Tel Zaharah 2007

Erin bugged me to write something in my blog because it really has been so long, so here goes. After the last six months in the army, its finally come time for my first vacation week. Every four months, every soldier is entitled to a week off, and I suspect most spend it at home sleeping. Since I recently signed up to be in the army for at least a couple more years (more about that later), I had to fit my usual summer pursuit, archeological excavation, into a week instead of a couple months as I had originally planned. Today is the first day at Tel Zaharah 2007, which will one day translate into another T-shirt in my growing collection. I have always heard that the sign of a true Israeli is the large and varied ripped, stained and stretched T-shirt collection one amasses over the span of camp, army, or this and that. It sometimes seem that you can get a T-shirt for anything, I guess in a way it’s a lot like boy scout badges for tying your laces and walking across the street.

All in all, the dig was a lot of fun, but I spent way to little time out in the sun this summer...

Passover Army Update

It’s been a long while since I last wrote anything; I seem to remember always being a lot less tired, and having a lot more energy to write things down. It seems that these days I spend most of my free time passing out, counting the hours till I have to get up again and go back at it. Memories get turned into a grey blur, if it was not for my journal, I would start forgetting most of it. That being said, I think the last few months have generally been an amazing experience, and I am sure I will get all the stories down eventually.

I have been enjoying my Passover miracle, I was meant to get one day of vacation, and somehow it turned into nine whole days of being off. I don’t know how it happened, but as the first real vacation I have had in the army, I am really enjoying it, matza or no matza.

After leaving basic training twenty or so pounds lighter and slightly more clued in to the Israeli mentality. It turns out that a contributing factor to all the laid back hippy elements in Israeli society stem from cultural rebellion to having repressed those few years while serving in the army. Judging by the guys coming in for reserve duty a few years after their service, most leave the daily shave and frequent haircut far behind them.

I was temporarily assigned to a base near Gaza to wait the two months until my course opened. We were offered a number of courses, and not really knowing if there was an advantage to being a truck driver over something else, I picked chemical warfare. It sounded interesting, and in the worst case scenario, at least we would have our space suits.

After meeting several people on my temporary base and interviewing with a number of officers, I sort of fell into the role of army chaplain. I found it to be a great job which helped me learn a lot about the army, and interact with soldiers from all over the army.

I decided to stay on the base and take a course from the Rabbinate instead, so I will now be there till the end of my service, which should be early this summer.

More when my brain works again.

Savlanut

One of the first things olim (new immigrants) learn upon arriving in Israel is how to cope with Israeli bureaucracy. You would think that having better customer service, longer hours of operation and helpful clerks would actually make the companies/government more money and make life easier for everyone. If that’s what you thought, you would be completely wrong and still living in the “North American head space”. It may seem like a foreign concept to wait in endless lines, initial and sign hundreds of mystery documents, and receive mail with no apparent purpose other than the bank or power company wanting to be in touch. That’s more or less just the way Israel works, fighting the system or trying to change it is usually frustrating and pointless.

Many new immigrants assume these are all just things they don’t understand, and with time they will figure the system out. The only problem is most Israelis have no idea what any of these things mean either, but they do know how to work the system. Dealing with everything from the government to the post office and the banks is like trying to roll a huge boulder uphill while people on the sidelines shout directions at you in a language you can’t understand. Being truly Israeli is a matter of creating balance, a cultural feng shui. There must be a careful balance between two concepts, savlanut and being atzbani.

Savlanut is the concept of patience, taking a deep breath, and not getting frustrated when you realize the bank is only open for three hours on Tuesdays. Savlanut is the reason why we don’t have drive by shootings, people killing each other while waiting in line, and endless public brawling. I guess it also helps you have to check your gun when you visit most government offices and beer is sold in corner stores. I once asked at the Jerusalem DMV why you have to check in your gun before standing in line to wait you turn to argue with the unhelpful clerk. She just stared at me and asked “don’t you think it just makes sense?” It seems that utilizing savlanut is extremely important to get through the day and to deal with the million and one hassles that someone from North America just can’t understand. Why does the tax office think everything you import in your lift contain bottles of single malt scotch and cartons of cigarettes? At the tax rates they inexplicably charge, it would be cheaper to forget the furniture back home and buy a couple cases of alcohol and tobacco here to help you get through the home shopping experience. So take a deep breath and just exhale, reminding yourself its all worth it because you’re now in Israel.

