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.
Friday, October 13, 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
2:8 Lessons on Shabbat
Everyone has something to say about the meaning of life. A previous blog I wrote, Conversation Turned Ugly, aroused a fair amount of heated debate amongst associates. On the Shabbat following this post, I spent the day watching movies, and one of which further fuelled my analysis on this subject. In particular The Constant Gardener was two hours of worthwhile television viewing. It is the kind of film that leaves you dazed, sat in contemplation, as you replay it over in your mind.
The Constant Garderner aided the subject that had been at the forefront of my mind lately, the amount of value I should be placing on my work life. A brief outline, the film follows the quest of a British Commissioner, Justin, who pursues the truth behind his wife, Tessa’s murder. Before her demise, Tessa strived to uncover corruption in the African British high commission and associated unethical business practices of a pharmaceutical company, which lead to her eventual murder. In a mission to seek out Tessa’s murderer, Justin sets out to fulfil her conquest of revealing the injustices she realised in Africa.
Tessa’s decisions and consequential actions were determined, throughout her life, by her values, belief and mission for justice. And so, yes, her life had enormous meaning. However, what was truly the point of it all …sacrificing her marriage and life in order to implement her beliefs, so that her life has value, yet at the end of all the struggle, lose her life in that pursuit and, therefore, evenutally losing all value.
Tessa had very little chance to make a significant impact on her cause. The world is found upon wealth, heritage, power, politics, religion, bureaucracy and dictatorship. What chance do any of us mere mortals have in the face of this, to make an impact, to make our life meaningful by influencing those around and making the world a better place. She acknowledged the significance of all human life, regardless of this world, regardless of what it is built upon and, consequently, she ended up dead and simply a memory.
Should I take the idea from the movie that we should follow our hearts, our beliefs, despite the consequence, as long as it means we are honouring the meaning of our life. Does this imply we should maintain a value in our life by pursuing our beliefs, despite the actual value of our life, as it becomes secondary to the goals we aim to achieve?
It seems politics and power, and such, corruption, will always be the winning team. So, if we will all be so hopeless, unable to illustrate the love we have for others, what is the point of it all. There will never be anything of a truly meaningful life, if no-one is able to stop genocide in Sudan. Okey, this was just a movie, I am slightly melodramatic and rambling somewhat, but I just can't help but think.
The Constant Garderner aided the subject that had been at the forefront of my mind lately, the amount of value I should be placing on my work life. A brief outline, the film follows the quest of a British Commissioner, Justin, who pursues the truth behind his wife, Tessa’s murder. Before her demise, Tessa strived to uncover corruption in the African British high commission and associated unethical business practices of a pharmaceutical company, which lead to her eventual murder. In a mission to seek out Tessa’s murderer, Justin sets out to fulfil her conquest of revealing the injustices she realised in Africa.
Tessa’s decisions and consequential actions were determined, throughout her life, by her values, belief and mission for justice. And so, yes, her life had enormous meaning. However, what was truly the point of it all …sacrificing her marriage and life in order to implement her beliefs, so that her life has value, yet at the end of all the struggle, lose her life in that pursuit and, therefore, evenutally losing all value.
Tessa had very little chance to make a significant impact on her cause. The world is found upon wealth, heritage, power, politics, religion, bureaucracy and dictatorship. What chance do any of us mere mortals have in the face of this, to make an impact, to make our life meaningful by influencing those around and making the world a better place. She acknowledged the significance of all human life, regardless of this world, regardless of what it is built upon and, consequently, she ended up dead and simply a memory.
Should I take the idea from the movie that we should follow our hearts, our beliefs, despite the consequence, as long as it means we are honouring the meaning of our life. Does this imply we should maintain a value in our life by pursuing our beliefs, despite the actual value of our life, as it becomes secondary to the goals we aim to achieve?
It seems politics and power, and such, corruption, will always be the winning team. So, if we will all be so hopeless, unable to illustrate the love we have for others, what is the point of it all. There will never be anything of a truly meaningful life, if no-one is able to stop genocide in Sudan. Okey, this was just a movie, I am slightly melodramatic and rambling somewhat, but I just can't help but think.
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
2:7 In a Holy Fashion
September … the month slipped through my fingers, I was unable to reign in on time and grasp a minute in my hand to savour and retrospect. Even writing, my single channel to mental sanity, did not have a place to sit in my waiting room of to-dos. It is now October, the Jewish calendar reached its summit and started anew, a trip to London has been and gone, I have seen three cups smashed under wedding canopies, and work has slithered through the cracks. All the action blew pass and I tried to hold on but was blown away by the pace. I will attempt to recollect my thoughts of September for the sake of recollection.
Home time for the New Year
Rosh Hashanah, the Kosher new years day, signified time for my annual visit to the synagogue, to bind my resolutions with G-d: to cut down on negative mummers, to be a better person than I presently am, to visit synagogue more than on this one annual occasion, and to stop being so ungrateful. It also means family time, eating, resting and a two-day mental and physical rehabilitation period amongst my loved ones. The last two years, I have been in Israel during Rosh Hashanah and observed in a less than conventional way compared to my usual Ashkenazi approach. This year signified time for a 'holy' home visit and to spend Rosh Hashanah with the family. The memories cemented into my idea of holiday time at home in England have begun to crack. I was reliving these memories in a new light as the New Year drew in.
Synagogue and Hats
The weekend trip to London was to be spent in the two domains of home and synagogue, and we would carry out the Rosh Hashanah ritual. I would accompany my mother to our North London community synagogue in the morning, dressed in our new New Year gear, lippy, matching jewels, plenty spritzes of eau de toilette and my mum's accompaniment of some weird and fancy construction on her head, known as a hat. We would enter the holy domain through a heavy wooden door, clickety-clacking across the entrance, then tip-toeing in our high-heels once we realised the noise we made and see through glass doors men, all cocooned in white and blue stripped talises (prayer cloak), rocking to the rhythm of holy lyrics. We would slowly climb the red carpeted stairs to the ladies section, enter a balcony of nattering women sporting other fancy constructions and smelling of other ghastly moth-spray smelling eau de toilettes. We would squeeze our way through the over-sized blue leather seats to get to my mother’s prepaid positioning, causing much inconvenience to the ladies in conversation. I would peek over the latest headwear features, peer over the men’s section below and give a wave and a wink to my dad, who is as usual grinning up to me and blowing a kiss.
