I am so sorry I've neglected you! Okay so let me tell you about the bowl as promised. I made it here on kibbutz in Colin's ceramics studio. The studio was one of the first things we ulpanists discovered when we arrived almost four months ago, and it exists in exactly the way all of you want to imagine it does. There are a few cushy, worn-in chairs right outside the doorway and rickety tables to match. Bowls and pots and funky little figures made by the littler students line the walls and there's a big table covered with works in progress that takes up almost all of the central space. There's clay dust everywhere. In one back corner are the all important wheels and in the other are the even more important fridge, koomkoom (electric kettle) and coffee.
Colin is the fascinating creature that reigns over this quaint little kingdom, but he makes very little effort to govern it; everyone is welcome, the door is always unlocked and if you can't find him in the studio you can go knock on his door at home, which is about three and half minutes away.
But, after finishing his kibbutz duties as the official lawn mower of this establishment, he's very reliably in the studio every afternoon either giving a lesson or shooting the shit with John, Itamar and Andrew. Colin is almost 66.6 year old, and if you ask he'll make sure to add the .6 so he can weeze and cackle about his age being the devils number. He trimmed his wispy white hairs and substantial beard for the first time since I met him last week for a bar mitzvah, and even put on a cleaner button down and trousers. He wore the same faded, blue shorts, rolled up just once at the cuff, until it was officially winter here and he switched to a longer version of the latter.
There are two things that catch and hold your attention from the first: his distinct and immediately obvious Manchester accent and his burned, toasted, sunned, brown, leathery, elastin deficient skin. His gestures are vigorous and, when he hears you, his reactions are quick, but he moves from one place to another with care and laughter turns, more often than not, into fits of coughing. I’ve discovered a new awareness of the world, many peoples worlds, defined by ‘pre- post- or mid- cigarette’.
** I started this piece about a week ago, but hesitated to post it because Colin had a stroke before I got the chance. It was a blow. He’s currently in the hospital in Netanya, he is recovering, regaining the use of his right side and speech. We’re hoping he’ll be back home soon. **
More to come, sooner rather than later.
CHAPPY CHANNUKAH!
MERRY CHRISTMAS
SHOUT OUT TO MY TWINSIES ON THEIR B-DAY!
Love your curly haired jew friend
Thursday, December 25, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
Mishmar Hasharon - An Outline Of Sorts
Outlining Mishmar Hasharon
Today I feel rich. I can tell by the things that have collected on my bed throughout the day, my loot.
On the bed, the flowers and notebooks:
My program is called an 'ulpan' - hebrew immersion. So the schedule we 'ulpanists' follow is alternating days of class, and working various jobs within the kibbutz community. I spent the first two weeks working in the fish shop, then was switched to the garden, I had one day cleaning the ulpan building…and today was back in the fish shop. It’s a disgustingly fascinating business, really. Mishmar Hasharon has its own fish ponds, for which they are well known. Each day baskets of fish are lugged over to the shop and dumped in tanks right there behind the counter where the customers can see them. There are numbered crates stacked up, and when an order is taken it’s assigned a number by whoever’s working the counter, which is whoever happens to be standing closest. They use orange nets to catch the flipping fishies and fling ‘em into their respective crates to be de-scaled and de-finned. The crates pile up, and whenever one of the butchers is ready they yell “Ken! Mah Od! Number!’ (Yes! What else! Number!) The person at the counter yells a number back from one of his slips of paper and then the requested cut. (Imagine during Rosh Hashanah at least fifteen Israeli and Arab guys yelling back and forth over a small space, fish flicking water everywhere and twenty impatient Israeli geezers waiting in line, trying to tell them what to do, that was an adventure)
So Sydney and I watched as Achmad, Machmid, Nevo and Boaz slit open fish after fish, pulling the guts out, scrubbing the insides, sometimes taking out the bones sometimes not, slicing them up and bagging the rolly polly heads; Achmad looking over at us every twenty seconds or so to make sure we were still engrossed (key word ‘grossed’), shoot us a winning smile and say ‘mah nishmah Seeney? Mah nishmah Aliza?’ Where were we in this process? Well, gefilte fish is, believe it or not, extremely popular. So, when Nir would shout, ‘Etzem, gav, tachoon!’ we learned it meant in shorthand: ‘take out the bones, save the spine, and grind!’. A crate would slide across the tiles in our direction and we’d run the fish chunks through a grinding machine.
