Living in a War
I recently spent a majority of my Internet viewing time scouring through blog sites and have been overwhelmed with the number of writers covering the Israel-Lebanon conflict, providing observations, commentary, or news coverage. Many took similar avenues: tracing the developments bit by bit, backed up with quotes by officials, clips from video-sharing sites, such as http://www.youtubes.com/, to illustrate the point further and cartoons to bring a giggle to the matter. My favourite blog candidly outlined the two ways to conduct your life in Israel presently; 1. drink alcohol; or 2. rationalise your fears of being caught up in the terror by appreciating the fact that you are more likely to be hit by a car than a missile ( http://www.jewlicious.com/?p=2437), I chose to appreciate the former rather than the latter, with the rationalisation providing no resolution to my nerves, considering the behaviour of a majority of Israeli car drivers. Anyway, it was light relief to see someone had a similar approach to my own.
Crashing of Waves
One morning last week, I went to chill on the beach, in the hope of clearing the news reporter’s voices resounding in my head with the sounds of the ocean and the heat of the sun. A friend was to join me, but at the last minute declined the offer, saying she didn't feel it was safe to be in an open space considering the problems going on right now. I was adamant to not allow this bloody situation continue to ruin my emotional balance. I was to continue my journey to the beach and take advantage of the bonus points of a Middle Eastern lifestyle. I reached the sand, laid out my yellow beach towel on the sun bed, stripped down to my bikini, plonked onto the bed, and spread my body out as if was I melting butter on toast. I closed my eyes and searched for the sounds of the waves.
The swishing of the water and the crashing of the waves did soothe my nervous edge for about five minutes or so, by which time screeching sounds of helicopter blades sliced through the tranquillity of the sky. I jumped up and observed a line of army helicopters making their way to the north. I wondered if the 18-year old young men suited up in army green shirts and trousers, sat anxiously on their way to carry out a mission, were actually gazing out the windows, looking down on the sand. I am sure they wished to remove themselves from where they were, to join in the fun below. I realised I wasn’t going to find a peace of mind anywhere. I felt guilty over my complaints and anxieties, which in comparison to those soldiers, were pathetic. I was merely overwhelmed by the elements associated with living in a war: terror, fear of terror, sadness over the casualties of terror, and an overwhelming dread that Effy could be called up at any point to join the reserves, something which is a constant throb in my heart. As I sat on the sun bed in a daze of comprehension, I realised that as long as I live in a country in battle, there would be no where to run from the elements of war.
Troubles Across the Sea
It has become tedious hearing about the Israel-Lebanon conflict, and I presume I am not alone in that matter, apart from certain politicians. I am tired of the war dominating Sky News headlines, conversations amongst colleagues and friends, and even the debate on Israel-affiliated blogs. Furthermore, I am emotionally drained from the worry extending from a deep acknowledgment of the current affairs. So, I took decisive action in response to my present state of mind and limited my viewing time of Sky News to 3 half-an-hour doses every day, once in the morning, once in the day and once before bedtime.
This afternoon, after completing my mid-day dose of news coverage, concerning 80 missiles that landed 59 miles north of my couch, I flicked over to an Oprah Winfrey re-run on Channel 22. This tele-visual crap came as a delight, distracting me from my own reality, which of course was perfect timing. Oprah’s topic of the day focused on how media and the entertainment industry have marginalised women, brainwashing them to behave a certain way … a great debate to get me riled up.
The first guest was a young woman, who spoke of her experiences as a dancer for hip-hop videos, disclosing her experiences of intimidation and subordination by the producers and performers. These incidences involved being instructed to take drugs on set to enhance the performance, sexual harassement, and, obviously, denial of any civil work rights. She proclaimed to have 'seen the light' and came to the realisation of her self-worth since kicking a drug habit. The US of A, the chief advocate and exemplar of civil liberties and democracy has, as a society, developed in a vulgar way that is no more progressive than as it was 50 years ago. At least back then, women were not represented as, simply put, prostitutes in mainstream entertainment. Please correct me if I am wrong.
The second guest was the punk/rock/pop singer, Alecia Beth Moore, otherwise known as Pink. She deliberated on her song ‘Stupid Girl,’ as the lyrics neatly tied into the discussion on Oprah. In the song, Pink mocks the behavioural and consumer-driven culture that has arisen in popular culture, and has lead to a trend of imitating tabloid celebrities amongst young women.
