Untangling the Thoughts of Noodles

2.23 She's Back!

2008-06-03T10:37:00.001+03:00

I have really missed you, my old pal, blog. What can I say; academic papers and exams were more important than you? Well of course not, I just needed to maintain a little time- management. Just to fill you in, my little savior, I am one year in to my masters. Was it all that I made it out to be last year, as I quietly muttered words of excitement and thrill to you over coffee? Well, it may have been an international programme, designed for all those derivatives of the Anglo world, lovers of everything presented in glossy magazines, a well-spoken receptionist and efficient itineraries fit only for the queen. But kid me not, how could I forget those little niggles of Israeli culture? I thought they only existed in the supermarkets, post offices and banks. How did they worm their way into the cracks of academic administration and library resources of an international course? I hear you gasp in horror. Well what can I say; disorganization must be to Israel what 5 o’clock tea is to us Brits. Not that good for our health, but we just cannot seem to live without it.

Anyway, how has this left me? My eyes are straining somewhat more, I now type on Word with a zoom 150%. A little rainforest has grown on my shelves and in boxes. And no doubt, I am dazed and confused as ever.

I will fill you in soon with my life developments. I just need to get back to time-management and terrorism.

2.22 Christmas in the Holy Land

2007-12-25T21:13:00.001+02:00

Christmas used to be one of my guilty pleasures. I would gaze out my bedroom window and glare at the buzz and movement of Christmas celebrations amongst my neighbors. White Christmas would play on the radio, the adverts would be filled with bells and jingles and I would participate in the office party, like a spectator getting drunk at a stranger’s wedding. Truly, I indulged in this festivity in secrecy, one of those Jewish guilt trips.

Coming to Israel, I had to say goodbye to that voyeurs delight. I could no longer participate in the Christmas joy, as little as I did, as here there would be no Christmas. The Israeli December is all Hanukah and no Santa. And of course, my loyalties lie with the doughnuts and candles. But deep down, along with the rest of my Jewish guilt trips, which I won’t divulge into here, I also wanted the festive songs blaring out people’s cars, department stores filled with tinsel, Santa’s grotto and Spice Girls switching the lights on Oxford Street.

Israel of course feels like the twilight zone. I spent my whole life living in a framework of the Xmas/New Years and Easter period as a background to my serious practices of Hanukah and Passover. This background washed away and I would never know what the rest of the world was doing. Except yesterday. I strolled into the supermarket to stock up on all the ingredients for a health-healing chicken soup. All that was on my mind was the celery, chicken bones, parsnips and carrots when, low and behold, I was faced with a selection, yes a selection, of Santa chocolate boxes and Christmas sweets galore. You may think this would have delighted me and settled my Christmas-sickness. But, instead I felt a little distressed. A little insulted and disgusted. It was as if I had been handed my chicken and it was garnished with a rasher of bacon. Someone had mixed up the ‘meat and milk’ in the supermarket and it just wasn’t right. I just guess I can’t have the traifer in Israel. This would yet another English memory.

2:21 Biros to Paper

2007-11-26T16:19:00.001+02:00

As part of my aforementioned tochnit, this winter I started my Masters. I went back to the student life of chewed-up biros, doodles, daydreaming and photocopying. The programme: MA Government in counter terrorism. As my university experience was nearing 6 weeks ago, I wrote the following account (yet as usual, I never quite got around to the editing and posting part of blog writing):

September was close to being the worse period of my whole Aliyah experience. It felt as if weeks were being spent in a waiting room; and as each day turned, I was unsure if I was to be directed to the entry or exit door. Days grew longer and meaning hollowed out. Suddenly, every aspect of my life turned around in one fail swoop, from negative to positive, worthless to worthwhile. All I needed was a little structure. This neurotic rant is clearer once it’s placed in the milieu of my career. If I haven’t mentioned already, I am a freelance research analyst: self-dedicated, self-structuring and self-amusing.

This morning, I started my day like any other … sat in my office space, the coffee shop, accompanied by my reliable colleagues: Mr laptop, sat upright on the table and surrounded by a scattering of papers, my 'large americano' pal, who was accompanied with the jug hot milk on the side, and my ever delectable French croissant, who was bursting with almonds and decorated with icing. I began to write the introduction to my next project: Corporate Social Responsibility in Sudan. My boss claims this report is to be of 'lighter' substance than the predecessors, which all delved into the discussion of death, torture, terrorism and suicide.

This ever-ensuing heaviness of work content, alongside the isolating elements of freelancing, has made the past four weeks of September totally unbearable. Thank goodness for change.

The difference to this morning was the following: the tingling sense of excitement fighting for the space in my tummy with the toasted almonds. I am starting university this week, to venture back into the world of academia. All those lovely, comfy, cotton-filled qualities of guidance, timetables, syllabi and teachers’ guidance are upon my door step. I will continue to be the freelancer, although with a new perspective, in which the shading of light seems so much brighter and luminous.

And this new week brought the end to the shittiest month of my two-and-a-bit year Aliyah experience to a close. At that moment, the only direction in my life seemed to head onwards and upwards.

2:20 A Plan for the Olah Chadasha?

2007-10-14T10:24:00.000+02:00

This Yom Kippur, the one time I actually divulged in complete (convenient) religious observance, I reached many conclusive realizations. These revelations primarily existed as concepts, drowning amongst the many concerns that chewed away at my state of ease for the last two years. Although it wasn’t till now, on utterance of a few words by another, that they took a big enough bite for me to fully accept: “you don’t come to Israel to make money or to have a ‘career’; you do that all before you get here and then you live.” This concept smacked me around the face at one o’clock in the morning during the holy night, over card games and shesh besh. Words of amazement concerning Aliyah and the unfathomable Anglo Olah were passed over the table with the playing cards among the native Israelis and the English girl. “It is funny, we (Israelis) are all trying to get into the countries you (olim) came from, and you all want to come here.” I had heard this time and time again, yet for once I felt like the fool. The traveling Israeli laid down his winning hand, turned his head up and said in a convincingly serious tone, “my plan is to make money, as much as I can whilst I am young. It isn’t going to be here, so I will go anywhere where it is possible.”

As a new citizen, an olah chadasha, such infamous statements are too often imparted by Israelis. As much as these comments mock my move of Aliyah in the past, for once it made me really think: “What the hell have I been playing at the last few years?” When the Zionistic pursuit and sense of belonging dissipated in the milieu of life, what was I left with?

Once upon a time, I was all too eager to establish a meaningful life, full of meaningful ingredients: charity, NGO, low-paid work and long hours, in which supply-chain management towards my own security was absent. My reality was the eventual minus numerical value in Bank Leumi, freelancing work hanging in the air by a thread, and as time was dripping down to my ankles, dreams that I conjured up many moons ago were fading fast. So, I had to come up with a 'tochnit', a plan, for the next few years. This was a prerequisite, a necessary evil to avoid the transformation of the happy-go-lucky Olah Chadasha into a self-hating Israeli. I couldn’t create this tochnit by myself, as Mr Effy was a huge consideration. So together we created a plan for the next two years, a sort of blueprint to ease my mind and bring me closer to my dreams.

I wrote these paragraphs the day after Yom Kippur, but never posted them as they all seemed too reactionary of a simple 'bad day'. I suppose this is due to my own concept of happiness changing with each day.

Currently I am reading a romance, Suite Francaise, set during the First World War in France. The main characters have to abandon their lives in Paris to seek refuge in villages across France. Their departure from their Parisian homes and what they take with them reflect the values they place in respect to their individual lives; for the writer, his transcripts were the centre of his worthiness, for the wealthy Parisian family, it was ornaments and jewellery, and for the elderly working class couple, it was the protection , health and love of each other. As the history develops in the book, their homes are destroyed and left simply with the items still on their backs. Any time I read about war, I cannot avoid refleting on the situation of the country I live in. A month ago war seemed imminent, and today who knows. I spend so much time considering tomorrow, my future, but hardly consider the true innate meaning of happiness, hidden beneath the layers of pleasure, envy and pressure. Yet all these plans in the end could mean nothing. Homes are destroyed, and the things we spend our lives striving for could disappear in a flash. Yet through this, we are still left with ourselves, alone with our innate desires and dreams. Maybe I will need to revise my tochnit.

2:19 New Changes For an Old Timer

2007-08-04T11:47:00.000+03:00

I confuse the barrier between sentiments versus details far too emotional for this platform. The former being the comfort of a night with an English friend, accompanied with a dj and crew from Brixton, London, inside a cozy little bar on Lilenblum in Tel Aviv. The latter being the ensuing feelings it left me with, living here. At times in the bar, I forgot which city I was in; the music so smooth and funky, that it must be a West End bar. I was only reminded it was still Tel Aviv on the arrival of skinny tanned guys, holding scooter helmets and wearing flip flops. Maybe the dense humidity outside has been playing with my thoughts, confusing the disparity between desires in dreams and the pain of reality hitting the depths of my stomach.

A dear friend just made Aliyah. Over dinner, we discussed the new beginning. The excitement of her arrival bounced across the table and fell into my lap. The innocence of the three-week thrill of summer settled into the corners of her eyes, like a glistening tear drop. Did I have any wise knowledge to impart to her over the Thai noodles and Peking duck? Well, I felt like the bitter old woman that needed to give her a smack around the face, dash the innocence off her grin, and to tell her my real thoughts of how it is to be here. But I couldn’t bring myself to it. I suppose the move of making Aliyah is what it is, the remnants of a dream or fantasy that materialize into a fresh page in Israel. To take the excitement of ‘Aliyah’ is to say there is no point in dreaming. But what makes this page fresh? A new start for me actually started a week ago. A fresh page within inside myself: I swept out the dust in my cupboard and I came to realize what my new start was for the last two years. This page was regardless of city or weather, but was a fresh start for me, from within myself.

Back to the bar with the Brixton crew, it was strange that I never felt more at ease. I wonder if I had swapped places with my friend at dinner, that I would have felt the same pain and joy in the bar. Even though I am the Jew in the land of Jews, I still feel like the foreigner. And even though I have been here for two years, I am still no more, no less than a London girl. So, one piece of advice to add to the ‘Aliyah guidebook’: new places don’t necessarily mean new pages.

2:18 A Confused Identity

2007-07-14T21:31:00.000+03:00

Thank goodness for YouTube. This tele-visionised parallel universe enables me to watch the many programmes I miss in Israel. This includes Channel 4’s documentary, ‘The War on Britain’s Jews’, which I could view yesterday. My initial thought was 'it is about bloody time.' Anti-Semitism isn’t a new phenomena to me at all, in the real sense. Only now, however, in 2007 was light shed upon this reality, as the world of media decides to spit out populist-controversial documentaries along with the barrel of others focusing on the geo-political dynamics of today.

Instead of being an informative 60-minute viewing time, it was trip down memory lane. I remember the bullying, or should I say the anti-Semitism, experienced by all of us Jewish school kids: the spitting, the hitting, the ‘jew jew don’t spit on my shoe’, ‘dirty jew’ and ‘scum’. Police escorts after school to Kentish Town Tube station, taking diversions home to avoid the conflict from the kids on the estate we would pass. Recollections of nearly being pushed on the train lines at Finchley Central Tube station and the intimidation by a group of girls in Camden town came to surface during this documentary. The bullying was due to the simple fact: we wore a blue sweatshirt with a gold menorah, and the letters J.F.S. embroidered underneath. At university, it didn’t end. My housemates were followed home from synagogue and later would find a brick lying nicely in their car the following evening. Anti-Semitic remarks continued at University conferences, followed by again, the spitting. I suppose it made me somewhat bitter towards the British nation. Yet, once coming to Israel, I never felt more nationalist towards Britain. Strange.

The latter part of the documentary played tribute to the whole Israel-Jew concept, one dynamic fuelling racism into the other. This is when my own identity got entangled. Whilst the sale of Arabic-translated versions of Hitler’s Mein Kampf in a sweet shop in Edgware Road infuriated me, I maintain pride towards my distinct British-ness in Israel, from my p‘s and q’s and my afternoon cup of tea. But having dwelled on the thought of reality, the level of hatred existing in England against Jews demonstrated in the documentary, enlightened old memories and turned me into a somewhat confused soul. And now I do not feel like such a proud ‘Brit’, as it is Britain increasingly despising my community.

Much commentary following the programme on Channel 4’s website took the unsurprising turn of discussing the single issue: Israel as a terrible country, and that the balance of a debate should reflect this. Obviously much of the general public did not get the point of the discussion. This precisely demonstrates that the Jewish identity in Britain is irrevocably and inevitably tied in with the politics of Israel. I am a British Jew living in Israel, yet I still do not believe I should carry the weight of the Israeli government's decisions, unless I was to sit in the Knesset and influence them.

I still distinguish between my ‘Jewish-ness’ versus my ‘Israeli-ness’, which are two disparate identities. I am firstly Jew and I will not be defined by Israeli politics, whilst now holding an Israeli identity.

I highly recommend watching ‘The War on Britain’s Jews’, presented by Richard Littlejohn, on YouTube.

2:17 A Train Journey in My Old Town

2007-07-11T17:36:00.000+03:00

I was a little jet-lagged yesterday. I arrived in from London at 5am, home, few hours sleep then out to work, to my monthly-meeting with the other ex-pat researchers and our boss.

The lack of sleep made me somewhat delirious, strolling to and from the meeting in a state of part-unconsciousness, on auto-pilot. I wasn’t quite use to the heat, having retuned from London’s drizzle. I reached my apartment, not even recalling the journey there, and then realized I hadn’t for one moment gone through the whole Israel versus England conversation in my head. Actually, for once I was feeling neutral, impartial; well, I am not really sure.

London was another short trip, a four-day cramming exercise of family, friends, shopping and drinking expeditions. I felt much the same way, neutral, impartial; well, and again, I am not really sure. I have been fizzled out from concentrating on the emotional grand scale of my life, and began to notice the little differences. London is a great character. It is quirky, somewhat easygoing, a little funky, a little hectic, but at the end of the day, it is always up for a good time. It is reliable, its dynamics polite, smiley and always maintaining an arms-length zone of courtesy. The cobbled-streets were reliably tough on the soles of my feet, the shops were reliably generous in their end-of-season sales, the pubs were reliably laid back and in good spirits, and my friends, well, they were all reliably amazing.

My last evening, Saturday night, came in a dash. I met an old school friend, to reminisce in the motions of a Thai curry and a pint on Angel high street. I jumped on the tube in the leafy suburban stop of Woodside Park, to head towards the city. Tube journeys in London are a voyeurs’ dream. The train is reliably filled with jellybean allsorts. A couple dressed in black attire, heavy eye-liner and tattoos. Students stand by the doors, dressed in fairy hair bands, sparkly bangles and oversized sneakers with red and blue stripes. An elderly couple sit squeezed together, murmuring under their breaths and gazing at the various characters in front. And, as per usual on a Saturday night tube ride, a group of girls on a hen (Bachelorette) party clambered on to the train, heading to town to celebrate.

My initial thought was how different these girls were to my Anglo crew in Tel Aviv. On a Thursday night in Tel Aviv, my girl friends and I make our way to the latest hangout, our attire not that glitzy, not so glam; but who needs sparkly tops, high pin-pointed stilettos, and top-shop accessories in the heat of the city. This group, on the other hand, was dressed in an array of colours and sparkles. Skimpy floral dresses, red hot pants and boob tubes. One girl pulled out her collection of star-shaped earrings, asking the other dressed as Marilyn Monroe, “low-dangling stars, short-dangling stars or studded stars?” From far away, the group was polished. But when close up, the bronzed tan legs in the four-inch heels became a hazy tint of patchy fake-tan. The bold red-coloured lips became a smudging glaze of burgundy. And the security of their group presence became an individual collection of hesitant, insecure girls, confirming their appearance in their purse mirrors and in the reflection of the train window. Yet, just as my girls do, without fail, the cameras were out, flashing away at the grins and the poses, grasping the moments of innocence.