After a few weeks of working in the garden, weeding, pruning, collecting trash, riding on the back of the tractor (!), and Sukkot holidays I wasn’t exactly looking forward to being back in the shop, even though the guys are fun to hang out with and there’s plenty of bread and hummus for us to munch. I choose sun and sweat over smelly fish and guts any day.
But today my work started at 9 a.m. and ended before 10. There were five people working and we had maybe twenty customers total by the time I left at 3:30. I helped Nir sort the sleeping fish, by size, first thing in the morning, then watched as Machmid dumped some magical chemical in the tank that put them right back to sleep, as they had woken up and were not happy about being sorted. No joke, it was instantaneous. Have you ever seen a sleeping fish? Because before today it was not something I ever thought about fish doing, but they do!
I ground up one fish and then set up camp with my Hebrew notebooks and conjugated verbs!
But no one really had anything to do, so I got to practice speaking with Achmad, his brother Machmid, and ask their dad Farid about his family. Nir showed me pictures of his trip to South America after the army. Machmid and I had a game of backgammon (sheshpesh here). But the best part was sitting with Achmad, notebook in hand, Machmid over my shoulder, going over the English alphabet and then flipping the page so he could teach me some Arabic. Common language? Hebrew baby!
In true Middle Eastern fashion, Achmad disappeared at some point and came back with a flower, five minutes later Nir stopped by the table, picked up the same flower and re-presented it as his own gift, and then they argued dramatically about who had given it.
It was just the five of us all day, with some kibbutznik visitors, so we played up the unusual time and space we had.
I skipped outta there an hour early and picked some more flowers as I headed over to Colin’s studio.
Next
On the bed, the bowl: (not the kind you smoke out of, for those of you whose heads are in the clouds)
Today I feel rich. I can tell by the things that have collected on my bed throughout the day, my loot.
On the bed, the flowers and notebooks:
My program is called an 'ulpan' - hebrew immersion. So the schedule we 'ulpanists' follow is alternating days of class, and working various jobs within the kibbutz community. I spent the first two weeks working in the fish shop, then was switched to the garden, I had one day cleaning the ulpan building…and today was back in the fish shop. It’s a disgustingly fascinating business, really. Mishmar Hasharon has its own fish ponds, for which they are well known. Each day baskets of fish are lugged over to the shop and dumped in tanks right there behind the counter where the customers can see them. There are numbered crates stacked up, and when an order is taken it’s assigned a number by whoever’s working the counter, which is whoever happens to be standing closest. They use orange nets to catch the flipping fishies and fling ‘em into their respective crates to be de-scaled and de-finned. The crates pile up, and whenever one of the butchers is ready they yell “Ken! Mah Od! Number!’ (Yes! What else! Number!) The person at the counter yells a number back from one of his slips of paper and then the requested cut. (Imagine during Rosh Hashanah at least fifteen Israeli and Arab guys yelling back and forth over a small space, fish flicking water everywhere and twenty impatient Israeli geezers waiting in line, trying to tell them what to do, that was an adventure)
So Sydney and I watched as Achmad, Machmid, Nevo and Boaz slit open fish after fish, pulling the guts out, scrubbing the insides, sometimes taking out the bones sometimes not, slicing them up and bagging the rolly polly heads; Achmad looking over at us every twenty seconds or so to make sure we were still engrossed (key word ‘grossed’), shoot us a winning smile and say ‘mah nishmah Seeney? Mah nishmah Aliza?’ Where were we in this process? Well, gefilte fish is, believe it or not, extremely popular. So, when Nir would shout, ‘Etzem, gav, tachoon!’ we learned it meant in shorthand: ‘take out the bones, save the spine, and grind!’. A crate would slide across the tiles in our direction and we’d run the fish chunks through a grinding machine.
After a few weeks of working in the garden, weeding, pruning, collecting trash, riding on the back of the tractor (!), and Sukkot holidays I wasn’t exactly looking forward to being back in the shop, even though the guys are fun to hang out with and there’s plenty of bread and hummus for us to munch. I choose sun and sweat over smelly fish and guts any day.
