Through the eyes of a tourist
I wrote this about a day and a half ago, and although it is highly emotional (read: schmaltzy), I was so surprised by my overall reaction I thought I'd share.
Oh, jeez, I am not making much sense. Just read it. Or not. Whatever.
==========
It's my third - no, actually fourth - day here, in Israel, where I was born, raised, and never belonged. I used to believe it was their fault, them being Israeli society and Israelis at large. But it was as much my own for never wanting to belong, because belonging meant being a part of something that I hated, allowing dependency, losing flexibility... so much better, I thought, to be a "citizen of the world", a cosmopolitan, and also a citizen of America, the greatest nation, the only place that matters.
Oh, for the follies of youth and foibles of growing up.
I'm not entirely certain what triggered this, but ever since I went down to breakfast this morning, my emotions have been rising like a dot com in 1999. I should have realized what was going to happen when I was reading the Economist, my back to the view of Haifa bay, all the while having to reread every third sentence because my mind kept screaming at me - "turn around! look!". I was at first first bemused by the behavior of the staff, who were as nice and practical as they know how, only to keep taking away my silverware every time I went back for more of the phenomenal breakfast offerings, the unbelievably tasty vegetables, the creamy white soft cheese that easily eclipses every other in the world but can only be bought in Israel because, you know, it's just white cheese and who would want to buy it anywhere else anyway? the Bourikas, Israel's experimental and highly successful version of the Bulgarian Benitze, served right next to and mixed in with the cold hard eggs, sweet filo dough cake, and herring, creating a salty and sweet combination that is as quaint as the apparent thoughtlessness of putting them together. Yet somehow, in this country, it all makes perfect sense. This sort of schizophrenia - the knowledge that its food is fantastic coupled with a deeply bred shame about it when ostensibly compared to the food in much more admired countries and cultures - is something that is so much a part of Israeli life, it would be difficult to imagine the country without it.
And as I came to realize later in the morning, I love it. I truly, deeply, unabashedly love it.
I finished my breakfast, thanked the wait staff who so obviously did not know what to do with me, that they reverted to uncomfortable English almost on cue, even though I had spoken Hebrew to them a few minutes before. I could see their genuine confusion mixed in with an eagerness to help. They all want to help, they just don't know how to stop or rather, tell when I don't want any, missing the subtle - and often not so subtle - clues that are so important to European and American cultures. It can be irritating, but now I mostly find it charming.
I tried finding my way out to the promenade, and the host saw my apparent confusion and explained with exaggerated hand signals and perfectly reasonable but heavily accented English how to get out. I did not want to embarrass him so I stuck strictly to English as well. Having been trained for quite a few years now in the art of picking up on subtle clues (as an aside, I must my wife to think of opening a school for American integration), I could see the relief on his face when I did so, as he stole a glance at his two colleagues looking at us with interest from the side. A look that said "see? He’s an American alright".
Explanations aside, getting out meant leaving through the one main entrance, as all the rest were locked, the hotel tower being situated inside the middle of a small but important mall, and an obvious target for terrorism. It being the Sabbath, the mall was closed. I had forgotten about the implications but as I faced one locked door after another, I was overwhelmed by the bravery of these people, living as they do in the constant fear of war and terror, yet somehow manage to create and develop and expand and make a life on this tiny piece of land that is enviable by most countries' standards. And I felt a bit of the camaraderie that I never felt when I grew up here, the spirit of togetherness that is so critical to Israelis daily life, their existence. They can't live otherwise. Individualism is a great concept, if you can afford it. But this is country that is deeply wounded and constantly under threat of extinction, fighting every day for its life, and indirectly for the well-being of hundreds of millions of Europeans and Americans who could seemingly care less. For them, even if this is not so frequently admitted, it is convenient to have Israel around, to draw the ire of radical Muslims and away from their own countries. Yet Israel has to continually justify and defend itself for the mere act of trying to exist, and so it is the collective that must rule. There is simply no other way.
As I walked out the main door, I realized that in the simplest of terms, it is unfair to be an Israeli. To always take the blame for the world's problem when all you are really trying to do is survive. I grew up knowing only survival. We don't really know how to relax, in Israel. There is no room for it. You have to be alert, or your life is in danger. All the time, everywhere. Is it a wonder that Israelis fly all over the world so much?
Is it a wonder so many want to get out?