When all else fails, and it quite often does, the real Israeli turns to the second half of the equation. If savlanut is the force side of the Israeli persona, becoming atzbani is nothing less than the dark side. When one finds it’s no longer possible to maintain self control, keep calm and wait patiently, its time to turn atzbani. Like the Hulk getting angry, the screaming, shouting and hysterics come bursting to the surface. The glare, the shouting, the “try me and see what happens” attitude are all parts of getting really, really atzbani. Many Israelis evoke this tactic after waiting in line for a couple minutes, or may even get started while on the drive over. As a North American, you will still have plenty of patience when the entire line has already passed you, gone berserk, and gotten exactly what they wanted by virtue of screaming alone. You may be tempted to copy the Israelis and do some screaming on your own. Just remember, the important thing is not to apologize in between each epithet at the clerk’s mother and his choice of shirt. Apologizing and displaying savlanut in an atzbani situation confuses people. It makes them think you are a fryer (sucker) and are meant to take advantage of, if only to teach you a lesson. Being atzbani is not about creating enemies or making the other person feel bad, it’s just a way of getting what you want. As the maxim goes, he who screams loudest gets exactly what he wants, with a discount to top it off. Just because you went ballistic on someone and got what you wanted, it’s important to remember that in Israel the other person is now your friend, you have been through a cultural exchange, not an exchange of insults or verbal taunting.

The bottom line, try to stay calm, try to figure out how to work the system, wade through endless paper work and keep a smile on your face. When all else fails, blow your top and see if screaming accomplishes anything. Either way, its all part of the experience, welcome to Israel!

Four and a Half

Let me paint you a picture. This very well many be a true story, however no one can verify it with any certainty. I am sure everyone will come to their own conclusions and judge for themselves. Be warned, this could change your life…

The twisted and winding roads in Old Yaffo (Jaffa) hide one of Israel’s most secret facilities. Streets upon streets of squat, grey unremarkable buildings create a neighborhood no one would give a second thought to. Off an unmarked side street where even the locals get lost, a path leads away from the road towards yet another grey building. The path leads toward a seemingly ordinary apartment building known only as building Four and a Half.

Like many buildings in Israel this one has a guard stationed outside. On closer inspection one might notice some interesting differences in this particular building. Unlike most guards at public schools or buildings, the guards at four and a half seem to have just finished their military service, a good generation or two younger than the average guard. The guards at Four and a Half seem to act with a sense of mission, knowing the installation they guard holds the key to Israel’s future. They walk upright and are constantly on alert. The building must be the only one in Jaffa without a rampant cat problem, as they too are scared away by the constant patrolling presence of the guards.

The apartments all have dark windows, as if decades of grime and dirt have built up and no one bothered to wipe the windows clean. Like gargoyles perched on the rooftop, Four and a Half is littered with dozens of security cameras, following, watching. There is no laundry blowing in the wind from the balconies, no one is every seen walking outside or sitting out in the sun. If it was not for the trickle of people coming and going, the building would seem to be just another neglected building, forgotten and abandoned.

To enter Four and a Half, ID must be shown and the current password must be given to the guards. Everyone entering the building must pass through a metal detector, as well as scanned by several humming machines. Upon approval from someone unseen, the guard ushers people into the small lobby. There are video cameras everywhere, tucked away unobtrusively in the corners, silently watching everyone. The interior of the cramped lobby has the ambiance of an era gone by; it was probably furnished in the 60’s and is now frozen in time. Old travel magazines in Hebrew featuring trips to the Orient litter the small corner coffee table. The only other features of the room are a few vinyl chairs draped with cracking plastic covers and a lazy ceiling fan, slowly revolving as if it doesn’t have the energy to spin properly. The air in the lobby smells old and musty, as if it too had not been refreshed in decades. At the opposing end of the small lobby is another door with a panel of buzzers at its side. The door is covered in a faux wood finish, perhaps from the same era as the vinyl chairs. Inserting a key and entering a secret combination on the panel causes the door so slide open silently, the first hint of what lies beyond is much more than just another dull grey building.

