Just a brief announcement to follow-up on the end of the Rosh Hashana experience.
Dustin, Stefan, and I are leaving for the Sinai tomorrow. We'll be in Egypt for most of next week learning how to scuba dive and getting our certification. After that, we'll be heading to the Golan Heights in northern Israel to begin a six-day hike on the Golan Trail.
The Trail is 81 miles and intensely rugged. I don't know how far we'll make it, but we're planning on going the distance.
Fried Camel will therefore be taking a two-week hiatus. To quote Dustin from earlier in the day:
"We're going off the grid and into the wilderness."
B'shalom chaverim sheli,
-Drew
Friday, September 25, 2009
Rosh Hashana: Part Three
Sunday morning was a blessed release. My dreams the night before had been unpleasant. When I finally convinced myself that it was safe to embrace the day, I found the house empty. Ryan's bed once again was neatly made, his bags placed unobtrusively off to the side.
Everyone had gone back to the synagogue for the final service of Rosh Hashana. I decided to spend the morning reading my Bible, specifically passages in Zechariah (Chapter 9), Psalms (psalm 91), and Matthew (Chapter 4). I was unsure why I was flipping through Zechariah. It just seemed like the right place to be. As I began to read, my spine stiffened.
"Tyre has built herself a stronghold; she has heaped up silver like dust, and gold like the dirt of the streets. But the Lord will take away her possessions and destroy her power of the sea, and she will be consumed by fire. Ashkelon will see it and fear; Gaza will writhe in agony, and Ekron too, for her hope will whither.
-Zechariah 9:3-5
While it could have been mere coincidence that I had decided to start reading Zechariah and specifically that chapter, I felt that it was not. I knew that I needed to read it. Something told me that those verses would become important one day. It tugged at me as my mind put together all the connections.
Tyre is modern day Lebanon. I'm literally in Ashkelon, albeit on the outskirts. Gaza is certainly writhing in agony these days. This passage has to do with God's judgment. The question is has it already come to pass? Interesting.
I continued reading in Matthew about Jesus being tempted in the desert by Satan. It was a good reminder that even the enemy knows what is in the Bible, that he is privy to all the wisdom and knowledge that is contained within it.
As I finished reading, I heard the shofar blow at the synagogue ringing in the new year. Minutes later as everyone filled the streets to return to their homes, the air shifted and the wind suddenly increased.
The familiar pitter patter of rain began to fall. I had not seen rain since my last night in the states with James and Anne Morgan in Manhattan. Through the second floor window of my room in the Lanksner house, I watched as a steady downpour engulfed the streets. People were cheering and shouting as they ran to their homes. Children were celebrating in the middle of the road.
Israel has been experiencing severe drought for months. It was as if God had helped ring in the new year with a promise that things would get better. I decided to celebrate by taking my first shower in three days. Mrs. Lanksner had told us that it was okay if we used the shower since we weren't Jewish. I figured I was doing everyone a favor anyway.
By the time I cleaned up, everyone had come back home from synagogue. Ryan and I helped set the table outside for lunch after the rain died down. Schmuley and Eliaz fired up the grill for what they promised to be a BBQ that would pale in comparison to how we do it back home. The self-deprecation I had learned was typical of Israeli humor.
Ryan and I helped out in the kitchen, but I did go outside at the request of Schmuley and give him a couple of tips on how to properly season the chicken and steak.
"What do you grill in Alabama?" Schmuley asked.
I held my hands out wide.
"Hamburgers. As big as your head."
"That is quite big!" he said with a cackle.
Still laughing, he wheeled himself to the other side of the grill and moved the chicken kabobs to a warmer section. The man was impressive. He was a paraplegic but was easily one of the happiest and appreciative individuals I had ever met. It was nothing short of inspirational.
Prior to eating, Ryan and I sat with Dafna and her mother. They asked me what I did while everyone was at the synagogue. When I told them I had been reading the Bible, they both looked at each other in disbelief.
"It is in English?!" Dafna asked surprised.
"Yea. That's the only language I can read and understand."
"Do you have it with you?" she followed.
"Yea. I'll go grab it," I said as I pulled myself away from the patio table.
When I brought the Bible back down and handed it to them, they were utterly amazed. Dafna flipped it to the Table of Contents. She started reading over the books of the Old Testament. Her mother couldn't read English very well, so I helped her sound it out. When they finished, Dafna looked up at me and smiled.
"They're all in here. The prophets and everything."
"Of course," I said as I returned the smile. "It's the Bible."
"And this is the new? The hadash?" she said as she pointed to Matthew.
"Yep."
"It reads like a story," she said as she flipped through Matthew and then back to Genesis. "It's so unlike ours. It's very hard to understand the Bible for us."
I took my seat next to Ryan. Mrs. Lanksner asked us a litany of questions concerning denominations and the differences in Catholics and Protestants. Ryan and I both started laughing. I deferred to Ryan. As a graduate of Oral Roberts, he was certainly better versed on the history of the Christian Church than I was. And he did a phenomenal job explaining the split, explaining Martin Luther, and the issues that Protestants had with the Catholic Church.
"So you are cat-oh-lic or pro-test-ant?" Mrs. Lanksner asked, pointing at both of us.
"More Protestant," Ryan responded.
"Non-denominational, which is basically Protestant. But I personally don't believe in perpetuating the schism between Catholics and Protestants," I replied.
Mrs. Lanksner nodded. Dafna was extremely intrigued. I could tell that she wanted to ask a thousand questions, but didn't know where to begin. She didn't receive the chance because her mother soon made a statement that floored me.
"So many people are...um...still religious in America. So many people still believe in God. It's very...good we think," she said. "America has always been...very good. You always tries to do the...uh...right thing...what's right."
My God we cannot turn our back on this country.
Schmuley wheeled over beside us with a nonchalant Eliaz in tow.
"Time to eat!"
***
"Eat. It's rude not to eat," Eliaz said as he leaned back in his chair and cleaned his teeth with a toothpick.
"You eat," I fired back.
"You are our guest. You eat."
"If I eat anything else, I'm going to explode all over you and this table. Is that what you want?"
"Maybe."
He shrugged and grinned. Ryan and I had been treated to steak, chicken kabobs, chicken liver, rice, two types of salad, two types of bread dipped in honey, potato salad, and some kind of fruit awash in syrup for dessert. We helped clean up the table and the kitchen and returned to our rooms for a last power nap. The train would kick back into gear around 9:00 for our return to Tel Aviv. Once night fell, Rosh Hashana and the three day Thanksgiving-esque bonanza would come to an end.
"You got everything packed up?" I asked Ryan.
"No, not everything. I don't really want to leave," he said as he sat on the edge of the bed.
"No kidding, huh?" I said with a laugh. I looked up. Ryan wasn't laughing. He was staring at the floor.
"No, I mean I really could just stay here."
I finished zipping up my backpack as I prepared to pass out for a few hours before our train ride back home.
"Yea. Something about it I suppose. It certainly feels like we're finally in Israel now, that we've finally found that missing piece..."
"That we finally have Israeli friends," he finished the thought for me.
***
I walked outside and took a seat at the patio table. Noah, Ryan, and Dafna were chatting it up.
"Boker tov," Noah said sarcastically as I approached.
"Sheket," I responded.
"Ah, you are learning a little Hebrew," he said with a grin.
"Indeed. And just think. If we hadn't hung out this weekend, I never would've known how to insult myself in your tongue."
"Exactly. You can go impress your friends now," Noah said as he reached for an apple.
By the time night fell, Ryan was already lining people up for pictures. With Rosh Hashana over, things suddenly transformed. The phone started ringing. Schmuley cranked up the evening news on the television. Eliaz whipped out his violin which Dafna promptly used to assault our ears. Noah started playing Heartbreaker on the guitar.
"Zeppelin, right?" he asked.
"That's right," I responded.
"I'm going to get my camera. It's picture time," Ryan said as he bolted upstairs.
"He do that a lot?" Noah asked me as he continued to strum the guitar.
"Why? You afraid the camera won't like you?" I asked.
"The other way around," Noah retorted. "While I'm thinking about it, tell me how this all volunteer military works."
"I'd tell you to ask Saddam but he got a bit tied up I think."
"That's good. You should use that one," he said with a bob of his head.
"Yea, I think I'll save that one for later."
"Smile!" Ryan said.
From Left to Right: Noah, Eliaz, Schmuley, Ryan, Me
From Left to Right: Mr. Lanksner, Eliaz, Ryan, Mrs. Lanksner, Me, Dafna, and Noah up front.
As we departed and said our goodbyes, a single thought seared its way into me:
Mom, Dad, I've gone native.
Everyone had gone back to the synagogue for the final service of Rosh Hashana. I decided to spend the morning reading my Bible, specifically passages in Zechariah (Chapter 9), Psalms (psalm 91), and Matthew (Chapter 4). I was unsure why I was flipping through Zechariah. It just seemed like the right place to be. As I began to read, my spine stiffened.
"Tyre has built herself a stronghold; she has heaped up silver like dust, and gold like the dirt of the streets. But the Lord will take away her possessions and destroy her power of the sea, and she will be consumed by fire. Ashkelon will see it and fear; Gaza will writhe in agony, and Ekron too, for her hope will whither.
-Zechariah 9:3-5
While it could have been mere coincidence that I had decided to start reading Zechariah and specifically that chapter, I felt that it was not. I knew that I needed to read it. Something told me that those verses would become important one day. It tugged at me as my mind put together all the connections.
Tyre is modern day Lebanon. I'm literally in Ashkelon, albeit on the outskirts. Gaza is certainly writhing in agony these days. This passage has to do with God's judgment. The question is has it already come to pass? Interesting.
I continued reading in Matthew about Jesus being tempted in the desert by Satan. It was a good reminder that even the enemy knows what is in the Bible, that he is privy to all the wisdom and knowledge that is contained within it.
As I finished reading, I heard the shofar blow at the synagogue ringing in the new year. Minutes later as everyone filled the streets to return to their homes, the air shifted and the wind suddenly increased.
The familiar pitter patter of rain began to fall. I had not seen rain since my last night in the states with James and Anne Morgan in Manhattan. Through the second floor window of my room in the Lanksner house, I watched as a steady downpour engulfed the streets. People were cheering and shouting as they ran to their homes. Children were celebrating in the middle of the road.
Israel has been experiencing severe drought for months. It was as if God had helped ring in the new year with a promise that things would get better. I decided to celebrate by taking my first shower in three days. Mrs. Lanksner had told us that it was okay if we used the shower since we weren't Jewish. I figured I was doing everyone a favor anyway.
By the time I cleaned up, everyone had come back home from synagogue. Ryan and I helped set the table outside for lunch after the rain died down. Schmuley and Eliaz fired up the grill for what they promised to be a BBQ that would pale in comparison to how we do it back home. The self-deprecation I had learned was typical of Israeli humor.
Ryan and I helped out in the kitchen, but I did go outside at the request of Schmuley and give him a couple of tips on how to properly season the chicken and steak.
"What do you grill in Alabama?" Schmuley asked.
I held my hands out wide.
"Hamburgers. As big as your head."
"That is quite big!" he said with a cackle.
Still laughing, he wheeled himself to the other side of the grill and moved the chicken kabobs to a warmer section. The man was impressive. He was a paraplegic but was easily one of the happiest and appreciative individuals I had ever met. It was nothing short of inspirational.
Prior to eating, Ryan and I sat with Dafna and her mother. They asked me what I did while everyone was at the synagogue. When I told them I had been reading the Bible, they both looked at each other in disbelief.
"It is in English?!" Dafna asked surprised.
"Yea. That's the only language I can read and understand."
"Do you have it with you?" she followed.
"Yea. I'll go grab it," I said as I pulled myself away from the patio table.
When I brought the Bible back down and handed it to them, they were utterly amazed. Dafna flipped it to the Table of Contents. She started reading over the books of the Old Testament. Her mother couldn't read English very well, so I helped her sound it out. When they finished, Dafna looked up at me and smiled.
"They're all in here. The prophets and everything."
"Of course," I said as I returned the smile. "It's the Bible."
"And this is the new? The hadash?" she said as she pointed to Matthew.
"Yep."
"It reads like a story," she said as she flipped through Matthew and then back to Genesis. "It's so unlike ours. It's very hard to understand the Bible for us."
I took my seat next to Ryan. Mrs. Lanksner asked us a litany of questions concerning denominations and the differences in Catholics and Protestants. Ryan and I both started laughing. I deferred to Ryan. As a graduate of Oral Roberts, he was certainly better versed on the history of the Christian Church than I was. And he did a phenomenal job explaining the split, explaining Martin Luther, and the issues that Protestants had with the Catholic Church.
"So you are cat-oh-lic or pro-test-ant?" Mrs. Lanksner asked, pointing at both of us.
"More Protestant," Ryan responded.
"Non-denominational, which is basically Protestant. But I personally don't believe in perpetuating the schism between Catholics and Protestants," I replied.
Mrs. Lanksner nodded. Dafna was extremely intrigued. I could tell that she wanted to ask a thousand questions, but didn't know where to begin. She didn't receive the chance because her mother soon made a statement that floored me.
"So many people are...um...still religious in America. So many people still believe in God. It's very...good we think," she said. "America has always been...very good. You always tries to do the...uh...right thing...what's right."
My God we cannot turn our back on this country.
Schmuley wheeled over beside us with a nonchalant Eliaz in tow.
"Time to eat!"
***
"Eat. It's rude not to eat," Eliaz said as he leaned back in his chair and cleaned his teeth with a toothpick.
"You eat," I fired back.
"You are our guest. You eat."
"If I eat anything else, I'm going to explode all over you and this table. Is that what you want?"
"Maybe."
He shrugged and grinned. Ryan and I had been treated to steak, chicken kabobs, chicken liver, rice, two types of salad, two types of bread dipped in honey, potato salad, and some kind of fruit awash in syrup for dessert. We helped clean up the table and the kitchen and returned to our rooms for a last power nap. The train would kick back into gear around 9:00 for our return to Tel Aviv. Once night fell, Rosh Hashana and the three day Thanksgiving-esque bonanza would come to an end.
"You got everything packed up?" I asked Ryan.
"No, not everything. I don't really want to leave," he said as he sat on the edge of the bed.
"No kidding, huh?" I said with a laugh. I looked up. Ryan wasn't laughing. He was staring at the floor.
"No, I mean I really could just stay here."
I finished zipping up my backpack as I prepared to pass out for a few hours before our train ride back home.
"Yea. Something about it I suppose. It certainly feels like we're finally in Israel now, that we've finally found that missing piece..."
"That we finally have Israeli friends," he finished the thought for me.
***
I walked outside and took a seat at the patio table. Noah, Ryan, and Dafna were chatting it up.
"Boker tov," Noah said sarcastically as I approached.
"Sheket," I responded.
"Ah, you are learning a little Hebrew," he said with a grin.
"Indeed. And just think. If we hadn't hung out this weekend, I never would've known how to insult myself in your tongue."
"Exactly. You can go impress your friends now," Noah said as he reached for an apple.
By the time night fell, Ryan was already lining people up for pictures. With Rosh Hashana over, things suddenly transformed. The phone started ringing. Schmuley cranked up the evening news on the television. Eliaz whipped out his violin which Dafna promptly used to assault our ears. Noah started playing Heartbreaker on the guitar.
"Zeppelin, right?" he asked.
"That's right," I responded.
"I'm going to get my camera. It's picture time," Ryan said as he bolted upstairs.
"He do that a lot?" Noah asked me as he continued to strum the guitar.
"Why? You afraid the camera won't like you?" I asked.
"The other way around," Noah retorted. "While I'm thinking about it, tell me how this all volunteer military works."
"I'd tell you to ask Saddam but he got a bit tied up I think."
"That's good. You should use that one," he said with a bob of his head.
"Yea, I think I'll save that one for later."
"Smile!" Ryan said.
From Left to Right: Noah, Eliaz, Schmuley, Ryan, Me
From Left to Right: Mr. Lanksner, Eliaz, Ryan, Mrs. Lanksner, Me, Dafna, and Noah up front.
As we departed and said our goodbyes, a single thought seared its way into me:
Mom, Dad, I've gone native.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Rosh Hashana: Part Two
I heard Ryan clattering around in the bathroom. Rays of sunlight pierced through the white curtains. The wind greeted the chimes hanging in the Lanksner's backyard. I woke up, certain that morning had come too soon, but equally assured that I had gotten a good night's rest.
"They're waiting on us downstairs," Ryan said as he entered the room. He adjusted his kippah and finished straightening up his bed. As usual, his corner was immaculate. Ryan would make a fine military officer if he ever decided to pursue that course. His bed sheets were so tight, one could bounce a quarter off them.
"We heading back to the synagogue?" I asked groggily.
"Yes sir."
"Alright, lemme go brush my teeth. I can't shower during Shabat can I?"
"No, I don't think they do running water during Shabat," Ryan answered.
"Neat."
After a few minutes changing into some fresh clothes and brushing my teeth with previously prepared potted water, I joined Ryan, Dafna, and Mrs. Lanksner downstairs. Once again, the ladies were wearing their dresses.
"Boker tov," I said with a smile.
"Boker tov," Mrs. Lanskner replied. "Would you like coffee or tea?"
"I'm fine. Thank you though."
"It's not a problem," she said as she moved toward the kitchen.
"Really, I'm okay."
"Alright, well it is time to go," Dafna said as she spun back and forth.