Yet somehow, in sixty short years of merely existing, Israel has shot from nothing to being a developed country; its currency is being accepted next month to the list of 17 global freely traded currencies, an indication by CLS that Israel's economy has made the switch from developing to mature. I will be able to buy and sell shekels in my local Wells Fargo branch, just as I can Euros, or Australian dollars. They did it by putting to use the Jewish fondness and insistence on education, their chutzpah, and a resourcefulness that had been developed for thousands of years for much the same reason - survival - and creating a high tech industry that rivals that of Silicon Valley. For a country that has no natural resources, fewer friends than sworn enemies, more war than peace time in its tremendously bloody history to date, this is a truly outstanding achievement. Israel - and Israelis - deserve their pride. It is well earned. Oh, and in another example of Israeli Schizophrenia, I always find it curious that a country with such an advanced tech industry, infrastructure is generally poor, and hotels still think it makes sense to charge $25 a day for Internet access.
I stepped out and walked the mostly empty street, the Sabbath still being strong in the fabric of Israeli society. Most everything shuts down on the Sabbath, not because the country is overly religious - eighty five percent consider themselves secular - but because the collective agrees that the state must retain its Jewish character, that it is essential to its long-term prospects. I used to think this was hogwash. Now I fully agree, and for no more reason than that the Sabbath allows Israelis to calm down a bit on a weekly basis. The radio stations do not blurt out hourly newscasts, the newspaper with its frightening headlines does not get printed, the television does not discuss the news for almost 24 hours, and there isn't much else to do than sit around and enjoy the relative quiet. The serenity of a Saturday morning in Israel is nothing short of amazing. I would hate to see them lose it. I hear America used to be that way on Sundays. We should try it again.
I turned the corner onto the promenade overlooking Haifa bay, and started walking slowly, inhaling the views stretching 50 miles northwards, all the way into Lebanon. It is a beautiful day today, sunny and warm, with just the right amount of wind to stop the air from getting too hot. The deep blue sea was gently rolling, the waves lapping Haifa's beach, where I could see a few people strolling from afar. Everything was quiet; quiet in that unusual way that you can't really find inside of an American city, even at three in the morning. I could clearly hear a child laughing more than a half a mile away down the street, and if I strained my ears, I could make out the distant sound of waves crashing ashore.
And then, with no provocation or apparent reason, I started crying. I couldn't help it. I felt so lost. How could I have become so hostile to this place? I was privileged to be born here. It is unique. I could finally see the country through the eyes of a tourist, and understand how overwhelming it could be, as layers of history screamed at me from everywhere. The eclectic mix of old buildings and new, put together with the careless care of Israelis who just try to figure out how to make something work without a lot of long-term planning, because no one has time to plan for a future that is so uncertain. In my last exhibit of Israeli schizophrenia, the culture combines this short-term thinking with a high aversion to risk on a personal level, with a deep hatred of debt and a high savings rate. Regardless, somehow it all works out anyway, with ingenious little solutions of roads carving impossible paths inside neighborhoods that grew organically in the truest sense of the word. It is a bit like Florence, that amazing Italian town that I love so much, except that the residents of Florence have a deep regard for their town and its history. In Haifa, it's almost maddeningly casual. They don't even realize how beautiful and special it is, a place truly like no other in the world. If Haifa were on the west coast, you couldn't buy in for less than a few million anywhere.
I kept walking, got back into the hotel, and went out to the pool. The emergency exit door was, of course, propped open, because, well, any terrorist who got the bright idea of climbing the surrounding fence to try and get into the hotel from the pool would be taken down by the Israelis sitting there before he took five steps inwards, these same Israelis who propped open the door in the first place. A tremendously courageous people are Israelis, a courage born of necessity. The hotel staff, of course, ignored it too. The sign was put there more as a show for American tourists than anything, tourists who still possess a somewhat mystical presence for many Israelis.
I took off my shoes and sat at the edge of the pool, letting my feet into the water. It took me by surprise, as the pool was not heated, even though it is a 5-star hotel. After a moment's reflection it made perfect sense, because the weather is warm here, and the water would heat up anyway in no time during the day. After a few seconds of sitting there the sense of this was made clear, as my feet cooled my body down against the sun. I was looking at the couple sitting thirty feet away feeding their young child, and I started crying again, because underneath the gruffness and, to American sensibilities, militaristic parenting style, there was a lot of love. Children grow up fast in Israel, because they have no other choice if they are to make it to the age of conscription. There is no time for niceties, or softness, or letting them develop their own selves. They need to be brought up to this intense reality, so that they can then be thrown into places like Gaza and try to maintain their sanity for at least the three years of mandatory service. And I cried because I finally understood why I could never belong, because I never went to the army, and it wasn't their fault for not accepting me afterwards. The army is truly an essential part of the fabric of this society, it is the bond of the collective soul that nourishes and ensures survival. There is no malice in it, no condescension like I used to think. It's just the way it is.
