(Not) Getting Away from It All

August 15, 2006 by · 1 Comment
Filed under: Holidays 

Turkey is a favorite vacation destination for Israelis. Yanetz Levy wrote in Ynet, that his summer trip turned out to be something less than an escape.

At the heart of Turkey, in a small, secluded village located on a mountain, there’s a tea house, and next to it there’s a poster of a Palestinian woman preparing to hurl a stone.

Under the photo there’s an anti-Israel slogan.

When my wife and I arrived at the tea house, we were already familiar with that poster. It accompanied us during our entire journey in Turkey, which started a few days before the war broke out.

n fact, we heard about the outbreak of the war from a local salesman at a store in a town on the Mediterranean.

“Israel, Lebanon – problem,” he told us.

“What is he talking about? It’s been quiet in Lebanon for years,” I was thinking to myself.

“In the past problem. Now, like peace,” I explained.

“CNN – problem,” he said, and pointed to the television.

I glanced at the Turkish newscast and suddenly saw familiar pictures. Later, in the town of Konya, a Sufi Islamic center and modern, lively town, we passed through a square near our motel when my wife spotted a photo exhibition on the street and said: “Let’s take a look at it.” Once we got closer we discovered the exhibit displays photos of Palestinian dead and wounded, Sheikh Yassin and Arafat, and the war in Iraq. A protest exhibition against Israel-the-occupier.

“Let’s get out of this town,” my wife said.

“Nobody can tell we’re Israelis,” I replied.

‘Pretend to be mute’

Back at the motel, the owner reminded me the same thing my mother said: “Don’t say you’re from Israel. You never know, there are crazy people everywhere. Say you’re from…ahhh…actually, you look Turkish.”

“I don’t speak Turkish,” I said.

“Pretend to be a mute Turk,” he thought out loud. “No, no, better yet, say you’re from Spain.”

“You see, even the motel owner said we shouldn’t be telling people we’re from Israel,” my wife said.

“I don’t intend to pretend,” I replied.

We left Konya and continued to Capedokia. We walked around the posters and among the Turks, with news headlines, news broadcasts, and
Muslim calls for prayer around us. Everywhere we went, the locals were kind to us, as if we were relatives who traveled from afar.

Still, I discovered it’s dangerous to say we’re from Israel, and not because some al-Qaeda member who plots a repeat of September 11 against me. Almost everyone was glad to discover where we came from, but there were those who repeated the usual sentence: “Israel, Lebanon – problem. Why? Now, try to explain to someone who knows 20 words in English why there are problems with Lebanon. I can’t even explain it in Hebrew.

And then you need to say something like: “You know, Allah is one,” or “Only peace.” Indeed, let peace prevail already. Why do I need to travel around the world and explain to everyone why a war that I did not declare broke out?

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New start to the Day of Rest

August 9, 2006 by · Leave a Comment
Filed under: A New Reality, Holidays 

One of the bloggers at The Muqata shares this interesting tidbit regarding Jerusalem’s use of some air-raid sirens, during peace time, to mark the beginning of the Jewish Sabbath on Friday evenings:

For decades, residents of Jerusalem have been informed of the impending start of Shabbos by the sound of air raid sirens blaring for a minute. Unfortunately this tradition has become the latest casualty of the war. Due to the influx of refugees from Northern communities, the Municipality has decided to play a rendition of the song Shalom Aleichem, which is sung at the Shabbos table when returning from synagogue, in it’s place. The sirens had been causing consternation amongst the displaced persons as well as causing shock and fear amongst some.

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Capturing the High Ground

June 1, 2006 by · Leave a Comment
Filed under: General, Holidays 

We were walking home from a friend’s house after lunch on Shavuot last year. It had been a blazingly hot day, a real Jerusalem sharav, but at one point we were sure we felt a slight drizzle. As we entered the courtyard to our apartment complex, we felt it again.

Then we noticed them: a group of 9 to 11-years olds huddled together in what I can only describe as a “scheming posture.” In the center was one child with an enormous water pistol.

That’s when we remembered. The holiday of Shavuot as it’s observed in Israel is also known as “Yom HaMayim” – Water Day.

“Run for it!” I yelled as we scampered towards our apartment before a stream of water headed our way.

We avoided any serious soaking….this time. But the battle had only just begun.