And what makes me pause for thought is the realization that these girls now have the same fears as me. Israel use to be one of the lone countries, shaded grey under the gaze of terrorism and fear. Yet London was now tarnished, consumed with an inner fear of the unknown. Exiting Angel station, I noticed reactionary posters plastered on the walls by the ticket gates. Look, Listen, Speak. I guess for this reason, my old fears of living in Israel have been neutralized by the thought of how London is now.

2:16 Food Poisoning Messes With My Thoughts

2007-06-19T14:53:00.000+03:00

Mr Effy and I were hit with nasty food poisoning last weekend, taking it turns in the toilet throughout the Friday night. At four in the morning we have a house call from a doctor, a stubby Russian woman with spiky orange hair, who jabs lollypop sticks in both our mouths, a thermometer under our armpits, goes to the toilet, returns, writes out a bill of 160 shekels together and leaves. Both of us sit in a state of confusion, having not been given an answer to our nauseating predicament. The night had at least provided us with the bonding experience vomiting together, etc. Yet it was truly frustrating. We had eaten and drunk so many different things just three hours before, so to pinpoint our error was impossible … the tuna, the tortilla chips, the chicken, the wine, the water or was it the chocolate fondue? The following morning my face was a raspberry, blood shot and swollen, what a pretty sight.

I couldn’t help myself but be metaphorical about these past events. So many things have gone on in my past, so many decisions I made, challenges I faced, and somehow I ended up here. I wonder which choice of all the choices had brought me to this point? What was the cause of my dilemmas right now? If I hadn’t taken a bite of this, a nibble of that, then maybe some things would have turned out different. Maybe I wouldn’t be stuck at home right now instead of working in a cafe, because I fear the waiter’s reaction to my grossly blood shot eyes. And, maybe I won’t be stuck at home, with scraps of money in the bank and wondering how I ended up here in the first place.

Yesterday morning my dad dropped me home in a cab after breakfast and headed back to England. For the first occasion ever, he left me crying. This time was really hard, actually the hardest it has ever been, because this time, he gave it to me straight. He left me pondering with questions and dilemmas that need answering. He could read my thoughts, as if they had been laid out by the waitress on the table, amongst the coffee and croissants. But he couldn’t pop a stick in my mouth, take my temperature, and give me an answer to life’s larger questions.

I realized I need to take control of things and actually jump on the tidal wave of life. It’s as if I have been sitting in transit in an airport terminal the last few years. People fly into Tel Aviv, and eventually go back home. Whereas, I am in one place, sat in the terminal, waiting to fly off in a direction, but realizing I am still here, as this is not a terminal, it is actually my home. There is no doctor with a prescription waiting on hand for me. I realized there isn’t anyone to rely on in transit, except my one constant, who will hopefully work out my remedy.

2:15 Back Again

2007-06-18T11:04:00.000+03:00

Yep, guilty as charged. I am a lame blog-writer. Four months went pass and I didn’t rear my wordy head onto blogger.com. Ever so often, I would open up a new word.doc and begin to develop my thoughts into ‘literary illustrations’. Yet persistently, I could not settle into the words on the screen. Rather, I blew on them, as if they filled into a hot cup of coffee, and having taking the first careful sip, I would realise the milk was off.

I do have a few excuses: 1. I came to realise the wonders of poetry. I was able to place the consistently-initiated unpublished, untitled blogs, which progressed into pieces far too personal for public release, into a piece of anonymous poetry. 2. I quit my 9-5 corporate role and became a freelancer. As ‘free’ as that sounds, I no longer had the time-wasting hours in an office to cultivate my blogger-sphere. 3. My life became mundane. 4. Hence, I lost motivation to write.

I have decided to stop taking things too seriously and have returned to my precious blog.

So for now, I will wrap up the last six months into one.

January, I resigned from the same tribulations of my former-English self: a life trapped by a corporate prison. I left the steady, reliable and emotionally draining job in the egotistically- charged world of finance and, once again, pursued self-determination. I never felt more alive; the seeds of my mind awoke and blossomed into a channel of passion. With the awakening of my soul, I discovered new loves and doors began to open. I also plucked up the courage to begin venturing out on my new pink bike, which Mr Effy bought me for my birthday.

February, I landed ‘the’ position I only dreamt about during the lonely night shifts in a grey office setting. I am now a research analyst, specialising in the redevelopment of developing regions, which is somewhat of a mouthful to say and is quite a great deal to digest. This new life has brought its own trials and tribulations, which are now being realised. I have also learnt how to swerve around Tel Avivian strollers, little old ladies and dog poop on my not so new pink bike.

March to May, life plodded on. Realising I had begun speaking to myself in the lonely ‘freelance’ hours of work at home, I began to venture out into cafes and resolve my loneliness with the company of waiters and other lonely freelancers. I also decided that for my next birthday, I will go ‘up a gear’, literally, and buy a really flashy mountain bike, as the pink one doesn’t seem to get me very far.

June, it seems reality has starting to nibble at me. And this is the world of thought I hope to continue writing in.

2:14 A Breath of Fresh Air for This Cowgirl

2007-03-14T18:09:00.000+02:00

It was perfect timing; a week after resigning from my job, I took a trip abroad to the U.S. of A. Despite the fact that Israel, in so many ways, attempts to emulate American culture, my home away from home couldn’t be further away from the reality.

My first stop on my two-week getaway was Nashville, Tennessee. It was bizarre to recognize how different countries, which are separated merely by water or a geographical division, can be so diverse, as if they were another planet, chalk and cheese. Forget about a different plant, visiting Nashville felt like a trip to an entirely other universe. Robotic tones of ‘and how are ya’ll doing?’ followed by an automatic ‘and have ya’ll selves a good day’ with a computerised smile, devoid of emotion, made it seem as if the entire ‘Nashvillian’ nation had been programmed from behind. All civil decorations seemed in precise order and the city’s packaging was tied up with a bow, with pavements clean enough to eat off and inviting advertisements on every corner. Nashville couldn’t have been further away from Israeli society. It was an interesting visit, but at the same time, I was eager to depart for New York City, to a place of diversity, frowning faces and dirty streets … I just couldn’t wait.

By the end of the trip, the overdose of consumerism made me feel queasy. I was exhausted by advertisements, shops, selection, a service with every helping and the perfectly marketed and manufactured shell of America … I needed to hear a yell of ‘yala’, hands shaking in the air and raw emotion. And so, with all perfect timings, I went back home.

The memory I had of Israel, which I left behind, was one of frustration, dissatisfaction and uncertainty. The winter light at times reflects an unflattering hue onto the streets of Tel Aviv. On a few occasions, the sun hides away, leaving a dark sky, dominated with low clouds and a dull hue on the dusty buildings. The flowers and trees dry to a brown rot and the air smells rusty, as if the streets need an airing out. The atmosphere seemed to mock the sentiment of my mood.

WhenI did step out the airport in Israel, I actually noticed that the home I left behind was anew. The streets were polished, a new light illuminated on Tel Aviv’s metallic windowed high-rises and the once grey-hued apartment blocks were now a bright-cream. The air smelt sweeter, awakened and refreshed, as if someone had opened the window to the holy land and allowed in a fresh breeze. Spring had arrived on the door step of Ben Gurion to greet me, and I too felt my soul begin to blossom.

The weekend of my return was Purim; of course the celebration of the liberated Persian Jews and the downfall of Haman. Yet for me, it also meant partaking in national celebration, uplifting my civil identity in fancy dress and rejoicing my Israeli citizenship.

Time and time again, I am amazed by the involvement of all here in Jewish festivity. The streets are set alight with walking clowns, fairies, cowboys and Indians. The words of ‘Hag Sameach’ are murmured by green monsters and passer-bys in angel wings. Punks and bunnies gleefully make their way to bars and night clubs, cowboys and Indians clamber down to roof parties and, the following day, mini princesses, witches, clowns and aliens, parade down the high street with balloons.

Tel Aviv may not possess the clean streets and etiquette of Nashville, the consumer power of New York, the beauty of a glowing white Central part in the February snow, or even the sight of England crowned with the beauty of naked grand trees and fields of green. But at least Tel Aviv, and across Israel, there is the heart, soul and internal passion to enjoy life, to celebrate in style, as one, as a community, and smile about the little pleasures in life.

For several nights I cheered Purim in and the celebration of a new slate, a new season, in my cowboy outfit purchased in Nashville.

2: 13 Too Much Time on My Hands

2007-02-13T11:55:00.000+02:00

Another two months went by and it is only now I write … I have my reasons. My blog was quite a companion during my early transition to Israel; it was a page to listen, a comfort and a constant. A year and a half on, and this comfort, at times, is far too demanding. It requires a great deal of mental energy, time, motivation and consideration, which is something I do not always have the capacity to provide. Recently, my lack of drive, stemming from a time of darkness, led to a deficiency in mental energy and, therefore, an absence of prose. Yet, I have now returned, full force, and am here to delight you with the tangled Noodles.

It has been a challenging time since December and, possibly, a period of ultimate uncertainty, with all accumulated troubles of the last year reaching a pinnacle. Since this time, I was relieved from a heavy strain, a single menace that darkened my vision, making all appear grey. I took my life into my hands and removed the burden. I exhaled as if I was a kite, with my cord being relieved from the weight of a rock. The clouds didn’t clear at once, and I am still, somewhat, waiting to fly. I am not sure when I truly will be happy; yet for once in a long time, I can reflect and write with a clear head and a grin on my face, however ambiguous all of this may appear.

I took some time off the last two months to revaluate and realign my life. It is funny how, during this time, I had a million and one shifting thoughts and all hours of the day free, yet no motivation to write. During this time, I simply yearned to return to England. I had had enough of Israel, or should I say my life as it was. I had enough of missing, a term in itself, and being frustrated with the obstacles of setting up this new life … A year and a half has gone by and I still seem to be working things out. Maybe it is a never ending process, or maybe I will never be fully satisfied with the situation I am in. My friends and I regularly discuss how we love the lifestyle of Israel; this was the one element of making Aliyah we were eager to exploit, following the renouncement of our Anglo homes. Even though we now have the sunny weekends, the long warm nights, the view of the sea and the feel of the sand, many of us cannot avoid the ultimate cravings for a ‘Career’, with a capital C. We, or at least, I still want a fulfilling day, a meaningful job title, and not forgetting, the totally dubious and mysterious concept of ‘annual pay reviews’, which is often uttered by us innocent olim.

After the hours spent pontificating about my life, I had plenty of time-wasting hours to flick through the telly, surf the web, make cups of tea, clean the apartment, attend the gym and learn how to bake cookies from the wonderful Martha Stewart. Yesterday, I had the pleasure of watching a wonderful movie, finally to say the least. My previous ventures with cinema were quite disappointing and miserable up till now. I wasted many hours of my existence on movies that lacked any essence of sincerity and were based on narratives of stupidity. Yesterday, however, was to be a well-wasted day. In the midst of sorting my life out, I switched on the telly to The Hours, a sensitive and moving drama that magnifies a day of the lives of three women of differing time periods, who are all interconnected by Virginia Woolf’s novel, Mrs Dalloway. The movie portrays, in my view, how women deal with uncertainties of life and discomforts with their present selves in varying ways. As most will know, the film focuses on one day of each of the women’s’ lives, with the understanding that one's whole life can be illustrated by magnifying a few hours/moments of it. Virginia Woolf, one of three ladies, was labelled as ‘insane’ by society whilst she questioned her own life dilemmas and happiness; another abandons her family to escape the self-imposed prison she placed on her life; and the third ponders the way time has lead her life to develop in ways less ideal than one would be expect.

During the movie, I couldn’t avoid reflecting on my own analysis and consistent quizzing of life’s quandaries. There was a quote at the end of the movie, 'to look life in the face and know it for what it is, and to love it for what it is'. The ‘hours’ of each of the women’s lives portrayed the overarching themes to their whole life, and in that, one could appreciate the meaning of life within a snapshot. To take this idea to another level, I would love to be able to pop my head out of the ‘now’ and to see what and how this part of the puzzle, this phase in my life, fits into the total picture. I wonder whether the next hours are so essential to everything surrounding it, that life could fall one way or the other every moment in time. And if so, I could stop analysing, relax and move with these moments. Maybe things right now, such as career and the void of Western comforts, wouldn’t be such a loss if they were placed in perspective to the ‘whole’ picture.

I came to realise, when watching ‘The Hours’ , that I am not alone with these thoughts. I am not hysterical, over-emotional or even over-analytical, or maybe, just a bit. But truly, I am a grown women experiencing certain essential moments of life, and with my fingers crossed, hoping that I will take the right turn.

Again, this was one of my crazy, over-thinking moments. I guess if I was born into Virginia Woolf’s generation, I would be labelled as ‘insane’ … Gosh, thank goodness for change.

Interesting read, if you are a bore like me: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hours_%28novel%29

2:12 Life As We Know It

2006-12-24T15:24:00.000+02:00

November and December … Where Art Thou Go?

January is already rolling up, yet where did November and December go? I took a peak at my blog to check it was still living, and yep, still breathing. Although, I couldn’t believe I had last written an account at the end of October. I thought I had taken life by the reigns, aware of every day, with a time frame in mind and an organised life schedule. Obviously not. The time flowed by, uncontrollably, and so much took place, so many developments and thoughts trickling down my mental drainpipe, yet nothing accounted for. As Effy said last night, we are merely passengers on earth, travelling life’s course; yet I wouldn’t mind driving the train. I have the photos, bills, receipts, plane tickets to Barcelona, Ikea receipts for my newly purchased furniture, bills for my newly rented apartment ... physical train stamps of my life’s journey through November and December. Although, somehow, I felt less inspired to write about it. I prefer not to weigh my blog down with daily drool and moans, but rather, to keep it sacred for things worth a mention, a platform for mental illustrations, lit by sparks of life that have truly inspired me.

Life on Paper

Yesterday I was truly inspired or, as I mean to say, inspired to pontificate on some truly saddening sights. My ol’ dears came to visit the Jewish land over the U.K. break for Christ’s birthday. For our first family outing, we went to the World Press Photo exhibition, located in Tel Aviv’s Dizengoff centre, to view the international World Press Photo contest winning shots. This collection represents news images from all corners of the world from the last year.

The exhibition was situated in the unexpected, less culturally tasteful, Dizengoff shopping mall, known as Tel Aviv’s ‘monstrosity’ by my dear father, and ‘a product of its time’ by myself. The city mall is awkwardly shaped and is a typical representation of 1960’s architectural visionary design, gone wrong and still standing. Inside, rows of shops are set in angled lines, creating a zigzag effect from top to bottom. My parents were slightly hesitant to enter the desolate mall, eerie from the emptiness and closed shop blinds for Shabbat, to a cultural, afternoon outing. Yet, to place a prestigious photo exhibition in the mall, rather an extravagant exhibition hall or museum, is rather apt and reflective of Israel’s personality. Vivid images of the news amongst Israelis are an everyday reality, and so it seemed fitting that such an exhibition was placed in the centre of where daily activity occurs, a bland shopping mall. We reached the exhibition, and were relieved by the site of human life clustered around the entrance. We were handed tickets and brochures for the sights on hand and entered.

