2:18 A Confused Identity

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

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

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

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

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

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

2:17 A Train Journey in My Old Town

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

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

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

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

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

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

2:16 Food Poisoning Messes With My Thoughts

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

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

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

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

2:15 Back Again

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2:14 A Breath of Fresh Air for This Cowgirl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2: 13 Too Much Time on My Hands

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2:12 Life As We Know It

November and December … Where Art Thou Go?

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

Life on Paper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Intermission

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

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

Please excuse the intermission.

2:11 Writers Anonymous

I left work early to make this appointment on time. I took a quick bus ride and a dash through the arts and craft fair on the crammed, cobbled street of Nachlat Binyamin, squeezing pass those making their end of day purchases of hand-made candle sticks and key holders. I gazed up, above the chaos, and noticed a white signpost bobbing in the air, with the words 'writing' scrawled across with a thick black market pen. That was my destination.

The group of bodies surrounding the signpost appeared misplaced and innocent, yet somewhat suspicious. My initial thought was I don't think this is quite for me ... maybe I shall turn around whilst I still have a chance. The man holding the post was no younger than late sixties, short curls of white hair carpeting the sides of his balding head and square glasses perched at the end of his nose. His casual dress and posture showed signs of an experienced Woodstock attendee. He noticed my gaze and said with a gentle American accent:

"Are you one of us?"
[Hmm, should I lie and make a quick getaway??]
"Um (pause), yep I am."

Most of the group comprised of ladies with short grey locks, those with plenty of time for tea. There was also a younger woman with a pink scarf around her hair and an elderly man, , who wore a bright grin. He took his hand out, so I responded, cautiously taking mine out and shook his hand.

I positioned myself at the edge, distancing myself from the group dynamic, and waited for the late attendees to arrive. I spent this time watching a man dancing in a yellow tutu and entertaining an audience of mobile phone cameramen. I was amazed by the way he moved his feathered fingers and twirled his bony body to the beat of the background techno music.

I was jogged out my daze by Mr Signpost, who beckoned for us to follow him to his apartment. I turned to a few extra faces and was somewhat relieved to see that my decade was now more proportionately represented. We soldiered through the crowds, through Carmel Market and reached his home, which was situated above the bustle of the sellers and fruit stalls. The manic below seemed a world away. The screams of the bidders, the smell of rotten vegetables and the claustrophobic air was all left behind as the front door closed, as I embarked on my first writing group meeting.

We entered a room, where a circle of chairs had been carefully placed. We all took a seat and glared at each other with nervous grins. Mr Signpost came to the middle of the circle and introduced himself. He spoke of the group’s purpose and proceeded to list his resume of publications, awards, teaching and writing experience of a thousand years. I noticed around the number of bookcases, filled with dictionaries of all sorts, old literature and poetry. Above, I gazed at the photos of people in his life. They all appeared so normal.

Refocusing on the dialect, the matter at hand, as his speech developed and as others responded, I increasingly sank into my chair, timid to make eye contact with Mr Signpost. I dared not say a word. He asked the group what type of writers we were and how could we categorize our writing. I have never defined my writing and wasn’t sure if I could. Or should I say, this though never crossed my mind. What could I categorize myself as, writer or wanna-be? Where did I fit in?
Mr Signpost: "So ladies and gentlemen, please raise a hand if you are an advanced writer."
I kept mine firmly on my lap. Most of the tea ladies shot theirs up. I then raised my right arm to ‘novice’.

Mr Signpost: "And, who are the fictional writers?"
[Hmm, I don’t think so]. Mine went up on prose [I suppose, well, except the financial and magazine writing].

The attendees were poets, fiction, prose, novice and advanced writers. I was comforted with the grinning novices around me.

Following our dividing, it was Q&A time. The excitement mounts. The tea ladies were opinionated, whilst the minority group sat in silence. We observed the outspoken women, bickering over every item on the agenda: time to gather, 4 or 5 pm; time to talk about our piece, 10 minutes for 15; whether biscuits are to be provided or brought by ourselves and whether they ought to be kosher. The biscuit debate went on for far too long, until one tea lady brought the bicker it to a halt, "we are here to write, not to bloody eat biscuits”. The novices cheered amongst themselves.

My conclusion for the first attendance was uncertainty. When I began to write on-line, I dived in, naïve of its purpose, direction or even how people would perceive it. Yet, I have come to realise my passion to put pen to paper, finger to key, and to exploit this avenue of communicating the unspoken. This month I undertook several avenues to develop this love. I now write for a digital magazine about the nightlife in Tel Aviv for the US; and, secondly, this group. It was an entertaining experience; we’ll see how it goes.

2:10 Thoughts, Hormones and Television

A Constant Companion

I must admit, I am addicted to television. The minute I walk into my apartment, a quick flick on the remote and the telly on goes. As I previously mentioned, there isn’t exactly a wide range of decent entertainment on Israeli cable. For me, any crap will do. One reason for my love of telly is that I have come to realise I am unable to sit in silence, the sound of it (excuse the oxymoron) drives me mad. Maybe it is due to the fact that previous to my current living predicament, I always lived with a house full of people and along with this, a lot of noise. In addition, I think silence provides my mind with a window of opportunity for the mechanics to tick and the thoughts to start accumulating. I am a big thinker; watching telly is one technique I have resorted to, to keep this mind at rest. It is just such a shame my Israeli box set is stuffed full with such English/American visual-crap. Saying this, as you will come to see, some of this drivel can actually raise some interesting questions.