This year , the schedule was on queue. As per usual, I plonked my tuchus on the squeaky leather seats, I took a moment to absorb the surrounds, and realised, however, that the whole situation felt uncanny. Fine then, the seats had been reupholstered, the usual chandler fixtures had been changed to new 60’s décor shades and the crowd came with additional grey hairs, botox injections and hair extensions. Nevertheless, this year I did not feel right amongst the crowd, I wasn’t the same as 2 years before, the new me was uncomfortable and did not slot in so easily. Of course we all change and go through developments. Although, as with the synagogue décor, it seemed I had also gone through a refurbishment and no longer felt part of this community. Israel has impacted on me; even though I cannot pin point its effect, I realised it has changed me, for better or worse; and this Rosh Hashanah was the first that I came to realise that I have changed, for better of worse. And honestly, I feel a whole lot more comfortable with this new model.
Prayer and Prada
The women perched in the ladies gallery looking immaculate and resembling a collection of magazine clippings, with ruler straight hair, nails in perfect condition, a natural look of makeup plastered on with precision and clothes seemingly just off the Prada rack. Yet, it all seemed so surreal, as if a couture monster had possessed their presence, their smiles and their personality. There appearance seemed masked, disguising their inner character and creating a public display of what is important to them, public status and wealth.
In Israel, for some women, appearance is a means to exude an image of sexuality, wearing tight-fitting, cleavage-cut, curve-extenuating clothes, matched with a face of sultriness. In the same space, other women sees appearance, or in particular, clothing for its functional purpose, full-stop. Across the horizon, fashion seems to carry a facet of equality, whereby the large part of the female population have an opportunity to dress one way or another, with fashion being attainable.
In my home community, I felt a state, booted in a skirt and satin blouse that emphasised areas I had placed a pound or ten on since last wearing them, as I hadn’t worn them since being sat here two year ago. My nails were unpolished; my hair had a slight kink; and my shoes were scruffy on the points and scraped on the heels, as those too were not worn since last being in that prepaid blue seat. My appearance amongst this crowd of synagogue-going cat-walkers may have bothered me two years ago, however, at that moment, I was totally unbothered. Either I have done some growing up, or was it that I had left this world behind to fall into a pit of shallowness. Whatever it is, I am happy to have left.
I should have spent this time in synagogue concentrating on my resolutions and faux pas of the year, the focus of Rosh Hashanah. However, these thoughts were clouded by the muttering amongst the women, which in turn, drowned out the tunes sung from the men below. Their prayers for forgiveness probably reached G-d a lot sooner than I, so thank goodness I still had a whole day of atonement to return to in the holy land.
Fasting Amongst Fasters
The time in London came and went in a flash in a pan. A week later, I returned to the holy land. I was in Ashdod repenting for my sins on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, the Day of Atonement. This event involves a fast for 25 hours and the second occasional annual visit to synagogue, to feel bare of physicality and spirituality connected to God to repent.
Up till last year, I observed this high holyday in a country completely detached from it’s holiness. I would hide away at home or synagogue. The world outside would continue, the noises on traffic and city life would resound, but I would be in a place of silence. The two settings simply couldn’t amalgamate. However, this year I was in a place where I no longer felt the odd one out. Coming to Israel, I am able to observe a holiday in a society on holiday. I can atone for my sins in a place of repenters. The most apparent moment was on Erev Yom Kippur, the night bringing in the Day of Atonement.
White-Dressed Wanderers
During Yom Kippur, Israel literally shuts down. It is forbidden to drive, shops are banned from opening and all public life is placed on halt. The only sounds come from children on the streets and the praying of atoners. You are unable to eat, watch television, travel, be intimate and to even wash oneself. Simply put, we maintain a basic form of existence. Effy once mentioned in the past, ‘just wait till Yom Kippur, it is the strangest sight you will ever see.’ He was right. The streets stood still upon which residents, dressed in white, filled the black tarmac streets (Israeli’s traditionally wear white on Yom Kippur). Little children skipped hand in hand, adults strolled and elderly, in wheelchairs, wheeled their way down the main highway. It was like a modern re-enactment of the Israelites being guided out of Egypt by Moses. For miles, people filled the highways, doing nothing but simply being in coexistence. Those strollers may not have been repenting at that moment, nevertheless they were all detached from all modern distractions and simply in the company of others, appreciating the basic pleasures of life, which in other ways can be seen as truly spiritual. It was amazing to witness this, and I could not be more grateful for being part of this national fast.
The Ashdod community stood in silence in synagogue to hear the sounds of the Shofar (ram’s horn blown for religious significance), representing the end to the fast. Following this, I was almost knocked down by a mad rush of white-clothed Ashdodians, practically running home to fulfil their hunger; I galloped for an English cuppa. This also marked the beginning of the next countdown till Yom Kippur once more and God cleaning his slates clean to chalk ticks and crosses under our names again.
I presume I have learnt from the pass year, on reflection from my experiences of going to the place I once was and the place I am now. For the year to come I hope to fully develop into a more efficient and sleeker model, more aware of what the world has to offer and my position in this big place called earth.
Home time for the New Year
Rosh Hashanah, the Kosher new years day, signified time for my annual visit to the synagogue, to bind my resolutions with G-d: to cut down on negative mummers, to be a better person than I presently am, to visit synagogue more than on this one annual occasion, and to stop being so ungrateful. It also means family time, eating, resting and a two-day mental and physical rehabilitation period amongst my loved ones. The last two years, I have been in Israel during Rosh Hashanah and observed in a less than conventional way compared to my usual Ashkenazi approach. This year signified time for a 'holy' home visit and to spend Rosh Hashanah with the family. The memories cemented into my idea of holiday time at home in England have begun to crack. I was reliving these memories in a new light as the New Year drew in.
Synagogue and Hats
The weekend trip to London was to be spent in the two domains of home and synagogue, and we would carry out the Rosh Hashanah ritual. I would accompany my mother to our North London community synagogue in the morning, dressed in our new New Year gear, lippy, matching jewels, plenty spritzes of eau de toilette and my mum's accompaniment of some weird and fancy construction on her head, known as a hat. We would enter the holy domain through a heavy wooden door, clickety-clacking across the entrance, then tip-toeing in our high-heels once we realised the noise we made and see through glass doors men, all cocooned in white and blue stripped talises (prayer cloak), rocking to the rhythm of holy lyrics. We would slowly climb the red carpeted stairs to the ladies section, enter a balcony of nattering women sporting other fancy constructions and smelling of other ghastly moth-spray smelling eau de toilettes. We would squeeze our way through the over-sized blue leather seats to get to my mother’s prepaid positioning, causing much inconvenience to the ladies in conversation. I would peek over the latest headwear features, peer over the men’s section below and give a wave and a wink to my dad, who is as usual grinning up to me and blowing a kiss.
