I received a strongly worded message from my brother to hurry up and post something new so that Goldstone would no longer be the opening salvo on my blog. Ironically he made that request because he didn't like the article; I, on the other hand, only chose to oblige him because I didn't want to give Goldstone any more air time.
Okay, time for a new story.
Generally speaking cities such as New York, Paris, London, Las Vegas, Rio are the first ones that come to mind under the heading: Cities That Never Sleep. That's precisely why the nocturnal Bnei Brak is such a find. I live 20 minutes away and I didn't know about that BB until two weeks ago. Nothing like being a surprised tourist in your own country!
The entire unexpected adventure began two weeks ago on a Monday night when my friend suggested that we go to BB in search of something we couldn't find in Ra'anana. We had to go that night because Pesach preparation was starting to bear down on us and it was a now or never situation. So, at 9:30 p.m. I found myself standing on a corner in my neighbourhood waiting for two of my friends to pick me up. I was still in my yoga clothes -- and a cover-up skirt -- because I knew we were headed to Bnei Brak.
For those of you who don't know, Bnei Brak is a city located on Israel's central Mediterranean coastal plain, just east of Tel Aviv. It is one of Israel's centers of Ultra-Orthodox Judaism. It is also one of the poorest and most densely populated cities in Israel, which in my mind comes hand-in-hand with being ultra orthodox. But that's a story for another day.
It is also a great place for bargain shopping because poor people who spend their days studying Torah instead of working -- and having families of at least six children who they can't feed -- don't have lots of money to spend, but they still need lots of stuff to be ultra-orthodox Jews.
We arrived at almost 10 p.m. and that's when I got the first shock. The streets were packed with people and traffic resembled Tel Aviv at rush hour.
After breaking several traffic laws (which is de rigeur there) we found a parking spot. We hopped out of the car and my friend who initiated this mini-road trip took one look at her two passengers and said: "Oy, I should have told you to dress appropriately."
We looked at her slightly baffled since we are both religious women (albeit Modern Orthodox) and we were both in appropriately long skirts (yes, with yoga pants underneath) and my other yoga panted friend had her head covered. "No," said friend #1 quasi jokingly, "I am going to have to walk ahead of you. You are going to stick out like sore thumbs because you aren't wearing THE uniform." (The uniform she was speaking of was a long skirt, a long sleeved shirt, sensible shoes and preferably a wig.)
At that point I promptly took my large scarf and wrapped it around my head. The two of them burst into laughter as I asked in heavily accented English if anyone knew the way to Bethlehem. I was looking for a manger. In fact, I looked like I had just arrived directly from the sound stage of Lawrence of Arabia. But there was no avoiding it -- I was covered.
Our first stop was an ad hoc business operated out of the apartment of the business owner. Apparently there are thousands of these little businesses throughout BB -- probably all off the records.
The business was run out of the livingroom where the business owner (a woman; men don't work much in BB) and her daughters sat on the edge of the sofa assessing us -- apparently two of us did stick out because we weren't in uniform. Friend #2 had to go to the washroom but after the cold glaring reception we received, she didn't have the nerve to ask.
That home business didn't have what we wanted, so we left.
Once outside we decided to hit the official retail areas. By that point I had reorganized my scarf away from the Beduoin look into a more traditional Modern Jewish woman look. My travelling partners were silently relieved.
The main shopping streets in BB are like the wild West. There are no rules. People are crossing the six-lane main street wherever it suits them and regardless of oncoming traffic. Cars are turning here and there even where traffic signs clearly state that it is forbidden. Flocks of young children are out on their own -- no adults in sight.
At one point we saw a baby carriage sitting unattended on a sidewalk in front of a store. We went into a children's wear store where we found clothes that were being sold in Ra'anana for twice the price. After 30 minutes of tsk-tsking over the arbitrary price differences we left the store -- and that damn baby carriage (with accompanying baby) was still sitting there unattended. Correct me if I am wrong, but in most places people go to jail for leaving their babies lying around without supervision. Lucky I wasn't in the market for a baby -- that one was such easy pickings.
Oh, did I mention that Friend #2 still needed a toilet? Well, she did. So we started asking around for a public toilet. We approached one of the few approachable men on the streets of BB -- a man wearing a knitted kippah, but not dressed in the all-black uniform of men in BB -- because protocol states that the uniformed men do NOT speak to women that they are not related to. He told us there was a toilet across the street.