A Matter of Sex?

One Friday afternoon, Effy and I did you the usual rush towards Ashdod in his white mini van, to make it home in time before the arrival of Shabbat. I hadn’t realised that I had been in heavy state of daydream for a large part of the journey from Tel Aviv. Effy questions my silence, concerned that I was not my usual nattering self. In turn and, in a serious tone, I begin to elaborate on a documentary I had watched that morning.

As with most mornings, with coffee in one hand, I have the remote in the other and spend a good five minutes of the day deciding what should be accompanying my breakfast. Sometimes it is SkyNews reporters, sometimes it is Martha Stewart, other times it is Oprah. This morning, my company was a Texan desperate for a sex change.

The topic of discussion on this insightful documentary was transgender, whereby a man/woman identifies with the opposite sex of that they were born. This documentary followed the transition of a woman who underwent medical intervention to ‘become’ a man. The point of my discussion in particular relates to the effect of injected testosterones to this woman/man. He took daily shots of hormones so that his voice would drop, that his hair growth would increase, and so that he develops male ‘features’. He spoke of how hormones made him feel less emotional, that he no longer had the urge to cry, that he didn’t seem to care about the ‘stupid’ things that use to bother him and that all he could ever think about was sex.

The Great Hormonal Debate

Now, this did make me think. As I stared at the bottom of my mug, observing that I was in great need of a refill, I wondered what state I would be left in if certain dimensions of my character were taken away and, particularly, if my emotional and sensitive character traits were deleted. This programme made me wonder how much of whom I am is purely a result of my hormonal makeup. Do I have a tendency to cry when watching a heart-felt story on Oprah as I am sensitised to other human pain from oestrogen, or is it a result of the person I am, my inner soul? On a grander scale, are certain people particularly caring because they are sensitised by certain bodily chemicals, or is it due to innate human qualities of humanity?

If Effy was to be drenched with female hormone, would he no longer be the person he is, no longer attracted to me in the male sense, no longer macho to be my keeper and carer? Reversely, if I was given daily shots of testosterone, would I no longer care for him as much as I do, would I analyse ever dynamic of my relationship with him a great deal less? Would I be as analytical as I am, always over-thinking every situation in my life, if I was given a few chemicals and, therefore, would not be in need of watching this crap in the first place?

The idea of what defines us is so complex, whether it is our soul or simply, our thoughts and feelings as a consequence of chemical reactions, combustion of hormones, dictating our mood and behaviour. Would all of the worlds problems be solved if all major leaders and dictators, most of which are men, were doused with oestrogen ... maybe their egos would no longer be animated by war and terror.

Back to the Mini Van

As usual, Noodles’ thoughts go way off, although, afterall, this was the track of my day dreaming, however complex. Back to the drive, as Shabbat’s curtains are near to opening:

Effy: Oi, what you thinking about … by the look of your face, it seems serious.
Natalie: Oh nothing... I was just wondering. Honey, how much of me do you think is me? I mean, am I what I am or is it just my hormones?
Effy: Huh? … Well, Nat … I have always wondered! (in a sarcastic tone)

I divulge into the documentary.

Effy: Nat, you are who you are, you cannot take away the fact that your character is caring and passionate ... that is integral to you. Or, if it was just hormones, deep down, we would all be pretty much the same.

Nat: That is rather sensitive of you to say! Should you be telling me something?!

If my analogy is partly true, male testosterone could be an effective second resolution to easing my chaotic mind (the first being television). To be honest though, I do not think I could handle all that extra body hair.

2:9 Every Girls' Dream

It is around 7.30 am, I have just strolled into work after a heavy night of alcohol abuse. The office is empty as today is nearly Shabbat, the day of rest. As my work revolves around the western week, my day of rest is placed on hold. I had a wonderful evening last night, and even though I am suffering right now, even though my eyelids are straining to keep open whilst glancing at the illuminating computer screen, and even though I have the feeling of a brick inside my head, I will plod along with the rest of the day until I do get some rest.

A Bilingual Affair

I attended a wedding of an Irish colleague, Mo. He moved to Israel to set up a life with his Israeli girlfriend, after falling in love at first sight in smoky London pub. Last night, they pronounced their commitment to each other in front of an Irish/Israeli crowd. The setting was a candlelit, antique French cavern style restaurant, situated in an alcove of old Jaffa, although it could have been any European pebbled street. The bride and groom spoke in Hebrew and English, so that their declaration of love to one another could be absorbed by all. The guests celebrated drinking raspberry-champagne concoctions and whiskey, eating juicy lamb chops and beef carpacio, and dancing to the tunes of Irish folk music and the drunken tones of Uncle Jack. It was an utterly romantic affair, dripping at the edges of cultural celebrations, intimacy and sincerity. Mo’s wedding was not a typical Israeli affair, which I will deliberate on in a moment.

