Saturday (Shabbat) was our last day in Beit Haarava. We could not get back to Ramla until the buses started running again after sundown. Around noon I went over to G's house to say thank you for her hospitality the night before. Her husband's son and his family had come from Tel Aviv, and I spent awhile with the family sitting on their back porch. They had truly made their home welcoming and it seemed very much like an extension of G's personality. There were wind chimes all along the back porch's eaves. The wind was so strong that she took a few down to keep them from beating into each other. She had made these amazing sesame savory cookies that looked like donuts but tasted better than anything sesame-related I'd eaten yet in Israel. Her brother, R, was headed to Tel Aviv later, and offered to drop me off in the center.
There are two notable details about the experience of driving from Beit Haarava to Tel Aviv. The first is the extreme difference in environment, from desert to green land. We saw a white donkey (supposedly what the Messiah will ride in on when s/he comes) along one of the hills. Everything in the desert is sparse--the greenery, the homes, all signs of population are seperated by considerable distance. But once you cross over the hills, it is green and bright (particularly because it was raining).
The other standout bit is of course the barrier and the checkpoint. I had no idea we'd crossed the barrier on Thursday, because Israeli buses just move right through the checkpoint. On Saturday I was in a private car, so it was totally different. Like a normal police checkpoint in the US, the first thing you notice is considerable traffic. They didn't stop our car or check our IDs or anything, but we were in a car with Israeli plates and neither of us looked remotely threatening. After the checkpoint you're in Jerusalem. Just on the other side of the checkpoing, maybe 500 meters away, a military vehicle had pulled onto the median, and the soliders were on the side of the road. A Palestinian man had climbed onto the top of the barrier and was sitting there yelling at them. I didn't hear of any major incidents in the news, so I'm going to assume it ended without any injuries.
So then R and I discussed the barrier. Israelis are almost 100% supportive of the wall. Why? Because since its completion, suicide bombings have been halted. Israelis no longer have to every waking moment terrified that if they take the wrong bus or enter the wrong restaurant they or a loved one will be killed, simply for being Israeli. American tourists have also been targeted. I am very very very glad that these bombings have been prevented. (Knock on wood a thousand times) But I am aware that the wall is also not 100% pure. It's construction often goes well into Palestinian territory, so critics consider it a land-grab. And for some of the designers, it may have been. But the Israeli supreme court recently struck down some of the proposed designs and said they must go closer to the Grey Line--this was in a specific area, not throughout the wall. In places the wall is large twists of barbed wire, 6-ft high or more. In others, it is an extremely tall and wide cement wall, and in others it is a combination of the two. Where the solid wall has not been built, human rights groups can still sue to have the line moved.
All in all it was eye-opening to spend time in the West Bank, even in a 'legal' settlement. I've revised my opinion of settlers, and also of the relationship between Palestinians and Israelis who both live in the West Bank. We ran into many residents of Jericho (they have white license plates on their car, not the Israeli yellow) who were friendly and very much not antagonistic (despite the fact that we are on a Jewish Agency for Israel program). Everyone is nervous, but there is a sort of functional stasis that exists in Beit Haarava and Kalya Beach. I will post photos soon.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Behind the Grey Line, Part Two
I woke up early my first morning in Beit Haarava (hard floor, thin sleeping bag... quality sleep was not a potential element of this trip) and went out into the backyard of the house. I love kibbutzim in the desert.... SO gorgeous. You have lush, colorful trees and flowers that back right into the vast wasteland. BH is near Jericho and Jordan, so not a total wasteland, but nothing like the other side of the wall (Jerusalem, more on that in part three). I was thinking about Sallie (and reading The Portrait of Dorian Grey), so I didn't take pictures this morning, but I have few photos from my Taglit-Birthright trip last May that illustrate this well.
After the news about Sallie I was on the fence as to whether or not I wanted to stay in Beit Haarava. I knew there was no way I could make it back to the States for her funeral, but I didn't want to be the downer in the corner while everyone else was enjoying themselves. While deciding, I went with the group to the Dead Sea, specifically Kalya Beach. I could literally swim to the northern coast of the Dead Sea from this beach. There was an incredible view down into the sea and across into Jordan from the hill above the beach. Breathtaking. This is the lowest point in the world (sea level wise). It's also one of those places that gives you considerable hope for the future. This isn't just because it is beautiful, but also because of who is at the beach.