In true BB fashion we headed across the street -- not at the crosswalk and not waiting for the light to change in our favour because there really is no such thing. When we arrived in the small courtyard to which we had been directed we realized that we were outside a synagogue and that the men who study there all day (and apparently all night) were staring at us with suspicion and disdain.
Since I am not intimidated by such stares I went ahead and asked where the toilet was located. Talk about giving someone an opening. These men started in on us in hebrew saying that is was only a toilet for men and that it wasn't appropriately modest for us to be there. Cut to the chase: my friend still needed a toilet.
We finally found one in the store we had just left. Well, it was sort of a toilet. I wouldn't normally subject my delicate derriere to such a place, but desperate times called for desperate measures. We all went to the washroom (and I use that term loosely.)
We headed out of the store again, only to find that damn baby and its carriage in its seemingly official spot. And now that we were getting used to the baby being there, we stopped and took pictures of ourselves with it. Why not? It was obviously there for some reason -- must have been a tourist attraction.
The events of the evening carried on for another few minutes. You really don't need all the details. Many people stared at us and our unusual non-uniforms that were obviously religous, but not BB religious. We laughed, sucked up our surroundings and finally left.
What is important is that there -- in the middle of Israel -- was a piece of Jewish history being played out in real time 2011. These are a few of the people Mr. Goldstone was ready to sell down the river. I hope he never needs a baby at 11:00 p.m. at night. And I hope I managed to get another jab in, against him. Sorry Peter.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Goldstone: the worst kind of anti-semite
(Spoiler alert: I'm in a very bad mood so if you can't stand the heat, get out of my kitchen. I have to stir the pot or I am never going to be able to sleep tonight.)
My father was a federal judge. He became a judge when I was in university and my brother and sister were still in high school. When he received his appointment from the prime minister of Canada, the one and only demand my mother made of us -- his children (well, probably only me since I was the most likely candidate for causing trouble) -- was that we never do anything to embarass my father and damage his good name. It was a reasonable request and until the day he died I am pretty sure that we never did anything to cause him public grief.
For his part, he did us all proud. He was honest and fair. And most important, he never forgot where he came from or who is was. The fifth of six children born to poor Eastern European Jewish immigrants who came to Canada to escape the pogroms and build a better life.
One of the many reasons he accepted the appointment was because he was Jewish and at that time there weren't a lot of Jewish federal judges in Canada. Being Jewish was a signficant factor in his decision.
Which brings me to that poor excuse for a Jewish judge: the scumbag Goldstone.
I cannot even say his name without triggering a wave a nausea.
My Jewish readers already know his story. He was selected by the UN (no friend of Israel) to lead in inquiry into Cast Lead. He did and the results were very damning to Israel. Israeli Jews were shocked by his findings because he laid equal blame on the Israel Defence Forces (a legal army protecting a legitimate country) and Hamas (a terrorist organization elected in fake elections). Yes, I know that there are lots of people in the world who see it that way, but none of them come from the rational, impartial camp.
The results of his inquiry did more damage to Israel than anything in recent or not so recent memory. As Churchill once said, rumours get half way around the world before the truth even gets its pants on. The damage was done.
And then, what did that jerk do? A year or so after his report was made public, he turned around in an interview in the Washington Post and recanted his committee's findings. Oops, he said, I might have been wrong.
The only thing that he was wrong about was the reaction that the Jewish world would have to him. The man is a known career climber of monumental proportions. He never once stopped to think about the implications of his actions -- all he was thinking about was his future career options. He never expected the Jewish community of South Africa, from whence he hailed, to virtually ostracize him. The only way he could attend his grandson's bar mitzvah last summer was with a pack of body guards.
That speaks volumes: what kind of Jew needs body guards in a synagogue? It is a virtual contradiction of thoughts.
And I doubt he would survive more than 24 hours upon arriving in Israel as a private citizen, although given his feelings about Israel, I don't think visiting here is on his schedule. Just as well. He would make Jimmy Carter look like a welcomed guest.
All I want to do is make sense of a completely nonsensical sitution. I simply can't get my mind around the idea of a Jew who would sell Israel down the river, lock stock and barrel. I understand that there are lots of Jews who don't love Israel and there a lot more who never even think about Israel at all, but when someone in Goldstone's position chooses to stab his own people in the back in the most public of forums -- in front of the entire world -- for the sake of his own career advancement, I am compelled to conclude that the world really must be coming to an end.