Dreams May Come True

As with all little girls, as far back as I can remember, I maintained some vision of what would be the perfect wedding (for me, please G-d). The wedding last night was the closest reenactment of this fantasy. What disheartens me more than anything is that this vision could simply remain a fantasy and that the little girl inside me will have her dreams crushed.

Events I have attended in Israel are quite contrasting, actually, antithetical to be exact, to last night’s celebration. The common style of an Israeli wedding is large, incredibly large, actually considerably immense to be exact. The ceremony consists of around five hundred people, spilling from all door ways, gazing at a chupah as if it was a replay of last night's football. The exchanged words are muffled by the sounds of chatter, the noise from men wandering in circles whilst on their mobile phones and women nattering at the site of the bride maids’ frocks. And the finale of the ceremony is only known when the sound of Lachiyam! (salute, ‘to life’) resonantes over the noise. Even though the event begins with a reception of salads, empanadas, rice and meatballs, it also continues with a 4-course food marathon, fish, steak, meat and a buffet dessert. Dancing begins with a slow-dance to the couple’s favourite love song, but by the time the song hits the second verse, the dj flips the tunes to Israeli pop and dance. The evening continues with the young ones raving to the sounds of house, to an audience of sleepy boobers and zeiders gazing in a trance-like state (Yiddish for Grandmas and pas).

Anglo friends in Israel generally comment, after attending such affairs, how much they prefer Israeli weddings, how informal and fun they are, and what party it was! That is all good and well for them, although simply put, ‘typical’ Israeli weddings just aren’t my cup of tea. And fine, they aren’t my cup of tea, but in respect to the direction my life is heading, I cannot envisage much else happening than to have such a serving of tea. To have a wedding in which communication between the bride and the guests is limited; where you communicate your vows in front of a room full mostly of strangers; in which traditions aren’t familiar to everyone else; in which basic niceties aren’t appreciated by anyone but yourself, such as speeches full of complements, blacks ties and black suits, a page boy throwing rose petals, ladies in puffy dresses, waiters with trays of teeny hors d'oeuvres, that plonk in your mouth in one bite, a live musical band playing 'hava nagila' and Sinatra, where there is enough people so that you feel like you are part of a celebration but small enough so you have the chance to see every single smiling face … this is what I may be face missing out on.

I might seem old-fashioned, antiquated or not even that fun, but that has been my vision. My vision may be short-lived, childish, or even pathetic, but coming to Israel, I sacrificed British culture. Although, looking back on last night, I do not necessarily have to give up everything. We will see.

2:8 Lessons on Shabbat

Everyone has something to say about the meaning of life. A previous blog I wrote, Conversation Turned Ugly, aroused a fair amount of heated debate amongst associates. On the Shabbat following this post, I spent the day watching movies, and one of which further fuelled my analysis on this subject. In particular The Constant Gardener was two hours of worthwhile television viewing. It is the kind of film that leaves you dazed, sat in contemplation, as you replay it over in your mind.

The Constant Garderner aided the subject that had been at the forefront of my mind lately, the amount of value I should be placing on my work life. A brief outline, the film follows the quest of a British Commissioner, Justin, who pursues the truth behind his wife, Tessa’s murder. Before her demise, Tessa strived to uncover corruption in the African British high commission and associated unethical business practices of a pharmaceutical company, which lead to her eventual murder. In a mission to seek out Tessa’s murderer, Justin sets out to fulfil her conquest of revealing the injustices she realised in Africa.

Tessa’s decisions and consequential actions were determined, throughout her life, by her values, belief and mission for justice. And so, yes, her life had enormous meaning. However, what was truly the point of it all …sacrificing her marriage and life in order to implement her beliefs, so that her life has value, yet at the end of all the struggle, lose her life in that pursuit and, therefore, evenutally losing all value.

Tessa had very little chance to make a significant impact on her cause. The world is found upon wealth, heritage, power, politics, religion, bureaucracy and dictatorship. What chance do any of us mere mortals have in the face of this, to make an impact, to make our life meaningful by influencing those around and making the world a better place. She acknowledged the significance of all human life, regardless of this world, regardless of what it is built upon and, consequently, she ended up dead and simply a memory.

Should I take the idea from the movie that we should follow our hearts, our beliefs, despite the consequence, as long as it means we are honouring the meaning of our life. Does this imply we should maintain a value in our life by pursuing our beliefs, despite the actual value of our life, as it becomes secondary to the goals we aim to achieve?

It seems politics and power, and such, corruption, will always be the winning team. So, if we will all be so hopeless, unable to illustrate the love we have for others, what is the point of it all. There will never be anything of a truly meaningful life, if no-one is able to stop genocide in Sudan. Okey, this was just a movie, I am slightly melodramatic and rambling somewhat, but I just can't help but think.

2:7 In a Holy Fashion

September … the month slipped through my fingers, I was unable to reign in on time and grasp a minute in my hand to savour and retrospect. Even writing, my single channel to mental sanity, did not have a place to sit in my waiting room of to-dos. It is now October, the Jewish calendar reached its summit and started anew, a trip to London has been and gone, I have seen three cups smashed under wedding canopies, and work has slithered through the cracks. All the action blew pass and I tried to hold on but was blown away by the pace. I will attempt to recollect my thoughts of September for the sake of recollection.