This year , the schedule was on queue. As per usual, I plonked my tuchus on the squeaky leather seats, I took a moment to absorb the surrounds, and realised, however, that the whole situation felt uncanny. Fine then, the seats had been reupholstered, the usual chandler fixtures had been changed to new 60’s décor shades and the crowd came with additional grey hairs, botox injections and hair extensions. Nevertheless, this year I did not feel right amongst the crowd, I wasn’t the same as 2 years before, the new me was uncomfortable and did not slot in so easily. Of course we all change and go through developments. Although, as with the synagogue décor, it seemed I had also gone through a refurbishment and no longer felt part of this community. Israel has impacted on me; even though I cannot pin point its effect, I realised it has changed me, for better or worse; and this Rosh Hashanah was the first that I came to realise that I have changed, for better of worse. And honestly, I feel a whole lot more comfortable with this new model.
Prayer and Prada
The women perched in the ladies gallery looking immaculate and resembling a collection of magazine clippings, with ruler straight hair, nails in perfect condition, a natural look of makeup plastered on with precision and clothes seemingly just off the Prada rack. Yet, it all seemed so surreal, as if a couture monster had possessed their presence, their smiles and their personality. There appearance seemed masked, disguising their inner character and creating a public display of what is important to them, public status and wealth.
In Israel, for some women, appearance is a means to exude an image of sexuality, wearing tight-fitting, cleavage-cut, curve-extenuating clothes, matched with a face of sultriness. In the same space, other women sees appearance, or in particular, clothing for its functional purpose, full-stop. Across the horizon, fashion seems to carry a facet of equality, whereby the large part of the female population have an opportunity to dress one way or another, with fashion being attainable.
In my home community, I felt a state, booted in a skirt and satin blouse that emphasised areas I had placed a pound or ten on since last wearing them, as I hadn’t worn them since being sat here two year ago. My nails were unpolished; my hair had a slight kink; and my shoes were scruffy on the points and scraped on the heels, as those too were not worn since last being in that prepaid blue seat. My appearance amongst this crowd of synagogue-going cat-walkers may have bothered me two years ago, however, at that moment, I was totally unbothered. Either I have done some growing up, or was it that I had left this world behind to fall into a pit of shallowness. Whatever it is, I am happy to have left.
I should have spent this time in synagogue concentrating on my resolutions and faux pas of the year, the focus of Rosh Hashanah. However, these thoughts were clouded by the muttering amongst the women, which in turn, drowned out the tunes sung from the men below. Their prayers for forgiveness probably reached G-d a lot sooner than I, so thank goodness I still had a whole day of atonement to return to in the holy land.
Fasting Amongst Fasters
The time in London came and went in a flash in a pan. A week later, I returned to the holy land. I was in Ashdod repenting for my sins on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, the Day of Atonement. This event involves a fast for 25 hours and the second occasional annual visit to synagogue, to feel bare of physicality and spirituality connected to God to repent.
Up till last year, I observed this high holyday in a country completely detached from it’s holiness. I would hide away at home or synagogue. The world outside would continue, the noises on traffic and city life would resound, but I would be in a place of silence. The two settings simply couldn’t amalgamate. However, this year I was in a place where I no longer felt the odd one out. Coming to Israel, I am able to observe a holiday in a society on holiday. I can atone for my sins in a place of repenters. The most apparent moment was on Erev Yom Kippur, the night bringing in the Day of Atonement.
White-Dressed Wanderers
During Yom Kippur, Israel literally shuts down. It is forbidden to drive, shops are banned from opening and all public life is placed on halt. The only sounds come from children on the streets and the praying of atoners. You are unable to eat, watch television, travel, be intimate and to even wash oneself. Simply put, we maintain a basic form of existence. Effy once mentioned in the past, ‘just wait till Yom Kippur, it is the strangest sight you will ever see.’ He was right. The streets stood still upon which residents, dressed in white, filled the black tarmac streets (Israeli’s traditionally wear white on Yom Kippur). Little children skipped hand in hand, adults strolled and elderly, in wheelchairs, wheeled their way down the main highway. It was like a modern re-enactment of the Israelites being guided out of Egypt by Moses. For miles, people filled the highways, doing nothing but simply being in coexistence. Those strollers may not have been repenting at that moment, nevertheless they were all detached from all modern distractions and simply in the company of others, appreciating the basic pleasures of life, which in other ways can be seen as truly spiritual. It was amazing to witness this, and I could not be more grateful for being part of this national fast.
The Ashdod community stood in silence in synagogue to hear the sounds of the Shofar (ram’s horn blown for religious significance), representing the end to the fast. Following this, I was almost knocked down by a mad rush of white-clothed Ashdodians, practically running home to fulfil their hunger; I galloped for an English cuppa. This also marked the beginning of the next countdown till Yom Kippur once more and God cleaning his slates clean to chalk ticks and crosses under our names again.
I presume I have learnt from the pass year, on reflection from my experiences of going to the place I once was and the place I am now. For the year to come I hope to fully develop into a more efficient and sleeker model, more aware of what the world has to offer and my position in this big place called earth.
Saturday, September 09, 2006
2:6 Good Conversation Turned Ugly
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 ;-)
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 ;-)
Friday, August 18, 2006
2:5 Contradictions in Term
It has been quite some time since I wrote my last blog. It was tricky attemtping to structure my thoughts into several paragraphs, since they seem to have been disorganised as the items in my handbag. Every time I dive in to collect a sentiment, I rummage around with my eyes closed and pull out another. The last few weeks were somewhat of an emotional oxymoron, leaving me with a bitter-sweet taste in my mouth. Visitors from home are coming and going, a war continues, my hormones are playing havoc with my psyche and I cannot seem to stop eating food that contains chocolate … I guess a combination of public mourning for fallen soldiers and P.M.S will never leave you with a straight head. Anyway, as the clouds begin to clear, I will try to empty out a few items of my handbag on the table.
Dull Tones of a Pretty Picture
The other night I attended the wedding of an ex-ulpan friend that took place in a kibbutz in the Judeans Hills, overlooking Jerusalem. The proposals of marriage, which took place under the chupah (bridal canopy), radiated from the beauties of the sunset. The soft orange glow lightened the white stand, and the sound of the rabbi’s prayers brought a melody to the breezy mountain air. In chorus, the voice of the neighbouring Arab village, calling on the speakers for the start of their evening prayers, echoed in the backdrop. The voices of the two religions at war coexisted in tune, filling the crisp air with the sound of hope.
