Musings on the Mount

On the balcony of our rented, Jerusalem apartment, the Israeli, November sun is playing peek-a-boo through the carob trees. It's a different sun than in the US. My eyes don't squint. Oh, no. Here, they are wide open - the better to see with.

The red roofs host a slew of water heaters, congregants forming their own Temple minyan, a tribute to the elusive Hot Water God, to whom, like all other deities, you've got to turn to or, in this case, to turn on, otherwise you will be praying mightily in the shower.

Of what shall I tell you of this journey? How can I bring you here with me so I really could feel less fractured? Maybe it’s just a human feeling, the pangs of separation we feel once our umbilical cord has been severed, though sometimes it feels more like an occurrence after a natural, albeit dramtic, event, more like being dislocated, like a bone sticking out at a skewed angle, or an uprooted tree after a hurricane, forever on its side or upside down, roots to the sky, face to the dirt? Either way, it could just be a ten-year-old’s perspective after leaving her country.

After snorkeling in the Sea or Reeds amidst a fantastic Aquarian kleideoscope, we venture North through the Negev, an arid plateau surrounded by the bullish Mastiffs, the Judean mountains. Standing on top of Masada, the formidable fortress that held over 900 Jewish men, women and children who collectively decided that committing suicide was preferable to living under Roman slavery, I watched the Dead Sea meander soundlessly, leaving rich salt deposits, receding rapidly, as if taking a bow after a great show. It is. Masada is the Modus operandi for the Jews, "They will not take us alive"- our motto. There has got to be a more hopeful or relaxed way to live.

There are bastions of notices. I've noticed that Israelis aren't so quick to smile or say hello. One could assume that they are a closed, distrusting, unfriendly tribe, but that would be quite a mistake, because as soon as I offer a relational exchange, they stop, a bit taken back, and open so widely, like the Sea of Reeds. The generosity and profound giving that ensue continually astonish me. For instance, I walked into a small falafel/hummus restaurant and handing my enormous salad bowl, I asked the young Arab-Israeli worker if I could have some fried eggplant. Usually, this eggplant is only served as a side to a main dish. He said that he really couldn’t give me very much. I asked him to give me as much as he could and charge me whatever he liked. I then asked for his name and told him how much I appreciated his willingness to help me. I also invited him to visit the US. He kept filling my vat and then, when I inquired about the price, he smiled and answered “Achla”, enjoy, to your health, on the house. I was stunned. How did this falafel vendor mirror my all-or-nothing attitude so pointedly? I have tried to adopt a “Just Enough” stance in my quest for a more balanced life, but this interaction really shed a whole new light on how I was raised, and gave a poignant perspective on the all-or-nothing occupied territories conflict.

Another thing I noticed is that cultural diversity does not feel the pressure to assimilate into a melting pot and often co-habitates peacefully. There seems to be enough room for Borscht, Malabi and Schnitzel. At the Dead Sea, a bare-chested Nigerian woman was laughing as she smeared black, therapeutic mud on herself. Next to her stood a fully dressed, religious woman donning a wig, as per Orthodox custom, chatting in Yiddish, while young, red-lipsticked Russian women floated nearby on the salty water, their thongs covering absolutely nothing. Old Mother Russia would have crimsoned - as varied as the fish of the Red sea.

There is little personal space here and this lack is even more apparent in the shuk. Pyramids of cascading, purple eggplant, blushing tomatoes, and slender cucumbers nestle against massive barrels of shiny, black, brown and green olives. If you’ve ever experienced some children, or adults, scream for attention, you should hear the produce! Even the air gets conquered by the vying aromas of deep-fried Sufganiot (Hanukkah donuts), freshly baked pitot and honey-drenched kanafe, a middle Eastern pastry. There is such an incredible cornucopia of foods that I am baffled as to why most of my people are not profoundly rotund?

And as I stroll taking all this in, my beloved turns to me and says that she really could see herself living here. What is it about these ancestral Germans and the Holy Land? It seems there is a magnetic pull that tugs at the hearts of these unsuspecting visitors. Karmic healing? I don’t know, but if you might want to experience this for yourself, remember I’ll be right there with you, in the air, in the small spaces, willing to give more than you expect, especially if you don’t give up and insist on reaching a connection.