Men don't cry in Israel, and it became obvious that I was making the few folks around me uncomfortable. I got up and went back inside, and as I was making my way slowly back to the elevators to go up to my tiny "executive suite room", I heard the unmistakable singsong of Jewish prayer. I felt inexorably drawn to it. I turned towards the sound, rounded a corner, and found myself looking at a congregation covered in prayer shawls and wearing Yarmulkes, praying for the Sabbath. I covered my head with my hand, and moved closer to listen. Jewish prayer, I suppose, must seem pretty unusual for Christian ears; it is as much about the music as it is about the words, and often you can't even make out the words as they are sung by the man leading the prayer. There is a very special rhythm to it, a cadence, and the back-and-forth movement comes naturally. It is beautiful and uplifting and sad at the same time, transcending time, encompassing as it were the many thousands of years of the Jewish history in its lilt. I had heard it many times before, of course, but this time I was greatly moved. I stood there, leaning against the wall in the corridor, taking the yarmulke offered me but otherwise refusing to step into the conference room turned into makeshift temple, tears streaming down my face as I stood and listened. It was then that I finally felt that I did belong, that these people would still accept me if I asked, that being Jewish actually meant something more than my ethnicity. I yearned to touch the Torah, something I am allowed to do as a member of the tribe of Cohen, but that would have entailed me revealing that fact, and I wished to remain as unobtrusive as I could.
As I left to head back up to my room, I was filled with more emotion than I can begin to describe. I am writing all this and yet I cannot convey anywhere near what I feel. I do admire these people, and I cannot make the distinction anymore between Jew and Israeli. I feel a little stupid, a little shameful, and more than a little in awe. I may never really belong, but I am privileged to still be a part of it. Because for all its faults - and there are many - Israel is and will forever remain like no other place on the planet.
I will never move back, it is too late for that, and there are still far too many things that irritate me enough on a regular basis. But I will certainly visit again, as a tourist, if for nothing else than to revel in the country's richness. And as a side note, I think I finally discovered what a spiritual experience feels like.
Oh, jeez, I am not making much sense. Just read it. Or not. Whatever.
==========
It's my third - no, actually fourth - day here, in Israel, where I was born, raised, and never belonged. I used to believe it was their fault, them being Israeli society and Israelis at large. But it was as much my own for never wanting to belong, because belonging meant being a part of something that I hated, allowing dependency, losing flexibility... so much better, I thought, to be a "citizen of the world", a cosmopolitan, and also a citizen of America, the greatest nation, the only place that matters.
Oh, for the follies of youth and foibles of growing up.
I'm not entirely certain what triggered this, but ever since I went down to breakfast this morning, my emotions have been rising like a dot com in 1999. I should have realized what was going to happen when I was reading the Economist, my back to the view of Haifa bay, all the while having to reread every third sentence because my mind kept screaming at me - "turn around! look!". I was at first first bemused by the behavior of the staff, who were as nice and practical as they know how, only to keep taking away my silverware every time I went back for more of the phenomenal breakfast offerings, the unbelievably tasty vegetables, the creamy white soft cheese that easily eclipses every other in the world but can only be bought in Israel because, you know, it's just white cheese and who would want to buy it anywhere else anyway? the Bourikas, Israel's experimental and highly successful version of the Bulgarian Benitze, served right next to and mixed in with the cold hard eggs, sweet filo dough cake, and herring, creating a salty and sweet combination that is as quaint as the apparent thoughtlessness of putting them together. Yet somehow, in this country, it all makes perfect sense. This sort of schizophrenia - the knowledge that its food is fantastic coupled with a deeply bred shame about it when ostensibly compared to the food in much more admired countries and cultures - is something that is so much a part of Israeli life, it would be difficult to imagine the country without it.
And as I came to realize later in the morning, I love it. I truly, deeply, unabashedly love it.
I finished my breakfast, thanked the wait staff who so obviously did not know what to do with me, that they reverted to uncomfortable English almost on cue, even though I had spoken Hebrew to them a few minutes before. I could see their genuine confusion mixed in with an eagerness to help. They all want to help, they just don't know how to stop or rather, tell when I don't want any, missing the subtle - and often not so subtle - clues that are so important to European and American cultures. It can be irritating, but now I mostly find it charming.