We set off to go meet Eliaz and Schmuley. It was around 10:00 in the morning. Most people had been in the bet-knesset since 8:00 a.m. I chuckled to myself as I thought about how people, young and old, would complain about sitting in church for four and a half hours back home.
Ryan and I followed Mrs. Lanksner upstairs. The family dog, Chino, chased us from the house and into the synagogue. A few commands in Hebrew by Dafna sent Chino heading back home. With no cars on the roads, most of the neighborhood dogs were allowed to roam freely. Chino reminded me of Baxter from the movie Anchorman. He was about as smart, too. Since I had been here, the dog had not so much as uttered a sound, but he followed orders like a champ.
We took our place at the back pew next to Eliaz, who nodded and gestured for us to slide in beside him.
"How long have you been here?" I asked.
He looked down at my watch and then looked up.
"About an...uh...um...hour?" he responded. He clearly was looking for confirmation that he had used the right word.
"Since 9:00?" I asked.
"Yes. Yes. But I woke up late. I should have been here sooner," Eliaz said. He seemed a bit ashamed.
"Are you in trouble with your father?"
Eliaz shook his head and then pointed up at the ceiling.
"No, but...uh...maybe with Elohim (God)..." he trailed off.
I nodded. "The only kind of trouble that counts, huh?" I whispered back, a grin creeping onto my face.
Eliaz shrugged and kind of grinned in return. I patted him on the shoulder.
"I'm sure He'll understand," I whispered. "That's kind of what He does."
The service was essentially the same as it had been the night before. At least for me. Everything was in Hebrew so it was difficult to ascertain what songs were being sung and what prayers were being offered. I couldn't tell the difference. I saw Eric and his two sons sitting a few rows in front of us. He still had his pistol strapped to the small of his back.
After about half an hour, a contingent of men draped in white cloths covering their heads and shoulders moved to the front of the altar and started praying, swaying from side-to-side. Ryan seemed as perplexed as I did. I turned to Eliaz and asked what was going on. He said that the fathers were about to bless their sons. And sure enough, Schmuley rolled up beside Eliaz, threw a white cloth over him and began to pray underneath it. This was repeated by every father and son in the room. I was digging into the recesses of my mind to remember the significance of this, to try to recall a verse from the Bible that explained what I was witnessing.
It was to no avail.
An older gentleman, standing in the row in front of us, turned around and spoke with Eliaz after Schmuley finished. I heard Eliaz refer to Ryan and I. The man, probably around sixty-five or so, leaned over the pew and in perfect English began explaining that those at the front of the altar were priests praising God for the arrival of a new year and praying that the year would be one of peace and prosperity.
"Wait, so they're from the tribe of Levi?" I asked Eliaz.
His brow furrowed. He asked me to repeat it. I got a little too excited.
"Levi. They're Levites? Like from the Book of Leviticus?"
Eliaz turned his head to the side, brow still in a supercilious posture, and started to shake his head again. The older gentlemen intervened again.
"Yes, Levites. The tribe of the priests," he said in English. He then turned to Eliaz and spoke in Hebrew, interpreting for Eliaz's benefit and pronouncing the word as Leh-vee. Recognition dawned on Eliaz as he turned back to me and nodded his head in agreement.
"Yes, yes. That's right. Sorry, I say it differently," Eliaz said.
By 11:30, the service came to an end with the singing of another traditional Rosh Hashana song. Ryan, Eliaz, Schmuley, and myself gathered outside. Eliaz and I briefly discussed which of the Twelve Tribes his family belonged to. He was unsure, but thought that they came from either Benjamin or Levi. After two millenniums in Diaspora, things understandably were muddled.
Back at the house, Dafna grabbed some lechem (bread) and informed us that we would be going over to a friend's house. One of her close friends was getting married on Monday and they had all decided to get together for a lunch and hang out. Dafna explained to me that the groom is not allowed to see the bride for the entirety of the week prior to the wedding. He is required to spend time in Temple reading the Torah and preparing himself to be a husband and making himself pure in the "eyes of God."
It was an interesting afternoon. We were treated to yet another four course meal prepared by the family of Dafna's friends. However, everyone present was our age. Noah, Gideon, Miri, and a dozen or so others I didn't know were there. At first, I felt more than a little uncomfortable with the situation. It seemed to me that the dinner should have been just with close friends, but considering the fact that neither Ryan nor myself could speak Hebrew in a social setting, it was almost as if we were mere observers. In a way, it reminded me of when I was younger and in middle school. The difference of course was that whenever I felt uncomfortable back then, all I had to do was stick with Evan or Brad. That option wasn't available.
Noah and I had some more discussions about the IDF and the composition of the IDF with regard to the Druze and the Bedouins. Interestingly enough, there's an entire battalion of Arab Bedouins in the Israel Defense Force. They live in the Negev desert in southern Israel and are used exclusively for reconnaissance and "path-finding." Noah told me that the Bedouins are able to examine someone's foot print and determine how much that individual weighs, the individual's gender, the direction they are heading, the speed they are moving, and whether they are carrying anything.
I also learned from Gideon a few things about the Israeli Special Forces which I will not disclose. I will say that assuming those things are true, and I have no reason to believe they aren't, then the enemies of Israel have their work cut out for them. Gideon and I also exchanged idioms and euphemisms. I taught him a few from back home including "That burns my biscuits," "He's a sandwich short of a picnic," and "shitfire!" He enjoyed all three of those and proceeded to bandy them about like they were hot potatoes.
Noah grinned and just shook his head. With an exasperated and amused tone, he threw me an incredulous look.
"Thanks. You've just turned him into an Israeli redneck."
"It's why I'm here."
We spent the better part of four hours eating and talking. Ryan was getting into some deep conversations with two of the girls there. I met a girl named Shamam whom I would have a rather deep discussion with later in the evening concerning Christianity and Judaism. By 4:00, everyone was on the verge of collapse. We had eaten so much (again) that the only thing that sounded sensible was sleep.
Ryan and I took solid three hour naps back at Dafna's house. We awoke around 7:00 and spent some time in the Lanksner living room talking with the entire family. It turned out that we would be going over to the Avner household for dinner at their house. Apparently, it was customary to eat the first Rosh Hashana meal at one family's house and the second at the other family's home.
Dreading yet another four course meal, Ryan and I saddled up. As we approached the Avner household, Ryan opined about our experience thus far.
"Lemme tell you, Drew. This has just been horrendous. You know, first they torture us with kindness. Then they torture us with more food than we can possibly eat. And then they finish us off with an open invitation to come back at any time," Ryan surmised. "I just don't think I can handle this any more. Israel is worse than its critics say."
Coming from Ryan, the sarcasm was perfectly timed and hilarious. Mrs. Lanksner gave us quizzical looks as I doubled over.
At Eric's house, we gathered in the living room for a little while. Dafna brought over some photo albums. After she finished up her time with the IDF, she and some of her friends had trekked along the Israel Road. The Israel Road is a hiking path that starts in the north near the border with Lebanon and ends all the way at Eilat at the southern tip of Israel. It took Dafna and her friends two months to complete it. Ryan and I were blown away by some of the pictures, particularly of one overlooking the Valley of Megiddo.
At one point Dafna elaborated about how they had to sleep on a beach north of Tel Aviv near Netanya. A man staying at a hotel had seen the kids laying out on the beach and had offered them his hotel room for the night. As Dafna finished explaining this I quipped "Oh, so the guy thought you were homeless?"
Everyone started laughing. She tilted her head down and shook it.
"Sarcastic like Noah," she said.
"Have I mentioned how awesome he is?"
Dinner consisted of the same dishes we had had the night before at the Lanksner's with the exception of Eric's wife Maya bringing out apple pie and ice cream for dessert. Dinner finished at nearly 11:00. Ryan, Dafna, and I departed to go hang out with some of her friends again.
It was a clear night and the wind was blowing a cool breeze in a country where comfortable weather had thus far eluded us. We joined Dafna's friends behind Miri's house. They were sitting around talking and smoking "hookah." I politely declined and instead took them up on some tea. Ryan seemed to enjoy the hookah. After a few minutes, one of the girls we had met earlier moved her chair beside me. It was Shamam.
"So, I heard that you're not Jewish. I'm really interested to know why you're here," she asked skeptically.
"Drew, feel free to take this one," Ryan chimed from behind me.
"Alright, I enjoy getting this question if only for the mixture of reactions."
I told her right off the bat that I was Christian. That I wanted to learn Hebrew and Arabic. She pressed me a bit on the reasoning for this, but as always, I was careful not to get too specific with what I hoped to do after my time in Israel. I kept that portion vague. I then explained to Shamam about growing up in a pro-Israel household, about mom linking Judaism and Christianity together and teaching me the importance of Judaism to our faith, and how it was impossible for me to be a Christian without the Jews.
"But you think we're wrong don't you?" she asked pointedly.
"I think the old ways are no longer necessary because we have Jesus. It's not that you're wrong. The Jews are the Chosen people of God. I'm a Christian and I firmly believe this," I tried to explain.
"Which for a Christian means what?"
"It means that the Jews are the medium through which God has chosen to implement His will," I elaborated.
"Okay. That's cool. Can you tell me how you can tell if someone is a religious Christian?"
Wow, these are some seriously thought out questions. And come to think of it, I've never even thought about that one.
I stumbled for a moment in an attempt to gather my thoughts. The question, so simple and basic, was one I had never received before.
How did one determine that?
"Well," I started. "I suppose the only way to really tell is to get to know the person, to know their actions, and to see if they're living in Christ."
"So it's a feeling more than an act?"
"I suppose that's one way of putting it, but I wouldn't necessarily say that," I said with a chuckle. "It's not a 'feel good' thing. It's more of whether or not you can see Jesus in someone's life I suppose. We don't wear anything to signify whether we're more religious than someone else. But honestly, it's an extremely personal thing to be a Christian. It's between you and Jesus."
She nodded. I could tell she was pondering what I had told her. As the conversation continued, she told me she was attending Hebrew University in Jerusalem and studying biology and psychology and wanted to do research. She, like Noah the night before, seemed wary of how Israelis were perceived abroad. She was genuinely shocked when she heard that most Americans view Israel favorably and once again she referenced the election of Barack Obama as evidence that Americans no longer liked Israelis.
This is starting to become a theme. Do Israelis really think we no longer like them because of our President?
I did my best to placate her concerns. When we finished talking, she offered to show us around Jerusalem the next time we were there.
By 1:00 Ryan and I were back in our room at Dafna's house. We talked a lot about our day and the conversation I had had with Shamam.
"I thought you handled that just perfectly," Ryan said kindly.
"Eh, I don't. I didn't know how to respond when she asked how you know if someone is religious in Christianity. I should have explained to her that it's more of a relationship than a religion. I've never even thought about that before."
"It's all good, dude," Ryan said as he rolled over to go to sleep. "This has been awesome."
Yes it has. And it's doing a lot to reinforce my views.
As Ryan drifted off to sleep, I heard a thunderous sound from outside. I knew it couldn't have been a vehicle or train since none were operating on Rosh Hashana. I moved to the window and looked out over the neighborhood and the farmland beyond. The glow tails of four Israeli F-16's burned bright orange in the sky. They were accelerating fast and hard toward Gaza.
Well. Shana Tova (Happy New Year) to you too, Hamas.
"They're waiting on us downstairs," Ryan said as he entered the room. He adjusted his kippah and finished straightening up his bed. As usual, his corner was immaculate. Ryan would make a fine military officer if he ever decided to pursue that course. His bed sheets were so tight, one could bounce a quarter off them.
"We heading back to the synagogue?" I asked groggily.
"Yes sir."
"Alright, lemme go brush my teeth. I can't shower during Shabat can I?"
"No, I don't think they do running water during Shabat," Ryan answered.
"Neat."
After a few minutes changing into some fresh clothes and brushing my teeth with previously prepared potted water, I joined Ryan, Dafna, and Mrs. Lanksner downstairs. Once again, the ladies were wearing their dresses.
"Boker tov," I said with a smile.
"Boker tov," Mrs. Lanskner replied. "Would you like coffee or tea?"
"I'm fine. Thank you though."
"It's not a problem," she said as she moved toward the kitchen.
"Really, I'm okay."
"Alright, well it is time to go," Dafna said as she spun back and forth.
We set off to go meet Eliaz and Schmuley. It was around 10:00 in the morning. Most people had been in the bet-knesset since 8:00 a.m. I chuckled to myself as I thought about how people, young and old, would complain about sitting in church for four and a half hours back home.
Ryan and I followed Mrs. Lanksner upstairs. The family dog, Chino, chased us from the house and into the synagogue. A few commands in Hebrew by Dafna sent Chino heading back home. With no cars on the roads, most of the neighborhood dogs were allowed to roam freely. Chino reminded me of Baxter from the movie Anchorman. He was about as smart, too. Since I had been here, the dog had not so much as uttered a sound, but he followed orders like a champ.
We took our place at the back pew next to Eliaz, who nodded and gestured for us to slide in beside him.
"How long have you been here?" I asked.
He looked down at my watch and then looked up.
"About an...uh...um...hour?" he responded. He clearly was looking for confirmation that he had used the right word.
"Since 9:00?" I asked.
"Yes. Yes. But I woke up late. I should have been here sooner," Eliaz said. He seemed a bit ashamed.
"Are you in trouble with your father?"
Eliaz shook his head and then pointed up at the ceiling.
"No, but...uh...maybe with Elohim (God)..." he trailed off.
I nodded. "The only kind of trouble that counts, huh?" I whispered back, a grin creeping onto my face.
Eliaz shrugged and kind of grinned in return. I patted him on the shoulder.
"I'm sure He'll understand," I whispered. "That's kind of what He does."
The service was essentially the same as it had been the night before. At least for me. Everything was in Hebrew so it was difficult to ascertain what songs were being sung and what prayers were being offered. I couldn't tell the difference. I saw Eric and his two sons sitting a few rows in front of us. He still had his pistol strapped to the small of his back.
After about half an hour, a contingent of men draped in white cloths covering their heads and shoulders moved to the front of the altar and started praying, swaying from side-to-side. Ryan seemed as perplexed as I did. I turned to Eliaz and asked what was going on. He said that the fathers were about to bless their sons. And sure enough, Schmuley rolled up beside Eliaz, threw a white cloth over him and began to pray underneath it. This was repeated by every father and son in the room. I was digging into the recesses of my mind to remember the significance of this, to try to recall a verse from the Bible that explained what I was witnessing.
It was to no avail.
An older gentleman, standing in the row in front of us, turned around and spoke with Eliaz after Schmuley finished. I heard Eliaz refer to Ryan and I. The man, probably around sixty-five or so, leaned over the pew and in perfect English began explaining that those at the front of the altar were priests praising God for the arrival of a new year and praying that the year would be one of peace and prosperity.
"Wait, so they're from the tribe of Levi?" I asked Eliaz.
His brow furrowed. He asked me to repeat it. I got a little too excited.
"Levi. They're Levites? Like from the Book of Leviticus?"
Eliaz turned his head to the side, brow still in a supercilious posture, and started to shake his head again. The older gentlemen intervened again.
"Yes, Levites. The tribe of the priests," he said in English. He then turned to Eliaz and spoke in Hebrew, interpreting for Eliaz's benefit and pronouncing the word as Leh-vee. Recognition dawned on Eliaz as he turned back to me and nodded his head in agreement.
"Yes, yes. That's right. Sorry, I say it differently," Eliaz said.
By 11:30, the service came to an end with the singing of another traditional Rosh Hashana song. Ryan, Eliaz, Schmuley, and myself gathered outside. Eliaz and I briefly discussed which of the Twelve Tribes his family belonged to. He was unsure, but thought that they came from either Benjamin or Levi. After two millenniums in Diaspora, things understandably were muddled.
Back at the house, Dafna grabbed some lechem (bread) and informed us that we would be going over to a friend's house. One of her close friends was getting married on Monday and they had all decided to get together for a lunch and hang out. Dafna explained to me that the groom is not allowed to see the bride for the entirety of the week prior to the wedding. He is required to spend time in Temple reading the Torah and preparing himself to be a husband and making himself pure in the "eyes of God."
It was an interesting afternoon. We were treated to yet another four course meal prepared by the family of Dafna's friends. However, everyone present was our age. Noah, Gideon, Miri, and a dozen or so others I didn't know were there. At first, I felt more than a little uncomfortable with the situation. It seemed to me that the dinner should have been just with close friends, but considering the fact that neither Ryan nor myself could speak Hebrew in a social setting, it was almost as if we were mere observers. In a way, it reminded me of when I was younger and in middle school. The difference of course was that whenever I felt uncomfortable back then, all I had to do was stick with Evan or Brad. That option wasn't available.
Noah and I had some more discussions about the IDF and the composition of the IDF with regard to the Druze and the Bedouins. Interestingly enough, there's an entire battalion of Arab Bedouins in the Israel Defense Force. They live in the Negev desert in southern Israel and are used exclusively for reconnaissance and "path-finding." Noah told me that the Bedouins are able to examine someone's foot print and determine how much that individual weighs, the individual's gender, the direction they are heading, the speed they are moving, and whether they are carrying anything.
I also learned from Gideon a few things about the Israeli Special Forces which I will not disclose. I will say that assuming those things are true, and I have no reason to believe they aren't, then the enemies of Israel have their work cut out for them. Gideon and I also exchanged idioms and euphemisms. I taught him a few from back home including "That burns my biscuits," "He's a sandwich short of a picnic," and "shitfire!" He enjoyed all three of those and proceeded to bandy them about like they were hot potatoes.
