February 27, 2009
As we tried to jump over the streams running along Tchernikovsky St. to get to the Dizengoff Center, we noticed a man walking next to us, because he was carrying a dachshund in his jacket, with the long face, and droopy ears extending from the front, the way babies are often carried in front packs. This fellow, probably in his 40s, was taller than I, slim, with a day’s growth of beard. He was wearing a knitted winter cap. Because both Linda and I were commenting on the cute dog, he said, in English, “where are you folks from?” When he heard North Carolina, he responded that he had lived in South Carolina for a while. He added that he has been in Israel for about 4 months and that his wife was in Jerusalem looking into becoming an olim (i.e., making aliyah, becoming a Jewish citizen of Israel). By this time we were at the entrance to the Dizengoff Center and walked in together, continuing our conversation, as he put the dog down. “I am here working with prostitutes and drug users,” he shared. (Sex trafficking is a serious problem in Israel.) Linda then jumped right in with questions about what organizations he was working with and had he heard of this group and that group. “No,” he answered,” we are doing this on our own. I heard of one guy who was actually buying these women back and giving them their freedom. What I really want to do is get to the basic causes.” And then he asked, “Are you believers?” Since we did not have much to offer at that point, the conversation faded and we wished him well. Was he an Evangelical, a member of Jews for Jesus? We don’t know, but curious about how and why he is pursuing the interests that he expressed in being in Israel.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
One Degree of Separation
February 26
Other than knowing Lynn, Linda and I were strangers to the participants in the Tsad Kadima Hike for Hope. Or at least strangers until I learned that I was separated by two and often just one degree from many. Is this because there are only 13 million Jews in the world, Jews travel widely, and Israel is an obvious point of concentration? After the introductions on Wednesday night, Gary, an economist in the Ministry of Health, who made aliyah about 30 years ago came over to let me know that he had earned his public health degree at UNC, over 20 years ago. In a subsequent chat I learned that not only did we have mutual friends, but a former girlfriend of his is now a colleague of mine in the Department of Maternal and Child Health. Early the next morning, as we were packing our gear, David asked if I knew Gladys in Chapel Hill. David is a member of Kibbutz Gesher where one of Gladys’s sons has lived for many years. While on the trail I started up a conversation with Daniel Paller. We were discussing our experiences as Jews growing up when in passing he mentioned Cleveland. “Are you related to Ed Paller?” I asked. “I had him for a teacher during a summer program.” “He was my father,” he responded. Daniel and his family had also been members of Fairmount Synagogue, as had my family. I was beginning to feel that without too much exploration I would learn that I had relationships with everyone in this group. Several hours into the hike, I met up with Jeffrey, a delightful gentleman, probably 10 years older than I, who works as a translator after having earned a degree in comparative literature many years ago. His son had decided to attend college in the U.S. then stayed to earn a law degree, and after a short stay in New York, is now working for a large firm in Washington, DC. Because my brother is a lawyer and many friends are lawyers, I was curious to know the firm. At that point I should not have been surprised that there was a connection. I immediately recognized the name of the firm, because a good friend from my high school days is currently one of the senior partners at this very large firm with headquarters in New York. If I knew how to speak to camels that were wandering in the distance as we ended the hike, I probably would have discovered relationships with them as well.
Other than knowing Lynn, Linda and I were strangers to the participants in the Tsad Kadima Hike for Hope. Or at least strangers until I learned that I was separated by two and often just one degree from many. Is this because there are only 13 million Jews in the world, Jews travel widely, and Israel is an obvious point of concentration? After the introductions on Wednesday night, Gary, an economist in the Ministry of Health, who made aliyah about 30 years ago came over to let me know that he had earned his public health degree at UNC, over 20 years ago. In a subsequent chat I learned that not only did we have mutual friends, but a former girlfriend of his is now a colleague of mine in the Department of Maternal and Child Health. Early the next morning, as we were packing our gear, David asked if I knew Gladys in Chapel Hill. David is a member of Kibbutz Gesher where one of Gladys’s sons has lived for many years. While on the trail I started up a conversation with Daniel Paller. We were discussing our experiences as Jews growing up when in passing he mentioned Cleveland. “Are you related to Ed Paller?” I asked. “I had him for a teacher during a summer program.” “He was my father,” he responded. Daniel and his family had also been members of Fairmount Synagogue, as had my family. I was beginning to feel that without too much exploration I would learn that I had relationships with everyone in this group. Several hours into the hike, I met up with Jeffrey, a delightful gentleman, probably 10 years older than I, who works as a translator after having earned a degree in comparative literature many years ago. His son had decided to attend college in the U.S. then stayed to earn a law degree, and after a short stay in New York, is now working for a large firm in Washington, DC. Because my brother is a lawyer and many friends are lawyers, I was curious to know the firm. At that point I should not have been surprised that there was a connection. I immediately recognized the name of the firm, because a good friend from my high school days is currently one of the senior partners at this very large firm with headquarters in New York. If I knew how to speak to camels that were wandering in the distance as we ended the hike, I probably would have discovered relationships with them as well.
L'Chaim
February 26, 2009
The wakeup call was at 5:30, breakfast at 6 and board the bus for the drop-off point at 7. It was chilly enough for a long-sleeved shirt that would soon be shed, once we started walking. Backpacks were filled with at least 2 1.5 liter bottles of water and sandwiches, nuts, candies, and cut vegetables for lunch. After a quick stop by the driver for cigarettes at the kiosk just down the rode from the Field School, the bus headed up a ridge that would take us to the starting point for our 6-7 mile trek. The “road” for this several hundred foot climb was at least a dozen switchbacks, requiring iron nerves if not skill by the driver. The road, originally developed by the British for mineral development in the area, was for many years the only route from Jerusalem to Eilat, the southern most point in Israel.
As we climbed, the view from the bus provided impressions of the vastness of the desert and the extraordinary geologic formations that arose millions of years ago when the Africa-Syrian rift split Africa from Asia, resulting in the Dead Sea, hundreds of feet below sea level, among other formations. The entire Negev was the floor of a giant sea millions of years ago, so just picture standing on the floor of on an ocean where the water has disappeared. There are valleys, rolling hills, tall peaks, river beds where massive currents carve out the floor. The composition is not that of a sandy desert, but rocky and dusty because there is less than 8 inches of annual rainfall.
Alighting from the “safety” of the bus, the barrenness, bleakness and isolation bring to life what had just been impressions. Our group of 25 heads off on a trail marked by painted rocks that indicate the route and the direction. In no time our group has spread out so it’s barely possible to spot those who are hundreds of meters in the distance. Think 600,000 Hebrews departing from Egypt three thousand years ago or recall Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments. The composition of the ground is not that of a sandy desert, but rather rocks from pebbles to massive boulders and dry, dry dirt, so the actual walking is not difficult, but the sense of isolation, even hiking with others nearby, is intense. Looking ahead at the specks of hikers in the distance or surveying the stunning desert landscape with no apparent signs of life and there is an existential, uncluttered, purifying feeling along with the isolation.
As remote as the setting seems to be, from the first hill, off in the hazy distance, we can see the Dimona nuclear reactor and then at the other end of that valley is a large white structure that looks like Moby Dick. It’s the security blimp that provides early warning from the sky to the reactor. Within an hour or two, the blimp had launched for its daily flight and without clouds or other ways to provide perspective, the large whale always seemed to be following us whether we were on a hill, in a ravine or at the bottom of a gorge.
Off in the distance, at the top of a hill, sit the remains of a Roman guard post. Two questions came to mind. How on earth could some Roman guards stay in this post without going mad from boredom? Forget the 6-7 miles, would I really be able to make it to that first rest stop?
It may be trite, but a picture is truly worth a thousand words when describing the Negev, so I won’t try. What I can describe is one recurrent experience. Two or sometimes three of us are walking and talking when we come to the top of a rise, or the edge of a gorge. The scene is quite literally breathtaking, so the conversation just stops. It stops. Sometimes one of us, to be polite, would say, “excuse me for a minute,” but often it just stopped. We pause, inhale the scene, perhaps take a photo, contemplate the wonder experiencing this kind of powerful beauty for a minute or two and then march on. A few minutes later, around another corner, the identical choreography. Again...and again...and again.
The Negev is definitely not lifeless. There are occasional acacia trees with their tiny leaves to preserve moisture from evaporation, an occasional tuft of some type of desert grass, but for the most part dry, hazy, dry, and unending. The final mile or so took us into the gorge of an ancient, mostly dry river bed, except for the occasional flash flood after a storm. At the end of the gorge, however, is a spring. The bed is damp, maybe even muddy, but there are pools carved out of the rocks lining the edge of the gorge. Water, of course, means life in the desert. A large bush of tiny purple flowers presided over the damp bed and insists that one examine her. Quickly I notice bees swarming over the flowers, then small flies about the dampness, then some small yellow flowers on the opposite “shore” of this spring, shaded by a massive rock overhang, then some daisies, then grass providing a welcome mat for the large bush, then lush green moss carpeting parts of the mud. Life finds a way. As we all sat in the shade of an overhang, a young, vibrant couple, accompanied by a large frolicking dog, climbed down from the edge of the gorge, to one of the pools, about 25 yards from where we were resting. They apparently had parked their car in a parking lot not far from this point, where the bus was to pick us up. The young woman was quite pregnant. As the dog enjoyed running through the pools and exploring the growing things, she reclined near one of the pools, looking very pregnant, as the young man took a photo. After she clambered to her feet, the man removed his shirt and then his pants, leaving only his lime green briefs. The woman than removed her purple top and her slacks, dressed in a black bra, gray panties and a firm, bulging abdomen. The young man jumped into the pool, followed by the dog. The woman dangled her feet and played with the dog as he shook the water from his coat. We finished our rest and lunch, climbed up to and past the pools, chatting briefly with this handsome, invigorating couple (who had come from Haifa, about 7 hours away) as we concluded our trek.
The wakeup call was at 5:30, breakfast at 6 and board the bus for the drop-off point at 7. It was chilly enough for a long-sleeved shirt that would soon be shed, once we started walking. Backpacks were filled with at least 2 1.5 liter bottles of water and sandwiches, nuts, candies, and cut vegetables for lunch. After a quick stop by the driver for cigarettes at the kiosk just down the rode from the Field School, the bus headed up a ridge that would take us to the starting point for our 6-7 mile trek. The “road” for this several hundred foot climb was at least a dozen switchbacks, requiring iron nerves if not skill by the driver. The road, originally developed by the British for mineral development in the area, was for many years the only route from Jerusalem to Eilat, the southern most point in Israel.
As we climbed, the view from the bus provided impressions of the vastness of the desert and the extraordinary geologic formations that arose millions of years ago when the Africa-Syrian rift split Africa from Asia, resulting in the Dead Sea, hundreds of feet below sea level, among other formations. The entire Negev was the floor of a giant sea millions of years ago, so just picture standing on the floor of on an ocean where the water has disappeared. There are valleys, rolling hills, tall peaks, river beds where massive currents carve out the floor. The composition is not that of a sandy desert, but rocky and dusty because there is less than 8 inches of annual rainfall.
Alighting from the “safety” of the bus, the barrenness, bleakness and isolation bring to life what had just been impressions. Our group of 25 heads off on a trail marked by painted rocks that indicate the route and the direction. In no time our group has spread out so it’s barely possible to spot those who are hundreds of meters in the distance. Think 600,000 Hebrews departing from Egypt three thousand years ago or recall Cecil B. DeMille’s The Ten Commandments. The composition of the ground is not that of a sandy desert, but rather rocks from pebbles to massive boulders and dry, dry dirt, so the actual walking is not difficult, but the sense of isolation, even hiking with others nearby, is intense. Looking ahead at the specks of hikers in the distance or surveying the stunning desert landscape with no apparent signs of life and there is an existential, uncluttered, purifying feeling along with the isolation.
As remote as the setting seems to be, from the first hill, off in the hazy distance, we can see the Dimona nuclear reactor and then at the other end of that valley is a large white structure that looks like Moby Dick. It’s the security blimp that provides early warning from the sky to the reactor. Within an hour or two, the blimp had launched for its daily flight and without clouds or other ways to provide perspective, the large whale always seemed to be following us whether we were on a hill, in a ravine or at the bottom of a gorge.
Off in the distance, at the top of a hill, sit the remains of a Roman guard post. Two questions came to mind. How on earth could some Roman guards stay in this post without going mad from boredom? Forget the 6-7 miles, would I really be able to make it to that first rest stop?
It may be trite, but a picture is truly worth a thousand words when describing the Negev, so I won’t try. What I can describe is one recurrent experience. Two or sometimes three of us are walking and talking when we come to the top of a rise, or the edge of a gorge. The scene is quite literally breathtaking, so the conversation just stops. It stops. Sometimes one of us, to be polite, would say, “excuse me for a minute,” but often it just stopped. We pause, inhale the scene, perhaps take a photo, contemplate the wonder experiencing this kind of powerful beauty for a minute or two and then march on. A few minutes later, around another corner, the identical choreography. Again...and again...and again.
The Negev is definitely not lifeless. There are occasional acacia trees with their tiny leaves to preserve moisture from evaporation, an occasional tuft of some type of desert grass, but for the most part dry, hazy, dry, and unending. The final mile or so took us into the gorge of an ancient, mostly dry river bed, except for the occasional flash flood after a storm. At the end of the gorge, however, is a spring. The bed is damp, maybe even muddy, but there are pools carved out of the rocks lining the edge of the gorge. Water, of course, means life in the desert. A large bush of tiny purple flowers presided over the damp bed and insists that one examine her. Quickly I notice bees swarming over the flowers, then small flies about the dampness, then some small yellow flowers on the opposite “shore” of this spring, shaded by a massive rock overhang, then some daisies, then grass providing a welcome mat for the large bush, then lush green moss carpeting parts of the mud. Life finds a way. As we all sat in the shade of an overhang, a young, vibrant couple, accompanied by a large frolicking dog, climbed down from the edge of the gorge, to one of the pools, about 25 yards from where we were resting. They apparently had parked their car in a parking lot not far from this point, where the bus was to pick us up. The young woman was quite pregnant. As the dog enjoyed running through the pools and exploring the growing things, she reclined near one of the pools, looking very pregnant, as the young man took a photo. After she clambered to her feet, the man removed his shirt and then his pants, leaving only his lime green briefs. The woman than removed her purple top and her slacks, dressed in a black bra, gray panties and a firm, bulging abdomen. The young man jumped into the pool, followed by the dog. The woman dangled her feet and played with the dog as he shook the water from his coat. We finished our rest and lunch, climbed up to and past the pools, chatting briefly with this handsome, invigorating couple (who had come from Haifa, about 7 hours away) as we concluded our trek.
Tsad Kadima
February 25, 2009
Lynn, a high school friend of a dear friend of ours from Chapel Hill, had called us earlier in the week to invite us to join the Tsad Kadima Hike for Hope in the Negev. Tsad Kadima (Step Forward) is a nonprofit organization, about 20 years old, devoted to improving the lives of children with cerebral palsy and their families. As explained by one of the hikers, the father of a young adult with cerebral palsy, the organization adopted the Hungarian Peto system of Conductive Education for treating children with cerebral palsy. The system teaches children with CP and their families to overcome their motor disabilities and to enable them to be functionally independent. Briefly, the theory is that normally developing children get lots of feedback both from their own behaviors and from adults that reinforces their learning. After a while they internalize this positive reinforcement to become self-motivated learners. Even something a simple as a baby shaking a rattle sets of this cycle. Kids with cerebral palsy who do not have the motor skills to engage in or initiate this simple process end up discouraged and then can enter can a downward learning cycle. The Peto system teaches kids and perhaps most importantly their families to set up these positive learning cycles. Each child is encouraged to develop normal social facilities, such as language skills, healthy personal interactions and consideration for others.
We met Lynn in Jerusalem and then drove to the Field School in Hatzeva in the Arava region of the Negev, about 3 hours from Jerusalem. After dinner the group of about 30 gathered to learn about the following day’s hike. Asher one of the planners of the hike asked 8 or so newcomers to introduce themselves to the 20 people who had already had one day of hiking. The group was mainly Americans who had made aliyah and had been in Israel for anywhere from 30 years to 1 year, so they know the U.S. and were themselves immersed in Israeli culture and life. I mention this because when, in my introduction, I said that Sheatufim was engaged in building civil society in Israel there was uproarious laughter. The thought that society in Israel would be “civil” (rather than “civil” as in nonprofit/nongovernment organizations was apparently just too funny!!
Lynn, a high school friend of a dear friend of ours from Chapel Hill, had called us earlier in the week to invite us to join the Tsad Kadima Hike for Hope in the Negev. Tsad Kadima (Step Forward) is a nonprofit organization, about 20 years old, devoted to improving the lives of children with cerebral palsy and their families. As explained by one of the hikers, the father of a young adult with cerebral palsy, the organization adopted the Hungarian Peto system of Conductive Education for treating children with cerebral palsy. The system teaches children with CP and their families to overcome their motor disabilities and to enable them to be functionally independent. Briefly, the theory is that normally developing children get lots of feedback both from their own behaviors and from adults that reinforces their learning. After a while they internalize this positive reinforcement to become self-motivated learners. Even something a simple as a baby shaking a rattle sets of this cycle. Kids with cerebral palsy who do not have the motor skills to engage in or initiate this simple process end up discouraged and then can enter can a downward learning cycle. The Peto system teaches kids and perhaps most importantly their families to set up these positive learning cycles. Each child is encouraged to develop normal social facilities, such as language skills, healthy personal interactions and consideration for others.
We met Lynn in Jerusalem and then drove to the Field School in Hatzeva in the Arava region of the Negev, about 3 hours from Jerusalem. After dinner the group of about 30 gathered to learn about the following day’s hike. Asher one of the planners of the hike asked 8 or so newcomers to introduce themselves to the 20 people who had already had one day of hiking. The group was mainly Americans who had made aliyah and had been in Israel for anywhere from 30 years to 1 year, so they know the U.S. and were themselves immersed in Israeli culture and life. I mention this because when, in my introduction, I said that Sheatufim was engaged in building civil society in Israel there was uproarious laughter. The thought that society in Israel would be “civil” (rather than “civil” as in nonprofit/nongovernment organizations was apparently just too funny!!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Of Biblical Proportions
February 23
I don’t know if it was the thwack of the lightning, the rumble of the thunder, the mild shaking of our stone building, or the roar of the waterfall outside the window that awakened me. I jumped from bed and opened the sliding glass window that runs the width of our living room, in order to get an idea of what was happening. To my surprise I was blinded by the bright sun off to my left, in the east, while at the same time, rain was pouring right in front of my face. Within a minute came the ping, ping, ping of hail colliding with the roofs and windshields of the cars in the lot below and then more rain. This is what I remember witnessing at Sinai—torrential rain, lightening, hail, blinding sun, the roar of thunder, wind--all at the same time. Nevertheless, this was the morning that I needed to haul my clothes to the laundry in the small mall across the street from our apartment, 50 shekels for 15 kilos. As I exited the main entrance to the building, I was still protected because the ground floor, like many apartment houses in Tel Aviv, is mainly open space for parking and gardens, as if on stilts. It was still raining, but it’s just 50 meters to the mall. Only then did I notice the torrents of water racing down Rehov Bavli. There do not appear to be many drainage sewers, so the water creates streams and rivers as it seeks lower ground, wherever that may be. Drainage from roof spouts builds the river, like tributaries. I followed along the “bank” of River Bavli, trying to figure out a place to cross the torrent. I was not about to turn back. Downstream, beyond my destination, I noticed that one of the traffic humps formed an island, so that’s where I split the waters and crossed to the laundry.
