Alizapalooza

Woman Lights Match on Plane to Disguise Odor of Flatulence, Causing Emergency Landing

2006-12-06T16:55:00.000+02:00

I have nothing that I could possibly add to this.

Only In My World

2006-12-05T04:58:00.000+02:00

One of the most difficult aspects of relocation is making new friends. I have to admit, I've been fairly spoiled, since all my life I've been in one framework or another, and married an incredibly social guy with a large group of friends. While I always enjoyed making new friends, there was never any need.

I assumed, once we arrived in D.C., that it would take a few weeks before I started finding girlfriends, and before we started finding a few couples which we clicked with. Not quite. Now, for those of you who know me, you would agree with this statement:

"Aliza could make friends with a brick wall."

So imagine my suprise when I found out how incredibly hard it is to meet people. Hubby and I have chosen to live in a suburb which has a big Jewish community, is a 15 minute drive from the office and is ridiculously more affordable than downtown D.C. I did my homework and checked out the area prior to our arrival, and was told that it would be completely suitable for a couple in our religious/no-kids framework. I feel slightly misled. Our apartment is gorgeous and huge, the air is clean and we're near a bunch of kosher food stores, but suburbia is, in a word, BORING. If you have no kids and like the city (gee, somewhat like myself!) you will find yourself going slightly batty. And I've definately made an effort. While I'm slowly finding some women in the community, it's taken a looooong time.

Before actually meeting the few people I've clicked with in the building, I made an effort with everyone and anyone. I was lonely for conversation, for a friend to chat with over coffee and go shopping. I really put myself out there. When Hubby and I went to a wine tasting a few weeks ago, he was duly impressed that I got more numbers than the single guys in the room. I've started conversations with people in elevators, the check-out line, the train station. You name it, I've tried to use it.

One of my efforts has actually paid off, in the form of Kim. Kim was the salesgirl at the Gap that I went to when I wanted to test my marriage (otherwise known as bringing my husband jeans shopping with me and asking for his honest opinion). One thing led to another, and soon she and I were shmoozing away as Hubby paid for the purchases. Realizing that there was no end in sight, he made the passing comment of "Why don't you two exchange numbers and go get a coffee sometime." He thought it was a joke. We took it seriously. Kim is nice, funny, a single mom and supporting herself and kids with two jobs while she gets her masters in public health. That was a good enough start for me.

Last night, Kim called. It was our first phone conversation. Making a new friend is somewhat akin to having a first date, in my mind. You think you like the person, you have a connection, but is there enough there to sustain a few hours together? What if I say something stupid? What if she doesn't like me? As we were chatting away, Kim mentioned that she was studying for a German final. I told her that the only German I know is from my work at Yad Vashem. To make a long story short, Kim is equally interested in the Holocaust, to the degree that she combined her German studies with Holocaust studies - in Germany. There should be one more thing that I should mention about Kim, to give this an even broader context - she's an African-American. Technically, she has no connection to the Holocaust other than the fact that she's a person, and the Holocaust was perpetrated on other human beings. Yet, we managed to find this random common ground.

Now put yourself in Hubby's shoes, and imagine his reaction when he was greeted with this statement as he walked in door:

"Sweetie, remember Kim from the Gap? Well, she just called and we talked for half an hour, and it was mostly about the Holocaust. Isn't it great that we have commong interests?"

It was one of many times which I've left him speechless.

That's going to help!

2006-11-28T21:39:00.000+02:00

News update: Ehud Olmert is "disappointed" by the firing of Kassams into Israel, in breach of the ceasefire. Well now, that makes things ok. Disappointment is really going to save lives.

Partners in peace? Wake up Olmert, and smell the coffee before that's blown up too.

It Never Stops

2006-11-28T20:27:00.000+02:00

Accusations of Jewish manipulation and control have existed for centuries. The Protocols of the Elders of Zion, a ficticious manifesto which was written by the Tsarist Secret Police, a propaganda publication which has since proliferated and been kept alive, most recently being broadcast as a 41 part series in Egypt. It is impossible to count the number of times officials from Muslim countries have blamed Israel and the "Zionists" for controlling the media, the banks, the weather. You name it, we control it.

The most famous pack of lies in recent years came from the outgoing president of Malaysia, Mahathir Mohamad, who told a summit of Islamic leaders that "Jews rule the world by proxy", arguing that the world's 1.3 billion Muslims shouldn't let the Jews control the world's outcome anymore. This was not only believed, but wildly applauded by all in attendance.

So, it should really come as no suprise that Israel and the Zionists are once again being blamed for the world's atrocities - Darfur, this time. Silly me, all this time I had been under the impression that the government-backed Janjaweed had been targeting ethnic groups and committing genocide. Nope, I was wrong.

Sudan's president claims that reports of genocide were fabrications which were "all part of an Israeli-led worldwide conspiracy". Never mind the reports from the UN and various human rights organizations, stating that over 400,000 people have been murdered. Ignore the horrific tales emanating from refugee camps, where women talk of group rape while their family was forced to watch, and having their husbands and sons murdered before their eyes. Apparently, media coverage of Darfur was being orchestrated by Israel, in order to aide Western society in their wars in Israel, Afghanistan and Iraq.

There is a part of me which says that this man should simply be pooh-poohed, that there is more evidence than could be documented which conflicts with his claims. However, experience has taught me that there will be those who will believe every word, internalize it, and further vilify Israel and the Jews, adding on another reason to continue the muslim vendetta against Israel. No matter how Tzipi Livni tries to paint Israel as a fun place, no matter how many meetings there are between Israelis and Palestinians, the problems in the Middle East will never be resolved until the muslim populations begin to take responsibility for their actions, stop blaming the Jews and stop entrenching their populations in fallacies and vilifications. Only then, might the world have a chance at seeing peace.

Suprise, Surprise

2006-11-28T06:25:00.000+02:00

After you live in Israel for a certain period, you begin to understand the peculiar lingo which is bandied around by politicians and other public figures. Therefore, I shook my head with weariness at Ehud Olmert's defeatist proclamations of peace, splashed across the morning newspapers. His announcement comes the day after a ceasefire was declared between Gaza and Israel. A ceasefire during which 5 rockets already hit Israel. It is a well-known fact that the only time terrorists seek a hudna (ceasefire) is when the Israeli army is actually doing their job and eliminating terror threats.

Imagine my "suprise" to see this excerpt in an article on ynet:
"The ceasefire offers a period of calm for our fighters to recover and prepare for our final goal of evacuating Palestine," said Abu Abir, spokesman for the Popular Resistance Committees, a Hamas-allied terror organization in the Gaza Strip responsible for many of the recent rocket attacks against Israeli communities. "We will keep fighting Israel, but for the moment we will postpone certain part of the military struggle," Abu Abir said.

How many rounds of this will it take for the government to turn down one of these "ceasefires"? How many more suicide bombings will it take? How many more renewed rounds of Kassam attacks? Where are the Palestinian voices saying they will do all they can to stop Kassam fire and terrorists, so that Israel and the Palestinians can engage in a true peace process, one with solid foundations, and not one built on a skimpy skeletal frame, camouflaged by smoke and mirrors.

The Day I Made the Driving Tester Cry

2006-11-19T05:44:00.000+02:00

I'm back. As I said in the last post, Washington DC was our next destination. I've been here for two months, hubby for three, and it's been an interesting (if somewhat boring) experience thus far. We made the fiscally responsible choice of suburbia over Dupont Circle or Georgetown, and as a result I'm going slightly desparate housewife-ish. But we're meeting nice people and most importantly, I've found three H&M's nearby...

Part of relocating to a new country, as many of you know, is having to establish your existance. Opening a bank account, getting cell phones, a land line, etc. Maryland has a law which states that if a person moves from overseas to Maryland, their license is valid for only two months. As that period was rapidly approaching, I made an appointment to transfer my license. By transfer, I mean I had to take a 3 hour drug and alcohol awareness class (which I finished in under an hour) and then take the theory and practical tests all over again. I read and reviewed the driving laws, filled up the car and made my was to the DMV. I was confident in all but one thing - my parallel parking.

Now, before you start making female driver jokes, let me make it clear that I am an excellent driver, with an admittedly aggressive/defensive streak, but I've never had an accident in the 5+ years that I've had a license, but average parallel parking skills. However, in the two months since I've arrived, I have not needed to parallel park once. Nope - not a single time. Therefore, the night before the test, I pushed the boundaries of my marriage and placed hubby in the passenger seat and drove around till we found a street with some cars that I could park between. After an hour's practice, I felt confident of my abilities, and we went home. Hubby received big brownie points for his equanimity and the ability to remain calm under bad parking.

