I left work early to make this appointment on time. I took a quick bus ride and a dash through the arts and craft fair on the crammed, cobbled street of Nachlat Binyamin, squeezing pass those making their end of day purchases of hand-made candle sticks and key holders. I gazed up, above the chaos, and noticed a white signpost bobbing in the air, with the words 'writing' scrawled across with a thick black market pen. That was my destination.
The group of bodies surrounding the signpost appeared misplaced and innocent, yet somewhat suspicious. My initial thought was I don't think this is quite for me ... maybe I shall turn around whilst I still have a chance. The man holding the post was no younger than late sixties, short curls of white hair carpeting the sides of his balding head and square glasses perched at the end of his nose. His casual dress and posture showed signs of an experienced Woodstock attendee. He noticed my gaze and said with a gentle American accent:
"Are you one of us?"
[Hmm, should I lie and make a quick getaway??]
"Um (pause), yep I am."
Most of the group comprised of ladies with short grey locks, those with plenty of time for tea. There was also a younger woman with a pink scarf around her hair and an elderly man, , who wore a bright grin. He took his hand out, so I responded, cautiously taking mine out and shook his hand.
I positioned myself at the edge, distancing myself from the group dynamic, and waited for the late attendees to arrive. I spent this time watching a man dancing in a yellow tutu and entertaining an audience of mobile phone cameramen. I was amazed by the way he moved his feathered fingers and twirled his bony body to the beat of the background techno music.
I was jogged out my daze by Mr Signpost, who beckoned for us to follow him to his apartment. I turned to a few extra faces and was somewhat relieved to see that my decade was now more proportionately represented. We soldiered through the crowds, through Carmel Market and reached his home, which was situated above the bustle of the sellers and fruit stalls. The manic below seemed a world away. The screams of the bidders, the smell of rotten vegetables and the claustrophobic air was all left behind as the front door closed, as I embarked on my first writing group meeting.
We entered a room, where a circle of chairs had been carefully placed. We all took a seat and glared at each other with nervous grins. Mr Signpost came to the middle of the circle and introduced himself. He spoke of the group’s purpose and proceeded to list his resume of publications, awards, teaching and writing experience of a thousand years. I noticed around the number of bookcases, filled with dictionaries of all sorts, old literature and poetry. Above, I gazed at the photos of people in his life. They all appeared so normal.
Refocusing on the dialect, the matter at hand, as his speech developed and as others responded, I increasingly sank into my chair, timid to make eye contact with Mr Signpost. I dared not say a word. He asked the group what type of writers we were and how could we categorize our writing. I have never defined my writing and wasn’t sure if I could. Or should I say, this though never crossed my mind. What could I categorize myself as, writer or wanna-be? Where did I fit in?
Mr Signpost: "So ladies and gentlemen, please raise a hand if you are an advanced writer."
I kept mine firmly on my lap. Most of the tea ladies shot theirs up. I then raised my right arm to ‘novice’.
Mr Signpost: "And, who are the fictional writers?"
[Hmm, I don’t think so]. Mine went up on prose [I suppose, well, except the financial and magazine writing].
The attendees were poets, fiction, prose, novice and advanced writers. I was comforted with the grinning novices around me.
Following our dividing, it was Q&A time. The excitement mounts. The tea ladies were opinionated, whilst the minority group sat in silence. We observed the outspoken women, bickering over every item on the agenda: time to gather, 4 or 5 pm; time to talk about our piece, 10 minutes for 15; whether biscuits are to be provided or brought by ourselves and whether they ought to be kosher. The biscuit debate went on for far too long, until one tea lady brought the bicker it to a halt, "we are here to write, not to bloody eat biscuits”. The novices cheered amongst themselves.
My conclusion for the first attendance was uncertainty. When I began to write on-line, I dived in, naïve of its purpose, direction or even how people would perceive it. Yet, I have come to realise my passion to put pen to paper, finger to key, and to exploit this avenue of communicating the unspoken. This month I undertook several avenues to develop this love. I now write for a digital magazine about the nightlife in Tel Aviv for the US; and, secondly, this group. It was an entertaining experience; we’ll see how it goes.
Monday, October 30, 2006
Monday, October 23, 2006
2:10 Thoughts, Hormones and Television
A Constant Companion
I must admit, I am addicted to television. The minute I walk into my apartment, a quick flick on the remote and the telly on goes. As I previously mentioned, there isn’t exactly a wide range of decent entertainment on Israeli cable. For me, any crap will do. One reason for my love of telly is that I have come to realise I am unable to sit in silence, the sound of it (excuse the oxymoron) drives me mad. Maybe it is due to the fact that previous to my current living predicament, I always lived with a house full of people and along with this, a lot of noise. In addition, I think silence provides my mind with a window of opportunity for the mechanics to tick and the thoughts to start accumulating. I am a big thinker; watching telly is one technique I have resorted to, to keep this mind at rest. It is just such a shame my Israeli box set is stuffed full with such English/American visual-crap. Saying this, as you will come to see, some of this drivel can actually raise some interesting questions.