Noah grinned and just shook his head. With an exasperated and amused tone, he threw me an incredulous look.
"Thanks. You've just turned him into an Israeli redneck."
"It's why I'm here."
We spent the better part of four hours eating and talking. Ryan was getting into some deep conversations with two of the girls there. I met a girl named Shamam whom I would have a rather deep discussion with later in the evening concerning Christianity and Judaism. By 4:00, everyone was on the verge of collapse. We had eaten so much (again) that the only thing that sounded sensible was sleep.
Ryan and I took solid three hour naps back at Dafna's house. We awoke around 7:00 and spent some time in the Lanksner living room talking with the entire family. It turned out that we would be going over to the Avner household for dinner at their house. Apparently, it was customary to eat the first Rosh Hashana meal at one family's house and the second at the other family's home.
Dreading yet another four course meal, Ryan and I saddled up. As we approached the Avner household, Ryan opined about our experience thus far.
"Lemme tell you, Drew. This has just been horrendous. You know, first they torture us with kindness. Then they torture us with more food than we can possibly eat. And then they finish us off with an open invitation to come back at any time," Ryan surmised. "I just don't think I can handle this any more. Israel is worse than its critics say."
Coming from Ryan, the sarcasm was perfectly timed and hilarious. Mrs. Lanksner gave us quizzical looks as I doubled over.
At Eric's house, we gathered in the living room for a little while. Dafna brought over some photo albums. After she finished up her time with the IDF, she and some of her friends had trekked along the Israel Road. The Israel Road is a hiking path that starts in the north near the border with Lebanon and ends all the way at Eilat at the southern tip of Israel. It took Dafna and her friends two months to complete it. Ryan and I were blown away by some of the pictures, particularly of one overlooking the Valley of Megiddo.
At one point Dafna elaborated about how they had to sleep on a beach north of Tel Aviv near Netanya. A man staying at a hotel had seen the kids laying out on the beach and had offered them his hotel room for the night. As Dafna finished explaining this I quipped "Oh, so the guy thought you were homeless?"
Everyone started laughing. She tilted her head down and shook it.
"Sarcastic like Noah," she said.
"Have I mentioned how awesome he is?"
Dinner consisted of the same dishes we had had the night before at the Lanksner's with the exception of Eric's wife Maya bringing out apple pie and ice cream for dessert. Dinner finished at nearly 11:00. Ryan, Dafna, and I departed to go hang out with some of her friends again.
It was a clear night and the wind was blowing a cool breeze in a country where comfortable weather had thus far eluded us. We joined Dafna's friends behind Miri's house. They were sitting around talking and smoking "hookah." I politely declined and instead took them up on some tea. Ryan seemed to enjoy the hookah. After a few minutes, one of the girls we had met earlier moved her chair beside me. It was Shamam.
"So, I heard that you're not Jewish. I'm really interested to know why you're here," she asked skeptically.
"Drew, feel free to take this one," Ryan chimed from behind me.
"Alright, I enjoy getting this question if only for the mixture of reactions."
I told her right off the bat that I was Christian. That I wanted to learn Hebrew and Arabic. She pressed me a bit on the reasoning for this, but as always, I was careful not to get too specific with what I hoped to do after my time in Israel. I kept that portion vague. I then explained to Shamam about growing up in a pro-Israel household, about mom linking Judaism and Christianity together and teaching me the importance of Judaism to our faith, and how it was impossible for me to be a Christian without the Jews.
"But you think we're wrong don't you?" she asked pointedly.
"I think the old ways are no longer necessary because we have Jesus. It's not that you're wrong. The Jews are the Chosen people of God. I'm a Christian and I firmly believe this," I tried to explain.
"Which for a Christian means what?"
"It means that the Jews are the medium through which God has chosen to implement His will," I elaborated.
"Okay. That's cool. Can you tell me how you can tell if someone is a religious Christian?"
Wow, these are some seriously thought out questions. And come to think of it, I've never even thought about that one.
I stumbled for a moment in an attempt to gather my thoughts. The question, so simple and basic, was one I had never received before.
How did one determine that?
"Well," I started. "I suppose the only way to really tell is to get to know the person, to know their actions, and to see if they're living in Christ."
"So it's a feeling more than an act?"
"I suppose that's one way of putting it, but I wouldn't necessarily say that," I said with a chuckle. "It's not a 'feel good' thing. It's more of whether or not you can see Jesus in someone's life I suppose. We don't wear anything to signify whether we're more religious than someone else. But honestly, it's an extremely personal thing to be a Christian. It's between you and Jesus."
She nodded. I could tell she was pondering what I had told her. As the conversation continued, she told me she was attending Hebrew University in Jerusalem and studying biology and psychology and wanted to do research. She, like Noah the night before, seemed wary of how Israelis were perceived abroad. She was genuinely shocked when she heard that most Americans view Israel favorably and once again she referenced the election of Barack Obama as evidence that Americans no longer liked Israelis.
This is starting to become a theme. Do Israelis really think we no longer like them because of our President?
I did my best to placate her concerns. When we finished talking, she offered to show us around Jerusalem the next time we were there.
By 1:00 Ryan and I were back in our room at Dafna's house. We talked a lot about our day and the conversation I had had with Shamam.
"I thought you handled that just perfectly," Ryan said kindly.
"Eh, I don't. I didn't know how to respond when she asked how you know if someone is religious in Christianity. I should have explained to her that it's more of a relationship than a religion. I've never even thought about that before."
"It's all good, dude," Ryan said as he rolled over to go to sleep. "This has been awesome."
Yes it has. And it's doing a lot to reinforce my views.
As Ryan drifted off to sleep, I heard a thunderous sound from outside. I knew it couldn't have been a vehicle or train since none were operating on Rosh Hashana. I moved to the window and looked out over the neighborhood and the farmland beyond. The glow tails of four Israeli F-16's burned bright orange in the sky. They were accelerating fast and hard toward Gaza.
Well. Shana Tova (Happy New Year) to you too, Hamas.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Rosh Hashana: Part One
I had no idea what to expect when we arrived in Ashkelon. In fact, I wasn't exactly sure of the sequence of events that had brought me to the ancient port city in the first place. As far as I knew everything I had been told was little more than hearsay; hardly enough to stand up in a court of law.
Standing outside the train station on a breezy Friday afternoon, Ryan and I awaited our ride.
Earlier in the week, Ryan had been approached by an Israeli girl on campus who was looking for directions. Being the well-mannered individual that he is, Ryan decided that he would walk her to her destination. When it was all said and done, Ryan had been invited to join her and her family in Ashkelon for Rosh Hashana (the Jewish New Year). He was told to bring a friend.
"You're nervous."
"Yea, you know I didn't say anything on the train, but I'm really nervous," Ryan admitted.
"You didn't have to say anything for me to figure that out," I replied with a laugh. "It's going to be fine, dude. And if worse comes to worst and they hate us, then we can always call Joey and go stay with him."
Ryan shrugged and nodded. Joey, our fourth roommate, has been a rare fixture in our dorm for the past six weeks. Hailing from Philadelphia, his devil-may-care attitude has been good for more than a few laughs. He tested out of the Ulpan before coming over and has spent every night hitting the bars and the clubs. This of course has resulted in seeing Joey intermittently in just two stages of his life: preparation for a night out and recovery from a night out.
The thought of staying with Joey apparently did little to allay Ryan's fears. I shuffled my feet a little and popped my mp3 player into just one ear.
"Besides, they're going to love us," I added, trying to sound confident. "And they're really going to love me."
Ryan laughed.
This of course was probably a true statement. I've become like the circus sideshow for just about everyone over here. This is not to say that people don't take me seriously, but rather to suggest that whether I succeed or fail in a social setting is entirely irrelevant because either way it's amusing. The accent does all the work.
A white Suzuki pulled up on the primary road beside the Ashkelon train station. A tall, lean young man got out of the passenger side and waved at us.
"I think this is our ride," Ryan said.
We hefted our bags over our shoulders and approached. Ryan shook the man's hand.
"Shalom. I'm Ryan."
"Noah," he replied tersely.
"I'm Drew."
"Drew?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Yea."
"Noah," he replied. "Just throw your bags in the trunk."
Perfect English and his accent is pretty American 'neutral.' Interesting.
After throwing our bags in the trunk, we slid into the back seat and strapped in. In the driver's seat, a young girl with curly brownish-blond hair turned around and smiled.
"Hello Ryan!"
Rock on, Ryan. She's a looker.
"Hey Dafna. Thanks for inviting us."
"You're very welcome!" she said excitedly. "Hi, I'm Dafna."
"Drew. Thanks for..."
"Droos?" she asked quizzically, turning toward Noah in the passenger side.
"Drew," Noah said for me. "Like from Andrew, right?"
"Right."
"Oh, okay. We are very happy to have you join us."
The car wheeled away from the train station. Dafna hit the highway at a clip that would have put even Caroline Wren to shame. We zipped past two cars and accelerated down the ramp toward her house. For the first few minutes, Dafna engaged us in simple conversation about school. Her English was decent but she clearly had difficulties with pronunciation. Noah leaned back in his seat, utterly relaxed and calm as Dafna, being an all too typical female, chattered away and narrowly avoided collision.
Some things are universal.
"So how old are you, Noah?" Ryan asked.
"Twenty-two," he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Oh, I didn't know you had a brother the same age."
Dafna and Noah looked at each other. The first sign of what would come to be Noah's devilish sense of humor started to emerge in the form of a wry smile.
"He's not my brother," she responded. "My younger brother is twenty."
"So wait, you're not brother and sister."
Dafna is olive-skinned with brown eyes. Noah is lighter skinned with green eyes. Clearly they're not related which means...
"He's my boyfriend," she said with a laugh.
Ouch. Better change the subject.
"So Noah, are you in school, too?" I asked. I turned to glance at Ryan. He seemed to have taken that pretty well. I had no idea if he had any "other" aspirations for coming. If he did, they had just been hit by a 500-lb JDAM.
"No. I'm in the army. I've got a little over a year left."
"Noach's an officer in a combat unit," Dafna added, clearly proud.
Jackpot. We're going to be friends, Noah.
"That's awesome. Ryan did ROTC for a while," I proffered.
"Oh yeah?"
And from that point onward the conversation became very smooth. There were a few hiccups where Noah had to translate for Dafna what we were saying or had to give her a word in English that she was trying to say, but either did not know or could not properly enunciate. It turned out that Noah could have left the IDF a year earlier, but had opted to serve longer than necessary in light of the situation in Gaza and the looming Iranian threat.
These Israelis are different from those in Tel Aviv.
As we drove, I noticed that we were heading south of Ashkelon proper. Ashkelon was only ten miles from Gaza and had been the site of several Qassam and Katyusha rocket attacks over the past few years. The terrain was mostly farmland and small communities. It looked a great deal like rural Alabama. That is to say Alabama minus the ever present threat of radical jihadists.
The barbarians were boxed up in their cage just a few miles to the south.
We pulled into a small schoona (neighborhood) and took our third right. All the homes were similar in structure, but seemed very nice and well maintained. A massive metal gate ringed the entire neighborhood, separating it from the rolling countryside of coastal Israel and serving as a reminder of the first rule in Israel: security.
We unloaded our stuff and made our way inside. The house was immaculate in its cleanliness. Dafna's mother was ironing clothes in a small alcove to the right. Ryan and I had brought gifts, a bottle of wine and some chocolates. We introduced ourselves and gave them to her. She was a slender woman, very pretty, with the same curly hair as her daughter. I instantly could tell that she was pleasant and kind and would be nothing short of our mother for the next two days.
Dafna took us upstairs and showed us our room. Two twin beds had been prepared for us. We dumped our stuff down and ran in to Dafna's younger brother, Eliaz. He had a buzzed head and a scruffy, close-shaved beard. He was grinning as if he knew something we did not. I knew before he even spoke that his English was going to be hit or miss.
"Hello," he said, still smiling. "I'm Eliaz. Just...uh...just...put your bags in the...uh...room. I clean everything. It will be perfect."
When we walked back down the stairs, Dafna's father rolled into the main hallway. He was a solidly built man with a barrel for a chest. He wore glasses and was grinning as Ryan and I emerged. When I say that he rolled into the main hallway, I mean it quite literally. Dafna's father was paralyzed from the waist down.
"Hello!" he said. "I'm Samuel but...the uh...friends call me Schmuley. Please make yourselves at home. You're trapped here now, no?!"
His laugh bellowed throughout the entire house.
***
"You have one?" Eliaz asked me.
He pointed to the kippah on his head. I shook my head. Eliaz tilted his head and gestured his hands in an "it's all good" fashion. He jolted upstairs and grabbed a half dozen and brought them back to me. Ryan had bought one in Jerusalem weeks before and had thought to bring it with him. I was making no bones about the fact that I wasn't Jewish. Ryan seemed to prefer for people to assume that he was in order to avoid any unnecessary hangups.
I picked out a blue and white one (when in Israel...) and popped it on my head. I looked utterly ridiculous, but to refuse one on Shabat and Rosh Hashana in a clearly religious household and community would have been insulting. Mom taught me better manners than to insult one's hosts.
We followed Schmuley and Eliaz through the gate in their backyard toward the bet knesset (synagogue). As dusk set in and a cool breeze carried through the evening air, the streets became filled with people heading to synagogue. At sundown on Yom Shlishi (Friday), Shabat officially begins and does not end until sundown of the following day, except on Rosh Hashana, which doesn't end until sundown on Yom Rashon (Sunday).
We followed Eliaz into the synagogue and went upstairs. I caught a sneak peek of Orthodox Jews through the windows of a room in the bottom floor. They were fully draped, white clothes covering their head down to their waist. A massive shovar (ram's horn) sat on the table in the center.
Upstairs, Eliaz escorted us to an aisle at the back. Schmuley took the elevator to the second floor and joined us at the end of the pew. The first thing I noticed was that the entire room was filled with just men. The women were sitting in curtained-off areas on the right and left. Only the tops of their heads and their general silhouette could be seen from where we were seated.
Eliaz retrieved two books for Ryan and I. Akin to hymnals and written in Hebrew, these books were little more than hand decorations. I might as well have been holding a candlestick or a copy of Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations.
The service lasted little more than an hour and consisted of similar things one would find at an 11:00 Sunday service back home. A few traditional Shabat songs followed by a few Rosh Hashana songs and then a brief sermon by the local rabbi.
Aside from the kippahs and the white cloths draped around their shoulders, the men were dressed very similar to how men dress to go to church back home: slacks, a collared shirt, and a tie if one is so inclined. One fellow had a pink tie with a matching pink kippah. He was clearly representing the "metro" wing of the Jewish community. Don't knock it if you can rock it.
The story is the same for the women as well. All the girls had on Sunday dresses. The married women wore their head-coverings. This is a part of Jewish custom and denotes public devotion to the union of marriage and to the family. These coverings are not akin to the hijabs worn by Muslim women. Think more along the lines of a modernized "Rosie the Riveter."
Following the end of the Shabat service, we returned to the Lanksner house for the first of three Thanksgiving sized meals that we would endure over the weekend.
Dinner was absolutely phenomenal. We were joined by another family from just down the street. All in all there were twelve people. Five from the Lanksner household, five from the Avner household, plus Ryan and myself. Schmuley took his place at the head of the table and began the Rosh Hashana proceedings. Pamphlets were passed out to everyone so they would be able to follow along accordingly. It is a custom for the head of the household to start each "offering" during a Shabat dinner.
Ryan and I were able to discern most of the various dishes, all traditional, that we would be eating despite having to read it in Hebrew. Unfortunately I was unable to catch the meaning of each dish.
The first course of dinner consisted of bread dipped in honey (something done only on Rosh Hashana), pomegranate, figs, fish head (yes, a raw fish head), and apples. As the fish head came toward Ryan, I flashed Dafna an intensely skeptical glare. She laughed and said we didn't have to eat it. I was about to pass on it until Eric (the father of the Avner family) and Schmuley announced that anyone who eats the fish head is said to be a leader for his people.
Aw hell...
"On to victory it is then," I said as Ryan passed the fish my way.
Eliaz and Dafna were getting a hearty laugh as Ryan and I choked it down.
The second course consisted of salad, which in Israel is little more than diced tomatoes and cucumbers; two things that are horrendous enough by themselves much less together, a healthy serving of rice, more bread, and soup with almonds.
I was quickly learning that when you're the guest of honor in a Jewish household, going away hungry is considered a criminal offense.
By the time the third course came around, I was nearing the point of exploding. Aside from pouring everyone a glass of wine (L'chaim!), Mrs. Lanksner felt compelled to assault us with baked chicken, steak, and...wait for it...cow's tongue.
I will be the first to admit that I never thought I would ever dive into a pair of bovine lickers. After eating it, however, I can honestly say it is one of the most delicious things I've ever tasted. I apologize for anyone feeling weak in the stomach, but it is the truth. If you've never had it, I encourage you to give it a try.
As dinner entered into its third hour, Eric was explaining his job as an Israeli police officer and seemed genuinely intrigued that Ryan and I were in a program that required both Arabic and Hebrew. Eric was an extremely fit man for someone in his forties. Ryan would later tell me that he recognized Eric from the Shabat service earlier in the evening because of the Beretta 9mm situated at the small of his back. I didn't realize it at the time but Eric was authorized to wear the weapon into the synagogue should anything have gone "awry."
Security, security, security. That is life in Israel.