Day of the Test - I sail through the theory exam, mentally hit myself for giving my true weight on the license and not taking of 10 pounds, and head around the back of the building for the practical exam. As the tester walks towards my car, I mentally groan. He appears to have all the humanity of a corpse. I put on my brightest smile (thank you mom and dad for 2.5 years of braces) and cheerfully greet the tester. He asks to see my license and says,
"Oooh, an Israeli license! What part of the country are you from?"
I sense an ally and make my move.

"Jerusalem. It's gorgeous. Have you been?"

I make a friend. To make a long story short, the tester was a Republican, pro-Israeli/anti-Muslim war veteran. I played my cards right and we end up shmoozing for 15 minutes before the test begins. At one point in our conversation, I mention that both of my grandfathers had been WW II veterans, and he asks if I've seen the Holocaust Museum in Washingon DC. I tell him that I'm a tour guide at Yad Vashem. He then does something I've never seen a middle-aged male driving tester do. He begins to cry.

"I'm sorry, the Holocaust just upsets me so. Those people..."

As he composes himself, I pat his hand and lay the final snare to ensure that I pass.

"Don't worry. It's wonderful that you can feel so deeply in this time and age."

Cue the violins and gagging sounds.

When I slightly bungled the parallel parking, the tester walked me through it and ensured that I got perfect marks.

To make a long story short, I now have a lovely Marlyand license with a FANTASTIC picture. When I called hubby to tell him that I made the tester cry, his (predictable) remark was:

"Was your driving that bad?"

When Dreams Come True

2006-07-06T12:23:00.000+03:00

In the musical Wicked, the good witch Glinda sings about having your dreams come true:

Cause getting your dreams
It's strange, but it seems
A little - well - complicated
There's a kind of a sort of - cost
There's a couple of things get - lost...
And if that joy, that thrill
Doesn't thrill you like you think it will...

A dream of mine is coming true, but I didn't realize how much I wanted it to remain a dream until it became reality. Hubby has been asked by the Jewish Agency to be an Aliyah Shaliach (emissary) in the good ol' US of A, and we will be moving there for a 2-3 year period at the end of the summer.

I made aliya at 14, two weeks before high school began, and was dragged here kicking and screaming. My year revolved around my visits back to the States, seeing my relatives and friends, the shopping and fun, and the feelings of comfort and familiarity which I didn't have in Israel. This continued all during high school. I dreamed of the day that I would move back to America, go to college there and come back to Israel after I had a degree. I went to Midreshet Lindenbaum (a women's yeshiva) for a year and then did a year of Sheirut Leumi (national service for religious women). That year of sheirut was the first time that I was actually happy in Israel. I mean really happy, content.

I had seriously contemplated going to university in the States, but for a number of reasons, chose to stay in Israel and go to Hebrew U. I regret the decision for a number of reasons, but paradoxically it was the best decision I've ever made, cause I started dating hubby in my first semester and I never would have met this wonderful man had I gone to the States to study. But I still wondered what my life and GPA would have been like had I gone to the States, the "What If..." a persistent little voice in my head. I felt that I needed to go and live there for a few years, just to get it out of my system. It was a consistent dream, a desire. But due to hubby being the ardent Zionist he is, (which is one of the many things I love about him) moving to the States for a few years "just because" wasn't an option.

Suddenly, the opportunity was presented on a golden platter. Shlichut, going as an emissary to encourage aliyah and Israel programs, being a representative of the country which we love. We received official acceptance in April, and then the oddest thing happened. My dream had come true, I would be going to the States for a few years, "getting it out of my system". And yet, I am experiencing a surprising reticence. I don't want to leave my home. I'm happy here. This past year has been difficult, in the respect of needing to juggle multiple jobs, a full load of classes, my marriage and a social life. But I have been so happy. I love my husband, love our apartment, love our location, our friends, basically our life that we've built. Suddenly, my dream, once actualized, is making me more sad than happy. It's funny how that happens, huh?

There are good points about going to the States. I'll be living near my grandmothers, both of whom are elderly and not in the greatest of health. I plan on pursuing an M.A. while we're there, and I know that as a team, hubby and I can accomplish so much for Israel, a country which we are both in love with. Hubby will make a fantastic shaliach, and I'm so proud of what he's going to do. I plan on boosting the American economy (I have a slight H&M addiction).
But when it all comes down to it, I'm equally sad and excited.

Even though we haven't left yet, I can't wait to come home.

Football Widow

2006-06-21T22:32:00.001+03:00

I'm alone. I have been for the last several nights, actually a few weeks ago. My husband has left me. He's here but he's not. I hear tortured shouts and yells from the basement, my presence is but a mere nusaince. As a matter of fact, the TV has replace me.

Yes, I'm a football widow.

The soccer World Cup, which began June 9th, has enraptured my husband, ensnared him, and I am no competition. The Mondial (as it's called here in the holy land) costs the princely sum of 309 NIS, and as it's viewed for free in pretty much every other country in the world, caused cries of outrage to be heard from hubby and pretty much the rest of the male population in Israel. I figured that I should be supportive of hubby's habits, so when he confessed that he was wavering between buying the package (to view all the games) or not, I enthusiastically supported him in purchasing the Mondial. I was quite pleased with my understanding and support, and hubby was happy that he could watch to his heart's content.

Had I knonw the reprecussions of the purchase, I might have been slightly less keen. For example, in my previous blog, I mentioned I was in a play. Hubby only came to the play once assured he could be home in time to watch England play. Now, I understand how much he loves soccer and he's English, but really! Hell, I tape things I really want to see, and watch them a bit later. And I know that my abandonment will continue into the first week of July.

So here I sit, alone, at quarter to eleven at night, while Argentina is the object of my husband's delight.

Sigh.

What's In A Heil?

2006-06-21T09:22:00.000+03:00

Last night I was in a play which was compiled of stories found in the Nazi propaganda book for children Trust No Fox on the Green Heath and No Jew on His Oath and short satirical stories taken from a Terezen Ghetto periodical called Cammerade which was written by teens in the camp. The purpose of the show was meant to show how children lost their innocence, how children were brainwashed from a young age to think the Jews were evil in contrast to Jewish children who had to behave as adults, in order to deal with the harsh reality they were living in.

Some of the pieces were heartwrenching, like one called "Night Fairy Tale" where a 12 year old boy wrote a story of how the "ladder was moaning since his brother was broken and burnt in the crematorium, and the oven was furious that the others were calling him a crematorium, and the lightbulb missed the prohibition of using lights in the evening, which had been a group punishment, since then she really had time to rest". All of these descriptions took reality and made it plausible.
fu
But the most difficult part, personally was a piece called "The Fuerher's Children" in which we marched and chanted a children's poem about devotion to the Hitler Youth. After much debate, and arguing in rehearsals, for the sake of authenticity, we chose to incorporate the Heil salute. It's just a movement, just a hitting of the chest and then swinging the arm out straight. But I cannot tell you how that simple movement filled me with revulsion, how I was literally covered in goosebumps every time I had to do it, and overcome by a sudden naseau. It took us a while to get the beat and rythme correct, and that necessitated doing the piece over and over, salute after salute. I was afraid I would become numb to what I was doing.

The play was a great success, but I cannot forget the gasps I heard coming from the audience when we thrust out our arms, held them high, chanting "We wish to live for the furher, we look to a bright future". And despite being in character, being caught up in the heady drug which acting is for me, I was momentarily jerked out of the scene, and I was grateful for it. For the fear of falling too much into character, of identifying with the committment and joy a 5 year old must have felt with the marching, support, uniforms and music, was too terrifying a prospect for me to even consider.

As I sit here writing this, it amazes me that even after 60+ years, the salute of a movement which I never came into contact with, which symbolizes a horror my people went through, can still affect me so.

Tired...So Tired

2006-06-13T23:37:00.000+03:00

I'm tired. It's been a long week thus far, and it's not going to ease up anytime soon. But it's the sort of exhaustion which begins when you don't get a decent sleep on Saturday night, as the weekend slips away and Sunday arrives.

I gave a presentation today on the Simpsons as show which mixes genres and inhabits postmodernist cultural markers, and began preparing for it on Saturday evening with a friend. We worked until 1am and then went to sleep, since I needed to be out of the house by 7:45am and needed a few hours of sleep.

I tossed and turned, and as I was finally drifting off, my cellphone rang. It was 2am. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was my boss. I almost didn't pick up, as there are limits to how available I can be for my job, but decided to answer incase it was an emergency. Good thing I did. The conversation went something like this:

Me: waswrong?

Boss: An American student was kidnapped this evening in Nablus, please do not talk to the press, students or parents if they call you to get information.