The door has the appearance of a simple door panel, but slides away into the wall, as if it were something out of Star Trek. The open doorway reveals the interior of a gleaming elevator, decked out in chrome and mahogany. It’s certain the interior decorator of the elevator was born decades after whoever designed the outside of the building. It’s a huge contrast to the lobby, the air smells fresh and sparkly pushed around by an unseen silent fan. The chrome gleams in the sophisticated halogen recessed lighting, and the wood gives off an aura of prestige. This is a very serious, very powerful elevator, used to transporting people of a similar standing. After several seconds, card verifications, video confirmation and a destination chosen, the elevator door silently slides shut and the decent beings. The speed of the elevator is hard to gauge, but the pressure which builds up, popping ears again and again, may suggest the depth of what lies below.

After several minutes, the elevator arrives at floor one. From an unseen speaker a soothing computerized voice announces “floor one, research, administration and conference rooms”. Whoever designed that voice knew what they were doing, it gave the impression it was thanking you and at the same time complementing you on your excellent taste in elevators. The door slides silently open to reveal a glaring corridor painted in bright white with pastel trim. A light blue sign painted on the wall says “Welcome to Four and a Half”. To the right, another guard checks clearances, and issues a pass. The hallway looks as if it were a sterile environment, not a speck of dust can be seen on the white polished floors. Down the hall are huge plate glass windows, one after another, revealing laboratories with scientists in white lab coats running around and performing experiments, taking notes, and taking naps. Taken out of context the activities and experiments being carried on in the labs might seem strange, but there is an excellent reason for everything. Next to each window in a door with a sign, each labeled with a series of seemingly nonsensical letters and numbers. Directly ahead, at the end of the corridor, are large doors set with a small engraved plaque simply stating “Conference Room”.

Entering the conference room, the true purpose of Four and a Half becomes no less apparent. What seems like a panel of seven delegates sit in the front of the room on an elevated stage, while the rest of the room is ringed with desks arranged in rows. The design is reminiscent of the UN or the Knesset. On each desk is a small card with the name of the occupant. The seated people come from across the spectrum of Israeli society. Every religion, ethnicity, language and culture is represented. The Druze delegate stands and shouts the famous Druze saying “The pen is in thy hands, write and fear not” to the assembly. Heads nod, and the murmuring of the crowd turns to a dull roar. After a moment, the Chassidic Rabbi raises his hand and says , “Does it not say in Perki Avos that Rabban Shimon ben Gamliel said, On three things the world stands: on Judgment, on Truth, and on Peace?” More argument, more muttering and all heads turn to the Muslim and Christian delegates to see which would be able to come up with a witty retort.

But before anyone could take the floor and should out in true Israeli fashion, all attention was suddenly diverted to a heated debate between the Israelis of Yemenite and Moroccan decent. “It has to be ground! That’s what my mother said!” one shouted and turned a slight shade of red. The other screamed loud enough for all the assembled dignitaries to hear while turning a slight shade of purple. “It’s roasted and then ground! Everyone knows that”. The crowd screaming, the panel banging for attention and everyone screaming only added to the chaos. More screaming, more cursing, and the delegates took a few minutes break. Everyone has their own recipe for the perfect cup of coffee, how exactly to put in the grounds, how much sugar, how much water, when and for how long. The five minute break turned into an hour long shmooze about coffee and everything else. Slowly, the delegates filed back into the conference room.

I imagine there really is a place like this in real life, there has to be. Go to any supermarket or makolet, you will find dozens of chummous containers of all shapes, sizes, ingredients and types. How do they come up with so many blends of peppers, eggplant, chickpea, technia, charif and a million other additives? How do they make it appeal to everyone while coming up with new variants on a weekly basis? Chunky, creamy, inbetweeny, green, red, orange, pine nuts and walnuts, the variety is endless. American style, Moroccan, Yemenite, Mediterranean, and Greek, picked peppers, chopped up leek.

