Tonight, I'm staying with my friend Ido. He's a soldier who joined the Birthright group for several days of the tour. He's going for a run and I'm using his computer. My ancestors were Jewish shoemakers in the Ukraine and his ancestors were Jewish shoemakers in Morroco.
A few minutes before I started writing, I heard a sound that resembled a gun shot outside. Where I come from, that means somebody's playing with firecrackers or that there's a gang fight. In the Middle East, it can mean those things, but it can also be a bit more threatening. Yesterday, several students got shot in Jerusalem. Every day, somebody tells me there is going to be a war with Gaza and Hezbollah soon. The place doesn't feel any more dangerous than it did when I first arrived, and it didn't feel dangerous then.
My time ran out at the internet cafe in Haifa yesterday. I do like the abrupt way the last post ended, but I would like to continue what I was writing about. I was going to say that when I touched the Western Wall, I got why there was a war over Jerusalem, and how traumatic it was for Jews to be denied access to this site. I didn't understand it: "understand" is a much too definitive word. I didn't understand it- I just got it.
In the last post, I mentioned that I didn't feel any more at home here than in any other country in the world. The only reason that was worth mentioning is because I've been comparing myself to people I've met who get an overwhelming, enthusiastic sense that something is right when they get here. As a place, Israel is quite allright. If I were to look at it without the sense that I'm in someone else's living dream, I wouldn't even find it necessary to mention my lack of overwhelming attachment to it. I could see myself living here just as I could see myself living in many other places.
I stayed in Akko (Acre) three days ago with a British Jewish guy named Joe and a German girl named Maja. Joe, like me, is half Irish and half Ashkenazic Jew. Akko is a city that looks like it hasn't changed much since the Ottoman empire, except that now the people wear American sports Jerseys instead of robes and drive cars blaring Arabic pop music down the alleys instead of riding horses and camels. I felt like Lawrence of Arabia in Aqaba, except, unlike Lawrence/Peter O'Toole, I didn't have Omar Sharif with me, and I didn't have a sadomasochistic, homoerotic encounter with Turkish soldiers.
I did, however, find myself in a very cinematic moment that night as we entered the busy section of the old city. As the call to prayer blared from the mosque, a man stepped out of his shop to welcome us. "Welcome," he said. "Can I help you find anything?" "No, but thank you," I said. "Welcome to Phalestina," he said in a mellow tone of voice as we walked by.
Maja and I played foosball against some Arabs who spoke no English. One of them saw my Brazil soccer Jersey (bought for me buy my slightly lecherous "host mom") and smiled and said "Braziiiil!" I smiled back and said, "Yeah, football!" He kept smiling. I was glad that I packed the shirt- the same shirt that had helped make me a mugging target in Brazil.
The Arabs won the foosball game by many points. We, the Irish Jew and the German, shook their hands and said, "good game."
A few minutes before I started writing, I heard a sound that resembled a gun shot outside. Where I come from, that means somebody's playing with firecrackers or that there's a gang fight. In the Middle East, it can mean those things, but it can also be a bit more threatening. Yesterday, several students got shot in Jerusalem. Every day, somebody tells me there is going to be a war with Gaza and Hezbollah soon. The place doesn't feel any more dangerous than it did when I first arrived, and it didn't feel dangerous then.
My time ran out at the internet cafe in Haifa yesterday. I do like the abrupt way the last post ended, but I would like to continue what I was writing about. I was going to say that when I touched the Western Wall, I got why there was a war over Jerusalem, and how traumatic it was for Jews to be denied access to this site. I didn't understand it: "understand" is a much too definitive word. I didn't understand it- I just got it.
In the last post, I mentioned that I didn't feel any more at home here than in any other country in the world. The only reason that was worth mentioning is because I've been comparing myself to people I've met who get an overwhelming, enthusiastic sense that something is right when they get here. As a place, Israel is quite allright. If I were to look at it without the sense that I'm in someone else's living dream, I wouldn't even find it necessary to mention my lack of overwhelming attachment to it. I could see myself living here just as I could see myself living in many other places.
I stayed in Akko (Acre) three days ago with a British Jewish guy named Joe and a German girl named Maja. Joe, like me, is half Irish and half Ashkenazic Jew. Akko is a city that looks like it hasn't changed much since the Ottoman empire, except that now the people wear American sports Jerseys instead of robes and drive cars blaring Arabic pop music down the alleys instead of riding horses and camels. I felt like Lawrence of Arabia in Aqaba, except, unlike Lawrence/Peter O'Toole, I didn't have Omar Sharif with me, and I didn't have a sadomasochistic, homoerotic encounter with Turkish soldiers.
I did, however, find myself in a very cinematic moment that night as we entered the busy section of the old city. As the call to prayer blared from the mosque, a man stepped out of his shop to welcome us. "Welcome," he said. "Can I help you find anything?" "No, but thank you," I said. "Welcome to Phalestina," he said in a mellow tone of voice as we walked by.
Maja and I played foosball against some Arabs who spoke no English. One of them saw my Brazil soccer Jersey (bought for me buy my slightly lecherous "host mom") and smiled and said "Braziiiil!" I smiled back and said, "Yeah, football!" He kept smiling. I was glad that I packed the shirt- the same shirt that had helped make me a mugging target in Brazil.
The Arabs won the foosball game by many points. We, the Irish Jew and the German, shook their hands and said, "good game."
No comments:
Post a Comment
I just talked about myself. Now talk about yourself.