Lyrics: (Chorus)
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
Porno Paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Baby if I act like that, flipping my blond hair back
Push up my bra like that, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
(A line I like)
Disasters all around
World despaired
Their only concern
Will they f*** up my hair
Pink discovered, in discussion with acquaintances, that people have difficulty in recalling a public figure who is both, shock horror, pretty and clever, without the use of Google search engine. Her conclusion was “oil and water is not the same as sexiness and intelligence”. Oprah and her professional psychotherapist prop continued to conclude that women ‘dumb down’ their intelligence and exacerbate their sexuality in order to fit into a male dominated society.
Another worry, apart from who Pink associates with, is why it is only up till now that such a huge societal defect had taken stage on Oprah. One reason may be due to the fact that a large number of Oprah’s guests include those precise architects of a society that marginalise women. For instance, Ludacris, the rapper recently appeared on Oprah, and whose videos aren’t exactly liberating for the female race. People complain yet at the same support/maintain it, both for their own benefit. The term ‘hyp-o-crit’ comes to mind.
My own concern is that this sleazy antiquated culture of subordinating women is rearing it’s ugly head in modern day culture, not only in the US of A, but across the shores into Europe and, more so, to the holy land.
Oil and Water: Can it Mix in the Middle East?
Israeli television schedules are suffocated with US productions, all of which hold a simple purpose for me, mindless entertainment (no offence to Americans). I must admit, I do love to watch the Sopranos, Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives, and not to forget, Martha. However, shows such as I want to be a Hilton and Entertainment are, simply put, a mechanism to maintain a culture of envying the life of the rich and famous, and in turn, perpetuating obsessive consumerism, eating disorders and mental drainage. Even British reality-show productions are put through U.S. crap-izer machinery, coming out the other end with scripted conversation, dramatic background music and doses of foundation. Okay, I have slightly side-tracked … but what I was trying to establish is that the Israeli audience is given daily doses of this American culture, via media channels, and as a result, the Oprah-issue of the marginalisation of women has come to the Middle East. And, in addition, it has created a youth culture that seeks to live up to the lifestyle of their US counterparts, which is quite hard to do on an Israeli wage, hence the extent of debt here.
A visit to Tel Aviv beach on a Saturday afternoon appears like an entrance to the backstage of a Paris Hilton look-alike contest. Young girls prance around, swinging their hips, flicking their long high-lightened and straightened locks, jewelled up, glamed up and dieted out. In the clubs, Western sounds of ‘MTV’/ pop/hip-hop fill the space. Girls enter like jewelled-out lemmings, all wearing pretty much the same: hot pants, flashy tight tops and dangly bling. Many fill the dance floor, imitating the moves they saw the night before on MTV … grinding, booty-shaking and sultry facial expressions. In Israeli media, the young ladies look and act much the same … anorexic, flesh-baring and overtly flirtatious. It seems like a large number of the young women of this society have been reprogrammed by male technicians to dress sexy, act sexy and to maintain age 8 hip sizes.
Stupid World
The world seems to commit sadomasochism on itself, developing societies infiltrated by greed, war, starvation and hate. People conduct their lives in the shadow of their idols, in response to governmental action, or in respect to what they are preached via media channels. Trouble extends everywhere, in different forms, influencing those around them like a domino affect. When I made Aliyah, many friends could not understand why I wanted to spend my life in a country defined heavily by war and terror. American counterparts may also frown over my choice of residency, but I believe the US and UK have their own crap, or should I say societal issues, to deal with, just like Israel. My friend Corrine pointed out that you can never run away from trouble; you only move to a place that has different forms of trouble. You simply have to learn how to handle these new issues in a new way. She recently moved to Israel from Hackney, London. She came from a place where she feared for her life every time she walked down the street and got on the tube, where intimidation by gangs exist and where stabbings and muggings are committed on a daily basis. And now, she lives in a country that is in the middle of a war. The world is a stupid place because, just like oil and water, it will not allow prosperity and true happiness to mix, something which will never change unless people stop being so stupid.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
2:3 In the Midst of Mayhem
I remember observing, on arrival to Israel, that this is the best year I could have made Aliyah. Previous to this time, the Intifada period arrived, dampening the buzz of Tel Aviv. The economy slumped, shops tailing down Ben Yehuda were boarded up and a wave of dreariness washed up on Tel Aviv’s shore. Political dialogue paved the way for a controversial wall to be set between ‘us’ and ‘them’ and Gaza was disengaged. Following the developments, an economy defined by ‘bullish’ trends rose to the face of Tel Aviv, shop windows took ‘for sale’ signs down, refurbishment waved through coffee shops and the tide drew back, leaving behind a glow on Hayarkon promenade. I felt at ease in the holy land and a realisation that life in Israel doesn’t have to be defined by a state of terror.