Home time for the New Year

Rosh Hashanah, the Kosher new years day, signified time for my annual visit to the synagogue, to bind my resolutions with G-d: to cut down on negative mummers, to be a better person than I presently am, to visit synagogue more than on this one annual occasion, and to stop being so ungrateful. It also means family time, eating, resting and a two-day mental and physical rehabilitation period amongst my loved ones. The last two years, I have been in Israel during Rosh Hashanah and observed in a less than conventional way compared to my usual Ashkenazi approach. This year signified time for a 'holy' home visit and to spend Rosh Hashanah with the family. The memories cemented into my idea of holiday time at home in England have begun to crack. I was reliving these memories in a new light as the New Year drew in.

Synagogue and Hats

The weekend trip to London was to be spent in the two domains of home and synagogue, and we would carry out the Rosh Hashanah ritual. I would accompany my mother to our North London community synagogue in the morning, dressed in our new New Year gear, lippy, matching jewels, plenty spritzes of eau de toilette and my mum's accompaniment of some weird and fancy construction on her head, known as a hat. We would enter the holy domain through a heavy wooden door, clickety-clacking across the entrance, then tip-toeing in our high-heels once we realised the noise we made and see through glass doors men, all cocooned in white and blue stripped talises (prayer cloak), rocking to the rhythm of holy lyrics. We would slowly climb the red carpeted stairs to the ladies section, enter a balcony of nattering women sporting other fancy constructions and smelling of other ghastly moth-spray smelling eau de toilettes. We would squeeze our way through the over-sized blue leather seats to get to my mother’s prepaid positioning, causing much inconvenience to the ladies in conversation. I would peek over the latest headwear features, peer over the men’s section below and give a wave and a wink to my dad, who is as usual grinning up to me and blowing a kiss.

This year , the schedule was on queue. As per usual, I plonked my tuchus on the squeaky leather seats, I took a moment to absorb the surrounds, and realised, however, that the whole situation felt uncanny. Fine then, the seats had been reupholstered, the usual chandler fixtures had been changed to new 60’s décor shades and the crowd came with additional grey hairs, botox injections and hair extensions. Nevertheless, this year I did not feel right amongst the crowd, I wasn’t the same as 2 years before, the new me was uncomfortable and did not slot in so easily. Of course we all change and go through developments. Although, as with the synagogue décor, it seemed I had also gone through a refurbishment and no longer felt part of this community. Israel has impacted on me; even though I cannot pin point its effect, I realised it has changed me, for better or worse; and this Rosh Hashanah was the first that I came to realise that I have changed, for better of worse. And honestly, I feel a whole lot more comfortable with this new model.

Prayer and Prada

The women perched in the ladies gallery looking immaculate and resembling a collection of magazine clippings, with ruler straight hair, nails in perfect condition, a natural look of makeup plastered on with precision and clothes seemingly just off the Prada rack. Yet, it all seemed so surreal, as if a couture monster had possessed their presence, their smiles and their personality. There appearance seemed masked, disguising their inner character and creating a public display of what is important to them, public status and wealth.

In Israel, for some women, appearance is a means to exude an image of sexuality, wearing tight-fitting, cleavage-cut, curve-extenuating clothes, matched with a face of sultriness. In the same space, other women sees appearance, or in particular, clothing for its functional purpose, full-stop. Across the horizon, fashion seems to carry a facet of equality, whereby the large part of the female population have an opportunity to dress one way or another, with fashion being attainable.

In my home community, I felt a state, booted in a skirt and satin blouse that emphasised areas I had placed a pound or ten on since last wearing them, as I hadn’t worn them since being sat here two year ago. My nails were unpolished; my hair had a slight kink; and my shoes were scruffy on the points and scraped on the heels, as those too were not worn since last being in that prepaid blue seat. My appearance amongst this crowd of synagogue-going cat-walkers may have bothered me two years ago, however, at that moment, I was totally unbothered. Either I have done some growing up, or was it that I had left this world behind to fall into a pit of shallowness. Whatever it is, I am happy to have left.

I should have spent this time in synagogue concentrating on my resolutions and faux pas of the year, the focus of Rosh Hashanah. However, these thoughts were clouded by the muttering amongst the women, which in turn, drowned out the tunes sung from the men below. Their prayers for forgiveness probably reached G-d a lot sooner than I, so thank goodness I still had a whole day of atonement to return to in the holy land.

Fasting Amongst Fasters

The time in London came and went in a flash in a pan. A week later, I returned to the holy land. I was in Ashdod repenting for my sins on Yom Kippur, the holiest day of the Jewish calendar, the Day of Atonement. This event involves a fast for 25 hours and the second occasional annual visit to synagogue, to feel bare of physicality and spirituality connected to God to repent.

Up till last year, I observed this high holyday in a country completely detached from it’s holiness. I would hide away at home or synagogue. The world outside would continue, the noises on traffic and city life would resound, but I would be in a place of silence. The two settings simply couldn’t amalgamate. However, this year I was in a place where I no longer felt the odd one out. Coming to Israel, I am able to observe a holiday in a society on holiday. I can atone for my sins in a place of repenters. The most apparent moment was on Erev Yom Kippur, the night bringing in the Day of Atonement.

