Independence In Spite of It All

Tonight will be Israel’s 60th anniversary of its independence.

As an aside - Because Jewish days are defined by sunset to sunset rather than the equally arbitary 24 hr day that we all use now holidays begin at sunset which takes some getting used to in practice.

Yesterday was The Memorial for Fallen Soldiers and Victims of Terror.  On May 1st was the Holocaust Remembrance Day.   Yom HaShoah and Yom HaZiccaron are marked by an air raid siren wailing for 1 minute where traffic and pedestrians come to a halt.  It’s surreal to see the hustle and bustle of Tel Aviv come to a halt with pedestrians and motorists standing at attention.  I’d never heard an air raid siren before coming to Israel; it’s quite striking.  To mark the remembrance of these solemn days with a siren cuts away the quotidian.

To contrast the solemn affair that is Yom HaZiccaron with the festivities of Independence Day makes both of the days more poignant.  From collective mourning and introspection to street parties and celebration is not only symbolically appropriate but is psychologically palatable and makes the impact of the continued independence of the state of Israel that much more tangible.

 

Cold War Kids

I grew up at the denouement of the Cold War but very vividly remember the giant red Soviet Union oozing itself across Asia and the Soviet menace that threatened to destroy our way of life and make us all acrobats even if we were acrophobic (my dad’s nutshell explanation of communism; my great uncle would have been mortified if he weren’t already).  In the early 80’s, no one would have predicted the imminent collapse of the Soviet Union and while the turmoil and paranoia of the McCarthy era was over, the Soviets and their minions were considered the primary enemy and the greatest threat to world peace, etc. Of course, in the Soviet Union, the rhetoric was mirrored and the US and our allies were the villains with our worker chains and such.

Growing up in an atmosphere of anti-Soviet propaganda and the Rooskie - as the Russians were once so affectionately called - meance, it’s somehow ironic that I should now be living in Bat Yam which is not-so-affectionately dubbed “Little Russia” or “Little Moscow” or worse.  I used to like the sound of Russian and Russian authors are among some of my favorites.

I’m not sure how it happened; maybe it was being pushed around in line or the blatant disregard for the country which they have come to inhabit or the drunk Russian boxing a sign at noon on Saturday but I have come to loathe the otherwise lyrical Russian language.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s some latent anti-Soviet mantra from my youth or my identification - only in contrast - as an American in a Russian locale.  Unbeknownst to me - and revealed to me only in contrast to my Russian neighbors - are some striking American mannerisms and an annoying faux-patriotism that arises whenever a Russian does something irksome.

This pseudo-patriotism usually reveals itself in the “we won the cold war” or “at least i’m not boxing a sign” (which has nothing to do with origin).  The reason for these bizarre rationalizations it seems is that I miss home which is still the States.  All of the loathing and skulking and looking-down at my Russian and Russian-extract neighbors is a perverted projection of my mind to compensate for my sickly sweet longing for home.  And, because Russia was enemy number one to my country of origin, it fits nicely that my feelings of homesickness should emerge, however twisted, as an opposition to the enemies of my home country.

Even though I can’t pinpoint an exact thing that I miss from home, there’s something home-like that I miss.  In my year and change here, I haven’t developed - to my surprise - a replacement sense of homeliness.  The food and people are still foreign to me and I am still a foreigner here.  Despite my legal and paper status testifying to my Jewish-Israeliness, I am still very much an American or at least not an Israeli.

 

The Daily Commute

Since there are virtually no jobs of any value in Bat Yam, I commute to Tel Aviv every day. I have two real options: one, take the bus or two, ride my bike. Taking the bus is a nightmare. It’s about a 45-55 minute commute with a bus driver whose real goal is to make the commute as painful as possible by veering suddenly or by stopping-and-starting. It’s a terribly unpleasant experience; I get off the bus woozy and ill-tempered.

The other option is to ride to work. I have a nice bike and used to race semi-professionally so it’s not excruciating. It’s only about a 6 mile ride or about 11km I guess. It only takes me about 20 minutes each way so I end up saving about 1 hr that I would otherwise spend cursing my existence on the bus. The real aggravation is how sweaty I get in every season except for the “winter”. I bring a spare change of clothes in my bag but there’s always some jackass at work who makes some comment about “is it hot outside?” or “in a hurry?” or somesuch bullshit. Usually it’s my boss who looks something like a Hebrew pirate; he has a pony-tail and a ridiculously oversized earring with a blueish faux-precious stone. He’s short, too and has a Napoleonic complex.