A Matter of Sex?
One Friday afternoon, Effy and I did you the usual rush towards Ashdod in his white mini van, to make it home in time before the arrival of Shabbat. I hadn’t realised that I had been in heavy state of daydream for a large part of the journey from Tel Aviv. Effy questions my silence, concerned that I was not my usual nattering self. In turn and, in a serious tone, I begin to elaborate on a documentary I had watched that morning.
As with most mornings, with coffee in one hand, I have the remote in the other and spend a good five minutes of the day deciding what should be accompanying my breakfast. Sometimes it is SkyNews reporters, sometimes it is Martha Stewart, other times it is Oprah. This morning, my company was a Texan desperate for a sex change.
The topic of discussion on this insightful documentary was transgender, whereby a man/woman identifies with the opposite sex of that they were born. This documentary followed the transition of a woman who underwent medical intervention to ‘become’ a man. The point of my discussion in particular relates to the effect of injected testosterones to this woman/man. He took daily shots of hormones so that his voice would drop, that his hair growth would increase, and so that he develops male ‘features’. He spoke of how hormones made him feel less emotional, that he no longer had the urge to cry, that he didn’t seem to care about the ‘stupid’ things that use to bother him and that all he could ever think about was sex.
The Great Hormonal Debate
Now, this did make me think. As I stared at the bottom of my mug, observing that I was in great need of a refill, I wondered what state I would be left in if certain dimensions of my character were taken away and, particularly, if my emotional and sensitive character traits were deleted. This programme made me wonder how much of whom I am is purely a result of my hormonal makeup. Do I have a tendency to cry when watching a heart-felt story on Oprah as I am sensitised to other human pain from oestrogen, or is it a result of the person I am, my inner soul? On a grander scale, are certain people particularly caring because they are sensitised by certain bodily chemicals, or is it due to innate human qualities of humanity?
If Effy was to be drenched with female hormone, would he no longer be the person he is, no longer attracted to me in the male sense, no longer macho to be my keeper and carer? Reversely, if I was given daily shots of testosterone, would I no longer care for him as much as I do, would I analyse ever dynamic of my relationship with him a great deal less? Would I be as analytical as I am, always over-thinking every situation in my life, if I was given a few chemicals and, therefore, would not be in need of watching this crap in the first place?
The idea of what defines us is so complex, whether it is our soul or simply, our thoughts and feelings as a consequence of chemical reactions, combustion of hormones, dictating our mood and behaviour. Would all of the worlds problems be solved if all major leaders and dictators, most of which are men, were doused with oestrogen ... maybe their egos would no longer be animated by war and terror.
Back to the Mini Van
As usual, Noodles’ thoughts go way off, although, afterall, this was the track of my day dreaming, however complex. Back to the drive, as Shabbat’s curtains are near to opening:
Effy: Oi, what you thinking about … by the look of your face, it seems serious.
Natalie: Oh nothing... I was just wondering. Honey, how much of me do you think is me? I mean, am I what I am or is it just my hormones?
Effy: Huh? … Well, Nat … I have always wondered! (in a sarcastic tone)
I divulge into the documentary.
Effy: Nat, you are who you are, you cannot take away the fact that your character is caring and passionate ... that is integral to you. Or, if it was just hormones, deep down, we would all be pretty much the same.
Nat: That is rather sensitive of you to say! Should you be telling me something?!
If my analogy is partly true, male testosterone could be an effective second resolution to easing my chaotic mind (the first being television). To be honest though, I do not think I could handle all that extra body hair.
I must admit, I am addicted to television. The minute I walk into my apartment, a quick flick on the remote and the telly on goes. As I previously mentioned, there isn’t exactly a wide range of decent entertainment on Israeli cable. For me, any crap will do. One reason for my love of telly is that I have come to realise I am unable to sit in silence, the sound of it (excuse the oxymoron) drives me mad. Maybe it is due to the fact that previous to my current living predicament, I always lived with a house full of people and along with this, a lot of noise. In addition, I think silence provides my mind with a window of opportunity for the mechanics to tick and the thoughts to start accumulating. I am a big thinker; watching telly is one technique I have resorted to, to keep this mind at rest. It is just such a shame my Israeli box set is stuffed full with such English/American visual-crap. Saying this, as you will come to see, some of this drivel can actually raise some interesting questions.
A Matter of Sex?
One Friday afternoon, Effy and I did you the usual rush towards Ashdod in his white mini van, to make it home in time before the arrival of Shabbat. I hadn’t realised that I had been in heavy state of daydream for a large part of the journey from Tel Aviv. Effy questions my silence, concerned that I was not my usual nattering self. In turn and, in a serious tone, I begin to elaborate on a documentary I had watched that morning.