Yes, this is what I get to find out about at 2am. I worked with overseas students this past year, and had just finished saying goodbye to them, as their semester finished at the end of May. While there were still some students around, most had gone home or were leaving shortly. I was shocked to hear the news and was fairly wired, as one can imagine.

As I'm drifting off to sleep for the second time, around 3am, I hear a massive BOOM and the house shakes slightly. Ambulence sirens sound a few minutes later. All I can think is why would anyone want to bomb my neighborhood at 3am on a Saturday night? I finally fall asleep shortly before 5am, thus getting about two hours of sleep.

But all's well that ends well. When I dragged myself out of bed at 7am, I ran to the internet. The student was released unharmed and the boom I had heard was a gas explosion in an apartment building down the street. No one was hurt.

I can't wait for the weekend.

You've Got to be Kidding Me - Round Two

2006-06-05T09:36:00.000+03:00

This article is a must-read. Me thinks the pathetic cycle of appeasement is getting slightly out of hand... Poor, stupid Brits (sorry sweetie).

Four Letter Word

2006-05-24T00:51:00.001+03:00

Warning: This entry is emotional and highly subjective. If you don't like politics, I suggest you stop here.

For me, Nazi is a four letter word.

One of the things which never ceases to frustrate me is the struggle for legitimacy via usage of other nation's tragedies to coin one's own experiences, as if you could compare and equate the suffering. I find it infuriating when the Palestinians use the term "Holocaust" when they discuss nakba. I don't like it when the term "apartheid" is bandied about, as it deligitimizes their experience by making it common, unconsciously minimizingthe pain, suffering and humiliation of the South African's who initially had the term applied to them.

But what really gets me is when the term Nazi is used. It is so ridiculously overused and has lost its meaning over the years. I think the all-time low was the Seinfeld "Soup Nazi" episode. I realize that it was not meant to minimize the Holocaust, but never the less, it degrades the term and softens the severity which accompanies the mental image which the terminology invokes. My sensitivity to the issue has been heightened due to my work at Yad Vashem, and I have respect for the complex issues and meanings which certain terms contain, especially after spending the past year working with students who span the Jewish denominational board. The word nazi is short for Nationalsocializmus, the National Socialists party, whose doctrine was based on Hitler's Mein Kampf, a vicious political ideology emphasising the necessity to eliminate the Jewish people. When I hear nazi, the image that comes to mind is of an individual who is a small, hateful person, whose intentions were compelled by racial motivation and hatred of non-aryans, especially and specifically Jews.

I write all of this as a reaction to the Ynet article, when a Machsom Watch activist called an IDF soldier a nazi:

Soldiers told Ynet the incident occurred at the beginning of the month at a checkpoint near Tul Karm. A Machsom Watch activist approached the soldier as he asked two Palestinians to queue for inspection and launched a verbal attack against him. "She promptly approached him and swore at him, told him he is a 'Nazi' and a 'beast'," soldiers told Ynet. Soldiers who were present at the checkpoint at the time said their comrade acted according to IDF regulations and the activist's reaction was inexplicable and "degrading." "There are a lot of situations where we carry on as usual and don't respond, but this was too much and he was offended," soldiers said.
Police said they are currently searching for the activist who is wanted for interrogation. In the written apology sent to the soldier's commander the Machsom Watch activist wrote that hearing the soldier giving instructions to the Palestinian was "unbearable."

How dare this woman equate the men and women who risk their lives defending Israel with the monsters who tried their hardest to annihilate the Jewish people. Is it difficult and at times degrading for Palestinians to go through checkpoints? Absolutely. Is it a necessity for the safety of Israeli citizens, whether they be Jewish, Muslim or Chrisitian? Absolutely, for suicide bombers don't discriminate. I would love to see a peaceful border, where people could pass freely and safely from side to side, be they Israeli or Palestinian, without worry. But it's simply not reality. Galgalaz (Israeli radio) reported today that there has been a sharp rise in the number of attempted terror attempts. The checkpoints serve the purpose of keeping all Israelis safe, and put our boys, my brothers, in harms way as they are the ones which physically prevent tragedy and terror.

Our army is one of the most humanitarian in the world. IDF officers have even met with Machsom Watch activists, to speak with them regarding ways of improving checkpoint conditions. There are even checkpoints being set up which allow Palestinians to pass through without ever being in contact with an Israeli soldier. What other country would go to such lengths for a people who wish to destroy them?

Instead of harrasing our boys, the Machsom Watch activists should be thanking them for keeping their ungrateful, sorry asses alive.

Meme Strikes...

2006-05-22T21:45:00.000+03:00

It was just a matter of time... I've been A-Z Meme-ed by Dot Co Dot Il

Accent: We all have accents, mine happens to be neutral East Coast American. You can't exactly place me...

Booze: oooh, tough one. I'd narrow it down to Barbar, Archers, anything with Kahluah, and the occasional tequila slammer if I'm regressing.

Chore I hate: Any type of cleaning or organizing. Ask the hubby, poor guy gets stuck with most of it.

Dogs/Cats: My parents have an adorable doggie named Bob, who I still consider to be mine, and I'm working on the hubby to concinve him of the merits of a Lab Retriever.

Electronics: TV, VCR, DVD, Laptop and a newly aquired Ipod which can hold up to 15,ooo songs.

Favorite Perfume/Cologne: Ralph Blue, Chanel Chance, Gap Dream and Issey Miyake cologne.

Gold/Silver: I would do platinum if they had it in Israel, but white gold has been a favorite of mine since I declared at the tender age of 10 that I would have a silver wedding band, since I didn't like yellow, and was then introduced to white gold.

Hometown: It's a bit confusing, I suppose I would say Pittsburgh, as that was the last place I lived in prior to Aliyah, but I've bounced around a bit in the last 9 years. I would have to say that Jerusalem is and will always be my hometown, regardless of where I live.

Insomnia: When I started my job, all the time. Now, only occasionally, but I'm a light sleeper so I can't remember the last time I slept through the night.

Job Title: Program Coordinator, Freelance Yad Vashem tour guide, private English tutor, full time student and I'm pretty sure that's it.

Kids: Nope, we are still able to whisk ourselves off to a weekend getaway based on our whims and desires... Not that we've ever done that. Yet.

Living Arrangements: Living in a stunning, renovated apartment which hubby and I designed (if I do say so myself) in an old Arab house in Baka, which still has the original well underneath it!

Most Admired Trait: Where to begin? I suppose my gift of gab is a good starter.

Number of Sexual Partners: I plead the fifth, as my mother reads this on occasion.

Overnight Hospital Stays: Excluding birth and quite a few daytime procedures, just one, when I had tubes, tonsils and adnoids removed when I was 6. At least I got a week of school off!

Phobia: I don't like elevators. Not the closed space, the mechanism itself. I use them, but reluctantly.

Quote: Know Thyself (Socrates)

Religion: Modern Orthodox, also know as Dati light or the "grey zone".

Siblings: Twin brother who is 1 minute older than I am, little brother who is twenty and have ing his swearing in ceremony for a commando army unit on Thursday and my baby sister who is 14, in 9th grade, and has an attitude. She gets it from me :)

Time I Usually Wake Up: To damn early.

Unusual Talent: I can bend over backwards and grab my ankles. It's amazing what a minor case of scoliosis allows you to do!

Vegetable I Refuse To Eat: Olives. Nasty, gross, smelly things. They are only good for oil and minor forms of torture.

Worst Habit: Nail biting. Which is why acrylics are such a great investment.

Xenophobia: Are you kidding me? I could strike up a conversation with a brick wall if I needed to. Now if the wall were to answer back, we may have a problem.

Yummy Foods I Love: Too many! But to name a few, there is Ben & Jerry's Half Baked, stuffed grape leaves, anything chocolate, kubbeh chamusta, rare sirloin stake, hot chocolate cake....

Zodiac Sign: Taurus

Whew, this thing takes time! I tag Gila.... You're it chicka!

A Year Older, A Year Wiser

2006-05-17T00:16:00.000+03:00

Happy Birthday to me!!! 23 and counting...

Remember

2006-05-15T00:04:00.001+03:00

In his Nobel Prize speech, Elie Wiesel speaks of the paradox between the need to remember versus the necessity to forget. This came to mind when I heard of the death of Daniel Wultz, the 16 year old American tourist who died of wounds he sustained during the Pesach suicide bombing.
I felt pain for his parents and family, for the immeasurable agony they are suffering, and thought of his friends and classmates. Those innocent teenagers, who never thought they would ever undergo an event like this. They are feeling loss, pain, numbness, anger and so many unvoiceable emotions which they are just beginning to process.

I know. I was one of those teens when my classmate and friend, Yael Botwin, was murdered almost 9 years ago in a triple suicide bombing on Ben Yehuda.