I can’t complain. We need the rain. Israel has been experiencing its worst dry spell in 80 years. Lake Kinneret (Galilee), Israel’s main water source, is almost too low for pumping. The allocation of 450 million cubic meters (whatever that amount is) of water for farming is apparently the lowest since the establishment of the State. There are two desalinization plants with a third set to come on-stream in September. Management of precious water resources is a paramount challenge for Israel and her neighbors
I don’t know if it was the thwack of the lightning, the rumble of the thunder, the mild shaking of our stone building, or the roar of the waterfall outside the window that awakened me. I jumped from bed and opened the sliding glass window that runs the width of our living room, in order to get an idea of what was happening. To my surprise I was blinded by the bright sun off to my left, in the east, while at the same time, rain was pouring right in front of my face. Within a minute came the ping, ping, ping of hail colliding with the roofs and windshields of the cars in the lot below and then more rain. This is what I remember witnessing at Sinai—torrential rain, lightening, hail, blinding sun, the roar of thunder, wind--all at the same time. Nevertheless, this was the morning that I needed to haul my clothes to the laundry in the small mall across the street from our apartment, 50 shekels for 15 kilos. As I exited the main entrance to the building, I was still protected because the ground floor, like many apartment houses in Tel Aviv, is mainly open space for parking and gardens, as if on stilts. It was still raining, but it’s just 50 meters to the mall. Only then did I notice the torrents of water racing down Rehov Bavli. There do not appear to be many drainage sewers, so the water creates streams and rivers as it seeks lower ground, wherever that may be. Drainage from roof spouts builds the river, like tributaries. I followed along the “bank” of River Bavli, trying to figure out a place to cross the torrent. I was not about to turn back. Downstream, beyond my destination, I noticed that one of the traffic humps formed an island, so that’s where I split the waters and crossed to the laundry.
I can’t complain. We need the rain. Israel has been experiencing its worst dry spell in 80 years. Lake Kinneret (Galilee), Israel’s main water source, is almost too low for pumping. The allocation of 450 million cubic meters (whatever that amount is) of water for farming is apparently the lowest since the establishment of the State. There are two desalinization plants with a third set to come on-stream in September. Management of precious water resources is a paramount challenge for Israel and her neighbors
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Halfshekel
Yesterday was Shabbat Shekelim, so the maftir portion was from Exodus 30:11-16 which describes the census taken in the wilderness. The people are to donate a half-shekel as a tax to provide for the maintenance of the Tent of Meeting and the coins are counted instead of the people. There are many explanations that draw me to this passage and the celebration of Shabbat Shekelim. Both rich and poor contribute the half-shekel, indicating that both are valued. Every individual has the obligation to support the community. The rabbis also remind us that the soul of each individual is precious and unique so we do the work of the census, the counting, with coins instead of people. Shabbat Shekalim is a reminder of kol Yisrael areyvim, ze la ze. All of Israel is responsible, one for the other.
We're All Reconstructionists in Israel
February 20, 2009
Near the beginning of the Amidah, there is a clause that changes based on two seasons, winter and summer. Until Passover the clause is “You cause the wind to blow and the rain to fall.” This morning it was doing both, uncomfortably, but fortunately intermittently.
The railings that lead up the stairs to the sanctuary at Beit Daniel were covered with streams of orange, red, and purple flowers, suggesting that this must be a special occasion. Indeed, there were two huge flower arrangements on the bimah, one in front of the reading table and one in front of the rabbi’s stand. Linda and I buy flowers before Shabbat at the local stand, for 10 shekels or sometimes 15 shekels. The bima arrangements must have been 20 or 30 times the size of the simple bunch for our vase. I was already looking forward to the Kiddush lunch.
The passing of the Torah l’dor v’dor is touching, with all the grandparents, sibs and parents participating, as the scroll is passed from the grandparents to the bar mitzvah. Two aspects of the service were noteworthy. First, there must have been a group of visitors from the U.S., because for the first time, page numbers and even an occasional instruction were delivered in English. Second, the awkwardness or newness with the ritual that characterizes these bar mitzvah ceremonies (I have not yet been in attendance when a girl is having a bat mitzvah) seemed a little more pronounced. For example, when Natan was called to the bima for the maftir reading, applause broke out. The applause before he had done anything in the service seemed to catch the rabbi off guard, so she motioned with her hands for the applause to stop. Second, there was no repetition of the Sh’ma after the Torah was taken from the Ark. The Cantor jumped right in and the congregation followed. Another example is that several of the aliyahs involved 5 or 6 people, many of whom seemed uncomfortable on the bimah. This is not to be critical, but just to highlight the awkwardness, if not disconnect with the ritual at these bar mitzvahs each Shabbat. After the barrage of candy, the parents ascended the bima and the mother delivered impassioned remarks, even tearing up at one point. I wish that I had a translation. Although it’s becoming increasingly frequent for me to say that the parents looked young, these parents really looked young, perhaps 40. Having a child at 27 is certainly not young, so it’s interesting how one’s peers (our friends were celebrating their children’s bnei mitzvahs in their 50s) influence perceptions. The announcement of the new month of Adar (beginning on Wednesday) was accompanied by an energetic, festive song about increasing joy, as the Talmud calls for during the month of Adar when Purim takes place.
Alas, when I walked down the stairs, the usual Kiddush with an assortment of sliced cakes, small cups of wine and juice, and two challot was set up, which meant that the Kiddush lunch was for invited guests only. I am sure it was delicious.
“Shabbat Shalom,” said a young man, with a baby in a stroller, as the blessing over bread was finished. Gilad welcomed me to Beit Daniel. When I explained that we belonged to a Reconstructionist synagogue in North Carolina, and that the service was very similar, he laughed and said, “in Israel, if you are not Orthodox, you are Reconstructionist. Even secular Israelis!”
Near the beginning of the Amidah, there is a clause that changes based on two seasons, winter and summer. Until Passover the clause is “You cause the wind to blow and the rain to fall.” This morning it was doing both, uncomfortably, but fortunately intermittently.
The railings that lead up the stairs to the sanctuary at Beit Daniel were covered with streams of orange, red, and purple flowers, suggesting that this must be a special occasion. Indeed, there were two huge flower arrangements on the bimah, one in front of the reading table and one in front of the rabbi’s stand. Linda and I buy flowers before Shabbat at the local stand, for 10 shekels or sometimes 15 shekels. The bima arrangements must have been 20 or 30 times the size of the simple bunch for our vase. I was already looking forward to the Kiddush lunch.
The passing of the Torah l’dor v’dor is touching, with all the grandparents, sibs and parents participating, as the scroll is passed from the grandparents to the bar mitzvah. Two aspects of the service were noteworthy. First, there must have been a group of visitors from the U.S., because for the first time, page numbers and even an occasional instruction were delivered in English. Second, the awkwardness or newness with the ritual that characterizes these bar mitzvah ceremonies (I have not yet been in attendance when a girl is having a bat mitzvah) seemed a little more pronounced. For example, when Natan was called to the bima for the maftir reading, applause broke out. The applause before he had done anything in the service seemed to catch the rabbi off guard, so she motioned with her hands for the applause to stop. Second, there was no repetition of the Sh’ma after the Torah was taken from the Ark. The Cantor jumped right in and the congregation followed. Another example is that several of the aliyahs involved 5 or 6 people, many of whom seemed uncomfortable on the bimah. This is not to be critical, but just to highlight the awkwardness, if not disconnect with the ritual at these bar mitzvahs each Shabbat. After the barrage of candy, the parents ascended the bima and the mother delivered impassioned remarks, even tearing up at one point. I wish that I had a translation. Although it’s becoming increasingly frequent for me to say that the parents looked young, these parents really looked young, perhaps 40. Having a child at 27 is certainly not young, so it’s interesting how one’s peers (our friends were celebrating their children’s bnei mitzvahs in their 50s) influence perceptions. The announcement of the new month of Adar (beginning on Wednesday) was accompanied by an energetic, festive song about increasing joy, as the Talmud calls for during the month of Adar when Purim takes place.
Alas, when I walked down the stairs, the usual Kiddush with an assortment of sliced cakes, small cups of wine and juice, and two challot was set up, which meant that the Kiddush lunch was for invited guests only. I am sure it was delicious.
“Shabbat Shalom,” said a young man, with a baby in a stroller, as the blessing over bread was finished. Gilad welcomed me to Beit Daniel. When I explained that we belonged to a Reconstructionist synagogue in North Carolina, and that the service was very similar, he laughed and said, “in Israel, if you are not Orthodox, you are Reconstructionist. Even secular Israelis!”
Friday, February 20, 2009
When is a Line a Circle?
February 19, 2009
Linda and I arrived at the Arlozorov bus station, from which dozens of buses depart and arrive to and from all over Israel. We walked up to the waiting area for the #480 which departs for the comfortable 50 minute journey to Jerusalem every 15 minutes. About 10 people, mostly soldiers, were seated or standing, waiting for the next bus to pull up. Linda and I stood in what looked like a line, as the bus pulled up and opened the door. While our line started to move along the side of the bus, others grouped right next to us, and then more next to them, until there appeared to be a semi-circle of lines, all of which were feeding people--or more accurately, attempting to feed people--onto the bus. People behind us even moved ahead of us. Is it polite to push a soldier out of the way? An old lady? A young woman? These are questions to ponder if one wants to get to Jerusalem.
The Jerusalem International Book Fair is taking place this week at the Jerusalem Convention Center. In addition to the 1200 publishers who provide over 100,000 books in 40 different languages, there are speakers scheduled throughout the day and into the evening. This biennial event awards the Jerusalem Prize to a “writer whose work best expresses and promotes the freedom of the individual in society.” This year’s award went to the Japanese writer, Haruki Murakami. The first part of the exhibition hall contained many kiosks with books in Hebrew, of course, and many English books as well. What was fascinating was then walking through a short hallway into another exhibition hall where there were kiosks from many other countries—Germany, Italy, France, Spain, Poland, Romania, India and others. Along one entire wall was the Lithuanian display, and many Lithuanian books had been featured this year. Even not knowing a word of most of these languages there was something awe-inspiring thinking about the common ideas, descriptions, histories, and analyses that all of these authors seek to express, even though expressing themselves in different languages.
Although it was after 8 as we headed up Jaffo St. towards the central bus station, we decided to stop at the shuk. Because of the hour, we expected many of the stalls to be closed already, but we were clearly mistaken. In fact, as we wandered the narrow aisles browsing at the piles of vegetables, strawberries, breads, pastries, meats, fish and on and on, we noticed a growing crowd, kind of like the second seating at a restaurant. Indeed, the market was filling with many Orthodox Jews, mainly men in their black hats and overcoats, pushing and shoving from one stall to the next, probably doing shopping for Shabbat tomorrow.
We stopped at one of the bread stands to buy a challah for tomorrow. It took us a few minutes to pull assorted shekels from our pockets, as we discussed which to select. When I extended my hand with shekels to the merchant, he just smiled, waived his hand at us and put a challah in a bag for us to take. A mitzvah before Shabbat.
Linda and I arrived at the Arlozorov bus station, from which dozens of buses depart and arrive to and from all over Israel. We walked up to the waiting area for the #480 which departs for the comfortable 50 minute journey to Jerusalem every 15 minutes. About 10 people, mostly soldiers, were seated or standing, waiting for the next bus to pull up. Linda and I stood in what looked like a line, as the bus pulled up and opened the door. While our line started to move along the side of the bus, others grouped right next to us, and then more next to them, until there appeared to be a semi-circle of lines, all of which were feeding people--or more accurately, attempting to feed people--onto the bus. People behind us even moved ahead of us. Is it polite to push a soldier out of the way? An old lady? A young woman? These are questions to ponder if one wants to get to Jerusalem.
The Jerusalem International Book Fair is taking place this week at the Jerusalem Convention Center. In addition to the 1200 publishers who provide over 100,000 books in 40 different languages, there are speakers scheduled throughout the day and into the evening. This biennial event awards the Jerusalem Prize to a “writer whose work best expresses and promotes the freedom of the individual in society.” This year’s award went to the Japanese writer, Haruki Murakami. The first part of the exhibition hall contained many kiosks with books in Hebrew, of course, and many English books as well. What was fascinating was then walking through a short hallway into another exhibition hall where there were kiosks from many other countries—Germany, Italy, France, Spain, Poland, Romania, India and others. Along one entire wall was the Lithuanian display, and many Lithuanian books had been featured this year. Even not knowing a word of most of these languages there was something awe-inspiring thinking about the common ideas, descriptions, histories, and analyses that all of these authors seek to express, even though expressing themselves in different languages.
Although it was after 8 as we headed up Jaffo St. towards the central bus station, we decided to stop at the shuk. Because of the hour, we expected many of the stalls to be closed already, but we were clearly mistaken. In fact, as we wandered the narrow aisles browsing at the piles of vegetables, strawberries, breads, pastries, meats, fish and on and on, we noticed a growing crowd, kind of like the second seating at a restaurant. Indeed, the market was filling with many Orthodox Jews, mainly men in their black hats and overcoats, pushing and shoving from one stall to the next, probably doing shopping for Shabbat tomorrow.
We stopped at one of the bread stands to buy a challah for tomorrow. It took us a few minutes to pull assorted shekels from our pockets, as we discussed which to select. When I extended my hand with shekels to the merchant, he just smiled, waived his hand at us and put a challah in a bag for us to take. A mitzvah before Shabbat.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Taxi Wager
February 16, 2009
In high school, my calculus teacher, in explaining the concept of “limits,” used to ask if it made any difference if you walked or ran in the rain. Then, to push it to the limit, he would ask if it made any difference if you walked or ran at the bottom of a swimming pool.
There seem to be about as many dogs in Tel Aviv as there are cell phones, a lot. While some owners are conscientious about dog poop, others are not. As I got off of the train today at Bet Yohoshua, I recognized the familiar odor coming from my shoe. I picked up a stick, but there are a lot of nooks and crannies in the soles of my shoes, so when I got to Sheatufim, I headed to the restroom and tried paper towels soaked in water. For the rest of the day, however, the odor seemed to be there.
The sky turned dark gray as I headed back to the train station at the end of the day. A downpour started just after I had purchased a dark chocolate Magnum ice cream bar. I think that buying ice cream bars is a good way to learn numbers. Even though the distance is only a few feet from the shelter to the train, I was covered with rain. When I emerged from the station at Tel Aviv University, it was still raining heavily, so I climbed into a cab. The walk from our apartment to the station is only about 20 minutes through lovely Hayarkon Park, so I figured a taxi fare was worth it to avoid more of this cold rain.
Confidently I said, “shesh esrey Bavli, bevakasha.” (16 Bavli, please), as I climbed into a taxi. The driver turned and said “Bavli” and something about 20 shekels or the meter. It seems that taxi fares are something like the lottery. You bet on the meter or a fixed fare, whenever you get into the cab. Quickly calculating the short walk through the park, I was confident that there was no way it would get to 20 shekels to get me home from the 9.20 on the meter, so I chose the meter.
As we pulled out of the station onto congested Israel Rokach Blvd., I was still confident, even though surprised by how quickly the idle time registered on the meter. Just then, however, I realized that the taxi was not going to be able to go through the park and over the quaint footbridge across the Hayarkon River. We would have to drive up to Namir, a traffic nightmare in its own right and then work our way back to Bavli. The rain continued as we crawled along and I started to think about hopping out if the meter hit 19.90 shekels, just so that I could say that I had won. The meter hit 18 as we waited through three light changes at Namir (and some angry taxi drivers who had been cut off by my driver). Finally on Namir, I assumed he would go down to Harav Herzog and turn left, but instead he exited Namir on the cloverleaf that took us very slowly and several shekels worth under the Namir bridge to Harav Kasovsky that runs along the park. As we passed Sanhedrin, the block before Bavli, the driver signaled about turning right, but I knew that Bavli came right to the park so I just waved him ahead to the next street. It was only then that I remembered that Bavli was one way for the three of the four blocks between our apartment and the park. Even though it was still raining, it was unclear to me exactly how we would get back to anywhere near #16 without starting at the train station again, so I just said, “b’seder” (o.k.) and hopped out of the cab for a mere 27.70 shekels. I got drenched during the four block walk to the apartment. My calculus teacher would probably ask if I would have gotten more drenched just walking or running directly from the station without bothering to take the taxi wager.
I was happy to see, however, that the puddles had washed the dog poop from even the smallest cracks on my soles.
In high school, my calculus teacher, in explaining the concept of “limits,” used to ask if it made any difference if you walked or ran in the rain. Then, to push it to the limit, he would ask if it made any difference if you walked or ran at the bottom of a swimming pool.
There seem to be about as many dogs in Tel Aviv as there are cell phones, a lot. While some owners are conscientious about dog poop, others are not. As I got off of the train today at Bet Yohoshua, I recognized the familiar odor coming from my shoe. I picked up a stick, but there are a lot of nooks and crannies in the soles of my shoes, so when I got to Sheatufim, I headed to the restroom and tried paper towels soaked in water. For the rest of the day, however, the odor seemed to be there.
The sky turned dark gray as I headed back to the train station at the end of the day. A downpour started just after I had purchased a dark chocolate Magnum ice cream bar. I think that buying ice cream bars is a good way to learn numbers. Even though the distance is only a few feet from the shelter to the train, I was covered with rain. When I emerged from the station at Tel Aviv University, it was still raining heavily, so I climbed into a cab. The walk from our apartment to the station is only about 20 minutes through lovely Hayarkon Park, so I figured a taxi fare was worth it to avoid more of this cold rain.
Confidently I said, “shesh esrey Bavli, bevakasha.” (16 Bavli, please), as I climbed into a taxi. The driver turned and said “Bavli” and something about 20 shekels or the meter. It seems that taxi fares are something like the lottery. You bet on the meter or a fixed fare, whenever you get into the cab. Quickly calculating the short walk through the park, I was confident that there was no way it would get to 20 shekels to get me home from the 9.20 on the meter, so I chose the meter.
As we pulled out of the station onto congested Israel Rokach Blvd., I was still confident, even though surprised by how quickly the idle time registered on the meter. Just then, however, I realized that the taxi was not going to be able to go through the park and over the quaint footbridge across the Hayarkon River. We would have to drive up to Namir, a traffic nightmare in its own right and then work our way back to Bavli. The rain continued as we crawled along and I started to think about hopping out if the meter hit 19.90 shekels, just so that I could say that I had won. The meter hit 18 as we waited through three light changes at Namir (and some angry taxi drivers who had been cut off by my driver). Finally on Namir, I assumed he would go down to Harav Herzog and turn left, but instead he exited Namir on the cloverleaf that took us very slowly and several shekels worth under the Namir bridge to Harav Kasovsky that runs along the park. As we passed Sanhedrin, the block before Bavli, the driver signaled about turning right, but I knew that Bavli came right to the park so I just waved him ahead to the next street. It was only then that I remembered that Bavli was one way for the three of the four blocks between our apartment and the park. Even though it was still raining, it was unclear to me exactly how we would get back to anywhere near #16 without starting at the train station again, so I just said, “b’seder” (o.k.) and hopped out of the cab for a mere 27.70 shekels. I got drenched during the four block walk to the apartment. My calculus teacher would probably ask if I would have gotten more drenched just walking or running directly from the station without bothering to take the taxi wager.