Tel Aviv is a nice city to ride; it’s flat and compact and while the traffic is congested and the drivers are aggressive they make room for bikes. It helps to be aggressive.

I certainly prefer riding the bike to work, though. It’s hard to find a good bike shop when you move to a new city because bike store employees tend to be stuck up pricks who look down on everyone. Luckily, I found Bike Tel Aviv which while still in its early stages looks to be a promising site. I emailed the site and got an answer for a good shop pretty quickly.

I got hit by a car in Yaffo; my bike was making a funny noise so I took it to the shop and the mechanic fixed it same day and for almost nothing.

 

Maccabee Sucks; Duke Sucks

I went to a Maccabee Tel Aviv basketball early this week. I haven’t been to so many sporting events in my whole life. Their are groups that support new immigrants and the largest one for Anglo-Olim (immigrants) is Nefesh b’Nefesh which I guess means Soul to Soul or something along those lines. They gave out tickets; my friend and I, being poor immigrants, went to the game.

I was surprised that the stadium was as nice as it was. It’s like a mini-NBA stadium but it was clean and modern. We ran into a guy and his fiancee that we studied Hebrew with in Jerusalem. He’s very strange.

The game was pretty dull at first. Maccabee has won the Israel league every year since 1954 except two. I of course had no rooting interest in the game and spent the majority of it talking with my friend about the goings-and-comings of life in Israel and who’s recently engaged to whom.

People can’t wait to get engaged here. My girlfriend and I are the only couple from the Ulpan (place where you learn hebrew) who aren’t engaged or married and it’s been only a year. There were about 6 other couples that met in Ulpan. I guess it’s because the median age is about 25 and you’re finally around oogles and oogles of Jews and Jewesses. And perhaps having someone around makes its the transition from the old country to Israel a bit easier. After all, you’re suffering together.

Back to the game: The highlight of the game was the hot dog. While I’m not religious in the least, I don’t eat pork. It’s a cultural decision; I’m not offended by the animal, the meat, don’t crinkle my face when someone eats a pork chop, etc. In Israel, though, the hot dogs (for the most part) are chicken. It’s nice to eat a shitty chicken hot dog.

Apparently NBN got the tickets from an American immigrant who plays for Maccabee.  In the States, he played college ball for Maryland and people were - apparently - encouraged to make signs showing support and thanks.  Someone made a “Duke Sucks” sign; I hate Duke because of that bastard Christian Laettner.

The juggernaut Maccabee was leading most of the game; in the final four minutes, though, Bnei Hashsaron (more on them later) started hitting every shot and Maccabee couldn’t hit a layup. I’m naturally for the underdog and since Maccabee hadn’t lost a game at home in three years, all the better if Bnei Hasharon wins. Plus, the guy leading the Maccabee cheers looked apoplectic and I thought he might explode if Maccabee lost.

With about a minute left, Bnei Hasharon was up 10; my friend and I left, they won. I rode home. It was pleasant.

It’s nice to talk to an American; even though most Israelis speak English to some degree and my girlfriend speaks perfect English there are certain Americanisms - unspoken and otherwise - that I’ve begun to miss. Spending a couple of hours chatting is enough to replenish that though.
 

Anyway, Bnei HaSharon is the team that formed from two smaller teams - hence Bnei - and HaSharon is the plains in the center of Israel.

 

HaPoel Tel Aviv

I went to my first soccer game in Israel last night. It was HaPoel - the Workers - Tel Aviv against Upper Nazareth. Within the first 20 minutes, the game was decided. Jesus’ hometown got its ass handed to it in a totally expected 3-1 loss.

The soccer stadium was about the size of my high school football stadium but there were cops everywhere who frisked us quite vigorously when we entered. I was surprised to see the green uniformed border police in the stadium; my friend explained they’re here because they “hit harder.” HaPoel, being the nominally communist affiliate team, are apparently especially hated by the border police who are generally fans of the ultra-nationalist Beitar Jerusalem team. Every time HaPoel scored, the surly border cop at the ramp below us curled his face into a grimace and squeeze an invisible baton with his oversized hands. He looked like the kind of guy who would forgo his check to bash some skulls.