I complimented Mrs. Lanksner on her skills as a cook, but also lamented the fact that I now had to tell my mother than I've had a better home-cooked meal. She laughed and told me that I didn't have to let that one out of the bag.
Dessert came in the form of ice cream and coffee. Ryan and I looked like we had been forced to kill a puppy. I didn't think it was possible to be so full as to feel sad, but it was a point that both of us reached. Ryan ended dinner on a good note when he went into a secret passion of his: Fiddler on the Roof. This resulted in mass excitement that the two Ameriki knew anything at all about Fiddler on the Roof. Schmuley ate it up and revealed a secret love of his: Ray Charles. He started singing "Georgia On My Mind" and asked me if we sang it in Alabama.
Not since they started stealing our water, Mr. Lanksner.
Dinner lasted for a solid four hours. Afterward, Dafna, Ryan, and I met up with some of her friends on a street corner a few blocks down. Almost everyone in the town was out for a walk. Everyone had eaten more than they could handle it seemed.
We caught up with Dafna's boyfriend Noah, a girl named Miri (short for Miriam), and a friend of Noah's whom I will refer to as Gideon. There are two reasons for using an alias for Gideon. The first is that his real name is exceedingly hard to pronounce. The second is that he is a member of the Special Forces in an airborne unit.
The contrast between Noah and Gideon was like summer and winter. Noah is fair-skinned, green-eyed, very relaxed, and radiates a "Cool Hand Luke" aura. Gideon, on the other hand, is dark-skinned, brown-eyed, and fully energized. His English was basic, but being in a Special Operations unit demanded that his language skills include understanding and conversing in English.
Gideon seemed genuinely thrilled to meet both Ryan and I. He was grinning from ear-to-ear when I told him I spoke Hickbrew.
"Alabama?!" he exclaimed. He quickly turned to Noah, who had a smirk creeping onto his face. They both spoke in rapid-fire Hebrew. I picked up next-to-nothing.
"Ah! Alabama! You drink whiskey, yes?!" Gideon asked excitedly.
"We drink whiskey, shoot deer, ride dirt roads, watch cars go 'round in little circles, occasionally secede, and take pride in killin' terrorists." I deadpanned.
Noah threw his head back in laughter. Dafna was laughing but asking Noah for a translation. Ryan smirked and shook his head. Miri seemed more or less nonplussed. Gideon threw two thumbs up, beamed, and waved.
"Let's go then! Yalla!"
We had to sneak into Gideon's house. His parents were already asleep and as part of Shabat, observers were not allowed to make anything. That included tumblers of whiskey and plates of cheesecake.
Ryan abstained from the whiskey. I figured I'd give it a try. It wasn't much and I didn't want to besmirch Gideon's hospitality or dilute the already established stereotype I had worked so hard to craft.
Gideon blew up a beach ball that happened to be a globe of the world. He walked over and asked me to point out Alabama. I spun it and showed him approximately where Alabama was located since the state lines were missing.
"Boormingham?" he asked.
"Yea. Wow. Is that on there?"
He pointed to Birmingham which was written in Hebrew. I did a brief double take and nodded.
"Yea, that's Alabama. Kinda cool seeing that written in Ivrit."
Gideon gestured for us to take a seat in the living room. We discussed what we had experienced thus far, the recent death of Asaf Ramon, an Israeli fighter pilot who was the son of Ilan Ramon, the first Israeli astronaut. Ilan Ramon died in the 2003 Columbia disaster. Asaf, his son, and a pilot prodigy himself, was attempting to pull a maneuver that required pulling too many G's and had crashed over Hebron the previous week. Asaf's death has been the topic of many conversations throughout Israel over the past week or so.
As it approached 1:00 in the morning, we departed. Gideon promised we'd hang out the next day and told both Ryan and I that he enjoyed meeting us.
During the walk back home, Ryan and Dafna got caught up in a conversation which allowed Noah and I to talk a little more. Earlier in the day, Dafna had told us that Noah had been born in San Diego and had lived there until he was eight years old. He had then moved to Israel. This made Noah both an American and Israeli citizen.
We talked a bit about America and the contrast between there and here. Knowing he was both American and Israeli helped explain why I observed earlier in the day that his English exhibited a neutral tone.
"I've been meaning to ask you this. It's just something I've noticed since I've been here today. Dafna's father referred to Tel Aviv as "a fantasy world." Is there a divide between urban and rural Israelis?"
Noah grinned. It was one of bemusement. There was some slight hesitation, but it waned. I could tell that his cool demeanor masked a perspicacious mind.
"For sure. During the 2006 war in Lebanon and during Cast Lead in Gaza, you had Israeli citizens and soldiers getting chopped up along the borders and in the small towns. I mean here, too. Look around. It's all small villages and farms. But in Tel Aviv, they sit in their little coffee shops, ordering their white mocha lattes, feeling secure enough to dismiss their fellow citizens and to criticize every move we make," he replied.
Just like back home. The pretentious liberal elites on the East and West coasts. The hard-working and resentful conservatives in "fly-over" country.
Noah expounded more on Operation: Cast Lead. He had been training new soldiers during the three week pounding of the Gaza Strip last January. Most of his friends had been boots on the ground (including Gideon). He admitted that a lot of civilians had been killed and that unpleasant things had occurred, but as he articulated, what was the IDF supposed to do when Hamas was setting up rocket launchers in "retirement homes," booby-trapping pre-schools, and maintaining their headquarters in the basement of a hospital.
"Let me give you an example. You have some journalist take a picture at a precise moment. And it looks like that Israeli soldier is pointing his gun at that child with the rock in his hand. But if that picture had been taken a second before, you would have seen him shooing the kid away as he was beginning to turn around. If the picture had been taken a second later, you would have seen the soldier walking away. They're masters of propaganda."
"The same stuff is happening in Afghanistan and Iraq. There was footage of a Marine executing a jihadi in a mosque during the Battle of Fallujah. The media wanted to bury this Marine underneath the prison. They offered it as evidence of a war crime. It turned out that the jihadi was reaching for a grenade and was wearing a suicide belt," I said in disgust. "He was acquitted of any wrongdoing, but it was too late. It was already ingrained that he was a bad guy and that Americans were committing war crimes."
"Exactly. But it's different here in Israel," Noah continued. "Because this is the battlefield. Our homes. Our families."
"Israel has friends. Don't ever forget that," I replied.
"Not many. And for how long?"
"Well, I'm not going to discuss American politics. It's not my place to do that right now. But I will tell you that I worked for Senator McCain."
Noah walked a few steps ahead of me and turned around, his kippah standing firm despite the speed of his turn. A brief smirk emerged at the corner of his mouth, but quickly faded away.
"Then I will tell you that I voted for the wrong man last November," he said as he glanced down at the sidewalk. "I'm sorry."
Me too...
Standing outside the train station on a breezy Friday afternoon, Ryan and I awaited our ride.
Earlier in the week, Ryan had been approached by an Israeli girl on campus who was looking for directions. Being the well-mannered individual that he is, Ryan decided that he would walk her to her destination. When it was all said and done, Ryan had been invited to join her and her family in Ashkelon for Rosh Hashana (the Jewish New Year). He was told to bring a friend.
"You're nervous."
"Yea, you know I didn't say anything on the train, but I'm really nervous," Ryan admitted.
"You didn't have to say anything for me to figure that out," I replied with a laugh. "It's going to be fine, dude. And if worse comes to worst and they hate us, then we can always call Joey and go stay with him."
Ryan shrugged and nodded. Joey, our fourth roommate, has been a rare fixture in our dorm for the past six weeks. Hailing from Philadelphia, his devil-may-care attitude has been good for more than a few laughs. He tested out of the Ulpan before coming over and has spent every night hitting the bars and the clubs. This of course has resulted in seeing Joey intermittently in just two stages of his life: preparation for a night out and recovery from a night out.
The thought of staying with Joey apparently did little to allay Ryan's fears. I shuffled my feet a little and popped my mp3 player into just one ear.
"Besides, they're going to love us," I added, trying to sound confident. "And they're really going to love me."
Ryan laughed.
This of course was probably a true statement. I've become like the circus sideshow for just about everyone over here. This is not to say that people don't take me seriously, but rather to suggest that whether I succeed or fail in a social setting is entirely irrelevant because either way it's amusing. The accent does all the work.
A white Suzuki pulled up on the primary road beside the Ashkelon train station. A tall, lean young man got out of the passenger side and waved at us.
"I think this is our ride," Ryan said.
We hefted our bags over our shoulders and approached. Ryan shook the man's hand.
"Shalom. I'm Ryan."
"Noah," he replied tersely.
"I'm Drew."
"Drew?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Yea."
"Noah," he replied. "Just throw your bags in the trunk."
Perfect English and his accent is pretty American 'neutral.' Interesting.
After throwing our bags in the trunk, we slid into the back seat and strapped in. In the driver's seat, a young girl with curly brownish-blond hair turned around and smiled.
"Hello Ryan!"
Rock on, Ryan. She's a looker.
"Hey Dafna. Thanks for inviting us."
"You're very welcome!" she said excitedly. "Hi, I'm Dafna."
"Drew. Thanks for..."
"Droos?" she asked quizzically, turning toward Noah in the passenger side.
"Drew," Noah said for me. "Like from Andrew, right?"
"Right."
"Oh, okay. We are very happy to have you join us."
The car wheeled away from the train station. Dafna hit the highway at a clip that would have put even Caroline Wren to shame. We zipped past two cars and accelerated down the ramp toward her house. For the first few minutes, Dafna engaged us in simple conversation about school. Her English was decent but she clearly had difficulties with pronunciation. Noah leaned back in his seat, utterly relaxed and calm as Dafna, being an all too typical female, chattered away and narrowly avoided collision.
Some things are universal.
"So how old are you, Noah?" Ryan asked.
"Twenty-two," he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.
"Oh, I didn't know you had a brother the same age."
Dafna and Noah looked at each other. The first sign of what would come to be Noah's devilish sense of humor started to emerge in the form of a wry smile.
"He's not my brother," she responded. "My younger brother is twenty."
"So wait, you're not brother and sister."
Dafna is olive-skinned with brown eyes. Noah is lighter skinned with green eyes. Clearly they're not related which means...
"He's my boyfriend," she said with a laugh.
Ouch. Better change the subject.
"So Noah, are you in school, too?" I asked. I turned to glance at Ryan. He seemed to have taken that pretty well. I had no idea if he had any "other" aspirations for coming. If he did, they had just been hit by a 500-lb JDAM.
"No. I'm in the army. I've got a little over a year left."
"Noach's an officer in a combat unit," Dafna added, clearly proud.
Jackpot. We're going to be friends, Noah.
"That's awesome. Ryan did ROTC for a while," I proffered.
"Oh yeah?"
And from that point onward the conversation became very smooth. There were a few hiccups where Noah had to translate for Dafna what we were saying or had to give her a word in English that she was trying to say, but either did not know or could not properly enunciate. It turned out that Noah could have left the IDF a year earlier, but had opted to serve longer than necessary in light of the situation in Gaza and the looming Iranian threat.
These Israelis are different from those in Tel Aviv.
As we drove, I noticed that we were heading south of Ashkelon proper. Ashkelon was only ten miles from Gaza and had been the site of several Qassam and Katyusha rocket attacks over the past few years. The terrain was mostly farmland and small communities. It looked a great deal like rural Alabama. That is to say Alabama minus the ever present threat of radical jihadists.
The barbarians were boxed up in their cage just a few miles to the south.
We pulled into a small schoona (neighborhood) and took our third right. All the homes were similar in structure, but seemed very nice and well maintained. A massive metal gate ringed the entire neighborhood, separating it from the rolling countryside of coastal Israel and serving as a reminder of the first rule in Israel: security.
We unloaded our stuff and made our way inside. The house was immaculate in its cleanliness. Dafna's mother was ironing clothes in a small alcove to the right. Ryan and I had brought gifts, a bottle of wine and some chocolates. We introduced ourselves and gave them to her. She was a slender woman, very pretty, with the same curly hair as her daughter. I instantly could tell that she was pleasant and kind and would be nothing short of our mother for the next two days.
Dafna took us upstairs and showed us our room. Two twin beds had been prepared for us. We dumped our stuff down and ran in to Dafna's younger brother, Eliaz. He had a buzzed head and a scruffy, close-shaved beard. He was grinning as if he knew something we did not. I knew before he even spoke that his English was going to be hit or miss.
"Hello," he said, still smiling. "I'm Eliaz. Just...uh...just...put your bags in the...uh...room. I clean everything. It will be perfect."
When we walked back down the stairs, Dafna's father rolled into the main hallway. He was a solidly built man with a barrel for a chest. He wore glasses and was grinning as Ryan and I emerged. When I say that he rolled into the main hallway, I mean it quite literally. Dafna's father was paralyzed from the waist down.
"Hello!" he said. "I'm Samuel but...the uh...friends call me Schmuley. Please make yourselves at home. You're trapped here now, no?!"
His laugh bellowed throughout the entire house.
***
"You have one?" Eliaz asked me.
He pointed to the kippah on his head. I shook my head. Eliaz tilted his head and gestured his hands in an "it's all good" fashion. He jolted upstairs and grabbed a half dozen and brought them back to me. Ryan had bought one in Jerusalem weeks before and had thought to bring it with him. I was making no bones about the fact that I wasn't Jewish. Ryan seemed to prefer for people to assume that he was in order to avoid any unnecessary hangups.
I picked out a blue and white one (when in Israel...) and popped it on my head. I looked utterly ridiculous, but to refuse one on Shabat and Rosh Hashana in a clearly religious household and community would have been insulting. Mom taught me better manners than to insult one's hosts.
We followed Schmuley and Eliaz through the gate in their backyard toward the bet knesset (synagogue). As dusk set in and a cool breeze carried through the evening air, the streets became filled with people heading to synagogue. At sundown on Yom Shlishi (Friday), Shabat officially begins and does not end until sundown of the following day, except on Rosh Hashana, which doesn't end until sundown on Yom Rashon (Sunday).
We followed Eliaz into the synagogue and went upstairs. I caught a sneak peek of Orthodox Jews through the windows of a room in the bottom floor. They were fully draped, white clothes covering their head down to their waist. A massive shovar (ram's horn) sat on the table in the center.
Upstairs, Eliaz escorted us to an aisle at the back. Schmuley took the elevator to the second floor and joined us at the end of the pew. The first thing I noticed was that the entire room was filled with just men. The women were sitting in curtained-off areas on the right and left. Only the tops of their heads and their general silhouette could be seen from where we were seated.
Eliaz retrieved two books for Ryan and I. Akin to hymnals and written in Hebrew, these books were little more than hand decorations. I might as well have been holding a candlestick or a copy of Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations.
The service lasted little more than an hour and consisted of similar things one would find at an 11:00 Sunday service back home. A few traditional Shabat songs followed by a few Rosh Hashana songs and then a brief sermon by the local rabbi.
Aside from the kippahs and the white cloths draped around their shoulders, the men were dressed very similar to how men dress to go to church back home: slacks, a collared shirt, and a tie if one is so inclined. One fellow had a pink tie with a matching pink kippah. He was clearly representing the "metro" wing of the Jewish community. Don't knock it if you can rock it.
The story is the same for the women as well. All the girls had on Sunday dresses. The married women wore their head-coverings. This is a part of Jewish custom and denotes public devotion to the union of marriage and to the family. These coverings are not akin to the hijabs worn by Muslim women. Think more along the lines of a modernized "Rosie the Riveter."
Following the end of the Shabat service, we returned to the Lanksner house for the first of three Thanksgiving sized meals that we would endure over the weekend.
Dinner was absolutely phenomenal. We were joined by another family from just down the street. All in all there were twelve people. Five from the Lanksner household, five from the Avner household, plus Ryan and myself. Schmuley took his place at the head of the table and began the Rosh Hashana proceedings. Pamphlets were passed out to everyone so they would be able to follow along accordingly. It is a custom for the head of the household to start each "offering" during a Shabat dinner.
Ryan and I were able to discern most of the various dishes, all traditional, that we would be eating despite having to read it in Hebrew. Unfortunately I was unable to catch the meaning of each dish.
The first course of dinner consisted of bread dipped in honey (something done only on Rosh Hashana), pomegranate, figs, fish head (yes, a raw fish head), and apples. As the fish head came toward Ryan, I flashed Dafna an intensely skeptical glare. She laughed and said we didn't have to eat it. I was about to pass on it until Eric (the father of the Avner family) and Schmuley announced that anyone who eats the fish head is said to be a leader for his people.
Aw hell...
"On to victory it is then," I said as Ryan passed the fish my way.
Eliaz and Dafna were getting a hearty laugh as Ryan and I choked it down.
The second course consisted of salad, which in Israel is little more than diced tomatoes and cucumbers; two things that are horrendous enough by themselves much less together, a healthy serving of rice, more bread, and soup with almonds.
I was quickly learning that when you're the guest of honor in a Jewish household, going away hungry is considered a criminal offense.
By the time the third course came around, I was nearing the point of exploding. Aside from pouring everyone a glass of wine (L'chaim!), Mrs. Lanksner felt compelled to assault us with baked chicken, steak, and...wait for it...cow's tongue.
I will be the first to admit that I never thought I would ever dive into a pair of bovine lickers. After eating it, however, I can honestly say it is one of the most delicious things I've ever tasted. I apologize for anyone feeling weak in the stomach, but it is the truth. If you've never had it, I encourage you to give it a try.