As with most mornings, with coffee in one hand, I have the remote in the other and spend a good five minutes of the day deciding what should be accompanying my breakfast. Sometimes it is SkyNews reporters, sometimes it is Martha Stewart, other times it is Oprah. This morning, my company was a Texan desperate for a sex change.
The topic of discussion on this insightful documentary was transgender, whereby a man/woman identifies with the opposite sex of that they were born. This documentary followed the transition of a woman who underwent medical intervention to ‘become’ a man. The point of my discussion in particular relates to the effect of injected testosterones to this woman/man. He took daily shots of hormones so that his voice would drop, that his hair growth would increase, and so that he develops male ‘features’. He spoke of how hormones made him feel less emotional, that he no longer had the urge to cry, that he didn’t seem to care about the ‘stupid’ things that use to bother him and that all he could ever think about was sex.
The Great Hormonal Debate
Now, this did make me think. As I stared at the bottom of my mug, observing that I was in great need of a refill, I wondered what state I would be left in if certain dimensions of my character were taken away and, particularly, if my emotional and sensitive character traits were deleted. This programme made me wonder how much of whom I am is purely a result of my hormonal makeup. Do I have a tendency to cry when watching a heart-felt story on Oprah as I am sensitised to other human pain from oestrogen, or is it a result of the person I am, my inner soul? On a grander scale, are certain people particularly caring because they are sensitised by certain bodily chemicals, or is it due to innate human qualities of humanity?
If Effy was to be drenched with female hormone, would he no longer be the person he is, no longer attracted to me in the male sense, no longer macho to be my keeper and carer? Reversely, if I was given daily shots of testosterone, would I no longer care for him as much as I do, would I analyse ever dynamic of my relationship with him a great deal less? Would I be as analytical as I am, always over-thinking every situation in my life, if I was given a few chemicals and, therefore, would not be in need of watching this crap in the first place?
The idea of what defines us is so complex, whether it is our soul or simply, our thoughts and feelings as a consequence of chemical reactions, combustion of hormones, dictating our mood and behaviour. Would all of the worlds problems be solved if all major leaders and dictators, most of which are men, were doused with oestrogen ... maybe their egos would no longer be animated by war and terror.
Back to the Mini Van
As usual, Noodles’ thoughts go way off, although, afterall, this was the track of my day dreaming, however complex. Back to the drive, as Shabbat’s curtains are near to opening:
Effy: Oi, what you thinking about … by the look of your face, it seems serious.
Natalie: Oh nothing... I was just wondering. Honey, how much of me do you think is me? I mean, am I what I am or is it just my hormones?
Effy: Huh? … Well, Nat … I have always wondered! (in a sarcastic tone)
I divulge into the documentary.
Effy: Nat, you are who you are, you cannot take away the fact that your character is caring and passionate ... that is integral to you. Or, if it was just hormones, deep down, we would all be pretty much the same.
Nat: That is rather sensitive of you to say! Should you be telling me something?!
If my analogy is partly true, male testosterone could be an effective second resolution to easing my chaotic mind (the first being television). To be honest though, I do not think I could handle all that extra body hair.
Friday, October 13, 2006
2:9 Every Girls' Dream
It is around 7.30 am, I have just strolled into work after a heavy night of alcohol abuse. The office is empty as today is nearly Shabbat, the day of rest. As my work revolves around the western week, my day of rest is placed on hold. I had a wonderful evening last night, and even though I am suffering right now, even though my eyelids are straining to keep open whilst glancing at the illuminating computer screen, and even though I have the feeling of a brick inside my head, I will plod along with the rest of the day until I do get some rest.
A Bilingual Affair
I attended a wedding of an Irish colleague, Mo. He moved to Israel to set up a life with his Israeli girlfriend, after falling in love at first sight in smoky London pub. Last night, they pronounced their commitment to each other in front of an Irish/Israeli crowd. The setting was a candlelit, antique French cavern style restaurant, situated in an alcove of old Jaffa, although it could have been any European pebbled street. The bride and groom spoke in Hebrew and English, so that their declaration of love to one another could be absorbed by all. The guests celebrated drinking raspberry-champagne concoctions and whiskey, eating juicy lamb chops and beef carpacio, and dancing to the tunes of Irish folk music and the drunken tones of Uncle Jack. It was an utterly romantic affair, dripping at the edges of cultural celebrations, intimacy and sincerity. Mo’s wedding was not a typical Israeli affair, which I will deliberate on in a moment.
Dreams May Come True
As with all little girls, as far back as I can remember, I maintained some vision of what would be the perfect wedding (for me, please G-d). The wedding last night was the closest reenactment of this fantasy. What disheartens me more than anything is that this vision could simply remain a fantasy and that the little girl inside me will have her dreams crushed.