I was happy to see, however, that the puddles had washed the dog poop from even the smallest cracks on my soles.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Learning to Fulfill Dreams
February 13, 2009
The Reuven Rubin Museum on Bialek Street honors Rubin who made aliyah from Romania in the 1920s to become one of the pillars of the Israeli art world, not to mention Israel’s first diplomat to his place of birth. He died at the age of 81 in 1974. To commemorate the 25th anniversary of the museum, a previously unknown work of his, Homage to Vincent, became the theme of an exhibit to demonstrate how Israeli artists have “dialogued” with Vincent van Gogh. The exhibit contained many media, including some videos. The picture that prompted the theme was a colorful oil with an easily recognizable portrait of van Gogh, partly blocked by a vase of flowers in the energetic, frenzied and colorful style of Van Gogh. It’s interesting to consider how few cues the brain needs to recognize a likeness of van Gogh. One 10 by 10 painting at first looked like a giant green and black crossword puzzle, but from a distance the squares blended into his likeness. There was a painting that resembled a van Gogh landscape of manicured French farms, but the eye is directed to Mt. Tabor (An Israeli landmark). On a humorous note, my favorite piece of art consisted of a long, white wire extending from the ceiling nearly to the floor. At the end was a small, bright lightbulb almost touching a book of the Complete Works of Vincent van Gogh, out of the cover of which had been carved a small cup, filled with--what else for van Gogh--but sunflower seeds.
A quote from the video of an interview with Rubin captures what I try to do for my students, “I didn’t learn to paint. I learned to fulfill my dreams.”
The Reuven Rubin Museum on Bialek Street honors Rubin who made aliyah from Romania in the 1920s to become one of the pillars of the Israeli art world, not to mention Israel’s first diplomat to his place of birth. He died at the age of 81 in 1974. To commemorate the 25th anniversary of the museum, a previously unknown work of his, Homage to Vincent, became the theme of an exhibit to demonstrate how Israeli artists have “dialogued” with Vincent van Gogh. The exhibit contained many media, including some videos. The picture that prompted the theme was a colorful oil with an easily recognizable portrait of van Gogh, partly blocked by a vase of flowers in the energetic, frenzied and colorful style of Van Gogh. It’s interesting to consider how few cues the brain needs to recognize a likeness of van Gogh. One 10 by 10 painting at first looked like a giant green and black crossword puzzle, but from a distance the squares blended into his likeness. There was a painting that resembled a van Gogh landscape of manicured French farms, but the eye is directed to Mt. Tabor (An Israeli landmark). On a humorous note, my favorite piece of art consisted of a long, white wire extending from the ceiling nearly to the floor. At the end was a small, bright lightbulb almost touching a book of the Complete Works of Vincent van Gogh, out of the cover of which had been carved a small cup, filled with--what else for van Gogh--but sunflower seeds.
A quote from the video of an interview with Rubin captures what I try to do for my students, “I didn’t learn to paint. I learned to fulfill my dreams.”
What's Going on There, Anyway?
February 12, 2009
A non-Jewish friend read a recent column in the International Herald Tribune and thought to share it with me for my thoughts. The December 30 (a few days after the onset of the action in Gaza) column is by Benny Morris, an Israeli historian known for his often critical analysis of Israeli policies and actions toward the Arabs, as far back as the War of Independence in 1948. Morris described two fundamental aspects of foreboding in Israel—the Arab world has never accepted Israel’s legitimacy and favorable public opinion in the West is gradually declining. Morris cites four specific causes for these unsettling feelings—Iran’s nuclear ambitions, fundamentalist Hezbollah in the north, Hamas in the south, and an increasingly radicalized Arab minority in Israel itself. I appreciated the fact that my friend reached out with genuine curiosity to learn my views. One effect of being here is that friends and colleagues find themselves thinking about an area of the world, situations, and dilemmas that either would not ordinarily enter their consciousness or would not stimulate them to inquire. I confirmed the analysis by Morris. I added that given what Morris says about these stresses it is remarkable what Israel has accomplished, much less survived. What is bewildering and troubling is how easily Israel's cultural, social, and economic contributions to the world are ignored. I am not at all suggesting that because Israel does so much good, it's o.k. if 100 or 10 or even 1 child dies when Israel tries to defend herself. Actually a lot of newsprint has been consumed in Israel debating that very issue. Rather, I think there is a need for more clarity and more nuance—more substantive, curiosity driven dialogue--at the same time about a conundrum that will require conflicting interests to be served. That’s why I was glad that he reached out to begin a conversation.
A non-Jewish friend read a recent column in the International Herald Tribune and thought to share it with me for my thoughts. The December 30 (a few days after the onset of the action in Gaza) column is by Benny Morris, an Israeli historian known for his often critical analysis of Israeli policies and actions toward the Arabs, as far back as the War of Independence in 1948. Morris described two fundamental aspects of foreboding in Israel—the Arab world has never accepted Israel’s legitimacy and favorable public opinion in the West is gradually declining. Morris cites four specific causes for these unsettling feelings—Iran’s nuclear ambitions, fundamentalist Hezbollah in the north, Hamas in the south, and an increasingly radicalized Arab minority in Israel itself. I appreciated the fact that my friend reached out with genuine curiosity to learn my views. One effect of being here is that friends and colleagues find themselves thinking about an area of the world, situations, and dilemmas that either would not ordinarily enter their consciousness or would not stimulate them to inquire. I confirmed the analysis by Morris. I added that given what Morris says about these stresses it is remarkable what Israel has accomplished, much less survived. What is bewildering and troubling is how easily Israel's cultural, social, and economic contributions to the world are ignored. I am not at all suggesting that because Israel does so much good, it's o.k. if 100 or 10 or even 1 child dies when Israel tries to defend herself. Actually a lot of newsprint has been consumed in Israel debating that very issue. Rather, I think there is a need for more clarity and more nuance—more substantive, curiosity driven dialogue--at the same time about a conundrum that will require conflicting interests to be served. That’s why I was glad that he reached out to begin a conversation.
NATAL
February 11
NATAL, the Israel Trauma Center for Victims of Terror and War, was founded in 1998, in the words of its Chair and founder, Judith Yovel Recanati, “to express a social statement and take action on behalf of Israeli society and within it…to legitimize emotions that had long been concealed and repressed, because we believed it was no longer possible to abet denial and the lack of recognition for the pain, bereavement and loss of so many people.” I had met Judith at Sheatufim and arranged to meet with her and members of the NATAL staff to learn more about this very effective and respected program. What is most impressive is that in 10 short years, NATAL has developed many strong components for a problem that necessarily demands a multi-faceted approach. Clinical services are strong, addressing immediate needs and programs for trauma recovery as well. A national toll free Hotline answered hundreds of calls daily during the recent action in Gaza, but also serves as a point of access for individuals suffering from the effects of trauma or for their family members to gain assistance. NATAL had made its presence known through public education and advocacy. The organization has developed a multi-disciplinary center for trauma studies to provide training for practitioners at all levels, from students beginning clinical programs to experienced therapists, including internationally. Attention to evaluation methods is another focus. All of this is supported by a demanding fundraising program. Judith Recanati puts all of the good that they have done and continue to do in the appropriate perspective, namely, we pray that the “day would come when there are no more victims of National Trauma in Israel.”
NATAL, the Israel Trauma Center for Victims of Terror and War, was founded in 1998, in the words of its Chair and founder, Judith Yovel Recanati, “to express a social statement and take action on behalf of Israeli society and within it…to legitimize emotions that had long been concealed and repressed, because we believed it was no longer possible to abet denial and the lack of recognition for the pain, bereavement and loss of so many people.” I had met Judith at Sheatufim and arranged to meet with her and members of the NATAL staff to learn more about this very effective and respected program. What is most impressive is that in 10 short years, NATAL has developed many strong components for a problem that necessarily demands a multi-faceted approach. Clinical services are strong, addressing immediate needs and programs for trauma recovery as well. A national toll free Hotline answered hundreds of calls daily during the recent action in Gaza, but also serves as a point of access for individuals suffering from the effects of trauma or for their family members to gain assistance. NATAL had made its presence known through public education and advocacy. The organization has developed a multi-disciplinary center for trauma studies to provide training for practitioners at all levels, from students beginning clinical programs to experienced therapists, including internationally. Attention to evaluation methods is another focus. All of this is supported by a demanding fundraising program. Judith Recanati puts all of the good that they have done and continue to do in the appropriate perspective, namely, we pray that the “day would come when there are no more victims of National Trauma in Israel.”
Getting Around
One feature that makes Tel Aviv such a user-friendly city is the sherut system. A sherut (service in Hebrew) is 10-14 passenger van that follows selected bus routes. In fact they use the same numbers as the buses, so the #14 bus that runs through our neighborhood has a little brother, the #14 sherut. The drivers take no prisoners, however, as they race along the often narrow streets, often passing other sheruts along the way, not to mention buses. The fare is the same 5.5 shekels as the bus, but the sherut is like a mini-taxi, stopping when hailed and allowing passengers to exit not only at bus stops, but seemingly whenever it has stopped such as at a traffic light. Today I took a sherut to Dizengoff and confidently stood up when it stopped at the corner of King George, a convenient place for me to alight. I said, “po, b’vakashaa” (here, please) to the driver. I could not understand his response, but apparently on his sherut I was not allowed to exit until his next planned stop, over three blocks away!
And the Winner Is...
February 11, 2009
It’s hard to imagine that 33 parties actually fielded candidates. The lowest vote total was 600+ and the largest, Kadima, with a shade over 758,000. Twelve parties actually surpassed the 2% threshold to earn seats. Now the negotiations begin to see who will be able to build a coalition with 61 seats, a majority of the 120 seat Knesset. When all is said and done, one never knows which of the positions that motivated you to support your candidate will be given away in trying to piece together what will be a tenuous coalition in any case. Oy! This does not seem any way to govern a country.
It’s hard to imagine that 33 parties actually fielded candidates. The lowest vote total was 600+ and the largest, Kadima, with a shade over 758,000. Twelve parties actually surpassed the 2% threshold to earn seats. Now the negotiations begin to see who will be able to build a coalition with 61 seats, a majority of the 120 seat Knesset. When all is said and done, one never knows which of the positions that motivated you to support your candidate will be given away in trying to piece together what will be a tenuous coalition in any case. Oy! This does not seem any way to govern a country.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Write, Right, Left
February 10, 2009
Stationery shops here catch my attention because all of the spiral binders are bound on the right; Hebrew reads from right to left. In my mind I try to flip the pages and imagine what the binder would look like if the “real” front were the front. Today, I realized that I should bring a bunch of these binders back with me. As a lefty, it is much easier for me to write with the wire spiral on the right, both in terms of legibility and pain in my writing hand from pressing on the binding. Then it occurred to me that I could simply use left-sided binders and flip them over so that the back would become the front. Maybe it will be easier to bring them from Israel.
Stationery shops here catch my attention because all of the spiral binders are bound on the right; Hebrew reads from right to left. In my mind I try to flip the pages and imagine what the binder would look like if the “real” front were the front. Today, I realized that I should bring a bunch of these binders back with me. As a lefty, it is much easier for me to write with the wire spiral on the right, both in terms of legibility and pain in my writing hand from pressing on the binding. Then it occurred to me that I could simply use left-sided binders and flip them over so that the back would become the front. Maybe it will be easier to bring them from Israel.
Erev Election Day
February 9, 2009
Tomorrow is election day and in Israel it is a work holiday for many businesses. Perhaps this is because voters need all of their available energy and concentration to choose among the several dozen parties on the ballot. I realized that by 4 pm, nearly everybody had left Sheafutim; there were few passengers on the train from Bet Yohoshua; the usual stop and go traffic on the Ayalon expressway was a little more go and a lot less stop. Could it be that because traditional Jewish holidays begin at sundown this election-related holiday also begins the night before?
Tomorrow is election day and in Israel it is a work holiday for many businesses. Perhaps this is because voters need all of their available energy and concentration to choose among the several dozen parties on the ballot. I realized that by 4 pm, nearly everybody had left Sheafutim; there were few passengers on the train from Bet Yohoshua; the usual stop and go traffic on the Ayalon expressway was a little more go and a lot less stop. Could it be that because traditional Jewish holidays begin at sundown this election-related holiday also begins the night before?
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Ani talmid b’ulpan
February 8
In my twice weekly class that began tonight there are 33 students. A lot of students. They are from Brazil, Nepal, Eritrea, Sudan (Darfur), Germany, Holland, Turkey, Philippines, Romania, Italy, Ireland, Great Britain, India, Sweden, Poland, Egypt, and the U.S. Only 3 are new olim, the others are here to work or tour. The Egyptian is in the diplomatic service. Others are university students, business people, and two journalists.
In my twice weekly class that began tonight there are 33 students. A lot of students. They are from Brazil, Nepal, Eritrea, Sudan (Darfur), Germany, Holland, Turkey, Philippines, Romania, Italy, Ireland, Great Britain, India, Sweden, Poland, Egypt, and the U.S. Only 3 are new olim, the others are here to work or tour. The Egyptian is in the diplomatic service. Others are university students, business people, and two journalists.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Yoram's Bar Mitzvah
February 7, 2009
“May the people who make the seventh day holy find satisfaction in Your generosity” is part of the blessing for Shabbat in the Amidah. Waking up in Tel Aviv and surely every Jewish community in Israel, the absence of the squeal of power saws and scrapers at construction sites, the roar of the garbage truck or other delivery vehicles, the loud voices of people walking by on their way to work or accompanying their children to school makes me appreciate this verse. When I first open my eyes, I hear the silence, then the song of a bird or two, and then, after my ears have convinced themselves that the day is indeed different, I begin to hear the voices of children and maybe the bouncing of a ball. What a gift to have such a day. Stop, take a deep breath, look at the flowers, appreciate the warmth of the sun. Even the traffic on Namir--two long blocks from our appartment--the main, busy thoroughfare between Tel Aviv and Haifa--is sparse and somehow more peaceful during Shabbat morning as I make my way to Beit Daniel.
The participants today were different, yet again, from the previous morning services that I have attended. By the time that the Torah service began, the hall was practically full with elderly people, young parents with young children, but none of the bar/bat mitzvah age kids that have attended previously. Although everything was in Hebrew something seemed different about this occasion. Yoram looked like any bar mitzvah, although perhaps a bit more distracted. He made brief remarks before the Torah was removed from the Ark and received the first of many rounds of applause this morning. He blessed the Torah for the maftir, but did not read. He chanted the blessing for the Haftorah and the portion of the day from Judges. His younger sister, about 10 or 11 in a lovely, full-length, halter-top white dress, accompanied by a 3 year old cousin quietly distributed the candy. As Yoram chanted I noticed one sleek, fashionably dressed woman near the front who had turned toward the congregation. She had tears in her eyes. I then noticed that the man next to me was tearful, as were many in attendance. Yoram finished to applause and then chanted the blessing after the reading. He had barely finished when not only did the candy let fly, but many family members rushed the bima. His mother jumped into his arms. The rabbi seemed to lead the applause. Tears were flowing as we sang siman tov and mazel tov (good sign and good luck). Then, as is the custom at Beit Daniel, the parent(s) made brief remarks. While Yoram’s father made his remarks, he put his arm around his shoulder and Yoram rested his head on his dad's shoulder. More tears flowed. His mother spoke and then his younger sister took her turn and even though I understood not a word, she sounded poised and pleased at what her brother had accomplished.
When we adjourned to the lobby for Kiddush, I said to the gabbai that this seemed to be a very special occasion. She told me that, yes, he has some developmental problems, so it was very special. Shabbat Shalom.
“May the people who make the seventh day holy find satisfaction in Your generosity” is part of the blessing for Shabbat in the Amidah. Waking up in Tel Aviv and surely every Jewish community in Israel, the absence of the squeal of power saws and scrapers at construction sites, the roar of the garbage truck or other delivery vehicles, the loud voices of people walking by on their way to work or accompanying their children to school makes me appreciate this verse. When I first open my eyes, I hear the silence, then the song of a bird or two, and then, after my ears have convinced themselves that the day is indeed different, I begin to hear the voices of children and maybe the bouncing of a ball. What a gift to have such a day. Stop, take a deep breath, look at the flowers, appreciate the warmth of the sun. Even the traffic on Namir--two long blocks from our appartment--the main, busy thoroughfare between Tel Aviv and Haifa--is sparse and somehow more peaceful during Shabbat morning as I make my way to Beit Daniel.
The participants today were different, yet again, from the previous morning services that I have attended. By the time that the Torah service began, the hall was practically full with elderly people, young parents with young children, but none of the bar/bat mitzvah age kids that have attended previously. Although everything was in Hebrew something seemed different about this occasion. Yoram looked like any bar mitzvah, although perhaps a bit more distracted. He made brief remarks before the Torah was removed from the Ark and received the first of many rounds of applause this morning. He blessed the Torah for the maftir, but did not read. He chanted the blessing for the Haftorah and the portion of the day from Judges. His younger sister, about 10 or 11 in a lovely, full-length, halter-top white dress, accompanied by a 3 year old cousin quietly distributed the candy. As Yoram chanted I noticed one sleek, fashionably dressed woman near the front who had turned toward the congregation. She had tears in her eyes. I then noticed that the man next to me was tearful, as were many in attendance. Yoram finished to applause and then chanted the blessing after the reading. He had barely finished when not only did the candy let fly, but many family members rushed the bima. His mother jumped into his arms. The rabbi seemed to lead the applause. Tears were flowing as we sang siman tov and mazel tov (good sign and good luck). Then, as is the custom at Beit Daniel, the parent(s) made brief remarks. While Yoram’s father made his remarks, he put his arm around his shoulder and Yoram rested his head on his dad's shoulder. More tears flowed. His mother spoke and then his younger sister took her turn and even though I understood not a word, she sounded poised and pleased at what her brother had accomplished.
When we adjourned to the lobby for Kiddush, I said to the gabbai that this seemed to be a very special occasion. She told me that, yes, he has some developmental problems, so it was very special. Shabbat Shalom.
Why Philanthropy?
We had a wonderful Shabbat dinner at the home of a colleague, joined by her husband and their absolutely adorable 2 yr 8 month son.
I was asked, “Why did you want to study philanthropy in Israel for this time? Do others spend so much time in Israel?” After explaining that the opportunity to spend time is somewhat unique to people from the university and that a number of faculty members from UNC have taken sabbaticals in Israel. “With regard to philanthropy, about 10 or 12 years ago, I was moved by the power that gifts, donations of money, can have, both on the recipients and the donors. I thought it was remarkable especially the effects that communal giving can have. You may remember about 5 or 6 years ago when two synagogues were bombed in Turkey, in Istanbul, on Shabbat. I think it’s amazing that the very next morning the worldwide Jewish community, through our communal programs, was there to provide help and comfort. Or let me give you another example. You may have heard about Virginia Tech University in the States. Two years ago, a mentally ill student murdered several students and faculty members. It was a horrible tragedy. Within 24 hours, the UJC had given the campus Hillel at Virginia Tech, $10,000 so that they could stay open 24 hours a day until the end of the semester to provide comfort, food, a place to feel safe for students and non-students, Jews and non-Jews in that community. I am interested in learning more about how to make it possible for the Jewish community to respond in this way. Individuals may or may not be able to respond, to provide this type of assistance immediately when needed.”
I was asked, “Why did you want to study philanthropy in Israel for this time? Do others spend so much time in Israel?” After explaining that the opportunity to spend time is somewhat unique to people from the university and that a number of faculty members from UNC have taken sabbaticals in Israel. “With regard to philanthropy, about 10 or 12 years ago, I was moved by the power that gifts, donations of money, can have, both on the recipients and the donors. I thought it was remarkable especially the effects that communal giving can have. You may remember about 5 or 6 years ago when two synagogues were bombed in Turkey, in Istanbul, on Shabbat. I think it’s amazing that the very next morning the worldwide Jewish community, through our communal programs, was there to provide help and comfort. Or let me give you another example. You may have heard about Virginia Tech University in the States. Two years ago, a mentally ill student murdered several students and faculty members. It was a horrible tragedy. Within 24 hours, the UJC had given the campus Hillel at Virginia Tech, $10,000 so that they could stay open 24 hours a day until the end of the semester to provide comfort, food, a place to feel safe for students and non-students, Jews and non-Jews in that community. I am interested in learning more about how to make it possible for the Jewish community to respond in this way. Individuals may or may not be able to respond, to provide this type of assistance immediately when needed.”