The photos were set against florescent lightened white walls. The images spoke for themselves, the background a mere canvas to the snapshots of human life, accomplishment, tragedy and war. Many of the images included representation of survival and victimization of terrorism in America, England, India; war, political subordination and corruption across Africa and Eastern Europe; civil conflict in South America, mutilation, decapitation, natural catastrophe; alongside images of sports champions, world leaders and animal life.

A separated section included photos particular to Israel’s experiences. The site of the Lebanonese War echoed and revealed my own personal recollection of the fear and terror that went on during that time. I couldn’t help but realise Israel’s place in the world, the insignificance of its geography and that it is just one of the many other places in the world dictated by war. Life in the holy land can be somewhat claustrophobic, with news coverage exhausted by its own national tragedy. I often notice the population isn’t always exposed to the realities of other human suffering around the world. This exhibition brought attention to the fact that our suffering isn’t so exclusive or particular to our nation, that it is simply a common result of the thread of human existentialism.

On first glance, the exhibition of course gave much inspiration to onlookers, to grab a Kodak and snap away at life’s moments. The reality of these amazingly shot photos was quite horrific and disturbing. The aim of the exhibition was to allow for ‘free exchange of information’ and, I suppose, to increase acknowledgment of human tragedy, which was all done in good faith. Yet in retrospect, I was sickened by the thought that the world on display represented simple genocide and holocaust amongst the human race.

I can remember a photo of a Nigerian soldier (if I remember correctly) kicking the head, as if it was a football, of a civilian who helplessly knelled on the floor with a face of deep pain. This was an image of a moment of the past and probably one of now. This was real, this was life.

And what do we do, we sit and stare. We glare at these photos, we watch the news on televisions, witnessing continual presentations of such moments, and do nothing. Holocaust occurs across the world today and nothing is done. Even myself, a Jew, a product of the generation of the Holocaust, by a generation who vowed to never let it happen again, a product of a world of human tragedy, and I spent the afternoon witnessing this all over again. Holocaust is happening across the world, splattered across photos and displayed in fancy exhibition halls. We stand and stare, making oohhs and ahhhs. We are all so self-absorbed by our own histories and tragedies, that others are left to die at the hands of aggressors, murdered for being a Christian, mutilated for being a woman, subordinated for being poor, for having nothing. All western countries experienced, at some time, conflict in history and conclusively spent years changing their infrastructure to avoid all this. Do we not learn enough from suffering, to not allow it to happen again to other communities? Realistically, when it happens to our neighbours, we turn a blind eye, or even patronize the issue with exhibitions and celebrity charity cases. When will the change actually occur?

I do wonder, in particular, whether the Jewish people have a duty to confront the holocaust that occurs in the world, such as right now in Sudan, or previously in Bosnia. Yes, we are still living through our own war. But when will the lessons actually be learnt and action taken by those that know better? I guess by the time the world is burnt out, when our eyes finally close, and there is no power left to put an end to global self-mutilation.

Tickets to this exhbition weren't enough to remind me of this lesson learnt, hence this account was written. Here, I can hold onto these thoughts, slowing down the inevitable of time running away, allowing the train to be snatched by words.

Okey, so my inspiration got slightly carried away. Maybe I should reconsider seeking inspiration from my own daily grind, life and the weather.

Description for the World Press Photo winning picture above: The picture shows the emaciated fingers of a one-year-old child pressed against the lips of his mother at an emergency feeding clinic in Niger. A devastating swarm of locusts and the worst drought in decades left millions of people short of food in the African state. The picture was taken in Tahoua, northwestern Niger, on 1 August 2005.

Website: http://www.worldpressphoto.nl/

Intermission

2006-12-02T14:22:00.000+02:00

During busy writing intervals, I easily fall into the flow of communicating my experiences and thoughts into words on the screen. However, when I spend long periods of time away from my blog, returning is impossible.

My surreal space of online blogging has been neglected lately ... reason being: writer's block.

Please excuse the intermission.

2:11 Writers Anonymous

2006-10-30T21:24:00.000+02:00

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.

2:10 Thoughts, Hormones and Television

2006-10-23T06:52:00.000+02:00

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.

2:9 Every Girls' Dream

2006-10-13T21:58:00.000+02:00

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.

2:8 Lessons on Shabbat

2006-10-11T03:03:00.000+02:00

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.

2:7 In a Holy Fashion

2006-10-04T06:29:00.000+02:00

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.

2:6 Good Conversation Turned Ugly

2006-09-09T12:48:00.000+03:00

Something has been niggling me the past few weeks, something that I just cannot seem to brush off. The origins of this irritation originate from a discussion with my friends visiting Israel over the summer.

Free flowing and effortless conversation was habitually present at evening gatherings with my English guests. It was somewhat soothing to be able to simply talk, without apprehension or discomfort, being amongst those that really understand Noodles. Comfort levels can, however, rein in comments less desired, as values become explicated in dialect. One evening in particular, the conversation was not so glorious for me. Coffee was at the usual place, banter tailed down the flow of work, career etc. And, as usual, the questions turn to the distinct member of the group, the one who made a stand in Anglo land, me. And in usual turn, I elaborated on the home/work balance in Israel, work, money etc. Continuing this, I attempted to explain my job in the financial sector in Tel Aviv. After my ramble of futures contracts, interest rate swaps and the FX market, one person, less associated to me, comments;

Bob: I don't know how anyone can do that.
Me: Do what?
Bob: A job so meaningless?
Me: What do you mean … meaningless?
Bob: Well, a job in finance … I mean, I could never do something like that with my life. I want to do something significant with my life.

And it was as a simple as that. My eyebrows clenched upwards, and I felt a blow to my stomach, or should I say a stab at my ego. I tried to dissolve my anguish and insult by jumping into a pool of verbal diarrhea, sprawling on about my hopes, intentions, dreams … And oh! Of course I have carried out volunteer work and (fluster) … I don't have many careers options in Israel! … And gosh, I can't be picky! (G-d help me)… I have a plan … I do have a plan for where my life is going … and of course it is meaningful!! The more I excused my life, the more I stumbled over my words and dug a hole the size of a pit, full of ambiguity in my affirmations.

This comment may have carried no intentions and I, undoubtedly, blew every word out of total proportion, but I couldn’t help but be insulted. The comment had hit a nerve. Maybe he had struck a cord with what I truly feel, that I have ended up in a meaningless career and, therefore, my life is, dare I say, futile?

What purpose should an occupation carry in life? Should it be the defining factor of who I am? Or, should I simply focus on clocking in and out each day, earning a wage and being able to support myself? Furthermore, is it more important, on the grander scale of things, to seek a job that entails making an impact on the world, in order to generate positive change?

Noodles – Nine to Five

I presume selfish incentives have driven the most part of my working life, beginning the moment I turned sixteen at a Central London men’s shoe store. This direction was strongly determined by my father’s mission to install the value of ‘independence’ into my outlook on life. Values of graft, hard work and pride sunk their way into the grooves of my father’s hands, and were heavily entrenched into the environment I was brought up in. I cannot deny that my upbringing was immensely soft-cushioned by the comforts established by my parent's hard slog. Yet, it did not negate the fact they were to raise me on the East End, working-class principles that dictated their young lives.

My father established a successful business, to ensure financial security for our family. Yet, his success never shadowed his ability to demonstrate qualities of humanity and selflessness. This may seem an insignificant part to nurturing the wider society, yet they had a huge impact on my outlook on the world. With these qualities having been cemented into my consciousness, I developed the awareness to care for others, and not just for my own dependents, but also for those detached from my life, and in turn, I do what I can to help others less fortunate.

The longer time I have worked, the more financial power I accrued, to be able to give to the homeless on the cold streets of London; and, the sooner I was able to finance myself to carry out volunteer work on the Israeli ambulance service in 2003. And also now, I have enough shekels in my pocket, to be able to give to the Israeli misfortunate that shelter on the dusty streets of Ben-Yehuda and Dizengoff. A significant life does not have to centre on a meaningful job, but rather the self-autonomous actions that follow, with the tools created necessary to carry out something good can be important.

Despite All This Good-Doing …

I dream of nothing else but to have job which is 'meaningful', to directly help the starving in Africa, to press for humanitarian issues in the United Nations. In such a case, I would fulfil my own happiness and satisfaction in life, knowing I was actually doing something purposeful with it.

On a slight digression, this is an insightful quote from a book I recently read:

"Happiness is not a sensation of ease and comfort. Happiness is the deeper satisfaction we find when we create: when we construct a physical object, or compose a work of art, or raise a child. We experience happiness when we have touched the world and left it better, according to the Will of the Almight. And though the work itself may be on occasion enjoyable, certain works can only be accomplished through struggle. Thus it is that happiness often resides where we find pain. And the greatest agony often presages the greatest triumph," (189, Alderman, Disobedience).

I am not supposing, following this quote, that to seek happiness with one’s life, you must establish a meaningful job in which only at the end you will seek satisfaction, as the journey will be tough. I just wonder, having read this, that despite my friend’s comments, a truly meaning life and happiness, per say, will mostly come from a life of ‘struggle’, such as raising children. It is not necessarily going to come from the careers we chose, but the true individual slog of raising a family and continuing a good-willed race.

I must say, I have always be completed baffled with what I should be striving to achieve in life. Opportunities in Israel, or more so, limited employment avenues here, have made it even more frustrating. Nevertheless, as my dad will always say, you will never know what life throws at you, so what may seem insignificant to you now, can appear a lot more purposeful in the future. I hope so ;-)

2:5 Contradictions in Term

2006-08-18T16:37:00.000+03:00

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.

2:4 A Stupid World

2006-07-27T17:16:00.000+03:00

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.

2:3 In the Midst of Mayhem

2006-07-16T19:00:00.000+03:00

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?

2:2 What the Weekend is All About

2006-07-14T13:29:00.000+03:00

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.

2:1 (Part 2 'Untangling the Thoughts of Noodles') A Deconstruction of the Literary Journey

2006-07-13T20:18:00.000+03:00

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.

1:20 (End of Part 1, "Can't take the London out of a Londoner") Adios to the 'Londoner'

2006-06-27T05:27:00.000+03:00

Saturday marked my one-year Aliyah anniversary. On June 23rd 2005, I took a flight from Heathrow airport to Ha’aretz Yisrael to begin a new chapter my in life and to establish a life away from home.

So, I bet you are wondering how this year left me feeling. I guess the answer is: slightly settled, partially directional and somewhat happy. A month ago, I visited home in an apprehensive state and thankfully returned with triumph written across my face in realisation that the actions of the 23rd were the best steps I have ever taken. Do those feelings still stand? Well, I guess so. But as the next stepping stone of my life approaches and as I become a true Israeli, leaving behind my proud identity of the ‘Londoner’, insecurities begin to creep up on me. I have come to accept certain aspects to my circumstances in Israel, such as my tuchus will always be disproportionately bigger than the average Israeli, that people have chutzpah in this country and that everyone wants to know your business. Yet despite this resolution, I still battle on with certain doubts, such as accepting the absence of my friends and family, a western pay check and a proper cosmopolitan cocktail. Such doubts hold me back from completely letting go of all behind and dissolving into the transition process of a new identity.

Having a Picnic

I once heard that life is merely a journey of a constant search for happiness. Does this imply I will never be wholly satisfied and will be spending the rest of my life trying to search for true contentment, even though it will remain unachievable? If so, I guess I will be ending up in mental overdrive by the age of fifty. Maybe this is the reason why so many of us end up with depression or taking drugs … possibly it is our reaction to unrecognised happiness and the realisation of the inevitability of incomplete happiness.

Just before my visit to London, I visited a good friend, Deborah, for our usual chin-wag before leaving. As per usual, I ended up divulging all my anxieties of what lay ahead. I explained my fears of going back home, and the fact I cannot figure out what sincerely would make me feel complete. She simply answered in her heavy Mancunian accent, cigarette in hand, blowing out the smoke, in so many words:

“Nat, it doesn’t matter where you are. You will only be happy once you are happy with yourself. The place will not determine that, simply your own happiness with life will.”

I know she is correct. But, I truly wish my life could be like a picnic. If so, I could select the courses, or areas of my life, that bring me enjoyment and satisfaction, and arranged them on the picnic blanket. as I please. And the, I believe I would be complete and happy. My picnic would consist of starter: Israel, main course: Israeli lifestyle, dessert: friends; and, side dish: family.

One thing that has always left me feeling incomplete when I left London was leaving behind the love and ease of the company of old friends. In this stage of my life, the dessert is a crucial element to every meal. A social life dominates a large part of a twenty-something’s priorities, whether it is planning to go out for the night, or to meet for coffee during the day. And the crux of this enjoyment is with whom you spend this time with. I never did ‘social’ friends, having certain beings selected for specific occasions; I simply like to be around those I love and respect. Why would I choose sorbet or fruit salad for dessert, when I can pick chocolate cake or raspberry ripple. Unfortunately, my life isn’t a picnic. I have come to Israel and have had to create a new social life; and believe me, this isn’t an easy task for a women in her mid-twenties, and more precisely, Jewish women in their mid-twenties.

The Freckle-Faced Jelly Bean

The jelly bean culture of the Tel Aviv social scene came back to bite me in the tuchus (http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/03/human-nature-and-jelly-beans.html). This year, I faced the extremely difficult task of re-establishing a social network. It felt like all my defences and certainties, which I developed over the years, were stripped down. Since 23rd June, I have increasingly felt like the 12 year-old freckle-faced girl I was on my first day of high school, uneasy and unsure of who I was and of what defined me. Are these pent-up emotions a reaction to my absorption into the Tel-Avian Anglo jelly bean culture? Or, is it merely the consequence of working my way through the teething problems of starting over? It sometimes is just all too much.

So, my consensus with Deborah is that I will “flow”. A friendship is defined by time and experience. It has only been a year, or more precisely, six months in the T.A melting pot, and I suppose, therefore, time will pass and experiences will cement into my mental dimensions, redefining my outlook on life. And hopefully, the 12-year old freckle-faced girl that once defined me will go back home.

Back to the picnic, I never fancy lemon sorbet for dessert. But am I really in the position to be able to pick my courses? Ok, so I realise, my picnic idea is a crock of shit. And, time has brought me several servings of chocolate cake in my Tel-Avivan life, with those I get to chill with over coffee and those to giggle with on a Thursday night, so I guess I am doing alright for now. It is just I feel too old for this crap (the ‘twenty-something’ inside me moans).

Behind the Layers of the Freckle Faced Girl

A large part of feeling at ease and emotionally able to develop a life of happiness is largely dependent on understanding who I am in this world. I have a British and Israeli passport. I am a Jew, yet was brought up in a country that is built upon a Christian establishment. During primary (elementary) school, my mouth was kept tightly closed during choir practice, whilst my class mates sang about Jesus Christ; and yet I had one of the loudest voices in Sunday school, when reciting my Alef-Bet. In England, I would be celebrating Hanukah one week, and attending a Christmas bash the next. I now live in Israel, yet I continue to support England in the world cup in English fashion … with a pint in my hand. I also love to eat falafel followed by a cuppa tea. So, what does that make me? Am I Still the Londoner in Israel, or the British/Israeli, or the Jew returning to Israel?

People from home tend to question my ‘Israeliness’. Well, I am who I am. I am Natalie Sophie Shaer: I am still emotional, flawed, insecure, passionate, caring, I try not to bitch, I am trying hard not to moan, I continue to play the piano, I can still grind to R Kelly, and still hope to be a ‘Lois Lane’ one day. Since facing obstacles involved in moving away from ‘home’ (what I consider ‘home’ is somewhat questionable) , I have, to some extent, grown into the shoes of a mature women; I have learnt to chill out, I recognise my flaws, I realise I cannot change people and that cannot be friends with every ‘Tom, Dick and Harry’, that we are all so different and that I do not need constant approval from others,. I am who I am, you just have to like it or lump it.