But today my work started at 9 a.m. and ended before 10. There were five people working and we had maybe twenty customers total by the time I left at 3:30. I helped Nir sort the sleeping fish, by size, first thing in the morning, then watched as Machmid dumped some magical chemical in the tank that put them right back to sleep, as they had woken up and were not happy about being sorted. No joke, it was instantaneous. Have you ever seen a sleeping fish? Because before today it was not something I ever thought about fish doing, but they do!
I ground up one fish and then set up camp with my Hebrew notebooks and conjugated verbs!
But no one really had anything to do, so I got to practice speaking with Achmad, his brother Machmid, and ask their dad Farid about his family. Nir showed me pictures of his trip to South America after the army. Machmid and I had a game of backgammon (sheshpesh here). But the best part was sitting with Achmad, notebook in hand, Machmid over my shoulder, going over the English alphabet and then flipping the page so he could teach me some Arabic. Common language? Hebrew baby!
In true Middle Eastern fashion, Achmad disappeared at some point and came back with a flower, five minutes later Nir stopped by the table, picked up the same flower and re-presented it as his own gift, and then they argued dramatically about who had given it.
It was just the five of us all day, with some kibbutznik visitors, so we played up the unusual time and space we had.
I skipped outta there an hour early and picked some more flowers as I headed over to Colin’s studio.
Next
On the bed, the bowl: (not the kind you smoke out of, for those of you whose heads are in the clouds)
Monday, October 13, 2008
Yom Kippur
October 9, 2008
Yes, I'm typing on Yom Kippur. What can I say? The competition for computer time diminished so suddenly that I couldn't help myself. It is an important holiday though. Even in the Mishmar Hasharon Bubble the atmoshpere has felt different since the fast started after dinner at 4:00 p.m. today. After our exceptionally early dinner (lunch was at 12:30...ugh), small groups of people made their way through the kibbutz to the back gate that separates us from the moshav directly behind us, Kfar Chaim. (a moshav is a sort of closed community, I'm not sure exactly what defines it, yet)
The synagogue that most kibbutznikim (members of the kibbutz) attend is more conservative than what I'm used to: we women squished into our space separate from the men, behind the mechitzah (the curtain or barrier that marks the separation), everyone in long pants or skirts and covered shoulders. Throughout the service various older women would reach over my, and my friend Miriam's, shoulders to flip the pages of our prayer book and direct our attention to the correct spot. It was an Ashkenazi service and therefore more familiar to me than some of my Sephardi friends, but almost none of the tunes and rhythms were familiar, especially when the congregation would start a phrase in sync with the rabbi, strong and spirited, and then suddenly drop into a chorus of incomprehensible mumbling, everyone finishing the prayer at their own speed. Couldn't quite catch on to that part.
I contented myself instead by looking around at all the interesting faces and outfits, as the service progressed I realized that more and more people had gathered outide the small temple (there were about twenty women actually inside the building) and were sitting facing the open windows and doors, but clearly socializing. I was also considering how, based on this service, I could explain to one of my fellow ulpanists why, as a girl who grew up with reform jewish traditions, it feels belittling and at times demeaning to experience a service from behind a mechitzah. It definitely has something to do with the fact that at five and a half feet tall, I could see only the rabbi's head, the top of the ark doors, and a fuzzy version of the rabbi's face through the curtain as he delivered his sermon. Miriam's about Michelle's height (debatably five or five one:), and probably couldn't see anything.
Miriam and I headed back to our rooms and changed into our usual comfy-kibbutz-no-one-to-impress clothing, grabbed some shekels, and moseyed down to the gas station just in case it was open and we could pick up some chocolate to complete our planned feast: pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds and...chocolate. But of course it wasn't open! Nothing is open on Yom Kippur. There are no cars on the roads, except the occasional patrolling police car, but other than that this is a bicycle holiday. Groups of local high shcool kids and some families were cruising around on their bikes ten minutes after the service, and tomorrow bikers will be gathering all over the country. We wandered down the center of the highway for a bit, just because we could, and then came back to ulpan to find all of the fasters wrapped up in an uncharacteristically innocent game of Monopoly. It's amazing to walk down an empty road and imagine that most of this entire country is quieter today.