September 1st, 1997, I began 9th grade at a high school in the center of Jerusalem, a 2 minute walk away from Ben Yehuda. On September 4th, I was one of the last people to speak to Yael before she was murdered. I had planned to go to a Ben Yehuda cafe with friends when class let out at 2:30, but they had to go home. So I decided to go by myself, and read a book over a cup of hot chocolate, until I discovered that I had forgotten my book. I always had a book with me, it was extremely rare for me to leave the house without one. So I cut short the conversation I was having with Yael, and began to race for the bus stop. As I ran up the hill, there were three enormous bands, which shattered the car windows around me and reverberated throughout my being. I, in my innocence, thought it was a sonic boom. The time was 3:05. I had told my mother that I would be on a 4:00 bus. I got to the bus stop and the screaming and crying began. My bus had been passing Ben Yehuda as the bombs went off, and thus wasn't held up by police. I sat there numbly, as one of the passengers explained in broken English what was going on. I tried to call home one someone's cell phone, but the lines were jammed.

When I got off the bus half an hour later, my mother was waiting for me. A friend of hers had seen me as she got off a few bus stops earlier, and called my mother, who had been sure I was dead or wounded. We called my father (who was in the States on business) and grandparents to let them know I was ok. At 9PM, a classmate called, crying hysterically. It was then I learned that Yael had been murdered. My mind frantically raced, trying to recall which one she was, out of the 6o girls I had met in my first 4 days of high school.

The next day, my school was prepared with a commemorative banner with her name and picture, a psychologist and transportation to the funeral. When I walked in and say Yael's picture, I realized it was my new friend, the slight, brown-haired and soft-spoken girl with the gentle smile, whom I had broken off a conversation with just the day before. I sat crying in my classroom, being comforted by two classmates. One of them asked, "Is this your first one(suicide bombing)?" In response to my silent nod, she sadly smile and said, "Don't worry, you'll get used to it." That, out of the mouth of a 14 year old. I remember frantically thinking that I couldn't and would not ever get used to it.

I fell into a lethargic depression, telling my parents that it was my fault she had been killed. If I had spoken to her for even one more moment, not broken off our conversation, she would still be alive. It was my fault. My parents sent me to counselling, unable to convince me that I had nothing to do with it, that I couldn't have known, and that it was not my fault.

A few days after the funeral, a few of us went to Ben Yehuda to the site where she had died and lit a Yizkor candle, left letters and cried. All this in my first week of high school, less than a month after I had made aliyah.

A month later, I began an ulpan for teenagers. On my first day, I got lost and asked a woman passing by for help. It turned out to be Yael's mother, walking her little sister to school, which was right next to the ulpan. I couldn't get the words out, couldn't say that I had known her daughter, as I still was firmly convinced of my guilt.

This September will mark 9 years. In those 9 years, I've graduated from high school and university, studied at yeshiva, done sheirut leumi and gotten married to a wonderful man. I still think of Yael, as I began lighting a second candle on Friday nights in addition to the one I already lit, for Yael and my NCSY youth group counsellor Rafi Estrin, who died a week after Yael from Cystic Fibrosis. I light for my friends who will never have the chance to light. Over the years, I've added more names to my second candle, and it has taken on even more meaning once I married, and that candle came to represent my partner as well.

I pray for Daniel's friends and classmates, for his family. This sort of death tears you apart and never leaves you. You learn to push it into a corner in your mind, but it crops up when you least expect it, tearing at your heart, and catching in your throat. It will forever change the 16 year olds who were part of Daniel's life, perhaps even more so than my short relationship with Yael changed me.

For at 14, I had lost the innocence of immortality. I have never forgotten how precious life is, and how quickly it can be taken away.

Isn't It Ironic

2006-04-26T23:18:00.000+03:00

Monday night was Yom HaShoah - Holocaust Rememberance Day. I had been invited by Hebrew U's Hillel house to participte in an alternative Holocaust ceremony. Israel seems to have a formula for solemn ceremonies, which is 4-6 parts dramatic readings, 2-3 parts songs and a few poems/candle lightings. The Hillel house's ceremony consisted of a number of different students speaking about the Holocaust from their perspective, as well as having a somewhat famous folk singer play a few interspersed songs. It was actually quite interesting. A number of the people spoke had no family in the Holocaust - students whose families cam from Ethiopia, Yemen, Tunisia, etc and their only connection to the Holocaust was their religion. I was asked to speak because I spent most of my life in America, and I was asked to talk about what it was like growing up in a country where the ghost of the Holocaust is not part of the national identity. However, the most interesting student, by far, was the only non-Jew who spoke.

Jan is an overseas student from Germany in his mid-20s, who is an artistic, sensitive, talented and extremely eccentric student. He was asked to talk about his Holocaust experiences, as someone from the "other side". His words were moving and powerful. He told us about the time when a religious Jew came up to him and asked, "How many Jews did your father murder in the Holocaust?" When Jan told him that his father had been born after WWII, the man persisted and asked, "Then how many Jews did your grandfathers murder?" He told us about how he wasn't aloud toy weapons as a child, because his parents told him, "We're Germans, we don't play with guns."

After he got off the stage, he sat down next to me. As he took his place, I realized he was shaking, quietly sobbing, and on the verge of hyperventilating. I instinctively took his hand and held it, and told him what a brave thing he did. I held his hand until he calmed down, until his breathing was less erratic and he stopped shaking.

At one stage, as I looked down at our hands, lit only by the faint spotlight focused on the stage, the irony struck me. Here I am, a Jew, sitting in Jerusalem, our Jewish capital, calming and comforting a non-Jewish German on Holocaust Day.

Take that, Hitler.

It's About Friggin Time

2006-04-19T22:16:00.000+03:00

I think I like this new pope...

Check it out

Baruch Dayan Emet

2006-04-19T22:11:00.000+03:00

Please take a few moments to read about the 9 vicims of Monday's suicide bombing in Tel Aviv.

Ode to the Jewish Woman Making Pesach

2006-04-12T12:16:00.000+03:00

Twas the night before pesach
All was silent in the house
Nothing was stirring
Not even a mouse

Then up from her bed
With a strangled cry
Leapt a Jewish housewife
With fear in her eyes

“The chametz the chametz”
She cried and moaned
“I dreamt that it was everywhere
All over our home”

Her screams woke the children
And much to their delight
They saw mom freaking out
In the middle of the night

Her husband rubbed her back
And murmured in her ear
"It was just a nightmare sweetie
Go back to sleep dear"

But with a maniacal gleam
In her bloodshot eyes
The woman stood up
And boldly decried

“My dream was an omen
A sign from up You Know Who
We must re-check the house
That’s exactly what we’ll do"

Her husband protested
Her children tried to procrastinate and pause
But hell hath no iron will
Like a woman with a cause

Starting in the attic
They worked their way down
Unfolding and lifting
Silently, without sound

They checked under the beds
Inside the cupboards too
The breakfront and closets
And the baby’s toy zoo

They swarmed over the kitchen
Eyeballing every nook and cranny
Finding naught but some matzah meal
And a picture of dad’s granny

At last, exhausted
And empty-handed but relieved
The mother sent her brood to bed
For a well deserved reprieve

Now dear reader, heed this lesson
And pay tribute to the woman of the hour
Who’s scrubbing, cleaning and cooking
Has used up all her power

She tirelessly converted
The whole house as it should be
And come Seder night
Her work is a pride for all to see

This is for every Jewish woman
Who has been stressed and worried
Who has been fraught with nerves
And somewhat harried

I honor your labors
And congratulate you too
Now sit back and relax
There's nothing left to do!!!

Chag Sameach!

Minyan (Wo)Man

2006-04-10T23:58:00.000+03:00

I spent Shabbat in Pekiin this week, a lovely town up north with is distinct for the fact that it has Muslim, Christian, Druse and Jewish residents all living peacefully together. I was there with work and in charge of the religious aspect of Shabbat. I was a bit tentative, as Shabbat is incredibly important to me, and I need to be able to pray and hear the Torah being read and feel like I'm in an atmosphere condusive to a spiritually fulfilling Shabbat. Aside from having a somewhat frantic drive up, as I had never driven in that area before and encountered over an hour of traffic due to terrorism warnings and a car accident, I arrived at the youth hostel 45 minutes before candle lighting to a lovely youth hostel. The majority of the students on the weekend were not what you would call religious, comprised of various streams of Judaism, with perhaps 15-20 shomer shabbat (Sabbath observant) students and the rest Conservative, Reformed or unaffiliated (out of 140 students).