The past week, the tide changed yet again. The kidnapping of two Israeli soldiers by Hizbollah (definition: ‘Shiite terrorist organization with strong ties to Iran; seeks to create an Iranian fundamentalist Islamic state in Lebanon; car bombs are the signature weapon’, www.thefreedictionary.com), leading to escalated violence and ‘war’ between Lebanon and Israel resounds on every news channel, every moment of the day.
I want to avoid any discussion of the ‘wrongs’ and ‘rights’ of the situation and where the finger should be pointed. The arena of discussion suffices, as keyboards are tapped away at by journalists, commentators and even in the public voice of other blog writers, discussing the actions of Israel, Lebanon, Hizbollah, Iran and Syria. Nothing I say will provide any new insight or evaluation that has already been said. So, in the blog-centric fashion, I will give you insight into my experience of living in the midst of mayhem, sat poised in front of the television as the story develops.
News flash: Sirens sound in Haifa
As most people in Israel did over Shabbat (obviously except those that keep Shabbat!), I was glued to Sky news broadcast, watching current affairs progress. The frightening part is that I no longer have the Mediterranean Sea wedged between myself and danger; it is now on my front doorstep. Around 8 o’clock on Friday night, just before I was to sit with Effy’s family to welcome Shabbat into our weekend with a chorus of blessings, I sat in shock as a news translator provided comprehension to the words of a Hizbollah leader. I crouched rigidly with my knees to my chest and arms wrapped around them tightly, as I heard the conflict with Israel would now be an ‘open war’ and, in so many words, Israel would now pay for everything done up till now.
I freaked out. I could not handle the words coming through the TV set. They entered my mind like a drug infiltrating into my blood stream, creating a reaction of ‘eraticness’ and irrationalness. There were only two people that could potentially bring me back to a state of sanity, my parents. My clock of independence turned back to the past and I became nervous and unsettled like a little child lost in a busy shopping mall. I dialled my father’s mobile and I was overwhelmed with relief with his voice on the other end.
Me: Dad, it’s me
Dad: Ohhh Boobala … it is so nice to hear your voice. I was going to call you this evening. Are you okey? What is going on?
Me: Dad, I am scared (tears starting streaming down my face), I can’t take it anymore, I wanna come home.
Dad: What has happened??
Me: They … they just declared war … an open war.
Dad: (anger intensifying in his voice, excuse the political sway here) Don’t let those bloody bastards scare you!! Those f**king bastards … Don’t let them scare you. This is exactly what they want … Listen, you are a ‘Shaer’, you have to act strong, you are tough girl (the expected answer from my Dad, bless him).
Me: DAD (interrupting his bluster) … I am scared! It has never got this bad … What should I do, I want to come home, I don’t know what to do?? (I said in a blubbering tone).
Dad: (his tone shifts suddenly, in realisation of my state) Okey boobey, dolly … I understand … calm down … if you really want to come home, it isn’t a bad idea. But listen, this is all psychological warfare. Don’t let those f**king bastards scare you ….”
I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere and shoved the phone to Effy, and let the ‘men’ discuss my welfare. Now, I am never usually like this … I promise! The words echoing on the news broke down my wall of strength and ability to cope.
Amongst the midst of this madness, surrounding the debate, the whaling and the anger, human beings are being killed. I disregarded the two-sided debate between ‘us’ and ‘them’ occurring, and focused on the thoughts: I am too young to die … I don’t want to killed ... there is so much in my life I have yet to achieve. This attitude may appear narcissist, self-absorbed or even childish. Yet, when you find yourself in a situation where missiles are being fired at areas relatively near to you, when the words ‘open war’ are spat at the country you live in, then arguably, this reaction to war is a common one amongst newcomers, like myself.
News flash: Syria vows firm, direct and unlimited response if it is attacked by Israel.
After my hysteria calmed down, I wiped the tears away, breathed deeply to relieve my mental composition, and returned to a state of normality. I attended the Shabbat table, joining Effy’s family in reciting the blessings. His father, Yitsak, joked
Yitsak: “Huuney (his nickname for me), at mephachedete?” (Are you scared, in a sarcastic tone?) “Huh huh huh” (and continued with laughter).
