2:5 Contradictions in Term

It has been quite some time since I wrote my last blog. It was tricky attemtping to structure my thoughts into several paragraphs, since they seem to have been disorganised as the items in my handbag. Every time I dive in to collect a sentiment, I rummage around with my eyes closed and pull out another. The last few weeks were somewhat of an emotional oxymoron, leaving me with a bitter-sweet taste in my mouth. Visitors from home are coming and going, a war continues, my hormones are playing havoc with my psyche and I cannot seem to stop eating food that contains chocolate … I guess a combination of public mourning for fallen soldiers and P.M.S will never leave you with a straight head. Anyway, as the clouds begin to clear, I will try to empty out a few items of my handbag on the table.

Dull Tones of a Pretty Picture

The other night I attended the wedding of an ex-ulpan friend that took place in a kibbutz in the Judeans Hills, overlooking Jerusalem. The proposals of marriage, which took place under the chupah (bridal canopy), radiated from the beauties of the sunset. The soft orange glow lightened the white stand, and the sound of the rabbi’s prayers brought a melody to the breezy mountain air. In chorus, the voice of the neighbouring Arab village, calling on the speakers for the start of their evening prayers, echoed in the backdrop. The voices of the two religions at war coexisted in tune, filling the crisp air with the sound of hope.

The Israel-Lebanon conflict dragged on the last few weeks and has nearly reached a halt. The battle pulled in young men from across the country to defend its cause. Acknowledgement of every detail of progression has left me feeling like a hollow shell, emptied of opinion and curiosity, as I spent the last 34 days sat in front of a PR war, watching the news. Blood drained from the pipelines of the Middle East, souls were grabbed by the media and splattered across the news to represent the conflict. A cease fire was agreed to, and since, Israel has slowly withdrawn from Lebanon. The general feeling amongst associates is one of uncertainty and pessimism. We all yearn for the young men of Israel to return home, for the environment to adjust to one of normality, for the bars and clubs to start singing out a happy tune, and for a breath of relief to exude from the heart of the population. It seems that day is nearing, yet the shadows of the lost lives, taken from the terror, will never shift and cast upon the Israeli youth.

“We’re All Going on a Summer Holiday” … Well, Maybe Not

As the national chaos of the conflict continued in the northern regions, summer holiday activity arrived at doorstep of Israel’s coastline 30 miles south. It is the coexistence of two such aspects of Israel’s multiple personality that makes it such a unique place to live.

In Tel Aviv, the month of August tends to mean truckload deliveries of tourists, who spill out onto the beaches, bars and restaurants. This year, however, the usual summer buzz seems to be more of a hum. There seem to be scarecly few young Americans, dressed in oversized caps and rucksacks, trawling through the souvenir shops in Ben Yehuda and Dizengoff Street. Beer swigging English teens, dressed in extra short-mini skirts and overdone hair styles, seem to be absent from the bars. And the fact that a large part of the young male Israeli population are involved in combat has meant this summer hasn’t been quite up to scratch.

The past few weeks, I have heard of far too many English acquaintances cancelling their holiday in Israel. At the time of hearing, I felt extreme anger and betrayal, as it is generally these people that will fervently defend the land of Israel on every debating occasion. Yet, at times when physical and financial support is critically needed, it seems they are no where to be seen. I can appreciate the fact that having to spend your two week holiday in a war-torn country does not exactly sound like mental relaxation. After all, who am I to judge how one spends their money. Furthermore, I can appreciate how Israel is represented on international news channels, and it is not necessarily a pretty sight. However, I cannot help but feel disappointed.

Closer to Home

Leaving aside the current affairs that outline the backdrop to my civil presence in Israel, I will divulge into some of the more personal events of the past two weeks, which left me slightly anxious yet satisfied. My truckload arrived and it brought an air of warmth to my surroundings. My English comrades and my baby brother were packed on board.

It has only been a year since their last visits, when I first made Aliyah. This time around, it was peculiar to see their response towards my ‘Israeli’ presence. My character always stood out as markedly British and proper, especially in comparison to my other Jewish, predominantly Sephardic, friends. My relationship with one of my closest friends, Karin, typifies this dynamic. In my perception, Karin has always been heavily defined by ‘Israeli’ traits. In her home, I would be prominent for being the over-polite, well-mannered, light-skinned, freckle-faced British girl. Karin, on the other hand, would be far more forward, vocal and dynamic with her hand gestures. Since the start of our 12-year (or so) friendship, she was the 'Israeli' in England and I, the ‘English girl' in her Israeli home, which created a certain dynamic between us. However, during her visit this summer, our new identities brought light to this dynamic, as our personalities were thrown into a new dimension. The thought arose 'who is the Israeli now?!'

Karin and I spent an afternoon for retail therapy in Dizengoff Street. We were strolling down Dizengoff, crossing the road, and a car beeps for us to hurry. Karin turns and puts her hand up apologetically. I turn and shout “Mazeh” (what is this?!) “… it is OUR bloody right of way.” Karin’s face flipped round to me with a stark face and said in a state of shock “Wow! You really have turned into a Israeli!” I never realised my politeness had crept into hiding, and that chuzpah was now the dominant tune in my dialect. The incident was bizarre and quite revealing of the people we have become, as if we had swapped outfits and, with that, been presented with revamped identities. I hadn’t realised that up till that point the world around me does impact on my character, rearranging my words and manners.

Emotional Oxymoron

This last period may seem rather dreary. It is hard to describe the moments that I felt as if I was in a dark hole, unable to see daylight, and where every problem seemed to crumble down around me. At the same time, having the people I feel most at ease with, in my presence, was penicillin to my soul. I had a constant taste of bitter-sweet in my mouth, knowing they were returning home in a matter of weeks, days. I could not place too much emphasis on their presence because at the same time, I was counting down the time I would be without them. This left me in the state of confusion, as mentioned at the start. Short-term happiness with an undertone of constant sadness; it was a bitter sweet, pleasing pain. My surrounding is a country in a state of mourning. I am living in an emotional oxymoron; every aspect of my life is defined by this, threats to security/street safety, great lifestyle/lack of money, beach/no career, new/old, past/present. I need some plain sailing.