There's a good chance that at some point you've seen Dead Sea products (usually Ahava) being sold at a mall kiosk--salts and muds. Well, in the southern Dead Sea, the shore line and sea floor is mostly made up of salt--it's incredibly cool to play with. In the northern Dead sea, it' almost entirely mud. A dark, sticky mud that you can use as a body mask (rub it all over your skin, let it dry then wash it off in the sea). This mud makes the Dead Sea adventure more perilous, because the chances that you might fall face first into the water trying to walk in the muck are far higher, and to do so would be horribly horribly painful.
The visitors to the beach were incredibly diverse--Palestinian, Israeli, and tourist; Russian Jews, Jordanian Muslisms, secularists from all over, and even some women who I thought might be Greek Orthodox nuns.
The beach was visited by soldiers, but did not have a regular guard. We'd seen soldiers the evening before at Y's restaurant (it is the kibbutz's restaurant, which he manages, and is the nearest fueling station to both the beach and Allenby Bridge Crossing, so its very busy and seems to be profitable), and BH used to be a military outpost, but no one seemed to expect or to be concerned about potential trouble in the immediate area.
After we got back from the Dea Sea (a short walk through the desert was cut shorter by Y seeing my roommate and I walking and insisting that we get in his car and ride with him because even the 5 kilometers from the restaurant to the kibbutz were dangerous (to our health, from dehydration)), Y had set up host families for us for Shabbat dinner.
I loved my host family. Not only was the house decorated in a very cool, laid back and eclectic fashion, but my host 'mom' was born in Argentina, and her brother actually works in Ramla, helping rehabilitate homeless kids and getting them off of the streets at night. When I asked my host 'mom', G, how she ended up living in BH, she laughed and said it was a long story. She is a divorced mother of two, who has remarried, so I can see a long story there. I asked her about the politics, and while she is much more hopeful than her brother, R, she is very skeptical of the government being formed by Netanyahu. And when I asked her about potential Israeli withdrawal from behind the Grey Line, she said that if there was an evacuation, she would be the first one on the bus.
G also told me of a survey done of the Israeli children in the area (including her own). They were asked if they were afraid of the Arabs who lived near them, and the children said no, because they knew them. But when the children were asked if they were afraid of Arabs in Jericho, they said yes, because they were unknown. I thought that was very interesting.
G served Orange Soup (carrot, potato, sweet potato and onion soup), the same that my actual host mother made the week before, so that was incredibly exciting for me. It was a wonderful meal with fascinating conversation and such friendly people.
The party that evening (the reason we were in BH) was fun, but I didn't stay long, because I was still very sad about Sallie.
After the news about Sallie I was on the fence as to whether or not I wanted to stay in Beit Haarava. I knew there was no way I could make it back to the States for her funeral, but I didn't want to be the downer in the corner while everyone else was enjoying themselves. While deciding, I went with the group to the Dead Sea, specifically Kalya Beach. I could literally swim to the northern coast of the Dead Sea from this beach. There was an incredible view down into the sea and across into Jordan from the hill above the beach. Breathtaking. This is the lowest point in the world (sea level wise). It's also one of those places that gives you considerable hope for the future. This isn't just because it is beautiful, but also because of who is at the beach.
There's a good chance that at some point you've seen Dead Sea products (usually Ahava) being sold at a mall kiosk--salts and muds. Well, in the southern Dead Sea, the shore line and sea floor is mostly made up of salt--it's incredibly cool to play with. In the northern Dead sea, it' almost entirely mud. A dark, sticky mud that you can use as a body mask (rub it all over your skin, let it dry then wash it off in the sea). This mud makes the Dead Sea adventure more perilous, because the chances that you might fall face first into the water trying to walk in the muck are far higher, and to do so would be horribly horribly painful.
The visitors to the beach were incredibly diverse--Palestinian, Israeli, and tourist; Russian Jews, Jordanian Muslisms, secularists from all over, and even some women who I thought might be Greek Orthodox nuns.