The vibes around here started to shift even before the fast began. Hebrew class starts at 7:30 every other day, and usually our teacher, Orna, will mercifully decide to talk to us during that first hour before breakfast, instead of jumping right in with worksheets and questions. This past Monday she spent that time conveying the circumstances that led to the Yom Kippur War in 1973, a month after she had officially begun her army service at 18 years old. As a new soldier, she was given a list of names of soldiers who had been killed, and her job was to inform people as they called into her base whether or not their son/daughter/cousin/brother/sister etc. was alive. She told us this as a way to illustrate why this war was so traumatizing overall and has had such a significant and long lasting effect on Israel's mentality and attitude. In Israel, even with a detatched or non religious approach, it's impossible to avoid the stories and memories that emerge on days like today.
Gmar Chatimah Tovah
Az
Yes, I'm typing on Yom Kippur. What can I say? The competition for computer time diminished so suddenly that I couldn't help myself. It is an important holiday though. Even in the Mishmar Hasharon Bubble the atmoshpere has felt different since the fast started after dinner at 4:00 p.m. today. After our exceptionally early dinner (lunch was at 12:30...ugh), small groups of people made their way through the kibbutz to the back gate that separates us from the moshav directly behind us, Kfar Chaim. (a moshav is a sort of closed community, I'm not sure exactly what defines it, yet)
The synagogue that most kibbutznikim (members of the kibbutz) attend is more conservative than what I'm used to: we women squished into our space separate from the men, behind the mechitzah (the curtain or barrier that marks the separation), everyone in long pants or skirts and covered shoulders. Throughout the service various older women would reach over my, and my friend Miriam's, shoulders to flip the pages of our prayer book and direct our attention to the correct spot. It was an Ashkenazi service and therefore more familiar to me than some of my Sephardi friends, but almost none of the tunes and rhythms were familiar, especially when the congregation would start a phrase in sync with the rabbi, strong and spirited, and then suddenly drop into a chorus of incomprehensible mumbling, everyone finishing the prayer at their own speed. Couldn't quite catch on to that part.
I contented myself instead by looking around at all the interesting faces and outfits, as the service progressed I realized that more and more people had gathered outide the small temple (there were about twenty women actually inside the building) and were sitting facing the open windows and doors, but clearly socializing. I was also considering how, based on this service, I could explain to one of my fellow ulpanists why, as a girl who grew up with reform jewish traditions, it feels belittling and at times demeaning to experience a service from behind a mechitzah. It definitely has something to do with the fact that at five and a half feet tall, I could see only the rabbi's head, the top of the ark doors, and a fuzzy version of the rabbi's face through the curtain as he delivered his sermon. Miriam's about Michelle's height (debatably five or five one:), and probably couldn't see anything.
Miriam and I headed back to our rooms and changed into our usual comfy-kibbutz-no-one-to-impress clothing, grabbed some shekels, and moseyed down to the gas station just in case it was open and we could pick up some chocolate to complete our planned feast: pumpkin seeds, sunflower seeds and...chocolate. But of course it wasn't open! Nothing is open on Yom Kippur. There are no cars on the roads, except the occasional patrolling police car, but other than that this is a bicycle holiday. Groups of local high shcool kids and some families were cruising around on their bikes ten minutes after the service, and tomorrow bikers will be gathering all over the country. We wandered down the center of the highway for a bit, just because we could, and then came back to ulpan to find all of the fasters wrapped up in an uncharacteristically innocent game of Monopoly. It's amazing to walk down an empty road and imagine that most of this entire country is quieter today.
The vibes around here started to shift even before the fast began. Hebrew class starts at 7:30 every other day, and usually our teacher, Orna, will mercifully decide to talk to us during that first hour before breakfast, instead of jumping right in with worksheets and questions. This past Monday she spent that time conveying the circumstances that led to the Yom Kippur War in 1973, a month after she had officially begun her army service at 18 years old. As a new soldier, she was given a list of names of soldiers who had been killed, and her job was to inform people as they called into her base whether or not their son/daughter/cousin/brother/sister etc. was alive. She told us this as a way to illustrate why this war was so traumatizing overall and has had such a significant and long lasting effect on Israel's mentality and attitude. In Israel, even with a detatched or non religious approach, it's impossible to avoid the stories and memories that emerge on days like today.