Paying the Rent
February 5, 2009
We have deposited money in our credit union account in order to be able to wire rent to our landlady. By the way, the credit union fees are substantially lower than those of our bank. Tonight, I logged on to the credit union, moved to the Move Money page, and clicked on “international” transfers. There was a rather long set of instructions noting, among other things, that to verify international wires, a representative of the credit union would call to confirm. Of course the fact that I am not at my home number to receive such a call did concern me. Nevertheless, I started entering bank codes and routing numbers, but soon the automatic timeout feature closed the site. I started again, this time a little more concerned about whether they would be able to confirm this transfer with me. I logged on again, hurriedly filled out the form. For phone number, I entered my cell in Israel. The final item was a box for comments, so racing against the clock, I explained my predicament and pushed “send.” An error message chided me that the 12 digit phone number I had entered (complete with the international code for Israel) was not an acceptable phone number. I started thinking about other ways to pay the rent, as I again logged on and re-entered the information, this time with our home number and then a soulful plea in the comment box, including my cell number and the advice that we are 7 hours ahead. Send. About 20 minutes into this undertaking and not at all confident that this wire could be confirmed, I looked up the credit union telephone number, the ATT toll free access number (recommended by the credit union for calls from abroad), picked up the calling card that I had purchased at the airport when we arrived, gathered together the documents for the accounts and banking numbers, and stood up to go to the corner pay phone. At that moment, not 2 minutes after I had pushed the "send" button, I was jarred by the high-pitched, piercing, metronomic ring of my cell phone.
“Hello, may I speak to Mr. Margolis?”
“Speaking,” I replied.
In a charming North Carolina accent, I heard, “This is Crystal from the credit union to confirm your wire. I’d like to have you answer some security questions? Is that o.k.?”
Oh ye of little faith.
We have deposited money in our credit union account in order to be able to wire rent to our landlady. By the way, the credit union fees are substantially lower than those of our bank. Tonight, I logged on to the credit union, moved to the Move Money page, and clicked on “international” transfers. There was a rather long set of instructions noting, among other things, that to verify international wires, a representative of the credit union would call to confirm. Of course the fact that I am not at my home number to receive such a call did concern me. Nevertheless, I started entering bank codes and routing numbers, but soon the automatic timeout feature closed the site. I started again, this time a little more concerned about whether they would be able to confirm this transfer with me. I logged on again, hurriedly filled out the form. For phone number, I entered my cell in Israel. The final item was a box for comments, so racing against the clock, I explained my predicament and pushed “send.” An error message chided me that the 12 digit phone number I had entered (complete with the international code for Israel) was not an acceptable phone number. I started thinking about other ways to pay the rent, as I again logged on and re-entered the information, this time with our home number and then a soulful plea in the comment box, including my cell number and the advice that we are 7 hours ahead. Send. About 20 minutes into this undertaking and not at all confident that this wire could be confirmed, I looked up the credit union telephone number, the ATT toll free access number (recommended by the credit union for calls from abroad), picked up the calling card that I had purchased at the airport when we arrived, gathered together the documents for the accounts and banking numbers, and stood up to go to the corner pay phone. At that moment, not 2 minutes after I had pushed the "send" button, I was jarred by the high-pitched, piercing, metronomic ring of my cell phone.
“Hello, may I speak to Mr. Margolis?”
“Speaking,” I replied.
In a charming North Carolina accent, I heard, “This is Crystal from the credit union to confirm your wire. I’d like to have you answer some security questions? Is that o.k.?”
Oh ye of little faith.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Unbelievable Moments
February 4, 2009
Sitting in a café at the end of Keren Hayesod, overlooking Liberty Bell Park in Jerusalem, I asked Arnie Draiman how the Israeli population responded to assist residents of the south during the war. Arnie has many jobs, but his primary one is serving as a consultant to donors from North America who want to give tzedakah in Israel. He serves as the local contact, eyes on the ground, for these donors. He is a colleague of Danny Siegel, the writer and teacher and head of the recently closed Ziv Foundation. I was curious based on my participation in the UJC conference calls about how to mobilize an emergency fund and later calls about how to allocate $10 million for proposals by JAFI and the JDC to assist residents in the south. I wondered what Israelis were doing and how did these particular proposals align with what I assumed were many other actions under way. My interest was further provoked by the experience in the U.S., where there is an outpouring of private support in response to disasters like Katrina or the tsunami or 9/11.
Arnie described a range of responses, which, unfortunately, do not make it into the English press or at least the press that I was reading. Somebody organized the sale of challahs from bakeries in Sderot so that each Shabbat during the war 10,000 were brought from those beleaguered businesses and sold in Jerusalem. Many people housed families that fled north. He had requests from some families for financial support to help feed the extra three or four strangers that were visitors in some households, but he estimates that for every request he had for 1000 shekels there were many other families simply absorbing the extra costs. Dormitories in schools opened to shelter kids, so that there were 4 or 5 in a room instead of the usual 2 or 3. While the public obviously supports the soldiers on all of the dimensions that such support implies, reporting of these less apparent, but equally important, elements of a cohesive and caring is an important part of the response to the war. I think that this failure to incorporate these strategies into our consciousness and discussions may reflect too much attention to needs/deficits and not enough to assets, particularly in this economically thriving country.
By coincidence, I had a concrete opportunity to think about tzedakah later in the afternoon. Linda’s friend Ruthie, from ulpan 45 years ago, invited us to a presentation at the Jerusalem Conservatory Hassadna. The Conservatory is over 30 years old. It meets in a three-story school from 2 in the afternoon until 7. Because it is a shared space they have to pack up the classrooms, set up rooms for individual music lessons and chamber groups, and then reverse the process at 7. And for this they have to pay the city of Jerusalem 21,000 shekels (about $5000) per month, but that can be the topic of another entry. About three years ago, Ruthie encouraged the Conservatory to develop a program to recruit Ethiopian kids, both to enrich the cultural diversity of the program and to provide new and creative ways to enhance the lives of Ethiopian kids who face many, many barriers, as they struggle in this new land. The effort was so successful, not only in developing musical talent, but also in enriching other dimensions of their lives and their families that soon the Conservatory was asked about kids at risk who were not Ethiopian and then about kids with disabilities. These special kids now make up about 20% of the enrollment of over 500. Two aspects were especially important. First, they do not just provide music lessons. They visit homes, help with practice, tutor for homework, and encourage family participation (often the absence of bus fare is a barrier) at concerts and recitals. Second, the kids in this program are readily incorporated into chamber groups; in the current parlance, they are “mainstreamed.” We saw a duet between a “regular” 12 year old violinist and a girl with autism, accompanying her on the piano; we saw a jazz quintet of young teens, which was the first “public” performance by the 14 year old Ethiopian sax player. He was so proud when we applauded at the end that it may take him a while to play the sax again, because I am sure he strained so many smile muscles. I am not quite sure, because I was clearing a few tears from my eye. Everybody is struggling due to the financial implosion and the Madoff scandal. Two foundation supporters have cut thousands in funding in the middle of the year. The teachers and staff are so dedicated that they would never consider dropping a kid, but the need for support to pay the $2300 yearly tuition is palpable. Lina, a former teacher at the conservatory and now the director of the special program, and Ronit, a special assistant/outreach worker for these kids, were inspiring as they repeatedly referred to “unbelievable moments.”
Sitting in a café at the end of Keren Hayesod, overlooking Liberty Bell Park in Jerusalem, I asked Arnie Draiman how the Israeli population responded to assist residents of the south during the war. Arnie has many jobs, but his primary one is serving as a consultant to donors from North America who want to give tzedakah in Israel. He serves as the local contact, eyes on the ground, for these donors. He is a colleague of Danny Siegel, the writer and teacher and head of the recently closed Ziv Foundation. I was curious based on my participation in the UJC conference calls about how to mobilize an emergency fund and later calls about how to allocate $10 million for proposals by JAFI and the JDC to assist residents in the south. I wondered what Israelis were doing and how did these particular proposals align with what I assumed were many other actions under way. My interest was further provoked by the experience in the U.S., where there is an outpouring of private support in response to disasters like Katrina or the tsunami or 9/11.
Arnie described a range of responses, which, unfortunately, do not make it into the English press or at least the press that I was reading. Somebody organized the sale of challahs from bakeries in Sderot so that each Shabbat during the war 10,000 were brought from those beleaguered businesses and sold in Jerusalem. Many people housed families that fled north. He had requests from some families for financial support to help feed the extra three or four strangers that were visitors in some households, but he estimates that for every request he had for 1000 shekels there were many other families simply absorbing the extra costs. Dormitories in schools opened to shelter kids, so that there were 4 or 5 in a room instead of the usual 2 or 3. While the public obviously supports the soldiers on all of the dimensions that such support implies, reporting of these less apparent, but equally important, elements of a cohesive and caring is an important part of the response to the war. I think that this failure to incorporate these strategies into our consciousness and discussions may reflect too much attention to needs/deficits and not enough to assets, particularly in this economically thriving country.
By coincidence, I had a concrete opportunity to think about tzedakah later in the afternoon. Linda’s friend Ruthie, from ulpan 45 years ago, invited us to a presentation at the Jerusalem Conservatory Hassadna. The Conservatory is over 30 years old. It meets in a three-story school from 2 in the afternoon until 7. Because it is a shared space they have to pack up the classrooms, set up rooms for individual music lessons and chamber groups, and then reverse the process at 7. And for this they have to pay the city of Jerusalem 21,000 shekels (about $5000) per month, but that can be the topic of another entry. About three years ago, Ruthie encouraged the Conservatory to develop a program to recruit Ethiopian kids, both to enrich the cultural diversity of the program and to provide new and creative ways to enhance the lives of Ethiopian kids who face many, many barriers, as they struggle in this new land. The effort was so successful, not only in developing musical talent, but also in enriching other dimensions of their lives and their families that soon the Conservatory was asked about kids at risk who were not Ethiopian and then about kids with disabilities. These special kids now make up about 20% of the enrollment of over 500. Two aspects were especially important. First, they do not just provide music lessons. They visit homes, help with practice, tutor for homework, and encourage family participation (often the absence of bus fare is a barrier) at concerts and recitals. Second, the kids in this program are readily incorporated into chamber groups; in the current parlance, they are “mainstreamed.” We saw a duet between a “regular” 12 year old violinist and a girl with autism, accompanying her on the piano; we saw a jazz quintet of young teens, which was the first “public” performance by the 14 year old Ethiopian sax player. He was so proud when we applauded at the end that it may take him a while to play the sax again, because I am sure he strained so many smile muscles. I am not quite sure, because I was clearing a few tears from my eye. Everybody is struggling due to the financial implosion and the Madoff scandal. Two foundation supporters have cut thousands in funding in the middle of the year. The teachers and staff are so dedicated that they would never consider dropping a kid, but the need for support to pay the $2300 yearly tuition is palpable. Lina, a former teacher at the conservatory and now the director of the special program, and Ronit, a special assistant/outreach worker for these kids, were inspiring as they repeatedly referred to “unbelievable moments.”
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
February 3, 2009
A tall man with a shaved head, unusual glasses with light blue rims that extended only partly around the lenses, an outdoor vest, blue jeans and a small rucksack walked into the library. As he looked around, he commented in Hebrew to which I responded that I do not speak Hebrew. He immediately switched to English. Sylvain Biegeleisen has been working with youth-at-risk in film-making for the past 10 years. Young people are referred from education and other programs. He works with groups of about 15 teens, with the assistance of a drama therapist and others. Through improvisation and discussion they craft 10 minute scripts about family issues, social issues, anything that is a priority for the kids. The films are screened on television and in classrooms. As Sylva explained, in a year he works directly with 500 kids, but 50,000 may see the films in school and tens of thousands on T.V. Apparently these are not just public service announcements at 2 a.m. He told a story about visiting Dimona for a children’s gathering. When one of the films was screened, he said he was stunned by the large number of kids who showed not only recognition, but also recited the lines as the film unfolded. He is insistent that these projects are about the children and not “at-risk” youth or “dis-abled” youth, but youth as youth. As he tells these stories, he radiates his passion for these kids. What a terrific adovacate! He was visiting Sheatufim today because he likes to re-think his ideas and goals, so came for a discussion with Dushey, the director of Sheatufim.
A tall man with a shaved head, unusual glasses with light blue rims that extended only partly around the lenses, an outdoor vest, blue jeans and a small rucksack walked into the library. As he looked around, he commented in Hebrew to which I responded that I do not speak Hebrew. He immediately switched to English. Sylvain Biegeleisen has been working with youth-at-risk in film-making for the past 10 years. Young people are referred from education and other programs. He works with groups of about 15 teens, with the assistance of a drama therapist and others. Through improvisation and discussion they craft 10 minute scripts about family issues, social issues, anything that is a priority for the kids. The films are screened on television and in classrooms. As Sylva explained, in a year he works directly with 500 kids, but 50,000 may see the films in school and tens of thousands on T.V. Apparently these are not just public service announcements at 2 a.m. He told a story about visiting Dimona for a children’s gathering. When one of the films was screened, he said he was stunned by the large number of kids who showed not only recognition, but also recited the lines as the film unfolded. He is insistent that these projects are about the children and not “at-risk” youth or “dis-abled” youth, but youth as youth. As he tells these stories, he radiates his passion for these kids. What a terrific adovacate! He was visiting Sheatufim today because he likes to re-think his ideas and goals, so came for a discussion with Dushey, the director of Sheatufim.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Atah midabehr Ivrit?
February 1, 2009
Happy 21rst birthday Gregory!
A tall, dark-haired man in a bright blue shirt greeted us at the door of the Goren-Goldstein Community Center on LaSalle, where the Gordon Ulpan is located. Linda said we are here for the test and he pointed to the motley crowd of about 20 already in the vestibule. I decided to enroll in a Hebrew class for two reasons. I think trying to learn a language is one way to become more intimate with a culture. Another reason is that colleagues appreciate efforts to learn more about their culture. It wasn’t clear to my why I was here for a placement test. After all, ground zero is ground zero, with no real gradations.
At about 5:10 a woman announced something in Hebrew and the crowd moved upstairs to a large barn-like room with a divider in the middle, demarcating about 50 chairs facing a whiteboard. Gali, a tall, stern-looking woman with short black hair, probably in her late 40s, introduced herself in the husky voice of a smoker, as well as a colleague, Irit, probably in her 30s. She began by saying she was going to talk in Hebrew for a few minutes and then in English. When she got to the English she said that there is a written test and after completing that we should put our names in order on the whiteboard and then have a conversation with one of them. The “aleph” test was for those without knowledge of past and future tense. There were also “bet” and “gimmel” versions. I looked at the six page written test. It began with identifying information and then went on with some grammar and reading comprehension or at least I think that’s what it did. I did recognize “shem” at the beginning of the test, so I knew to write my name. I then saw “telephone” so I jotted in my cell number. For the rest of the test, I recognized the word “rotzeh” (I want), but that was it. It’s a good thing a checked my work, however, because I realized that there were 3 lines devoted to the telephone and I had mistakenly put my cell on the “bayit” (home) line, so I corrected that by putting it on the cell line, having noticed “Pelophone” the name of my cell provider. I was number 1 on the list to be interviewed.
I sat down at Irit’s table. “Shalom, ma shlomekh?” I inquired, (hello, how are you doing?).
“B’ seder,” she responded and for that 2 seconds I was having a conversation in Hebrew--- before she went on in an incomprehensible string.
“Ani lo midaber Ivrit,” I pleaded. (I don’t speak Hebrew).
“You don’t speak at all?” she stated with a hint of impatience.
“I know how to read,” I offered to parry the oncoming criticism.
“This is not Hebrew,” was her retort. “Why did you take the test? We need to know how to place you. If you do not speak Hebrew, you do not need the test! Just go to the office and tell them to register for the beginners class.”
“I was misinformed,” I demurred and headed down to the office where two secretaries were registering students. Not counting the Daily Jumble, this was probably the first test that I had taken in over 30 years.
After a few minutes for those in front to clear, I sat down at the desk of a woman probably in her late 60s with a friendly demeanor. She asked for an ID. Having already thought through when I could come back with my passport, I was amazed when she accepted by NC driver’s license. She walked into the next room to photocopy the license. The fact that she had to walk into the next room to do this is but one indicator of the need for some serious re-engineering of this bureaucracy. After she informed me that my teacher would be Elana and that class started on the 8th, I asked her if the pictures on her desk were of her grandchildren, all prepared to compliment them.
“No,” she said with a look of mild disdain. “Mine are more beautiful.”
Linda did not emerge from her registration close to 7 o’clock. On the #5, two women our age were sitting behind us, jabbering away in English. When we were about to get off on Yehuda Ha Maccabi, one asked if we were getting off to go to the political panel at Beit Daniel. The Association of American and Canadian Israelis sponsored a panel prior to the 2006 election and were doing so again for the February 10th election. We decided to go and for a mere 10 shekels to help defray the cost of the hall, we heard presentations by 6 of the seven panel members, the Likud member, apparently having been caught in traffic. Unbelievably, Daniel Ayalon, the previous Israeli ambassador to the U.S., whom we had met (and have a picture) at the Governor’s mansion in Raleigh, was the speaker for Israel Beiteinu.
I need not go into the specifics of party platforms, but the seemingly unmanageable chaos of the Israeli governing system was apparent, especially given the articulate exposition of key points in the 8 minutes or so that each was allotted. This was not a panel of specious political blather. There are 33 parties running for the 120 seats in the Knesset. The coalitions that are cobbled together, particularly as the smaller parties are recruited, have little other than naked self-interest. “If you’ll agree to provide subsidies for my issue, I’ll support you, but I don’t really care that much about your major issues.” Given the fragility of the coalitions, there is little in the way of planning or strategic thinking, because in six months or a year, the circumstances that brought coalitions together can easily change. Another problem is that fully a third of the members of the Knesset are serving as ministers or deputy ministers so there is no effective or distinct executive branch. One candidate mentioned that Israel has had 32 governments in 60 years, giving Italy a run for its money. Indeed, one party claimed that its main issue was to re-design the structure to be more effective. One final note of interest is that the Knesset is apparently elected on the basis of proportional representation for the entire country. The candidates were introduced as #5 on the party list or #18 and etc. If a party gets a high enough percentage to earn 5 seats then, the #5 person would get a seat. If they fall short and get just 4 seats, then this person’s campaign was for naught. It’s not clear to me who, exactly, these candidates represent, in a national, proportional election.
Happy 21rst birthday Gregory!
A tall, dark-haired man in a bright blue shirt greeted us at the door of the Goren-Goldstein Community Center on LaSalle, where the Gordon Ulpan is located. Linda said we are here for the test and he pointed to the motley crowd of about 20 already in the vestibule. I decided to enroll in a Hebrew class for two reasons. I think trying to learn a language is one way to become more intimate with a culture. Another reason is that colleagues appreciate efforts to learn more about their culture. It wasn’t clear to my why I was here for a placement test. After all, ground zero is ground zero, with no real gradations.