The beach was visited by soldiers, but did not have a regular guard. We'd seen soldiers the evening before at Y's restaurant (it is the kibbutz's restaurant, which he manages, and is the nearest fueling station to both the beach and Allenby Bridge Crossing, so its very busy and seems to be profitable), and BH used to be a military outpost, but no one seemed to expect or to be concerned about potential trouble in the immediate area.
After we got back from the Dea Sea (a short walk through the desert was cut shorter by Y seeing my roommate and I walking and insisting that we get in his car and ride with him because even the 5 kilometers from the restaurant to the kibbutz were dangerous (to our health, from dehydration)), Y had set up host families for us for Shabbat dinner.
I loved my host family. Not only was the house decorated in a very cool, laid back and eclectic fashion, but my host 'mom' was born in Argentina, and her brother actually works in Ramla, helping rehabilitate homeless kids and getting them off of the streets at night. When I asked my host 'mom', G, how she ended up living in BH, she laughed and said it was a long story. She is a divorced mother of two, who has remarried, so I can see a long story there. I asked her about the politics, and while she is much more hopeful than her brother, R, she is very skeptical of the government being formed by Netanyahu. And when I asked her about potential Israeli withdrawal from behind the Grey Line, she said that if there was an evacuation, she would be the first one on the bus.
G also told me of a survey done of the Israeli children in the area (including her own). They were asked if they were afraid of the Arabs who lived near them, and the children said no, because they knew them. But when the children were asked if they were afraid of Arabs in Jericho, they said yes, because they were unknown. I thought that was very interesting.
G served Orange Soup (carrot, potato, sweet potato and onion soup), the same that my actual host mother made the week before, so that was incredibly exciting for me. It was a wonderful meal with fascinating conversation and such friendly people.
The party that evening (the reason we were in BH) was fun, but I didn't stay long, because I was still very sad about Sallie.
Behind the Grey Line, Part One
Last weekend I went on a trip to a kibbutz near the Dead Sea with some other program participants. My roommate's host family had invited anyone who wanted to make the journey to Kibbutz Beit Haarava for the weekend, with a great Purim party Friday night (I will write about Purim soon, but this is more interesting, I promise).
It took two buses to get to Beit Haarava--one from Ramla to Jerusalem and one from Jerusalem to Beit Haarava. Y (I'm using initials for privacy reasons), our host for the weekend, had sleeping bags and an empty house at the kibbutz available for us. He was incredibly welcoming--offered us snacks and home-brewed beer, and later drove us the 5 kilometers off of the kibbutz to the restaurant. Chatting with Y, he mentioned that we were in a settlement. A settlement. I'd crossed the Grey Line, and the barrier, without realizing it, because buses don't have to stop. I have extemely strong feelings about settlements, and none of them supportive. (For a rough concept of how I feel, see this article by Thomas Friedman.) Now here I was partying in Israeli-occupied Palestine. How's that for neutrality?
Beit Haarava is at the very north of the Dead Sea, near the King Abdullah Hussein/Alleny Bridge Crossing into Jordan. First settled in the late 1930s, Beit Haarava was abandoned in 1948 as too remote and difficult to protect. In 1967, the Grey Line was delineated around the West Bank, with Beit Haarava well within the Palestinian territory. In the 1980s, Nahal (a paramilitary and agricultural brigade) re-established the kibbutz as an outpost, and handed over to civilians in 1996. And then in 2000, the kibbutz was moved to its current location because of growth. Beit Haarava is one of the last remaining strongly socialist kibbutzim. Members give their salaries to the kibbutz, and in exchange everything that they need--food, clothing, education, healthcare, everything.
My assumption was that everyone living east of the Grey Line was a total nutjob--a super rightwinger who believed that the messiah would only come if Jews occupied all of biblical Israel. I learned that I was deeply wrong.
Y and his family moved to Beit Haarava 5 years ago, because the government offered considerable financial assistance--rent, salary, etc in exchange for them living on the kibbutz for four years. After those four years, Y and his wife had to make a decision--they had two twin boys, then age 2 1/2--and they wanted to live near Jerusalem, but not in the city, because they didn't want their children raised in a frightening and brutally capitalistic environment (I'm paraphrasing, but this is close to exactly what he said), so inside the city was not going to work (Plus, Jerusalem is very expensive). Living to the east, south, or north would require living amongst the aforementioned rightwingers, which was also not ideal. To the west of Jerusalem the social climate was more appealing, but because everyone who is not a rightwinger and wants to live near Jerusalem lives there, it's exorbitantly expensive. So Y and his family decided to join the kibbutz. They are now members, and his wife is pregnant yet again. Y is not a crazy rightwinger, he's quite liberal, and his wife is a social worker in Jerusalem. So there goes my stereotyped view of the West Bank.