Gmar Chatimah Tovah
Az
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Update #2
Seprtember 16
Yom Shleeshy
It does take some effort to transport myself back in time two weeks. I am currently sitting in the moadon (lounge area) of our building on kibbutz. Ugly Betty is blaring and people are walking in and out to get food from the fridge, but it's the only room we get internet.Backflash: Guy picked me up at the airport, we caught a train...and the rest is a blur! We stayed with Guy's childhood best friend Alon, and his very hospitable parents Ilana and Ze'ev. Alon just started his basic training in the army, Ze'ev is a goofy, wonderful, engineer, and Ilana is a very well known figure in the Israeli world of education, she's currently the principal of a school in Hadera, a town right nearby my very own kibbutz.
I spent that week taking naps, making nice and trying to follow all of the conversations going on around me. Guy was a great sport, he dragged me out of the house and into the city to wander around the artist's shuk (market), the main shuk, up Rothschild Street and Ben Yehuda Street as well. Keeping a running dialogue about the history or different areas and the best palces to get food - my own personal tour guide. He also kept watch while I napped on the bus. Inbound and outbound.I also learned a lot about Guy's old neighborhood. From Ilana and Ze'ev's backyard you can see the school that Guy used to attend, about 300 yards away. The little neighborhood of Gan Rashal is like a rural bubble the way it involves itself with itself, the way it gossips and maintains an edgy quaint feel. We spent one whole day helping Estie and Dror (Guy's parentals) unpack box after box into their new apartment closer to Tel Aviv's center, but the next night we were right back in the Gan Rashal spirit. Moshik and Ana got married! Of course the entire neighborhood was invited, to the same place his brother got married last summer, probably the same DJ? Same caterer? Why fix something that's not broken right?
The ceremony was done by the same ridiclous little rabbi. 5"5', big white beard, sparkly eyes, wise words, happy blessings, chip chop, he had to get home for shabbat. (Apparently he said that the ritual of a bride-to-be visting the Western Wall before the wedding is so that she can get used to talking to a wall) I wandered around, smiling politely to people who of course alreadt knew who I was, though I had never met them. Estie kept me by her side until I knew some faces, and then it was a schmooz-a-palooza. But here's the best part: Israeli's dancing? It's all eighties music that none of have heard, but they know all the words to, sort of. All the youngins and all the geezers dance together, and it's all in the shoulders. I must say though, that Ze'ev and Dror were the best twirlers and can-can partners. Outside the 'Old Neighborhood' residents naturally convened at one table and exchanged stories about where they were living now, or who's children were dating, who had died, who couldn't show up, etc. It was like watching a play, the way everyone simply fell into their roles. I left Gan Rashal feeling like I could return anytime, I have an invisible ID card, that's been stored in the collective rolodex of the neighbors. Hey, in this country if you know one person, you have a couch to sleep on in every city.
Yom Shleeshy
It does take some effort to transport myself back in time two weeks. I am currently sitting in the moadon (lounge area) of our building on kibbutz. Ugly Betty is blaring and people are walking in and out to get food from the fridge, but it's the only room we get internet.Backflash: Guy picked me up at the airport, we caught a train...and the rest is a blur! We stayed with Guy's childhood best friend Alon, and his very hospitable parents Ilana and Ze'ev. Alon just started his basic training in the army, Ze'ev is a goofy, wonderful, engineer, and Ilana is a very well known figure in the Israeli world of education, she's currently the principal of a school in Hadera, a town right nearby my very own kibbutz.
I spent that week taking naps, making nice and trying to follow all of the conversations going on around me. Guy was a great sport, he dragged me out of the house and into the city to wander around the artist's shuk (market), the main shuk, up Rothschild Street and Ben Yehuda Street as well. Keeping a running dialogue about the history or different areas and the best palces to get food - my own personal tour guide. He also kept watch while I napped on the bus. Inbound and outbound.I also learned a lot about Guy's old neighborhood. From Ilana and Ze'ev's backyard you can see the school that Guy used to attend, about 300 yards away. The little neighborhood of Gan Rashal is like a rural bubble the way it involves itself with itself, the way it gossips and maintains an edgy quaint feel. We spent one whole day helping Estie and Dror (Guy's parentals) unpack box after box into their new apartment closer to Tel Aviv's center, but the next night we were right back in the Gan Rashal spirit. Moshik and Ana got married! Of course the entire neighborhood was invited, to the same place his brother got married last summer, probably the same DJ? Same caterer? Why fix something that's not broken right?