At about 5:10 a woman announced something in Hebrew and the crowd moved upstairs to a large barn-like room with a divider in the middle, demarcating about 50 chairs facing a whiteboard. Gali, a tall, stern-looking woman with short black hair, probably in her late 40s, introduced herself in the husky voice of a smoker, as well as a colleague, Irit, probably in her 30s. She began by saying she was going to talk in Hebrew for a few minutes and then in English. When she got to the English she said that there is a written test and after completing that we should put our names in order on the whiteboard and then have a conversation with one of them. The “aleph” test was for those without knowledge of past and future tense. There were also “bet” and “gimmel” versions. I looked at the six page written test. It began with identifying information and then went on with some grammar and reading comprehension or at least I think that’s what it did. I did recognize “shem” at the beginning of the test, so I knew to write my name. I then saw “telephone” so I jotted in my cell number. For the rest of the test, I recognized the word “rotzeh” (I want), but that was it. It’s a good thing a checked my work, however, because I realized that there were 3 lines devoted to the telephone and I had mistakenly put my cell on the “bayit” (home) line, so I corrected that by putting it on the cell line, having noticed “Pelophone” the name of my cell provider. I was number 1 on the list to be interviewed.
I sat down at Irit’s table. “Shalom, ma shlomekh?” I inquired, (hello, how are you doing?).
“B’ seder,” she responded and for that 2 seconds I was having a conversation in Hebrew--- before she went on in an incomprehensible string.
“Ani lo midaber Ivrit,” I pleaded. (I don’t speak Hebrew).
“You don’t speak at all?” she stated with a hint of impatience.
“I know how to read,” I offered to parry the oncoming criticism.
“This is not Hebrew,” was her retort. “Why did you take the test? We need to know how to place you. If you do not speak Hebrew, you do not need the test! Just go to the office and tell them to register for the beginners class.”
“I was misinformed,” I demurred and headed down to the office where two secretaries were registering students. Not counting the Daily Jumble, this was probably the first test that I had taken in over 30 years.
After a few minutes for those in front to clear, I sat down at the desk of a woman probably in her late 60s with a friendly demeanor. She asked for an ID. Having already thought through when I could come back with my passport, I was amazed when she accepted by NC driver’s license. She walked into the next room to photocopy the license. The fact that she had to walk into the next room to do this is but one indicator of the need for some serious re-engineering of this bureaucracy. After she informed me that my teacher would be Elana and that class started on the 8th, I asked her if the pictures on her desk were of her grandchildren, all prepared to compliment them.
“No,” she said with a look of mild disdain. “Mine are more beautiful.”
Linda did not emerge from her registration close to 7 o’clock. On the #5, two women our age were sitting behind us, jabbering away in English. When we were about to get off on Yehuda Ha Maccabi, one asked if we were getting off to go to the political panel at Beit Daniel. The Association of American and Canadian Israelis sponsored a panel prior to the 2006 election and were doing so again for the February 10th election. We decided to go and for a mere 10 shekels to help defray the cost of the hall, we heard presentations by 6 of the seven panel members, the Likud member, apparently having been caught in traffic. Unbelievably, Daniel Ayalon, the previous Israeli ambassador to the U.S., whom we had met (and have a picture) at the Governor’s mansion in Raleigh, was the speaker for Israel Beiteinu.
I need not go into the specifics of party platforms, but the seemingly unmanageable chaos of the Israeli governing system was apparent, especially given the articulate exposition of key points in the 8 minutes or so that each was allotted. This was not a panel of specious political blather. There are 33 parties running for the 120 seats in the Knesset. The coalitions that are cobbled together, particularly as the smaller parties are recruited, have little other than naked self-interest. “If you’ll agree to provide subsidies for my issue, I’ll support you, but I don’t really care that much about your major issues.” Given the fragility of the coalitions, there is little in the way of planning or strategic thinking, because in six months or a year, the circumstances that brought coalitions together can easily change. Another problem is that fully a third of the members of the Knesset are serving as ministers or deputy ministers so there is no effective or distinct executive branch. One candidate mentioned that Israel has had 32 governments in 60 years, giving Italy a run for its money. Indeed, one party claimed that its main issue was to re-design the structure to be more effective. One final note of interest is that the Knesset is apparently elected on the basis of proportional representation for the entire country. The candidates were introduced as #5 on the party list or #18 and etc. If a party gets a high enough percentage to earn 5 seats then, the #5 person would get a seat. If they fall short and get just 4 seats, then this person’s campaign was for naught. It’s not clear to me who, exactly, these candidates represent, in a national, proportional election.
January 31, 2009
On Shabbat, does Jewish law permit one to cross against the traffic light? Life slows on Shabbat in Tel Aviv, not nearly to the degree that it does in Jerusalem, but slows nevertheless. One good indicator is the diminished rush and whir of the cars racing down Namir or Pinkas, two of the main thoroughfares. During the week, I am impressed by the compliance with traffic signals and I myself am respectful of the regulations and would not consider taking my life in my hands by crossing against a light in any case. On Shabbat, even on Namir, cars are less common and easily visible one or two hundred yards from the intersection. Is it kosher to cross?
The Tel Aviv and Jaffo Cultural Office sponsors a walking tour about the Bauhaus architecture on Rothschild Boulevard. Edmond Rothschild, the son of James Rothschild, the Parisian banker and one of the five sons of the founder of the Rothschild banking enterprise, became a staunch and generous benefactor to Jews settling Palestine, beginning with the first aliyah in 1882. He was responding to the desperate plight of poor Jews in Eastern Europe and believed that Palestine was a safe haven. (Independently and coincidentally, Yemini Jews decided to establish a new life for themselves in Palestine in the same year.) Although not initially a Zionist, indeed he was in conflict with Herzl until the early 1890s, Rothschild invested or donated millions of francs to agricultural (including the wine vineyards of Zikaron Ha Yakov, named for his father) and small industrial efforts. He visited Palestine on five occasions, once on very short notice when he was at sea on his yacht and decided to stop in for a few days! Given Edmond Rothschild’s commitment of the Jews of Palestine it seemed appropriate to name the first street of the new city of Tel Aviv for him. Or, one never knows, perhaps he bought the naming rights.
A sherut brought us to Rothschild and Shadal, just two blocks or so from the beginning of this grand boulevard. A group of about 20 people was gathering for the 11 a.m. tour. Yona Wiseman, a spirited probably in her late 60s, conducted the tour. She came to Israel in 1960 and although she did not say her country of origin she sounded South African. She began with the story of the 66 families, many residents of nearby ancient Jaffo, who decided that in order to take more control of their circumstances they would build a new city, north of Jaffo. There is a famous picture of members of the families as they stand on the sand dunes that constituted the site of their new city. Although the city grew rapidly, initially along Rothschild, the main street, the founders would be stunned to see Tel Aviv today, as it celebrates its centennial in 2009.
The first building she pointed out was built for a wealthy Jew from Europe who fled WW I. It has undergone several changes of ownership, as well as renovations. The Soviets made it their embassy for a short while after the founding of the State, but moved out when an anti-communist worker set off a bomb in the kitchen. Recently, the building was purchased by a Canadian philanthropist who is turning it into a home away from home for members of the IDF who do not have families in Israel. In order to impede “Zionism by bulldozers” as Yona informed us, regulations in the 1960’s, I think, and certainly since Tel Aviv has been designated a landmark city by UNESCO, require that fascades be preserved. In exchange for the willingness to undertake a renovation, developers are permitted to develop adjoining property, but still with the expectation that it align with current structures. For example, one modern bank incorporated two funeral homes, probably built in the 1930s, into its structure. She showed us some pictures of totally, but totally gutted buildings, with the blue sky clearly visible, but the original facades in place. Another regulation with the early building was that each house must plant a tree, the precursors to the 300 million trees that have been planted.
In 1925, recognizing the chaotic growth of the city, leaders invited Patrick Gaddes, a Scottish planner living in Bombay, to consult. Yona noted that even coming from Bombay, not known for its organized development, Gaddes was appalled. He was responsible for establishing several of the major cross town boulevards. He also divided the city into a grid with 90 squares and encouraged small parks in each. Apparently 60 or so of these have small parks and green spaces.
Tel Aviv became a landmark for Bauhaus architecture for two reasons. First, the style, which developed in the late 20s and early 30s, underscores functionally of design, a feature that was attractive to the builders of Tel Aviv. Second, originating in Germany with Walter Gropius and others, the style was ridiculed by the Nazis when they came to power, forcing these architects to flee. Knows as the “White City” because so many of the buildings were covered with whilewash, other “earth” colors are permitted under UNESCO regulations. Don’t ask how UNESCO has the resources, much less the mechanisms and personnel to review, much less enforce these regulations. Yona pointed out one drawback, however. The ficus-like trees that line the boulevard produce a small berry that is a favorite of bats. Unfortunately, the proximity of the trees and their tasty berries to the houses results in a lot of bat “shmutz” as Yona put it and the stains cannot be cleaned, only painted over. Three other highlights of this fascinating, two hour excursion up the boulevard included: Yona noting the wooden shutters on one building, explaining that this former German Jewish house had these shutters because when Jews fled Germany in the early 30s, they were not permitted to take cash, so they converted cash to other valuables such as building materials. The Nissim kiosk, now under the ownership of the grandson, a stand that was offered to Nissim, an Iraqi Jew who helped many Jews escape to Palestine. When he himself immigrated in 1948, he was penniless so the government set him up in this small kiosk. It became a popular falafel stand under his son, and now the grandson serves coffees and gourmet sandwiches, as the times change. A third highlight occurred as we stopped for an explanation and the loud sounds of the song “Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv” filled the air. Yona smiled, laughed and waved to her friend, a man who lives in a small house on the boulevard and when he’s around, always offers this musical accompaniment for her.
Max Brenner, located on Rothschild across from where the tour started, is a chocolate heaven. Linda and I had stumbled upon it in our wanderings some weeks ago, so we took advantage of the chance to visit again at the end of the walking tour. Why not? It’s great chocolate. It is, for the record, 19 shekels, however, close to $5. This time we ordered one bread, jam and cheese basket which came with a dark Italian hot chocolate, and one additional Italian chocolate. The basket came with tiny, finger bowls, of chocolate, fig jam, and butter, and slightly larger tureens with cottage cheese, tuna salad, and labneh. This was all delicious and was more than sufficient for lunch. The host is a very friendly Asian young man, perfectly fluent in English, whom I recognized from our previous visit. I asked where he learned to speak English so well and he said that he was born in Israel of Thai Filipino parents and attended an international school. I was a little reluctant to ask, because I did not want him to think I was saying, “hey, you don’t look Jewish.” The influx of Thai and Filipino immigrants has been a significant demographic change in Israel, I am assuming from the time of the first intifada, when the Palestinian labor force was restricted in its movements into and out of Israel.
As we headed along the broad, tree-lined pedestrian walkway that serves as the median for Rothschild and several other boulevards, we found ourselves next to a mother trailing behind her two kids on bikes; a girl about 7, and a boy about 4. As the kids picked up speed, the mom also sped up, but not by walking or jogging--by skipping.
We took a different route back to Bavli, winding our way along several streets that are at angles to the grid. As I looked toward the end of one block, a person looked quite familiar and then I recognized that we was my doctor from Dizengoff. I don’t think that in 19 years in Chapel Hill, I have ever run into any of my physicians, so this was indeed a coincidence! He introduced us to his wife, an American, and we talked again about their havurah. We’ll probably attend their kabbalat Shabbat potluck and service on February 13th.
On Shabbat, does Jewish law permit one to cross against the traffic light? Life slows on Shabbat in Tel Aviv, not nearly to the degree that it does in Jerusalem, but slows nevertheless. One good indicator is the diminished rush and whir of the cars racing down Namir or Pinkas, two of the main thoroughfares. During the week, I am impressed by the compliance with traffic signals and I myself am respectful of the regulations and would not consider taking my life in my hands by crossing against a light in any case. On Shabbat, even on Namir, cars are less common and easily visible one or two hundred yards from the intersection. Is it kosher to cross?
The Tel Aviv and Jaffo Cultural Office sponsors a walking tour about the Bauhaus architecture on Rothschild Boulevard. Edmond Rothschild, the son of James Rothschild, the Parisian banker and one of the five sons of the founder of the Rothschild banking enterprise, became a staunch and generous benefactor to Jews settling Palestine, beginning with the first aliyah in 1882. He was responding to the desperate plight of poor Jews in Eastern Europe and believed that Palestine was a safe haven. (Independently and coincidentally, Yemini Jews decided to establish a new life for themselves in Palestine in the same year.) Although not initially a Zionist, indeed he was in conflict with Herzl until the early 1890s, Rothschild invested or donated millions of francs to agricultural (including the wine vineyards of Zikaron Ha Yakov, named for his father) and small industrial efforts. He visited Palestine on five occasions, once on very short notice when he was at sea on his yacht and decided to stop in for a few days! Given Edmond Rothschild’s commitment of the Jews of Palestine it seemed appropriate to name the first street of the new city of Tel Aviv for him. Or, one never knows, perhaps he bought the naming rights.
A sherut brought us to Rothschild and Shadal, just two blocks or so from the beginning of this grand boulevard. A group of about 20 people was gathering for the 11 a.m. tour. Yona Wiseman, a spirited probably in her late 60s, conducted the tour. She came to Israel in 1960 and although she did not say her country of origin she sounded South African. She began with the story of the 66 families, many residents of nearby ancient Jaffo, who decided that in order to take more control of their circumstances they would build a new city, north of Jaffo. There is a famous picture of members of the families as they stand on the sand dunes that constituted the site of their new city. Although the city grew rapidly, initially along Rothschild, the main street, the founders would be stunned to see Tel Aviv today, as it celebrates its centennial in 2009.
The first building she pointed out was built for a wealthy Jew from Europe who fled WW I. It has undergone several changes of ownership, as well as renovations. The Soviets made it their embassy for a short while after the founding of the State, but moved out when an anti-communist worker set off a bomb in the kitchen. Recently, the building was purchased by a Canadian philanthropist who is turning it into a home away from home for members of the IDF who do not have families in Israel. In order to impede “Zionism by bulldozers” as Yona informed us, regulations in the 1960’s, I think, and certainly since Tel Aviv has been designated a landmark city by UNESCO, require that fascades be preserved. In exchange for the willingness to undertake a renovation, developers are permitted to develop adjoining property, but still with the expectation that it align with current structures. For example, one modern bank incorporated two funeral homes, probably built in the 1930s, into its structure. She showed us some pictures of totally, but totally gutted buildings, with the blue sky clearly visible, but the original facades in place. Another regulation with the early building was that each house must plant a tree, the precursors to the 300 million trees that have been planted.
In 1925, recognizing the chaotic growth of the city, leaders invited Patrick Gaddes, a Scottish planner living in Bombay, to consult. Yona noted that even coming from Bombay, not known for its organized development, Gaddes was appalled. He was responsible for establishing several of the major cross town boulevards. He also divided the city into a grid with 90 squares and encouraged small parks in each. Apparently 60 or so of these have small parks and green spaces.
Tel Aviv became a landmark for Bauhaus architecture for two reasons. First, the style, which developed in the late 20s and early 30s, underscores functionally of design, a feature that was attractive to the builders of Tel Aviv. Second, originating in Germany with Walter Gropius and others, the style was ridiculed by the Nazis when they came to power, forcing these architects to flee. Knows as the “White City” because so many of the buildings were covered with whilewash, other “earth” colors are permitted under UNESCO regulations. Don’t ask how UNESCO has the resources, much less the mechanisms and personnel to review, much less enforce these regulations. Yona pointed out one drawback, however. The ficus-like trees that line the boulevard produce a small berry that is a favorite of bats. Unfortunately, the proximity of the trees and their tasty berries to the houses results in a lot of bat “shmutz” as Yona put it and the stains cannot be cleaned, only painted over. Three other highlights of this fascinating, two hour excursion up the boulevard included: Yona noting the wooden shutters on one building, explaining that this former German Jewish house had these shutters because when Jews fled Germany in the early 30s, they were not permitted to take cash, so they converted cash to other valuables such as building materials. The Nissim kiosk, now under the ownership of the grandson, a stand that was offered to Nissim, an Iraqi Jew who helped many Jews escape to Palestine. When he himself immigrated in 1948, he was penniless so the government set him up in this small kiosk. It became a popular falafel stand under his son, and now the grandson serves coffees and gourmet sandwiches, as the times change. A third highlight occurred as we stopped for an explanation and the loud sounds of the song “Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv” filled the air. Yona smiled, laughed and waved to her friend, a man who lives in a small house on the boulevard and when he’s around, always offers this musical accompaniment for her.
Max Brenner, located on Rothschild across from where the tour started, is a chocolate heaven. Linda and I had stumbled upon it in our wanderings some weeks ago, so we took advantage of the chance to visit again at the end of the walking tour. Why not? It’s great chocolate. It is, for the record, 19 shekels, however, close to $5. This time we ordered one bread, jam and cheese basket which came with a dark Italian hot chocolate, and one additional Italian chocolate. The basket came with tiny, finger bowls, of chocolate, fig jam, and butter, and slightly larger tureens with cottage cheese, tuna salad, and labneh. This was all delicious and was more than sufficient for lunch. The host is a very friendly Asian young man, perfectly fluent in English, whom I recognized from our previous visit. I asked where he learned to speak English so well and he said that he was born in Israel of Thai Filipino parents and attended an international school. I was a little reluctant to ask, because I did not want him to think I was saying, “hey, you don’t look Jewish.” The influx of Thai and Filipino immigrants has been a significant demographic change in Israel, I am assuming from the time of the first intifada, when the Palestinian labor force was restricted in its movements into and out of Israel.
As we headed along the broad, tree-lined pedestrian walkway that serves as the median for Rothschild and several other boulevards, we found ourselves next to a mother trailing behind her two kids on bikes; a girl about 7, and a boy about 4. As the kids picked up speed, the mom also sped up, but not by walking or jogging--by skipping.
We took a different route back to Bavli, winding our way along several streets that are at angles to the grid. As I looked toward the end of one block, a person looked quite familiar and then I recognized that we was my doctor from Dizengoff. I don’t think that in 19 years in Chapel Hill, I have ever run into any of my physicians, so this was indeed a coincidence! He introduced us to his wife, an American, and we talked again about their havurah. We’ll probably attend their kabbalat Shabbat potluck and service on February 13th.
January 31, 2009
On Shabbat, does Jewish law permit one to cross against the traffic light? Life slows on Shabbat in Tel Aviv, not nearly to the degree that it does in Jerusalem, but slows nevertheless. One good indicator is the diminished rush and whir of the cars racing down Namir or Pinkas, two of the main thoroughfares. During the week, I am impressed by the compliance with traffic signals and I myself am respectful of the regulations and would not consider taking my life in my hands by crossing against a light in any case. On Shabbat, even on Namir, cars are less common and easily visible one or two hundred yards from the intersection. Is it kosher to cross?
The Tel Aviv and Jaffo Cultural Office sponsors a walking tour about the Bauhaus architecture on Rothschild Boulevard. Edmond Rothschild, the son of James Rothschild, the Parisian banker and one of the five sons of the founder of the Rothschild banking enterprise, became a staunch and generous benefactor to Jews settling Palestine, beginning with the first aliyah in 1882. He was responding to the desperate plight of poor Jews in Eastern Europe and believed that Palestine was a safe haven. (Independently and coincidentally, Yemini Jews decided to establish a new life for themselves in Palestine in the same year.) Although not initially a Zionist, indeed he was in conflict with Herzl until the early 1890s, Rothschild invested or donated millions of francs to agricultural (including the wine vineyards of Zikaron Ha Yakov, named for his father) and small industrial efforts. He visited Palestine on five occasions, once on very short notice when he was at sea on his yacht and decided to stop in for a few days! Given Edmond Rothschild’s commitment of the Jews of Palestine it seemed appropriate to name the first street of the new city of Tel Aviv for him. Or, one never knows, perhaps he bought the naming rights.