That evening I decided to stay in because I was still processing the fact that I had unintentionally violated my own ethics and crossed into Israeli-controlled West Bank. This turned out to be for the best, because I found out that Sallie Moore, the luminous and wonderful woman who 'raised' (her term) my sister and I, passed away that afternoon (March 12th) at the age of 90. As some of you (namely Adrienne and my family) will remember, Sallie had a remarkably strong character and her compassion for others, love of reading, and low bullshit tolerance had a profound effect on both my childhood and my own personality.
(I will post more about the next day in Beit Haarava in a bit.)
It took two buses to get to Beit Haarava--one from Ramla to Jerusalem and one from Jerusalem to Beit Haarava. Y (I'm using initials for privacy reasons), our host for the weekend, had sleeping bags and an empty house at the kibbutz available for us. He was incredibly welcoming--offered us snacks and home-brewed beer, and later drove us the 5 kilometers off of the kibbutz to the restaurant. Chatting with Y, he mentioned that we were in a settlement. A settlement. I'd crossed the Grey Line, and the barrier, without realizing it, because buses don't have to stop. I have extemely strong feelings about settlements, and none of them supportive. (For a rough concept of how I feel, see this article by Thomas Friedman.) Now here I was partying in Israeli-occupied Palestine. How's that for neutrality?
Beit Haarava is at the very north of the Dead Sea, near the King Abdullah Hussein/Alleny Bridge Crossing into Jordan. First settled in the late 1930s, Beit Haarava was abandoned in 1948 as too remote and difficult to protect. In 1967, the Grey Line was delineated around the West Bank, with Beit Haarava well within the Palestinian territory. In the 1980s, Nahal (a paramilitary and agricultural brigade) re-established the kibbutz as an outpost, and handed over to civilians in 1996. And then in 2000, the kibbutz was moved to its current location because of growth. Beit Haarava is one of the last remaining strongly socialist kibbutzim. Members give their salaries to the kibbutz, and in exchange everything that they need--food, clothing, education, healthcare, everything.
My assumption was that everyone living east of the Grey Line was a total nutjob--a super rightwinger who believed that the messiah would only come if Jews occupied all of biblical Israel. I learned that I was deeply wrong.
Y and his family moved to Beit Haarava 5 years ago, because the government offered considerable financial assistance--rent, salary, etc in exchange for them living on the kibbutz for four years. After those four years, Y and his wife had to make a decision--they had two twin boys, then age 2 1/2--and they wanted to live near Jerusalem, but not in the city, because they didn't want their children raised in a frightening and brutally capitalistic environment (I'm paraphrasing, but this is close to exactly what he said), so inside the city was not going to work (Plus, Jerusalem is very expensive). Living to the east, south, or north would require living amongst the aforementioned rightwingers, which was also not ideal. To the west of Jerusalem the social climate was more appealing, but because everyone who is not a rightwinger and wants to live near Jerusalem lives there, it's exorbitantly expensive. So Y and his family decided to join the kibbutz. They are now members, and his wife is pregnant yet again. Y is not a crazy rightwinger, he's quite liberal, and his wife is a social worker in Jerusalem. So there goes my stereotyped view of the West Bank.
That evening I decided to stay in because I was still processing the fact that I had unintentionally violated my own ethics and crossed into Israeli-controlled West Bank. This turned out to be for the best, because I found out that Sallie Moore, the luminous and wonderful woman who 'raised' (her term) my sister and I, passed away that afternoon (March 12th) at the age of 90. As some of you (namely Adrienne and my family) will remember, Sallie had a remarkably strong character and her compassion for others, love of reading, and low bullshit tolerance had a profound effect on both my childhood and my own personality.
(I will post more about the next day in Beit Haarava in a bit.)