I now realise a place or a post code does not play a large part in redefining ‘Natalie Sophie Shaer’. I do not want be classified by the country I was born in, by the country I hope to establish myself in or from my heavy London accent. The world is a small place and so who knows where I will decide to be in a five years from now PG. And, wherever it will be, I will still be Natalie Sophie Shaer, ‘warts and all’. Having reached this conclusion, I have decided that my identity is me, no city and no language. And so, this posting will be the ending chapter to “Can’t take the London out of the Londoner”. I am not merely a Londoner, or simply an Israeli or a Jew … I am everything that defines me, and that is far too complex to be placed in a single title.

So congratulations to me on my anniversary … woohoo! And, by the way, I have acquired a second-hand Fuji digital camera, so hopefully my next blog, whatever name it shall be, will be far more illustrated and accordingly, you will get to see my ugly mug a great deal more.

Too Long But Not Too Late

2006-06-23T13:53:00.000+03:00

News on the Magen David Adom site (www.afmda.org/ , June 22 2006):

In a historic moment, American Friends of Magen David Adom (www.afmda.org) are proud to announce the admittance of Magen David Adom (MDA), Israel’s first-aid and disaster relief organization, into the International Red Cross and Red Crescent Society… The MDA has been working side by side with the International Red Cross for years, responding … to global disasters like that of Katrina last year on the US Gulf Coast and Tsunami relief in Southeast Asia. MDA responds to 600,000 calls a year throughout the country, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Magen David Adom is committed to its continuing work with the Palestinian Red Crescent Society to save lives in both Israel and in the Palestinian Territory. Israel’s MDA experts have trained numerous members of the International Red Cross as well as the Palestinian Red Crescent … Israel has been able and willing to participate in vital international relief missions coordinated by the International Red Cross to countries such as India, Turkey, and the United States.

As a previous MDA volunteer, I am delighted over this news (see: http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/04/reality-hits-home-as-home-pays-visit.html ). Acknowledgement by the Red Cross was unjustifiably long-awaited, and MDA can finally receive the global recognition it has always deserved.

See blog: http://www.onejerusalem.com/2006/06/24/magen-david-adom-final-admittance-into-the-international-health-care-federation/

1:19 A Bus-load Family Outing

2006-06-23T13:28:00.000+03:00

Last thursday was my day off. I was feeling lousy from the ‘acute bronchitis’ my doctor labelled my heavy cough as and, therefore, was looking forward to a relaxing day, preferably in front of my television. Oh how things change.

Wednesday evening,
Effy: “What you up to tomorrow babes?”
Me: “It is my day off, not been feeling great so I wanna chill.”
Effy: “Oh hun, why don’t you come up north with my family? We will be leaving around 7.30 tomorrow morning but we will back by the afternoon. Come on, it will be nice.”
Me: “Oh, ok then, but as long as we are back by 3, latest four”.
Wednesday morning, I am woken by a heavy scream from Effy’s mum:
Effy’s mum: “Effeeeeeyy, yala! Anachnu sarichim lahiot sham be eser dacottttt! Yala!” (quick, we need to be there in 10 minutes) ….
Effy: “Besedehhh!” (ok).
As you will come to realize, screaming is the general tone used to communicate amongst the Tripoli tribe.

We eventually left home to make our way to his grandparents’ house, or should I say the mafia joint (see http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/02/western-girl-not-so-western-anymore.html ). We found ourselves stuck in solid traffic, and five minutes into the crawl on the motorway, Effy receives a call from someone who didn’t exactly sound like a happy chappy.
Me: “What’s up Effy?”
Effy: “My uncle is mad because there are fifty people sat on a bus waiting for us,”
Me: “What! Fifty people … Effeeeeyy! Since when were fifty people attending our cozy family outing!”
So, after a few grumbles, put lightly, we arrived to a bus parked on the dusty moshav entrance. I entered the bus to an audience of mysterious Israeli faces, all of whom were glaring in my direction with big brown eyes full of wonder. “Oh, so this must be the blue-eyed, freckle-faced Ashkenazi from the land of tea and royalty that Effy is going out with” they must have thought.

We eventually departed and made our way to the north of Israel, which I later found out was to be a four-hour journey, another tiny detail that seemed to have slipped Effy’s mind. Forty minutes into the drive, the flow of food began and continued for half-an-hour intervals throughout the rest of the day. Twenty minutes after the first delivery of biscuits and crisps, a bottle of sambuca and shot glasses were doing a round. It was nine-thirty in the morning and I was expected to get merry on sambuca … now this was a culture shock. Yes I am English, but come on, we aren’t that bad … well some of us anyway!

We travelled through the green fields of north Israel, winding round the narrow hills in the creaky old bus. The first stop was a sacred site of the great Rabbi Simeon bar Yohai’s grave (see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simeon_bar_Yohai ). The energy was buzzing with Hassidic men running around with white Kippot and white shirts; young girls dressed in fashionable religious gear and chatting in circles; and then, the arrival of the Tripoli tribe. We descended on the site with plates of food to be blessed, bags of candles to be thrown on the grave, and shawls to wear for modesty.

We honoured the grave through prayer and then lit candles for each of our family members. We donated money to Rabbis in return for blessings, and then departed for the next stop-off, Tiberas.

Awaiting in Tiberas by the sea was a barbeque, or more precisely, a banquet. Tables and chairs were set out, as if we were celebrating some sort of occasion; but no, this was simply lunch for the family outing. We eat, swam, chatted and snoozed till the sun went down. By 3.30pm I was antsy to make a move and began calculating the time frame, "if we left latest by 4pm, it would mean I would be home around 8, which would mean I would have enough time to shower and change, so that I could be in Tel Aviv latest nine, so I could meet friends for a night out." Wishful thinking.

Four-thirty rolled around, and I was already pacing. The elderly members of the family were laying back in chairs, chewing on nuts and chatting. The little Tripolites were anxious, crying and running around, unsure what to do with themselves.
Me: “Effy … nu (so)? Why aren’t we going?”
Effy: “We will soon, don’t worry nat. They are all talking, I can’t tell them to stop because you want to go.”
Me: “What have they got to talk about? They have been sat in the same positions for the last four hours.”
The irritability of the children was obviously rubbing off onto me. I sat and huffed, my foot started tapping the ground in a fast motion, and I started to question why I bloody well agreed to come on this trip in the first place. I thought "I could be sat at home now, chilling, watching Opera, doing my nails ready for tonight … But no, I am sat in Tiberas, tired, achy and agitated by the lady with bad eyebrows, who sounds like a hyena every time she opens her mouth, which is often."

Six-thirty came and we finally departed. There was to be one more stop on the way home, but the moment my tuchus reached the seat on the bus, I was out like a light. The journey home was somewhat eventful. Aunties continued to deliver food; singing trumpeted at the back of the bus with the sounds of the uncles; and Effy’s grandpa danced up and down the bus, wearing a white fluffy kippa with a pompom, bought previously at a Hassid gift stand. The journey sucked every last drop of energy left in me, on top of which, the bad-eyebrow lady just wouldn’t shut up.

The bus crawled into the moshav entrance around ten. My evening hadn’t ended, it had just began, as Effy and I made a rush to Tel Aviv. The day was arduous, however, I am glad I participated in the Tripoli tribe outing.

1:18 Living in a News Flash

2006-06-12T03:02:00.000+03:00

I trawled through my daily website checklist, and on reaching the Haaretz website (www.haaretz.com), and was hit in the face by the following headline:

7 PALESTINGS KILLED WHEN IDF SHELL HITS GAZA BEACH
HAMAS MILITARY WING VOWS TO RENEW ATTACKS IN ISRAEL

It is one thing to hear such news from my couch in the UK with a shock-horror reaction on my face. It is another thing to read this on the Internet at work in Tel Aviv, in the midst of the drama. On this occasion, the news shook me up more than any other. Mini cyclones spun in my stomach, causing havoc to my nervous system. Since the last bombing in Tel-Aviv, which I heard clearly from my apartment, my nerves have been on edge and fears often come to the brink of my thoughts. Strangely enough, I often forget that I am planted in the middle of the Middle East. I carry on my daily life as if I am in a bubble, romanticizing about the weather, the trees … and then suddenly reality will slap me around the face, and I wake up to the realization of what is really going on … a political war.

The aftermath of the events mentioned in the headline was clearly noticeable in Israel. I spent the following day in Ein Gede with a group of friends. The time was playful and innocent; we enjoyed each others company, relaxing in the sun, talking, eating and swimming in the remote resort in the desert. That evening, we travelled home through the open mountain space evening. The journey was peaceful at first, as singing and laughter resounded in the car. However, this mood came to halt as we approached the Israeli army stop-points. We couldn't help but notice the difference in the IDF soldiers' presence, who are often in a relaxed posture and casually wave cars on. This evening they were now heavily armed and peered stringently into the car. Our bubble had been burst, we realised we aren't as safe as we wished.

Keeping my eyes closed and trying hard to not notice any changes could be an option for survival. I decided it is easy to distance myself from discussions involving the positions of the chess pieces on the Middle Eastern board. This may seem a naive and irresponsible approach for an active citizen of a country involved in political war. Although, to simply experience the consequences of the moves taken by each side is a hefty amount to deal with in itself.

An alternate mindset for my mental response to the political situation has been to divert and disguise the seriousness of the reality I live in, with a splash of black humour. This avenue can successfully bring me back to the feeling of living in comfy bubble, whilst the news of national strife echoes on the radio and television. Please excuse my insight, but I never did intend this blog to be a means of self-help!

An Example of Diversion

Looking back on my childhood, I do not recall a time when I was young, thinking “when I grow up, I want to live in a country that experiences threats of terrorism and constant threats of attack.” Come to think of it, at a very young age I wanted to be an air stewardess. After having realized I actually quite dislike air travel, I decided I wanted to be Lois Lane, or more accurately, a top investigative journalist who doesn’t have to worry about London transport because they get flown around on the shoulders of a really fit guy who wears tight pants.

Aspects of Israel That Make Life Here Easier:

1. Chicken tikka masala from Namaste, Israel’s top curry house
2. Constant clear blue sky
3. Monit Sharuts (taxi buses)
4. Live jazz in coffee shops

5. Matkot (Israeli beach style ping-pong)
6. Chutzpah (Yiddish for 'cheek') :a great opportunity to channel anger in the face of such behaviour)

Any other aspects?

1:17 Back to the Land of Humus and Shesh Pesh

2006-06-09T22:04:00.000+03:00

Flying home, sat on the El Al airplane, I glared out the tiny window to inspect the view ahead. The sky was misty grey, specs of rain and drizzle flickered against the window. Blankets of fog hovered above the ground and street lights stood tall, struggling to appear bright. It was the end of May in London town … was this all I was bloody excited about coming back to!

As we reached Stansted airport, I wondered how it would be if the plane could just stay still, in no mans land, not quite in the land of my past, yet having left my future behind. The thump of the wheels on the ground dashed that thought, and my mind jolted back to the reality of what lay ahead.

To be honest, all that lay ahead was not as bad as initially thought during previous days of anxiety. I returned to London with a new pair of eyes, as if someone had removed the specs I had worn for the last 25 years, and everything came into focus. The country, the people, the lifestyle all appeared different; I was no longer hypnotized by the wealth and indulgent lifestyles the drove passed in Mercedes; the pretty buildings and scenery didn’t interest me; and the accessibility of the city appeared to be stretched so thin, that to get anywhere was a mission in itself.

If I were reborn a millionaire, my complaints would obviously be fewer. London has a great deal to offer and is a beautiful city, yet this beauty and everything that occupies it comes with a high price tag too. A single bus ride, 1 pound and 50 pence; five pieces of M&S vegetarian sushi, 3 pounds and 50 pence; cappuccino, 2 pounds 20 pences I kid you not! On the other hand, would wealth and an ostentatious lifestyle really make me happy? The weather would remain, alongside an environment of egocentrism and multi-cultural tensions.

Effy and I did the ‘London’ thing: Hyde Park, the Science Museum, the theatre. We visited the bookshop featured in the film Nottinghill and ate a proper British fish n’ chips meal. We did the family thing, the friends thing, the wedding thing, and by the end, we were both drained out. A holiday, hah! It was more like a marathon journeying through the highlights of my pre-Israel life, in the space of ten days.

This trip helped me realise that those I yearn for aren’t running anywhere too fast; the moans dominating the telephone conversations are still the same as those the day I left; and the postal and internet service means I can shop at Marks n’ Sparks after all and receive the English goodies. For the duration of the time, I strangely missed the raw, brash and confrontational nature of Israelis; and “Ps” and “Qs” turned into an annoyance, rather than a pretty frilling. I missed the sense of freedom that exists in the air, to wander aimlessly down the street, to be acknowledged by those that wander past and by those that serve me coffee; and most importantly, not to feel like a tiny ant in an overwhelmingly large place, but rather to be as important as the buildings surrounding me and the establishment of the country. My trip successfully reaffirmed everything I felt a year back; it swiftly cleared the fog that hazed my thoughts and made me realize how lucky I was to have moved away from my home, or should I say, my first home; or should I really say, from my birth country that I always felt detached and alien from. Israel now feels like my home, and it is here I would definitely like to stay … well … at least for now ;)

When stepping off the plane, back in Israel, something felt different. I was knocked back by the heat, the air smelt different, slightly sweeter and drier. Summer had officially arrived in the holy land; and shit … my air con is broken. It was not only the arrival of a new season, but also an ant’s nest decided to invade my kitchen cupboard. Well … at least I don’t have to worry anymore about rain in May and the requirement of a mortgage just to buy a bloody coffee.

---

Thanks to Tina again for her wonderful online remarks today:

Me: “How are you today babes?”
Tina: “Tired has become my eternal state of being”.

1:16 Tea time with Mr Blair

2006-05-23T15:39:00.000+03:00

I grabbed my laptop, ready to write, switched it on and then sat motionless, glaring at the screen. I am staring at one of my favourite photos that features on my desktop… Effy standing in front of the Houses of Parliament in London. This was taken during the time he came to London, two weeks after we had met in Tel Aviv. The 4-day holiday felt like a whirlwind romance. At the time I took this photo, attempting to fit Parliament into view, I slowly stepped further and further back, with camera in hand, until the point I nearly walked into the front of red double decker bus. Following the photo, Effy kissed me on the lips, put his hands on my shoulders, pulled me closer to his face, and said “Careful now, I don’t wanna lose you that quickly”.

This romance has fortunately continued, up till now, for 1 year and 9 months; the first 10 months involved airplanes, airports, and huge expenses. This unity consisted of short weekend breaks, which felt like seconds compared to the moments when I yearned for him. This time with him was spent over the telephone, e-mail or squashed in front of a tiny camera attached to my computer, in which were barely able to see each other. Every moment felt as if a freshly baked chocolate cake had been placed in front of me and I was told you can smell but you can’t taste … simply put, it was agonizing. Ten months down the line, my life was in need of a makeover; fast-forward another year and I went to live in Israel. Fast forward another year, this week, I will be returning to the world that resides in memories … I will be visiting home for the first time since making Aliyah.