Events I have attended in Israel are quite contrasting, actually, antithetical to be exact, to last night’s celebration. The common style of an Israeli wedding is large, incredibly large, actually considerably immense to be exact. The ceremony consists of around five hundred people, spilling from all door ways, gazing at a chupah as if it was a replay of last night's football. The exchanged words are muffled by the sounds of chatter, the noise from men wandering in circles whilst on their mobile phones and women nattering at the site of the bride maids’ frocks. And the finale of the ceremony is only known when the sound of Lachiyam! (salute, ‘to life’) resonantes over the noise. Even though the event begins with a reception of salads, empanadas, rice and meatballs, it also continues with a 4-course food marathon, fish, steak, meat and a buffet dessert. Dancing begins with a slow-dance to the couple’s favourite love song, but by the time the song hits the second verse, the dj flips the tunes to Israeli pop and dance. The evening continues with the young ones raving to the sounds of house, to an audience of sleepy boobers and zeiders gazing in a trance-like state (Yiddish for Grandmas and pas).
Anglo friends in Israel generally comment, after attending such affairs, how much they prefer Israeli weddings, how informal and fun they are, and what party it was! That is all good and well for them, although simply put, ‘typical’ Israeli weddings just aren’t my cup of tea. And fine, they aren’t my cup of tea, but in respect to the direction my life is heading, I cannot envisage much else happening than to have such a serving of tea. To have a wedding in which communication between the bride and the guests is limited; where you communicate your vows in front of a room full mostly of strangers; in which traditions aren’t familiar to everyone else; in which basic niceties aren’t appreciated by anyone but yourself, such as speeches full of complements, blacks ties and black suits, a page boy throwing rose petals, ladies in puffy dresses, waiters with trays of teeny hors d'oeuvres, that plonk in your mouth in one bite, a live musical band playing 'hava nagila' and Sinatra, where there is enough people so that you feel like you are part of a celebration but small enough so you have the chance to see every single smiling face … this is what I may be face missing out on.
I might seem old-fashioned, antiquated or not even that fun, but that has been my vision. My vision may be short-lived, childish, or even pathetic, but coming to Israel, I sacrificed British culture. Although, looking back on last night, I do not necessarily have to give up everything. We will see.
A Bilingual Affair
I attended a wedding of an Irish colleague, Mo. He moved to Israel to set up a life with his Israeli girlfriend, after falling in love at first sight in smoky London pub. Last night, they pronounced their commitment to each other in front of an Irish/Israeli crowd. The setting was a candlelit, antique French cavern style restaurant, situated in an alcove of old Jaffa, although it could have been any European pebbled street. The bride and groom spoke in Hebrew and English, so that their declaration of love to one another could be absorbed by all. The guests celebrated drinking raspberry-champagne concoctions and whiskey, eating juicy lamb chops and beef carpacio, and dancing to the tunes of Irish folk music and the drunken tones of Uncle Jack. It was an utterly romantic affair, dripping at the edges of cultural celebrations, intimacy and sincerity. Mo’s wedding was not a typical Israeli affair, which I will deliberate on in a moment.
Dreams May Come True
As with all little girls, as far back as I can remember, I maintained some vision of what would be the perfect wedding (for me, please G-d). The wedding last night was the closest reenactment of this fantasy. What disheartens me more than anything is that this vision could simply remain a fantasy and that the little girl inside me will have her dreams crushed.
Events I have attended in Israel are quite contrasting, actually, antithetical to be exact, to last night’s celebration. The common style of an Israeli wedding is large, incredibly large, actually considerably immense to be exact. The ceremony consists of around five hundred people, spilling from all door ways, gazing at a chupah as if it was a replay of last night's football. The exchanged words are muffled by the sounds of chatter, the noise from men wandering in circles whilst on their mobile phones and women nattering at the site of the bride maids’ frocks. And the finale of the ceremony is only known when the sound of Lachiyam! (salute, ‘to life’) resonantes over the noise. Even though the event begins with a reception of salads, empanadas, rice and meatballs, it also continues with a 4-course food marathon, fish, steak, meat and a buffet dessert. Dancing begins with a slow-dance to the couple’s favourite love song, but by the time the song hits the second verse, the dj flips the tunes to Israeli pop and dance. The evening continues with the young ones raving to the sounds of house, to an audience of sleepy boobers and zeiders gazing in a trance-like state (Yiddish for Grandmas and pas).
