was correct. The better feeling of security was imperative in allowing my parents to support my decision in attending this educational program this spring. And although I had no family in Israel on January 16th as I made my way to Jerusalem’s Hebrew University, January 17th was a completely different story. One day from my arrival to Israel, saw the brand-new aliyah of my 28 year old cousin with her husband and two children from Sao Paulo, Brazil (where I’m originally from). Within twenty four hours of the commencement of my journey to Israel I went from having no family to having a 1st cousin in Ranana.
Two weeks ago, I went to visit my family as they are now more adjusted and ready to receive guests. I had long talks with my cousin and her husband about the motivation behind their Aliyah. Let me say this- Flavio, my cousin’s husband, was making twice the amount of money that he is now making at Price-Waterhouse in Tel Aviv. They were living in a terrific apartment in Janopolis, a very nice area of Sao Paulo and could afford to have two cars and enroll the two children in private schools. When I arrived in Ranana, I was surprised to see that my family, who was extremely well-established in Brazil, was living under much more humble conditions in Israel. Sharing one car, living in a tiny 2 bed-room apartment in an absorption center, and taking the bus to work to save money, my family had given up on their many comforts solely for the purpose of Zionism.
My family illustrates a new shift on Aliyah patterns. The earlier decades of Israel’s young life, saw more predominant immigration coming from areas of the world dealing with either social oppression or economic difficulties. Whether it’d be the mass waves of immigrants such as the half-million Jews from Eastern Europe and increasingly hostile Arab countries in 1948-1950, the 300,000 Russians who came after The 6-day War during the 70’s and 80’s, or the Ethiopian Jews who came during Operation Moses in 1985, past immigration to Israel was in many cases a necessity to many.
Jews coming now from wealthy and stable communities in North America, England, and some parts of South America, demonstrate an intrepid, well-educated, and patriotic group of zionists.
To me, this shift taking place in Aliyah, although still reasonably small as it only represents less than a 1% increase in the Israeli population, is a strong sign confirming Bielski’s hope that people have a new-found hope in Israel’s economy, security, and overall stability as a forward moving state. The recent 4 billion investment by the out-of-this-world Warren Buffet (meet him and you’ll know what I’m talking about), into 80% of Iscar Corp.’s stock holdings, sums-up the new belief that there is confident Western belief in the progress of Israel- unilaterally if necessary.
So now as my semester comes to a close, and I will have to once again take out my American or Brazilian passport to make my way back to the “Land of the Free”, a feeling of onus and passion entraps me. A realization that I might never genuinely tie myself to the land that was established with tremendous hard-work and much suffering for the Jews of Diaspora comes to mind. The thought that this state is ardently fought for ever day so that people like myself could build a life and reconnect to their heritage and the mere possibility that I might die one day and never hold a passport that says Israel and David Wainer on the same document becomes slightly perturbing.
The real messiah
Rushing out to grab a falafel on Jerusalem’s hopping Ben-Yehuda pedestrian mall today, I heard a commotion and spied a group of people standing in a half circle gazing at something.
Getting closer, I saw what they were staring at – a middle-aged woman wearing a white robe and leading a donkey by a leash.
“I am the real messiah,” she was proclaiming in a loud voice to anyone who would listen.
Most bystanders simply smiled and continued staring. However one falafel stand patron sitting outside started spewing four-letter responses to her adamant calls.
My falafel vendor shook his head, and called out to the not-so-gentleman, “Hey stop that, that’s not nice!”
Returning to loading my pita, he said to those of us inside, “He shouldn’t be talking like that to her. After all, who knows? Maybe she really is the messiah.”
Tongue Twisters
Like English, Hebrew has its fair share of tongue twisters. Probably the best known goes like this: Sarah shara shir samayach (Sarah sings a happy song). I haven’t yet heard if there are also Israeli Spoonerisms but I imagine there are. But sometimes, we make up our own plays on words, puns, and Spoonerisms (though the latter might not always be done on purpose).
This morning my 8 year old was telling me about a project she has coming due in school. She told me she needs to bring in a plant that is “b’rashoot ha adam”. I was a bit puzzled as to what it meant for a plant to be under the authority of man. “Do you mean a cultivated plant, as opposed to something that grows wild?” I asked her. No, that wasn’t it.
Then it dawned on me. She had meant to say “b’sheroot ha adam” (at the service of man). Okay, that’s easy! We talked about aloe and other plants that can be used as medicine. We discussed cotton, and the use of plants for dyes. She pointed out that plants produce the oxygen we breathe, and that without plants to eat, many of the animals we eat would die. She even suggested that flowers and plants add color and beauty to our lives which, while not necessary for survival, certainly add something important to our lives.
It was a one of those fabulous moments in a parent’s life, the kind of opportunity that comes up in those moments when we’re doing something routine, like brushing hair or driving to school. I’m just glad my Hebrew was up to decyphering her Spoonerism.
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