The only logical explanation I could come up with is a secret national laboratory, where new recipes are not only created, but cultural input from all sectors of Israeli society is taken into consideration. In a small country where a matter of miles is like a continent away, it’s an amazing challenge to take everyone into consideration. How to make someone who hails from Jerusalem find the same chummous flavors interesting and exciting as someone from Cairo, Siberia or Detroit. We all have different backgrounds and inputs into how things are in Israel. Unlike any other country I have been to; we certainly have the most strangely flavored potato chips, but that’s a whole other story.

Perception versus the Israeli reality

With less than three weeks left to go, my army service is right around the corner. I have been wondering what its going to be like, and how I will cope.

I was thinking about how before I started the police I really had such a different perception of what it would like; mainly based on things I had seen on TV. In reality, the way the police operate in Israel and the role they play is completely unlike anything in the States or Canada. I didn’t really have a good frame of reference for how things are done here. To highlight just a couple of the major differences: in Israel police officers don’t wear bullet proof vests under normal circumstances, and unlike in the States, police never use their guns to order people around, ever. Even putting handcuffs on someone is considered an arrest with force; the focus is always on maintaining the dignity of the person, and providing excellent, prompt, respectful and proper service. Many of my friends from back home have the idea that being a cop in Israel is like something out of the Wild West. From what I have seen so far, the role of a police officer in a city is much more benign, with a definite emphasis on “customer service”. It’s really different here, I guess when you feel something in common with the average guy on the street and the fact that everyone is Israeli, makes it completely different. Somehow we are all in this together; you can really feel it while interacting with the general public. In Canada, people have much more of an Us versus Them mentality, here when you pull someone over to give them a ticket, they come running out of their car and either start screaming, tell you who they know, or show you how you’re related.

Much like the police experience, I have a feeling basic training in the army is going to be nothing like it is portrayed in the movies. I am certain it’s going to be hard, but it’s a great experience and one of the cultural gateways to really becoming Israeli. I am not that great with sleep deprivation or exercise, but as the past two summers excavations have shown, you can get into it quite quickly and enjoy it. I am looking forward to the experience; I think its going to be a real adventure. The first day of the army is a once in a lifetime event, I am sure I will make a lot of new friends, and along the way have a lot of new stories. I am not crazy about getting shots and blood tests on the first day, but I guess it’s a small price to pay to get a uniform and represent the country.

Yemenite breakfast

Some days you just wake up and feel like an Israeli, or at least pretend to feel like one. This morning I had two fried melawach smothered in cheeses, hard boiled egg and schug (extremely hot pepper sauce). According to Mr. Wiki, Malawach or malawah is a Yemeni-Jewish bread. Resembling a crepe, malawach is made up of hundreds of thin pancake layers. It is usually fried. It was excellent, definitely a change from cereal and milk, French toast and pancakes. I am usually not much of a breakfast person, but I figured I would give something new a try. Using Scott’s recipe, I covered them in spread-able Bulgarian cheese, Labeneh and Zatar. They also got a liberal spread of red and green schug, I am really feeling Yemenite this morning.