Anglo friends in Israel generally comment, after attending such affairs, how much they prefer Israeli weddings, how informal and fun they are, and what party it was! That is all good and well for them, although simply put, ‘typical’ Israeli weddings just aren’t my cup of tea. And fine, they aren’t my cup of tea, but in respect to the direction my life is heading, I cannot envisage much else happening than to have such a serving of tea. To have a wedding in which communication between the bride and the guests is limited; where you communicate your vows in front of a room full mostly of strangers; in which traditions aren’t familiar to everyone else; in which basic niceties aren’t appreciated by anyone but yourself, such as speeches full of complements, blacks ties and black suits, a page boy throwing rose petals, ladies in puffy dresses, waiters with trays of teeny hors d'oeuvres, that plonk in your mouth in one bite, a live musical band playing 'hava nagila' and Sinatra, where there is enough people so that you feel like you are part of a celebration but small enough so you have the chance to see every single smiling face … this is what I may be face missing out on.
I might seem old-fashioned, antiquated or not even that fun, but that has been my vision. My vision may be short-lived, childish, or even pathetic, but coming to Israel, I sacrificed British culture. Although, looking back on last night, I do not necessarily have to give up everything. We will see.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
2:8 Lessons on Shabbat
Everyone has something to say about the meaning of life. A previous blog I wrote, Conversation Turned Ugly, aroused a fair amount of heated debate amongst associates. On the Shabbat following this post, I spent the day watching movies, and one of which further fuelled my analysis on this subject. In particular The Constant Gardener was two hours of worthwhile television viewing. It is the kind of film that leaves you dazed, sat in contemplation, as you replay it over in your mind.
The Constant Garderner aided the subject that had been at the forefront of my mind lately, the amount of value I should be placing on my work life. A brief outline, the film follows the quest of a British Commissioner, Justin, who pursues the truth behind his wife, Tessa’s murder. Before her demise, Tessa strived to uncover corruption in the African British high commission and associated unethical business practices of a pharmaceutical company, which lead to her eventual murder. In a mission to seek out Tessa’s murderer, Justin sets out to fulfil her conquest of revealing the injustices she realised in Africa.
Tessa’s decisions and consequential actions were determined, throughout her life, by her values, belief and mission for justice. And so, yes, her life had enormous meaning. However, what was truly the point of it all …sacrificing her marriage and life in order to implement her beliefs, so that her life has value, yet at the end of all the struggle, lose her life in that pursuit and, therefore, evenutally losing all value.
Tessa had very little chance to make a significant impact on her cause. The world is found upon wealth, heritage, power, politics, religion, bureaucracy and dictatorship. What chance do any of us mere mortals have in the face of this, to make an impact, to make our life meaningful by influencing those around and making the world a better place. She acknowledged the significance of all human life, regardless of this world, regardless of what it is built upon and, consequently, she ended up dead and simply a memory.
Should I take the idea from the movie that we should follow our hearts, our beliefs, despite the consequence, as long as it means we are honouring the meaning of our life. Does this imply we should maintain a value in our life by pursuing our beliefs, despite the actual value of our life, as it becomes secondary to the goals we aim to achieve?
It seems politics and power, and such, corruption, will always be the winning team. So, if we will all be so hopeless, unable to illustrate the love we have for others, what is the point of it all. There will never be anything of a truly meaningful life, if no-one is able to stop genocide in Sudan. Okey, this was just a movie, I am slightly melodramatic and rambling somewhat, but I just can't help but think.
The Constant Garderner aided the subject that had been at the forefront of my mind lately, the amount of value I should be placing on my work life. A brief outline, the film follows the quest of a British Commissioner, Justin, who pursues the truth behind his wife, Tessa’s murder. Before her demise, Tessa strived to uncover corruption in the African British high commission and associated unethical business practices of a pharmaceutical company, which lead to her eventual murder. In a mission to seek out Tessa’s murderer, Justin sets out to fulfil her conquest of revealing the injustices she realised in Africa.
Tessa’s decisions and consequential actions were determined, throughout her life, by her values, belief and mission for justice. And so, yes, her life had enormous meaning. However, what was truly the point of it all …sacrificing her marriage and life in order to implement her beliefs, so that her life has value, yet at the end of all the struggle, lose her life in that pursuit and, therefore, evenutally losing all value.
Tessa had very little chance to make a significant impact on her cause. The world is found upon wealth, heritage, power, politics, religion, bureaucracy and dictatorship. What chance do any of us mere mortals have in the face of this, to make an impact, to make our life meaningful by influencing those around and making the world a better place. She acknowledged the significance of all human life, regardless of this world, regardless of what it is built upon and, consequently, she ended up dead and simply a memory.
Should I take the idea from the movie that we should follow our hearts, our beliefs, despite the consequence, as long as it means we are honouring the meaning of our life. Does this imply we should maintain a value in our life by pursuing our beliefs, despite the actual value of our life, as it becomes secondary to the goals we aim to achieve?