My friend tried to explain to me the underlying political allegiance for each team. I guess this partially explains the rioting after most soccer matches which you don’t see at all in American sports. The animosity between Beitar Jerusalem and HaPoel is obvious; the communists never get along with the ultra-nationalists. The third club of the Israeli league is Maccabee and the the hated rival of HaPoel is Maccabee Tel Aviv. His explanation that Maccabee fans are “morons” doesn’t really explain the hatred although on the bus ride over some Maccabee fan kept yelling “HaPoel fuck fuck fuck” over and over when he overheard our conversation. I guess he was right.

Both Maccabee and Beitar lost their matches during the HaPoel match and the jubilant cries from the crowd were more ecstatic, enthusiastic and long-lasting than when HaPoel scored its three goals. I’m not sure which Middle Eastern axiom is appropriate; there are so many about enemies.

The evening was especially nice because it was a normal thing to do. It’s part of assimilating into Israel and doing normal things with Israelis. Casually rooting for a team makes you part of the social fabric however trivially; it makes it feel a bit more like home.

After the game ended, everyone left peacefully and as far as I know there was no violence. Upper Nazareth only had - this is not an exaggeration - about 7 fans on its side.

 

The Narcoman

It’s been an unusually cold and rainy winter in Israel. It’s rained violently for days at a time and the wind whips through the city rattling shutters and seizing tree limbs.

On a particularly cold and rainy night I came home from work to find a man hunched in the corner of the stairwell of our building. He was wrapped up in a dirty black trench coat and covered his chalky face with a red and black baseball cap. From his cracked lips hung the glowing ember of a cigarette and his yellowed eyes looked off into the distance. I casually acknowledged his existence and given the tortured weather outside, didn’t see the harm in shooing him away. By the time my girlfriend got home from work, he had vanished.

A few days later I found him again - on a higher landing this time - smoking very casually with cigarette butts littered around his feet and down the stairs. I was a bit disturbed by his confidence; clearly he had been here for some time and was waiting for someone. I went to get the mail later to make sure that he was actually there; he gives the sense of an apparition as he seems to sink into the wall behind him with his stark face in opposition.

He was still there, still smoking. Closing the door behind me, I looked through the eye hole of the door and saw him rise up and walk to the door at the end of the hall - the prostitute’s. He knocked loudly; no one answered. He stood almost pressing himself against the door, just waiting. The light in the hallway flickered off, I pressed the button to illuminate the light. The man was still standing flush with the door. The light went out again; knocking was heard again; the light came back to life, the man knocked again.

Suddenly, the door flung open, a middle aged man exploded from the door and chased the apparition from the building.

 

The Wretched Little Town by the Sea

I’ve been living in Israel for about a year and a half now in a wretched little town next to the sea called Bat Yam. There’s nothing exceptionally horrendous about the town; it’s simply drab and feels hollow.

The city is populated mainly by Russians from the former Soviet Union and to a lesser extent, Mizrachi and Ethiopian Jews. Many of the Russians aren’t Jewish and don’t identify as such. That’s why one sees Santa Clauses and Christmas trees popping up around Christmastime and a noticeably absent number of menorahs.

When we moved into the apartment, we were greeted - rather, shunned - by our new neighbors.

On our floor, there is a real life prostitute who operates from home and who, like rotting cheese, attracts a number of unpleasant and mealy customers. Another apartment is occupied by an elderly lady and her Moldovian servant who I occasionally see beating rugs on Friday morning with meaty arms. The final occupant on our floor is a distant relative of my girlfriend; despite her frequent barging in, she is a great help for us and relays news about the rest of the building. She speaks Polish and Hebrew and I only kind of speak Hebrew so that’s kind of a problem.

On the floor above us is an angry, raspy immigrant from Georgia.  At all hours of the day and night he bellows at his wife and baby.  When the baby cries, he thunders in response such an angry tirade that sounds as if his larynx is being crushed his screams come out so hoarse.  His appearance befits such a brute; he’s short, fat and bumbles about.  He even yells at the stray cats searching for food outside; he’s convinced the cats arm themselves with mosquitoes to be launched like so many little missiles at his beloved child.

The rest of the building is a mass of barely recognizable faces who tread heavily on the stairs and slap the light on the landing of our floor.