I came to Friday night services and was pleasantly suprised to see both the men and womens' sides were packed (and the women's size was larger than the mens!). The student leading Mincha had a strong clear, voice but then we got to Kabbalat Shabbat (the part of services for welcoming in the Sabbath). Here a religious student took over, but sang very softly and not particularly well and kept looking over his shoulder at me for reassurance. For those of you who don't know me, I act and sing, and have been performing since I was a child. One of the things I'm known for is my strong voice and ability to project. So project I did, to the point where I was congratulated after services by a number of the female students for leading a lovely service. It had not been my intention to do so, but in a place where there are no men...It's up to us women to pick up the pieces. I should be clear - I'm modern orthodox, and while I'm lenient in certain areas, I attend an orthodox shul and services, and do not take part in services where women lead prayers or read from the Torah. However, I have no problem singing in public and while my intentions had not been to hijack prayers, I was happy that I had been able to add to the ruach and make it a little more upbeat.

At the end of davening, I announced that prayers would begin at 8:30 the next morning and more than enough male students said they would be there. I organized Torah reading and Haftorah reading, which is a responsibility which normally falls to men, as they are the ones obligated, but since I was a staffer, it became my responsibility.

Shabbat morning - 8:45 AM, I run into shul embarrased that I'm late to discove 2 women and 3 men. I then spent the next 75 minutes working my tush off to get a minyan (quorum) together. That meant running around, cajoling those lingering over breakfast to join us, putting my ear to doors to see if I could hear any male voices, convincing the atheist that he just had to sit in the room, he didn't have to participate, etc. This was something very new for me. As mentioned before, men are the ones meant to organize prayers with a minyan, as it is a mitzvah which is incumbent upon them, not women. I felt a sense of pride that I was the one enabling not only the male, but the female students as well, to benefit from a proper Shabbat davening. It was Shabbat HaGadol, which meant there was a special Haftorah, and I did what I needed to do to ensure that I got the shabbat I wanted, as well as making sure the students were able to have one as well.

It was the same shtick for Mincha and Ma'ariv, with a suprisingly popular havdalah. It was a great shabbat, lots of fun and suprisingly Shabbat-ish. I won't mind returning back to my place on the women's side, but was pleasantly suprised to see how well I did when push came to shove.

Amazing

2006-04-03T00:12:00.000+03:00

I thought I was done blogging for the night, until I read this. Treppenwitz is an incredibly talented and sensitive writer, and the hasbara scene needs far more people like him. Check it out at http://bogieworks.blogs.com/treppenwitz/

Thank you for your story and insight.

Girl's Weekend In

2006-04-02T23:42:00.000+03:00

With hubby away, I decided that I wanted to spend the weekend at home, but didn't fancy being alone. So I called in reinforcements, in the form of my friend Gila. Gila and I met through a mutual friend about a year ago, and hit it off right away. We have the same sense of humor, fashion style and if I was still single, would be hitting the scene as Gila's partner in crime. However, I'm content to read about her dating escapades, and planned on spending a fun weekend giggling and gossiping. I got a bit of a preview with my first phone call to Gila. (Note: Gila's roomate is a male friend of hers, they are not a couple):

Me: Gila, do you want to spend Shabbat with me? Hubby is away, so you'll sleep over and we'll find meals together - sound good?

Gila: Oooh, it'll be so much fun, cause you don't live with a girl either!!! We'll get to do all the stuff female roomates would do.

Me: Gils, I'm married. It's a bit different.

Fast forward to Friday afternoon, where I was shopping for weekend snacks which would be appropriate for aforementioned diet. Gila calls to let me know what time she'll be over:

Me: By the way, I hope you like strawberries and passion fruit, I'm stocking up on snacks for Shabbat. I'm trying to lose weight, and have thrown out all the nosh and crap.

Gila: Ooooh, I love strawberries!!! I'll bring Nutella, it's a great combo.

Fast forward to our walk home. I had brought walking shoes, as my stilletos were not appropriate for a 30 minute teeter home, and we had eaten fairly far from my apartment. The walking shoes are very comfortable, but have a slippery heel which I keep meaning to take to a cobbler to get some rubber put onto. As Gila and I had both consumed a fair amount of wine, we linked arms for the walk home as girls often do, as well as providing a necessary support system. But the wine and slippery heels won, and I found myself on the pavement at one stage, laughing hysterically. Gila was sure that serious damage had been done, but after assuring here that my winter weight gain had finally paid off in the form of instrumental padding, we continued home. I slipped and slid a few more times, but Gila kept me upright. After we got back and were changing into pajamas, I somehow got a bit tangled up in the bedroom curtains, which are too long and which I've been meaning to shorten for some time. To make a long story short, I experienced deja vu as I found myself flat out on the floor, lauging hystrically. Gila wasn't sure if I would be allowed to walk anywhere else for the rest of the evening, but I assured her I was fine, and we went to bed.

I got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom, and as I was making my way down the pitch black hall, I suddenly heard a voice...

Gila: Where are you going?

Aliza: To the bathroom.

Gila: Do you need any help?

Aliza: No, I think I can pee on my own, but thanks.

Gila: Oh, I thought you might be going to throw up or something.

Aliza: Gila, we went to bed 4 hours ago, and I wasn't even drunk.

Gila: Oh, g'nite then.

Suffice to say, it was a fantastic weekend, as Gila had mercifully forgotten the verbal diarrhea which I'd been spewing on the walk home, and I had fun hearing about her dating life. She's a great girl and phenomenal friend, and I'm so lucky to have her around to spice up my life. Hopefully hubby won't be leaving me for shabbat any time soon, but I have a feeling that Gila and I may need to have another girl's weekend together... somewhere where they serve cocktails with little umbrellas... But that will have to be another post.

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head

2006-04-02T19:21:00.000+03:00

Yes, yes, you've all heard about the ridiculous amount of rain which Israel has been experiencing over the last 24 hours, but hopefully all of you have read about it from the dryness of your own home. I cannot say the same. Living in an old Arab house had its charms and advantages, but remaining dry and non-leaky ain't one of them.

I woke up this morning and went downstairs to make myself a cup of coffee. That plan stopped as soon as I placed my food squarely in the middle of the HUGE puddle in front of my front door. It actually had turned into a mini-river, as it had cascaded over the entrance, down the two steps into the living room and spread out. Forget the coffee, backtrack, bring towels and begin Operation Mop-Up. Of course this has to happen with hubby out of the picture. My brother in law stopped by as I was mid-mop and asked if water had gotten into our basement. Our apartment is the bottem third of an old Arab house, and the basement used to be the food cellar and well. The conversation went something like this:

Him: Did the water make it into the basement?

Me: Nah, the top step is dry.

Him: I'll just check (pause as he goes down the stairs) Aliza, there is a lot of water down here!!!!

Me: Oh *$%@

My relaxed morning, which was meant to be spent reading articles for class, was a mess of insurance phone calls, towels all over the place and a good friend (who also did the renovation on the apartment) coming over to help out. Hubby kept calling and apologizing that he wasn't there. I stoically informed him that I would be ok, it would all sort itself out, and he could repay me in any form of diamond or pearl jewelry he felt suitable for the situation.

I can deal with a crisis, I'm fairly level-headed and don't lose my cool. I'm very happy that Israel is getting the water it desperately needs, especially at the end of the rainy season when the chance of a decent downpour is slim to none. But really, did it all have to happen when I'm on my own, drowning in reading and assignments for uni (no pun intended) and just when I've really started my post-winter dieting?!?! Come on, I can't even bury myself in chocolate or Ben & Jerry's.

Hopefully, there will be a blog in about two weeks raving about how hubby has lavished gifts and attention on me to make up for his, albeit unintentional, absense. Until then, I'll have to rely on Sweet n' Low Fudgsicles.

Sigh.

More Heroes

2006-04-02T11:13:00.000+03:00

I wrote earlier how Azzam Azzam has become a new hero of mine. I now have two more names to add to that list - Rafi and Helena Halevy. They were the couple driving the car in which the terrorist exploded himself. The details can be found here. This couple figured out that their anonymous passenger was a suicide bomber and refused to continue, sacrificing their lives to save their communitites.

As the intifada raged, my thoughts would turn to possible heroic situations. My high school was a 3 minute walk to Ben-Yehuda street and there were numerous times that terrorist attacks occured within the close vicinity. What would I do if I saw a terrorist taking out a knife, a gun, a grenade or about to activate an explosives belt? Would I run and hide? Would I shout out a warning as I was running in the opposite direction? Would I try to tackle him/her and prevent the attack like the waiter at Cafit did in 2003? Thank G-d I've never been tested, but Rafi and Helena were. Their choice was clear - they did everything in their power to prevent their friends, neighbors and community from being harmed.

The American Heritage Dictionary defines hero as "A person noted for feats of courage or nobility of purpose, especially one who has risked or sacrificed his or her life". Youths are lauded to be heroic, strong, emulate the heroes of old. But being a hero usually entails nothing glamorous or exciting, but simply being at the right/wrong place at the right/wrong time, and making the right decision.