Be-Longing

On the way to the Dead Sea and Masada, we stopped for the night at a place, a cross between a Bedouin tent and Burningman. This morning, beautiful classical guitar is playing in the background, though last night it was techno-Arab-rave. The acacia trees host a myriad of birds, feral cats march into the kitchen and communicate their desires adamantly, the flies cover the dogs who lie snoring on mattresses in the communal tent. Last night, rain pitter-pattered on the roof, as the boys played 500 Rumi, I looked at a Nargila, the infamous Middle-Eastern water pipe, listening to any whisper of wild stories it might hold. Soft, amber light wrapped the divans, the rugs, the easy chairs, the fire pit, in a lazy, rich, calming hue. I sipped my Turkish coffee nursing my injury. Earlier in the day, my son had climbed an inviting hill so he could view the Judean mountains in Jordan. I was scurrying below him when rocks dislodged and came tumbling down, hitting me in the thigh and welting my finger blue-purple. Rachel made me go to the car and cry. I remembered that I had hardly ever cried in Israel over any hurts - apparently the training for a good soldier-so I indulged her and let out tears from an old well swell. I thought it had dried, like the arid terrain surrounding me. Any rain is welcomed here. But crying connected me to my grief, to the place of belonging and not belonging; to two Universes, two planets, opposing countries, fraternal cultures. There was a loneliness, a sense of disconnectedness, of being lost, like my people had been once, in the desert. How apt. So today, I sit amongst the cornucopia of longings, of not-knowings, of wanderings in the land of what-ifs what-nows and try to breathe in the Negev we so desperately cling to, no matter how desolate.

Are we here yet?

Although we’ve landed here five days ago, it seems that I have yet to arrive. It’s curious. I’ve reconnected to my Hebrew, my family says I use my body to expressively communicate in ways that I don’t do in English. I’ve visited my beloved, complicated, decrepit, old, crumbly house and bomb shelter and my now-fenced-in elementary school. I’ve lived vicariously through my kids as they’ve had Shoko, the cold milk chocolate I had drunk as a kid from a plastic bag, and have devoured the mounds of the candy of my youth. I’ve seen and engaged with old friends and neighbors, whom I have not seen in 17 years, but I feel, well, not so much. I just thought that it would be more intense, that I would feel a plethora, a swelling, of emotions. After all, this is Israel, right? The land of intense and tense people, where food, words, politics, religion and driving are over the top, isn’t it?

Contrary to my popular belief, people are actually pretty mellow. Not many people are leaning on their car’s horn as if they’ve just had a heart attack. It’s pretty quiet everywhere, even in the middle of Tel Aviv. Really. People have been friendly, helpful and, dare I say, relaxed. Is it I who has changed? Have I been trying to uphold the illusion that Northern California is relaxed? I know, I’m on vacation, but still, to see that one of the most garrulous places on Planet Earth is chillaxed, as my kids would say, gives one pause, no?

One of my kids, who is decidedly un-relaxed at home, the one who didn’t even want to come here, and who anticipated the beginning of WWIII being in a car with his parents for two weeks, has been gobbling mounds of hummus with zaatar, pinenuts and tahini with fluffy, hot pita and has informed me that he is not going back. He loves it here. He wants to stay amongst the Bedouin of a tiny village called Lakiya in the Negev and hang. He is cognizant that it would be challenging to live there without basic services, living in an unrecognized, i.e. unsupported, part of Israel, but something has shifted in him. He wants to do a Gap year there! He says that it would give quite the perspective of living without the services we take for granted in the US. This is from the guy who consistently makes fun of me for my gratitude practice. He misses his friends, but now is wondering how to gather all of them and go on an extended trip together. That’s my boy, gathering communities to experience the world relationally. Whoa! It’s so funny. People here who know that he is not biologically my son, are dumbfounded at how alike we are in looks, temperament, expressions. The Universe sure does work in mysterious ways and I am rather mystified today.

Is this my country?

After the bumpiest flight to the other side of the world, where I rapidly became an ultra-orthodox Jew praying mightily to just get to the Holy Land in one piece, we arrived to a beautifully warm, lazy Saturday morning in Tel Aviv. I didn't get teary-eyed. I didn't burst into the national anthem. I didn't kiss the ground. I felt a little foreign. A stranger in a strange land. Where was the excitement, the nerves, the heart palpitations for a country I had left with so many unresolved memories? Not quite yet present, apparently. Where were the bronze, rugged soldiers with their dangling Uzis? Where were the long lines of weary travelers being questioned by stern-faced security interceptors? Apparently, those weren't here either. The Israel I knew must have dissolved into the sands or receded along with the Mediterranean. Meanwhile, the enormous date palms batted their heavy-lidded branches coyly. The signature 90-degree cranes stood, towering over half built, erections, at attention.

We dropped our luggage at the hotel and headed to the beach in an attempt to keep our teens awake and battle the time change. I saw Plumbago, the same flower that had gazed upon me with azure eyes when I was a third-grader and getting paid with fudgesicles for favors I did for sixteen year old Arab boys. We saw feral cats, who didn't look so scrawny now, begging for some love.

As we reached the beach, a familiar, visceral, awaking occurred in my nostrils, the indelible scent of fried sea - salty air mixed with falafel and chips (a.k.a french fries). I was mesmerized and seduced as other delicacies joined in a rambunctious, cacophonous tugging that had coupled with my early longings, reminding me how I had those, temporarily requited by an insatiable wolfing. My brain went into what it thought was a rational monologue about how there are many ways to sustain weight loss and surely some people could have just a plate of hummus, and garbanzo beans sure are healthy, and if I measured the portion, couldn't I just have some? As if this was about weight loss...As if hummus was a contender as my favorite food...As if the possibility of losing my community, my sponsor, my life was just a tiny, inconsequential decision.