The holocaust concluded a mere 67 years ago. There are still enough living survivors of the death and labour camps, hidden children, and righteous gentiles alive to remind us that in the 20th century -- in a country as modern as Germany -- bad things can happen to Jews. And they can happen in the blink of an eye.
Where the hell was Goldstone when we Jews were all learning that important lesson? And where was he when the State of Israel was born and for the first time in 2000 years the Jews of the world knew that there was a country out there that had their backs? If they were ever in trouble simply for being Jews, Israel would get to them.
The State of Israel has gone to the rescue of Jews in every crazy corner of the world. Entebbe. Addis Ababa. Kenya. Would the Americans do that? Ha. Would the Canadians. Double ha. And let's not start with the European countries.
Apparently Goldstone is so arrogant that he believes he will never need Israel. And for his sake I hope he never does .... because I don't think any Israeli Jew would agree to spend one agurot of public money to save his sorry ass.
For my part, I am packing a lawn chair, a cooler, and blanket, and I am driving to Megiddo -- which, according to the Book of Revelations in the New Testament it is the site of Armageddon, the end of the world. It's only an hour and a half from my house, and I want a good seat to watch Goldstone go down. I can't think of any living person that I would rather watch rot in hell.
My father was a federal judge. He became a judge when I was in university and my brother and sister were still in high school. When he received his appointment from the prime minister of Canada, the one and only demand my mother made of us -- his children (well, probably only me since I was the most likely candidate for causing trouble) -- was that we never do anything to embarass my father and damage his good name. It was a reasonable request and until the day he died I am pretty sure that we never did anything to cause him public grief.
For his part, he did us all proud. He was honest and fair. And most important, he never forgot where he came from or who is was. The fifth of six children born to poor Eastern European Jewish immigrants who came to Canada to escape the pogroms and build a better life.
One of the many reasons he accepted the appointment was because he was Jewish and at that time there weren't a lot of Jewish federal judges in Canada. Being Jewish was a signficant factor in his decision.
Which brings me to that poor excuse for a Jewish judge: the scumbag Goldstone.
I cannot even say his name without triggering a wave a nausea.
My Jewish readers already know his story. He was selected by the UN (no friend of Israel) to lead in inquiry into Cast Lead. He did and the results were very damning to Israel. Israeli Jews were shocked by his findings because he laid equal blame on the Israel Defence Forces (a legal army protecting a legitimate country) and Hamas (a terrorist organization elected in fake elections). Yes, I know that there are lots of people in the world who see it that way, but none of them come from the rational, impartial camp.
The results of his inquiry did more damage to Israel than anything in recent or not so recent memory. As Churchill once said, rumours get half way around the world before the truth even gets its pants on. The damage was done.
And then, what did that jerk do? A year or so after his report was made public, he turned around in an interview in the Washington Post and recanted his committee's findings. Oops, he said, I might have been wrong.
The only thing that he was wrong about was the reaction that the Jewish world would have to him. The man is a known career climber of monumental proportions. He never once stopped to think about the implications of his actions -- all he was thinking about was his future career options. He never expected the Jewish community of South Africa, from whence he hailed, to virtually ostracize him. The only way he could attend his grandson's bar mitzvah last summer was with a pack of body guards.
That speaks volumes: what kind of Jew needs body guards in a synagogue? It is a virtual contradiction of thoughts.
And I doubt he would survive more than 24 hours upon arriving in Israel as a private citizen, although given his feelings about Israel, I don't think visiting here is on his schedule. Just as well. He would make Jimmy Carter look like a welcomed guest.
All I want to do is make sense of a completely nonsensical sitution. I simply can't get my mind around the idea of a Jew who would sell Israel down the river, lock stock and barrel. I understand that there are lots of Jews who don't love Israel and there a lot more who never even think about Israel at all, but when someone in Goldstone's position chooses to stab his own people in the back in the most public of forums -- in front of the entire world -- for the sake of his own career advancement, I am compelled to conclude that the world really must be coming to an end.
The holocaust concluded a mere 67 years ago. There are still enough living survivors of the death and labour camps, hidden children, and righteous gentiles alive to remind us that in the 20th century -- in a country as modern as Germany -- bad things can happen to Jews. And they can happen in the blink of an eye.
Where the hell was Goldstone when we Jews were all learning that important lesson? And where was he when the State of Israel was born and for the first time in 2000 years the Jews of the world knew that there was a country out there that had their backs? If they were ever in trouble simply for being Jews, Israel would get to them.