The doorbell rang. Two of seven-year-old Aviv’s friends were outside. “Can we use your terrace?” one of them asked.

Before I could think if this was a good or a bad thing for the Jews, Aviv had already ushered them inside.

Now, we live in an upstairs apartment that has several inside levels; the sought-after terrace is actually three stories above ground level, giving anyone standing on it an unparalleled strategic advantage over enemies in the courtyard below. It truly is the high ground in the battle for Yom HaMayim supremacy.

Aviv and his friends surveyed the scene from the terrace, then headed downstairs to our kitchen where they raided our collection of plastic water bottles that were waiting for recycling. They filled up three then resumed their positions. When the first volley of water was launched, the hapless soldiers below didn’t know what hit them.

What are the origins for this uniquely Israeli holiday custom? No one I asked could give me a definitive answer and the Internet wasn’t much help either.

Perhaps it has something to do with the parting of the waters of the Red Sea as the Jews left Egypt in preparation for receiving the Torah, the main event which Shavuot commemorates.

Or maybe it’s more related to the symbolism surrounding Moses, who was rescued from the waters of the Nile and raised in Pharaoh’s palace.

My friend Yuval claims it’s originally a North African custom that was elevated in importance when the country’s secular founders were trying to emphasize the agricultural nature of the holiday.

Or maybe it’s because Shavuot usually falls at the beginning of the summer and it’s just plain hot.

It wasn’t long before the there was another knock on the door. This time it was eleven-year-old Merav’s friends. More recruits for the Blum brigade. They too headed for the kitchen, but they were more interested in our supply of small plastic sandwich bags.

“Can you tie this for me?” asked a ten-year-old named Daniella, holding a filled bag. She and her friend Dara were building a not insignificant stockpile of water bombs. After the tenth bag, I told them to hold off, there might be other kids coming who’d want.

Which there were…in droves.

Over the course of the next half hour, no fewer than two dozen pre-teens, most part of a loose collection of friends of Merav and Aviv but others complete strangers, entered our kitchen, refilled their bottles and guns or built their own bombs, and headed for the terrace.

At one point, I don’t think there was anyone even left in the courtyard.

Naturally, all of this created no small amount of mess. Puddles of water formed around the kitchen sink and the water tap in the entry-level guest bathroom. A small river of mud and twigs snaked from the front door to the terrace.

My wife Jody pulled me aside. “I think that’s enough,” she said.

But the kid inside of me had other ideas. “Why don’t we just let them have fun?” I asked Jody. ‘Yom HaMayim is only once a year.”

Jody’s eyes surveyed the accumulating devastation that was taking over our living room.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be responsible for cleaning up. Just sit back and enjoy.”

“I think I’ll enjoy it more if I don’t look,” Jody said with a smile and promptly closed herself off in a secure room while the Yom HaMayim battle continued unabated outside.

For the next hour, I helped the combatants keep the supply lines open. I made sure no one slipped or got hurt. I cheered on the battle – especially when the target was the eleven and twelve-year-old boys from Merav’s class. We provided drinks and cut up watermelon.

Eventually the battle wore down. The plastic bag supply ran out. Several girls were wrapped in towels as they shivered. I actually managed to get a few kids – led by Aviv, Merav, Dara and Daniella – to help clean up the garbage below.

As I squeegee-d the water towards the terrace drain, one of the kids asked me, her eyes glazed with drops of water and appreciation, “Is your house open like this every year?”

“It is now,” I replied.

As Jody emerged from her room, I said “next year, we have to be better prepared. We need to stock up on plastic bags and save up the recycling for several weeks.

“Or maybe,” Jody said, as she surveyed the damage, “We’ll just lock the doors and pretend to not be home.”

———————–
Brian Blum writes the blog “This Normal Life” where this article was cross posted.

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Locusts and Lentils

April 12, 2006 by · Leave a Comment
Filed under: General, Holidays 

Rachel just doesn’t get it. I’ve explained it again and again. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. A chance to become a part of Jewish history. To not just live as a minority in some other culture’s history, but to make our own. How can someone who feels such a connection to the Jewish people – and I know Rachel does – turn down the chance to make the desert bloom?

Rachel straightens her headscarf and heads to the corner of the small room that serves as the kitchen. She angrily throws a pot on the fire and mutters something about needing to make bread but feeling too tired. Maybe in the morning. I resist the temptation to complain about dinner. It will be the fourth time this week that all we’ve had is lentils.