Two sides of the same coin

In my world, people are always trying to come up with new ways to contrast and compare everything. Good and bad, black and white, there are so many fault lines and rifts between people, groups, and ideologies. The recent row over the gay pride parade and the rioting in Jerusalem is just one example of the tensions simmering below the surface. If you take a look at the patchwork way in which rifts between groups are mended, it seems as if it’s a temporary band aid on the underlying problems. It is paramount we work together as a society for the common good. We are made up of so many factions, from religious to secular, the privileged to the working poor, Israelis run the full spectrum of human possibilities. As I think the country has shown in the past, when push comes to shove, when the future is at stake, we put aside our differences and pitch in together. I guess it’s when we have nothing better to fight about; we look inwards and get riled up by our fellow citizens who may not be exactly like ourselves. The joke about the Jew on the deserted island goes, after years of being shipwrecked on a deserted island, he was finally found. Before he set off back to civilization, he asked the ships captain to come ashore for a tour of the island. The captain was blown away by the sight before him; the castaway had built an entire city out of wood. Walking through the street, the shipwreck told the captain “this is my synagogue, pointing to a building on the right” he continued “this is the other synagogue, on the left”. The captain asked why one person would need two synagogues; “well” the shipwrecked man answered “that’s the synagogue I don’t go to”. As the expression goes, as two Israelis an opinion and get half a dozen answers. We may not seem eye to eye on everything, or anything, but somehow we still keep the country moving along and trying to find the best compromise for everyone to keep things on track. I think that’s one the best features of the country. Get on a bus, go somewhere, stand in line, order some food, you suddenly have something in common with everyone around you. Shared history, heritage and outlook may be a common bond, but it’s more likely you will find yourself eating jachnun and schug (fried dough and hot pepper spread) with people from four continents. You so often meet people from all walks of life that in any other context would have nothing in common with. Suddenly you find both the ninety year old grandmother from Ukraine and the twenty year old sabra both love soccer, but root for different teams. Israel has a way of bringing people together, and making not just memories, but creating life in a state where things are dynamic, exciting, and alive. I read in a magazine a while back about a survey of chefs in Israel and what they thought Israeli food was. From shwarma to pita, chummous to cous cous, everything we consider Israeli has its origins in other cultures, and other places. Even in antiquity, Israel was the place where there was an exchange of ideas, culture, and goods. Perhaps the recipe for the perfect falafel was passed along by a merchant looking for the perfect recipe for shwarma… It seems that the real answer is that Israeli food, like our culture, is fusion, with bits and pieces taken from all over the world and woven into a tapestry. We have room in our cultural palete for gifelte fish, falafel, jachnun, malbi, and plenty of room left over for the hundreds of cultural delights. I always think of Dr. Seuss and his story about butter side up, or butter side down. As a nation, we each have a unique take on the world and how to go about making it a better place. Ultimately, we hopefully all end up eating our bread and butter whatever side it’s on. Maybe it’s not critical how we get there, but that we work towards a common goal together.

The Israeli Concept of Time

A couple weeks ago, when setting the date for the rifle range, the officer in charge of my course kept repeating, make sure you’re early for the shooting range, make sure you’re early. Five minutes early is better than a minute late. So on and so forth. I got the idea that it was extremely important to arrive on time. I woke up that morning at 5am and played a bit on the computer; I made breakfast with Moo, and got to the station a few minutes early, promptly at 8am. I signed in and asked the desk officer who I am going with. He said to wait a bit; the instructors were not even there yet. I went to go sit outside and enjoy the sunshine. There were half a dozen people waiting as well, most seemed closer to grade school than high school or army age. It seemed this was just another example of the “hurry up and wait” school of thought. We ended leaving the police station for the range at 9:30, after loading the police vans, finding ice for the drinks, picking up all the paperwork, etc. At the range, the same thing happened, apparently the signup list is not for who arrived on time, it’s for pushing to the front of the line. Even though I was not in a supermarket, it made it feel like Friday. Eventually, the instructors did their speeches to my group, and since by that time most everyone had cleared out, we had the place to ourselves and took our time. They let us practice with one clip first at 30 meters, and because I was confused with all the new Hebrew terminology and had the instructor screaming in my ear (to simulate a pressure filled situation), half my practice shots found other targets, the ones which did find the mark were all too high. Exasperated, the instructors took our small group of five and explained everything all over again, imbuing us with wisdom such as “if your nose isn’t smashed against the stock and pressing into your hand, you’re going to miss” and “don’t think, just shoot”. I also found “don’t spend too much time aiming, just find the target and shoot” interesting. The final round was half standing and half crouching, they dry drilled us a bunch of times to ensure we understood all the commands, and it went really great. I got 15/15 in the target at 30m, and got my license card. I got back to the station around 2pm with a newfound appreciation of “Israeli time”.