His brother turned to me and remarked “don’t worry Nat, this happens all the time.” Yeah sure, if you have spent your whole life in the Middle East, I thought to myself. I was certain my behaviour had been viewed as an over reaction and was angry that my fear was mocked. Yes, their reaction to the war was totally different to my episode; but come on, I am a newcomer to all of this after all! There will be an inconsistency in response between those that have lived with a backdrop of political upheaval all their lives, and those, i.e. me, an English girl brought up in the leafy suburbs of London, whose societal worries mount to nothing more than ministerial sex scandals and NHS funding discrepancies.
During the Intifada in 2003, I did live and work in Israel. Although, thankfully, due to the fact that I didn’t have access to a television set, I continued my business in Israel in a state of naivety, whilst suicide bombers continued to detonate themselves in public places. Presently, when safety is again on the brink of disqualification, I am sat glued to Sky news, and totally aware of every step taken, hence knowledge=awareness=hysteria.
News flash: Israel defence minister: Israel faces decisive moment in its history
I feel slight guilt over feelings of self concern and bitterness for the fact that I do feel vulnerable and nervous, as each headlines flash with a new development. I should be representing all the attributes my father enunciates … pride, stubbornness and nationalism. I guess my tuchus is not going anywhere, and I will stay put through all the progress, as the situation gets tougher and as I learn to deal with a situation Israeli citizens have always lived with… a state of being that is constantly reshaped by the hands of politicians and organisations. Yet, I am still a young girl at heart, and cannot deny the tendency towards concerns of self preservation and a parent’s comforting words.
This morning, as Shabbat vacated and Israel clocked into work, I returned to my flat in Tel Aviv to write my account of the events. The news resounded in the background, and headlines changed minutes apart:
News flash: Syrian PM warns of unlimited force if Israel attacks (in so many words)
News flash: Israeli cabinet minister: missiles that hit Haifa train are Syrian.
My stomach began to tighten and my nerves began to fray as the state of affairs worsened. I thought what the hell am I doing, I am torturing myself with intrigue; and with that in my mind, I slammed off the television, grabbed my book, and joined other young Tel Avivians on the benches of Rothschild, with an ice coffee and a state of innocence … ignorance is bliss and a much healthier condition for me to reside in.
Effy just informed me that the Hizbollah have missiles that can reach Tel Aviv and are planning to use them .... and I have no bomb shelter in my apartment block, f**k ... where is the whiskey?
The past week, the tide changed yet again. The kidnapping of two Israeli soldiers by Hizbollah (definition: ‘Shiite terrorist organization with strong ties to Iran; seeks to create an Iranian fundamentalist Islamic state in Lebanon; car bombs are the signature weapon’, www.thefreedictionary.com), leading to escalated violence and ‘war’ between Lebanon and Israel resounds on every news channel, every moment of the day.
I want to avoid any discussion of the ‘wrongs’ and ‘rights’ of the situation and where the finger should be pointed. The arena of discussion suffices, as keyboards are tapped away at by journalists, commentators and even in the public voice of other blog writers, discussing the actions of Israel, Lebanon, Hizbollah, Iran and Syria. Nothing I say will provide any new insight or evaluation that has already been said. So, in the blog-centric fashion, I will give you insight into my experience of living in the midst of mayhem, sat poised in front of the television as the story develops.
News flash: Sirens sound in Haifa
As most people in Israel did over Shabbat (obviously except those that keep Shabbat!), I was glued to Sky news broadcast, watching current affairs progress. The frightening part is that I no longer have the Mediterranean Sea wedged between myself and danger; it is now on my front doorstep. Around 8 o’clock on Friday night, just before I was to sit with Effy’s family to welcome Shabbat into our weekend with a chorus of blessings, I sat in shock as a news translator provided comprehension to the words of a Hizbollah leader. I crouched rigidly with my knees to my chest and arms wrapped around them tightly, as I heard the conflict with Israel would now be an ‘open war’ and, in so many words, Israel would now pay for everything done up till now.
I freaked out. I could not handle the words coming through the TV set. They entered my mind like a drug infiltrating into my blood stream, creating a reaction of ‘eraticness’ and irrationalness. There were only two people that could potentially bring me back to a state of sanity, my parents. My clock of independence turned back to the past and I became nervous and unsettled like a little child lost in a busy shopping mall. I dialled my father’s mobile and I was overwhelmed with relief with his voice on the other end.
Me: Dad, it’s me
Dad: Ohhh Boobala … it is so nice to hear your voice. I was going to call you this evening. Are you okey? What is going on?
Me: Dad, I am scared (tears starting streaming down my face), I can’t take it anymore, I wanna come home.
Dad: What has happened??
Me: They … they just declared war … an open war.