The Israel-Lebanon conflict dragged on the last few weeks and has nearly reached a halt. The battle pulled in young men from across the country to defend its cause. Acknowledgement of every detail of progression has left me feeling like a hollow shell, emptied of opinion and curiosity, as I spent the last 34 days sat in front of a PR war, watching the news. Blood drained from the pipelines of the Middle East, souls were grabbed by the media and splattered across the news to represent the conflict. A cease fire was agreed to, and since, Israel has slowly withdrawn from Lebanon. The general feeling amongst associates is one of uncertainty and pessimism. We all yearn for the young men of Israel to return home, for the environment to adjust to one of normality, for the bars and clubs to start singing out a happy tune, and for a breath of relief to exude from the heart of the population. It seems that day is nearing, yet the shadows of the lost lives, taken from the terror, will never shift and cast upon the Israeli youth.
“We’re All Going on a Summer Holiday” … Well, Maybe Not
As the national chaos of the conflict continued in the northern regions, summer holiday activity arrived at doorstep of Israel’s coastline 30 miles south. It is the coexistence of two such aspects of Israel’s multiple personality that makes it such a unique place to live.
In Tel Aviv, the month of August tends to mean truckload deliveries of tourists, who spill out onto the beaches, bars and restaurants. This year, however, the usual summer buzz seems to be more of a hum. There seem to be scarecly few young Americans, dressed in oversized caps and rucksacks, trawling through the souvenir shops in Ben Yehuda and Dizengoff Street. Beer swigging English teens, dressed in extra short-mini skirts and overdone hair styles, seem to be absent from the bars. And the fact that a large part of the young male Israeli population are involved in combat has meant this summer hasn’t been quite up to scratch.
The past few weeks, I have heard of far too many English acquaintances cancelling their holiday in Israel. At the time of hearing, I felt extreme anger and betrayal, as it is generally these people that will fervently defend the land of Israel on every debating occasion. Yet, at times when physical and financial support is critically needed, it seems they are no where to be seen. I can appreciate the fact that having to spend your two week holiday in a war-torn country does not exactly sound like mental relaxation. After all, who am I to judge how one spends their money. Furthermore, I can appreciate how Israel is represented on international news channels, and it is not necessarily a pretty sight. However, I cannot help but feel disappointed.
Closer to Home
Leaving aside the current affairs that outline the backdrop to my civil presence in Israel, I will divulge into some of the more personal events of the past two weeks, which left me slightly anxious yet satisfied. My truckload arrived and it brought an air of warmth to my surroundings. My English comrades and my baby brother were packed on board.
It has only been a year since their last visits, when I first made Aliyah. This time around, it was peculiar to see their response towards my ‘Israeli’ presence. My character always stood out as markedly British and proper, especially in comparison to my other Jewish, predominantly Sephardic, friends. My relationship with one of my closest friends, Karin, typifies this dynamic. In my perception, Karin has always been heavily defined by ‘Israeli’ traits. In her home, I would be prominent for being the over-polite, well-mannered, light-skinned, freckle-faced British girl. Karin, on the other hand, would be far more forward, vocal and dynamic with her hand gestures. Since the start of our 12-year (or so) friendship, she was the 'Israeli' in England and I, the ‘English girl' in her Israeli home, which created a certain dynamic between us. However, during her visit this summer, our new identities brought light to this dynamic, as our personalities were thrown into a new dimension. The thought arose 'who is the Israeli now?!'
Karin and I spent an afternoon for retail therapy in Dizengoff Street. We were strolling down Dizengoff, crossing the road, and a car beeps for us to hurry. Karin turns and puts her hand up apologetically. I turn and shout “Mazeh” (what is this?!) “… it is OUR bloody right of way.” Karin’s face flipped round to me with a stark face and said in a state of shock “Wow! You really have turned into a Israeli!” I never realised my politeness had crept into hiding, and that chuzpah was now the dominant tune in my dialect. The incident was bizarre and quite revealing of the people we have become, as if we had swapped outfits and, with that, been presented with revamped identities. I hadn’t realised that up till that point the world around me does impact on my character, rearranging my words and manners.
Emotional Oxymoron
This last period may seem rather dreary. It is hard to describe the moments that I felt as if I was in a dark hole, unable to see daylight, and where every problem seemed to crumble down around me. At the same time, having the people I feel most at ease with, in my presence, was penicillin to my soul. I had a constant taste of bitter-sweet in my mouth, knowing they were returning home in a matter of weeks, days. I could not place too much emphasis on their presence because at the same time, I was counting down the time I would be without them. This left me in the state of confusion, as mentioned at the start. Short-term happiness with an undertone of constant sadness; it was a bitter sweet, pleasing pain. My surrounding is a country in a state of mourning. I am living in an emotional oxymoron; every aspect of my life is defined by this, threats to security/street safety, great lifestyle/lack of money, beach/no career, new/old, past/present. I need some plain sailing.
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.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
2:4 A Stupid World
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.
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.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
2:3 In the Midst of Mayhem
I remember observing, on arrival to Israel, that this is the best year I could have made Aliyah. Previous to this time, the Intifada period arrived, dampening the buzz of Tel Aviv. The economy slumped, shops tailing down Ben Yehuda were boarded up and a wave of dreariness washed up on Tel Aviv’s shore. Political dialogue paved the way for a controversial wall to be set between ‘us’ and ‘them’ and Gaza was disengaged. Following the developments, an economy defined by ‘bullish’ trends rose to the face of Tel Aviv, shop windows took ‘for sale’ signs down, refurbishment waved through coffee shops and the tide drew back, leaving behind a glow on Hayarkon promenade. I felt at ease in the holy land and a realisation that life in Israel doesn’t have to be defined by a state of terror.
The past week, the tide changed yet again. The kidnapping of two Israeli soldiers by Hizbollah (definition: ‘Shiite terrorist organization with strong ties to Iran; seeks to create an Iranian fundamentalist Islamic state in Lebanon; car bombs are the signature weapon’, www.thefreedictionary.com), leading to escalated violence and ‘war’ between Lebanon and Israel resounds on every news channel, every moment of the day.
I want to avoid any discussion of the ‘wrongs’ and ‘rights’ of the situation and where the finger should be pointed. The arena of discussion suffices, as keyboards are tapped away at by journalists, commentators and even in the public voice of other blog writers, discussing the actions of Israel, Lebanon, Hizbollah, Iran and Syria. Nothing I say will provide any new insight or evaluation that has already been said. So, in the blog-centric fashion, I will give you insight into my experience of living in the midst of mayhem, sat poised in front of the television as the story develops.