This blog has taken the longest to write than any other, and hence the day dreaming. My thoughts and feelings have been muddled, trying hard to focus on the future, whilst acknowledging that I will return to my past in just a day. Feelings of happiness and satisfaction with my life in Israel finally reached my doorstep. This emotion took a year to develop, and now, like a recovering alcoholic returning to the pub for the first time since their last drink, I am confronting the ghosts in my emotional closet, which have been folded away carefully, so as not to disturb them.

I am confused how to project my thoughts into words. Yes I am scared; and yes, I am concerned that the grass will be greener on the other side, that I will open the closet and not want to close it again. Possibilities of the inevitable are scary. I am terrified that I will have a taste of my past and will not want to stop eating. But as I said, I am happy here, and despite the fact that the primary reasoning behind my dedication to come to Israel has dissolved amongst the tirade of emotions of the last year, this trip may help to reestablish those initial thoughts, and that the decisions behind my new life was correct after all.

Back to the laptop, the reflections on Parliament’s glass windows put me in a hypnotic state. I giggled over the flashback of seeing Effy for the first time in a suit last night in a clothes store. He looked like a young boy who stood stiff wearing his school uniform for the first time. Effy and I are on a mission to purchase his first ever suit. In Israel, there is no distinction here between formal and informal dress. You can go to work in jeans and you can even attend weddings in jeans. If one wears a shirt and tie here, the general public would generally identify you as a waitor, a groom, funeral director or a foreigner. Effy and I are attending a wedding in London on Sunday. The invitation says Black Tie.

“Black tie Nat, what does that involve? Do I go there with a black tie on?” Effy queries in pure innocence.

“Boobala, welcome to the Western culture of for-ma-li-ty. That means, black suit, white shirt and a bow tie … and no jeans,” I responded firmly.

“Oh, I would have preferred just the black tie and jeans,” Effy says with a grin.

Side point: I tell you what I am really looking forward to ... a good cuppa tea.

1:15 Red Flip Flops

2006-05-23T15:26:00.000+03:00

The last few weeks have involved lots of strolling up and down Rothschild (see: http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/03/reminiscing-in-rothschild.html ). The end of the boulevard by my apartment was lit up with vivid lilac flowers in the trees. The colour was so luminous, it was if G-d had taken a lilac highlighter, marking out his favourite spots to sunbathe. Whilst trotting down the boulevard, I tip-toed across the flowers resting on the ground, as not to disturb them. This trip led the way to saying goodbye, or should I say lahitarot to my dear friend, Tina, who was returning to New York City. As I ventured down, I realized I was being distracted by the feet that ventured past. Whilst journeying around Tel Aviv be-regel (‘on foot’), my focus is often distracted by Israeli feet. For the large part of the year, most people here are booted in flip-flops, wedges, or the famous (or personally infamous) ‘crocs’. These shoes look like rubber clogs with holes (I guess for ventilation), and come in various bright colours. Men, women and children are seen sporting pink, blue, green and red crocs. In my view, they look like clown shoes, but to be honest, I have never understood a great deal of the Israeli fashion.

On the way down Rothschild, I noticed a scruffy bearded homeless (assuming) man, but he was no ordinary homeless man. He was an Israeli homeless man, dressed in a red shiny jacket and shorts, red flip flops, and held a 80’s-style-brick mobile phone (which may or may not have been working), whilst he lay on a bench under one of the lilac trees . The equality of foot wear in Israel amazes me is. From the richest to the poorest of society, all will have at least one a pair of rubber flip-flops or crocs featuring in their summer wardrobe. ‘They’ say you can only judge a man once you walked in his shoes. I guess that would be slightly confusing in Israel. They all seem to be wearing the same. I presume this is slightly reflective of Israeli society. I indeed do not doubt that there is a definite existence of materialism, but at the same time, most seem equal. There is no such thing as ‘class’ determining the distribution of wealth and taste. If someone wants a pair of red Prada sandals, it won’t be a selected few working overtime to pay for them. And at the same time, most here wouldn’t raise an eyelid to a pair Prada feet strolling past on the Rothschild boulevard catwalk.

On return from Tina’s, I noticed that the previously vacated bench was empty, apart from the mobile phone, red jacket and the flipflops that lay out on the floor. I looked up and saw the homeless chap climbing up the tree. I guess he wanted to take a closer look at the lilac flowers, and maybe at the same time feel closer to G-d.

1:14 Emotions Placed in Perspective

2006-05-05T05:26:00.000+03:00

I am on the night shift again, so I presume as tiredness begins to penetrate into my consciousness, my emotional state will be given the platform to leak into my writing ... well, we’ll give it a go at least.

Name Calling

Friends and family often complain that I do not portray my inner thoughts and feelings in accounts of my life in Israel. They read my experiences, yet continue to complain about my lack of emotional depth. Let’s get one thing straight: most unsettling and emotionally driven moments involve particular people at specific points in time. It would be slightly immoral to rant on about the people that shape my emotional wellbeing, largely being those who aggrevate me … I am a cynical Brit after all. Many blog writers have used the first letter of the name of individuals they have written about in order to hide their identity … how ridiculous … I am sure person ‘S’ would probably catch on that person ‘G’ has written about them!

Anyway, enough of this … back to the more serious items on the agenda.

Life Story

I am reading a scrumptious book at the moment, it is the type you just want to wrap up and squeeze its cheeks. The book is called The History of Love, written by Nicole Krauss. The book, The History of Love, that the story is based upon, was written, as it was told, by a man called Zvi Litvinoff. The relevant paragraph to this blog divulges into the somewhat desperate life of Zvi. The story spoke of how he would analyse every moment in his life. For instance, he would be posed questions by passer-bys, and by the time he would have evaluated the query and come up with an answer, the person would have already left, leaving him standing alone in contemplation. It continues

“ … Things were lost into oblivion like so much about so many who are born and die without anyone ever taking the time to write it all down. That Litvinoff had a wife who was devoted is, to be frank, the only reason anyone knows anything about him at all,” (Krauss, 2005, p.70).

It was his wife that persuaded him into publishing his book. And if weren’t for those published words, Litvinoff would have remained an unknown man.

If I were not for me having written my accounts, would I remain a woman unknown, would all my experiences be ‘lost into oblivion’, in respect to the fact that all occurrences in my life are unique; what I have seen through my eyes and no one else's. If I wasn’t writing this down, a huge part of my life would remain unknown. And, if I wasn’t writing down my emotions, would no one ‘truly’ appreciate my experience? I guess, it would simply be Natalie went to live in Israel during that time in her life [full stop]. I am not saying that we should all be walking around with a notebook in our back pocket, ready for our daily lives to be written out. All I am saying, once we are dead, we are dead, and that is it. We don’t have the opportunity to justify to others the type of people we were, we rely on what others remember about us. If it is all written out, we remain alive, in part, as an illustration for others to return to, to remember and understand the person we truly were.

Head Case

Much like Zvi, I am a very analytical person. Many would say an over analytical person, as if it was something bad, like it was a disease to be a deep thinker. I am situated in a 54-floor high building. During the night shift, I get slightly nervous, assessing the fact that I am alone, except the security guards circulating at the bottom. If, say, a plane hit this building, just like at 9/11, no one would think, oh gosh, Natalie is in there, get the rescue team over. It would be, thank goodness it is night and the building empty. Fine, okay, my analytical psyche is slightly neurotic.

(Azrieli Tower, Tel Aviv)

Having moved to start a life in a different country hasn’t exactly balanced the mechanics of my mind. On a daily basis, my mind is brimming over with questions. At the start, I was constant grumbling, comparing England versus Israel. Once I got use to the fact that I was actually in Israel, and learnt to accept that you can’t buy a microwave dinner in the supermarket, that coffee shops generally do not distinguish between a latte and a cappuccino, I actually started to enjoy life in Israel. Nowadays, or should I say, the past four months, there has been a constant battle of answering fundamental questions in my mind, concerning happiness, financial security, and more often, whether I will be able to continue life without the people that truly love me, apart from for the Tripoli tribe. I wish I had at least one answer to the many questions that goes through the obstacles my mind. I chose not to write all this down. It may be therapeutic, but it is enough of a confusion to be me, let alone attempting to write this mental chaos down.

Details of a Picture

Back to the book, the character Alma spoke of how her mother would keep the love between her and her late husband ‘alive’, by removing herself from reality and neglecting herself in the process. Alma refers to Alberto Giacometti, the sculptor and painter, “... sometimes just to paint a head you have to give up the whole figure”.

Alma continues,

“… To paint a leaf, you have to sacrifice the whole landscape. It might seem like you’re limiting yourself at first, but after a while you realize that having a quarter-of-an-inch of something you have a better chance of holding on to a certain feeling of the universe than if you pretended to be doing the whole sky. My mother did not choose a leaf or a head. She chose my father, and to hold on to a certain feeling, she sacrificed the world” (Krauss, 2005, p.45).

How beautifully put. I guess many lead their life in such a way, and choose to have a selective vision of life to make the process of living a little easier. On the other hand, we may focus on the tiny precious moments, forcing you to truly appreciate your experiences. I find this quote has a slight double meaning. Or maybe, I still haven’t fully worked it out as it may be implying that it is good to hold onto certain feelings of the past; or, if doing so, you are preventing yourself from seeing the total picture, like Alma’s mother; and, therefore, holding yourself back from experiencing life fully.

My problem is that I place too much focus on the landscape. I constantly reevaluate major questions about the direction of my life, and forget to look at the trees, the flowers, and all the beautiful and simple things that surround me, and live for now, for this moment. Fine, this is my resolution for this week … one step at a time.

P.S. Judy, thanks for the book ... you aren't getting it back (joke)!

1:13 Flags and Drumsticks

2006-05-03T22:39:00.000+03:00

It is 7.59 pm on a Monday night. I am standing on Ben Yehuda Street and waiting. A moment later, sirens whale down the street and throughout the country. These haunting sounds, reminiscent of those in War movies, had a different purpose. People stopped their cars, got out and stood; taxi drivers and their passengers got out of their cars and stood; and people came to their balconies and stood facing the street. All of Israel stood in silence to recognise all those that have died for the state of Israel. The sirens symbolized the start of Yom Hazicaron, the Day of Remembrance.

This instant in Ben Yehuda was totally disparate to a time of remembrance I can remember experiencing in London. Around five years ago, I worked in a large men’s shoe store situated in the bustling area of Regent Street, near Oxford Circus. The remembrance day in mind was commemorating all the fallen soldiers of Second World War. It reached 11 o’clock and there was two minutes silence. I recall standing by the window, observing the world continue to do what it was doing, as the silence passed on. No one stopped, no one stood and no one was remembering. The two minutes could have been any two minutes of the day or the week. There was no sense of recognition, or mourning, and it seemed like nobody even cared.

The unity and nationalism that exists in Israel astounds me. On Ben Yehuda, I felt connected to every person around. We all recognized the importance of what was symbolic to that day. We all felt the significance of that moment.

The next evening saw the arrival of Yom Hatzmut, a day to celebrate the independence of Israel and acknowledging the establishment of the state. The momentum was as emotional, yet on a totally new level. Flags lined the streets, attached to trees, poles, cars and homes. This was reminiscent of the World Cup in London … it is quite amazing how different occasions can stimulate excitement in people, to get their national flag out and celebrate … football, independence of a nation.

Parties resounded in every nook and cranny of Tel-Aviv. Every roof was filled with people dancing to music. The country lit up in celebration. Every passer-by would holler Hag Sameach (‘happy holiday’), and for the first time I felt part of something. I no longer a mere Londoner in Tel Aviv, but for once I felt part of a nation, part of the ground I was standing upon. It was totally uplifting and rejuvenated my understanding of why I was where I was.

The last two days brought an amazing sense of nationality. People of all ages come together to recognise the importance of who they are and how they got there. We appreciate the significance of the past, to celebrate the freedom of the presence, and learn to appreciate what we have gone through to get we are today. This is the unique quality of Israel that makes her so special. She is so emotional, thoughtful, and appreciative and especially knows how to have a good time. I guess that is why I enjoy her company so much.

Today, every garden will be hosting a barbeque and some sort of celebration. The party continues. I am off now to eat some meat, chicken drumstick in one hand, flag in the other … hmm.

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Totally irrelevant, but quote of the day, by my dear Adam: “ I am well educated in the swirling mass of morid physcological acute disorders that are parent child relations”.

1:12 Reality Hits Home as Home Pays a Visit

2006-04-25T03:34:00.000+03:00

The last three weeks have been quite eventful with my family visiting Israel and it being the Passover holidays. Time has been suffocated by family duties, holiday celebrations and work, all of which had fit into a calculated schedule, to fulfill my parents’ joint neurosis of having every situation in control, with a set time frame and date. With this in mind, dedicating time to my few pleasures, including writing, was inevitably placed on hold. Now, with my family back home and with life back to the normality of work and play, I have time to reflect and write.

Members of the Team

The three-week period began with a bolt of energy charging into my apartment, with the arrival of my big brother, Simon, rucksack and all. This visitor was to be a major test to my patience and nervous disposition. The presence of this out-of-the-ordinary, lively character was followed by a whirl wind, causing disrupt to all order, tidiness and cleanliness. Please understand, I like my floor to be spotless, for the books on the shelves to be in line, for the pillows to be in their place on the couch. Whilst I may have a slight case of OCD, combining this with living with someone whose version of tidiness tips the other side of the scales, there is only one conclusion, havoc.

Despite all this, I was to keep in mind, at all times (in hope), that this is my brother here to visit his lil’ sis and I was to be the overwhelmingly sympathetic host. This was somewhat idealistic, but I did try my best, despite a few hysterical moments. It was only to be a few weeks, so biting my tongue was at least a task I could attempt to achieve. And hey, looking back, it was fun … I got, at last, moments of being able to reminisce in our childish behaviour. You can’t behave like that with anyone, and of course, this is what big brothers are for, to maintain a youthful side.

Four days on, my parents’ arrival was a blessing. Living in Israel without my own family has been the hardest part of making a move. With their presence in my home, the hole of loneliness that exists at the crux of my happiness had been filled; and my disequilibrium of emotional security was balanced.

Reality hits (close) to home

Second week, Monday: the rota of ‘time in Israel with the family’ continued on schedule. This day was to follow the motions of the previous, laughter and happiness. I was spending the afternoon with Simon, and then would trawl my family on the train to Ashdod for barbeque with the Tripoli tribe (see http://natalieshaer.blogspot.com/2006/02/western-girl-not-so-western-anymore.html ).

Early afternoon: My brother and I in the flat, getting ready for the day ahead. I was showered, dressed, and deciding on what I was ordering at Café Hillel on Rothschild for lunch, “… salmon sandwich or aubergine… hmm”; I was meticulously going through my options. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, there was an overwhelmingly loud shudder, rippling through the air and devouring all the tranquility that existed. In the past, external sounds of Tel Aviv city often caught me by surprise. Although this time it was different. This sound echoed in my mind and sending shivers through my skin. I could sense something terrible had just occurred.

“Simon, that was a bomb, I am sure of it!” I screamed running into the living room. Simon answered in a laid back manner “Oh, come on Nat, someone probably just dropped something on a construction site.” “No I swear, something happened,” I returned in a fluster.

I couldn’t shake it, I knew something wasn’t right.

Maxine phoned and a second into the conversation, “Did you hear that bang?” I asked. “Yeah, that was loud … Wait … can you hear those ambulances?” Maxine said with a concerned tone and continued, “well, let me know if you hear anything.”

A few minutes later, I decided to settle my concerns and switch on the news, ironically in the hope of absent news. Headlines at the bottom of the screen concerned a large donation that the Palestinian government, Hamas, was to receive from a terrorist organisation. There was nothing else and exhaled a sigh of relief, at least only that. However, this relief would soon be crushed in moments.