White-Dressed Wanderers

During Yom Kippur, Israel literally shuts down. It is forbidden to drive, shops are banned from opening and all public life is placed on halt. The only sounds come from children on the streets and the praying of atoners. You are unable to eat, watch television, travel, be intimate and to even wash oneself. Simply put, we maintain a basic form of existence. Effy once mentioned in the past, ‘just wait till Yom Kippur, it is the strangest sight you will ever see.’ He was right. The streets stood still upon which residents, dressed in white, filled the black tarmac streets (Israeli’s traditionally wear white on Yom Kippur). Little children skipped hand in hand, adults strolled and elderly, in wheelchairs, wheeled their way down the main highway. It was like a modern re-enactment of the Israelites being guided out of Egypt by Moses. For miles, people filled the highways, doing nothing but simply being in coexistence. Those strollers may not have been repenting at that moment, nevertheless they were all detached from all modern distractions and simply in the company of others, appreciating the basic pleasures of life, which in other ways can be seen as truly spiritual. It was amazing to witness this, and I could not be more grateful for being part of this national fast.

The Ashdod community stood in silence in synagogue to hear the sounds of the Shofar (ram’s horn blown for religious significance), representing the end to the fast. Following this, I was almost knocked down by a mad rush of white-clothed Ashdodians, practically running home to fulfil their hunger; I galloped for an English cuppa. This also marked the beginning of the next countdown till Yom Kippur once more and God cleaning his slates clean to chalk ticks and crosses under our names again.

I presume I have learnt from the pass year, on reflection from my experiences of going to the place I once was and the place I am now. For the year to come I hope to fully develop into a more efficient and sleeker model, more aware of what the world has to offer and my position in this big place called earth.

2:6 Good Conversation Turned Ugly

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

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

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


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

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

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

Noodles – Nine to Five

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

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

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

Despite All This Good-Doing …

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

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

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

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

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

2:5 Contradictions in Term

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

Dull Tones of a Pretty Picture

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

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

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

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

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

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

Closer to Home

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

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

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

Emotional Oxymoron

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

2:4 A Stupid World

Living in a War

I recently spent a majority of my Internet viewing time scouring through blog sites and have been overwhelmed with the number of writers covering the Israel-Lebanon conflict, providing observations, commentary, or news coverage. Many took similar avenues: tracing the developments bit by bit, backed up with quotes by officials, clips from video-sharing sites, such as http://www.youtubes.com/, to illustrate the point further and cartoons to bring a giggle to the matter. My favourite blog candidly outlined the two ways to conduct your life in Israel presently; 1. drink alcohol; or 2. rationalise your fears of being caught up in the terror by appreciating the fact that you are more likely to be hit by a car than a missile ( http://www.jewlicious.com/?p=2437), I chose to appreciate the former rather than the latter, with the rationalisation providing no resolution to my nerves, considering the behaviour of a majority of Israeli car drivers. Anyway, it was light relief to see someone had a similar approach to my own.

Crashing of Waves

One morning last week, I went to chill on the beach, in the hope of clearing the news reporter’s voices resounding in my head with the sounds of the ocean and the heat of the sun. A friend was to join me, but at the last minute declined the offer, saying she didn't feel it was safe to be in an open space considering the problems going on right now. I was adamant to not allow this bloody situation continue to ruin my emotional balance. I was to continue my journey to the beach and take advantage of the bonus points of a Middle Eastern lifestyle. I reached the sand, laid out my yellow beach towel on the sun bed, stripped down to my bikini, plonked onto the bed, and spread my body out as if was I melting butter on toast. I closed my eyes and searched for the sounds of the waves.

The swishing of the water and the crashing of the waves did soothe my nervous edge for about five minutes or so, by which time screeching sounds of helicopter blades sliced through the tranquillity of the sky. I jumped up and observed a line of army helicopters making their way to the north. I wondered if the 18-year old young men suited up in army green shirts and trousers, sat anxiously on their way to carry out a mission, were actually gazing out the windows, looking down on the sand. I am sure they wished to remove themselves from where they were, to join in the fun below. I realised I wasn’t going to find a peace of mind anywhere. I felt guilty over my complaints and anxieties, which in comparison to those soldiers, were pathetic. I was merely overwhelmed by the elements associated with living in a war: terror, fear of terror, sadness over the casualties of terror, and an overwhelming dread that Effy could be called up at any point to join the reserves, something which is a constant throb in my heart. As I sat on the sun bed in a daze of comprehension, I realised that as long as I live in a country in battle, there would be no where to run from the elements of war.

Troubles Across the Sea

It has become tedious hearing about the Israel-Lebanon conflict, and I presume I am not alone in that matter, apart from certain politicians. I am tired of the war dominating Sky News headlines, conversations amongst colleagues and friends, and even the debate on Israel-affiliated blogs. Furthermore, I am emotionally drained from the worry extending from a deep acknowledgment of the current affairs. So, I took decisive action in response to my present state of mind and limited my viewing time of Sky News to 3 half-an-hour doses every day, once in the morning, once in the day and once before bedtime.

This afternoon, after completing my mid-day dose of news coverage, concerning 80 missiles that landed 59 miles north of my couch, I flicked over to an Oprah Winfrey re-run on Channel 22. This tele-visual crap came as a delight, distracting me from my own reality, which of course was perfect timing. Oprah’s topic of the day focused on how media and the entertainment industry have marginalised women, brainwashing them to behave a certain way … a great debate to get me riled up.