News flash: Sirens sound in Haifa
As most people in Israel did over Shabbat (obviously except those that keep Shabbat!), I was glued to Sky news broadcast, watching current affairs progress. The frightening part is that I no longer have the Mediterranean Sea wedged between myself and danger; it is now on my front doorstep. Around 8 o’clock on Friday night, just before I was to sit with Effy’s family to welcome Shabbat into our weekend with a chorus of blessings, I sat in shock as a news translator provided comprehension to the words of a Hizbollah leader. I crouched rigidly with my knees to my chest and arms wrapped around them tightly, as I heard the conflict with Israel would now be an ‘open war’ and, in so many words, Israel would now pay for everything done up till now.
I freaked out. I could not handle the words coming through the TV set. They entered my mind like a drug infiltrating into my blood stream, creating a reaction of ‘eraticness’ and irrationalness. There were only two people that could potentially bring me back to a state of sanity, my parents. My clock of independence turned back to the past and I became nervous and unsettled like a little child lost in a busy shopping mall. I dialled my father’s mobile and I was overwhelmed with relief with his voice on the other end.
Me: Dad, it’s me
Dad: Ohhh Boobala … it is so nice to hear your voice. I was going to call you this evening. Are you okey? What is going on?
Me: Dad, I am scared (tears starting streaming down my face), I can’t take it anymore, I wanna come home.
Dad: What has happened??
Me: They … they just declared war … an open war.
Dad: (anger intensifying in his voice, excuse the political sway here) Don’t let those bloody bastards scare you!! Those f**king bastards … Don’t let them scare you. This is exactly what they want … Listen, you are a ‘Shaer’, you have to act strong, you are tough girl (the expected answer from my Dad, bless him).
Me: DAD (interrupting his bluster) … I am scared! It has never got this bad … What should I do, I want to come home, I don’t know what to do?? (I said in a blubbering tone).
Dad: (his tone shifts suddenly, in realisation of my state) Okey boobey, dolly … I understand … calm down … if you really want to come home, it isn’t a bad idea. But listen, this is all psychological warfare. Don’t let those f**king bastards scare you ….”
I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere and shoved the phone to Effy, and let the ‘men’ discuss my welfare. Now, I am never usually like this … I promise! The words echoing on the news broke down my wall of strength and ability to cope.
Amongst the midst of this madness, surrounding the debate, the whaling and the anger, human beings are being killed. I disregarded the two-sided debate between ‘us’ and ‘them’ occurring, and focused on the thoughts: I am too young to die … I don’t want to killed ... there is so much in my life I have yet to achieve. This attitude may appear narcissist, self-absorbed or even childish. Yet, when you find yourself in a situation where missiles are being fired at areas relatively near to you, when the words ‘open war’ are spat at the country you live in, then arguably, this reaction to war is a common one amongst newcomers, like myself.
News flash: Syria vows firm, direct and unlimited response if it is attacked by Israel.
After my hysteria calmed down, I wiped the tears away, breathed deeply to relieve my mental composition, and returned to a state of normality. I attended the Shabbat table, joining Effy’s family in reciting the blessings. His father, Yitsak, joked
Yitsak: “Huuney (his nickname for me), at mephachedete?” (Are you scared, in a sarcastic tone?) “Huh huh huh” (and continued with laughter).
His brother turned to me and remarked “don’t worry Nat, this happens all the time.” Yeah sure, if you have spent your whole life in the Middle East, I thought to myself. I was certain my behaviour had been viewed as an over reaction and was angry that my fear was mocked. Yes, their reaction to the war was totally different to my episode; but come on, I am a newcomer to all of this after all! There will be an inconsistency in response between those that have lived with a backdrop of political upheaval all their lives, and those, i.e. me, an English girl brought up in the leafy suburbs of London, whose societal worries mount to nothing more than ministerial sex scandals and NHS funding discrepancies.
During the Intifada in 2003, I did live and work in Israel. Although, thankfully, due to the fact that I didn’t have access to a television set, I continued my business in Israel in a state of naivety, whilst suicide bombers continued to detonate themselves in public places. Presently, when safety is again on the brink of disqualification, I am sat glued to Sky news, and totally aware of every step taken, hence knowledge=awareness=hysteria.
News flash: Israel defence minister: Israel faces decisive moment in its history
I feel slight guilt over feelings of self concern and bitterness for the fact that I do feel vulnerable and nervous, as each headlines flash with a new development. I should be representing all the attributes my father enunciates … pride, stubbornness and nationalism. I guess my tuchus is not going anywhere, and I will stay put through all the progress, as the situation gets tougher and as I learn to deal with a situation Israeli citizens have always lived with… a state of being that is constantly reshaped by the hands of politicians and organisations. Yet, I am still a young girl at heart, and cannot deny the tendency towards concerns of self preservation and a parent’s comforting words.
This morning, as Shabbat vacated and Israel clocked into work, I returned to my flat in Tel Aviv to write my account of the events. The news resounded in the background, and headlines changed minutes apart:
News flash: Syrian PM warns of unlimited force if Israel attacks (in so many words)
News flash: Israeli cabinet minister: missiles that hit Haifa train are Syrian.
My stomach began to tighten and my nerves began to fray as the state of affairs worsened. I thought what the hell am I doing, I am torturing myself with intrigue; and with that in my mind, I slammed off the television, grabbed my book, and joined other young Tel Avivians on the benches of Rothschild, with an ice coffee and a state of innocence … ignorance is bliss and a much healthier condition for me to reside in.
Effy just informed me that the Hizbollah have missiles that can reach Tel Aviv and are planning to use them .... and I have no bomb shelter in my apartment block, f**k ... where is the whiskey?
The past week, the tide changed yet again. The kidnapping of two Israeli soldiers by Hizbollah (definition: ‘Shiite terrorist organization with strong ties to Iran; seeks to create an Iranian fundamentalist Islamic state in Lebanon; car bombs are the signature weapon’, www.thefreedictionary.com), leading to escalated violence and ‘war’ between Lebanon and Israel resounds on every news channel, every moment of the day.
I want to avoid any discussion of the ‘wrongs’ and ‘rights’ of the situation and where the finger should be pointed. The arena of discussion suffices, as keyboards are tapped away at by journalists, commentators and even in the public voice of other blog writers, discussing the actions of Israel, Lebanon, Hizbollah, Iran and Syria. Nothing I say will provide any new insight or evaluation that has already been said. So, in the blog-centric fashion, I will give you insight into my experience of living in the midst of mayhem, sat poised in front of the television as the story develops.