I was about to switch the channel to MTV, when I noticed a shift of tone in the voice of the news reporter. His face turned directly into the camera, his eyebrows clearly illustrating regret, and announces “we are getting news in that an explosion has gone off in the old central bus station in Tel Aviv, Israel. It is thought to be a suicide bomber”.

My stomach sunk. I ran out and screamed “Simon, it was a suicide bomber … I told you … it was a suicide bomber!!”

We stood in front of the television, desperate as we saw the events unfold, and at the same time, drowning in the sound of ambulance sirens, helicopters and wailing police cars. The location of the attack was minutes from my home, this whole situation just felt too real and too close.

Volunteering amongst the chaos

During 2003, I was worked as a volunteer medic on the Israeli ambulance service, Magen David Adom (MDA). I decided to carry out this programme because I often felt useless and agitated watching the experiences of Israelis, whilst in the comfort of my own surroundings and unable to do anything. Simply watching Sky News reports in England and spending so much time complaining about the world politics, which affected my own community, was not enough. I wanted to play a part in the daily reality of other Jews, 'to put my money where my mouth' is and be productive with the way I felt.

The volunteer program consisted of an intensive 8-day training course based in Jerusalem, followed by 5 weeks ambulance service duty. I carried out the service during the Intifada ( a period where there was “an uprising amongst Palestinian Arabs of the Gaza Strip and West Bank … in protest against continued Israeli occupation of these territories,” http://www.thefreedictionary.com/ ), this being a time of intense fear for safety in Israel. Appreciation for the fear-provoking environment of living in Israel was never until then so apparent to me. For the first time in my life, I attained an insight into living in a society that experiences an undercurrent of terror.

Training was delivered by senior ambulance medics, which in turn gave us (the trainees) an insight into their attitudes, reactions and handlings of suicide bombs. The medics had a distinct approach to educating us, often disguising moments of seriousness with sarcasm. I presume this was their way of dealing with the realities of death. They had experienced the tragedies first hand, so having to relive these experiences in the classroom would be too draining without a slight tapering down on the seriousness with humour. However, consideration for the actual magnitude was always appreciated, despite nervous laughter amongst us. We all understood the reality of it all, we simply didn’t need it to be spelt out.

During my volunteer period suicide bombs were going off at a frequent rate, and this was reflected in the training. Volunteers were taught how to deal with high casualty events, such as determining who of the injured should be treated and of whom to “leave” at the site. An array of moral dilemmas flew in and out my mind; in particular “Should I be playing the role of God, as to who lives and who is to die?” These were issues I had never given thought to. It constantly amazes me the strength that resides in certain individuals, those that are able to carry out certain tasks laid about by G-d, yet by most, they would be unachievable.

My first ‘encounter’ with terrorism occurred during training. Our volunteer group were being given a lesson on how to insert an IV (otherwise known as a ‘drip) into a patient’s arm. A brave trainee amongst us volunteered to have his arm demonstrated upon. The medic inserted the needle in the arm, drew the blood and attached a bag with the IV. He held the bag up, demonstrating the importance of the position of the bag in relation to the flow of blood. We all sat with our eyes squinted, semi-looking at the demonstration, with the other eye closed with disgust at the sight of blood.

A mobile phone rang, which was then followed by muttering at the front of the class by the medics. This was followed by shock sweeping across each of those involved in the muttering. A moment later, the class sat bewildered, teacher-less, with the IV volunteer still sat with the IV in his arm, and holding up the bag as high as he could. The medics had vacated the room to attend to a bomb in central Jerusalem in a pizza restaurant.

I was in the exact situation to that last week. We all stood in front of the television, absorbed by the news, in disbelief to see the same individuals in front of us moments ago were in the gaze of the world on television, as they deciphered through the injured and the dead.

Following the attack during our training, the ambulance crew returned appearing white as ghosts and seeming emotionally torn to shreds from what they had just witnessed. The medics will never ‘adjust’ to these events, despite the regularity of them at times and the brave front they successfully present in class. Israelis, Jews and sympathisers hearts’ bleed every time these attacks occur.

Back to Tel Aviv

The bomb at the old central bus station in Tel Aviv left 9, including the bomber, dead. The person who chose to blow himself was a 19 year-old boy. I do wonder.

I phoned my parents, who were sat blissfully on the beach, totally unaware of the situation. The day continued as scheduled, yet this time, a black cloud shadowed the events. The rest of the weeks flowed by smoothly, intoxicated with good food, good wine, sunshine and the return of laughter. Some things weren’t planned this holiday, although certain events never are. Yet it is generally those 'unplanned' events that have the greatest impact and create the longest pause for thought.

Links:

http://www.magendavidadom.org/

http://www.mda.org.il/

(Please consider donating your spare cash to MDA, as this service is dependent upon charity funding.)

1:11 Night Owl

2006-04-08T11:10:00.000+03:00

It is 2 o’clock in the morning and the world around me is going to bed. My day of work only began 2 hours ago and I am sat at the desk praying that heavy tiredness will sit at bay whilst the night drags on ... the wonders of night shifts … perfect timing for recapping on the week.

This week arrived with a breath of light relief. Previous days of depressively missing home settled, aided by the comment of a dear friend “Nat, we aren’t going anywhere, we will all be here when you come back”. “Please God”, I muttered under my breath. This single comment made me realise I was acting as if I was mourning a loss. Indeed I need these people in my life, yet I shouldn’t allow this physical emptiness hold me back from living amongst the ‘now’. A new week, a new perspective … Let’s hope this can continue, for now least!

The week flew along in the wind. The emotional rollercoaster continues, as feelings take leaps and dives. This week provided further insight into the bonds I have developed, and even more so, the reality of some of these bonds, as disappointment reared its ugly face once. I have learnt a great deal about myself since coming alone to Israel. I came to realise that I have lived my life up till now in a day dream, naively perceiving the people around me the way I wish them to be. However much I attempt to develop relationships here that come close to the friendships that matured over the years back home, the premise on which they are built here are different. As I have got older, I have become more selective, or rather pickier, over whom I wish to experience life with. I have been fortunate to have befriended an array of wonderful and interesting people, but at the same time, I have faced a few teething problems. I guess time will be the sole definer to the life I create for myself in Israel. This week, I have had enough laughter and satisfying moments not to care as much. The problem is I usually do, I am a sensitive ol’ cow. Luckily for me, this new week also brought a level of understanding between one of my new dear friends and I … we gave our teething problems a painkiller. Furthermore, I felt empowered by the fact that I have discovered a new found freedom of independence, I now rely less on such human interdependence … I can walk down the street holding my own hand, and if someone else wants to hold it, I won’t be waiting, but it will be my pleasure.

The night rolls on … 4.00 am. I tune into Choice Fm via the Internet … back in touch with night time grooves echoing in London town.

I spent a great part of last week in shock. Someone decided to reply to the publication of my last entry with several abusive messages. ‘Blogging’ is a means of voicing one’s opinions and thoughts via the Internet, providing easy access for others to gain an insight into what their loved ones are up to on the other side of the world. I feel this avenue provides me with the perfect means to illustrate my experiences of living in Israel to friends and family; however, this avenue was severely threatened by these messages. The person’s point was neither productive nor respectable. I guess that being a Jew and living in Israel meant politics was bound to rise to the surface of my illustrations … However, this colour in the painting was washed out … such experiences have been swallowed up and will now be left to journalists to cover in the news arena. It is a shame that I should be silenced by such commentary, as some hollered at me “… are you mad, don’t let them scare you, say what you wanna say”. I guess I want a simpler life and to not antagonise others. So, future blogs will remain as neutral as they can, whilst avoiding political confrontation (sorry Leila).

5.54 am, eyelids heavy … feeling sick from the tortia chips and humus I have been munching. Adam pops on line and I am welcomed with a “Hey Sexy!” Adam is one of my dearest friends from back home, his presence via the internet brings a sense of warmth over me.

The rest of night fizzles out into a blur. 7.30 am rolls around and I am off to bed … goodnight and sweet dreams XX.

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“Friendship is a single soul dwelling in two bodies” – Aristotle.

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art … It has no survival value; rather is one of those things that give value to survival” – C.S. Lewis.

Something Uplifting

2006-04-06T14:22:00.000+03:00

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved

- William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

Cheers Tina, that's beau'iful!

1:10 Political Consciousness Set Alight

2006-03-28T15:38:00.000+02:00

Today, I participated in a political voting system for first the time in my life. This may be slightly irresponsible for a 25-year old to have not yet made a political stand, however minuscule an impact voting may have. Political decision-making has, up until now, never seemed a relevant part to my role of citizenship. British politics never bothered me, however relevant to my income and taxation levels. I never cared for what toffee-nosed elitists would have to say in Parliament, as I distant from such articulation. Political currents relating to the nature of being part of an Israeli society that I am now surrounded by, have awakened my conscience. Issues discussed on the news and in the K’nesset (Israeli government) are part of a citizenship identity to which I hold strong ties, being a Jew within a world dominated by non-Jews. When walking into the school near to my apartment to post my vote, a tingle of excitement overcame my emotions with the thought that I was playing a part of a history of struggle and Jewish living, however minuscule this impact would be. These politics play a part in shaping Jewish identity and residency within the world, which is something I actually give a damn about.

Living Politics

I can remember the month of my arrival to Israel being filled with political dynamics. An atmosphere of tension existed as events leading towards the disengagement of Jewish communities in the Gaza strip drew closer. Streets were filled with strips over orange and blue, as people and cars were tied with coloured ribbons representing their stand. Orange ribbons represented opposition to the disengagment and blue for support of the disengagement. The land was being evacuated for Palestinian control. Israeli television buzzed with excitement over its coverage of the events across the country. Boys and girls lined the traffic lights, handing ribbons and fliers. Every conversation resulted in a discussion of whether I supported the disengagement or not. I felt overwhelmed by this passion and awareness of national issues. This political current was real as it played a part in all Israeli lives. During the actual disengagement, I joined Effy’s family in front of the television, to witness the pain of the Jewish settlers, as they were evacuated taken from their homes. The (Israeli) coverage represented conflicting emotions of anger and unity. Grown men crying in pain from the struggle to leave their homes, mothers screamed in the face of Israeli soldiers and displayed anger of betrayal, as they held their children up in the soldiers' faces. The news reported the unity of a rabbi and a sergeant who were together as youths in the army, and now hugged in unity and pity. The sergeant walked the Rabbi out of his home in Gaza. For the first time, Jews came face to face with each other, conflicted by their differing needs, in front of the world who sat glaring. Israelis, those on the television and those watching it, had eyes filled with tears. I sat in disbelief from the feelings that overcame me and those around. My political conscience never felt more alive and government activity never had felt more relevant to living. These are the issues that we voted over today, conflicting stands over matters of safety, territory and religion.

Politics Laid Out on the Table

Identity and politics are regular features of discussions amongst Jews of all nationalities. It is something that I have always lived amongst, whether during Shabbat dinner with my family, or over shwarma in the local kosher restaurant with friends in London. Israeli and Jewish matters would be a topic of debate, something that didn’t seem to exist amongst my other (non-Jewish) friends. Tony Blair and the British government would rarely, or rather never pay a visit to conversations over a pint in the pub.

At work, a discussion concerning the recent film ‘Munich’ arose … fireworks were ignited. Politics and identity became the centre of the debate, ready on the table for thrashing. Munich is an American production ‘inspired by historical accounts’ of the kidnapping and murdering of 11 Israeli athletes and officials during the Munich Olympics in 1972. The movie portrays the events following the kidnap, with the 'events' surrounding a group of Israeli Mossad agents ( Mossad being the Israeli secret service) who are sent to assassinate those responsible for the kidnapping and eventual deaths of the athletes. Despite the fact the movie is a depiction of a specific historical account, its ‘representation’ is one of inaccuracy and misrepresentation. The film is based on a single account of the Munich games, hence the title, yet Hollywood, or more precisely Speilberg, decides to retell the story as such that it is more appetizing to the viewer, and consequently becomes a distorted account. Will the general public across the world be able to distinguish between the movie simply as a Hollywood blockbuster or as a history lesson?

Effy and I decided to see what the drama and hype in Israeli media surrounding the movie was all about, and satisfied our curiosity with a visit to the cinema. We left feeling drained, having gone through the emotional rollercoaster of this national tragedy, having identified with the raised issues relating to Jewish identity and Israeli-Arab political tensions. Indeed, the acting was brilliant, the ‘plot’ was superb; yet due to the fact I was so moved, or more accurately, insulted by its portrayal, meant I became tangled up with what I was absorbing. I couldn’t decipher what the film was trying to achieve.

Do movie producers not have a responsibility to the viewer? And if it is to portray the beliefs of other religions, why should that representation fall into the hands of Hollywood narratives. I was further upset by the blurred boundaries between the identity the Mossad agents were meant to be representing … ‘Israeli’ or ‘Jewish’. The director himself couldn’t seem to distinguish this in the movie, despite being Jewish himself. I myself am a Jew, something specific that defines my character and beliefs. Living in Israel and, therefore, being 'Israeli' is something totally different, it represents a whole new range of views and beliefs.

The discussion at work continued with a comment from a colleague who claimed that it annoys her when every time Jews are not represented in a favourable light (despite the fact she is'nt Jewish), we (Jews) bite back with the claim that it is ‘anti-Semitic’.

… Is this really wrong? Across Western society, political correctness has suffocated communication, with the drive to clamp down on racism on the premise of colour. Why can’t such political correctness extend to the Jewish race? As with many other minority communities, Jewish people have experienced racism throughout all generations, yet some still claim that we 'whine' about our misrepresentation … And another thought, should minorities be subjected to the impressionism of others? Should their beliefs be spelt out by those of other religions in the entertainment sphere? Haven' t there been enough mishaps in history that have allowed for misrepresentation? These questions ran marathons through my mind during the viewing of Munich.

With regards to the initial comment, I do not believe this is totally fair in light of recent public comments. In particular, Jewish communities across the world sat in silence to hear an Iranian leader openly state that he would like to see Israel ‘wiped off the face of the planet’ ... 'whining' from them did not exactly resound throughout the media.

I could go on about my qualms about the movie, but I feel this territory has had plentiful coverage by Jewish commentators and critics. My questions may seem harsh and I don’t mean to offend, but stating one's opinion is part of the political process, debate. This is something that needs to be fostered by the next generation, the ability to decipher what media and politicians are trying to portray, understand the core to their messages, and to play a part in deciding who will actually voice these messages.

N.B. If people do decide to comment on my blog, please refrain from rude name-calling, as did the previous comments that I have now deleted. And, if people would like to debate with me, at least you can leave your name so I can respond to the rude name-calling.

1:9 Human Nature and Jelly Beans

2006-03-19T15:55:00.000+02:00

One life observation is that human beings treat each other like jelly beans. Jelly beans come in an assortment of flavours and colours inside a jar. We will always dig our fingers in to pick out our favourite flavours, bubblegum, tropical fruit and strawberry beans; flavours we have previously tasted and know will provide us with satisfaction.

In Israel, I noticed how similar this behaviour is in humans. However hard politics and anthropological currents set in to scatter people around the world; we all seem to find our way back to a comfort zone, locating and residing in places amongst those of the same colour and flavourings. The dynamics of the population here seems to take a similar accord. In particular, I observed how Anglo-Jews flock together, how Ethiopian Jews build communities with each other, and how the French Jews and Russian immigrants come to build homes with other French or Russians.