The first guest was a young woman, who spoke of her experiences as a dancer for hip-hop videos, disclosing her experiences of intimidation and subordination by the producers and performers. These incidences involved being instructed to take drugs on set to enhance the performance, sexual harassement, and, obviously, denial of any civil work rights. She proclaimed to have 'seen the light' and came to the realisation of her self-worth since kicking a drug habit. The US of A, the chief advocate and exemplar of civil liberties and democracy has, as a society, developed in a vulgar way that is no more progressive than as it was 50 years ago. At least back then, women were not represented as, simply put, prostitutes in mainstream entertainment. Please correct me if I am wrong.

The second guest was the punk/rock/pop singer, Alecia Beth Moore, otherwise known as Pink. She deliberated on her song ‘Stupid Girl,’ as the lyrics neatly tied into the discussion on Oprah. In the song, Pink mocks the behavioural and consumer-driven culture that has arisen in popular culture, and has lead to a trend of imitating tabloid celebrities amongst young women.

Lyrics: (Chorus)
Maybe if I act like that, that guy will call me back
Porno Paparazzi girl, I don't wanna be a stupid girl
Baby if I act like that, flipping my blond hair back
Push up my bra like that, I don't wanna be a stupid girl

(A line I like)
Disasters all around
World despaired
Their only concern
Will they f*** up my hair

Pink discovered, in discussion with acquaintances, that people have difficulty in recalling a public figure who is both, shock horror, pretty and clever, without the use of Google search engine. Her conclusion was “oil and water is not the same as sexiness and intelligence”. Oprah and her professional psychotherapist prop continued to conclude that women ‘dumb down’ their intelligence and exacerbate their sexuality in order to fit into a male dominated society.

Another worry, apart from who Pink associates with, is why it is only up till now that such a huge societal defect had taken stage on Oprah. One reason may be due to the fact that a large number of Oprah’s guests include those precise architects of a society that marginalise women. For instance, Ludacris, the rapper recently appeared on Oprah, and whose videos aren’t exactly liberating for the female race. People complain yet at the same support/maintain it, both for their own benefit. The term ‘hyp-o-crit’ comes to mind.

My own concern is that this sleazy antiquated culture of subordinating women is rearing it’s ugly head in modern day culture, not only in the US of A, but across the shores into Europe and, more so, to the holy land.

Oil and Water: Can it Mix in the Middle East?

Israeli television schedules are suffocated with US productions, all of which hold a simple purpose for me, mindless entertainment (no offence to Americans). I must admit, I do love to watch the Sopranos, Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives, and not to forget, Martha. However, shows such as I want to be a Hilton and Entertainment are, simply put, a mechanism to maintain a culture of envying the life of the rich and famous, and in turn, perpetuating obsessive consumerism, eating disorders and mental drainage. Even British reality-show productions are put through U.S. crap-izer machinery, coming out the other end with scripted conversation, dramatic background music and doses of foundation. Okay, I have slightly side-tracked … but what I was trying to establish is that the Israeli audience is given daily doses of this American culture, via media channels, and as a result, the Oprah-issue of the marginalisation of women has come to the Middle East. And, in addition, it has created a youth culture that seeks to live up to the lifestyle of their US counterparts, which is quite hard to do on an Israeli wage, hence the extent of debt here.

A visit to Tel Aviv beach on a Saturday afternoon appears like an entrance to the backstage of a Paris Hilton look-alike contest. Young girls prance around, swinging their hips, flicking their long high-lightened and straightened locks, jewelled up, glamed up and dieted out. In the clubs, Western sounds of ‘MTV’/ pop/hip-hop fill the space. Girls enter like jewelled-out lemmings, all wearing pretty much the same: hot pants, flashy tight tops and dangly bling. Many fill the dance floor, imitating the moves they saw the night before on MTV … grinding, booty-shaking and sultry facial expressions. In Israeli media, the young ladies look and act much the same … anorexic, flesh-baring and overtly flirtatious. It seems like a large number of the young women of this society have been reprogrammed by male technicians to dress sexy, act sexy and to maintain age 8 hip sizes.

Stupid World

The world seems to commit sadomasochism on itself, developing societies infiltrated by greed, war, starvation and hate. People conduct their lives in the shadow of their idols, in response to governmental action, or in respect to what they are preached via media channels. Trouble extends everywhere, in different forms, influencing those around them like a domino affect. When I made Aliyah, many friends could not understand why I wanted to spend my life in a country defined heavily by war and terror. American counterparts may also frown over my choice of residency, but I believe the US and UK have their own crap, or should I say societal issues, to deal with, just like Israel. My friend Corrine pointed out that you can never run away from trouble; you only move to a place that has different forms of trouble. You simply have to learn how to handle these new issues in a new way. She recently moved to Israel from Hackney, London. She came from a place where she feared for her life every time she walked down the street and got on the tube, where intimidation by gangs exist and where stabbings and muggings are committed on a daily basis. And now, she lives in a country that is in the middle of a war. The world is a stupid place because, just like oil and water, it will not allow prosperity and true happiness to mix, something which will never change unless people stop being so stupid.