News flash: Sirens sound in Haifa
As most people in Israel did over Shabbat (obviously except those that keep Shabbat!), I was glued to Sky news broadcast, watching current affairs progress. The frightening part is that I no longer have the Mediterranean Sea wedged between myself and danger; it is now on my front doorstep. Around 8 o’clock on Friday night, just before I was to sit with Effy’s family to welcome Shabbat into our weekend with a chorus of blessings, I sat in shock as a news translator provided comprehension to the words of a Hizbollah leader. I crouched rigidly with my knees to my chest and arms wrapped around them tightly, as I heard the conflict with Israel would now be an ‘open war’ and, in so many words, Israel would now pay for everything done up till now.
I freaked out. I could not handle the words coming through the TV set. They entered my mind like a drug infiltrating into my blood stream, creating a reaction of ‘eraticness’ and irrationalness. There were only two people that could potentially bring me back to a state of sanity, my parents. My clock of independence turned back to the past and I became nervous and unsettled like a little child lost in a busy shopping mall. I dialled my father’s mobile and I was overwhelmed with relief with his voice on the other end.
Me: Dad, it’s me
Dad: Ohhh Boobala … it is so nice to hear your voice. I was going to call you this evening. Are you okey? What is going on?
Me: Dad, I am scared (tears starting streaming down my face), I can’t take it anymore, I wanna come home.
Dad: What has happened??
Me: They … they just declared war … an open war.
Dad: (anger intensifying in his voice, excuse the political sway here) Don’t let those bloody bastards scare you!! Those f**king bastards … Don’t let them scare you. This is exactly what they want … Listen, you are a ‘Shaer’, you have to act strong, you are tough girl (the expected answer from my Dad, bless him).
Me: DAD (interrupting his bluster) … I am scared! It has never got this bad … What should I do, I want to come home, I don’t know what to do?? (I said in a blubbering tone).
Dad: (his tone shifts suddenly, in realisation of my state) Okey boobey, dolly … I understand … calm down … if you really want to come home, it isn’t a bad idea. But listen, this is all psychological warfare. Don’t let those f**king bastards scare you ….”
I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere and shoved the phone to Effy, and let the ‘men’ discuss my welfare. Now, I am never usually like this … I promise! The words echoing on the news broke down my wall of strength and ability to cope.
Amongst the midst of this madness, surrounding the debate, the whaling and the anger, human beings are being killed. I disregarded the two-sided debate between ‘us’ and ‘them’ occurring, and focused on the thoughts: I am too young to die … I don’t want to killed ... there is so much in my life I have yet to achieve. This attitude may appear narcissist, self-absorbed or even childish. Yet, when you find yourself in a situation where missiles are being fired at areas relatively near to you, when the words ‘open war’ are spat at the country you live in, then arguably, this reaction to war is a common one amongst newcomers, like myself.
News flash: Syria vows firm, direct and unlimited response if it is attacked by Israel.
After my hysteria calmed down, I wiped the tears away, breathed deeply to relieve my mental composition, and returned to a state of normality. I attended the Shabbat table, joining Effy’s family in reciting the blessings. His father, Yitsak, joked
Yitsak: “Huuney (his nickname for me), at mephachedete?” (Are you scared, in a sarcastic tone?) “Huh huh huh” (and continued with laughter).
His brother turned to me and remarked “don’t worry Nat, this happens all the time.” Yeah sure, if you have spent your whole life in the Middle East, I thought to myself. I was certain my behaviour had been viewed as an over reaction and was angry that my fear was mocked. Yes, their reaction to the war was totally different to my episode; but come on, I am a newcomer to all of this after all! There will be an inconsistency in response between those that have lived with a backdrop of political upheaval all their lives, and those, i.e. me, an English girl brought up in the leafy suburbs of London, whose societal worries mount to nothing more than ministerial sex scandals and NHS funding discrepancies.
During the Intifada in 2003, I did live and work in Israel. Although, thankfully, due to the fact that I didn’t have access to a television set, I continued my business in Israel in a state of naivety, whilst suicide bombers continued to detonate themselves in public places. Presently, when safety is again on the brink of disqualification, I am sat glued to Sky news, and totally aware of every step taken, hence knowledge=awareness=hysteria.
News flash: Israel defence minister: Israel faces decisive moment in its history
I feel slight guilt over feelings of self concern and bitterness for the fact that I do feel vulnerable and nervous, as each headlines flash with a new development. I should be representing all the attributes my father enunciates … pride, stubbornness and nationalism. I guess my tuchus is not going anywhere, and I will stay put through all the progress, as the situation gets tougher and as I learn to deal with a situation Israeli citizens have always lived with… a state of being that is constantly reshaped by the hands of politicians and organisations. Yet, I am still a young girl at heart, and cannot deny the tendency towards concerns of self preservation and a parent’s comforting words.
This morning, as Shabbat vacated and Israel clocked into work, I returned to my flat in Tel Aviv to write my account of the events. The news resounded in the background, and headlines changed minutes apart:
News flash: Syrian PM warns of unlimited force if Israel attacks (in so many words)
News flash: Israeli cabinet minister: missiles that hit Haifa train are Syrian.
My stomach began to tighten and my nerves began to fray as the state of affairs worsened. I thought what the hell am I doing, I am torturing myself with intrigue; and with that in my mind, I slammed off the television, grabbed my book, and joined other young Tel Avivians on the benches of Rothschild, with an ice coffee and a state of innocence … ignorance is bliss and a much healthier condition for me to reside in.
Effy just informed me that the Hizbollah have missiles that can reach Tel Aviv and are planning to use them .... and I have no bomb shelter in my apartment block, f**k ... where is the whiskey?
Friday, July 14, 2006
2:2 What the Weekend is All About
I want to bring you up-to-date on how life is going in Israel. Last week was literally sliced into two between business and pleasure. Work fit tightly into Monday 12.00am through to Thursday 4.00pm. The fun began Thursday night, with the attendance of the much anticipated ‘world’s largest Latin festival' (supposedly) with some friends in Tel Aviv. The atmosphere in HaYarkon Park was electric; salsa dancer ‘wanna-bes’ and samba-pros moved their hips to the sounds of the music booming from bands and DJ booths. The air was intoxicated with the meaty smell of empanadas, chorizo sausages and steaks grilling on barbeques. The event was fairly tacky and did not exactly feel ‘Latino’ at heart; chorizo sausages tasted like over-paprika-ed hotdogs and I didn’t hear one word of Spanish except in the lyrics sung on stage by the only Latin import, the singers. But hey, Israel was clearly demonstrating their ability to have fun, and a lot it. People of all ages got into the groove, either mimicking the movements of the guy on stage who wore a microphone headset and tight black pants; men and women twirled to the music created by maracas and the Spanish guitars; and girls gyrated to the beats of Latin pop on another stage, in attempts to win the ‘booty shaking contest’, and believe me, I was shocked by what they could achieve with their aged-15 hips!