The ceremony was done by the same ridiclous little rabbi. 5"5', big white beard, sparkly eyes, wise words, happy blessings, chip chop, he had to get home for shabbat. (Apparently he said that the ritual of a bride-to-be visting the Western Wall before the wedding is so that she can get used to talking to a wall) I wandered around, smiling politely to people who of course alreadt knew who I was, though I had never met them. Estie kept me by her side until I knew some faces, and then it was a schmooz-a-palooza. But here's the best part: Israeli's dancing? It's all eighties music that none of have heard, but they know all the words to, sort of. All the youngins and all the geezers dance together, and it's all in the shoulders. I must say though, that Ze'ev and Dror were the best twirlers and can-can partners. Outside the 'Old Neighborhood' residents naturally convened at one table and exchanged stories about where they were living now, or who's children were dating, who had died, who couldn't show up, etc. It was like watching a play, the way everyone simply fell into their roles. I left Gan Rashal feeling like I could return anytime, I have an invisible ID card, that's been stored in the collective rolodex of the neighbors. Hey, in this country if you know one person, you have a couch to sleep on in every city.
Update #1
September 6, 2008
Yom Shabbat
Boston to London: I secured a window seat for myself, close to the bathroom as well, but was unexpectedly fortunate to be seated beside an old British traveller as well. There is nowhere this man has not been. He left England and didn't return until this past year for his retirement. He lived with his wife and young daughter on an island in the Indian Ocean for three years, Swaziland for six years, China for five years...the list goes on. And he was perfectly delighted to recount one story after another and the lessons he's learned until we reached our destination, where he gave me a kiss on the cheek and his e-mail address.
I left Matthew to wait for his wife and wandered into Heathrow airport at 5 a.m. There were four or five other people in Terminal 4, which feels exactly like a mall after hours, until people start showing up and it starts to buzz with sleepy foreign accents.The flight to Israel was filled with Orthodox Jews, young children, and one boring, snoring, Australian to my right. The juxtaposition after ten hours surrounded by polite Brits was striking.So Guy met me at the airport and we shoved our way through crowds of excited, irritable, loud Israelis to the train. It was on the train that I discovered a few of my siblings had conspired and taken over my ipod while I'd been packing. Ya'ara and Ilan's original choreography to T-Pain's 'Church' with snippets of Anis Mojgnai interspersed (and a few of my other favoritest people:). Besides the peanut butter and chocolate chips my mom hid in my pack, what else could I need to survive abroad?
Yom Shabbat
Boston to London: I secured a window seat for myself, close to the bathroom as well, but was unexpectedly fortunate to be seated beside an old British traveller as well. There is nowhere this man has not been. He left England and didn't return until this past year for his retirement. He lived with his wife and young daughter on an island in the Indian Ocean for three years, Swaziland for six years, China for five years...the list goes on. And he was perfectly delighted to recount one story after another and the lessons he's learned until we reached our destination, where he gave me a kiss on the cheek and his e-mail address.
I left Matthew to wait for his wife and wandered into Heathrow airport at 5 a.m. There were four or five other people in Terminal 4, which feels exactly like a mall after hours, until people start showing up and it starts to buzz with sleepy foreign accents.The flight to Israel was filled with Orthodox Jews, young children, and one boring, snoring, Australian to my right. The juxtaposition after ten hours surrounded by polite Brits was striking.So Guy met me at the airport and we shoved our way through crowds of excited, irritable, loud Israelis to the train. It was on the train that I discovered a few of my siblings had conspired and taken over my ipod while I'd been packing. Ya'ara and Ilan's original choreography to T-Pain's 'Church' with snippets of Anis Mojgnai interspersed (and a few of my other favoritest people:). Besides the peanut butter and chocolate chips my mom hid in my pack, what else could I need to survive abroad?
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