The State of Israel has gone to the rescue of Jews in every crazy corner of the world. Entebbe. Addis Ababa. Kenya. Would the Americans do that? Ha. Would the Canadians. Double ha. And let's not start with the European countries.
Apparently Goldstone is so arrogant that he believes he will never need Israel. And for his sake I hope he never does .... because I don't think any Israeli Jew would agree to spend one agurot of public money to save his sorry ass.
For my part, I am packing a lawn chair, a cooler, and blanket, and I am driving to Megiddo -- which, according to the Book of Revelations in the New Testament it is the site of Armageddon, the end of the world. It's only an hour and a half from my house, and I want a good seat to watch Goldstone go down. I can't think of any living person that I would rather watch rot in hell.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
The Buddy Double
I grew up in a small city where people not only knew their neighbours, but also spoke to them on a daily basis. We weren't necessarily best friends but we all knew the basic details of each other's lives. And if you needed to borrow an egg, you didn't have to introduce yourself at a stranger's door first.
Toronto couldn't have been more different. We lived on a one block street and at best, we knew about 30 per cent of our neighbours. If you needed an egg, well, good luck to you. There were probably two families on our street that I would have even considered asking for one.
Then we moved to Israel. As I have said many times in the past, it is partly the Anglo thing and partly that in Israel your business is your neighbour's business. Without going into a long song and dance, I have so many egg-friendly neighbours that I could collect a dozen without effort.
Several of my neighbours' numbers are in my cell phone and I speak to them daily. That's why when my new American neighbour across the street called the other day and said: "Oh my God, can you please come over here now ...", I walked out the door and across the street while I was still talking to her on my cell phone.
She opened the door holding her adorable miniature poodle, Buddy. And since we are both dog owners I began the conversation by addressing Buddy. Except, it wasn't Buddy. It was the same size as Buddy and the same colour as Buddy, but she assured me that it wasn't Buddy. In fact, she said calling to her seven-year-old daughter, here's Buddy now. And with that, her daughter entered the room the the real Buddy in her arms. I just stood there amazed. And with that, my quiet Sunday afternoon came to an abrupt end.
As it turns out, one of the daughter's friends left school earlier that day and saw a dog that she was sure was Buddy in the middle of the street in front of the school. Thinking she was doing a great deed, she scooped up the little dog and headed to my neighbour's house four blocks away to return Buddy.
However, when my neighbour opened the door with Buddy in her arms, she got the shock of her life to see Buddy's Double in the child's arms. A complicating factor to say the least.
Buddy Double had no collar and no apparent identification. That's when she called me to help her figure out what she should do next. In retrospect it's funny because according to my husband, thinking things through isn't my strong suit.
After consulting with our friend the City Veteranarian, we headed off to the nearest Veteranary Clinic to have the dog's computer chip read. All the way there the little girl who found Buddy Double was planning her life with her new dog.
If it had been a mixed breed without identification, that might have been fine, but in a small country the size of Israel, a new purebred in town can only have come from one or two places and presented with the challenge of finding the owner, the vet we went to see turned into a private dectective on the spot.
The dog didn't have an identification chip because he was too young. To me, that pretty much settled the matter. No ID meant that we couldn't find the owner and therefore, the little girl was the proud owner of an adorable miniature poodle puppy.
The vet/detective didn't see it that way. He started making calls to his contacts in search of the rightful owner. Fortunately for the almost-new-dog-owning-child, the vet was batting zero and I was starting to apply pressure. "It's ownerless," I said, "and she wants to keep it. So we're leaving."
And just then, while the vet was stalling and trying to convince us that we had to put up posters to try to find the real owner, the door of the clinic opened and a teenage boy walked in, took one look at Buddy Double, and said: "Sonny!"
And with that, the day took another 90 degree turn.
"Hey, not so fast," we all yelled. "How do we know it is your dog?" (Of course, we knew in our hearts it was his dog, but we had already made plans for Buddy Double, and we weren't in a hurry to adjust our thinking.) "How did you find us?"
So here's the story as it can only happen in a small place.
The kid gets home and realizes his dog has escaped due to human carelessness. He goes out into the street near his house (which was a few feet from the public school) and starts asking if someone has seen his dog. He has a picture of the dog with him. Some kid sees the photograph and says: "I saw a girl pick the dog up and take it home. I think her name is ....."