I tried finding my way out to the promenade, and the host saw my apparent confusion and explained with exaggerated hand signals and perfectly reasonable but heavily accented English how to get out. I did not want to embarrass him so I stuck strictly to English as well. Having been trained for quite a few years now in the art of picking up on subtle clues (as an aside, I must my wife to think of opening a school for American integration), I could see the relief on his face when I did so, as he stole a glance at his two colleagues looking at us with interest from the side. A look that said "see? He’s an American alright".
Explanations aside, getting out meant leaving through the one main entrance, as all the rest were locked, the hotel tower being situated inside the middle of a small but important mall, and an obvious target for terrorism. It being the Sabbath, the mall was closed. I had forgotten about the implications but as I faced one locked door after another, I was overwhelmed by the bravery of these people, living as they do in the constant fear of war and terror, yet somehow manage to create and develop and expand and make a life on this tiny piece of land that is enviable by most countries' standards. And I felt a bit of the camaraderie that I never felt when I grew up here, the spirit of togetherness that is so critical to Israelis daily life, their existence. They can't live otherwise. Individualism is a great concept, if you can afford it. But this is country that is deeply wounded and constantly under threat of extinction, fighting every day for its life, and indirectly for the well-being of hundreds of millions of Europeans and Americans who could seemingly care less. For them, even if this is not so frequently admitted, it is convenient to have Israel around, to draw the ire of radical Muslims and away from their own countries. Yet Israel has to continually justify and defend itself for the mere act of trying to exist, and so it is the collective that must rule. There is simply no other way.
As I walked out the main door, I realized that in the simplest of terms, it is unfair to be an Israeli. To always take the blame for the world's problem when all you are really trying to do is survive. I grew up knowing only survival. We don't really know how to relax, in Israel. There is no room for it. You have to be alert, or your life is in danger. All the time, everywhere. Is it a wonder that Israelis fly all over the world so much?
Is it a wonder so many want to get out?
Yet somehow, in sixty short years of merely existing, Israel has shot from nothing to being a developed country; its currency is being accepted next month to the list of 17 global freely traded currencies, an indication by CLS that Israel's economy has made the switch from developing to mature. I will be able to buy and sell shekels in my local Wells Fargo branch, just as I can Euros, or Australian dollars. They did it by putting to use the Jewish fondness and insistence on education, their chutzpah, and a resourcefulness that had been developed for thousands of years for much the same reason - survival - and creating a high tech industry that rivals that of Silicon Valley. For a country that has no natural resources, fewer friends than sworn enemies, more war than peace time in its tremendously bloody history to date, this is a truly outstanding achievement. Israel - and Israelis - deserve their pride. It is well earned. Oh, and in another example of Israeli Schizophrenia, I always find it curious that a country with such an advanced tech industry, infrastructure is generally poor, and hotels still think it makes sense to charge $25 a day for Internet access.
I stepped out and walked the mostly empty street, the Sabbath still being strong in the fabric of Israeli society. Most everything shuts down on the Sabbath, not because the country is overly religious - eighty five percent consider themselves secular - but because the collective agrees that the state must retain its Jewish character, that it is essential to its long-term prospects. I used to think this was hogwash. Now I fully agree, and for no more reason than that the Sabbath allows Israelis to calm down a bit on a weekly basis. The radio stations do not blurt out hourly newscasts, the newspaper with its frightening headlines does not get printed, the television does not discuss the news for almost 24 hours, and there isn't much else to do than sit around and enjoy the relative quiet. The serenity of a Saturday morning in Israel is nothing short of amazing. I would hate to see them lose it. I hear America used to be that way on Sundays. We should try it again.
I turned the corner onto the promenade overlooking Haifa bay, and started walking slowly, inhaling the views stretching 50 miles northwards, all the way into Lebanon. It is a beautiful day today, sunny and warm, with just the right amount of wind to stop the air from getting too hot. The deep blue sea was gently rolling, the waves lapping Haifa's beach, where I could see a few people strolling from afar. Everything was quiet; quiet in that unusual way that you can't really find inside of an American city, even at three in the morning. I could clearly hear a child laughing more than a half a mile away down the street, and if I strained my ears, I could make out the distant sound of waves crashing ashore.