It seems politics and power, and such, corruption, will always be the winning team. So, if we will all be so hopeless, unable to illustrate the love we have for others, what is the point of it all. There will never be anything of a truly meaningful life, if no-one is able to stop genocide in Sudan. Okey, this was just a movie, I am slightly melodramatic and rambling somewhat, but I just can't help but think.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
2:7 In a Holy Fashion
September … the month slipped through my fingers, I was unable to reign in on time and grasp a minute in my hand to savour and retrospect. Even writing, my single channel to mental sanity, did not have a place to sit in my waiting room of to-dos. It is now October, the Jewish calendar reached its summit and started anew, a trip to London has been and gone, I have seen three cups smashed under wedding canopies, and work has slithered through the cracks. All the action blew pass and I tried to hold on but was blown away by the pace. I will attempt to recollect my thoughts of September for the sake of recollection.
Home time for the New Year
Rosh Hashanah, the Kosher new years day, signified time for my annual visit to the synagogue, to bind my resolutions with G-d: to cut down on negative mummers, to be a better person than I presently am, to visit synagogue more than on this one annual occasion, and to stop being so ungrateful. It also means family time, eating, resting and a two-day mental and physical rehabilitation period amongst my loved ones. The last two years, I have been in Israel during Rosh Hashanah and observed in a less than conventional way compared to my usual Ashkenazi approach. This year signified time for a 'holy' home visit and to spend Rosh Hashanah with the family. The memories cemented into my idea of holiday time at home in England have begun to crack. I was reliving these memories in a new light as the New Year drew in.
Synagogue and Hats
The weekend trip to London was to be spent in the two domains of home and synagogue, and we would carry out the Rosh Hashanah ritual. I would accompany my mother to our North London community synagogue in the morning, dressed in our new New Year gear, lippy, matching jewels, plenty spritzes of eau de toilette and my mum's accompaniment of some weird and fancy construction on her head, known as a hat. We would enter the holy domain through a heavy wooden door, clickety-clacking across the entrance, then tip-toeing in our high-heels once we realised the noise we made and see through glass doors men, all cocooned in white and blue stripped talises (prayer cloak), rocking to the rhythm of holy lyrics. We would slowly climb the red carpeted stairs to the ladies section, enter a balcony of nattering women sporting other fancy constructions and smelling of other ghastly moth-spray smelling eau de toilettes. We would squeeze our way through the over-sized blue leather seats to get to my mother’s prepaid positioning, causing much inconvenience to the ladies in conversation. I would peek over the latest headwear features, peer over the men’s section below and give a wave and a wink to my dad, who is as usual grinning up to me and blowing a kiss.
This year , the schedule was on queue. As per usual, I plonked my tuchus on the squeaky leather seats, I took a moment to absorb the surrounds, and realised, however, that the whole situation felt uncanny. Fine then, the seats had been reupholstered, the usual chandler fixtures had been changed to new 60’s décor shades and the crowd came with additional grey hairs, botox injections and hair extensions. Nevertheless, this year I did not feel right amongst the crowd, I wasn’t the same as 2 years before, the new me was uncomfortable and did not slot in so easily. Of course we all change and go through developments. Although, as with the synagogue décor, it seemed I had also gone through a refurbishment and no longer felt part of this community. Israel has impacted on me; even though I cannot pin point its effect, I realised it has changed me, for better or worse; and this Rosh Hashanah was the first that I came to realise that I have changed, for better of worse. And honestly, I feel a whole lot more comfortable with this new model.
Prayer and Prada
The women perched in the ladies gallery looking immaculate and resembling a collection of magazine clippings, with ruler straight hair, nails in perfect condition, a natural look of makeup plastered on with precision and clothes seemingly just off the Prada rack. Yet, it all seemed so surreal, as if a couture monster had possessed their presence, their smiles and their personality. There appearance seemed masked, disguising their inner character and creating a public display of what is important to them, public status and wealth.
In Israel, for some women, appearance is a means to exude an image of sexuality, wearing tight-fitting, cleavage-cut, curve-extenuating clothes, matched with a face of sultriness. In the same space, other women sees appearance, or in particular, clothing for its functional purpose, full-stop. Across the horizon, fashion seems to carry a facet of equality, whereby the large part of the female population have an opportunity to dress one way or another, with fashion being attainable.
In my home community, I felt a state, booted in a skirt and satin blouse that emphasised areas I had placed a pound or ten on since last wearing them, as I hadn’t worn them since being sat here two year ago. My nails were unpolished; my hair had a slight kink; and my shoes were scruffy on the points and scraped on the heels, as those too were not worn since last being in that prepaid blue seat. My appearance amongst this crowd of synagogue-going cat-walkers may have bothered me two years ago, however, at that moment, I was totally unbothered. Either I have done some growing up, or was it that I had left this world behind to fall into a pit of shallowness. Whatever it is, I am happy to have left.