Friday morning began with an early start, as Effy and I head off to Eilat to meet with friends to celebrate their intended engagement. A weekend spent in Israel’s hedonistic holiday resort is one vice I hope to maintain at least every two months in Israel. Every time I reach the lowest point on Israel’s map and enter Eilat, my body has an automatic reaction; anxiety slides out my joints, my muscles across my shoulders loosen and the mentally noted to-do list established over the past week goes on hold till Monday morning. The weekend was crammed with acts of pure indulgence, sunbathing, swimming in the hotel pool, excessive consumption of beer and whiskey chasers, hotel catering and ice cream. My trolley slightly overloaded, but there is always the promise for Monday detox.
One noticeable feature in Eilat is how well-dressed everyone appears. I always seem to develop something more than a glow and discover the location of hidden sweat glands that I never knew existed. My hair never stays quite in place, with strands often sticking to my forehead in the most unflattering of ways. I cannot do more than Havana flip-flops for day footwear, and make-up, well that never enters the equation between the hours of eleven to four pm. Israeli women, on the other hand, have built a huge resistance over the years to sweat, blisters and frizzy hair. The majority of them are able to strut around the beach front, styling tight-fitting hot pants and wedged shoes in the greatest of ease. Their hair and makeup appears as fresh as if, every morning, they step out of a beauty parlour; and not one damn pearl of sweat ever makes an entrance on their foreheads. Well, who needs small pores when you can have a whole lot of trolley to tot, something which is definitely missing amongst the Israeli female lower-back region.
Sunday night came, Italy beat France in the World Cup, and reality was to follow a much needed good night sleep. Question: why should work be viewed as the ‘reality’ of our schedules and the weekend as the snippet of time spent on life’s true pleasures? Someone got it wrong somewhere.
Friday morning began with an early start, as Effy and I head off to Eilat to meet with friends to celebrate their intended engagement. A weekend spent in Israel’s hedonistic holiday resort is one vice I hope to maintain at least every two months in Israel. Every time I reach the lowest point on Israel’s map and enter Eilat, my body has an automatic reaction; anxiety slides out my joints, my muscles across my shoulders loosen and the mentally noted to-do list established over the past week goes on hold till Monday morning. The weekend was crammed with acts of pure indulgence, sunbathing, swimming in the hotel pool, excessive consumption of beer and whiskey chasers, hotel catering and ice cream. My trolley slightly overloaded, but there is always the promise for Monday detox.
One noticeable feature in Eilat is how well-dressed everyone appears. I always seem to develop something more than a glow and discover the location of hidden sweat glands that I never knew existed. My hair never stays quite in place, with strands often sticking to my forehead in the most unflattering of ways. I cannot do more than Havana flip-flops for day footwear, and make-up, well that never enters the equation between the hours of eleven to four pm. Israeli women, on the other hand, have built a huge resistance over the years to sweat, blisters and frizzy hair. The majority of them are able to strut around the beach front, styling tight-fitting hot pants and wedged shoes in the greatest of ease. Their hair and makeup appears as fresh as if, every morning, they step out of a beauty parlour; and not one damn pearl of sweat ever makes an entrance on their foreheads. Well, who needs small pores when you can have a whole lot of trolley to tot, something which is definitely missing amongst the Israeli female lower-back region.
Sunday night came, Italy beat France in the World Cup, and reality was to follow a much needed good night sleep. Question: why should work be viewed as the ‘reality’ of our schedules and the weekend as the snippet of time spent on life’s true pleasures? Someone got it wrong somewhere.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
2:1 (Part 2 'Untangling the Thoughts of Noodles') A Deconstruction of the Literary Journey
To Blog or Not to Blog?
To conceive a new direction for this next blog has been quite a tricky task, hence the time gap since finishing Can’t take the London out of a Londoner. I still want to continue my writing and convey moments in my life in Israel, yet portray an experience in accounts less emotionally driven. I tiptoed down that path of showing my soft-side, and realised it was not for me. I cannot decide if it is appropriate to disclose all my inner thoughts and feelings to the world, to click onto, skim through, judge, mock and leave, as if my life was a shop window. There were recent news pieces of blog-scandals, where some individuals wrote how they intend to commit suicide, and others committing suicide in reaction to scathing remarks posted on their blog. I often question the morality of its purpose and my participation in the blog craze. Web-diaries have sprouted across the Internet world, as if literary exhibitionism is a new Prada fashion piece. Yes, people should have a forum of open dialect; although, I cannot help but wonder if blogging should avoid editorial safeguards, and if the essence of writing as an art form has become diluted in the midst of textual diarrhoea. I am not exactly Shakespeare and am very much playing a part of that craze. I would just like to hold back from having all my feelings gazed at by window shoppers and by those that do not really care.
Love Affair with Words
I contemplated the original reasoning for why I started to write a blog, so I could understand the direction I should continue with. My on-line diary was prompted by a request by my mother, advising me to continue my passion for writing; and secondly, to have an available source to know what is going on in my life, to satisfy her Jewish mother nurosis, without having to initiate a tirade of questioning every time we speak on the phone.
Another motivation, apart from the simple fact that I love to write, is to fill the gap created by an intermittent career in journalism. My ultimate, lifelong dream is to be an investigative journalist, to be Lois Lane, to research and provide a voice, via media channels, of ‘hidden’ societies found in the nooks and crannies of the world, remote from Western cushioning. A combination of glass-ceiling economic trends and fluid writer resources has left a profession somewhat saturated and remarkably difficult to enter. I was fortunate to begin my career on a news desk, but as mentioned in my first ever blog, you can see that this was not exactly a friendly welcoming into the industry, and left me running back into a cave of dissatisfaction.
A slight diversion, I glimpsed at my first blog for the first time in a long while yesterday. I cringed at the text on the screen, as if I was viewing a photo of a fashion faux-pas I committed years back. It was difficult to restrain myself from editing and rewriting this entry, leaving my words as they were first written. It would be a wonderful thing if we were able to rewrite history, delete and edit words muttered and to erase mistakes made. Well, life isn’t like a blog (that sounds rather cheesy) and there is no delete key, so I will try to hold back from the edit button and maintain the innocence in my writing.