And then, with no provocation or apparent reason, I started crying. I couldn't help it. I felt so lost. How could I have become so hostile to this place? I was privileged to be born here. It is unique. I could finally see the country through the eyes of a tourist, and understand how overwhelming it could be, as layers of history screamed at me from everywhere. The eclectic mix of old buildings and new, put together with the careless care of Israelis who just try to figure out how to make something work without a lot of long-term planning, because no one has time to plan for a future that is so uncertain. In my last exhibit of Israeli schizophrenia, the culture combines this short-term thinking with a high aversion to risk on a personal level, with a deep hatred of debt and a high savings rate. Regardless, somehow it all works out anyway, with ingenious little solutions of roads carving impossible paths inside neighborhoods that grew organically in the truest sense of the word. It is a bit like Florence, that amazing Italian town that I love so much, except that the residents of Florence have a deep regard for their town and its history. In Haifa, it's almost maddeningly casual. They don't even realize how beautiful and special it is, a place truly like no other in the world. If Haifa were on the west coast, you couldn't buy in for less than a few million anywhere.
I kept walking, got back into the hotel, and went out to the pool. The emergency exit door was, of course, propped open, because, well, any terrorist who got the bright idea of climbing the surrounding fence to try and get into the hotel from the pool would be taken down by the Israelis sitting there before he took five steps inwards, these same Israelis who propped open the door in the first place. A tremendously courageous people are Israelis, a courage born of necessity. The hotel staff, of course, ignored it too. The sign was put there more as a show for American tourists than anything, tourists who still possess a somewhat mystical presence for many Israelis.
I took off my shoes and sat at the edge of the pool, letting my feet into the water. It took me by surprise, as the pool was not heated, even though it is a 5-star hotel. After a moment's reflection it made perfect sense, because the weather is warm here, and the water would heat up anyway in no time during the day. After a few seconds of sitting there the sense of this was made clear, as my feet cooled my body down against the sun. I was looking at the couple sitting thirty feet away feeding their young child, and I started crying again, because underneath the gruffness and, to American sensibilities, militaristic parenting style, there was a lot of love. Children grow up fast in Israel, because they have no other choice if they are to make it to the age of conscription. There is no time for niceties, or softness, or letting them develop their own selves. They need to be brought up to this intense reality, so that they can then be thrown into places like Gaza and try to maintain their sanity for at least the three years of mandatory service. And I cried because I finally understood why I could never belong, because I never went to the army, and it wasn't their fault for not accepting me afterwards. The army is truly an essential part of the fabric of this society, it is the bond of the collective soul that nourishes and ensures survival. There is no malice in it, no condescension like I used to think. It's just the way it is.
Men don't cry in Israel, and it became obvious that I was making the few folks around me uncomfortable. I got up and went back inside, and as I was making my way slowly back to the elevators to go up to my tiny "executive suite room", I heard the unmistakable singsong of Jewish prayer. I felt inexorably drawn to it. I turned towards the sound, rounded a corner, and found myself looking at a congregation covered in prayer shawls and wearing Yarmulkes, praying for the Sabbath. I covered my head with my hand, and moved closer to listen. Jewish prayer, I suppose, must seem pretty unusual for Christian ears; it is as much about the music as it is about the words, and often you can't even make out the words as they are sung by the man leading the prayer. There is a very special rhythm to it, a cadence, and the back-and-forth movement comes naturally. It is beautiful and uplifting and sad at the same time, transcending time, encompassing as it were the many thousands of years of the Jewish history in its lilt. I had heard it many times before, of course, but this time I was greatly moved. I stood there, leaning against the wall in the corridor, taking the yarmulke offered me but otherwise refusing to step into the conference room turned into makeshift temple, tears streaming down my face as I stood and listened. It was then that I finally felt that I did belong, that these people would still accept me if I asked, that being Jewish actually meant something more than my ethnicity. I yearned to touch the Torah, something I am allowed to do as a member of the tribe of Cohen, but that would have entailed me revealing that fact, and I wished to remain as unobtrusive as I could.
As I left to head back up to my room, I was filled with more emotion than I can begin to describe. I am writing all this and yet I cannot convey anywhere near what I feel. I do admire these people, and I cannot make the distinction anymore between Jew and Israeli. I feel a little stupid, a little shameful, and more than a little in awe. I may never really belong, but I am privileged to still be a part of it. Because for all its faults - and there are many - Israel is and will forever remain like no other place on the planet.
I will never move back, it is too late for that, and there are still far too many things that irritate me enough on a regular basis. But I will certainly visit again, as a tourist, if for nothing else than to revel in the country's richness. And as a side note, I think I finally discovered what a spiritual experience feels like.
posted by Blinkered at 8:10 AM
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