As dinner entered into its third hour, Eric was explaining his job as an Israeli police officer and seemed genuinely intrigued that Ryan and I were in a program that required both Arabic and Hebrew. Eric was an extremely fit man for someone in his forties. Ryan would later tell me that he recognized Eric from the Shabat service earlier in the evening because of the Beretta 9mm situated at the small of his back. I didn't realize it at the time but Eric was authorized to wear the weapon into the synagogue should anything have gone "awry."
Security, security, security. That is life in Israel.
I complimented Mrs. Lanksner on her skills as a cook, but also lamented the fact that I now had to tell my mother than I've had a better home-cooked meal. She laughed and told me that I didn't have to let that one out of the bag.
Dessert came in the form of ice cream and coffee. Ryan and I looked like we had been forced to kill a puppy. I didn't think it was possible to be so full as to feel sad, but it was a point that both of us reached. Ryan ended dinner on a good note when he went into a secret passion of his: Fiddler on the Roof. This resulted in mass excitement that the two Ameriki knew anything at all about Fiddler on the Roof. Schmuley ate it up and revealed a secret love of his: Ray Charles. He started singing "Georgia On My Mind" and asked me if we sang it in Alabama.
Not since they started stealing our water, Mr. Lanksner.
Dinner lasted for a solid four hours. Afterward, Dafna, Ryan, and I met up with some of her friends on a street corner a few blocks down. Almost everyone in the town was out for a walk. Everyone had eaten more than they could handle it seemed.
We caught up with Dafna's boyfriend Noah, a girl named Miri (short for Miriam), and a friend of Noah's whom I will refer to as Gideon. There are two reasons for using an alias for Gideon. The first is that his real name is exceedingly hard to pronounce. The second is that he is a member of the Special Forces in an airborne unit.
The contrast between Noah and Gideon was like summer and winter. Noah is fair-skinned, green-eyed, very relaxed, and radiates a "Cool Hand Luke" aura. Gideon, on the other hand, is dark-skinned, brown-eyed, and fully energized. His English was basic, but being in a Special Operations unit demanded that his language skills include understanding and conversing in English.
Gideon seemed genuinely thrilled to meet both Ryan and I. He was grinning from ear-to-ear when I told him I spoke Hickbrew.
"Alabama?!" he exclaimed. He quickly turned to Noah, who had a smirk creeping onto his face. They both spoke in rapid-fire Hebrew. I picked up next-to-nothing.
"Ah! Alabama! You drink whiskey, yes?!" Gideon asked excitedly.
"We drink whiskey, shoot deer, ride dirt roads, watch cars go 'round in little circles, occasionally secede, and take pride in killin' terrorists." I deadpanned.
Noah threw his head back in laughter. Dafna was laughing but asking Noah for a translation. Ryan smirked and shook his head. Miri seemed more or less nonplussed. Gideon threw two thumbs up, beamed, and waved.
"Let's go then! Yalla!"
We had to sneak into Gideon's house. His parents were already asleep and as part of Shabat, observers were not allowed to make anything. That included tumblers of whiskey and plates of cheesecake.
Ryan abstained from the whiskey. I figured I'd give it a try. It wasn't much and I didn't want to besmirch Gideon's hospitality or dilute the already established stereotype I had worked so hard to craft.
Gideon blew up a beach ball that happened to be a globe of the world. He walked over and asked me to point out Alabama. I spun it and showed him approximately where Alabama was located since the state lines were missing.
"Boormingham?" he asked.
"Yea. Wow. Is that on there?"
He pointed to Birmingham which was written in Hebrew. I did a brief double take and nodded.
"Yea, that's Alabama. Kinda cool seeing that written in Ivrit."
Gideon gestured for us to take a seat in the living room. We discussed what we had experienced thus far, the recent death of Asaf Ramon, an Israeli fighter pilot who was the son of Ilan Ramon, the first Israeli astronaut. Ilan Ramon died in the 2003 Columbia disaster. Asaf, his son, and a pilot prodigy himself, was attempting to pull a maneuver that required pulling too many G's and had crashed over Hebron the previous week. Asaf's death has been the topic of many conversations throughout Israel over the past week or so.
As it approached 1:00 in the morning, we departed. Gideon promised we'd hang out the next day and told both Ryan and I that he enjoyed meeting us.
During the walk back home, Ryan and Dafna got caught up in a conversation which allowed Noah and I to talk a little more. Earlier in the day, Dafna had told us that Noah had been born in San Diego and had lived there until he was eight years old. He had then moved to Israel. This made Noah both an American and Israeli citizen.
We talked a bit about America and the contrast between there and here. Knowing he was both American and Israeli helped explain why I observed earlier in the day that his English exhibited a neutral tone.
"I've been meaning to ask you this. It's just something I've noticed since I've been here today. Dafna's father referred to Tel Aviv as "a fantasy world." Is there a divide between urban and rural Israelis?"
Noah grinned. It was one of bemusement. There was some slight hesitation, but it waned. I could tell that his cool demeanor masked a perspicacious mind.
"For sure. During the 2006 war in Lebanon and during Cast Lead in Gaza, you had Israeli citizens and soldiers getting chopped up along the borders and in the small towns. I mean here, too. Look around. It's all small villages and farms. But in Tel Aviv, they sit in their little coffee shops, ordering their white mocha lattes, feeling secure enough to dismiss their fellow citizens and to criticize every move we make," he replied.
Just like back home. The pretentious liberal elites on the East and West coasts. The hard-working and resentful conservatives in "fly-over" country.
Noah expounded more on Operation: Cast Lead. He had been training new soldiers during the three week pounding of the Gaza Strip last January. Most of his friends had been boots on the ground (including Gideon). He admitted that a lot of civilians had been killed and that unpleasant things had occurred, but as he articulated, what was the IDF supposed to do when Hamas was setting up rocket launchers in "retirement homes," booby-trapping pre-schools, and maintaining their headquarters in the basement of a hospital.
"Let me give you an example. You have some journalist take a picture at a precise moment. And it looks like that Israeli soldier is pointing his gun at that child with the rock in his hand. But if that picture had been taken a second before, you would have seen him shooing the kid away as he was beginning to turn around. If the picture had been taken a second later, you would have seen the soldier walking away. They're masters of propaganda."
"The same stuff is happening in Afghanistan and Iraq. There was footage of a Marine executing a jihadi in a mosque during the Battle of Fallujah. The media wanted to bury this Marine underneath the prison. They offered it as evidence of a war crime. It turned out that the jihadi was reaching for a grenade and was wearing a suicide belt," I said in disgust. "He was acquitted of any wrongdoing, but it was too late. It was already ingrained that he was a bad guy and that Americans were committing war crimes."
"Exactly. But it's different here in Israel," Noah continued. "Because this is the battlefield. Our homes. Our families."
"Israel has friends. Don't ever forget that," I replied.
"Not many. And for how long?"
"Well, I'm not going to discuss American politics. It's not my place to do that right now. But I will tell you that I worked for Senator McCain."
Noah walked a few steps ahead of me and turned around, his kippah standing firm despite the speed of his turn. A brief smirk emerged at the corner of his mouth, but quickly faded away.
"Then I will tell you that I voted for the wrong man last November," he said as he glanced down at the sidewalk. "I'm sorry."
Me too...
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
That Was Just The Prologue
With only two days left in the Ulpan, I figured I'd provide a different type of update. The next forty-eight hours will be critical to my time here in Tel Aviv. They will determine not only my aptitude for picking up Hebrew but also serve as a litmus test for whether or not I have what it takes to succeed in this extremely difficult program.
Coming back from doing laundry last night, Dustin and I ran into one of our teachers, Hava, as she was coming back from errands. I had no idea that Hava actually lived in a house just a block away from our dorms. She was nice enough to invite Dustin and I inside and offer us fruit and water. We spent the better part of two hours discussing our experience, the class, Hava's family, and Israel. It was fantastic and felt like a great way to wind down the seven weeks of the Ulpan.
After seven weeks in Israel, it feels as if I've already spent a lifetime over here. This is not a negative response but rather a positive one. There have been many moments during my time here that I've felt as if I've been here my entire life. It's a strange phenomenon to behold and one that at times has left me feeling uneasy as I attempt to hold on to bits and pieces of home.
Needless to say, I've gotten a few questions about the other folks in the program and their thoughts on things. I'm not the only one here with a blog. There are several others who have been keeping a journal of their time in Israel. Dustin has been keeping one over at dustincarmack.blogspot.com and has plenty of corn-fed, redneck, inbred insights on things.
In fact, I want to provide an all-too brief rundown of the friends and folks I interact with on a daily basis:
Ignoring my slightly homosexual posture in this photo and Dustin's somewhat freakish pedophile-smile he has going on, this is Delta Charlie. He slays deer, eats meat, played college football for Truman State, votes Republican, and worked for the Heritage Foundation. He's also a favorite practice dummy for Splinter during Krav Maga sessions.
Ignore the Harry Potter scar on his forehead. He came like that.
Chris during Dominique's "surprise birthday party." He's working with Save A Child's Heart, going to medical school, and hails from the beaches of San Diego. Few people have the ability to interject a cutting one liner like Chris. He is also an extremely deep thinker and can insert religious, political, and social philosophy into a conversation smoother than anyone else I've ever met.
He's also the only person I know to have slept on the roof of a five story dorm for two weeks straight. In fact, he's the only person I know capable of actually pulling it off.
He's insane ( <-- Ron Paul fan).
We approve.
Ryan, one of my three roommates, is the glue that keeps us all together. The kid is as solid a person as one will ever find. He is a deep-thinking Christian originally from Iowa, but most recently from Seattle. I'm extremely fortunate to have Ryan around.
He's in the MAMEH program with Dustin and I. And there have been more than a few times where he has been the only person around to keep me grounded and focused.
He's a machine. Pure and simple.
Stefan is quite possibly the only living Frenchman alive who wouldn't immediately surrender in a fight. Then again, he is half-Irish so that probably explains it. Always smiling and up for a good time, Stefan is around for one year and is working on getting into law school. He wants to be an international lawyer.
And like me, he also wants to be Jack Bauer.
He's also a better dresser than Cody which is flat-out impressive.
The only socialist I will ever call my friend is Dominique Talbot aka The Dominator aka The Quebec Cowboy. He's a phenomenal roommate and cook (alongside Ryan). I was utterly shocked to find that I would be living with a French-Canadian. It has turned out to be one of the best things to happen over here.
Dom has a great sense of humor and an impeccable drive to succeed. He's also very competitive which makes things pretty entertaining. I've pointed out that his competitive nature exhibits a capitalist streak in him. He gets a good laugh out of that.
Dom is also in the Master's program and wants to be a journalist.
There are many others here. And I will eventually introduce them as time goes by. However, night is falling and I've got to start preparing for Thursday's exam.
Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, begins this Friday. I plan to post about it before I leave for the Golan Heights next week. After this weekend, posts will be infrequent. We're planning on hiking and camping through the Golan and spending time diving down in the Sinai for most of the month-long break.
We're going to need it.
The hard part hasn't even begun.
Coming back from doing laundry last night, Dustin and I ran into one of our teachers, Hava, as she was coming back from errands. I had no idea that Hava actually lived in a house just a block away from our dorms. She was nice enough to invite Dustin and I inside and offer us fruit and water. We spent the better part of two hours discussing our experience, the class, Hava's family, and Israel. It was fantastic and felt like a great way to wind down the seven weeks of the Ulpan.
After seven weeks in Israel, it feels as if I've already spent a lifetime over here. This is not a negative response but rather a positive one. There have been many moments during my time here that I've felt as if I've been here my entire life. It's a strange phenomenon to behold and one that at times has left me feeling uneasy as I attempt to hold on to bits and pieces of home.
Needless to say, I've gotten a few questions about the other folks in the program and their thoughts on things. I'm not the only one here with a blog. There are several others who have been keeping a journal of their time in Israel. Dustin has been keeping one over at dustincarmack.blogspot.com and has plenty of corn-fed, redneck, inbred insights on things.
In fact, I want to provide an all-too brief rundown of the friends and folks I interact with on a daily basis:
Ignoring my slightly homosexual posture in this photo and Dustin's somewhat freakish pedophile-smile he has going on, this is Delta Charlie. He slays deer, eats meat, played college football for Truman State, votes Republican, and worked for the Heritage Foundation. He's also a favorite practice dummy for Splinter during Krav Maga sessions.
Ignore the Harry Potter scar on his forehead. He came like that.
Chris during Dominique's "surprise birthday party." He's working with Save A Child's Heart, going to medical school, and hails from the beaches of San Diego. Few people have the ability to interject a cutting one liner like Chris. He is also an extremely deep thinker and can insert religious, political, and social philosophy into a conversation smoother than anyone else I've ever met.
He's also the only person I know to have slept on the roof of a five story dorm for two weeks straight. In fact, he's the only person I know capable of actually pulling it off.
He's insane ( <-- Ron Paul fan).
We approve.
Ryan, one of my three roommates, is the glue that keeps us all together. The kid is as solid a person as one will ever find. He is a deep-thinking Christian originally from Iowa, but most recently from Seattle. I'm extremely fortunate to have Ryan around.
He's in the MAMEH program with Dustin and I. And there have been more than a few times where he has been the only person around to keep me grounded and focused.
He's a machine. Pure and simple.
Stefan is quite possibly the only living Frenchman alive who wouldn't immediately surrender in a fight. Then again, he is half-Irish so that probably explains it. Always smiling and up for a good time, Stefan is around for one year and is working on getting into law school. He wants to be an international lawyer.
And like me, he also wants to be Jack Bauer.
He's also a better dresser than Cody which is flat-out impressive.
The only socialist I will ever call my friend is Dominique Talbot aka The Dominator aka The Quebec Cowboy. He's a phenomenal roommate and cook (alongside Ryan). I was utterly shocked to find that I would be living with a French-Canadian. It has turned out to be one of the best things to happen over here.
Dom has a great sense of humor and an impeccable drive to succeed. He's also very competitive which makes things pretty entertaining. I've pointed out that his competitive nature exhibits a capitalist streak in him. He gets a good laugh out of that.
Dom is also in the Master's program and wants to be a journalist.
There are many others here. And I will eventually introduce them as time goes by. However, night is falling and I've got to start preparing for Thursday's exam.
Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year, begins this Friday. I plan to post about it before I leave for the Golan Heights next week. After this weekend, posts will be infrequent. We're planning on hiking and camping through the Golan and spending time diving down in the Sinai for most of the month-long break.
We're going to need it.
The hard part hasn't even begun.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The Crazy Train
We broke into a sprint almost as soon as we slipped through the dorm's side gate. It was 2:40 in the afternoon on Friday. We had twenty minutes to get to the train station, buy our ticket, and board before the trains stopped running for Shabat (Sabbath).
The good news was that we had become accustomed to the Middle Eastern heat, so running did not present the same difficulties it did a month earlier. The bad news was that we had absolutely no idea where the train station was actually located.
"Sandals were a bad choice," I said between shortened breaths.
Dustin continued chugging along. Both of us had our backpacks. They were filled with enough supplies for a single day's trip. I kept trying to tighten my straps as I ran. The only thing that resulted from this futile endeavor was a realization as to the limits of my dexterity.
We turned left as soon as we passed the last building on Tel Aviv University's campus and trudged our way uphill. Halfway up we came to a stop to catch our breath. I glanced down at my watch. 2:45 p.m.
We passed a trio of Israelis sitting at a bus stop. They glanced at the two of us curiously. With rivers of sweat pouring down our face and a few well-timed English swears, I'm sure we succeeded in breaking the monotony of their day.
At the top of the hill we came to a crossroads. Off to the left was a road running back toward Ramat Aviv. Off to the right was the ramp onto the main highway. No train station in sight. We had been told it was up this road and was somewhere in the general vicinity. It would not have been the first time we had been misinformed. Misinformation was as common as an M-16.
"You wanna try le...?"
"Dustin!" a heavily accented voice bellowed from behind us.
We spun around to find Peter, Dustin's Dutch roommate, sprinting in the other direction and pointing. What was he doing all the way up here? And how in the camel's hump had he caught up with us?
"Train is this vay!"
You strange, glorious little man!
Exchanging brief looks of confusion, we spun on our heels and sprinted back to the right. A group of stairs to the left of the interstate ramp soon gave way to the domed structure of the train station. It was positioned well below eye level at the base of the hill we stood atop.
"Peter, you're awesome!" Dustin said first.
"Thanks Pete!" I followed.
We bolted toward the stairs, each of us giving Peter a high-five in the process. I glanced at my watch again. 2:50 p.m.
"Our guardian angel: The Flying Dutchman!"
I heard Dustin laugh. "I think we can stop running," Dustin suggested.
"Agreed."
The train station was all but empty. When we entered, a lone woman was purchasing a ticket and asking where the restroom was located. I was pleasantly surprised that I was able to pick up the conversation in Hebrew. Score one for the Ulpan.
"Two tickets for Haifa," Dustin said, wiping sweat off his brow.
She ran our cards and handed us our tickets, completely disinterested in the amount of energy we had expended to make it on time. I tried to read it but couldn't figure out which platform we were supposed to be on.
"You have any idea where we should go?" I asked.
"Do I ever?" Dustin quipped in reply.
We soon discovered that the first platform was wrong. I asked a construction worker where we needed to go to get on the train to Haifa. He pointed to the other side and smiled.
Yea. Yea. Stupid tiyerim (tourists). Whatever.