A sherut brought us to Rothschild and Shadal, just two blocks or so from the beginning of this grand boulevard. A group of about 20 people was gathering for the 11 a.m. tour. Yona Wiseman, a spirited probably in her late 60s, conducted the tour. She came to Israel in 1960 and although she did not say her country of origin she sounded South African. She began with the story of the 66 families, many residents of nearby ancient Jaffo, who decided that in order to take more control of their circumstances they would build a new city, north of Jaffo. There is a famous picture of members of the families as they stand on the sand dunes that constituted the site of their new city. Although the city grew rapidly, initially along Rothschild, the main street, the founders would be stunned to see Tel Aviv today, as it celebrates its centennial in 2009.
The first building she pointed out was built for a wealthy Jew from Europe who fled WW I. It has undergone several changes of ownership, as well as renovations. The Soviets made it their embassy for a short while after the founding of the State, but moved out when an anti-communist worker set off a bomb in the kitchen. Recently, the building was purchased by a Canadian philanthropist who is turning it into a home away from home for members of the IDF who do not have families in Israel. In order to impede “Zionism by bulldozers” as Yona informed us, regulations in the 1960’s, I think, and certainly since Tel Aviv has been designated a landmark city by UNESCO, require that fascades be preserved. In exchange for the willingness to undertake a renovation, developers are permitted to develop adjoining property, but still with the expectation that it align with current structures. For example, one modern bank incorporated two funeral homes, probably built in the 1930s, into its structure. She showed us some pictures of totally, but totally gutted buildings, with the blue sky clearly visible, but the original facades in place. Another regulation with the early building was that each house must plant a tree, the precursors to the 300 million trees that have been planted.
In 1925, recognizing the chaotic growth of the city, leaders invited Patrick Gaddes, a Scottish planner living in Bombay, to consult. Yona noted that even coming from Bombay, not known for its organized development, Gaddes was appalled. He was responsible for establishing several of the major cross town boulevards. He also divided the city into a grid with 90 squares and encouraged small parks in each. Apparently 60 or so of these have small parks and green spaces.
Tel Aviv became a landmark for Bauhaus architecture for two reasons. First, the style, which developed in the late 20s and early 30s, underscores functionally of design, a feature that was attractive to the builders of Tel Aviv. Second, originating in Germany with Walter Gropius and others, the style was ridiculed by the Nazis when they came to power, forcing these architects to flee. Knows as the “White City” because so many of the buildings were covered with whilewash, other “earth” colors are permitted under UNESCO regulations. Don’t ask how UNESCO has the resources, much less the mechanisms and personnel to review, much less enforce these regulations. Yona pointed out one drawback, however. The ficus-like trees that line the boulevard produce a small berry that is a favorite of bats. Unfortunately, the proximity of the trees and their tasty berries to the houses results in a lot of bat “shmutz” as Yona put it and the stains cannot be cleaned, only painted over. Three other highlights of this fascinating, two hour excursion up the boulevard included: Yona noting the wooden shutters on one building, explaining that this former German Jewish house had these shutters because when Jews fled Germany in the early 30s, they were not permitted to take cash, so they converted cash to other valuables such as building materials. The Nissim kiosk, now under the ownership of the grandson, a stand that was offered to Nissim, an Iraqi Jew who helped many Jews escape to Palestine. When he himself immigrated in 1948, he was penniless so the government set him up in this small kiosk. It became a popular falafel stand under his son, and now the grandson serves coffees and gourmet sandwiches, as the times change. A third highlight occurred as we stopped for an explanation and the loud sounds of the song “Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv” filled the air. Yona smiled, laughed and waved to her friend, a man who lives in a small house on the boulevard and when he’s around, always offers this musical accompaniment for her.
Max Brenner, located on Rothschild across from where the tour started, is a chocolate heaven. Linda and I had stumbled upon it in our wanderings some weeks ago, so we took advantage of the chance to visit again at the end of the walking tour. Why not? It’s great chocolate. It is, for the record, 19 shekels, however, close to $5. This time we ordered one bread, jam and cheese basket which came with a dark Italian hot chocolate, and one additional Italian chocolate. The basket came with tiny, finger bowls, of chocolate, fig jam, and butter, and slightly larger tureens with cottage cheese, tuna salad, and labneh. This was all delicious and was more than sufficient for lunch. The host is a very friendly Asian young man, perfectly fluent in English, whom I recognized from our previous visit. I asked where he learned to speak English so well and he said that he was born in Israel of Thai Filipino parents and attended an international school. I was a little reluctant to ask, because I did not want him to think I was saying, “hey, you don’t look Jewish.” The influx of Thai and Filipino immigrants has been a significant demographic change in Israel, I am assuming from the time of the first intifada, when the Palestinian labor force was restricted in its movements into and out of Israel.
As we headed along the broad, tree-lined pedestrian walkway that serves as the median for Rothschild and several other boulevards, we found ourselves next to a mother trailing behind her two kids on bikes; a girl about 7, and a boy about 4. As the kids picked up speed, the mom also sped up, but not by walking or jogging--by skipping.
We took a different route back to Bavli, winding our way along several streets that are at angles to the grid. As I looked toward the end of one block, a person looked quite familiar and then I recognized that we was my doctor from Dizengoff. I don’t think that in 19 years in Chapel Hill, I have ever run into any of my physicians, so this was indeed a coincidence! He introduced us to his wife, an American, and we talked again about their havurah. We’ll probably attend their kabbalat Shabbat potluck and service on February 13th.
On Shabbat, does Jewish law permit one to cross against the traffic light? Life slows on Shabbat in Tel Aviv, not nearly to the degree that it does in Jerusalem, but slows nevertheless. One good indicator is the diminished rush and whir of the cars racing down Namir or Pinkas, two of the main thoroughfares. During the week, I am impressed by the compliance with traffic signals and I myself am respectful of the regulations and would not consider taking my life in my hands by crossing against a light in any case. On Shabbat, even on Namir, cars are less common and easily visible one or two hundred yards from the intersection. Is it kosher to cross?
The Tel Aviv and Jaffo Cultural Office sponsors a walking tour about the Bauhaus architecture on Rothschild Boulevard. Edmond Rothschild, the son of James Rothschild, the Parisian banker and one of the five sons of the founder of the Rothschild banking enterprise, became a staunch and generous benefactor to Jews settling Palestine, beginning with the first aliyah in 1882. He was responding to the desperate plight of poor Jews in Eastern Europe and believed that Palestine was a safe haven. (Independently and coincidentally, Yemini Jews decided to establish a new life for themselves in Palestine in the same year.) Although not initially a Zionist, indeed he was in conflict with Herzl until the early 1890s, Rothschild invested or donated millions of francs to agricultural (including the wine vineyards of Zikaron Ha Yakov, named for his father) and small industrial efforts. He visited Palestine on five occasions, once on very short notice when he was at sea on his yacht and decided to stop in for a few days! Given Edmond Rothschild’s commitment of the Jews of Palestine it seemed appropriate to name the first street of the new city of Tel Aviv for him. Or, one never knows, perhaps he bought the naming rights.
A sherut brought us to Rothschild and Shadal, just two blocks or so from the beginning of this grand boulevard. A group of about 20 people was gathering for the 11 a.m. tour. Yona Wiseman, a spirited probably in her late 60s, conducted the tour. She came to Israel in 1960 and although she did not say her country of origin she sounded South African. She began with the story of the 66 families, many residents of nearby ancient Jaffo, who decided that in order to take more control of their circumstances they would build a new city, north of Jaffo. There is a famous picture of members of the families as they stand on the sand dunes that constituted the site of their new city. Although the city grew rapidly, initially along Rothschild, the main street, the founders would be stunned to see Tel Aviv today, as it celebrates its centennial in 2009.
The first building she pointed out was built for a wealthy Jew from Europe who fled WW I. It has undergone several changes of ownership, as well as renovations. The Soviets made it their embassy for a short while after the founding of the State, but moved out when an anti-communist worker set off a bomb in the kitchen. Recently, the building was purchased by a Canadian philanthropist who is turning it into a home away from home for members of the IDF who do not have families in Israel. In order to impede “Zionism by bulldozers” as Yona informed us, regulations in the 1960’s, I think, and certainly since Tel Aviv has been designated a landmark city by UNESCO, require that fascades be preserved. In exchange for the willingness to undertake a renovation, developers are permitted to develop adjoining property, but still with the expectation that it align with current structures. For example, one modern bank incorporated two funeral homes, probably built in the 1930s, into its structure. She showed us some pictures of totally, but totally gutted buildings, with the blue sky clearly visible, but the original facades in place. Another regulation with the early building was that each house must plant a tree, the precursors to the 300 million trees that have been planted.
In 1925, recognizing the chaotic growth of the city, leaders invited Patrick Gaddes, a Scottish planner living in Bombay, to consult. Yona noted that even coming from Bombay, not known for its organized development, Gaddes was appalled. He was responsible for establishing several of the major cross town boulevards. He also divided the city into a grid with 90 squares and encouraged small parks in each. Apparently 60 or so of these have small parks and green spaces.
Tel Aviv became a landmark for Bauhaus architecture for two reasons. First, the style, which developed in the late 20s and early 30s, underscores functionally of design, a feature that was attractive to the builders of Tel Aviv. Second, originating in Germany with Walter Gropius and others, the style was ridiculed by the Nazis when they came to power, forcing these architects to flee. Knows as the “White City” because so many of the buildings were covered with whilewash, other “earth” colors are permitted under UNESCO regulations. Don’t ask how UNESCO has the resources, much less the mechanisms and personnel to review, much less enforce these regulations. Yona pointed out one drawback, however. The ficus-like trees that line the boulevard produce a small berry that is a favorite of bats. Unfortunately, the proximity of the trees and their tasty berries to the houses results in a lot of bat “shmutz” as Yona put it and the stains cannot be cleaned, only painted over. Three other highlights of this fascinating, two hour excursion up the boulevard included: Yona noting the wooden shutters on one building, explaining that this former German Jewish house had these shutters because when Jews fled Germany in the early 30s, they were not permitted to take cash, so they converted cash to other valuables such as building materials. The Nissim kiosk, now under the ownership of the grandson, a stand that was offered to Nissim, an Iraqi Jew who helped many Jews escape to Palestine. When he himself immigrated in 1948, he was penniless so the government set him up in this small kiosk. It became a popular falafel stand under his son, and now the grandson serves coffees and gourmet sandwiches, as the times change. A third highlight occurred as we stopped for an explanation and the loud sounds of the song “Tel Aviv, Tel Aviv” filled the air. Yona smiled, laughed and waved to her friend, a man who lives in a small house on the boulevard and when he’s around, always offers this musical accompaniment for her.
Max Brenner, located on Rothschild across from where the tour started, is a chocolate heaven. Linda and I had stumbled upon it in our wanderings some weeks ago, so we took advantage of the chance to visit again at the end of the walking tour. Why not? It’s great chocolate. It is, for the record, 19 shekels, however, close to $5. This time we ordered one bread, jam and cheese basket which came with a dark Italian hot chocolate, and one additional Italian chocolate. The basket came with tiny, finger bowls, of chocolate, fig jam, and butter, and slightly larger tureens with cottage cheese, tuna salad, and labneh. This was all delicious and was more than sufficient for lunch. The host is a very friendly Asian young man, perfectly fluent in English, whom I recognized from our previous visit. I asked where he learned to speak English so well and he said that he was born in Israel of Thai Filipino parents and attended an international school. I was a little reluctant to ask, because I did not want him to think I was saying, “hey, you don’t look Jewish.” The influx of Thai and Filipino immigrants has been a significant demographic change in Israel, I am assuming from the time of the first intifada, when the Palestinian labor force was restricted in its movements into and out of Israel.
As we headed along the broad, tree-lined pedestrian walkway that serves as the median for Rothschild and several other boulevards, we found ourselves next to a mother trailing behind her two kids on bikes; a girl about 7, and a boy about 4. As the kids picked up speed, the mom also sped up, but not by walking or jogging--by skipping.
We took a different route back to Bavli, winding our way along several streets that are at angles to the grid. As I looked toward the end of one block, a person looked quite familiar and then I recognized that we was my doctor from Dizengoff. I don’t think that in 19 years in Chapel Hill, I have ever run into any of my physicians, so this was indeed a coincidence! He introduced us to his wife, an American, and we talked again about their havurah. We’ll probably attend their kabbalat Shabbat potluck and service on February 13th.
January 30, 2009
A little girl, no more than 18 months, dressed in a pink winter coat with a blue pacifier in her mouth stood on a chair in front of the bright green screen of a cash machine at the bank in our small, local complex of stores. She frantically pushed on the screen and pleaded with her father, or at least it sounded like pleading to me, who was standing 10 meters away, in conversation with one of the merchants. After 20 seconds or so, her father came over, picked her up, threw her over his head and caught her in a strong embrace, maybe telling her the password as she continued to plead.
Linda and I were walking down Ha Rav Herzog, the street that goes from Bavli St. to Namir and then changes names to Yehuda Ha Maccabi. We talking as we passed a group of school girls, who looked about 10 or 11, talking animatedly, when suddenly one of them overheard us and said, “English.” I asked them where they were headed, were they on their way home from school, because it was a half day with things winding down as the community prepares for Shabbat. “We are going to have ice cream,” said one, with a big smile. I asked their names and Danielle (who had told us about the ice cream) introduced herself, as did Yuval, Karin, Noa and one other). They had various experiences with English; a few had been studying for 3 years, another’s mother spoke English. After they picked up the pace, I called out, “b’vachasha (please)” so that we could get a picture, to which they were happy to oblige, leaving us with an adorable memory.
Continuing on our excursion to the Old Port, no longer a port, but a re-developed area with many shops and a small farmers’ market, we came to the Hungarian Blintzes restaurant and were glad that we stopped for lunch, sharing two piping hot spinach cheese blintzes and two cold, sweet jam and nut blintzes. As we finished, the friendly, attentive waiter brought over two shot glasses, one with a rich chocolate liquor and the other a rich custard-like liquor. I’m sure we’ll be going back.
Our entrance to the port area brought us face-to-face with a large, red Ace Hardware sign, apparently one of the many shops in this development. I could not pass up a hardware store and immediately upon entering, I felt the ambience of every Ace Hardward I had ever been in, except here the prices were all in shekels. The clerks even had the same golf shirts as uniforms. In our wanderings in Tel Aviv so far, we have passed literally dozens of tiny shops and stalls that carry electrical adaptors or kitchen implements or laundry equipment, but none with the selection of all of these items found in this storey. I had been wondering about whether there were large “big box” stores in Tel Aviv, the kind that put so much pressure on these types of small, family-owned shops.
We came upon the Separation Beach. This beach, walled off by a 7 foot opaque barrier, is for the Orthodox community. The sign indicated that it was open for men on Friday, Sunday, and Tuesday and women on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. The sea obviously was not walled off, so I don’t know what happens if other bathers peak from the water.
A little girl, no more than 18 months, dressed in a pink winter coat with a blue pacifier in her mouth stood on a chair in front of the bright green screen of a cash machine at the bank in our small, local complex of stores. She frantically pushed on the screen and pleaded with her father, or at least it sounded like pleading to me, who was standing 10 meters away, in conversation with one of the merchants. After 20 seconds or so, her father came over, picked her up, threw her over his head and caught her in a strong embrace, maybe telling her the password as she continued to plead.
Linda and I were walking down Ha Rav Herzog, the street that goes from Bavli St. to Namir and then changes names to Yehuda Ha Maccabi. We talking as we passed a group of school girls, who looked about 10 or 11, talking animatedly, when suddenly one of them overheard us and said, “English.” I asked them where they were headed, were they on their way home from school, because it was a half day with things winding down as the community prepares for Shabbat. “We are going to have ice cream,” said one, with a big smile. I asked their names and Danielle (who had told us about the ice cream) introduced herself, as did Yuval, Karin, Noa and one other). They had various experiences with English; a few had been studying for 3 years, another’s mother spoke English. After they picked up the pace, I called out, “b’vachasha (please)” so that we could get a picture, to which they were happy to oblige, leaving us with an adorable memory.
Continuing on our excursion to the Old Port, no longer a port, but a re-developed area with many shops and a small farmers’ market, we came to the Hungarian Blintzes restaurant and were glad that we stopped for lunch, sharing two piping hot spinach cheese blintzes and two cold, sweet jam and nut blintzes. As we finished, the friendly, attentive waiter brought over two shot glasses, one with a rich chocolate liquor and the other a rich custard-like liquor. I’m sure we’ll be going back.
Our entrance to the port area brought us face-to-face with a large, red Ace Hardware sign, apparently one of the many shops in this development. I could not pass up a hardware store and immediately upon entering, I felt the ambience of every Ace Hardward I had ever been in, except here the prices were all in shekels. The clerks even had the same golf shirts as uniforms. In our wanderings in Tel Aviv so far, we have passed literally dozens of tiny shops and stalls that carry electrical adaptors or kitchen implements or laundry equipment, but none with the selection of all of these items found in this storey. I had been wondering about whether there were large “big box” stores in Tel Aviv, the kind that put so much pressure on these types of small, family-owned shops.
We came upon the Separation Beach. This beach, walled off by a 7 foot opaque barrier, is for the Orthodox community. The sign indicated that it was open for men on Friday, Sunday, and Tuesday and women on Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. The sea obviously was not walled off, so I don’t know what happens if other bathers peak from the water.
Kids
January 29, 2009
The gap between the train cars and the platform causes me to pause when exiting the train, and I notice many others, both very young and more elderly. I think the perception of the gap is partly distorted, because there is still a sizeable space between the step beneath the open door and the platform. This afternoon, as the doors opened at the Tel Aviv University station (about a 20 minute walk from our apartment), a mother with a 3 or 4 year old little boy took the step to the platform, but for barely an instant, the boy hesitated. In that instant, an elderly woman waiting to board had knelt down and extended her arms to assist the child. She had barely stopped kneeling when the boy had overcome his reluctance. It was heartwarming to see an adult not only be attentive enough to notice the possible need for help, but also take action, all in an instant.
The gap between the train cars and the platform causes me to pause when exiting the train, and I notice many others, both very young and more elderly. I think the perception of the gap is partly distorted, because there is still a sizeable space between the step beneath the open door and the platform. This afternoon, as the doors opened at the Tel Aviv University station (about a 20 minute walk from our apartment), a mother with a 3 or 4 year old little boy took the step to the platform, but for barely an instant, the boy hesitated. In that instant, an elderly woman waiting to board had knelt down and extended her arms to assist the child. She had barely stopped kneeling when the boy had overcome his reluctance. It was heartwarming to see an adult not only be attentive enough to notice the possible need for help, but also take action, all in an instant.
January 28, 2009
We scheduled a project meeting for 6:30, 11:30 Chapel Hill time. After as many as 7 or 8 disconnects for lost lines and poor quality lines we actually managed to conduct a productive, one hour meeting using Skype with 3 people in a conference room in Rosenau Hall, 1 person calling in from across campus, and me sitting at my computer on the desk in our bedroom of our 4 room apartment. Now if I could only figure out how routers work and how to get it hooked up in our apartment, I would be in telecommunications Disneyland.
Gregory left for Argentina today. We had not heard from him for several days and wondered about his status. A brief email indicating that he shared a ride to the airport with friends and a short apology for not being in contact, but explaining that he had been busy getting ready, made me realize that he is a responsible young man. I would have liked to have known how things were going, but he was perfectly capable of getting ready without my “advice.”