I should have spent this time in synagogue concentrating on my resolutions and faux pas of the year, the focus of Rosh Hashanah. However, these thoughts were clouded by the muttering amongst the women, which in turn, drowned out the tunes sung from the men below. Their prayers for forgiveness probably reached G-d a lot sooner than I, so thank goodness I still had a whole day of atonement to return to in the holy land.
Fasting Amongst Fasters
The time in London came and went in a flash in a pan. A week later, I returned to the holy land. I was in Ashdod repenting for my sins on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, the Day of Atonement. This event involves a fast for 25 hours and the second occasional annual visit to synagogue, to feel bare of physicality and spirituality connected to God to repent.
Up till last year, I observed this high holyday in a country completely detached from it’s holiness. I would hide away at home or synagogue. The world outside would continue, the noises on traffic and city life would resound, but I would be in a place of silence. The two settings simply couldn’t amalgamate. However, this year I was in a place where I no longer felt the odd one out. Coming to Israel, I am able to observe a holiday in a society on holiday. I can atone for my sins in a place of repenters. The most apparent moment was on Erev Yom Kippur, the night bringing in the Day of Atonement.
White-Dressed Wanderers
During Yom Kippur, Israel literally shuts down. It is forbidden to drive, shops are banned from opening and all public life is placed on halt. The only sounds come from children on the streets and the praying of atoners. You are unable to eat, watch television, travel, be intimate and to even wash oneself. Simply put, we maintain a basic form of existence. Effy once mentioned in the past, ‘just wait till Yom Kippur, it is the strangest sight you will ever see.’ He was right. The streets stood still upon which residents, dressed in white, filled the black tarmac streets (Israeli’s traditionally wear white on Yom Kippur). Little children skipped hand in hand, adults strolled and elderly, in wheelchairs, wheeled their way down the main highway. It was like a modern re-enactment of the Israelites being guided out of Egypt by Moses. For miles, people filled the highways, doing nothing but simply being in coexistence. Those strollers may not have been repenting at that moment, nevertheless they were all detached from all modern distractions and simply in the company of others, appreciating the basic pleasures of life, which in other ways can be seen as truly spiritual. It was amazing to witness this, and I could not be more grateful for being part of this national fast.
The Ashdod community stood in silence in synagogue to hear the sounds of the Shofar (ram’s horn blown for religious significance), representing the end to the fast. Following this, I was almost knocked down by a mad rush of white-clothed Ashdodians, practically running home to fulfil their hunger; I galloped for an English cuppa. This also marked the beginning of the next countdown till Yom Kippur once more and God cleaning his slates clean to chalk ticks and crosses under our names again.
I presume I have learnt from the pass year, on reflection from my experiences of going to the place I once was and the place I am now. For the year to come I hope to fully develop into a more efficient and sleeker model, more aware of what the world has to offer and my position in this big place called earth.
Home time for the New Year
Rosh Hashanah, the Kosher new years day, signified time for my annual visit to the synagogue, to bind my resolutions with G-d: to cut down on negative mummers, to be a better person than I presently am, to visit synagogue more than on this one annual occasion, and to stop being so ungrateful. It also means family time, eating, resting and a two-day mental and physical rehabilitation period amongst my loved ones. The last two years, I have been in Israel during Rosh Hashanah and observed in a less than conventional way compared to my usual Ashkenazi approach. This year signified time for a 'holy' home visit and to spend Rosh Hashanah with the family. The memories cemented into my idea of holiday time at home in England have begun to crack. I was reliving these memories in a new light as the New Year drew in.
Synagogue and Hats
The weekend trip to London was to be spent in the two domains of home and synagogue, and we would carry out the Rosh Hashanah ritual. I would accompany my mother to our North London community synagogue in the morning, dressed in our new New Year gear, lippy, matching jewels, plenty spritzes of eau de toilette and my mum's accompaniment of some weird and fancy construction on her head, known as a hat. We would enter the holy domain through a heavy wooden door, clickety-clacking across the entrance, then tip-toeing in our high-heels once we realised the noise we made and see through glass doors men, all cocooned in white and blue stripped talises (prayer cloak), rocking to the rhythm of holy lyrics. We would slowly climb the red carpeted stairs to the ladies section, enter a balcony of nattering women sporting other fancy constructions and smelling of other ghastly moth-spray smelling eau de toilettes. We would squeeze our way through the over-sized blue leather seats to get to my mother’s prepaid positioning, causing much inconvenience to the ladies in conversation. I would peek over the latest headwear features, peer over the men’s section below and give a wave and a wink to my dad, who is as usual grinning up to me and blowing a kiss.