2:3 In the Midst of Mayhem

I remember observing, on arrival to Israel, that this is the best year I could have made Aliyah. Previous to this time, the Intifada period arrived, dampening the buzz of Tel Aviv. The economy slumped, shops tailing down Ben Yehuda were boarded up and a wave of dreariness washed up on Tel Aviv’s shore. Political dialogue paved the way for a controversial wall to be set between ‘us’ and ‘them’ and Gaza was disengaged. Following the developments, an economy defined by ‘bullish’ trends rose to the face of Tel Aviv, shop windows took ‘for sale’ signs down, refurbishment waved through coffee shops and the tide drew back, leaving behind a glow on Hayarkon promenade. I felt at ease in the holy land and a realisation that life in Israel doesn’t have to be defined by a state of terror.

The past week, the tide changed yet again. The kidnapping of two Israeli soldiers by Hizbollah (definition: ‘Shiite terrorist organization with strong ties to Iran; seeks to create an Iranian fundamentalist Islamic state in Lebanon; car bombs are the signature weapon’, www.thefreedictionary.com), leading to escalated violence and ‘war’ between Lebanon and Israel resounds on every news channel, every moment of the day.

I want to avoid any discussion of the ‘wrongs’ and ‘rights’ of the situation and where the finger should be pointed. The arena of discussion suffices, as keyboards are tapped away at by journalists, commentators and even in the public voice of other blog writers, discussing the actions of Israel, Lebanon, Hizbollah, Iran and Syria. Nothing I say will provide any new insight or evaluation that has already been said. So, in the blog-centric fashion, I will give you insight into my experience of living in the midst of mayhem, sat poised in front of the television as the story develops.

News flash: Sirens sound in Haifa

As most people in Israel did over Shabbat (obviously except those that keep Shabbat!), I was glued to Sky news broadcast, watching current affairs progress. The frightening part is that I no longer have the Mediterranean Sea wedged between myself and danger; it is now on my front doorstep. Around 8 o’clock on Friday night, just before I was to sit with Effy’s family to welcome Shabbat into our weekend with a chorus of blessings, I sat in shock as a news translator provided comprehension to the words of a Hizbollah leader. I crouched rigidly with my knees to my chest and arms wrapped around them tightly, as I heard the conflict with Israel would now be an ‘open war’ and, in so many words, Israel would now pay for everything done up till now.

I freaked out. I could not handle the words coming through the TV set. They entered my mind like a drug infiltrating into my blood stream, creating a reaction of ‘eraticness’ and irrationalness. There were only two people that could potentially bring me back to a state of sanity, my parents. My clock of independence turned back to the past and I became nervous and unsettled like a little child lost in a busy shopping mall. I dialled my father’s mobile and I was overwhelmed with relief with his voice on the other end.

Me: Dad, it’s me
Dad: Ohhh Boobala … it is so nice to hear your voice. I was going to call you this evening. Are you okey? What is going on?
Me: Dad, I am scared (tears starting streaming down my face), I can’t take it anymore, I wanna come home.
Dad: What has happened??
Me: They … they just declared war … an open war.
Dad: (anger intensifying in his voice, excuse the political sway here) Don’t let those bloody bastards scare you!! Those f**king bastards … Don’t let them scare you. This is exactly what they want … Listen, you are a ‘Shaer’, you have to act strong, you are tough girl (the expected answer from my Dad, bless him).
Me: DAD (interrupting his bluster) … I am scared! It has never got this bad … What should I do, I want to come home, I don’t know what to do?? (I said in a blubbering tone).
Dad: (his tone shifts suddenly, in realisation of my state) Okey boobey, dolly … I understand … calm down … if you really want to come home, it isn’t a bad idea. But listen, this is all psychological warfare. Don’t let those f**king bastards scare you ….”

I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere and shoved the phone to Effy, and let the ‘men’ discuss my welfare. Now, I am never usually like this … I promise! The words echoing on the news broke down my wall of strength and ability to cope.

Amongst the midst of this madness, surrounding the debate, the whaling and the anger, human beings are being killed. I disregarded the two-sided debate between ‘us’ and ‘them’ occurring, and focused on the thoughts: I am too young to die … I don’t want to killed ... there is so much in my life I have yet to achieve. This attitude may appear narcissist, self-absorbed or even childish. Yet, when you find yourself in a situation where missiles are being fired at areas relatively near to you, when the words ‘open war’ are spat at the country you live in, then arguably, this reaction to war is a common one amongst newcomers, like myself.

News flash: Syria vows firm, direct and unlimited response if it is attacked by Israel.

After my hysteria calmed down, I wiped the tears away, breathed deeply to relieve my mental composition, and returned to a state of normality. I attended the Shabbat table, joining Effy’s family in reciting the blessings. His father, Yitsak, joked

Yitsak: “Huuney (his nickname for me), at mephachedete?” (Are you scared, in a sarcastic tone?) “Huh huh huh” (and continued with laughter).