Next, the teenager and his father go into the public school and ask where this kid lives. THE SCHOOL ACTUALLY GIVES OUT THE INFORMATION. (Mindboggling to North Americans) and then they go to the girl's house to get their dog.
Of course, the mother knows the whole story and tells them that their dog isn't there because it is at the vet. She tells them which vet and next thing you know they are at the door to the vet's clinic.
And with that, our little neighbourhood adventure comes to an abrupt end.
However, the next day I was in the corner store getting milk and in walks the teenager with Sonny. "Sonny," I sort of yelled out and the dog lurches for me to give me a few licks. Now we are neighbourhood friends.
Toronto couldn't have been more different. We lived on a one block street and at best, we knew about 30 per cent of our neighbours. If you needed an egg, well, good luck to you. There were probably two families on our street that I would have even considered asking for one.
Then we moved to Israel. As I have said many times in the past, it is partly the Anglo thing and partly that in Israel your business is your neighbour's business. Without going into a long song and dance, I have so many egg-friendly neighbours that I could collect a dozen without effort.
Several of my neighbours' numbers are in my cell phone and I speak to them daily. That's why when my new American neighbour across the street called the other day and said: "Oh my God, can you please come over here now ...", I walked out the door and across the street while I was still talking to her on my cell phone.
She opened the door holding her adorable miniature poodle, Buddy. And since we are both dog owners I began the conversation by addressing Buddy. Except, it wasn't Buddy. It was the same size as Buddy and the same colour as Buddy, but she assured me that it wasn't Buddy. In fact, she said calling to her seven-year-old daughter, here's Buddy now. And with that, her daughter entered the room the the real Buddy in her arms. I just stood there amazed. And with that, my quiet Sunday afternoon came to an abrupt end.
As it turns out, one of the daughter's friends left school earlier that day and saw a dog that she was sure was Buddy in the middle of the street in front of the school. Thinking she was doing a great deed, she scooped up the little dog and headed to my neighbour's house four blocks away to return Buddy.
However, when my neighbour opened the door with Buddy in her arms, she got the shock of her life to see Buddy's Double in the child's arms. A complicating factor to say the least.
Buddy Double had no collar and no apparent identification. That's when she called me to help her figure out what she should do next. In retrospect it's funny because according to my husband, thinking things through isn't my strong suit.
After consulting with our friend the City Veteranarian, we headed off to the nearest Veteranary Clinic to have the dog's computer chip read. All the way there the little girl who found Buddy Double was planning her life with her new dog.
If it had been a mixed breed without identification, that might have been fine, but in a small country the size of Israel, a new purebred in town can only have come from one or two places and presented with the challenge of finding the owner, the vet we went to see turned into a private dectective on the spot.
The dog didn't have an identification chip because he was too young. To me, that pretty much settled the matter. No ID meant that we couldn't find the owner and therefore, the little girl was the proud owner of an adorable miniature poodle puppy.
The vet/detective didn't see it that way. He started making calls to his contacts in search of the rightful owner. Fortunately for the almost-new-dog-owning-child, the vet was batting zero and I was starting to apply pressure. "It's ownerless," I said, "and she wants to keep it. So we're leaving."
And just then, while the vet was stalling and trying to convince us that we had to put up posters to try to find the real owner, the door of the clinic opened and a teenage boy walked in, took one look at Buddy Double, and said: "Sonny!"
And with that, the day took another 90 degree turn.
"Hey, not so fast," we all yelled. "How do we know it is your dog?" (Of course, we knew in our hearts it was his dog, but we had already made plans for Buddy Double, and we weren't in a hurry to adjust our thinking.) "How did you find us?"
So here's the story as it can only happen in a small place.
The kid gets home and realizes his dog has escaped due to human carelessness. He goes out into the street near his house (which was a few feet from the public school) and starts asking if someone has seen his dog. He has a picture of the dog with him. Some kid sees the photograph and says: "I saw a girl pick the dog up and take it home. I think her name is ....."
Next, the teenager and his father go into the public school and ask where this kid lives. THE SCHOOL ACTUALLY GIVES OUT THE INFORMATION. (Mindboggling to North Americans) and then they go to the girl's house to get their dog.
Of course, the mother knows the whole story and tells them that their dog isn't there because it is at the vet. She tells them which vet and next thing you know they are at the door to the vet's clinic.
And with that, our little neighbourhood adventure comes to an abrupt end.