Dad: (anger intensifying in his voice, excuse the political sway here) Don’t let those bloody bastards scare you!! Those f**king bastards … Don’t let them scare you. This is exactly what they want … Listen, you are a ‘Shaer’, you have to act strong, you are tough girl (the expected answer from my Dad, bless him).
Me: DAD (interrupting his bluster) … I am scared! It has never got this bad … What should I do, I want to come home, I don’t know what to do?? (I said in a blubbering tone).
Dad: (his tone shifts suddenly, in realisation of my state) Okey boobey, dolly … I understand … calm down … if you really want to come home, it isn’t a bad idea. But listen, this is all psychological warfare. Don’t let those f**king bastards scare you ….”
I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere and shoved the phone to Effy, and let the ‘men’ discuss my welfare. Now, I am never usually like this … I promise! The words echoing on the news broke down my wall of strength and ability to cope.
Amongst the midst of this madness, surrounding the debate, the whaling and the anger, human beings are being killed. I disregarded the two-sided debate between ‘us’ and ‘them’ occurring, and focused on the thoughts: I am too young to die … I don’t want to killed ... there is so much in my life I have yet to achieve. This attitude may appear narcissist, self-absorbed or even childish. Yet, when you find yourself in a situation where missiles are being fired at areas relatively near to you, when the words ‘open war’ are spat at the country you live in, then arguably, this reaction to war is a common one amongst newcomers, like myself.
News flash: Syria vows firm, direct and unlimited response if it is attacked by Israel.
After my hysteria calmed down, I wiped the tears away, breathed deeply to relieve my mental composition, and returned to a state of normality. I attended the Shabbat table, joining Effy’s family in reciting the blessings. His father, Yitsak, joked
Yitsak: “Huuney (his nickname for me), at mephachedete?” (Are you scared, in a sarcastic tone?) “Huh huh huh” (and continued with laughter).
His brother turned to me and remarked “don’t worry Nat, this happens all the time.” Yeah sure, if you have spent your whole life in the Middle East, I thought to myself. I was certain my behaviour had been viewed as an over reaction and was angry that my fear was mocked. Yes, their reaction to the war was totally different to my episode; but come on, I am a newcomer to all of this after all! There will be an inconsistency in response between those that have lived with a backdrop of political upheaval all their lives, and those, i.e. me, an English girl brought up in the leafy suburbs of London, whose societal worries mount to nothing more than ministerial sex scandals and NHS funding discrepancies.
During the Intifada in 2003, I did live and work in Israel. Although, thankfully, due to the fact that I didn’t have access to a television set, I continued my business in Israel in a state of naivety, whilst suicide bombers continued to detonate themselves in public places. Presently, when safety is again on the brink of disqualification, I am sat glued to Sky news, and totally aware of every step taken, hence knowledge=awareness=hysteria.
News flash: Israel defence minister: Israel faces decisive moment in its history
I feel slight guilt over feelings of self concern and bitterness for the fact that I do feel vulnerable and nervous, as each headlines flash with a new development. I should be representing all the attributes my father enunciates … pride, stubbornness and nationalism. I guess my tuchus is not going anywhere, and I will stay put through all the progress, as the situation gets tougher and as I learn to deal with a situation Israeli citizens have always lived with… a state of being that is constantly reshaped by the hands of politicians and organisations. Yet, I am still a young girl at heart, and cannot deny the tendency towards concerns of self preservation and a parent’s comforting words.
This morning, as Shabbat vacated and Israel clocked into work, I returned to my flat in Tel Aviv to write my account of the events. The news resounded in the background, and headlines changed minutes apart:
News flash: Syrian PM warns of unlimited force if Israel attacks (in so many words)
News flash: Israeli cabinet minister: missiles that hit Haifa train are Syrian.
My stomach began to tighten and my nerves began to fray as the state of affairs worsened. I thought what the hell am I doing, I am torturing myself with intrigue; and with that in my mind, I slammed off the television, grabbed my book, and joined other young Tel Avivians on the benches of Rothschild, with an ice coffee and a state of innocence … ignorance is bliss and a much healthier condition for me to reside in.
Effy just informed me that the Hizbollah have missiles that can reach Tel Aviv and are planning to use them .... and I have no bomb shelter in my apartment block, f**k ... where is the whiskey?