His brother turned to me and remarked “don’t worry Nat, this happens all the time.” Yeah sure, if you have spent your whole life in the Middle East, I thought to myself. I was certain my behaviour had been viewed as an over reaction and was angry that my fear was mocked. Yes, their reaction to the war was totally different to my episode; but come on, I am a newcomer to all of this after all! There will be an inconsistency in response between those that have lived with a backdrop of political upheaval all their lives, and those, i.e. me, an English girl brought up in the leafy suburbs of London, whose societal worries mount to nothing more than ministerial sex scandals and NHS funding discrepancies.

During the Intifada in 2003, I did live and work in Israel. Although, thankfully, due to the fact that I didn’t have access to a television set, I continued my business in Israel in a state of naivety, whilst suicide bombers continued to detonate themselves in public places. Presently, when safety is again on the brink of disqualification, I am sat glued to Sky news, and totally aware of every step taken, hence knowledge=awareness=hysteria.

News flash: Israel defence minister: Israel faces decisive moment in its history

I feel slight guilt over feelings of self concern and bitterness for the fact that I do feel vulnerable and nervous, as each headlines flash with a new development. I should be representing all the attributes my father enunciates … pride, stubbornness and nationalism. I guess my tuchus is not going anywhere, and I will stay put through all the progress, as the situation gets tougher and as I learn to deal with a situation Israeli citizens have always lived with… a state of being that is constantly reshaped by the hands of politicians and organisations. Yet, I am still a young girl at heart, and cannot deny the tendency towards concerns of self preservation and a parent’s comforting words.

This morning, as Shabbat vacated and Israel clocked into work, I returned to my flat in Tel Aviv to write my account of the events. The news resounded in the background, and headlines changed minutes apart:

News flash: Syrian PM warns of unlimited force if Israel attacks (in so many words)

News flash: Israeli cabinet minister: missiles that hit Haifa train are Syrian.

My stomach began to tighten and my nerves began to fray as the state of affairs worsened. I thought what the hell am I doing, I am torturing myself with intrigue; and with that in my mind, I slammed off the television, grabbed my book, and joined other young Tel Avivians on the benches of Rothschild, with an ice coffee and a state of innocence … ignorance is bliss and a much healthier condition for me to reside in.

Effy just informed me that the Hizbollah have missiles that can reach Tel Aviv and are planning to use them .... and I have no bomb shelter in my apartment block, f**k ... where is the whiskey?

2:2 What the Weekend is All About

I want to bring you up-to-date on how life is going in Israel. Last week was literally sliced into two between business and pleasure. Work fit tightly into Monday 12.00am through to Thursday 4.00pm. The fun began Thursday night, with the attendance of the much anticipated ‘world’s largest Latin festival' (supposedly) with some friends in Tel Aviv. The atmosphere in HaYarkon Park was electric; salsa dancer ‘wanna-bes’ and samba-pros moved their hips to the sounds of the music booming from bands and DJ booths. The air was intoxicated with the meaty smell of empanadas, chorizo sausages and steaks grilling on barbeques. The event was fairly tacky and did not exactly feel ‘Latino’ at heart; chorizo sausages tasted like over-paprika-ed hotdogs and I didn’t hear one word of Spanish except in the lyrics sung on stage by the only Latin import, the singers. But hey, Israel was clearly demonstrating their ability to have fun, and a lot it. People of all ages got into the groove, either mimicking the movements of the guy on stage who wore a microphone headset and tight black pants; men and women twirled to the music created by maracas and the Spanish guitars; and girls gyrated to the beats of Latin pop on another stage, in attempts to win the ‘booty shaking contest’, and believe me, I was shocked by what they could achieve with their aged-15 hips!

Friday morning began with an early start, as Effy and I head off to Eilat to meet with friends to celebrate their intended engagement. A weekend spent in Israel’s hedonistic holiday resort is one vice I hope to maintain at least every two months in Israel. Every time I reach the lowest point on Israel’s map and enter Eilat, my body has an automatic reaction; anxiety slides out my joints, my muscles across my shoulders loosen and the mentally noted to-do list established over the past week goes on hold till Monday morning. The weekend was crammed with acts of pure indulgence, sunbathing, swimming in the hotel pool, excessive consumption of beer and whiskey chasers, hotel catering and ice cream. My trolley slightly overloaded, but there is always the promise for Monday detox.

One noticeable feature in Eilat is how well-dressed everyone appears. I always seem to develop something more than a glow and discover the location of hidden sweat glands that I never knew existed. My hair never stays quite in place, with strands often sticking to my forehead in the most unflattering of ways. I cannot do more than Havana flip-flops for day footwear, and make-up, well that never enters the equation between the hours of eleven to four pm. Israeli women, on the other hand, have built a huge resistance over the years to sweat, blisters and frizzy hair. The majority of them are able to strut around the beach front, styling tight-fitting hot pants and wedged shoes in the greatest of ease. Their hair and makeup appears as fresh as if, every morning, they step out of a beauty parlour; and not one damn pearl of sweat ever makes an entrance on their foreheads. Well, who needs small pores when you can have a whole lot of trolley to tot, something which is definitely missing amongst the Israeli female lower-back region.

Sunday night came, Italy beat France in the World Cup, and reality was to follow a much needed good night sleep. Question: why should work be viewed as the ‘reality’ of our schedules and the weekend as the snippet of time spent on life’s true pleasures? Someone got it wrong somewhere.

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

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.