However, the next day I was in the corner store getting milk and in walks the teenager with Sonny. "Sonny," I sort of yelled out and the dog lurches for me to give me a few licks. Now we are neighbourhood friends.
Friday, March 18, 2011
What goes around eventually comes around
In the midst of a mini torrential rain blast last Friday morning, I found myself driving to the Moked to have my son's hand "seen to". The Moked is the Israeli answer to people who need more medical help than they can get in a doctor's office but less than they could get at a full-fledged hospital. In theory it is a great concept. And in practice I like it too -- I just wish the closest branch wasn't located half way to Tel Aviv.
By the time we got in the door of the Moked we were soaked and I was expecting a very long wait. I have been to the Moked in the past and spent hours sitting there waiting my turn. It might be more cost effective than wasting a hospital's time, but customer turnaround time is rarely better than any hospital environment where you don't arrive on death's doorstep.
We went to the first check-in counter and the woman there explained all the steps we would have to go through. First you see the nurse, then you get an x-ray and finally, you see the orthopedist who gives you your final diagnosis. In other words, I was mentally hunkering down for the duration.
And that was when I noticed the signs that said "Wi-Fi". Within seconds my entire day was starting to look better. I pulled out my iTouch and started to review my unanswered emails. At some point during my email review they must have called my son's number. Fortunately he was listening and once I realized that he was headed somewhere I quickly gathered up our things and followed him.
The nurse at Stop One checked his hand and asked a few questions. But since his hebrew is so much better than mine, I left him to deal with her and continued to scan my emails.
Back to the waiting area.
A few minutes later, my son was called in to get an x-ray. Since visitors are not allowed into an x-ray area, I waited outside. As I said, he is almost 14 and his hebrew is far superior to mine.
He returned from the x-ray and took up the seat next to me while we waited for Stop Three -- the orthopedist.
When our number was called, my son -- the same son who is connected to an electronic device almost every waking hour that he is not in school (at least I hope that's the case) -- stood up and almost yelled at me: "Ema, take those earphones out of your ears and pay attention. You cannot listen to your iPod and know what's going on." And with that he walked into the doctor's office.
I just stood there and realized that we had reached a watershed moment in our relationship.
By the time we got in the door of the Moked we were soaked and I was expecting a very long wait. I have been to the Moked in the past and spent hours sitting there waiting my turn. It might be more cost effective than wasting a hospital's time, but customer turnaround time is rarely better than any hospital environment where you don't arrive on death's doorstep.
We went to the first check-in counter and the woman there explained all the steps we would have to go through. First you see the nurse, then you get an x-ray and finally, you see the orthopedist who gives you your final diagnosis. In other words, I was mentally hunkering down for the duration.
And that was when I noticed the signs that said "Wi-Fi". Within seconds my entire day was starting to look better. I pulled out my iTouch and started to review my unanswered emails. At some point during my email review they must have called my son's number. Fortunately he was listening and once I realized that he was headed somewhere I quickly gathered up our things and followed him.
The nurse at Stop One checked his hand and asked a few questions. But since his hebrew is so much better than mine, I left him to deal with her and continued to scan my emails.
Back to the waiting area.
A few minutes later, my son was called in to get an x-ray. Since visitors are not allowed into an x-ray area, I waited outside. As I said, he is almost 14 and his hebrew is far superior to mine.
He returned from the x-ray and took up the seat next to me while we waited for Stop Three -- the orthopedist.
When our number was called, my son -- the same son who is connected to an electronic device almost every waking hour that he is not in school (at least I hope that's the case) -- stood up and almost yelled at me: "Ema, take those earphones out of your ears and pay attention. You cannot listen to your iPod and know what's going on." And with that he walked into the doctor's office.
I just stood there and realized that we had reached a watershed moment in our relationship.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Perception and Reality
I have experienced the following incident more than once now and I am sure that I am not the only North American-Israeli out there to have found themselves in this position.
It goes like this ....You arrive at the airport to meet someone who has never been to Israel before. They enter the arrivals area of Terminal 3 at Ben Gurion Airport with their eyes darting from side to side. No matter how nonchalant they are trying to look, the fact is that they are anticipating trouble. I honestly believe that at least one of my first-time-in-Israel guests was actually expecting shooting to break out in the airport at any second.
They see me and the smile as bravely as they can (but their eyes are yelling PANIC).