Friday, July 14, 2006
2:2 What the Weekend is All About
I want to bring you up-to-date on how life is going in Israel. Last week was literally sliced into two between business and pleasure. Work fit tightly into Monday 12.00am through to Thursday 4.00pm. The fun began Thursday night, with the attendance of the much anticipated ‘world’s largest Latin festival' (supposedly) with some friends in Tel Aviv. The atmosphere in HaYarkon Park was electric; salsa dancer ‘wanna-bes’ and samba-pros moved their hips to the sounds of the music booming from bands and DJ booths. The air was intoxicated with the meaty smell of empanadas, chorizo sausages and steaks grilling on barbeques. The event was fairly tacky and did not exactly feel ‘Latino’ at heart; chorizo sausages tasted like over-paprika-ed hotdogs and I didn’t hear one word of Spanish except in the lyrics sung on stage by the only Latin import, the singers. But hey, Israel was clearly demonstrating their ability to have fun, and a lot it. People of all ages got into the groove, either mimicking the movements of the guy on stage who wore a microphone headset and tight black pants; men and women twirled to the music created by maracas and the Spanish guitars; and girls gyrated to the beats of Latin pop on another stage, in attempts to win the ‘booty shaking contest’, and believe me, I was shocked by what they could achieve with their aged-15 hips!
Friday morning began with an early start, as Effy and I head off to Eilat to meet with friends to celebrate their intended engagement. A weekend spent in Israel’s hedonistic holiday resort is one vice I hope to maintain at least every two months in Israel. Every time I reach the lowest point on Israel’s map and enter Eilat, my body has an automatic reaction; anxiety slides out my joints, my muscles across my shoulders loosen and the mentally noted to-do list established over the past week goes on hold till Monday morning. The weekend was crammed with acts of pure indulgence, sunbathing, swimming in the hotel pool, excessive consumption of beer and whiskey chasers, hotel catering and ice cream. My trolley slightly overloaded, but there is always the promise for Monday detox.
One noticeable feature in Eilat is how well-dressed everyone appears. I always seem to develop something more than a glow and discover the location of hidden sweat glands that I never knew existed. My hair never stays quite in place, with strands often sticking to my forehead in the most unflattering of ways. I cannot do more than Havana flip-flops for day footwear, and make-up, well that never enters the equation between the hours of eleven to four pm. Israeli women, on the other hand, have built a huge resistance over the years to sweat, blisters and frizzy hair. The majority of them are able to strut around the beach front, styling tight-fitting hot pants and wedged shoes in the greatest of ease. Their hair and makeup appears as fresh as if, every morning, they step out of a beauty parlour; and not one damn pearl of sweat ever makes an entrance on their foreheads. Well, who needs small pores when you can have a whole lot of trolley to tot, something which is definitely missing amongst the Israeli female lower-back region.
Sunday night came, Italy beat France in the World Cup, and reality was to follow a much needed good night sleep. Question: why should work be viewed as the ‘reality’ of our schedules and the weekend as the snippet of time spent on life’s true pleasures? Someone got it wrong somewhere.
Friday morning began with an early start, as Effy and I head off to Eilat to meet with friends to celebrate their intended engagement. A weekend spent in Israel’s hedonistic holiday resort is one vice I hope to maintain at least every two months in Israel. Every time I reach the lowest point on Israel’s map and enter Eilat, my body has an automatic reaction; anxiety slides out my joints, my muscles across my shoulders loosen and the mentally noted to-do list established over the past week goes on hold till Monday morning. The weekend was crammed with acts of pure indulgence, sunbathing, swimming in the hotel pool, excessive consumption of beer and whiskey chasers, hotel catering and ice cream. My trolley slightly overloaded, but there is always the promise for Monday detox.
One noticeable feature in Eilat is how well-dressed everyone appears. I always seem to develop something more than a glow and discover the location of hidden sweat glands that I never knew existed. My hair never stays quite in place, with strands often sticking to my forehead in the most unflattering of ways. I cannot do more than Havana flip-flops for day footwear, and make-up, well that never enters the equation between the hours of eleven to four pm. Israeli women, on the other hand, have built a huge resistance over the years to sweat, blisters and frizzy hair. The majority of them are able to strut around the beach front, styling tight-fitting hot pants and wedged shoes in the greatest of ease. Their hair and makeup appears as fresh as if, every morning, they step out of a beauty parlour; and not one damn pearl of sweat ever makes an entrance on their foreheads. Well, who needs small pores when you can have a whole lot of trolley to tot, something which is definitely missing amongst the Israeli female lower-back region.