We hustled to the other side and took a seat on a bench in the shade. A few other Israelis, likely going home for the weekend after a long week of work in Tel Aviv, milled around beside us. A cool breeze began to dissipate some of the sweat. Dustin whipped out a bottle and went to town on its contents.
"We have no idea what we're doing," I observed.
"Nope."
"We're in a foreign country where we can barely speak the language. We're about to take a train to a city we've never been to before. And we have no place to sleep and no idea how we're going to get back."
"That's right," Dustin affirmed.
"At this point, I think denying our awesomeness would be wrong."
The train whisked up behind us. The construction worker on the other side of the platform whistled at us and pointed to the train. I threw up a hand in gratitude and we boarded.
Lord, have mercy on us. For we are young and exceedingly silly creatures.
***
We sat near the back of the train in a pair of fold-out seats. On our way to our seats, we passed dozens of IDF and IAF personnel. They were all going home for the weekend and looked absolutely exhausted. Young men and women no more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, the IDF was both an amazing and painful entity to observe. In Israel, military service is compulsory. Men serve a minimum of three years. Women serve a minimum of two years. Conscripted in the prime of their life, these young Israelis are deployed to the occupied territories and the border areas to defend their home on their own soil.
As Americans, we're used to the concept of defending our homeland by taking it to the enemy "over there." Battles have not been waged on our own ground in quite some time. Thank God.
Imagine a scenario in which a family in Birmingham had to send their eighteen year-old daughter, fresh out of high school, to boot camp where she would be trained and then deployed for two years to Mobile to defend Alabama from attacks or an invasion from Mississippi. This is the reality of Israel.
After observing the IDF, I have found that the thing that strikes me the most is not necessarily how young they are or how unfortunate it is that they are surrounded on all sides by their enemies, but rather how frustrating it must be to be just a few hours away from your family and your home, to be so near to them but also so very far away. And to possess the knowledge that you could just hop on a bus and be home before nightfall, to know that your home, for all intents and purposes, is the battlefield.
A young Israeli girl, around ten or eleven years old, sat across from us. She looked content and happy, probably excited for a weekend trip to the beaches of Haifa. Beyond her, another Israeli girl, just a few years older, slept fitfully. She was dressed in her IDF greens, her arms hugging her M-16. The contrast was striking. I looked back at the younger girl.
In a few years, that will be her reality. This is the price Israelis pay for peace.
Dustin had received a Lonely Planet guide to Israel and the Palestinian Territories from a fellow co-worker at Heritage Foundation and was putting it to good use. Haifa was the third-largest city in Israel and had a substantial Israeli-Arab mixture as opposed to Tel Aviv.
We sifted through the book hunting down information on lodging and food. Conversation was comprised of school, our upcoming break from school, and our fellow Ulpan students. Initially there was supposed to be five of us going to Haifa, but Chris, Dominique, and Stefan had all bailed for various reasons.
The trip took about an hour. We listened to the conductor make his announcements in Hebrew and English for our stops. Both of us were able to read the electronic tracking board with success and we departed at the third and final stop in Haifa.
Exiting the train station, we found our bearings. We were presently near the massive port where a substantial number of imports were brought in to Israel. The weather was brisk and cooler than it had been in Tel Aviv. It was no warmer than eighty-five with a steady breeze coming in off the port.
Dustin and I began our trek, heading east toward what looked to be the commercial part of town. We had read about a place called the Port Inn Guest House in Dustin's Lonely Planet guide. All we knew was to go east and look for Yafo Road. Simple enough.
As we strolled past closed stores and restaurants, traffic was relatively light. Clearly Shabat had already gone into effect for most of the port area. This of course meant that public transportation wasn't running. We crossed a couple of streets and maneuvered our way south. A couple of Israeli girls were doing some window shopping. We decided to risk humiliation and communicate with them in Hebrew to find the mythical Port Inn.
"Sleeha, aten medebrot Anglit? Ani rahq medeber ksaht Ivrit." (<--Not as impressive as it may look or sound.)
I asked them if they spoke English. They laughed and in perfect English responded with a "Yes."
"We're looking for the Port Inn hostel," I said.
"It's on 34 Yafo Road," Dustin added.
"Any idea?"
One of the girls turned around and looked at the building across from us. The other seemed to be a little too interested in us. I should point out that Israelis like Americans as it is, but Israeli women really like American men, particularly if they can speak some Hebrew and especially if they don't look Jewish. Dustin and I pretty much fit the profile.
It is a bit strange. In Israel, we are the ones who get to use our "appeal" to get what we want. It's a nice change of pace from back home.
The other girl turned back toward us.
"Well, you're on Yafo Road. That building over there is 19 Yafo Road. So it's probably about a hundred feet that way."
Or maybe she is starting at us because we're just retarded.
"Uh. Toda," was all I could manage.
The two girls laughed and continued about their business, speaking in rapid fire Hebrew that undoubtedly was unflattering to our perceived intellect.
Dustin and I worked our way down the street. He noted my thickly-accented Hickbrew and suggested we act lost everywhere we went so people would have pity on us. I didn't think acting lost would be too difficult a task.
Sure enough, ahead and to our right was a sign reading "Port Inn Guest House." The woman manning the desk took our information and asked to see our passports. That's going to be difficult with it being in my closet back in Tel Aviv.
Dustin didn't have his passport either. It seemed like all was for naught until the woman asked if we had a copy of the passport. A light bulb flickered on in my head and I opened up my wallet. Inside, folded neatly in the middle pocket was a copy of my passport that Mom had made for me prior to my departure for New York.
I yanked it out and handed it to her.
"Thank you, Vicki!"
Dustin sighed in relief.
We were able to get two bunks at the hostel for the night for a mere $18. She showed us our room, the kitchen, and the outdoor patio where guests could lounge about. Hostels are a staple in Israel. They offer cheap housing amongst fellow thrifty-minded travelers. The only downside is that one usually has to sleep in a room full of strangers. And if the movie Hostel is to be believed, occasional serial killers.
Twenty minutes later, we were back on the streets of Haifa in search of food on Ben-Gurion Avenue. The layout of Haifa is very interesting. There are three parts to the city. The "lower city" by the port, which is where we were staying, is comprised of the less affluent. The "upper city", which is literally atop Mount Carmel, overlooks the port and hosts Carmel Center, where most of the tourists, restaurants, hotels, and wealthy travelers reside.
The "upper upper city" hosts Haifa University and the actual peak of Mount Carmel that overlooks the Valley of Megiddo. Some might be familiar with Christian eschatology that says Megiddo is where the Battle of Armageddon is to be fought in the last days.
And in-between the "lower" and "upper" city is the Baha'i Shrine. Akin to a Middle Eastern Taj Mahal, the Baha'i Shrine is easily one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Over 1,400 stairs lead up from the lower city to the Shrine entrance. Unfortunately, construction is underway on its dome, making admittance impossible.
Dustin and I meandered around Ben-Gurion Avenue for about an hour and a half, searching for information and scouting out places to eat. We had no game plan. Everything was being done by the seat of our pants.
To our dismay, we found the information center closed for Shabat. Always helpful that. Public transportation was non-existent. And the restaurants weren't going to be opening until later in the night.
"I really want to go to Carmel Center," Dustin said wistfully.
"Me too."
Standing beside an empty bus stop, we watched an older woman hail a nearby taxi.
"But I don't want to dish out fifty shekels on a cab just to get up there."
"Neither do I."
It was a quiet and pleasant day in a beautiful city. The Baha'i Shrine gleamed behind us from its position halfway up the mountain. The twin towers of the Dan Panorama hotel could be seen peering over the mountain's peak. They marked the very middle of Carmel Center.
"Screw it, dude. Let's go," I finally said. "We're climbing up that mountain."
Dustin looked down for a moment and then back up. He nodded. Being a former college football player and Missouri-raised farm boy, he wasn't one to complain.
"Alright, let's do this."
I pulled my mp3 player out, scrolled down to my Metallica play list, donned my Rayban's, popped my neck, and began marching toward the base of the Baha'i Shrine. It was at that moment that I remembered that I was wearing sandals. And that Dustin had tendinitis in his left knee that he had aggravated the previous day playing basketball.
Lord. Merciful Lord. Please reward our impetuous bravery rather than punish our perpetual stupidity.
***
The journey up Mount Carmel to Carmel Center was long, painful, and amazing. We climbed several kilometers up a treacherously steep mountain in an hour and a half, stopping to take pictures above the Baha'i Shrine at the glorious vista that was Haifa at dusk. From our height, at the event horizon of our sight, Israel's border with Syria could be seen, along with the naval docks, a flotilla of Israeli warships, a nuclear reactor, and distant Akko on the other side of the Haifa port.
This view destroyed every other that I've been privileged to behold. There was no place in America that I have been that is remotely comparable. Even the magnificent view of Hebron and Jerusalem paled in comparison.
When we finally made it to Carmel Center, night had fallen and we were sweating, starving, and aching. We found a place called the Bear Pub and ordered schnitzel, chicken wings, and beer.
"We're eating chicken wings and drinking a beer at The Bear pub atop Mount Carmel," Dustin said as he tore into another wing.
"A mountain that we just climbed. We own this mountain. All these people walking past us have no idea that we now own this mountain," I replied, stabbing schnitzel with the manners of a conquering Viking.
"That was our practice run for the Golan."
"We're going to own the Golan, too."
"Basset hound."
"What?"
"There's a basset hound."
I turned around in my seat. Sure enough, walking directly past our outdoor table was Droopy. It was straight out of a Looney Tunes episode. The dog was frumpy with skin rolls, his elongated face dragging near the ground, as he moped from side to side. An Israeli family just stood on the sidewalk, watching in astonishment as Droopy plodded along. The dog was like a senior citizen, minding his own business, ignoring all the humans, heading down to the pub for a game of Gin Rummy with the boys.
"As sick as it is to admit, that may have been the coolest thing I've seen all day."
By the time we finished dinner, it was nearly 9:45 p.m. We walked around Carmel Center for an hour, taking in the sights and noting locations for future excursions and in case either of us have visitors over the course of the next two years.
We then realized that we had to descend Mount Carmel the same way we had gotten up it. It was a brief moment of despair, but considering our elation at having done it already, we cowboyed up and made our way back down the mountain toward our hostel.
Ben-Gurion Avenue was starting to liven up as all the young people hit the town and all the outdoor restaurants and bars. We took a turn on Yafo Road and began the kilometer walk back to the Port Inn.
The street was dark. Trash was everywhere. We knew that Yafo Road wasn't the nicest area of town. It was evident when we had arrived earlier in the afternoon. As we entered into the black maw of the night, we heard yelling coming from up ahead.
A group of eight or so people were gathered at a street corner about thirty meters in front of us. Five guys and three girls. One of the men was screaming in a mad and bloodthirsty manner. One of the girls was screaming back.
On the other side of the street, three men in black trench coats watched.
"Dustin, they ain't speaking Hebrew," I quipped.
"Let's cross the street," he said warily.
We crossed the road at a normal pace in an attempt not to draw attention to ourselves. But we had to pass by the three men watching the scene across the road. The screaming was louder from both sides. Arabic was being bandied about by several of the street thugs. One of the girls emitted a yell that was bloodcurdling. One of the men responded, his scream one of utter rage and madness.
We approached the three men watching the altercation. They glared at us. They knew we were foreigners. They knew we were Americans. One of the men had a long case. It looked like a fishing rod case. It wasn't. It had to contain a rifle.
I've seen this movie. It doesn't end well.
Don't make eye contact. Steady pace. Act like nothing is out of the ordinary. Dustin is huge. They're not gonna mess with him. If the first guy makes a move, put him through the windshield of the car and make sure the others can't corner you. Don't give them time to shoot or stab.
We walked by. I could feel the heat of their stares searing through my skin. Our heads didn't move, didn't even acknowledge that anything was wrong or about to be very wrong.
Nothing.
In the moments after we passed by, Dustin turned to me, his face impassive.
"Did you see that case that guy had? Looked like a fishing rod. That thing had to be a gun."
"I was just thinking the same damn thing."
We made it to the Port Inn without a hitch and let out a sigh of relief. We had made it back in one piece albeit exhausted. We spent the rest of the night drinking water and chatting about home and politics out in the courtyard before crashing. When I woke up the next morning Dustin had a wry grin on his face.
"Did you hear what happened yesterday?"
"What?" I asked, clearly thinking about the disturbing scene that had almost enveloped us the night before.
"Two katyusha rockets landed up north near here. They were fired from Lebanon. First rocket attack on Israel from Lebanon since February."
"Hezbollah?"
"They think it was an Al-Qaeda like group called Global Jihad."
I mulled this information over as I packed my clothes into my backpack. My feet felt like they had been on the receiving end of a sledgehammer.
"Guess they heard you and I were coming," Dustin said with a laugh.
The good news was that we had become accustomed to the Middle Eastern heat, so running did not present the same difficulties it did a month earlier. The bad news was that we had absolutely no idea where the train station was actually located.
"Sandals were a bad choice," I said between shortened breaths.
Dustin continued chugging along. Both of us had our backpacks. They were filled with enough supplies for a single day's trip. I kept trying to tighten my straps as I ran. The only thing that resulted from this futile endeavor was a realization as to the limits of my dexterity.
We turned left as soon as we passed the last building on Tel Aviv University's campus and trudged our way uphill. Halfway up we came to a stop to catch our breath. I glanced down at my watch. 2:45 p.m.
We passed a trio of Israelis sitting at a bus stop. They glanced at the two of us curiously. With rivers of sweat pouring down our face and a few well-timed English swears, I'm sure we succeeded in breaking the monotony of their day.
At the top of the hill we came to a crossroads. Off to the left was a road running back toward Ramat Aviv. Off to the right was the ramp onto the main highway. No train station in sight. We had been told it was up this road and was somewhere in the general vicinity. It would not have been the first time we had been misinformed. Misinformation was as common as an M-16.
"You wanna try le...?"
"Dustin!" a heavily accented voice bellowed from behind us.
We spun around to find Peter, Dustin's Dutch roommate, sprinting in the other direction and pointing. What was he doing all the way up here? And how in the camel's hump had he caught up with us?
"Train is this vay!"
You strange, glorious little man!
Exchanging brief looks of confusion, we spun on our heels and sprinted back to the right. A group of stairs to the left of the interstate ramp soon gave way to the domed structure of the train station. It was positioned well below eye level at the base of the hill we stood atop.
"Peter, you're awesome!" Dustin said first.
"Thanks Pete!" I followed.
We bolted toward the stairs, each of us giving Peter a high-five in the process. I glanced at my watch again. 2:50 p.m.
"Our guardian angel: The Flying Dutchman!"
I heard Dustin laugh. "I think we can stop running," Dustin suggested.
"Agreed."
The train station was all but empty. When we entered, a lone woman was purchasing a ticket and asking where the restroom was located. I was pleasantly surprised that I was able to pick up the conversation in Hebrew. Score one for the Ulpan.
"Two tickets for Haifa," Dustin said, wiping sweat off his brow.
She ran our cards and handed us our tickets, completely disinterested in the amount of energy we had expended to make it on time. I tried to read it but couldn't figure out which platform we were supposed to be on.
"You have any idea where we should go?" I asked.
"Do I ever?" Dustin quipped in reply.
We soon discovered that the first platform was wrong. I asked a construction worker where we needed to go to get on the train to Haifa. He pointed to the other side and smiled.
Yea. Yea. Stupid tiyerim (tourists). Whatever.
We hustled to the other side and took a seat on a bench in the shade. A few other Israelis, likely going home for the weekend after a long week of work in Tel Aviv, milled around beside us. A cool breeze began to dissipate some of the sweat. Dustin whipped out a bottle and went to town on its contents.
"We have no idea what we're doing," I observed.
"Nope."
"We're in a foreign country where we can barely speak the language. We're about to take a train to a city we've never been to before. And we have no place to sleep and no idea how we're going to get back."
"That's right," Dustin affirmed.
"At this point, I think denying our awesomeness would be wrong."
The train whisked up behind us. The construction worker on the other side of the platform whistled at us and pointed to the train. I threw up a hand in gratitude and we boarded.
Lord, have mercy on us. For we are young and exceedingly silly creatures.
***
We sat near the back of the train in a pair of fold-out seats. On our way to our seats, we passed dozens of IDF and IAF personnel. They were all going home for the weekend and looked absolutely exhausted. Young men and women no more than twenty-one or twenty-two years old, the IDF was both an amazing and painful entity to observe. In Israel, military service is compulsory. Men serve a minimum of three years. Women serve a minimum of two years. Conscripted in the prime of their life, these young Israelis are deployed to the occupied territories and the border areas to defend their home on their own soil.
As Americans, we're used to the concept of defending our homeland by taking it to the enemy "over there." Battles have not been waged on our own ground in quite some time. Thank God.
Imagine a scenario in which a family in Birmingham had to send their eighteen year-old daughter, fresh out of high school, to boot camp where she would be trained and then deployed for two years to Mobile to defend Alabama from attacks or an invasion from Mississippi. This is the reality of Israel.
After observing the IDF, I have found that the thing that strikes me the most is not necessarily how young they are or how unfortunate it is that they are surrounded on all sides by their enemies, but rather how frustrating it must be to be just a few hours away from your family and your home, to be so near to them but also so very far away. And to possess the knowledge that you could just hop on a bus and be home before nightfall, to know that your home, for all intents and purposes, is the battlefield.