We scheduled a project meeting for 6:30, 11:30 Chapel Hill time. After as many as 7 or 8 disconnects for lost lines and poor quality lines we actually managed to conduct a productive, one hour meeting using Skype with 3 people in a conference room in Rosenau Hall, 1 person calling in from across campus, and me sitting at my computer on the desk in our bedroom of our 4 room apartment. Now if I could only figure out how routers work and how to get it hooked up in our apartment, I would be in telecommunications Disneyland.
Gregory left for Argentina today. We had not heard from him for several days and wondered about his status. A brief email indicating that he shared a ride to the airport with friends and a short apology for not being in contact, but explaining that he had been busy getting ready, made me realize that he is a responsible young man. I would have liked to have known how things were going, but he was perfectly capable of getting ready without my “advice.”
January 27, 2009
Something I certainly didn’t expect was to have to pay to urinate in Jerusalem. Linda and I took the very convenient bus from the Arlozorov station, about a 30 minute walk from our apartment, pay 16 shekels, about $4 and in 50 minutes we pulled into the bus terminal in Jerusalem We headed for the sherutim, only to find a revolving gate blocking the entrance with people chattering about needing change. On principle (I assume there’s something in the Talmud about paying to urinate), we walked out of the station on Jaffe St. to walk towards our meeting on King George St. About 20 minutes later we were at the intersection and spotted a shopping mall, assured that there would be bathrooms. At the base of the stairs leading to the restrooms, a man was sitting at a desk, obviously collecting fees, 1.5 shekels. Having thrown our principles to the wind, we went to the restroom in the bus station before boarding to return to Tel Aviv and were able to urinate for the bargain price of 1 shekel. I am a proponent of markets, but given that peeing on the street or in an alley is basically an example of a classic public good, it makes no sense to dis-incentivize the use of restrooms by charging for them. And of course, why in Israel would this be happening?
Exiting from the terminal to Jaffe St. and the contrast with Tel Aviv is unmistakable. Jaffe St. is undergoing a major renovation with the laying of a track for a light rail system so the clutter of people, cars, buses heightens the impressions. Observant Jews of many sects, each with their particular dress and mannerism, hurried about. It certainly catches one’s eye when a man out of 17th century Poland walks by with his iPod dangling. The building are either all made out of the bright tan of Jerusalem stone or other materials made to look like that.
There is a large shuk about 10 minutes from the terminal, so we could not help but wander through. There were 10 or even 20 small “blocks,” each accommodating 5 or 6 stalls, selling all manner of produce, fish, meat, spices, halvah, kitchen goods, and small clothing items. Did I mention halvah? We noted a few items that we planned to purchase on our return to the terminal later in the day.
I had a meeting with Becky Caspi, head of UJC in Israel. The headquarters are in the National Agencies Building. This two story limestone structure is build around a courtyard, kind of like a large block “C.” This building served as the offices for the Jewish Agency during the yishuv, prior to the establishment of the state. At the time of independence, many of these agencies that had been acting basically as shadow ministries assumed the responsibilities of government. The only agency that did not become a governmental ministry was that dealing with immigration, which as we know, was massive after the War for Independence. This became the Jewish Agency for Israel, the primary focus of which is immigration and absorption. It is a quasi-independent organization, having established a covenant with the state in the 1950s. The political entanglements are just that. There are benefits to being more closely linked to government agencies, to having a preferential seat at the table, but at the same time the agency is encumbered by the unsavory side of the politics taking place at the table or sometimes under the table. The role of the Jewish Agency is something that I am keen to learn much more about while here.
The guard at the front desk asked our destination and directed us to room 237 way at the back of the second floor. When Becky Caspi warmly greeted us she asked if we had difficulty getting through security, a question that baffled Linda and me. We went to lunch and had an animated conversation about our interests and plans on being in Israel, as well as different programs and activities of UJC and other agencies. We also discussed our families. Becky has three children. The oldest daughter is about to be discharged from the IDF, having recently returned from Gaza where she served as a medic. The only women to serve in Gaza were physicians and medics. Her next daughter is about to enter the army and her 11 year old son is being an 11 year old. At the end of lunch we had long lists of names for possible contacts.
Something I certainly didn’t expect was to have to pay to urinate in Jerusalem. Linda and I took the very convenient bus from the Arlozorov station, about a 30 minute walk from our apartment, pay 16 shekels, about $4 and in 50 minutes we pulled into the bus terminal in Jerusalem We headed for the sherutim, only to find a revolving gate blocking the entrance with people chattering about needing change. On principle (I assume there’s something in the Talmud about paying to urinate), we walked out of the station on Jaffe St. to walk towards our meeting on King George St. About 20 minutes later we were at the intersection and spotted a shopping mall, assured that there would be bathrooms. At the base of the stairs leading to the restrooms, a man was sitting at a desk, obviously collecting fees, 1.5 shekels. Having thrown our principles to the wind, we went to the restroom in the bus station before boarding to return to Tel Aviv and were able to urinate for the bargain price of 1 shekel. I am a proponent of markets, but given that peeing on the street or in an alley is basically an example of a classic public good, it makes no sense to dis-incentivize the use of restrooms by charging for them. And of course, why in Israel would this be happening?
Exiting from the terminal to Jaffe St. and the contrast with Tel Aviv is unmistakable. Jaffe St. is undergoing a major renovation with the laying of a track for a light rail system so the clutter of people, cars, buses heightens the impressions. Observant Jews of many sects, each with their particular dress and mannerism, hurried about. It certainly catches one’s eye when a man out of 17th century Poland walks by with his iPod dangling. The building are either all made out of the bright tan of Jerusalem stone or other materials made to look like that.
There is a large shuk about 10 minutes from the terminal, so we could not help but wander through. There were 10 or even 20 small “blocks,” each accommodating 5 or 6 stalls, selling all manner of produce, fish, meat, spices, halvah, kitchen goods, and small clothing items. Did I mention halvah? We noted a few items that we planned to purchase on our return to the terminal later in the day.
I had a meeting with Becky Caspi, head of UJC in Israel. The headquarters are in the National Agencies Building. This two story limestone structure is build around a courtyard, kind of like a large block “C.” This building served as the offices for the Jewish Agency during the yishuv, prior to the establishment of the state. At the time of independence, many of these agencies that had been acting basically as shadow ministries assumed the responsibilities of government. The only agency that did not become a governmental ministry was that dealing with immigration, which as we know, was massive after the War for Independence. This became the Jewish Agency for Israel, the primary focus of which is immigration and absorption. It is a quasi-independent organization, having established a covenant with the state in the 1950s. The political entanglements are just that. There are benefits to being more closely linked to government agencies, to having a preferential seat at the table, but at the same time the agency is encumbered by the unsavory side of the politics taking place at the table or sometimes under the table. The role of the Jewish Agency is something that I am keen to learn much more about while here.
The guard at the front desk asked our destination and directed us to room 237 way at the back of the second floor. When Becky Caspi warmly greeted us she asked if we had difficulty getting through security, a question that baffled Linda and me. We went to lunch and had an animated conversation about our interests and plans on being in Israel, as well as different programs and activities of UJC and other agencies. We also discussed our families. Becky has three children. The oldest daughter is about to be discharged from the IDF, having recently returned from Gaza where she served as a medic. The only women to serve in Gaza were physicians and medics. Her next daughter is about to enter the army and her 11 year old son is being an 11 year old. At the end of lunch we had long lists of names for possible contacts.
January 25, 2009
Deuteronomy talks of seven fruits the land of Canaan: wheat, barley, grape vines, fig trees, pomegranates, olive trees, and date honey. I looked this up because of my experience with pomegranate juice. Our supermarket carries one litre bottles for 17.49 NIS, about $4.40, a little less expensive than Harris-Teeter, but that is where the comparison stops. This juice is sweeter, absent the bitter bite that encourages me to add a portion of orange or any other available juice when drinking our usual store brand. The taste is also richer and more complex, making it a sensuous experience, not a medicinal one, taken for its anti-oxidants and other properties. Perhaps the richness of this juice is one reason that the top, one of those twist-off plastic caps with perforations, is impossible to twist off. In fact, it’s impossible to force it off in any way, short of taking our serrated paring knife to cut through the perforation. I am curious to try some other brands, both for the taste and the top.
Deuteronomy talks of seven fruits the land of Canaan: wheat, barley, grape vines, fig trees, pomegranates, olive trees, and date honey. I looked this up because of my experience with pomegranate juice. Our supermarket carries one litre bottles for 17.49 NIS, about $4.40, a little less expensive than Harris-Teeter, but that is where the comparison stops. This juice is sweeter, absent the bitter bite that encourages me to add a portion of orange or any other available juice when drinking our usual store brand. The taste is also richer and more complex, making it a sensuous experience, not a medicinal one, taken for its anti-oxidants and other properties. Perhaps the richness of this juice is one reason that the top, one of those twist-off plastic caps with perforations, is impossible to twist off. In fact, it’s impossible to force it off in any way, short of taking our serrated paring knife to cut through the perforation. I am curious to try some other brands, both for the taste and the top.
Shai's Bar Mitzvah
January 24, 2009
In contrast to last week, there were about 150 people at Beit Daniel today, at least 20 teens, both boys and girls. It was difficult to hear the chanting of the haftorah for three reasons: today’s candy was wrapped in crinkly plastic and foil, making a noise if touched much less picked up; the din as people seemed to be talking about the passing of candy and excitement over hurling it; and, other people saying “shh, shh, shh.” When nearly finished, Shai paused for an imperceptible second, but apparently this was a signal to let fly with the barrage. There was a lot of laughter and then he commented and made a motion with his hand that caused a cease-fire so he could finish the final verse or two. The missiles were then launched again to laughter and applause.
Many people called to the Torah seem unfamiliar with the ritual. The gabbai points, word for word, at the blessing which is printed on a large, laminated card and sits on a stand on the bimah. Usually, the person with the aliyah does not repeat the congregation’s verse and I do not know if that is the custom or lack of familiarity.
During the afternoon, Linda and I walked to the Tel Aviv Art Museum, only about 30 minutes from our apartment, another example of how accessible many parts of this city are. There was a steady stream of visitors strolling through the well-lighted galleries of mostly impressionist and post-impressionist art. What was striking about the visitors was the number of children in the 3-8 or so age range. While they were not all perfectly attentive and indeed many took delight in running about, the fact that there were so many children here on family outings, that parents felt it feasible to bring children for an outing to the art museum, stunned me. While I might imagine a visit to an art museum with Rachel at this age, I could not imagine one with Gregory. Indeed, we have stories to tell about such attempts!
In contrast to last week, there were about 150 people at Beit Daniel today, at least 20 teens, both boys and girls. It was difficult to hear the chanting of the haftorah for three reasons: today’s candy was wrapped in crinkly plastic and foil, making a noise if touched much less picked up; the din as people seemed to be talking about the passing of candy and excitement over hurling it; and, other people saying “shh, shh, shh.” When nearly finished, Shai paused for an imperceptible second, but apparently this was a signal to let fly with the barrage. There was a lot of laughter and then he commented and made a motion with his hand that caused a cease-fire so he could finish the final verse or two. The missiles were then launched again to laughter and applause.
Many people called to the Torah seem unfamiliar with the ritual. The gabbai points, word for word, at the blessing which is printed on a large, laminated card and sits on a stand on the bimah. Usually, the person with the aliyah does not repeat the congregation’s verse and I do not know if that is the custom or lack of familiarity.
During the afternoon, Linda and I walked to the Tel Aviv Art Museum, only about 30 minutes from our apartment, another example of how accessible many parts of this city are. There was a steady stream of visitors strolling through the well-lighted galleries of mostly impressionist and post-impressionist art. What was striking about the visitors was the number of children in the 3-8 or so age range. While they were not all perfectly attentive and indeed many took delight in running about, the fact that there were so many children here on family outings, that parents felt it feasible to bring children for an outing to the art museum, stunned me. While I might imagine a visit to an art museum with Rachel at this age, I could not imagine one with Gregory. Indeed, we have stories to tell about such attempts!
My Cell Phone #2
I even surprised myself that I remembered to check the number of minutes remaining on my prepaid phone, before a Board of Trustees call this evening. The computer that answered the phone said, “10 shekels and 89 agurot.” At about 1 shekel per minute (at 25 cents it’s not cheap), I knew I needed to add minutes. I called Pelephone, the carrier, and an agent answered. He was helpful in English as I gave him my passport number and credit card number to add minutes. I suppose it’s possible that somebody is making Mastercard charges in the shuk, as I write this, but he assumed me that 185 shekels would appear in my account in minutes. Five minutes later, the computer gave me the same 10 shekel balance. Ten minutes later, the computer gave me the same 10 shekel balance. I called Pelephone and without much difficulty found an English-speaking agent who said to give it a few more minutes. 30 minutes later, the balance was 10 shekels. This time a different agent recognized me, after I explained my story, and he said, “Amit told me. On our computer it looks o.k., so if it doesn’t work in a few minutes, you have to visit a Pelephone office.” I just love this technology!
January 22, 2009
My Cell Phone #2 (continued)
As I waited for the #25, the #24 pulled up to the stop. I mother folded up the stroller for her toddler and as she was about to board the bus with her toddler in tow, the elderly man in front of her, having already climbed the first step, bent over, reached out for the little boy and made sure he was safely aboard.
I exited one block from Dizengoff Center in order to go to the Pelephone counter in the mall. A young woman was pulling off the tarp and Windexing the counters as I approached at about 9:40. “Aht midaberet Anglit?” I inquired. “A little,” she said with the shake of her hand. She understood my problem, took the phone and called, apparently to speak to a few computers, because after 2 minutes, she handed the phone back to me to speak to the agent on the line. After explaining my plight, the agent said, “It’s not possible for you to pay by credit card. You must go to the Post Office to purchase minutes or go to a stand and make sure they enter the minutes. Do you have a bank in Israel? The company checks with the bank.” “No, I don’t have a bank. At the airport and on the brochure, it says that I can add minutes in two ways. One way as you have described and the second way with a credit card. It’s very clear on the brochure,” I pleaded. The brochure must be wrong and what they told you at the airport was wrong,” she asserted! The attendant then directed me to a Change stand on the 3rd floor to buy some minutes. This man with a cleanly shaved head asked in English if I wanted to special card of 200 minutes for 120 shekels. The only contingency was that I had to use them in 30 days. At the rate I was using minutes to get into the gate at Sheafutim and other needs, I was confident that they minutes would go, so I asked for the special deal. He shuffled through a box of cards from numerous plans and companies. He opened a 120 shekel card from Pelephone, entered the PIN and got no response. He then noticed that the card had already expired, in March of 2008. He looked over his entire stack of cards and they had all expired, so I was back to the 93 shekels for 100 minutes. Tomorrow, I am going to visit a Pelephone service/sales office on Allon Yigal, so the story is sure to continue.
I walked along Dizengoff until it turned into Kaplan, a wide avenue with many skyscrapers towering above, heading to the HaShalom train station to catch the train to Bet Yehoshua. While waiting for my train, a man approached and asked something in Hebrew. I heard the name Natanya, the station just beyond mine, so I confidently said, “keyn.” I hope he got to his destination.
January 23, 2009
My Cell Phone #2 (continued, continued)
I called Pelephone service to re-confirm the address for the service/sales store. 76 Yigal Allon. This was the third person who gave me that address so I was pretty confident as Linda and I climbed into a cab and said, “shivim shesh Yigal Allon” and then to be safe, at least to me, “76.” The driver spoke moderate English so when we said the Pelephone service center he called his dispatcher. It took at least three different opinions about the location and we seemed to be heading in the right direction. We even made to Yigal Allon and were following the addresses as they declined, 114, 95, 89, and then the driver turned left for a short block and then right. He stopped and pointed to the Pelephone sign, but it sure didn’t look like a sales/service center, rather more like a dispatch center for Pelephone service cars. Indeed, a man came up and asked what we needed. I pulled out my phone and without saying a word, he said, “oh, you want that office over there,” pointing to the store at 76 Yigal Allon. I guess the driver and dispatcher had at least 3 opinions about where the store was.
The office had the feel of a cross between an Apple store and a post office. One section had showcases with different cell phones and related products displayed. Otherwise, the large room was lined by what looked like individual counseling stations, with clerks and customers engaged in a cacophony of conversation. The white-coated clerk at the door handed me number 127 and said about 10 minutes, but the next thing I knew, the electronic tote board showed “127” and #22. I counted up the stations, that seemed to end at 20, so I returned for help to the nice lady in white. She lead me across the room through a door over which were the numbers 21-25, and brought me to a private room, where “Chen” was sitting.
I was here to clarify the ways to buy minutes after many minutes (hours?) on the phone and at Dizengoff Center, so I was confident as I sat down in my own private room with an agent.
“Atah midaber Anglit?” do you speak English, I asked, knowing that he would say, “of course,” or “how can I help you,” or even, “yes.”
“Lo tov,” was his response, “not good.”
Foolishly, I actually thought I could accomplish something and Linda even tried to explain in Hebrew. Chen then took my phone and dialed a number, but the computerized response was in Hebrew and Arabic. I gave it back to him and he called another number that left me with internationally annoying “hold” music. He then walked out. For some reason I actually listened to the music for a minute, before marching out to my friend in the white coat and asked for an English speaker. She call a clerk over, fluent in English. I explained the increasingly long story and she then asked for my phone. She dialed *997, waited a few seconds, asked for my credit card and the number of shekels I wanted to add, entered the number, said “it’s checking the card” and 10 seconds later said, “it’s fine.” There must be a Hebrew or Israeli term for the concept of “if you don’t get the answer you want the first two, three, four or five times, keep trying until you get the answer you want.” As of noon, I don’t have any evidence that Amit, who took my credit information the night before last, is in Paris or Eilat, but nobody seems to know why somebody answered the phone when I called the automated number!
Linda and I boarded the #24 from the station next to HaCarmel market. Just past Dizengoff Center, a very unstable elderly man, wearing a kippah and somewhat unkempt, clambered aboard, barely supported by an aluminum cane and with one of the ubiquitous shopping carts in tow. The momentum of the bus caused him to fall into his seat, instead of actually sitting. A few stops later, the momentum of stopping caught him off guard as he wobbled to standing position to exit. The driver, however, did not notice him because he was so slow and deliberate, so as he closed the door, several, including the old man, protested, before the bus could actually start. A girl, probably in her late teens, then rose, offered her arm, took his cart with her other hand and started towards the door. The driver did his part in this caring episode by signaling that he was going to pull closer to the curb to make it easier for the old man to disembark. The girl returned to her seat after the old man was on the sidewalk.
January 22, 2009
My Cell Phone #2 (continued)
As I waited for the #25, the #24 pulled up to the stop. I mother folded up the stroller for her toddler and as she was about to board the bus with her toddler in tow, the elderly man in front of her, having already climbed the first step, bent over, reached out for the little boy and made sure he was safely aboard.