Sunday night came, Italy beat France in the World Cup, and reality was to follow a much needed good night sleep. Question: why should work be viewed as the ‘reality’ of our schedules and the weekend as the snippet of time spent on life’s true pleasures? Someone got it wrong somewhere.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
2:1 (Part 2 'Untangling the Thoughts of Noodles') A Deconstruction of the Literary Journey
To Blog or Not to Blog?
To conceive a new direction for this next blog has been quite a tricky task, hence the time gap since finishing Can’t take the London out of a Londoner. I still want to continue my writing and convey moments in my life in Israel, yet portray an experience in accounts less emotionally driven. I tiptoed down that path of showing my soft-side, and realised it was not for me. I cannot decide if it is appropriate to disclose all my inner thoughts and feelings to the world, to click onto, skim through, judge, mock and leave, as if my life was a shop window. There were recent news pieces of blog-scandals, where some individuals wrote how they intend to commit suicide, and others committing suicide in reaction to scathing remarks posted on their blog. I often question the morality of its purpose and my participation in the blog craze. Web-diaries have sprouted across the Internet world, as if literary exhibitionism is a new Prada fashion piece. Yes, people should have a forum of open dialect; although, I cannot help but wonder if blogging should avoid editorial safeguards, and if the essence of writing as an art form has become diluted in the midst of textual diarrhoea. I am not exactly Shakespeare and am very much playing a part of that craze. I would just like to hold back from having all my feelings gazed at by window shoppers and by those that do not really care.
Love Affair with Words
I contemplated the original reasoning for why I started to write a blog, so I could understand the direction I should continue with. My on-line diary was prompted by a request by my mother, advising me to continue my passion for writing; and secondly, to have an available source to know what is going on in my life, to satisfy her Jewish mother nurosis, without having to initiate a tirade of questioning every time we speak on the phone.
Another motivation, apart from the simple fact that I love to write, is to fill the gap created by an intermittent career in journalism. My ultimate, lifelong dream is to be an investigative journalist, to be Lois Lane, to research and provide a voice, via media channels, of ‘hidden’ societies found in the nooks and crannies of the world, remote from Western cushioning. A combination of glass-ceiling economic trends and fluid writer resources has left a profession somewhat saturated and remarkably difficult to enter. I was fortunate to begin my career on a news desk, but as mentioned in my first ever blog, you can see that this was not exactly a friendly welcoming into the industry, and left me running back into a cave of dissatisfaction.
A slight diversion, I glimpsed at my first blog for the first time in a long while yesterday. I cringed at the text on the screen, as if I was viewing a photo of a fashion faux-pas I committed years back. It was difficult to restrain myself from editing and rewriting this entry, leaving my words as they were first written. It would be a wonderful thing if we were able to rewrite history, delete and edit words muttered and to erase mistakes made. Well, life isn’t like a blog (that sounds rather cheesy) and there is no delete key, so I will try to hold back from the edit button and maintain the innocence in my writing.
The Bland Shop Window
Sometimes I think my writing is slightly ‘safe’ and ‘un-hip’. It needs to become a bit looser, a little more ‘Bridget Jones’ and risqué. My style has been labelled as ‘structured’ by some, punctuated, grammatical, ordered with paragraph spacing and titles. And this does leave me worrying how I appear to the dear audience … uptight, neurotic … okay, do not answer that, but my excuse is that I was taught to write by news editors. So, first on the list for this new blog is to be a little less emotional, and secondly, slightly more ‘lose’, so as to appear trendier. These two factors may not be able coexist comfortably in my blog … so I will simply let the words flow and see where I end up.
Untangling the Thoughts of Noodles
I will use this name in my new blog title. Other options were ‘Noodles in the Raw’, ‘Stewing over Noodles’. I am guessing you are wondering where the name derives from. Well, if so, ‘Noodles’ is a name I adopted at the age of approximately 3. Since I was born, my bedroom faced the house of the Greene family (pronounced ‘Green’, Grandma Greene bought the extra ‘e’ for the end, as to make the name more distinguishable). Mother Greene would often call ‘Noooodleees’ across the road every time I passed her, and following a few echoes from my brother Simon, who mimicked her in a teasing voice, the name stuck. It is funny how I grew into the name. From that young age, I developed into a lanky and skinny teenager, with knobbly legs similar to the shape of marmite twiglets. From age 16, my dimensions were redrafted and suddenly I was overwhelmed with buttocks and boobies … not so noodle-like anymore. It was if I had developed shopping trolleys in either direction, with the volumes of both sides extending as I loaded more food on. Nothing has changed since then.
Enough about my awkward body shape and let’s get back to the name. I feel ‘Noodles’ represents who I was, where I came from, who I still am, and is the username of my laptop, which Simon inserted when installing Microsoft Office onto it.