A young Israeli girl, around ten or eleven years old, sat across from us. She looked content and happy, probably excited for a weekend trip to the beaches of Haifa. Beyond her, another Israeli girl, just a few years older, slept fitfully. She was dressed in her IDF greens, her arms hugging her M-16. The contrast was striking. I looked back at the younger girl.
In a few years, that will be her reality. This is the price Israelis pay for peace.
Dustin had received a Lonely Planet guide to Israel and the Palestinian Territories from a fellow co-worker at Heritage Foundation and was putting it to good use. Haifa was the third-largest city in Israel and had a substantial Israeli-Arab mixture as opposed to Tel Aviv.
We sifted through the book hunting down information on lodging and food. Conversation was comprised of school, our upcoming break from school, and our fellow Ulpan students. Initially there was supposed to be five of us going to Haifa, but Chris, Dominique, and Stefan had all bailed for various reasons.
The trip took about an hour. We listened to the conductor make his announcements in Hebrew and English for our stops. Both of us were able to read the electronic tracking board with success and we departed at the third and final stop in Haifa.
Exiting the train station, we found our bearings. We were presently near the massive port where a substantial number of imports were brought in to Israel. The weather was brisk and cooler than it had been in Tel Aviv. It was no warmer than eighty-five with a steady breeze coming in off the port.
Dustin and I began our trek, heading east toward what looked to be the commercial part of town. We had read about a place called the Port Inn Guest House in Dustin's Lonely Planet guide. All we knew was to go east and look for Yafo Road. Simple enough.
As we strolled past closed stores and restaurants, traffic was relatively light. Clearly Shabat had already gone into effect for most of the port area. This of course meant that public transportation wasn't running. We crossed a couple of streets and maneuvered our way south. A couple of Israeli girls were doing some window shopping. We decided to risk humiliation and communicate with them in Hebrew to find the mythical Port Inn.
"Sleeha, aten medebrot Anglit? Ani rahq medeber ksaht Ivrit." (<--Not as impressive as it may look or sound.)
I asked them if they spoke English. They laughed and in perfect English responded with a "Yes."
"We're looking for the Port Inn hostel," I said.
"It's on 34 Yafo Road," Dustin added.
"Any idea?"
One of the girls turned around and looked at the building across from us. The other seemed to be a little too interested in us. I should point out that Israelis like Americans as it is, but Israeli women really like American men, particularly if they can speak some Hebrew and especially if they don't look Jewish. Dustin and I pretty much fit the profile.
It is a bit strange. In Israel, we are the ones who get to use our "appeal" to get what we want. It's a nice change of pace from back home.
The other girl turned back toward us.
"Well, you're on Yafo Road. That building over there is 19 Yafo Road. So it's probably about a hundred feet that way."
Or maybe she is starting at us because we're just retarded.
"Uh. Toda," was all I could manage.
The two girls laughed and continued about their business, speaking in rapid fire Hebrew that undoubtedly was unflattering to our perceived intellect.
Dustin and I worked our way down the street. He noted my thickly-accented Hickbrew and suggested we act lost everywhere we went so people would have pity on us. I didn't think acting lost would be too difficult a task.
Sure enough, ahead and to our right was a sign reading "Port Inn Guest House." The woman manning the desk took our information and asked to see our passports. That's going to be difficult with it being in my closet back in Tel Aviv.
Dustin didn't have his passport either. It seemed like all was for naught until the woman asked if we had a copy of the passport. A light bulb flickered on in my head and I opened up my wallet. Inside, folded neatly in the middle pocket was a copy of my passport that Mom had made for me prior to my departure for New York.
I yanked it out and handed it to her.
"Thank you, Vicki!"
Dustin sighed in relief.
We were able to get two bunks at the hostel for the night for a mere $18. She showed us our room, the kitchen, and the outdoor patio where guests could lounge about. Hostels are a staple in Israel. They offer cheap housing amongst fellow thrifty-minded travelers. The only downside is that one usually has to sleep in a room full of strangers. And if the movie Hostel is to be believed, occasional serial killers.
Twenty minutes later, we were back on the streets of Haifa in search of food on Ben-Gurion Avenue. The layout of Haifa is very interesting. There are three parts to the city. The "lower city" by the port, which is where we were staying, is comprised of the less affluent. The "upper city", which is literally atop Mount Carmel, overlooks the port and hosts Carmel Center, where most of the tourists, restaurants, hotels, and wealthy travelers reside.
The "upper upper city" hosts Haifa University and the actual peak of Mount Carmel that overlooks the Valley of Megiddo. Some might be familiar with Christian eschatology that says Megiddo is where the Battle of Armageddon is to be fought in the last days.
And in-between the "lower" and "upper" city is the Baha'i Shrine. Akin to a Middle Eastern Taj Mahal, the Baha'i Shrine is easily one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen. Over 1,400 stairs lead up from the lower city to the Shrine entrance. Unfortunately, construction is underway on its dome, making admittance impossible.
Dustin and I meandered around Ben-Gurion Avenue for about an hour and a half, searching for information and scouting out places to eat. We had no game plan. Everything was being done by the seat of our pants.
To our dismay, we found the information center closed for Shabat. Always helpful that. Public transportation was non-existent. And the restaurants weren't going to be opening until later in the night.
"I really want to go to Carmel Center," Dustin said wistfully.
"Me too."
Standing beside an empty bus stop, we watched an older woman hail a nearby taxi.
"But I don't want to dish out fifty shekels on a cab just to get up there."
"Neither do I."
It was a quiet and pleasant day in a beautiful city. The Baha'i Shrine gleamed behind us from its position halfway up the mountain. The twin towers of the Dan Panorama hotel could be seen peering over the mountain's peak. They marked the very middle of Carmel Center.
"Screw it, dude. Let's go," I finally said. "We're climbing up that mountain."
Dustin looked down for a moment and then back up. He nodded. Being a former college football player and Missouri-raised farm boy, he wasn't one to complain.
"Alright, let's do this."
I pulled my mp3 player out, scrolled down to my Metallica play list, donned my Rayban's, popped my neck, and began marching toward the base of the Baha'i Shrine. It was at that moment that I remembered that I was wearing sandals. And that Dustin had tendinitis in his left knee that he had aggravated the previous day playing basketball.
Lord. Merciful Lord. Please reward our impetuous bravery rather than punish our perpetual stupidity.
***
The journey up Mount Carmel to Carmel Center was long, painful, and amazing. We climbed several kilometers up a treacherously steep mountain in an hour and a half, stopping to take pictures above the Baha'i Shrine at the glorious vista that was Haifa at dusk. From our height, at the event horizon of our sight, Israel's border with Syria could be seen, along with the naval docks, a flotilla of Israeli warships, a nuclear reactor, and distant Akko on the other side of the Haifa port.
This view destroyed every other that I've been privileged to behold. There was no place in America that I have been that is remotely comparable. Even the magnificent view of Hebron and Jerusalem paled in comparison.
When we finally made it to Carmel Center, night had fallen and we were sweating, starving, and aching. We found a place called the Bear Pub and ordered schnitzel, chicken wings, and beer.
"We're eating chicken wings and drinking a beer at The Bear pub atop Mount Carmel," Dustin said as he tore into another wing.
"A mountain that we just climbed. We own this mountain. All these people walking past us have no idea that we now own this mountain," I replied, stabbing schnitzel with the manners of a conquering Viking.
"That was our practice run for the Golan."
"We're going to own the Golan, too."
"Basset hound."
"What?"
"There's a basset hound."
I turned around in my seat. Sure enough, walking directly past our outdoor table was Droopy. It was straight out of a Looney Tunes episode. The dog was frumpy with skin rolls, his elongated face dragging near the ground, as he moped from side to side. An Israeli family just stood on the sidewalk, watching in astonishment as Droopy plodded along. The dog was like a senior citizen, minding his own business, ignoring all the humans, heading down to the pub for a game of Gin Rummy with the boys.
"As sick as it is to admit, that may have been the coolest thing I've seen all day."
By the time we finished dinner, it was nearly 9:45 p.m. We walked around Carmel Center for an hour, taking in the sights and noting locations for future excursions and in case either of us have visitors over the course of the next two years.
We then realized that we had to descend Mount Carmel the same way we had gotten up it. It was a brief moment of despair, but considering our elation at having done it already, we cowboyed up and made our way back down the mountain toward our hostel.
Ben-Gurion Avenue was starting to liven up as all the young people hit the town and all the outdoor restaurants and bars. We took a turn on Yafo Road and began the kilometer walk back to the Port Inn.
The street was dark. Trash was everywhere. We knew that Yafo Road wasn't the nicest area of town. It was evident when we had arrived earlier in the afternoon. As we entered into the black maw of the night, we heard yelling coming from up ahead.
A group of eight or so people were gathered at a street corner about thirty meters in front of us. Five guys and three girls. One of the men was screaming in a mad and bloodthirsty manner. One of the girls was screaming back.
On the other side of the street, three men in black trench coats watched.
"Dustin, they ain't speaking Hebrew," I quipped.
"Let's cross the street," he said warily.
We crossed the road at a normal pace in an attempt not to draw attention to ourselves. But we had to pass by the three men watching the scene across the road. The screaming was louder from both sides. Arabic was being bandied about by several of the street thugs. One of the girls emitted a yell that was bloodcurdling. One of the men responded, his scream one of utter rage and madness.
We approached the three men watching the altercation. They glared at us. They knew we were foreigners. They knew we were Americans. One of the men had a long case. It looked like a fishing rod case. It wasn't. It had to contain a rifle.
I've seen this movie. It doesn't end well.
Don't make eye contact. Steady pace. Act like nothing is out of the ordinary. Dustin is huge. They're not gonna mess with him. If the first guy makes a move, put him through the windshield of the car and make sure the others can't corner you. Don't give them time to shoot or stab.
We walked by. I could feel the heat of their stares searing through my skin. Our heads didn't move, didn't even acknowledge that anything was wrong or about to be very wrong.
Nothing.
In the moments after we passed by, Dustin turned to me, his face impassive.
"Did you see that case that guy had? Looked like a fishing rod. That thing had to be a gun."
"I was just thinking the same damn thing."
We made it to the Port Inn without a hitch and let out a sigh of relief. We had made it back in one piece albeit exhausted. We spent the rest of the night drinking water and chatting about home and politics out in the courtyard before crashing. When I woke up the next morning Dustin had a wry grin on his face.
"Did you hear what happened yesterday?"
"What?" I asked, clearly thinking about the disturbing scene that had almost enveloped us the night before.
"Two katyusha rockets landed up north near here. They were fired from Lebanon. First rocket attack on Israel from Lebanon since February."
"Hezbollah?"
"They think it was an Al-Qaeda like group called Global Jihad."
I mulled this information over as I packed my clothes into my backpack. My feet felt like they had been on the receiving end of a sledgehammer.
"Guess they heard you and I were coming," Dustin said with a laugh.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Fight Club
The grizzled man had a wild look in his eye and an intensity that suggested he was not one to be trifled with. If there was one thing that I knew with absolute certainty about him, it was that he was one of the most dangerous individuals in the entire state of Israel. And that was saying something.
Fortunately, the fire in his eyes was tapered by wisdom only crow's feet can bestow, softened by the smirk creeping into the corner of his mouth.
"Hit me!"
My first thought was, "Dude, you're sixty years old."
My second thought, which immediately followed my strike to his abdomen, was "...and you can kick my ass."
Standing amongst seven other Krav Maga students, including Stefan, Dustin, and Huoshin, I was the last one to demonstrate proper punching technique on our "sensei." The man had abs of stone. It was like hitting a cinder block.
"Good. Remember, if you don't hit me, I'll hit back," he yelled to the class, smirk still firmly intact.
As part of our continuing education, a few of us decided that we would learn the official martial art of the Israel Defense Force. Krav Maga, which literally means "battle touch," was developed by Imi Lichtenfeld in the mid-1930's in Budapest. It was designed for Jews to protect themselves from anti-Semitic activity. It would be used by many Jews just a few years later as they fled Europe to escape the dark reach of the Third Reich. From there, the art form survived the Holocaust and evolved into a fully realized self-defense system utilized by the Israel Defense Force.
Krav maga is not like karate. In karate, as Stefan put it, you learn to anticipate others and to restrain yourself, if at all possible, from using the skills you've been taught. Krav maga is for when the crap has already hit the proverbial fan. It is all about inflicting rapid and devastating damage on your opponent and ending the threat.
Dustin was called up to the front of the class. Our "sensei," whom we dubbed Splinter, was a good eight inches smaller than Big D. Dustin being a 6'4, 240 lb former College Football player, has yet to come across anyone who stands a chance of taking him down in a brawl. Until that moment.
"You have health insurance, yes?"
Dustin laughed and looked over at Stefan and I with bemusement.
"Uhh...yea."
"Good." he said crisply. "Everyone pay attention to my off-hand when I punch."
Oh my God, he's gonna punch Dustin.
And he did. Several times. In the abdomen.
And it wasn't a love tap.
"You see how I get more push when I rotate my wrist at the last moment? And be sure to throw your other elbow back. It will give you more room to work on him."
Dustin was sent back to join us after withering the flurry of blows. He seemed to be okay, but as he would later comment, "He hit me pretty good up there."
Splinter turned to me, smiled, and waved me forward. I could hear Stefan's patented chortle reverberate off the walls.
"What's your name?"
"Drew."
"Droo? Okay, Droo. Do me a favor and grab my wrist."
"This is gonna hurt isn't it?"
Nothing but a devilish smile.
I grabbed Splinter's wrist, a move I would never initiate on my own volition. He turned toward the class, still grinning, and proceeded to raise his hand toward the sky.
"Now Droo, whatever happens, do not let me pull my arm back down. Okay?"
"Uh huh." I replied, throwing Dustin a "Why me?" glare.
In what was perhaps the most emasculating moment in recent memory, a man five inches shorter, twenty pounds lighter, and thirty-six years older, effortlessly pulled his arm down toward his side, despite my solid grip.
"Use two hands if you like."
Laughter.
Alright, old man. You're the one with the AARP discount plan.
With two hands, I latched on to his wrist, confident that he wouldn't be able to bring it back...it was done before I could even blink.
"What the...?"
"It's all about leverage. Here, grab me again."
This time I ignored my embarrassment and found my curiosity piqued. There was no point in trying to maintain any semblance of manhood. There was only one man in the room.
"If someone grabs you like this, you do three moves. Step toward him, raise your hand with your palm facing you, and use your other hand to grab his hand like so..."
With his other hand, he pressed down on a pressure point near my pinky finger and began to twist.
"It's as if you're reading your own palm. Let's see, what does Drew's future look like from here?"
"Not good." I replied through gritted teeth.
More laughter.
"Please drop with me. Don't resist."
As ordered, Splinter.
I felt my arm completely lock and my wrist twist back in an unnatural position. He seemed to have exerted little to no energy. And in less than a second, I went from holding his wrist to being all but helpless.
"This is how you break a wrist," he said, panning his head across the class. Everyone nodded and seemed genuinely impressed and interested. He patted me on the shoulder and sent me to join the others.
From the back of the room, a young Israeli, in full karate attire, approached the front. He was no older than twenty-five, well-built, slightly small height-wise, and had a permanent pissed off look etched on his face.
"This is my best student. Now he is an officer in the Army. When he was seventeen, he placed second in the Israeli Karate Federation. That's right isn't it?"
"First."
"Oh yes. Sorry. My memory is slipping," Splinter said in a bemused fashion. "We will demonstrate another technique for breaking someone's grip on you so that you can in turn break them."
This guy is made of pure win.
For the remainder of the class, we went through two different techniques for subduing someone attempting to grab you and learned how to inflict maximum damage on a male attacker. I believe the last bit of instructing made everyone, save for the sole female student, Naomi, cringe.
Feeling like we had been locked in a sauna for an hour, we all lined up, bowed, and exited the class. Splinter followed us outside. His next batch of students entered his domain and began warming up on the mats. They all looked like experienced karate students. More than a few were definitely current members of the IDF.
This made sense given the fact that Splinter is the President of the Israeli Karate Federation. According to him, "There are two presidents in Israel. Me and the other guy."
No offense to the honorable Shimon Peres, but I completely concur.
"I hope you enjoyed it."
We all nodded as he went through our forms, glancing at our names and numbers.
"Today was just a demo. Next week, the real fun begins."
Fortunately, the fire in his eyes was tapered by wisdom only crow's feet can bestow, softened by the smirk creeping into the corner of his mouth.
"Hit me!"
My first thought was, "Dude, you're sixty years old."
My second thought, which immediately followed my strike to his abdomen, was "...and you can kick my ass."
Standing amongst seven other Krav Maga students, including Stefan, Dustin, and Huoshin, I was the last one to demonstrate proper punching technique on our "sensei." The man had abs of stone. It was like hitting a cinder block.
"Good. Remember, if you don't hit me, I'll hit back," he yelled to the class, smirk still firmly intact.
As part of our continuing education, a few of us decided that we would learn the official martial art of the Israel Defense Force. Krav Maga, which literally means "battle touch," was developed by Imi Lichtenfeld in the mid-1930's in Budapest. It was designed for Jews to protect themselves from anti-Semitic activity. It would be used by many Jews just a few years later as they fled Europe to escape the dark reach of the Third Reich. From there, the art form survived the Holocaust and evolved into a fully realized self-defense system utilized by the Israel Defense Force.