I exited one block from Dizengoff Center in order to go to the Pelephone counter in the mall. A young woman was pulling off the tarp and Windexing the counters as I approached at about 9:40. “Aht midaberet Anglit?” I inquired. “A little,” she said with the shake of her hand. She understood my problem, took the phone and called, apparently to speak to a few computers, because after 2 minutes, she handed the phone back to me to speak to the agent on the line. After explaining my plight, the agent said, “It’s not possible for you to pay by credit card. You must go to the Post Office to purchase minutes or go to a stand and make sure they enter the minutes. Do you have a bank in Israel? The company checks with the bank.” “No, I don’t have a bank. At the airport and on the brochure, it says that I can add minutes in two ways. One way as you have described and the second way with a credit card. It’s very clear on the brochure,” I pleaded. The brochure must be wrong and what they told you at the airport was wrong,” she asserted! The attendant then directed me to a Change stand on the 3rd floor to buy some minutes. This man with a cleanly shaved head asked in English if I wanted to special card of 200 minutes for 120 shekels. The only contingency was that I had to use them in 30 days. At the rate I was using minutes to get into the gate at Sheafutim and other needs, I was confident that they minutes would go, so I asked for the special deal. He shuffled through a box of cards from numerous plans and companies. He opened a 120 shekel card from Pelephone, entered the PIN and got no response. He then noticed that the card had already expired, in March of 2008. He looked over his entire stack of cards and they had all expired, so I was back to the 93 shekels for 100 minutes. Tomorrow, I am going to visit a Pelephone service/sales office on Allon Yigal, so the story is sure to continue.
I walked along Dizengoff until it turned into Kaplan, a wide avenue with many skyscrapers towering above, heading to the HaShalom train station to catch the train to Bet Yehoshua. While waiting for my train, a man approached and asked something in Hebrew. I heard the name Natanya, the station just beyond mine, so I confidently said, “keyn.” I hope he got to his destination.
January 23, 2009
My Cell Phone #2 (continued, continued)
I called Pelephone service to re-confirm the address for the service/sales store. 76 Yigal Allon. This was the third person who gave me that address so I was pretty confident as Linda and I climbed into a cab and said, “shivim shesh Yigal Allon” and then to be safe, at least to me, “76.” The driver spoke moderate English so when we said the Pelephone service center he called his dispatcher. It took at least three different opinions about the location and we seemed to be heading in the right direction. We even made to Yigal Allon and were following the addresses as they declined, 114, 95, 89, and then the driver turned left for a short block and then right. He stopped and pointed to the Pelephone sign, but it sure didn’t look like a sales/service center, rather more like a dispatch center for Pelephone service cars. Indeed, a man came up and asked what we needed. I pulled out my phone and without saying a word, he said, “oh, you want that office over there,” pointing to the store at 76 Yigal Allon. I guess the driver and dispatcher had at least 3 opinions about where the store was.
The office had the feel of a cross between an Apple store and a post office. One section had showcases with different cell phones and related products displayed. Otherwise, the large room was lined by what looked like individual counseling stations, with clerks and customers engaged in a cacophony of conversation. The white-coated clerk at the door handed me number 127 and said about 10 minutes, but the next thing I knew, the electronic tote board showed “127” and #22. I counted up the stations, that seemed to end at 20, so I returned for help to the nice lady in white. She lead me across the room through a door over which were the numbers 21-25, and brought me to a private room, where “Chen” was sitting.
I was here to clarify the ways to buy minutes after many minutes (hours?) on the phone and at Dizengoff Center, so I was confident as I sat down in my own private room with an agent.
“Atah midaber Anglit?” do you speak English, I asked, knowing that he would say, “of course,” or “how can I help you,” or even, “yes.”
“Lo tov,” was his response, “not good.”
Foolishly, I actually thought I could accomplish something and Linda even tried to explain in Hebrew. Chen then took my phone and dialed a number, but the computerized response was in Hebrew and Arabic. I gave it back to him and he called another number that left me with internationally annoying “hold” music. He then walked out. For some reason I actually listened to the music for a minute, before marching out to my friend in the white coat and asked for an English speaker. She call a clerk over, fluent in English. I explained the increasingly long story and she then asked for my phone. She dialed *997, waited a few seconds, asked for my credit card and the number of shekels I wanted to add, entered the number, said “it’s checking the card” and 10 seconds later said, “it’s fine.” There must be a Hebrew or Israeli term for the concept of “if you don’t get the answer you want the first two, three, four or five times, keep trying until you get the answer you want.” As of noon, I don’t have any evidence that Amit, who took my credit information the night before last, is in Paris or Eilat, but nobody seems to know why somebody answered the phone when I called the automated number!
Linda and I boarded the #24 from the station next to HaCarmel market. Just past Dizengoff Center, a very unstable elderly man, wearing a kippah and somewhat unkempt, clambered aboard, barely supported by an aluminum cane and with one of the ubiquitous shopping carts in tow. The momentum of the bus caused him to fall into his seat, instead of actually sitting. A few stops later, the momentum of stopping caught him off guard as he wobbled to standing position to exit. The driver, however, did not notice him because he was so slow and deliberate, so as he closed the door, several, including the old man, protested, before the bus could actually start. A girl, probably in her late teens, then rose, offered her arm, took his cart with her other hand and started towards the door. The driver did his part in this caring episode by signaling that he was going to pull closer to the curb to make it easier for the old man to disembark. The girl returned to her seat after the old man was on the sidewalk.
Kids, Kids, Kids
January 21, 2009
There are adorable babies and young children all over Tel Aviv. Maybe this is so because it is a big city, in contrast to the relatively low density rurality of Chapel Hill, but there are children everywhere. Children are everywhere and there is adult attentiveness of every description—mothers, fathers, grandparents, teachers, caretakers, people on the street or in the park all seem to be playing, interacting, and watching. What is really amazing is the variety of conveyances that people use for children. This technology seems to have changed mightily since we were parents with young children. There are babies in: the arms of mothers, the arms of fathers; on the shoulders of mothers and fathers; backpacks on mothers; backpacks on fathers; frontpacks facing forward on mothers; frontpacks facing backward on mothers; frontpacks facing forward on fathers; frontpacks facing backward on fathers; strollers with big wheels with thick rubber tires; strollers with double small wheels on the front and back, all pushed by grandmothers, grandfathers, and anybody else who can walk and push; strollers big enough to carry babies and groceries or an older child; and the most interesting one of all was a stroller with a running board (with two foot imprints) extending from the frame beneath the baby compartment, so a 3 or 4 year old can stand safely in place to get wheeled along. I am impressed by the number of men, presumably fathers, who are involved in this conveyance. On Shabbat, the park along the Hayarkon River is a sea of people of all ages, from infants to the very old, where all of these conveyances are out in force.
There are adorable babies and young children all over Tel Aviv. Maybe this is so because it is a big city, in contrast to the relatively low density rurality of Chapel Hill, but there are children everywhere. Children are everywhere and there is adult attentiveness of every description—mothers, fathers, grandparents, teachers, caretakers, people on the street or in the park all seem to be playing, interacting, and watching. What is really amazing is the variety of conveyances that people use for children. This technology seems to have changed mightily since we were parents with young children. There are babies in: the arms of mothers, the arms of fathers; on the shoulders of mothers and fathers; backpacks on mothers; backpacks on fathers; frontpacks facing forward on mothers; frontpacks facing backward on mothers; frontpacks facing forward on fathers; frontpacks facing backward on fathers; strollers with big wheels with thick rubber tires; strollers with double small wheels on the front and back, all pushed by grandmothers, grandfathers, and anybody else who can walk and push; strollers big enough to carry babies and groceries or an older child; and the most interesting one of all was a stroller with a running board (with two foot imprints) extending from the frame beneath the baby compartment, so a 3 or 4 year old can stand safely in place to get wheeled along. I am impressed by the number of men, presumably fathers, who are involved in this conveyance. On Shabbat, the park along the Hayarkon River is a sea of people of all ages, from infants to the very old, where all of these conveyances are out in force.
My Cell Phone
January 20, 2009
Those who know me for my love/hate relationship with cell phones will appreciate today’s experience. During my orientation at Sheatufim 10 days ago, Rekefet, the office manager, informed me that my cell phone would control the gate to enter the grounds. I methodically entered the number into my phone book. At the end of my first day, I approached the gate, dialed the number. I heard a mild click but the gate remained closed. I used my cell phone to call Rekefet who laughed as she told me to remember to enter the number 5 after the gate answered. Today, about ten minutes into my 15 minute walk to the train station in the morning, I realized that I had left my phone at home. I realized that I would be out of touch for the day, but then again, nobody really calls me on the phone, so I decided to just continue on my way. It was only as I approached Sheatufim that it dawned on me that without my phone, I could not get in the gate! There was only one car in the parking lot at the time and fortunately that person responded to the buzzer at the gate. These two experiences may be enough to remind me to carry the phone.
Those who know me for my love/hate relationship with cell phones will appreciate today’s experience. During my orientation at Sheatufim 10 days ago, Rekefet, the office manager, informed me that my cell phone would control the gate to enter the grounds. I methodically entered the number into my phone book. At the end of my first day, I approached the gate, dialed the number. I heard a mild click but the gate remained closed. I used my cell phone to call Rekefet who laughed as she told me to remember to enter the number 5 after the gate answered. Today, about ten minutes into my 15 minute walk to the train station in the morning, I realized that I had left my phone at home. I realized that I would be out of touch for the day, but then again, nobody really calls me on the phone, so I decided to just continue on my way. It was only as I approached Sheatufim that it dawned on me that without my phone, I could not get in the gate! There was only one car in the parking lot at the time and fortunately that person responded to the buzzer at the gate. These two experiences may be enough to remind me to carry the phone.
January 19, 2009
Now that we have settled in (although after 12 days, I still have had only one falafel), I called Tel Aviv Medical Center to schedule an appointment for a medical problem. The receptionist was cordial, as was the clerk she transferred me to, but I soon learned a basic feature of the Israeli medical system. Namely, it is built around general practitioners, similar to Great Britain. The clerk gave me the names and phone numbers of the four major health insurance carriers, assuring me that one would provide a doctor. Maybe because as an American I have been trained to ask about insurance before any other direct medical question, later at home at about 5pm, I searched the NC State Employees website, honing in on providers for overseas travelers. Dubious that U.S. PPO would actually establish relationships in small countries like Israel, I nevertheless persisted on the site until it brought me to a list of 18 physicians in Tel Aviv. There were ENT doctors, a few internists, and 3 or 4 general practitioners. Linda and I tried to lmake some choices based on location, but then just made some calls. The first number I called rang and rang, but there was no answer, so I went to the number for Dr. Y.Y on Chen St. After a few rings, there was an answer and I responded, “b’anglit.” There was some imperceptible talking, as if to another person, and then “yes, English.” I explained my concern, saying that I wanted some advice, assuming that I was speaking to a receptionist. “I cannot do this by phone,” the voice said, “I am Dr. Y.” “That’s why I am calling, to make an appointment.” “Can you come here at 6:30?” “Yes, 6:30,” I replied in disbelief. “Please bring any medicine and the brochures so I can know the active ingredients.” “There’s only one medicine,” I said, continuing, “I am a physician, so I am familiar with it. I’ll see you at 6:30.”
Linda and I walked to Ibn Gvirol and then after watching a few buses stop and continue, we hopped into a #5 sherut, the 8-10 seater vans that follow the bus routes. We knew it was heading down Dizengoff, where the doctor’s office was located. I handed the driver 11 one shekel pieces (the fare is 5.5 shekels) and since these dime sized coins create quite a handful, rather than counting he said to me, “ achad esray?” and to my delight I knew he was saying “11?,” so I assured him, “keyn.” The sherut stopped almost exactly in front of #14. The outside of this 4 story building was dark and shadowy, further raising my curiosity about what this encounter would be like. We were barely able to make out a small nameplate and although we thought we might have to be buzzed in the door opened when I pushed on it. We did not know what floor were were heading for, so we just started up the stairs that surrounded an old-fashioned, caged elevator. On the second floor, posted on the door was a sign in English and Hebrew, “Dr. Yigal Yamini” and “Dr. Susan Wairich.”
It was a good thing that I opened the door very slowly, because it opened into a waiting reception area that could not have been any larger than Linda’s study at home. Along two walls were about six chairs, three of which were occupied by an elderly couple and a young woman. Along another wall were two doors, one closed, and the other obviously an office/examining room. A young man, perhaps 40, with dark, straggly hair covering his ears, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt, was sitting at a simple table facing the chairs, talking on the phone and to one of the patients, so we realized that this was Dr. Yamini! No clerks. No assistants. No extensive laboratory or diagnostic equipment, just a doctor and a computer screen and a desktop computer on the floor. After he finished with the elderly woman, he took the young woman into an adjoining room for a few minutes and then continued his lengthy conversation with her while back at his table. So much for confidentiality, although perhaps he assumed that we could not understand the conversation in any case.
He invited me into his office, which appeared to be right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. He sat behind his desk and I in a chair facing him.
“You are here as a tourist?”
“No, I am a professor of public health and I am here with my wife on leave for six months. I am not doing anything health-related, I am working on philanthropy in Israel, and I went on to explain about Sheatufim. He was intent as he listened, and then said, “that’s a real sabbatical.”
“Do you belong to a synagogue in your community?”
“We belong to a reconstructionist synagogue.”
“Yes, I have heard something of it. I belong to a conservative havurah and if you would be interested, I can send you information about programs.”
“I am curious how you came to be on the Blue Cross list.” Dr. Y. chuckled, and said, “I have no idea. I am thinking that I saw some tourists as patients and wrote good reports for them and some way they talked to somebody. I also have no idea how they have my home address and phone number.” I smiled and said I probably could help with that problem.
We went on to discuss my medical concerns. He took a thoughtful history, asking good questions. He expressed surprise at some of the diagnostic tests that I had not had. We discussed a diagnostic and treatment plan and I’ll be back in touch with him. What a fortunate encounter. I am reassured that I am able to work with a competent, knowledgeable physician, with the all too rare added dividend of having a sense of caring.
Linda and I strolled up Dizengoff, passing more shoe stores in a few blocks than there are in all of Chapel Hill and Durham. Suddenly a chocolaty, waffly aroma filled the air and up ahead we noticed a bunch of people standing in front of a small store, between two shoe stores. We joined the crowd and watched two young women making some pastries. One was rolling out thin layers of dough. She then cut the pie-sized thin slab into 4-5 strips, took a 12 inch cone on a long metal handle, and delicately wound the strips onto the cone. She then placed the cone in an oven. The other woman was taking the baked final product out of the oven. The choices were chocolate and halva or cinnamon. The chocolate halva sample was scrumptious so that’s what we chose for 22 shekels. We’ll certainly be heading back to this Hungarian bakery, called Kurtosh. We then climbed onto a #5 bus and disembarked in front of our neighborhood falafel stand on Yehuda ha Maccabi, for my second falafel of the visit.
Now that we have settled in (although after 12 days, I still have had only one falafel), I called Tel Aviv Medical Center to schedule an appointment for a medical problem. The receptionist was cordial, as was the clerk she transferred me to, but I soon learned a basic feature of the Israeli medical system. Namely, it is built around general practitioners, similar to Great Britain. The clerk gave me the names and phone numbers of the four major health insurance carriers, assuring me that one would provide a doctor. Maybe because as an American I have been trained to ask about insurance before any other direct medical question, later at home at about 5pm, I searched the NC State Employees website, honing in on providers for overseas travelers. Dubious that U.S. PPO would actually establish relationships in small countries like Israel, I nevertheless persisted on the site until it brought me to a list of 18 physicians in Tel Aviv. There were ENT doctors, a few internists, and 3 or 4 general practitioners. Linda and I tried to lmake some choices based on location, but then just made some calls. The first number I called rang and rang, but there was no answer, so I went to the number for Dr. Y.Y on Chen St. After a few rings, there was an answer and I responded, “b’anglit.” There was some imperceptible talking, as if to another person, and then “yes, English.” I explained my concern, saying that I wanted some advice, assuming that I was speaking to a receptionist. “I cannot do this by phone,” the voice said, “I am Dr. Y.” “That’s why I am calling, to make an appointment.” “Can you come here at 6:30?” “Yes, 6:30,” I replied in disbelief. “Please bring any medicine and the brochures so I can know the active ingredients.” “There’s only one medicine,” I said, continuing, “I am a physician, so I am familiar with it. I’ll see you at 6:30.”
Linda and I walked to Ibn Gvirol and then after watching a few buses stop and continue, we hopped into a #5 sherut, the 8-10 seater vans that follow the bus routes. We knew it was heading down Dizengoff, where the doctor’s office was located. I handed the driver 11 one shekel pieces (the fare is 5.5 shekels) and since these dime sized coins create quite a handful, rather than counting he said to me, “ achad esray?” and to my delight I knew he was saying “11?,” so I assured him, “keyn.” The sherut stopped almost exactly in front of #14. The outside of this 4 story building was dark and shadowy, further raising my curiosity about what this encounter would be like. We were barely able to make out a small nameplate and although we thought we might have to be buzzed in the door opened when I pushed on it. We did not know what floor were were heading for, so we just started up the stairs that surrounded an old-fashioned, caged elevator. On the second floor, posted on the door was a sign in English and Hebrew, “Dr. Yigal Yamini” and “Dr. Susan Wairich.”
It was a good thing that I opened the door very slowly, because it opened into a waiting reception area that could not have been any larger than Linda’s study at home. Along two walls were about six chairs, three of which were occupied by an elderly couple and a young woman. Along another wall were two doors, one closed, and the other obviously an office/examining room. A young man, perhaps 40, with dark, straggly hair covering his ears, dressed in jeans and a blue shirt, was sitting at a simple table facing the chairs, talking on the phone and to one of the patients, so we realized that this was Dr. Yamini! No clerks. No assistants. No extensive laboratory or diagnostic equipment, just a doctor and a computer screen and a desktop computer on the floor. After he finished with the elderly woman, he took the young woman into an adjoining room for a few minutes and then continued his lengthy conversation with her while back at his table. So much for confidentiality, although perhaps he assumed that we could not understand the conversation in any case.
He invited me into his office, which appeared to be right out of a Norman Rockwell painting. He sat behind his desk and I in a chair facing him.
“You are here as a tourist?”
“No, I am a professor of public health and I am here with my wife on leave for six months. I am not doing anything health-related, I am working on philanthropy in Israel, and I went on to explain about Sheatufim. He was intent as he listened, and then said, “that’s a real sabbatical.”
“Do you belong to a synagogue in your community?”
“We belong to a reconstructionist synagogue.”
“Yes, I have heard something of it. I belong to a conservative havurah and if you would be interested, I can send you information about programs.”
“I am curious how you came to be on the Blue Cross list.” Dr. Y. chuckled, and said, “I have no idea. I am thinking that I saw some tourists as patients and wrote good reports for them and some way they talked to somebody. I also have no idea how they have my home address and phone number.” I smiled and said I probably could help with that problem.
We went on to discuss my medical concerns. He took a thoughtful history, asking good questions. He expressed surprise at some of the diagnostic tests that I had not had. We discussed a diagnostic and treatment plan and I’ll be back in touch with him. What a fortunate encounter. I am reassured that I am able to work with a competent, knowledgeable physician, with the all too rare added dividend of having a sense of caring.
Linda and I strolled up Dizengoff, passing more shoe stores in a few blocks than there are in all of Chapel Hill and Durham. Suddenly a chocolaty, waffly aroma filled the air and up ahead we noticed a bunch of people standing in front of a small store, between two shoe stores. We joined the crowd and watched two young women making some pastries. One was rolling out thin layers of dough. She then cut the pie-sized thin slab into 4-5 strips, took a 12 inch cone on a long metal handle, and delicately wound the strips onto the cone. She then placed the cone in an oven. The other woman was taking the baked final product out of the oven. The choices were chocolate and halva or cinnamon. The chocolate halva sample was scrumptious so that’s what we chose for 22 shekels. We’ll certainly be heading back to this Hungarian bakery, called Kurtosh. We then climbed onto a #5 bus and disembarked in front of our neighborhood falafel stand on Yehuda ha Maccabi, for my second falafel of the visit.
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