Rafi and Helena - May your memories be blessed.

Baruch Dayan Emet

Life Here

2006-04-01T20:32:00.000+03:00

Friday morning I read more about the terrorist attack I mentioned earlier. The terrorist dressed up as a religious Jew, hitched a ride outside of Kedumim and then blew himself up in the car, murdering a couple from Kedumim and two teenage hitchhikers.

While every terrorist attack is like a knife in the heart, this one had particular relevance for me. Aside from the fact that my husband is now directly helping to protect the residents of the area, I hitchhiked for 5 years. When I made aliya at the age of 14, my family first lived in Efrat, and then moved to a yishuv in the Modiin area. I went to a high school in Jerusalem, and the quickest way for me to get to school was to hitchhike while waiting for the bus. I quickly developed a system of who not to get into a car with, and always listened to my gut, which meant that I would get out of a car or pass up a tremp (as a ride is called in Hebrew) if I felt uncomfortable.

One memorable experience was when I was hitchhiking at the Shilat intersection and got into a car driven by a middle age man, along with two soldiers (I know, Mom, what was I thinking), who got off at a yishuv mid-way to Jerusalem. The remaining 25 minutes in the car was spent with the driver lecturing me for getting into a car with men, especially soldiers with guns, the danger I had put myself in as a vulnerable woman (I wasn't too thrilled with that one) and how lucky I was that someone like him had picked me up. Someone with daughters, who was not a maniac, yada yada yada. I got out chastened and while I still continued to hitchhike with all sorts of people, this particular ride represented something special. I live in a country where it's safe enough to get into a car with a complete stranger, a country where that complete stranger feels that he has the responsibility to lecture me on my safety. It gave me a sense of belonging, that this random Israeli man cared enough about me and my safety. Sure, I was annoyed at the time that he felt that he had the right to lecture me, but in retrospect it is a perfect example of all that is good in Israel.

The attack struck me in a place of vulnerability, as it was an attempt to destroy yet another layer of trust in the fabric of Israeli society. Life here has changed so much due to the violence, and I am so saddened that this honest and simple way of camraderie in Israeli life was targeted.

Shavua Tov

Update

2006-03-31T00:08:00.000+02:00

Just heard from hubby. He's ok and overseeing security reinforcement for the yishuvim in the area.

The Paradox

2006-03-30T23:34:00.000+02:00

I was going to write a post titled "Typical Male" as hubby has managed to pull off miluim (reserve duty) until erev Pesach. Yup, he has done what every Jewish male dreams of - he got out of Pesach cleaning. Despite promises to do a few rooms before his departure, I dropped him off Sunday morning and he won't be home for 2.5 weeks. I was prepared to rant and rave about male foibles but a phone call changed that.

Hubby called, I assumed, to say hello. We speak 4 or 5 times a day when he is gone, as well as sending numerous text messages. I figured this was my evening phone call, which precedes the good night phone call. After we chatted for a moment, hubby asked me to turn on the news. He told me that there had been a terrorist attack right near his base and he wanted some details. Interestingly enough, he knew far more than I did, as the attack had not yet been publicized and none of news channels or internet sites.

Suddenly, I heard shouting in the background and hubby said, "I've got to go" and hung up. Now, logic told me that since he's a sergeant, he has a position of responsibility which would entail reinforcing the local yishuvim and setting up impromptu roadbloacks and securing the perimeter. But the little voice in my gut began to whimper as the sting of worry settled in my throat.

I'm no stranger to having loved ones in the army. My twin brother just finished three years of active duty a month ago, and my little brother was just conscripted two weeks ago. There were many mornings where I would be woken with a phone call from one of my parents, telling me to look in the paper, my brother's unit had been involved in a dangerous operation the night before. There was the ambush in Gaza a few years ago where 6 of his friends where killed when an armored personel carrier rolled over a serious amount of explosives set in ambush. I've been to funerals of friend's siblings and said more tehillim than I can remember. Last year's miluim entailed courageous acts carried out while I was blissfully asleep, and was regaled with by hubby the following morning (like the idiot army truck driver who accidentaly entered Ramallah and hubby's unit had to go get him before the locals did). This time I knew the exact moment that hubby was involved.

I've dealt with the danger in past years by not thinking about it. Worrying does little good, and I'm one of those who turns to chocolate and Ben & Jerry's to deal with stress, which does me little good. But it's at a stage where I can't go to sleep until I hear my husband's voice, telling me that everything is ok, he's fine and they are doing basic security in the area.

I am incredibly proud of my husband. Proud of the fact that he moved here based on ideological convictions, proud that those convictions have strengthened with the years, proud that he served in the army for a year and proud that he continues to serve our country. He enjoys miluim, the camraderie, the feeling of actively doing something for Israel, the M16... seriously, he doesn't dread it the way many do. But right now, I wish he was here, safe with me and not putting himself in danger to make sure others are safe. I am involved in the most selfish desires right now, I don't care about the other innocent civilians he's protecting, I know I would hate every one of them if anything happened to him. But that's life here in Israel. I am so proud of hubby, even if that pride has a price, one which I resent and refues to acknowledge for the most part.

I pray to G-d that I will never know.

An Unlikely Hero

2006-03-27T21:45:00.000+02:00

This evening, I had the privilege to act as translator for a guest at speaking at the Rothberg International School at Hebrew U. His name is Azzam Azzam and he was freed last year from a wrongful incarceration in Egypt, partway through his sentence. I had followed his story in the papers when he was released, and have not thought about it since. However, I had the honor not only of hearing his story personally, but of being given the task to translate it into English for those in attendance. When I had been approached to translate, I was fairly apprehensive, as my Hebrew is decent but not perfect, and while I have no problem blithely mangling the Hebrew language in front of a few people, I was uncertain about making a fool of myself in front of an audience. However, flattery works like a charm (I was told that I was their ideal choice, since I act and know how to tell a story, not only translate) and I found myself onstage for close to two hours this evening. Granted, mistakes were made. My personal favorite of the evening was when I accidentally tranlated beged goof (undergarments) as body parts. I was tired and a bit distracted. The students enjoyed my recanting.

In brief, Azzam Azzam was working for an Israeli textiles factory which chose to open a branch in Egypt. Azzam is a Druse, and was sent to open up the factory due to Arabic being his native tongue. He was kidnapped by Egyptian intelligence two days prior to his departure, and accused of spying for Israel. He was tortured, forced to sign a false confession and then incarcerated after a farcial trial for 15 years. He was released after 8 years in a prisoners swap with Egypt - 6 Egyptian terrorists in exchange for Azzam. What I most enjoyed about his story was not his sense of humor, his dramatic presentation or his Power Point. Azzam Azzam is a patriotic Israeli in every sense of the word. In today's society and political climate, Israel is regularly bashed and denigrated by her citizens and millions abroad. Yet here stood a man who is a minority in Israel, but who was born and raised here, who served in the army and is the proud holder of citizenship. He consistently stressed how the government never gave up on him, never abandoned him and of how Ariel Sharon froze relations with Egypt contingent upon Azzam's release.

Azzam, tonight you became a hero of mine.
I have a strong Zionist identity, but was strengthened and humbled by Azzam's story. I have a right to this country by my birth as a Jew, while Azzam's Israeli identity was due to accident of birth. Yet he whole-heartedly embraces Israel, loves it and was supported in return. He spoke of the numerous visits he received from dignitaries on a regular basis, of how Israsel supported his wife and family during his incarceration, how the government arranged food parcels, blankets, pillows, little things which made his incarceration in a 3.5 square meter cell a little bit easier. I cannot count the number of times he reiterated how Israel never deserted him and how he knew the entire country was behind him. His blatant love and gratitude is a rare sight these days.

Thank you Azzam for giving me strength, for sharing your tale and for reminding me why I love this country and how lucky I am to be living here.

Oh, The Irony...

2006-03-26T22:16:00.000+02:00

One of my vices is to vegitate in front of trashy TV. We're not talking soap operas, but usually E! or some fairly mindless sitcom. Granted, some of my current favorites are not exactly brain exercises, but there is some true sludge out there.

Back to the point. I was relaxing after a fairly stressful day by staring moronically at the television. I channel surfed and found a show called "Price of Fame - Starved" where E! explored the lengths celebrities go to in order to conform to the societal pressure created by Hollywood regarding body image. While I may be double-majoring in Theater and Communications, my real interest for a profession is psychology, with an emphasis on eating disorders. I drove of of my t.a.'s crazy last year because every media research paper I wrote in her class attacked the media's portrayal of the female image, whether it be on television, film or other medium. I was intrigued to see what the show would say, especially since it was being broadcast on a channel whose sole purpose was to report on Hollywood. I was impressed at the critical perspective of the show, but felt that not enough blame was placed on the producers and directors who continue to demand and use women whose bodies are nowhere near the female norm. But what really got me was the ensuing program. One would think that a show of that nature would cause people to ponder the farcial state which American film and media has reached, but not, E! stood true to its fluffiness.