The Bland Shop Window
Sometimes I think my writing is slightly ‘safe’ and ‘un-hip’. It needs to become a bit looser, a little more ‘Bridget Jones’ and risqué. My style has been labelled as ‘structured’ by some, punctuated, grammatical, ordered with paragraph spacing and titles. And this does leave me worrying how I appear to the dear audience … uptight, neurotic … okay, do not answer that, but my excuse is that I was taught to write by news editors. So, first on the list for this new blog is to be a little less emotional, and secondly, slightly more ‘lose’, so as to appear trendier. These two factors may not be able coexist comfortably in my blog … so I will simply let the words flow and see where I end up.
Untangling the Thoughts of Noodles
I will use this name in my new blog title. Other options were ‘Noodles in the Raw’, ‘Stewing over Noodles’. I am guessing you are wondering where the name derives from. Well, if so, ‘Noodles’ is a name I adopted at the age of approximately 3. Since I was born, my bedroom faced the house of the Greene family (pronounced ‘Green’, Grandma Greene bought the extra ‘e’ for the end, as to make the name more distinguishable). Mother Greene would often call ‘Noooodleees’ across the road every time I passed her, and following a few echoes from my brother Simon, who mimicked her in a teasing voice, the name stuck. It is funny how I grew into the name. From that young age, I developed into a lanky and skinny teenager, with knobbly legs similar to the shape of marmite twiglets. From age 16, my dimensions were redrafted and suddenly I was overwhelmed with buttocks and boobies … not so noodle-like anymore. It was if I had developed shopping trolleys in either direction, with the volumes of both sides extending as I loaded more food on. Nothing has changed since then.
Enough about my awkward body shape and let’s get back to the name. I feel ‘Noodles’ represents who I was, where I came from, who I still am, and is the username of my laptop, which Simon inserted when installing Microsoft Office onto it.
Enjoy.
To conceive a new direction for this next blog has been quite a tricky task, hence the time gap since finishing Can’t take the London out of a Londoner. I still want to continue my writing and convey moments in my life in Israel, yet portray an experience in accounts less emotionally driven. I tiptoed down that path of showing my soft-side, and realised it was not for me. I cannot decide if it is appropriate to disclose all my inner thoughts and feelings to the world, to click onto, skim through, judge, mock and leave, as if my life was a shop window. There were recent news pieces of blog-scandals, where some individuals wrote how they intend to commit suicide, and others committing suicide in reaction to scathing remarks posted on their blog. I often question the morality of its purpose and my participation in the blog craze. Web-diaries have sprouted across the Internet world, as if literary exhibitionism is a new Prada fashion piece. Yes, people should have a forum of open dialect; although, I cannot help but wonder if blogging should avoid editorial safeguards, and if the essence of writing as an art form has become diluted in the midst of textual diarrhoea. I am not exactly Shakespeare and am very much playing a part of that craze. I would just like to hold back from having all my feelings gazed at by window shoppers and by those that do not really care.
Love Affair with Words
I contemplated the original reasoning for why I started to write a blog, so I could understand the direction I should continue with. My on-line diary was prompted by a request by my mother, advising me to continue my passion for writing; and secondly, to have an available source to know what is going on in my life, to satisfy her Jewish mother nurosis, without having to initiate a tirade of questioning every time we speak on the phone.
Another motivation, apart from the simple fact that I love to write, is to fill the gap created by an intermittent career in journalism. My ultimate, lifelong dream is to be an investigative journalist, to be Lois Lane, to research and provide a voice, via media channels, of ‘hidden’ societies found in the nooks and crannies of the world, remote from Western cushioning. A combination of glass-ceiling economic trends and fluid writer resources has left a profession somewhat saturated and remarkably difficult to enter. I was fortunate to begin my career on a news desk, but as mentioned in my first ever blog, you can see that this was not exactly a friendly welcoming into the industry, and left me running back into a cave of dissatisfaction.
A slight diversion, I glimpsed at my first blog for the first time in a long while yesterday. I cringed at the text on the screen, as if I was viewing a photo of a fashion faux-pas I committed years back. It was difficult to restrain myself from editing and rewriting this entry, leaving my words as they were first written. It would be a wonderful thing if we were able to rewrite history, delete and edit words muttered and to erase mistakes made. Well, life isn’t like a blog (that sounds rather cheesy) and there is no delete key, so I will try to hold back from the edit button and maintain the innocence in my writing.
The Bland Shop Window
Sometimes I think my writing is slightly ‘safe’ and ‘un-hip’. It needs to become a bit looser, a little more ‘Bridget Jones’ and risqué. My style has been labelled as ‘structured’ by some, punctuated, grammatical, ordered with paragraph spacing and titles. And this does leave me worrying how I appear to the dear audience … uptight, neurotic … okay, do not answer that, but my excuse is that I was taught to write by news editors. So, first on the list for this new blog is to be a little less emotional, and secondly, slightly more ‘lose’, so as to appear trendier. These two factors may not be able coexist comfortably in my blog … so I will simply let the words flow and see where I end up.
Untangling the Thoughts of Noodles
I will use this name in my new blog title. Other options were ‘Noodles in the Raw’, ‘Stewing over Noodles’. I am guessing you are wondering where the name derives from. Well, if so, ‘Noodles’ is a name I adopted at the age of approximately 3. Since I was born, my bedroom faced the house of the Greene family (pronounced ‘Green’, Grandma Greene bought the extra ‘e’ for the end, as to make the name more distinguishable). Mother Greene would often call ‘Noooodleees’ across the road every time I passed her, and following a few echoes from my brother Simon, who mimicked her in a teasing voice, the name stuck. It is funny how I grew into the name. From that young age, I developed into a lanky and skinny teenager, with knobbly legs similar to the shape of marmite twiglets. From age 16, my dimensions were redrafted and suddenly I was overwhelmed with buttocks and boobies … not so noodle-like anymore. It was if I had developed shopping trolleys in either direction, with the volumes of both sides extending as I loaded more food on. Nothing has changed since then.
Enough about my awkward body shape and let’s get back to the name. I feel ‘Noodles’ represents who I was, where I came from, who I still am, and is the username of my laptop, which Simon inserted when installing Microsoft Office onto it.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
1:20 (End of Part 1, "Can't take the London out of a Londoner") Adios to the 'Londoner'
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.
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.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Too Long But Not Too Late
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/
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
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.
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.
Monday, June 12, 2006
1:18 Living in a News Flash
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.
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
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?
6. Chutzpah (Yiddish for 'cheek') :a great opportunity to channel anger in the face of such behaviour)
Any other aspects?
Friday, June 09, 2006
1:17 Back to the Land of Humus and Shesh Pesh
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”.
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”.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
1:16 Tea time with Mr Blair
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
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.
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.
Friday, May 05, 2006
1:14 Emotions Placed in Perspective
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
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.
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)!
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
1:13 Flags and Drumsticks
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”.
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