This observation may be a slight generalisation … redesigning ‘facts’ to establish a point … many ‘new’ Israelis come here to set up a life independent of their origins, especially in central Tel Aviv where all Jewish origins blend into a colourful mix. For instance, Effy and I come from polar cultures, yet we are united on the basis of common ground, our love and respect for each other. Our similarities and differences are a constant battlefield, antagonism between culture and identity as a Jew. Yet I do hope the reasoning behind our unity ultimately triumphs.

My environment, although heavily dominated by an intense ‘Israeli’ culture, additionally coincides with my Jelly bean culture. Take note, ‘Israeli’ culture is, arguably, in itself non-existent, but rather a culmination of histories of Jews, from all corners of the world, who come to reside in Israel. This includes, Sephardic, Ashkenazi, Mizrachi and Western cultures. I came to Israel to be stimulated by people of a foreign language and culture, yet have recently found myself in the company of the same ‘types’ that I grew up amongst and left behind. These types speak English with the ‘north London Jewish’ accent and have come to Israel, planting themselves in an environment that mirrors their derivation. They have picked out all the other ‘north London Jewish’ types in this multi-cultural jelly bean pot, choosing to establish their life with others of the same definition. I have slowly succumbed to this comfort zone and feel irritated. The same issues, the same bickering that was a pinnacle to my previous frustration, have come to haunt.

This brings me to my next point; why do we bother getting on a plane to the holy land in the Middle-East just to recreate what we came from? What is our reasoning and/or justification for making Aliyah? Jerusalem and northern areas of Tel Aviv are dominated by communities of English and American Jews. They all talk the same language as they did back home; they eat all the same food that they have grown up eating and they all participate in the same ‘community’ activities that would have taken place back in their local gatherings in Anglo-land. Surely being Jewish is something that is in our souls, wherever we are based. So, if we (Jews) are to flock to Israel, shouldn’t we all be rejoicing in unity with existing communities together on the basis that we are all Jewish, and here to create the united nation that we have been fighting for, for thousands of years? It is incredible to be walking on Jewish soil, to have a home amongst other Jewish homes and to be in the land we read constantly about in synagogue every Shabbat.

“Do you think many of these people would be making Aliyah if Israel was based in Iceland,” a friend once asked. This may sound blunt, or even quite absurd, but I do wonder. Although, of course Zionism has a place in the hearts of all that make Aliyah. The fact that one chooses to reside in a place subject to overt hate and disacknowledgment is an act in itself to strengthen the legitimisation for Israel’s existence as a Jewish state. We can’t simply sit on our couches viewing Israel via the television set on the news and claim we support Israel. Using our feet to make a global stand is fundamental. And, the Aliyah movement is preferable even if segregation continues to exist, rather than having a lack of movement, with Jews remaining ‘bechuz la-Aretz’ (outside Israel) unpicked from the jelly bean jar.

Back to jelly beans, Mr Effy is definitely caramel flavour and I would say mine is orange blossom, if there was ever an orange blossom jelly bean.

1:8 Reminiscing in Rothschild

2006-03-05T16:34:00.000+02:00

I am sitting in a coffee shop on a street called Rothschild, waiting for the caffeine to seep into my blood stream. It is already 2.30 in the afternoon and I have just got my hands on my daily supply of coffee. Maybe I am addicted, I never did drugs, but aren’t we all entitled to a daily substance-induced buzz of some sort. Anyway, my excuse of course is that is my parents fault. It was they who taught me the appreciation of good coffee, that being fresh espresso rather than instant Nescafe.

The sky is partially cloudy, yet I can’t complain; I have just spent the weekend on the beach. It was amazing, the end of February brought sunshine and blue skies … This type of weather will not take a great deal of getting use to, it just fazed me to be able feel the heat of the sun on my skin at this time of year. It radiated inside me, no longer winter stiffness, but rather a feeling of energy and tranquility. London is approximately 2 degrees, there is no sunshine, no blue sky, simply a sheet of white suffocates the sky … I definitely will not be missing that.

I have spent the day in a hypynotic state of reminiscing. So, with this in mind, I have decided to take my blog to the next level and elaborate on these thoughts. I want to spell out how I feel, rather than simply note my observations in Israel. A friend mentioned that she did indeed enjoy my writing, but more so, she would like to know what exactly was going on inside this complicated head of mine. So, I will try to attempt emotional elaboration.

…. So, back to Rothschild. I chose to sit in Café Hillel, a coffee shop situated on the corner of a junction on this beautiful boulevard. Rothschild is a favourite place of mine to sit and observe the world go by. It is a wide road with a centre piece of walkway, grass, trees and coffee shops running down the middle. It is the ‘Tel Avivian’ catwalk for dog walkers, joggers, coffee sippers and trendy designer mums with their designer buggies. It is here I have chosen to sit and reminisce.

Yesterday I experienced my one of many emotional rollercoaster moments. I have experienced one too many of these since moving to Israel, when at times one minute I feel on top of the world, and the next, I couldn’t be more miserable. I was told by my ‘Aliyah’ representative that this is the process of dealing with culture shock. I did believe it was getting easier. However, yesterday I was overwhelmed by a feeling of missing and loneliness. I do have companionship in Israel, I am fortunate to have made great friends and, in addition, I receive tremendous love and comfort from my boyfriend. Despite all this, nothing could ease the feeling of totally emptiness that possessed me. Yesterday, around 7 in the evening, I cooked dinner for Effy and I, chorizo sausages and sweet potato mash. We ate, he cleared up, I sat on the couch, switched on the television, and then suddenly, when all was done, when the realization that Effy would soon be off home hit me, I felt this sudden rush of emptiness, which hit the pit of my stomach and press against my heart. I hadn’t yet experience such ‘home sicknesses’, such a sense of emptiness from being away from my family and my friends.

Left Behind – The Irreplaceable

The last eight months of living in Israel seemed like a dream, the reality that I had left home as it was, to set off to establish a life in another country, hadn’t totally hit me. It was at this point the feelings of missing my loved ones came to haunt me. Once every person I know, the ones that I have relied on in more ways that are realised, are no longer around, I now have come to truly appreciate their existence in my life. Coming to Israel has made me clearly realise how amazing the people who have been blessed in my life are. Yesterday, I yearned for these people. I craved to experience the presence of my friends from home, to be around those that understand me, with those who I can breathe easily. It is around these people I do not need to taper my character, to polish up any undesirable facets, and to simply be my neurotic self without any judgement!

Yesterday, I yearned for my family. My mother and father, who may turn every screw inside me, are undoubtedly my best friends and I miss them greatly. My mother and father are chalk and cheese; they drive me crazy, they drive each other crazy. However, when these two individuals come together, they seem to fit like coffee and milk and nothing else seems more perfect. My brothers … energetic, charming yet ‘real’ young men … I wish I could be around them, to have the moment of behaving like the children we were when united together and bonded by our joint memories of innocence and childhood. These people will always play a part in the epicentre of my happiness. It is now that I have realised this.

Mike’s Place

I was too fragile to be left alone last night. I had planned to meet my friends, but couldn’t face returning to a potentially empty flat. So Effy decided that after I met with my friends, he would pick me up and we would go back to Ashdod together. With my fears settled, I was ready for some light relief in the form of a pint. It was around 8 in the evening when I joined my friends at Mike’s Place, an English speaking pub that faces Tel Aviv beach front.

Around three months into moving to Israel, Susi, my close friend, and I went to Mike’s Place for a few drinks. Whilst sitting at the bar, we strung up a conversation with a young American barman, Josh. We came to discover that he is a successful documentary producer. His most recent production was a documentary relating to the suicide bombing of Mike’s Place a few years back. This piece was an initial idea of an American director, who came to this pub in Israel to document an aspect of Israeli cultural diversity that takes place here. Some would say Mike’s Place represents Israeli Utopia, the unity of all cultures and religion in one place, with one thing dominating people’s thoughts, peace.

During his filming, a young British man approached the entrance of this pub, with explosives tied round his body and blew himself up, killing three and injuring many others. Some would say the attention the American director had given to the pub led to evil karma being cast upon it. Josh had assisted the director with this piece and was present during the explosion. The director was badly injured, and so Josh took it upon himself to continue with the filming.

Susi and I sat together to watch the documentary. Needless to say, it was unsettling and horrific to watch, leaving us both tearful and in shock. The documentation begins with insight of the lives of those who work at the pub; like characters in a film, you become involved, you feel empathy towards them like they are friends of your own. When it was revealed that some of these ‘characters’ actually died, we felt the real loss that had occurred that day.

Last night, the BBC was recreating the suicide bombing at Mike’s Place for an additional documentation. Friends of Josh were to be extras. Susi and I were given the role to cross the path of the suicide bomber on his entrance to Mike’s Place. The memories of terror and tragedy being played out dissolved and were taken over by the excitement and glamour of cameras, director’s calls for ‘action!’ and free beer.

Rollercoaster Ride

After leaving Mike’s Place, Effy and I returned to Ashdod to meet with his best friend who had returned from the US after a year. The evening ended in a triumph of contentment. It would be so simple if all moments of madness and sadness could return to equilibrium like this evening. After tragedy, such as the bombing of Mike’s Place; after moments of loneliness and depression; following any bout of downturn, it would much easier to deal the journey if it was simply like a rollercoaster ride. If at anytime, we get on the ride and deal with the emotions of life and the realities of war amongst humans, that once the ride had finished, once the dust settles, we would merely step off the ride, and continue with life. How simply life could be … we can only dream.

Other things I Reminisce About:

Tesco Metro
Marks and Spencer’s Mushroom Pate
Marmite
Cheese and Onion Walkers Crisps
London Underground (surprisingly)
London cabbies
Cobbled streets
Pubs
Pizza Express
Spring Blossom

1:7 Life in Tel Aviv ... working 9 till 5

2006-02-19T16:18:00.000+02:00

Tel-Aviv is a microcosm of London, with a beach and sun of course. I have moved into an apartment in the centre of the city. The roads are slightly dirtier, the glamour of high society may not exist, but what is present is a sense of freedom in this city. I can walk the streets and feel alive. Maybe this is due to its geographical size, as here I don’t need to rely on transportation. I can wander the streets at my will. Even more so, this new found freedom derives from the fact that for once, I can be a Jew on Jewish soil in an environment that doesn’t press religious expectations; here I simply can be one as I wish.

As with every major city in the world, life can be silent and lonely in a place so bustling, noisy and overpopulated. When embarking on a new life in a foreign country, I was never quite aware of the effect this transition could have on my emotional wellbeing. Coming here, I felt stripped bare of all thing comforting and familiar. My slate was wiped clean and I could finally understand the person I was in England, my character, and all my flaws. I could have easily slipped into my boyfriend’s life, but I wanted to do this myself, the one chance I could fully understand my life so far. If I am to establish an independent life here, the only person I can rely on is me.

Work

I was fortunate to find a job quite early in my search, in a financial derivatives pricing company. I decided to put a pause on my somewhat small journalism career, an industry that doesn’t carry the prestige and pay in Israel that it does to its Western counterparts. So I decided to press on with the finance.

Despite the familiar corporate foundations to this company, the Israeli work culture was definitely something that would take a lot of adjustment. Only in Israel can the CEO get away with walking around in flip-flops and socks. No formality is applied to dress and time management. Even dialect amongst colleagues seems ‘non-business’ like, with shouting being a means to and end. A country whose economy has grown from its superior on technology on a global level still resides in operating within a system of ‘balagan’ ( Hebrew for chaos/mess) and disorganisation. Something has to give here.

Thursday’s end of week ‘happy hour’ at work consists of another common theme to every social dynamic in Israel … eating. At my place of work, on times of celebration, such as meeting sales targets, we would be invited to drinks and canapés at work. The first form of celebration at my new work place consisted of a table of food ... hummus, meat, falafel, pita bread, an array of salads. My ‘English’ expectations of wine and a few nibbles had been trashed. Any form of social gathering here seems to imply eating, and a lot of it. I partially believe it to be an influence of our Jewish roots. Eating has always seemed to be a top priority throughout my life. In Israel, this food-devoted culture seems to have extended into the workplace. But of course, I am not complaining, even if my tuchus is (‘tuchus’ is Yiddish for buttocks).

Enjoying oneself and devoting time to relaxation seems more prominent here than in London culture. Although on the flipside, this emphasis placed on life outside the workplace leaves the work environment feeling quite empty and flat. People seem to lack the drive and ambition that has been the driving force for my life back home. In London I was defined by my work, yet here I feel loss and this identity is no longer important to the people I am surrounded by. Work doesn’t seem to be an important feature to ones identity, but rather what ones hobbies are, what one enjoys to do in the evenings, or more precisely, after work. This may be a positive aspect to Tel Aviv life … I have learnt to discover that there is more to life than a job, that life can be fulfilled through so many more means … painting, photography, dancing, watching the sunset on the beach with friends. Something that was so important to me has required to take a back seat ; and through this, I am learning to enjoy life in different ways. Yet, I can’t help but feel slightly incomplete; maybe the London girl in me is still around. I am a career woman G-d dammit! One step at a time … I am considering joining a knitting group … out of work hours are so fulfilling!

1:6 The Western Girl, Not So Western Anymore (Sunday, January 29, 2006)

2006-02-16T08:14:00.000+02:00

Since coming to Israel, I spent the weekends, whilst in Jerusalem, and the last few months in Ashdod, a quiet town in Southern Israel. This community, located an hour south from Tel Aviv, replicates a card-board cut-out of American suburbia. Tall, simple, white rectangular buildings, planted in mounds amongst the neatly paved roads, which are lined with pink and yellow flowers and palm trees. This new clean 'ghetto' provides homes to communities from North Africa, Ethiopia, Russia, France and India, making its social makeup slightly peculiar and awkward.

In Ashdod I have been living with Effy's family. It was amongst these wonderfully dynamic people that I felt truly suffocated by Middle Eastern living. In this setting, all my familiarities disappeared. As I became immersed in an environment totally foreign to me, it was here that I have come to fully understand the culture I come from and truly appreciate the diversity of human beings that exist in all corners of the world. Western values that I have taken for granted are yet to be developed in Israel. In every social setting, the role of men, women and the family structure echo underlying values labelled as archaic and backward in Western countries. It has been somewhat of a struggle and journey to learn to leave aside the values that have shaped my conscience, and enter a home in which this understanding of life is contradicted to entirety. I have literally learnt to shut my mouth, and observe to the extent I can this 'new' to me yet 'old' way of living.

Effy's maternal and paternal grandparents came to Israel during the late 1940's after experiencing anti-Semitism and persecution in Tripoli, an Italian colony of Libya, Northern Africa. His family settled in Ashdod and continued to develop their Tripoli foundations, with marriage and offspring being maintained within their community... The result being this huge Tripoli tribe, in other words, Effy's family. The immediate members consist of him, his two brothers, and parents. Following this, on his mother, Miriam's side is the grandparents, three uncles, their wives and about 20 children. It is on his father, Yitsak's (Hebrew for Issac) side where things start to get interesting. Yitsak has nine siblings (one brother and eight sisters), extended from this we have Effy's stereo-type, 'made for mafia movies', Sephardic grandma and around fifty, yes fifty, first cousins, eight of which are also called Effy (taken from his late grandfather); and finally the remaining three pet dogs, one of which recently having eight puppies. Of those who speak English: around 3, maybe four. It is amongst these people, I came to realize how different human beings can be so different in nature, despite the biological construction of us all being identical.