Are you ready?

The next program was Dr. 90210, a reality show which traces 3 plastic surgeons and their patients. That's right folks - an hour special on the unrealistic expectations created and demanded by Hollywood, followed by 45 minutes of watching women complain about how ugly they are and paying thousands to be "fixed". Mind you, this show is only possible due to the media images being perpetrated by the female figures in the media and one would think that the responsible thing to do would not be to broadcast images of so-called imperfections being fixed after a show documenting an obsession with an assumed image of perfection, but hey, that's just me.

Much as I wish there would be no work in the field of eating disorders, with shows like Dr. 90210 and actresses getting skinnier and skinnier, it looks like I'll be busy for a long time.

Come On Baby, Light My Fire...

2006-03-24T14:59:00.000+02:00

The hubby and I were at the brit milah (circumcision) for one of hubby's best friend's new son. We were given the honor of passing the baby from the mother to the father, a segula (a good luck thingie) for a married couple without children. All went off without a hitch, we smiled nicely for the cameras and dealt well with the overprotective 4 year old brother who went slightly beserk when he saw his new sibling being handed to adults other than family.

After the ceremony, which my friends and I spent wincing in the back, as the males gathered around the mohel (cicumciser) unconsciously crossing their legs and placing their hands protectively over their genital region, we all walked to a hall a few minutes away from the shul for a lovely brunch. I'm a big fan of Israeli-style catering, and feasted well on a variety of cheeses and roasted vegetables.

As the event drew to a close, hubby and I made the rounds to say goodbye. I leaned over a table to hug one of the new grandmas, and make some small talk. Suddenly, smoke began to blow in my face, and three women to my left began to simultaneously shriek and wallop me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was the cause of the smoke and panic. My hair had caught fire. I have blonde, curly, butt-lenght hair and it had come close enough to a tea light on the table to act as kindling. Not much was burnt off, i.e. no emergency dash to get a pre-shabbat haircut, but it definately was the cause of some decent conversation on the way out and made for a somewhat singed ride home.

A New Type of Hangover

2006-03-22T22:12:00.000+02:00

I know what you're thinking. And no, it has nothing to do with experimenting with the affects of mixing various alcoholic beverages. No, no - this hangover is a beautiful thing.

Folks, for the first time in my life, I would like to announce my ...MEAT HANGOVER!!!
A what?! you may ask. Let me explain: a meat hangover is the residual effects which linger the morning after a serious night of meat eating. The family was celebrating - one brother getting out of the army, one brother going into the army, and my dad leaving a job which he has hated for the last 6 years. We went to Papagaio, and all you can eat Brazilian style restaurant. I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

I am an avowed carnivore. It began when my dad would take my twin and I to the zoo at the tender age of 2 and give us a lesson in meat cuts.

Dad: Kids, do you see the cow?

Aliza and Bro: Yes Daddy.

Dad: Now listen carefully. That's steak, and that's ribs, and over there is entrecote...

Aliza and Bro: Yes Daddy.

Daddy: Let's go look at the lambs...

Despite my mother's protestations that we were going to end up in psychiatric care for being taught to view the cow as dinner and not as a mooing mamal, we've turned out alright and retained the valuable lessons my father taught us.

But back to the present. After the true decadence of dinner, during which my admittedly limited stomach protested numerous times and was studiously ignored, hubby had to take the wheel as I was lapsing into a fairly comatose state due to the serious digestion which my body had embarked upon. I rolled into bed and woke up the next morning feeling a little worse for the wear. I'll spare you the details of the nausau, etc, but suffice to say I didn't eat a thing that day. Since it was Friday, I was busy shopping and the hubby and I cooked up a storm. True to our love, we prepared 6 kilos of corned beef, and almost all of it was eaten by ourselves and our guests that night.

One day, when I'm older and my cholesterol just ain't what it used to be, I suppose I'll have to pursue chicken in liue of beef. But until that day comes... Vive la boeuf!!!

I Feel Violated

2006-03-13T22:41:00.000+02:00

My happy pseudo-suburbian lifestyle has been shattered. My home, privacy and personal space have been invaded, and there is little I can do about it. The police are of no help, it is up to myself and hubby to defend ourselves. Yes folks, we're on our own.

My friend Adam, who was mentioned 6 posts ago, slept over on Saturday night, as he does not live in the city and had an early start on Sunday morning. While he was making himself breakfast, he opened the cabinet under the dairy sink, slowly turned to me and said, "Do you have mice? I really think I just saw something move down there." I poo-pooed him and said it was probably the grey pipe in the corner, he hadn't had a morning cup of coffee yet, etc.

Last night, as I opened the cabinet to take out a rag, I said to hubby (who was doing the dinner dishes - yay!), "Adam thought he saw a mouse here yesterday-oh sh*t!!!" For on top of the rag bin was a LOT of mice poop. I recognized them from the time there was a mouse problem in my work place a few years ago and it was solved when the darling creature decided to drown itself in my tea mug which I had left half full when I left one evening. Anyway, back to the present, I went into full-fledge female mode, shrieking and doing the little "ewww, there's a mouse, ahhhhh!!!" dance as the brave hubby went in. We found its, the half-chewed roll of paper towels which it used to make its nest and a variety of other little, ah, clues as to its presence. The irony of it is, mousie decided to make its home in the cabinet with all the cleaning fluids and the faily toxic bug sprays. Go figure. Hubby blocked up the small entrance that mousie had been using, and cleaned the area, while I threw all of our rags into the wash, saying "ewww, ewww, ewww" the entire time.

The funny thing is, I've never had a problem with rodents. I had a hamster for years, and a childhood friend, Rachel, had a cute pet rat. Had I been living in an apartment with other girls, I probably would have been the one to deal with it. It's odd how the presence of a man turned me into a shrieking, girly...thing, something which had not previously been part of my persona (when it came to bugs, mice, etc.) But for now I'll just thank hubby for stepping up to bat and taking care of our little intruder.

Yech.

Echoes from the Past

2006-03-05T11:54:00.000+02:00

Following the shameful attack on a church in Nazareth over the weekend, the Arab community has reacted in a tried and true style: let's see how much propaganda and nonsense we can get into the press, as well as blaming Israel to boot.
The individuals responsible for the attack were a Jewish Israeli man and his Christian wife and daughter. It should be noted that this individual personally requested asylum from Yasser Arafat a few years ago. In a number of statements released since the attack, the perpetrator has repeatedly stated his motives for the attack were to draw attention to his family's economic situation. In not one of the statements has he claimed that his motives were nationalistic or racial. It would suffice to say that we are not talking about a right wing fanatic in this circumstance.

Not so, according to MK Ahmed Tibi, who had the gall and audacity to make a statement to the media claiming" …In the State of Israel there's a unique disease that hurts only right-wingers and causes them to attack mosques, churches, and the Arab public," he said. "The disease is not known in the world and I, as a doctor, haven't encountered throughout my history."

Excuse me? Is this not the representative of a people who routinely have been blowing themselves up across the world in the name of their god and a bevy of other causes? I should think that Tibi should be more concerned with trying to discover the disease which causes thousands of young men and women to willingly blow themselves up and murder thousands of innocents, not just in Israel but in Iraq, America, England, Spain and Jordan, to name a few. This comment is problematic not only in the case of the pot calling the kettle black, but for the distinct racial overtones it contains. Not that long ago, a man accused the Jews of being a disease. His name was Adolf Hitler. Need I say more? These sorts of comments are so incredibly dangerous, as they needlesly draw up antiquated and anti-semitic images, which flourished in a Nazi Germany and have unfortunately found a breeding ground amonst the Palestinians. These remarks also connect to the cartoon incident. Iran chose to react by hosting a Holocaust cartoon competition, the obvious choice to deal with the Mohammed cartoons (ahh, how I love sarcasm). Once again, a regrettable incident occurs, but instead of dealing with in in the appropriate fashion, the reaction has been a vitriolic condemnation and attack of Israel, instead of focusing on the actual cause of the event.

Who really has the disease here?

It’s All Semantics

2006-02-26T22:11:00.000+02:00

I’ve always loved language. Not languages, but the English language in particular. I love to read it, speak it and constantly improve my vocabulary. I derive great pleasure out of hearing someone speak in beautiful, articulate English.
However, one of the drawbacks of being a ferocious reader at a young age is my innate ability to occasionally mangle words. Certain words just aren’t pronounced as they are read, and my mispronunciations still make for a good laugh 10 or 15 years after the fact.
I am also known for inventing my own words. My parents loved that I would blithely use a word, and when informed that the said word did not exist, would respond with, “Well, now it does.”