Yikes!

I picked up the phone and dialed a fellow, Israeli woman who does what I was doing with my food. Good to know this mantra was drilled into me, even menopause couldn't obfuscate it - Going it alone is never an option. She assured me that this wasn't the first time I had felt this way. It had probably happened in places like New York, the other Jewish city. It had. I had survived that. She reminded me that it will take a few days, but that I will get through it and it will dissipate. It was good to know that I had a lifeline, a preserver to hang onto anywhere in the world. OK, I could now move towards the Shuk, with my family, my innards intact.

There, amidst barrels of shiny olives, freshly-baked oval, sesame breads, pomegranates the size of inflated softballs spilling rubies, I moved into my role as a food-pusher, wanting to stuff my family with all my once-favorite things. I noticed how insistent I had become at having them savor what I could not.

I ingested the vibrant palette of bashful, engine-red tomatoes, the heady fragrance of variegated melon and soft-yellow guavas, the piles of fat, pink radishes, the snowiness of lamb-y goat-y cheeses, the erotic, spread-eagle, purple figs by clicking my shutter, gulp after gulp.

Thank goodness there are many ways to experience abundance.

My son, who never wants to leave home and who had complained about being in a foreign country where no one speaks English (wtf?) told me he was in love with this city and can he please move here? He loved the incessant movement, the crumbling, ancient-ruins-meets-Bauhaus architecture, the people out in cafes at night. I was truly shocked and pleased. This is my country. My son loves my country. There was something that resonated for him. Something that has pulled me back. Something that still, on day two, seems surreal and untethered is touching, reeling us both in ways I have yet to comprehend. I can't wait to see what happens when we actually get to my birth city, Haifa.

HOME

Following my aptly named ancestors, a wandering Jew I’ve been. My family left Israel in 1976. I was ten, full of trepidation, excitement and a belief that God was on our side. I’m 45, and the rest is pretty much, still the same, except that I now believe God is on everyone’s side and the trip is in reverse. I am returning to the sands of the Mediterranean, which still try to encroach the entrance to the hospital where I had my first peek.

It has been 17 years since I set foot on that arid, irrigated, sacred, bloodied terrain. I have been very busy crisscrossing the US, creating a tapestry of homes, seeking community, a place for my heart to belong. And it did, at times. But there was always a place, unfettered, untouched, inaccessible to assimilation, to America, to this early, foreign invasion. That spot is where I have gone at times of terror, of deep yearning, for familiarity, for belonging.

In two weeks, I am returning to my home, my people, my place of complicated relations, the one that shaped me, the one that has held me no matter how far I distanced my self from it.

I imagine that everything is different, for the both of us. I cannot fathom how Israel has grown, spread without apology, invented and rose and civilized and uncivilized. I know the roads on which I had travelled and I know them not at all in the more recent landscape. I know there are new roads splitting Arab communities like red, raw, weeping watermelons spitting families, like seeds, aside, without care. We will drive on those roads so that we all can witness how cruelty festers in mistrust, and how it is our responsibility to find a solution. Now.

And I know the tremendous changes that have occurred in me since my last trip. This time my family constellation consists of my female partner and our two man-cub thirteen year olds. They actually expect me to know how to navigate in a land where I never drove, where I now stammer in the language, rusty from a profound lack of use for nearly 35 years. Although I am no longer accustomed to guns and shoving and yelling and smoking, I know that those are integral to Israeli culture and will greet me, assaulting. I know my family has no idea what they will encounter. I dare to consider that my fears will be met with joy, beauty and unexpected connections. People, who look like me, will mirror al our beauty, harshness, kindness, passion, racism. I know that I may taste grief and heartache and that I will no longer avoid my guts by burying them in cold bags of chocolate milk, in pyramid-high falafel, in iced coffee brimming with ice cream, in succulent corn from the large steaming kettle on street corners. I don’t use food like that anymore, but that is how I survived all that I had to in Israel. And I wonder what it will be like to be surrounded with comforting delicacies and uncomfortable memories and over-stimulation of everything life in my primary core has to offer, but have it served up exponentially.

Shall I take them to my old apartment complex, the slums of my township, to watch the big, frightening and frightened cockroaches scatter like the a Passover plague, when one lifts the communal trash bin lids? What will they say when they see the scrawny, scraggly, feral felines copulating everywhere, nary a neutered one in sight? Will they cherish a fudgesicle like I did, in exchanging for sexual favors at the age of 8? It’s hard even to write that sentence in relation to my children who are five years older than I was when that happened.

But it is a vacation, after all. And I really do want all of us to be able to relax, and soak up some sun on the Tel Aviv beach and snorkel in Eilat, and touch our lips to the Wailing Wall and know that we are very much alive, very much here, together, right now and thank for another day of feeling full and pray for another day of being present.