Enjoy.
To conceive a new direction for this next blog has been quite a tricky task, hence the time gap since finishing Can’t take the London out of a Londoner. I still want to continue my writing and convey moments in my life in Israel, yet portray an experience in accounts less emotionally driven. I tiptoed down that path of showing my soft-side, and realised it was not for me. I cannot decide if it is appropriate to disclose all my inner thoughts and feelings to the world, to click onto, skim through, judge, mock and leave, as if my life was a shop window. There were recent news pieces of blog-scandals, where some individuals wrote how they intend to commit suicide, and others committing suicide in reaction to scathing remarks posted on their blog. I often question the morality of its purpose and my participation in the blog craze. Web-diaries have sprouted across the Internet world, as if literary exhibitionism is a new Prada fashion piece. Yes, people should have a forum of open dialect; although, I cannot help but wonder if blogging should avoid editorial safeguards, and if the essence of writing as an art form has become diluted in the midst of textual diarrhoea. I am not exactly Shakespeare and am very much playing a part of that craze. I would just like to hold back from having all my feelings gazed at by window shoppers and by those that do not really care.
Love Affair with Words
I contemplated the original reasoning for why I started to write a blog, so I could understand the direction I should continue with. My on-line diary was prompted by a request by my mother, advising me to continue my passion for writing; and secondly, to have an available source to know what is going on in my life, to satisfy her Jewish mother nurosis, without having to initiate a tirade of questioning every time we speak on the phone.
Another motivation, apart from the simple fact that I love to write, is to fill the gap created by an intermittent career in journalism. My ultimate, lifelong dream is to be an investigative journalist, to be Lois Lane, to research and provide a voice, via media channels, of ‘hidden’ societies found in the nooks and crannies of the world, remote from Western cushioning. A combination of glass-ceiling economic trends and fluid writer resources has left a profession somewhat saturated and remarkably difficult to enter. I was fortunate to begin my career on a news desk, but as mentioned in my first ever blog, you can see that this was not exactly a friendly welcoming into the industry, and left me running back into a cave of dissatisfaction.
A slight diversion, I glimpsed at my first blog for the first time in a long while yesterday. I cringed at the text on the screen, as if I was viewing a photo of a fashion faux-pas I committed years back. It was difficult to restrain myself from editing and rewriting this entry, leaving my words as they were first written. It would be a wonderful thing if we were able to rewrite history, delete and edit words muttered and to erase mistakes made. Well, life isn’t like a blog (that sounds rather cheesy) and there is no delete key, so I will try to hold back from the edit button and maintain the innocence in my writing.
The Bland Shop Window
Sometimes I think my writing is slightly ‘safe’ and ‘un-hip’. It needs to become a bit looser, a little more ‘Bridget Jones’ and risqué. My style has been labelled as ‘structured’ by some, punctuated, grammatical, ordered with paragraph spacing and titles. And this does leave me worrying how I appear to the dear audience … uptight, neurotic … okay, do not answer that, but my excuse is that I was taught to write by news editors. So, first on the list for this new blog is to be a little less emotional, and secondly, slightly more ‘lose’, so as to appear trendier. These two factors may not be able coexist comfortably in my blog … so I will simply let the words flow and see where I end up.
Untangling the Thoughts of Noodles
I will use this name in my new blog title. Other options were ‘Noodles in the Raw’, ‘Stewing over Noodles’. I am guessing you are wondering where the name derives from. Well, if so, ‘Noodles’ is a name I adopted at the age of approximately 3. Since I was born, my bedroom faced the house of the Greene family (pronounced ‘Green’, Grandma Greene bought the extra ‘e’ for the end, as to make the name more distinguishable). Mother Greene would often call ‘Noooodleees’ across the road every time I passed her, and following a few echoes from my brother Simon, who mimicked her in a teasing voice, the name stuck. It is funny how I grew into the name. From that young age, I developed into a lanky and skinny teenager, with knobbly legs similar to the shape of marmite twiglets. From age 16, my dimensions were redrafted and suddenly I was overwhelmed with buttocks and boobies … not so noodle-like anymore. It was if I had developed shopping trolleys in either direction, with the volumes of both sides extending as I loaded more food on. Nothing has changed since then.
Enough about my awkward body shape and let’s get back to the name. I feel ‘Noodles’ represents who I was, where I came from, who I still am, and is the username of my laptop, which Simon inserted when installing Microsoft Office onto it.
Enjoy.
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