This year , the schedule was on queue. As per usual, I plonked my tuchus on the squeaky leather seats, I took a moment to absorb the surrounds, and realised, however, that the whole situation felt uncanny. Fine then, the seats had been reupholstered, the usual chandler fixtures had been changed to new 60’s décor shades and the crowd came with additional grey hairs, botox injections and hair extensions. Nevertheless, this year I did not feel right amongst the crowd, I wasn’t the same as 2 years before, the new me was uncomfortable and did not slot in so easily. Of course we all change and go through developments. Although, as with the synagogue décor, it seemed I had also gone through a refurbishment and no longer felt part of this community. Israel has impacted on me; even though I cannot pin point its effect, I realised it has changed me, for better or worse; and this Rosh Hashanah was the first that I came to realise that I have changed, for better of worse. And honestly, I feel a whole lot more comfortable with this new model.
Prayer and Prada
The women perched in the ladies gallery looking immaculate and resembling a collection of magazine clippings, with ruler straight hair, nails in perfect condition, a natural look of makeup plastered on with precision and clothes seemingly just off the Prada rack. Yet, it all seemed so surreal, as if a couture monster had possessed their presence, their smiles and their personality. There appearance seemed masked, disguising their inner character and creating a public display of what is important to them, public status and wealth.
In Israel, for some women, appearance is a means to exude an image of sexuality, wearing tight-fitting, cleavage-cut, curve-extenuating clothes, matched with a face of sultriness. In the same space, other women sees appearance, or in particular, clothing for its functional purpose, full-stop. Across the horizon, fashion seems to carry a facet of equality, whereby the large part of the female population have an opportunity to dress one way or another, with fashion being attainable.
In my home community, I felt a state, booted in a skirt and satin blouse that emphasised areas I had placed a pound or ten on since last wearing them, as I hadn’t worn them since being sat here two year ago. My nails were unpolished; my hair had a slight kink; and my shoes were scruffy on the points and scraped on the heels, as those too were not worn since last being in that prepaid blue seat. My appearance amongst this crowd of synagogue-going cat-walkers may have bothered me two years ago, however, at that moment, I was totally unbothered. Either I have done some growing up, or was it that I had left this world behind to fall into a pit of shallowness. Whatever it is, I am happy to have left.
I should have spent this time in synagogue concentrating on my resolutions and faux pas of the year, the focus of Rosh Hashanah. However, these thoughts were clouded by the muttering amongst the women, which in turn, drowned out the tunes sung from the men below. Their prayers for forgiveness probably reached G-d a lot sooner than I, so thank goodness I still had a whole day of atonement to return to in the holy land.
Fasting Amongst Fasters
The time in London came and went in a flash in a pan. A week later, I returned to the holy land. I was in Ashdod repenting for my sins on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, the Day of Atonement. This event involves a fast for 25 hours and the second occasional annual visit to synagogue, to feel bare of physicality and spirituality connected to God to repent.
Up till last year, I observed this high holyday in a country completely detached from it’s holiness. I would hide away at home or synagogue. The world outside would continue, the noises on traffic and city life would resound, but I would be in a place of silence. The two settings simply couldn’t amalgamate. However, this year I was in a place where I no longer felt the odd one out. Coming to Israel, I am able to observe a holiday in a society on holiday. I can atone for my sins in a place of repenters. The most apparent moment was on Erev Yom Kippur, the night bringing in the Day of Atonement.
White-Dressed Wanderers
During Yom Kippur, Israel literally shuts down. It is forbidden to drive, shops are banned from opening and all public life is placed on halt. The only sounds come from children on the streets and the praying of atoners. You are unable to eat, watch television, travel, be intimate and to even wash oneself. Simply put, we maintain a basic form of existence. Effy once mentioned in the past, ‘just wait till Yom Kippur, it is the strangest sight you will ever see.’ He was right. The streets stood still upon which residents, dressed in white, filled the black tarmac streets (Israeli’s traditionally wear white on Yom Kippur). Little children skipped hand in hand, adults strolled and elderly, in wheelchairs, wheeled their way down the main highway. It was like a modern re-enactment of the Israelites being guided out of Egypt by Moses. For miles, people filled the highways, doing nothing but simply being in coexistence. Those strollers may not have been repenting at that moment, nevertheless they were all detached from all modern distractions and simply in the company of others, appreciating the basic pleasures of life, which in other ways can be seen as truly spiritual. It was amazing to witness this, and I could not be more grateful for being part of this national fast.
The Ashdod community stood in silence in synagogue to hear the sounds of the Shofar (ram’s horn blown for religious significance), representing the end to the fast. Following this, I was almost knocked down by a mad rush of white-clothed Ashdodians, practically running home to fulfil their hunger; I galloped for an English cuppa. This also marked the beginning of the next countdown till Yom Kippur once more and God cleaning his slates clean to chalk ticks and crosses under our names again.
I presume I have learnt from the pass year, on reflection from my experiences of going to the place I once was and the place I am now. For the year to come I hope to fully develop into a more efficient and sleeker model, more aware of what the world has to offer and my position in this big place called earth.
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