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Table to Table
Today, for a post-Purim recovery activity, we went to pick oranges. This was part of a program called Table to Table that tries to put food waste to use in Israel. Part of the project involves picking up unused meals from office buildings and banquet halls and such. The other part of the program is called L'lechet, and derives from the Jewish tradition of leaving a portion of the harvest to those in need. Table to Table goes around Israel harvesting the leftovers, and gives them to food banks, soup kitchens, homeless shelters and non-profits. Particularly in the economic downturn, a lot of crops go unharvested. Because the export market is demanding less from Israel, more is put into the domestic market, which drives down the price of produce in Israel. This is great from a wanting to eat standpoint, but for farmers, it means that at a certain point paying people to harvest their crop puts them at a loss, because they can't sell it for enough. As a result, more is left unharvested.
We worked in a field that belonged to a lawyer who donated the entire thing to growing free food. There were 90 dunim (I have no idea what a dunim is), and potatos, beets, turnips, avocado, oranges, and pretty much anything one might want. We harvest oranges.
I really enjoyed climbing up into the trees with the huge sack slung across my back, twisting off huge gorgeous oranges (which were very tasty), and then lugging them back to the pallets that a tractor was picking up. But it was something of a fun game for me. It got me thinking about all of the migrant workers in the states, who do backbreaking labor day in and day out. It's a game for me, it's a meager existance for them. It was interesting to have my latest academic research (Hispanic immigration to the US and New Orleans, the latter of which was spearheaded by United Fruit Company) dovetail with the work I am doing here.
Israeli oranges are delicious. And my hands still smell like oranges.
We worked in a field that belonged to a lawyer who donated the entire thing to growing free food. There were 90 dunim (I have no idea what a dunim is), and potatos, beets, turnips, avocado, oranges, and pretty much anything one might want. We harvest oranges.
I really enjoyed climbing up into the trees with the huge sack slung across my back, twisting off huge gorgeous oranges (which were very tasty), and then lugging them back to the pallets that a tractor was picking up. But it was something of a fun game for me. It got me thinking about all of the migrant workers in the states, who do backbreaking labor day in and day out. It's a game for me, it's a meager existance for them. It was interesting to have my latest academic research (Hispanic immigration to the US and New Orleans, the latter of which was spearheaded by United Fruit Company) dovetail with the work I am doing here.
Israeli oranges are delicious. And my hands still smell like oranges.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Israeli Bathrooms
So yet again, it's been awhile since I've posted anything. I've been sick off and on for the last three weeks. Blame it on the crazy weather. But I have been thinking of things to post. Here are a few bits on Israeli bathrooms.
Israeli toilets are interesting for two big reasons:
1. Two types of flush--little and big. This is to conserve water. On the one hand, this is a very cool kind of engineering. You only flush as much as you need. On the other hand, the small flush is quite substantial—I’ve never had to use the large flush. So unless Israelis have remarkable digestive systems, they really could ratchet down the strength of the flushes and still be effective.
2. Roughly ½ of the non-tourist public toilets I’ve been in lack toilet seats completely. This is true of the gan (kindergarten) I work at, and the ulpan I attend. I think at the gan this might be just to prevent lots of spillage from inaccurate aim. What it means is that from a very young age Israelis have to learn to squat at the toilet. There is no way around this. On the plus side, this definitely helps for strong quads and no fear of falling in the toilet and breaking your tailbone if someone leaves the toilet seat up.
I promise I’ll post more soon. I have plenty of interesting stories, just not a ton of energy. Thanks for being patient!
Israeli toilets are interesting for two big reasons:
1. Two types of flush--little and big. This is to conserve water. On the one hand, this is a very cool kind of engineering. You only flush as much as you need. On the other hand, the small flush is quite substantial—I’ve never had to use the large flush. So unless Israelis have remarkable digestive systems, they really could ratchet down the strength of the flushes and still be effective.
2. Roughly ½ of the non-tourist public toilets I’ve been in lack toilet seats completely. This is true of the gan (kindergarten) I work at, and the ulpan I attend. I think at the gan this might be just to prevent lots of spillage from inaccurate aim. What it means is that from a very young age Israelis have to learn to squat at the toilet. There is no way around this. On the plus side, this definitely helps for strong quads and no fear of falling in the toilet and breaking your tailbone if someone leaves the toilet seat up.
I promise I’ll post more soon. I have plenty of interesting stories, just not a ton of energy. Thanks for being patient!
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