Skip ahead to the end of their trip. We are back in the airport and they can hardly believe that they arrived here with only the vaguest hope of ever leaving alive.
You think I am joking, but I'm not. I have calmed more than one anxious arrival promising them that they would eat their words by the end of their trip. Thank G-d, so far, I am batting 1000.
What I never really considered, however, was just how common that sentiment was. To me, it seems fairly obvious that I wouldn't uproot my family from dull, quiet, reliable Toronto to move them into a war zone. I have beliefs and principles but I do not have a death wish. And after all the work I did bringing those children into this world, I have no plans to offer them an early exit.
Earlier this evening I had the good fortune to see some video snippets from a series of US focus groups sponsored by a pro-Israel organization. Although the real objective was not really clear to the focus group participants, their answers to questions pertaining to their perceptions of Israel left me speechless.
For the records, I haven't been speechless since 1967 -- and even then, I was just trying to freak out my mother.
The focus group participants were not Jewish and none had been to Israel. They were, however, educated beyond high school. These focus groups were carried out across the US -- 62 in all -- in 2004. Remarkably the answers for all the focus groups were very consistent.
Here is how the average, post high school, non-Jew living in the United States, views Israel. They think that there is nothing here but cement and barbed wire -- oh, and a little rubble thrown in for good measure. They think that everyone is an orthodox Jewish man who would not be open to having any kind of foreigner visiting Israel. They also believe that women stay indoors and that men carry on all outdoor activity on behalf of the family. They think that Israel is overwhelmingly dangerous and that there is no life so to speak on the streets. They do believe that there are tanks everywhere.
For anyone who lives here you know how laughable that is -- well, laughable, when you aren't crying about it. And for those of you who have never been here, please bear with me while I refute a few points.
- Israel is suprisingly green. There are tons of trees. The boulevards are lined with huge palm trees that resemble the boulevards in Florida. In fact Israel is so green in the winter that I often forget that I live in the desert. Yes, there is barbed wire, but you have to drive out to the borders of the country to see it and it is there for damn good reason: to keep out the kind of scum who enter the country illegally and murder sleeping babies and their parents while they sleep. Yes, this happened last week in a small community called Itamar.
- Eighty percent of the Jewish Israeli population is secular. And of the 20% who are religious, only 25% are overtly religous looking. Israel is full of non-kosher restaurants (I don't say that happily but it is true.) You can buy pork and sea food. Israelis come from countries all around the globe and as a result, they have different skin colours and different mother tongues. The fact is that Israelis don't care all that much about ethnicity or colour -- they care if you are a Jew.
- Oh, and they love tourists. It is a mainstay of our economy and last year there were more tourists in Israel than any year in its history. We all encourage you to come and see the country for yourself.
- Now to my favorite misperception. It will be a cold day in hell before I leave my husband responsible for taking care of all of our family's out-of-the-house business. If he had to go grocery shopping we would have to subsist on beets, apples and ice cream. The irony is that he probably spends less time outside the house than I do. The economy would be in ruins if only men went outside -- they are lousy shoppers for the most part and they aren't the best coffee shop customers.
- Soldiers carry guns. True. And I thank G-d that they do. I am always happy to see a young soldier on the street -- although I rarely do -- carrying a gun. I am also happy when I see them on public transit and in public places. It is precisely because of them that there isn't normally shooting on the streets. (Unfortunately this does not include the crazy vengeful mobsters who insist on occassionally fighting their personal battles on the streets of Lod and Netanya.) Without those brave young men who unfortunately do have to carry guns, this place would be overrun with Muslim fanatics in no time.
- There is so much night life in Israel that I often wonder how people get up and go to work in the morning. And not just adults. Come summer, it is not unusual to see small children sitting in cafes late at night with their parents. When my kids were little they were home in bed, but they were probably the only ones.
- And there is no room on the streets for tanks because there are too many cars in perpetual traffic jams because everyone -- men and women alike -- are going out to work or en route to doing something fun.
The point is: if you don't know what you are talking about then you have two choices. 1) shut up or 2) make it your business to find out. Oh, and then there is the third option -- my favorite. Get on a plane and come see for yourself. That's the only way to align perception and reality.
I will meet you at the airport.
It goes like this ....You arrive at the airport to meet someone who has never been to Israel before. They enter the arrivals area of Terminal 3 at Ben Gurion Airport with their eyes darting from side to side. No matter how nonchalant they are trying to look, the fact is that they are anticipating trouble. I honestly believe that at least one of my first-time-in-Israel guests was actually expecting shooting to break out in the airport at any second.