Krav maga is not like karate. In karate, as Stefan put it, you learn to anticipate others and to restrain yourself, if at all possible, from using the skills you've been taught. Krav maga is for when the crap has already hit the proverbial fan. It is all about inflicting rapid and devastating damage on your opponent and ending the threat.
Dustin was called up to the front of the class. Our "sensei," whom we dubbed Splinter, was a good eight inches smaller than Big D. Dustin being a 6'4, 240 lb former College Football player, has yet to come across anyone who stands a chance of taking him down in a brawl. Until that moment.
"You have health insurance, yes?"
Dustin laughed and looked over at Stefan and I with bemusement.
"Uhh...yea."
"Good." he said crisply. "Everyone pay attention to my off-hand when I punch."
Oh my God, he's gonna punch Dustin.
And he did. Several times. In the abdomen.
And it wasn't a love tap.
"You see how I get more push when I rotate my wrist at the last moment? And be sure to throw your other elbow back. It will give you more room to work on him."
Dustin was sent back to join us after withering the flurry of blows. He seemed to be okay, but as he would later comment, "He hit me pretty good up there."
Splinter turned to me, smiled, and waved me forward. I could hear Stefan's patented chortle reverberate off the walls.
"What's your name?"
"Drew."
"Droo? Okay, Droo. Do me a favor and grab my wrist."
"This is gonna hurt isn't it?"
Nothing but a devilish smile.
I grabbed Splinter's wrist, a move I would never initiate on my own volition. He turned toward the class, still grinning, and proceeded to raise his hand toward the sky.
"Now Droo, whatever happens, do not let me pull my arm back down. Okay?"
"Uh huh." I replied, throwing Dustin a "Why me?" glare.
In what was perhaps the most emasculating moment in recent memory, a man five inches shorter, twenty pounds lighter, and thirty-six years older, effortlessly pulled his arm down toward his side, despite my solid grip.
"Use two hands if you like."
Laughter.
Alright, old man. You're the one with the AARP discount plan.
With two hands, I latched on to his wrist, confident that he wouldn't be able to bring it back...it was done before I could even blink.
"What the...?"
"It's all about leverage. Here, grab me again."
This time I ignored my embarrassment and found my curiosity piqued. There was no point in trying to maintain any semblance of manhood. There was only one man in the room.
"If someone grabs you like this, you do three moves. Step toward him, raise your hand with your palm facing you, and use your other hand to grab his hand like so..."
With his other hand, he pressed down on a pressure point near my pinky finger and began to twist.
"It's as if you're reading your own palm. Let's see, what does Drew's future look like from here?"
"Not good." I replied through gritted teeth.
More laughter.
"Please drop with me. Don't resist."
As ordered, Splinter.
I felt my arm completely lock and my wrist twist back in an unnatural position. He seemed to have exerted little to no energy. And in less than a second, I went from holding his wrist to being all but helpless.
"This is how you break a wrist," he said, panning his head across the class. Everyone nodded and seemed genuinely impressed and interested. He patted me on the shoulder and sent me to join the others.
From the back of the room, a young Israeli, in full karate attire, approached the front. He was no older than twenty-five, well-built, slightly small height-wise, and had a permanent pissed off look etched on his face.
"This is my best student. Now he is an officer in the Army. When he was seventeen, he placed second in the Israeli Karate Federation. That's right isn't it?"
"First."
"Oh yes. Sorry. My memory is slipping," Splinter said in a bemused fashion. "We will demonstrate another technique for breaking someone's grip on you so that you can in turn break them."
This guy is made of pure win.
For the remainder of the class, we went through two different techniques for subduing someone attempting to grab you and learned how to inflict maximum damage on a male attacker. I believe the last bit of instructing made everyone, save for the sole female student, Naomi, cringe.
Feeling like we had been locked in a sauna for an hour, we all lined up, bowed, and exited the class. Splinter followed us outside. His next batch of students entered his domain and began warming up on the mats. They all looked like experienced karate students. More than a few were definitely current members of the IDF.
This made sense given the fact that Splinter is the President of the Israeli Karate Federation. According to him, "There are two presidents in Israel. Me and the other guy."
No offense to the honorable Shimon Peres, but I completely concur.
"I hope you enjoyed it."
We all nodded as he went through our forms, glancing at our names and numbers.
"Today was just a demo. Next week, the real fun begins."
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Game On
There have been few occasions when I have felt that I was a part of something truly special, something truly selective, something truly elite. Today was one of those occasions.
Winning a state championship in baseball, being a Wendy's High School Heisman nominee, and Chairman for one of the nation's top College Republican chapters are all honors that I deeply cherish. But the third day of September in 2009 will forever be a day that I regard as confirmation that I have a niche on this planet. God willing it will be used for His purpose.
Two dozen students gathered at the Carter Building following the end of the Ulpan session and a week of pure Hebrew hell (no pun intended). Some of the students I knew. Others I did not. My roommates Ryan and Dominique (the Quebec Cowboy!), Dustin (Big D aka Delta Charlie), Huoshin, and Titus (former Marine and all-around badass) were among those present.
The Master's students for Tel Aviv University's MAMEH program had been assembled for lunch and orientation. After five weeks, we were finally being shown the true nature of the journey we had embarked upon. It could have easily been mistaken for the General Assembly of the United Nations. The United States, Germany, Canada, the Netherlands, Australia, Taiwan, Denmark, and Lithuania were all represented. And that was just the people I had met. There is little doubt that other nationalities were also amongst us.
From the United States, the full spectrum was brandished and on display. Missouri, Oklahoma, Iowa, New York, Washington, and Alabama represented the "stars and bars." The gravity of this achievement foisted itself into my mind as we were led to a hitherto unknown and exceedingly nice restaurant on campus.
The Overseas Student Program (OSP) directors escorted us inside. As we sauntered into the dining area, it became apparent that it had been set up exclusively for our arrival. The tables were set with an assembly line of waiters and waitresses ready to take our orders.
Dustin, Huoshin, and I took seats at the middle table. We were joined by a trio of other students: a guy from New York, a girl from Lithuania, and a girl from Denmark. The head of the OSP and the head of Tel Aviv University's Iranian Studies department, Dr. David Menashri, also sat down at our table. The lunch had already been fully paid for, but we were able to select from items that included glazed salmon with pecans (sold!), leg of lamb, and beef kabobs.
Introductions were made. The New York native, Jared, was quick to inform us that he was working with FOX News' Middle East bureau. My interest was immediately piqued seeing as how his bosses are Mike Tobin and Reena Ninan--familiar faces to anyone who routinely watches FOX.
Tal, the head of the OSP, and Dr. Menashri introduced themselves. Little did I know that one of the world's leading experts on Iran was literally sitting right across the table. A quick Google search gives one some 9,000 returns on the man, articles he has had published in Foreign Affairs, and his myriad of books to be found on Amazon.
"I've stepped into an inter-dimensional time rift." I thought.
Not a moment after that the conversation took a decided turn for the worse. As they began to serve our food, Jared steered the conversation toward the South, Brown v. Board of Education, and the usual ignorant mantra and questions aimed at those with the "funny accent." Dustin was pretty immersed in his meal, shoveling it down as if it was his last one. Huoshin seemed content to talk with the girl from Denmark. So for the better part of five minutes, I was left to fend for myself. Even Tal seemed to have preconceived notions divorced from reality.
I'm not one to claim that prejudices don't exist back home. I know better. But I have a very difficult time listening to people pretend they know better when they haven't even been to the South. And I have an exceptionally difficult time listening to people pretend they have the moral high ground when they come from places with "Little China," "Little Italy," and barrios. This wasn't so much Jared's commentary as much as the implications of the conversation itself. When I raised this point, Tal suggested that because the South has fewer minorities than the North (uh...what?) that explained why such monikers and divisions existed in the North.
Perhaps a better explanation is that the South is no more prejudiced than anywhere else? Or, perish the thought, perhaps the South is LESS prejudiced today than the "cosmopolitan" and "cultured" East and West Coasts?
"Let me just put it like this. I enjoy perpetuating the stereotype. Anytime I travel outside of the South, people make assumptions based off my accent."
"How do you perpetuate the stereotype?" Jared inquired.
"Why do you perpetuate it?" Tal fired on his heels.
I paused for a brief moment, reflective of the fact that I was speaking with the head of my program.
"Because if I talk slow, throw in a drawl, and act like I have a narrow worldview, then people instantly assume I'm stupid." I looked at Tal and smiled. "And I'd rather people assume that than know the truth."
He seemed puzzled. The irony was amusing. And that was the end of that discussion.
Dr. Menashri excused himself from the table as one of the program directors asked him to stand up and say a few words about the coming semester. He was followed by two other professors. What transpired from these three men was a brutal truth that I had heard weeks earlier from Dustin who had in turn heard it after tapping into the grapevine.
The truth was that the sheer intensity of the program, especially the first semester, would separate the wheat from the chaff. Most of us, we were told, would not make it. The last batch of students in the MAMEH program had a ten percent graduation rate. That meant that of all of us in the room, only three would walk away in two years having acquired our degree.
"That's a higher attrition rate than the Navy SEALS..." I mused silently. "And the SEALs are a helluva lot cooler."
I looked around the room and immediately wondered who the other two graduates would be. I then turned to the syllabus and saw where the "metal hit the meat."
Mondays: Hebrew from 8:00-10:00 a.m., Selected Topics in the Modern History of the Middle East from 10:15 a.m.-12:00 p.m., Arabic from 12:15 p.m.-2:00 p.m., and Selected Topics in Islamic History from 2:15-6:00 p.m.
Tuesdays: Hebrew in the morning and History of the Ottoman Empire from 10:15 a.m.-2:00 p.m.
Wednesdays: More Hebrew. Middle East History. Arabic.
Thursdays: More Hebrew. More Arabic.
Dr. Hakim, our Arabic instructor, smiled darkly as he discussed his class.
"You will be crying on my shoulder and then I will teach you Arabic. You will break your teeth in this program. You will have to." He then promptly pulled out a cigarette and walked outside to light up.
And that was pretty much the orientation.
The lunch wound down over coffee, dessert, and dampened conversation about the future. Dustin looked excited and ready for the challenge. Tal bid us farewell and promised we'd be seeing plenty of him after the end of the Hebrew Ulpan. As he walked away, I found myself unusually tense, realizing for the first time that I was not just representing myself over here. The level of bigotry, disdain, and dismissal toward Southerners was beyond anything I could have imagined.
Jared handed out his business card to Dustin and I as he discussed life working at FOX. Admittedly, I wasn't listening. We were the last three students to leave the restaurant. I thanked the waitress in Hebrew and strolled toward the door doing my best not to grin as I gathered my thoughts on all that had occurred during lunch.
I stepped out into the sunlight as the topic switched over to George Carlin. During our "discussion" of the South, Jared had asked me if I was on a mission over here. Images and words of President Bush's joint address to Congress following the 9/11 attacks flooded my mind.
"...we will not tire, we will not falter, we will not fail."
Yea, Jared. You could say that.
Winning a state championship in baseball, being a Wendy's High School Heisman nominee, and Chairman for one of the nation's top College Republican chapters are all honors that I deeply cherish. But the third day of September in 2009 will forever be a day that I regard as confirmation that I have a niche on this planet. God willing it will be used for His purpose.
Two dozen students gathered at the Carter Building following the end of the Ulpan session and a week of pure Hebrew hell (no pun intended). Some of the students I knew. Others I did not. My roommates Ryan and Dominique (the Quebec Cowboy!), Dustin (Big D aka Delta Charlie), Huoshin, and Titus (former Marine and all-around badass) were among those present.
The Master's students for Tel Aviv University's MAMEH program had been assembled for lunch and orientation. After five weeks, we were finally being shown the true nature of the journey we had embarked upon. It could have easily been mistaken for the General Assembly of the United Nations. The United States, Germany, Canada, the Netherlands, Australia, Taiwan, Denmark, and Lithuania were all represented. And that was just the people I had met. There is little doubt that other nationalities were also amongst us.
From the United States, the full spectrum was brandished and on display. Missouri, Oklahoma, Iowa, New York, Washington, and Alabama represented the "stars and bars." The gravity of this achievement foisted itself into my mind as we were led to a hitherto unknown and exceedingly nice restaurant on campus.
The Overseas Student Program (OSP) directors escorted us inside. As we sauntered into the dining area, it became apparent that it had been set up exclusively for our arrival. The tables were set with an assembly line of waiters and waitresses ready to take our orders.
Dustin, Huoshin, and I took seats at the middle table. We were joined by a trio of other students: a guy from New York, a girl from Lithuania, and a girl from Denmark. The head of the OSP and the head of Tel Aviv University's Iranian Studies department, Dr. David Menashri, also sat down at our table. The lunch had already been fully paid for, but we were able to select from items that included glazed salmon with pecans (sold!), leg of lamb, and beef kabobs.
Introductions were made. The New York native, Jared, was quick to inform us that he was working with FOX News' Middle East bureau. My interest was immediately piqued seeing as how his bosses are Mike Tobin and Reena Ninan--familiar faces to anyone who routinely watches FOX.
Tal, the head of the OSP, and Dr. Menashri introduced themselves. Little did I know that one of the world's leading experts on Iran was literally sitting right across the table. A quick Google search gives one some 9,000 returns on the man, articles he has had published in Foreign Affairs, and his myriad of books to be found on Amazon.
"I've stepped into an inter-dimensional time rift." I thought.
Not a moment after that the conversation took a decided turn for the worse. As they began to serve our food, Jared steered the conversation toward the South, Brown v. Board of Education, and the usual ignorant mantra and questions aimed at those with the "funny accent." Dustin was pretty immersed in his meal, shoveling it down as if it was his last one. Huoshin seemed content to talk with the girl from Denmark. So for the better part of five minutes, I was left to fend for myself. Even Tal seemed to have preconceived notions divorced from reality.
I'm not one to claim that prejudices don't exist back home. I know better. But I have a very difficult time listening to people pretend they know better when they haven't even been to the South. And I have an exceptionally difficult time listening to people pretend they have the moral high ground when they come from places with "Little China," "Little Italy," and barrios. This wasn't so much Jared's commentary as much as the implications of the conversation itself. When I raised this point, Tal suggested that because the South has fewer minorities than the North (uh...what?) that explained why such monikers and divisions existed in the North.
Perhaps a better explanation is that the South is no more prejudiced than anywhere else? Or, perish the thought, perhaps the South is LESS prejudiced today than the "cosmopolitan" and "cultured" East and West Coasts?
"Let me just put it like this. I enjoy perpetuating the stereotype. Anytime I travel outside of the South, people make assumptions based off my accent."
"How do you perpetuate the stereotype?" Jared inquired.
"Why do you perpetuate it?" Tal fired on his heels.
I paused for a brief moment, reflective of the fact that I was speaking with the head of my program.
"Because if I talk slow, throw in a drawl, and act like I have a narrow worldview, then people instantly assume I'm stupid." I looked at Tal and smiled. "And I'd rather people assume that than know the truth."
He seemed puzzled. The irony was amusing. And that was the end of that discussion.
Dr. Menashri excused himself from the table as one of the program directors asked him to stand up and say a few words about the coming semester. He was followed by two other professors. What transpired from these three men was a brutal truth that I had heard weeks earlier from Dustin who had in turn heard it after tapping into the grapevine.
The truth was that the sheer intensity of the program, especially the first semester, would separate the wheat from the chaff. Most of us, we were told, would not make it. The last batch of students in the MAMEH program had a ten percent graduation rate. That meant that of all of us in the room, only three would walk away in two years having acquired our degree.
"That's a higher attrition rate than the Navy SEALS..." I mused silently. "And the SEALs are a helluva lot cooler."
I looked around the room and immediately wondered who the other two graduates would be. I then turned to the syllabus and saw where the "metal hit the meat."
Mondays: Hebrew from 8:00-10:00 a.m., Selected Topics in the Modern History of the Middle East from 10:15 a.m.-12:00 p.m., Arabic from 12:15 p.m.-2:00 p.m., and Selected Topics in Islamic History from 2:15-6:00 p.m.
Tuesdays: Hebrew in the morning and History of the Ottoman Empire from 10:15 a.m.-2:00 p.m.
Wednesdays: More Hebrew. Middle East History. Arabic.
Thursdays: More Hebrew. More Arabic.
Dr. Hakim, our Arabic instructor, smiled darkly as he discussed his class.
"You will be crying on my shoulder and then I will teach you Arabic. You will break your teeth in this program. You will have to." He then promptly pulled out a cigarette and walked outside to light up.
And that was pretty much the orientation.
The lunch wound down over coffee, dessert, and dampened conversation about the future. Dustin looked excited and ready for the challenge. Tal bid us farewell and promised we'd be seeing plenty of him after the end of the Hebrew Ulpan. As he walked away, I found myself unusually tense, realizing for the first time that I was not just representing myself over here. The level of bigotry, disdain, and dismissal toward Southerners was beyond anything I could have imagined.
Jared handed out his business card to Dustin and I as he discussed life working at FOX. Admittedly, I wasn't listening. We were the last three students to leave the restaurant. I thanked the waitress in Hebrew and strolled toward the door doing my best not to grin as I gathered my thoughts on all that had occurred during lunch.
I stepped out into the sunlight as the topic switched over to George Carlin. During our "discussion" of the South, Jared had asked me if I was on a mission over here. Images and words of President Bush's joint address to Congress following the 9/11 attacks flooded my mind.
"...we will not tire, we will not falter, we will not fail."
Yea, Jared. You could say that.
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