'What's up' from Gangsta Nana

This 'new' culture I entered half a year ago contradicts all that seemed 'normal' to my very existence. I could envisage an imaginary knife slicing through the demographic of this family, one side being determined by a subtle form of male dominance and the other by all possible forms of female domesticity. However, do not misunderstand this situation, these Tripoli women stand far from the weak, subordinated ones that may seem to have been concocted. These women are strong and dominant in their own right. It is, however, the physical nature of their presence, the constant cooking, the repetitive cleaning and nurturing, which seems almost automatic in nature, and which unsettled my understanding of what it is to be a women in the Twenty-first century.

Table Manners

This lesson in cultural diversity took place in various daily social settings of human interaction. For example, I have always understood that eating does not simply mean 'to eat'; even more so, it has come to incorporate certain habits and behaviours. From childhood, I was taught to withhold from placing my elbows on the table, to keep my mouth closed when I eat and to try not to raise my voice at the dinner table. Put simply, certain communities in Israel seemed to miss the boat when it came to adopting a way of culinary mannerisms.

Miriam's family lives amongst each other in a 'Moshav' (this being a communal settling, similar to that of a kibbutz). Her three brothers live with their families in small bungalow-style houses, which surround the dynasty's leadership, the grandparents. The most jolting experience, so far, has been dinner time with the family. All relatives gather round grandma's table and eat mounds of meat and couscous. I do not believe my digestive system has ever quite got over the trauma of the food it has faced the last few months. One time, this consisted of eating every organ of a lamb that just had its throat slit by the local rabbi in the garden. The uncles and aunties enjoyed the delicacies of throat, brain and heart. Lunchtime is like food-lovers marathon, without a serviette or a complete cutlery set in sight.

My understanding of how humans live amongst each other was incomplete. Western people, with western values and western way of living was all I knew, yet which was what I was ignorant of until I surrounded myself with unfamiliarity. The people I came to know have a different history and foundation for living. Their behaviours may seem to shock or even insult, but this is what they know best, this is how they see fit to live in a world dominated by war and ideological terror. It works for them, so why bother changing it, even if their Western visitor may nod her head in disbelief of cultural snobbery.

1:5 Happy Birthday (Sunday, December 11, 2005)

2006-02-16T08:09:00.000+02:00

As promised

September 2004

One night in Tel Aviv, a few words from a passing stranger led to the world spinning from under my feet. The humor of this stranger and the grin on his face was totally endearing. My ‘British’ presence in this bustling Israeli nightclub was to be the brunt of his jokes.

This night lead the way to my life as it was taking on a whole new meaning. It defined the beginning of our future together. I had finally met my best friend.

His presence reminds me of the smell of burning lavender oils. On entering a room, aromas of comfort intoxicate the air. There is no escaping its fragrance. Theis sweet smell makes me feel soft inside, I feel calm and complete again.

He urged to see me again, ‘at least one time’ before I return back home to London. I dropped my veil of stubbornness and gave into his sparkling chocolate eyes and soft voice. Something felt so right and butterflies in my stomach flickered to confirm this. It was just so simple, it could not have been anything but right. This was how it was meant to be and there was no going back.

His presence lightens my soul. He makes me laugh like no other. This laughter lightens my world and his soul has given my life the happiness I have always yearned for.

The ‘final’ day before returning home felt like something I wanted to grab hold of and pull back with a rope. Acknowledging the feeling of emptiness to come sickened me inside. He slotted into a place in my heart. The afternoon in the airport would signify the time when my heart would become incomplete until the time of his return to my life, to fill it once more.

His presence is my focus in life. No one so kind, so giving, so sweet, so generous as he. My living angel has taught how to care and to love undividedly. He has helped me grow into a complete woman.

Today

Only two weeks following my departure, he came to London and back in my life. My darling has continued to stay in my life. He completes my heart.

Being away from the one you love is a struggle, it is impossible to breathe freely, to sleep at night with a rested mind and continue each day without a clouded thought. You cannot continue to live until they are back to fill that hole in your heart again. London was not my home anymore without him. When I am in his presence, I feel at home inhaling the scent of sweet lavender again.

Happy Birthday, I love you my baby, Effy.
XXXX

1:4 Lesson on Life (Monday, November 21, 2005)

2006-02-16T08:08:00.001+02:00

“In every work of genius, we recognise our own rejected thoughts and they come back to us as alienated majesty.” Emerson

A few weeks ago I attended a “shior” (‘lesson’) in Jerusalem given by Professor Zornberg of Cambridge University. Amongst the abundance of information and historical commentary given on Jewish philosophy, I was presented with the above quote. The shior was impressive and inspirational, giving insight into human potential and instinct through the analyzing of the lives of biblical figures. This quote, or interpretation of human behaviour, has haunted me since its recital, echoing insecurities that have often possessed my mind.

Explanation

Many, during life, encounter thoughts of potential that they truly believe can be achieved, avenues they wish to venture, which can take them to new places. These thoughts can be ideas, beliefs, simple dreams or day dreaming ‘gone crazy’. In most cased, these thoughts are repressed, ignored and eventually forgotten. In the case of the lecture, it was Abraham who actually chose to overlook the possibility for repression. He actively acknowledged and ‘lived out’ all thoughts and epiphanies of the existence of God, conclusively leading him to Judaism.

There have been countless times I have repressed motives and ideas, which could have surely taken me towards alternate directions in life. For instance, if I had taken piano lessons more seriously, surely it would have been my destiny to perform in front of thousands. Or, I am certain my passion for justice could have led to my posting of leader for the British Government, if I had even bothered to participate in the debate team at school. The ‘would haves’ and ‘could haves’ tend to be stunted by dismissiveness, laziness and comfort for the norm and simplicity. Sometimes, life is better lived when it is more complicated, just to ensure that true happiness is an optional pursuit.

At least I can say my passion to live in Israel is being ‘lived-out’ rather than simply remaining a dream. Furthermore, writing these accounts reflect my passion for writing finally being acted out. I just hope I can continue to live life by this rule. I wish to no longer add to my list of regrets and be left with the thought that my potential dreams are the “alienated majesty” of others’ fulfillments, left with the thought that “I knew I could have done that”.

1:3 Change of Reality (Friday, November 11, 2005)

2006-02-16T08:07:00.000+02:00

Since coming to Israel, my perspective on living, on life, has been altered. The news I watch represents a different reality; my priorities have a taken on different values, and my outlook on life has transformed.

Lately

The last few months have been somewhat stressful. Searching for a life on the internet hasn’t created a sense of hope for me. The language and culture is a huge obstacle to finding the ideal job and apartment. The system in Israel is based on nepotism rather than meritocracy. To find a job, you must know ‘someone’ ... what do you when you have moved to country in which you don’t know anyone. My situation exactly. Lately, I have been spending most evenings searching on the internet for work, sending my resume to anonymous e-mail addresses, in the hope that someone will notice mine amongst the many other hundreds. Career wise, journalism doesn’t seem to be calling for me in Israel, so I have decided to take a career shift in the hope to actually find a job!

My new society

I live in a society in which, at times, the atmosphere can be cut with a knife. The reality here is different to the western societal comfort I took for granted whilst growing up. Life in Israel has been infiltrated by fear and terror. Israeli youths are committed to three years in the army from 18 years. Children grow to learn that death is very much normal and common; they grow into adulthood with a gun in their hand and learn to appreciate the sounds of firing as simply background rhythms to their teenage hood. Seeing a youth with a machine gun crossed against its back on the bus home from Jerusalem is something totally normal to me now. In London, this site would probably have shocked me somewhat; but now living amongst a generation that truly appreciates the meaning of life is my present reality.

Flip-side

“How bloody miserable”, you must all be thinking. Well, you can all rejoice in the fact the life here isn’t all doom and gloom. The other side of reality is one of joy and magic in Israeli culture. In a country where one truly learns to appreciate death, they learn to totally appreciate life (Mitch Albom). And this is what makes living here so much more exciting and real.

Last summer was filled along the streets of Tel Aviv, Jerusalem, and across Israel with music, love, art, culture and atmosphere. There was a plethora of festivals, concerts and parties that continue on every year. It is surprising that in a country smaller than the size of Wales back in the U.K., they have more going on than what I ever experienced living in London. All I can say is that Israelis definitely know how to party. In September during the holidays, Effy and I danced along the promenade in Tel Aviv at the Love parade. On one side was the beauty of the sea and the sand. On the other side were the same young Israelis I see on the bus, those who spend there weeks in army bases with armory in their hands; this time were holding banners, drinks, and balloons, moving and singing along with the floats parading along the center of the street. The fears of terror and sadness were dissolved into the sounds of the beats and laughter. Israel felt very much alive.

In Jerusalem, spirituality suffocates the air, and beauty resides in the ancient dusty white lime stoned buildings along the cobbled streets. This city is totally incredible. There is no other place in which I experience such uplifting feelings, stimulated by something so invisible and unbelievable. Down the road from my residency exists a single view of Jerusalem, which incorporates the foundations of the three dominant world religions, Christianity, Islam and Judaism, on which the city was created upon. From the window of the building I live, at night I can see the wall of the old city light up (the remains of the Temple), alongside the glow of the golden dome. Jerusalem is truly breathtaking. Every turn you take, you blown away by yet another amazing magical view.

This is the beauty of Israel. The country has been blessed with a rainbow of colours, and a world of environments … green hills and waterfalls of the north, turquoise water and the desert of the south, religion, spirituality, ethnicity, music, and food. This is the country I live in, so even though life here can be unbearably tough, I have so much more to live amongst. This is my new reality.

1:2 The Alef Bet, Men and Women (Monday, October 10, 2005)

2006-02-16T08:06:00.000+02:00

My newly acquired skill: to beable to order falafel and humus in the most polite and appropriate forms.

I have been at an ‘ulpan’ since July, this being a place that one learns Hebrew having made ‘Aliyah’ (this being “Jewish immigration to the Land of Israel”, Wikipedia encyclopedia).

Hebrew is an interesting language. Despite the fact it has developed upon biblical Hebrew, Aramaic, Babylonian and other ancient languages, gender somehow worked its way into the equation and played a defining part in determining its formation.

Now, I am sure in ancient times people had already determined that men and women just don’t talk the same language. I am assuming the whole men are from Mars and women are from Venus theory existed in some form back then. However, this conflicting relationship just seemed to work its way through to communication, and gender was incorporated into the construction of the Hebrew language.

This certainly did not make things easy for me. For example, I can say the word ‘love’ in about a thousand ways, including: masculine singular, masculine plural, feminine singular, feminine plural, as a noun, as the root of the verb; past masculine singular, past masculine plural, past feminine singular, past masculine plural, future forms, imperfect form and the list is endless. Why can’t love just be simple … men always seem to know how to complicate the situation.

The difficulities of the Hebrew language didn't end there. You may be thinking, it can't be that hard, it must be the same pattern to say each verb, for example to say I love, I hate. Oh well, uh oh, no pattern at all. Each bloody single verb is part of one of the plentiful, complicated groups that exist, each having its own pattern of how they are constructed, spelt and pronounced. On top of that, there are the thousands of bloody exceptions, just to throw a spanner in the pipeline (English phrase), the logic explained by my teacher as ‘Cacha Cacha’, i.e. just because.

Conclusion to my dilemma: I wont be surprised once having ordered my falafel and humus that the guy at the counter asks if I had a sex change.

(No I haven’t ... but if you haven’t got the last line, please read again, this time slowly!!)

1:1 (Part 1 'Can't take the London out of a Londoner) The Background, The Result, The Conclusion (Sunday, October 02, 2005)

2006-02-16T07:56:00.000+02:00

So here we go … the explanation to why I left one of the most prosperous, buzzing cities of the world to live in the heated melting pot of all religion, all culture … the epicenter of it all … Israel.

I fulfilled my life ambitions by the age of twenty-four. I had my dream job, a financial reporter for a huge corporation. I had a pension plan, health cover, gym membership, a new car and everything seemed to be in my reach. Yet, the shiny surface of this Western package can be a reality of dull undertones. It was in these shades of grey I lived. The clouds shaded the music, laughter and joy. I was left in a lonely place … my bed, my desk at work and the train ride home.
My reality

Work … an 11-hour a day, at the desk by 5:45am, the constant pressure of accuracy and speed (the core policy of real-time news writing), the daily grunting of verbal abuse amongst colleagues and the lack of sunlight ... glamorous city life! My name had even developed into “f#@king c#Ô" by the night-time editor, and accompanied the beginning of depression and RSI that had spread across my back.

My colleagues

I was experiencing life amongst a bunch of egotistical and self-righteous being (journalists, in other words), whose opinions were clouded by a “middle-class” superiority complex.

Insight into a few of these attitudes

Office banter often brought views and beliefs of these beings to the surface, and often leaving me with feelings of resentment and anger. I can recall one conversation with one young, white and English (questionably 'middle class') colleague concerning the topical matter in British Politics, the practice of fox hunting. This sport, which involves people riding horses, in bowler hats and red jackets and competing to kill foxes, had finally been banned in the United Kingdom. This particular colleague disagreed with this governmental decision and attempted in every measure to justify the sport.

Him: “It has been a tradition for thousands of years imbedded in British culture, why should it change now? It is important to maintain our tradition”

Me: " Hmmm ... forget about the foxes for a sec, slavery and women being denied the right to vote didn’t happen that long ago!"

He abruptly ended the conversation with a grunt.

Morning conversations often included a session of digging over the contents of the daily tabloids (for example, “The Sun”), which involved humouring over how the alien “working class” conduct their lives. “Ohhh, pregnancy of a 16-year-old” … “oh my, drug abuse, how could this be happening!” (N.B. sarcasm on my part ladies and gentlemen).

My so-called colleagues even demonstrated an acceptance for public figures to wear Nazi symbolism at fancy-dress parties (i.e. Prince Harry’s doing in other words). This discussion did seem to fade out with my arrival in the office that day ... I recall one saying "why would such an act offend Jews”. Well, what about the fact that if I had been born 50 years earlier in certain parts in the world, I would more likely be dead than alive. I simply bit my tongue and continued with the day. My passion to defend my beliefs and my identity had worn quite thin over the years. I learnt to shut my mouth and just live with what I believe.

Result

My life didn’t seem to equate with the city life I had quite imagined. It didn't involve sipping on cosmopolitans and lunch dining as envisaged when I finished university. Reality was a cup of tea and a lousy soggy cheese cling-filmed sandwich.

One night, I began thinking (something I seem to be a pro at) “I am in my 20’s, a miserable old cow who can’t seem to find happiness in the life I am living. Hold it … what the hell am I doing with myself?

… I know, I am going to make a stand with my life and determine it's direction. I am buggering off to a country that I have a passion for, a connection to, that serves Kosher kebab 24 hours a day. I am going to live in Israel.

Yes, I do have my ties there. Being Jewish and having an Israeli boyfriend did help prompt my decision, but I was sacrificing all the things every Jewish mother dreams for their child, a career. Well, what could I do, I needed an escape route from this life I somehow fell into.

I wanted to get back in touch with who I am and what I believe. I didn't want have to defend my postion anymore to people that didn't understand the half of it and didn't even care. I wanted to be amongst 'real' life ... living politics and living beliefs. Israel incorporates all of that and more.

Conclusion

So here I am now, four months down the line having moved to Israel … studying the language, immersing into Israeli culture … it is brilliant!!!!!!! I spend my weekends at the beach. I get to spend time sipping on what the hell I want; I get to relax and breathe in the atmosphere and enjoy the life that I have always dreamt of. I meet people from every corner of the world, the greatest people. My pains are finally dissolving, I can drink, dance, relax …. I am finally happy.