They see me and the smile as bravely as they can (but their eyes are yelling PANIC).
Skip ahead to the end of their trip. We are back in the airport and they can hardly believe that they arrived here with only the vaguest hope of ever leaving alive.
You think I am joking, but I'm not. I have calmed more than one anxious arrival promising them that they would eat their words by the end of their trip. Thank G-d, so far, I am batting 1000.
What I never really considered, however, was just how common that sentiment was. To me, it seems fairly obvious that I wouldn't uproot my family from dull, quiet, reliable Toronto to move them into a war zone. I have beliefs and principles but I do not have a death wish. And after all the work I did bringing those children into this world, I have no plans to offer them an early exit.
Earlier this evening I had the good fortune to see some video snippets from a series of US focus groups sponsored by a pro-Israel organization. Although the real objective was not really clear to the focus group participants, their answers to questions pertaining to their perceptions of Israel left me speechless.
For the records, I haven't been speechless since 1967 -- and even then, I was just trying to freak out my mother.
The focus group participants were not Jewish and none had been to Israel. They were, however, educated beyond high school. These focus groups were carried out across the US -- 62 in all -- in 2004. Remarkably the answers for all the focus groups were very consistent.
Here is how the average, post high school, non-Jew living in the United States, views Israel. They think that there is nothing here but cement and barbed wire -- oh, and a little rubble thrown in for good measure. They think that everyone is an orthodox Jewish man who would not be open to having any kind of foreigner visiting Israel. They also believe that women stay indoors and that men carry on all outdoor activity on behalf of the family. They think that Israel is overwhelmingly dangerous and that there is no life so to speak on the streets. They do believe that there are tanks everywhere.
For anyone who lives here you know how laughable that is -- well, laughable, when you aren't crying about it. And for those of you who have never been here, please bear with me while I refute a few points.
- Israel is suprisingly green. There are tons of trees. The boulevards are lined with huge palm trees that resemble the boulevards in Florida. In fact Israel is so green in the winter that I often forget that I live in the desert. Yes, there is barbed wire, but you have to drive out to the borders of the country to see it and it is there for damn good reason: to keep out the kind of scum who enter the country illegally and murder sleeping babies and their parents while they sleep. Yes, this happened last week in a small community called Itamar.
- Eighty percent of the Jewish Israeli population is secular. And of the 20% who are religious, only 25% are overtly religous looking. Israel is full of non-kosher restaurants (I don't say that happily but it is true.) You can buy pork and sea food. Israelis come from countries all around the globe and as a result, they have different skin colours and different mother tongues. The fact is that Israelis don't care all that much about ethnicity or colour -- they care if you are a Jew.
- Oh, and they love tourists. It is a mainstay of our economy and last year there were more tourists in Israel than any year in its history. We all encourage you to come and see the country for yourself.
- Now to my favorite misperception. It will be a cold day in hell before I leave my husband responsible for taking care of all of our family's out-of-the-house business. If he had to go grocery shopping we would have to subsist on beets, apples and ice cream. The irony is that he probably spends less time outside the house than I do. The economy would be in ruins if only men went outside -- they are lousy shoppers for the most part and they aren't the best coffee shop customers.
- Soldiers carry guns. True. And I thank G-d that they do. I am always happy to see a young soldier on the street -- although I rarely do -- carrying a gun. I am also happy when I see them on public transit and in public places. It is precisely because of them that there isn't normally shooting on the streets. (Unfortunately this does not include the crazy vengeful mobsters who insist on occassionally fighting their personal battles on the streets of Lod and Netanya.) Without those brave young men who unfortunately do have to carry guns, this place would be overrun with Muslim fanatics in no time.
- There is so much night life in Israel that I often wonder how people get up and go to work in the morning. And not just adults. Come summer, it is not unusual to see small children sitting in cafes late at night with their parents. When my kids were little they were home in bed, but they were probably the only ones.
- And there is no room on the streets for tanks because there are too many cars in perpetual traffic jams because everyone -- men and women alike -- are going out to work or en route to doing something fun.
The point is: if you don't know what you are talking about then you have two choices. 1) shut up or 2) make it your business to find out. Oh, and then there is the third option -- my favorite. Get on a plane and come see for yourself. That's the only way to align perception and reality.
I will meet you at the airport.
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