The streets outside our small house are all abuzz with excitement. It’s early evening. The sky is in the process of going from blue to deep purple. There seems to be something hovering in the air, at an altitude higher than I can make out, but still discernible. I can smell change in the air.

Most of our friends work at one of the many construction sites in the neighborhood. As they start arriving home from a hard day of labor, there is a sense of hope for the first time in as long as I can remember. But their anticipation is tempered since an even larger group is doing all it can to keep us in check.

The argument of the nay-sayers is simple and at times deceptively compelling: times are tough, but the devil you do know is better than the devil you don’t. And who is this aliyah emissary anyway? He talks about the need to emigrate, the importance of the endeavor, but he doesn’t speak for everyone. Who appointed him in the first place?

Still, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going. How long have we dreamed of such a thing? To think that it is within our grasp, in our generation.

Oh sure, it will be tough. Our standard of living will definitely take a significant step downward.

Not that it was so great to start with. The taxes have been outrageous. And do you know what it costs to get your kids into a good school these days? You’ve practically got to bribe the headmasters. Kids are actually dropping out of school to go to work…and not because they want to. But what other choice do they have? Do we have?

And then there are the accommodations: these transit camps the aliyah emissary is talking about don’t sound anywhere near as nice as our small but cozy homes here. The building standards where we’re going are supposed to be primitive by comparison to what we’re used to.

Not to mention the food. Until things really get up and running, I’ve heard that it’s going to be near impossible to import our favorite stuff from “the old country.”

Don’t worry, they say, the food will be tasty, but it will pretty much be the same thing everyday. Creative use of spice is the key. Sure, I’ve heard that before…

But still, those are all just creature comforts. What’s important is unity. Togetherness.

Speaking of which, I understand that the people who are already there where we’re going aren’t too keen about sharing their land with a bunch of newcomers. They’ve already informed our leaders that they’ll fight us, eye for eye, tooth for tooth, should we attempt to expropriate any of their property for our own use.

But what are we supposed to do? We’re looking at genocide here. What, we should just sit quietly and watch as our male-born children are thrown into the river? I don’t care how nice your living room furniture is; it’s just not worth it. Why don’t the world bodies understand that we need a homeland here? This is a matter of survival!

Hey, what’s that sound? The commotion on the street has died down. That smell I told you about, that there was something way up in the sky? Well, it’s getting a whole lot closer now. Wait…are those…locusts? At this time of year? Man, things are really getting freaky these days. Must be a sign. But from who…or what?

Well, maybe we’ll find that out too when we leave. I can’t wait. Rachel, she’ll come around, I’m sure of it. This is going to be the adventure of a lifetime!

———————–
This article was cross posted at This Normal Life, which is hosted by Bloggerce, a new publishing service started by the author.

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Tu B’Shvat

February 14, 2006 by · Leave a Comment
Filed under: Holidays, Israeliness 

There is little greenery in the vicinity of Machane Yehuda but the Municipality of Jerusalem sent over a few musicians and performance artists to celebrate Tu B’Shvat yesterday. They were working a tough crowd-I doubt many shoppers had seen a clown stiltwalking before, let alone two women, standing about 20 feet tall dressed as brides. A man wearing a fake Afro emceed various contests, including a garinim (sunflower seed) eating contest. He coaxed a shy red-headed Haredi boy ‘two years away from his Bar Mitzvah’ to come on stage and try to throw three hoops onto the head and arms of an acrobat. When the boy succeeded, the MC called for ‘Kapayim Yerushalaim’ (applause, Jerusalem) and the crowd responded.

Various Mizrahi bands drew large crowds, and played various tunes from Um Kaltum’s ‘Inta Umri’ to Morrocan zmirot. I spotted a girl, perhaps 4 or 5 dancing from a balcony above the market. A few of the porters, Arab teenagers from East Jerusalem, bobbed their heads, too. Another fellow channeled the spirit of the shuk and gave out olives, swearing they would do all sorts of wonderful things for my health. A smile glimmered on his painted face as he chastised me for eating mine without saying a bracha.

A recent oleh and student at Ulpan Etzion, David Druce is Israelity’s newest member. You can read about his experiences in David’s Ulpan.

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