My latest attempt at word reformation was when I tried to recreate the meaning of the Yiddish word “shtup”. For those not in the know, shtup is the Yiddish word for intercourse (for alternative meanings, see here). I found shtup to be delightfully onomatopoeic and decided to use it as a passing verb. Let me demonstrate:

“Just shtup the box onto the shelf”

“Can you shtup that over here?”

“I shtupped all the way across town….”

You get the general picture. However, for those who understood what shtup meant, my casual usage usually put a stop to any conversation/action and for those who had to be explained the former and new meanings of the word (in my little world), they all assumed the similar “she’s nuts, but we like her” look.

I have a new word I’m crusading for, and it’s a real one. I take great issue with the Hebrew word for husband. The root of the word comes from old Norse and means “master of the house” or “a man who has land and stock”. While the meaning might be somewhat chauvinistic, those who speak modern English have no idea what the root is and accept this as the acceptable term with which to call a woman’s partner.

In Hebrew, the word is ba’ali. The root of the word is ba’al which means master, and is used it biblical terminology as the word for husband. Ba’ali means my master. On the one hand, kudos to Hebrew for maintaining its biblical ties. On the other hand, I pity the fool who would consider himself my master. Thankfully, the hubby is a wise man, and whenever he talks about us, he makes a conscious usage of the term “us” and consistently describes us a partnership. I never had to ask him to us terminology which would denote equality, that’s just the fantastic kinda guy he is. However, there are lots of people out there who don’t know how wonderfully emancipated and liberal my man is in the sex wars, which is why I have begun to use the term Ishi which means “my man”. Yup, it sounds Showboat-ish (Can’t Help Lovin’ That Man) and somewhat ghetto, but it really is just the masculine version of Hebrew's term for wife, which is Ishti which means “my woman”.

If you perchance have the opportunity to use the term ishi, try it. Only by introducing the term into common usage, will it become a known and used part of the Hebrew language and perhaps change some antiquated perceptions of what the husband-wife relationship ought to be.

You've Got to be Kidding Me

2006-02-10T08:33:00.000+02:00

Blood libels against the Jews in Europe were quite common for close to a millennia. The first recorded blood libel occurred in Alexandria, first century CE. For those of you who aren’t clear on what this is, Christians would claim that the Jews had murdered a Christian child in order to use his (it was usually a boy) blood for making Passover matza or that the Jews would drink the blood of Christian children in order to take on a Christian appearance. The instigators would murder a Christian child or dig up a freshly buried corpse, plant it in the home of a prominent Jewish family, gather up a howling mob, raid the house, find the body, and Voila! Instant reason to perpetrate a massacre of hundreds or thousands of Jews. The last known blood libel occurred in Kielce, Poland on July 4th, 1946. The 46 victims were all Holocaust survivors, living in a community center, trying to rebuild their lives.

Now, why do I bring this up? Let me tell you…. For the past few years, I have read, often with mirth tinged with sadness, of many of the ludicrous accusations made against the Jews/Israel by the Palestinians, Syria, Iraq, Iran, etc. Today’s remark was yet another which made me snort, yet frustrates me with the stupidity and true danger which lies behind those remarks.

Here are a few gems - the Palestinians claimed Israel was dropping poisoned candies over Palestinian cities and then that Israel had murdered Yasser Arafat by directing a long-distance laser beam at him over a protracted period of time. The Saudi’s claim that the Jews were behind 9/11(must have been due to the high rate of Jews flying planes into buildings), someone else’s claim that Israel was partly responsible for the tsunami, which they claim was caused by deep-sea nuclear testing done by India, America and Israel.

Today’s doozy is from Syria, who claims that Israel is responsible for the bird flu, and that we invented it “with the intent to harm the genes of our Arab neighbors”. I read this and roll my eyes, thinking what unbelievable crap it is, but know that there are millions who do believe it. It’s all seems like a big conspiracy plot that one would need a serious amount of alcohol and mind altering drugs to come up with, but most the people living in the countries surrounding us, as well as many others who are biased and uneducated around the world, will read this and say to themselves, “Those lousy Jews are at it again…”. I know that our allies and the majority of the Western world knows better than to even give it a moments consideration, but accusations like this pop up regularly in the Arab world. Many in the West consider Israel as an obstacle to world peace, but it’s theories like this, alive and well, which threaten mankind as a whole.

Cartoons Again...

2006-02-08T23:33:00.000+02:00

It just keeps getting worse and worse. An Iranian paper has decided to run a contest for Holocaust cartoons. How on earth did we get drawn into this? The Muslim world already has a field day depicting Jews as baby killers, monkeys, pigs and a whole slew of other truly flattering characters. The stated intent was that this would test the world's reaction to an alternative form of freedom of speech.

Now really.

While the depiction of Mohammed was a religious issue, the Holocaust was a period in history which affected peoples of multiple religions, and was a crime against humanity. Muslim Protestp against the cartoons? Absolutely, it is your right, your freedom of speech. In the BBC, a picture was printed of a youth during a protest in London, holding a sign which read:

Freedom Go To Hell

The hypocrasy of it swamps me. You idiot, the only reason you can hold that protest and make those statements is because you are in a country which allows and encourages freedom of speech.

The NYTimes had a wonderful article today, including a quote by Flemming Rose, the culture editor of Jyllands-Posten, which first published the cartoons. One paragraph included the following: "He insisted last week that his interest was that of asserting the right to free speech over religious taboos. "When Muslims say you are not showing respect, I would say: you are not asking for my respect, you are asking for my submission," he said."

One of the main reasons the cartoons were published was to highlight the media's reluctancy to publish anything which may offend the Muslim community, resulting in self-censuring and biased reporting. From reports, it seems that the cartoonist did not mean serious offense, but to make a point, however difficult, as political cartoons do.

However, if Iran is so upset about the cartoons, then run cartoons about Danes, not about Jews. For once in a while, leave us out of it. Unless this is yet another opportunity for the world to truly see the blatant antisemitism of many in the Muslim world, if Ahmadinejad's previous comments haven't been enlightening enough.

The world is once again being presented with an opportunity to do the right thing. Will they fail again?

A Dybbuk Has Entered My Husband

2006-02-08T22:58:00.000+02:00

I need to apologize to S.Y. Ansky, who wrote The Dybbuk, for paraphrasing his ending to Act I.
As the lead sinks to the ground in a swoon, an extra states, "A Dybbuk has entered the bride."
For those of you who don't know, in Judaism a dybbuk is a malicious possessing spirit, believed to be the dislocated soul of a dead person. Once a person is inhabited by a dybbuk, an exorcism is required, which can result in the death of the person whose body had been inhabited.

My husband is suffering from such a problem.

I cannot say with certainty how long the dybbuk has been residing in his body. It's actions are unlike that of a classic dybbuk. Its presence is only apparent when prokoved. Provocation comes in the form of a televised Liverpool game. My husband has been a soccer fanatic since the age of 5, supporting the team which is father z"l supported. I knew when we got married that I was the wife but soccer the mistress, who did not present a serious threat, and must be allowed.

However, when the hubby sits down in front of a game, the dybbuk emerges. It begins with the changing into of his Liverpool jersey. It progresses with the opening of a bottle of Carlesburg. The possesion reaches its peak during tense moments of the game, when my eloquent and chivalrous husband lets loose a barrage of language filthy enough to make sailors blush or shouts of joy loud enough to wake the dead, and pays me no note. It would literally take a life or death situation to draw him away from the screen. As the game draws to a close, depending on the result, the dybbuk will recede, leaving my husband in a morose or jubilant mood. Being possessed is difficult and exhausing work, and often results in one's spouse needing to do the dishes or be left to their own devices for the remainder of the evening.

As I write this, the dybbuk is in full possession. All I can say is GO LIVERPOOL!!!

Israeli Drivers

2006-02-08T22:40:00.000+02:00

A seemingly innocuous title. Yet here is where I let loose.

&$#%ing Israeli drivers!!! May all of you lane hogging, forgetting to signal, going waaaay below the speed limit and don't know rules regarding the right of way imbecils behind wheels rot in bad driver hell!

Ahhh, what provokes this outburst, one might ask. Aliza is such a sweet individual, where does the excess of rage spout from? Let me explain.

I am a good driver. I will openly admit that I do enjoy travelling at "enhanced" speeds and that driving on Jerusalem roads necessitates the usage of what I have termed "defensive driving". However, I always check and then signal if I would like to switch lanes. I will not engage in behavior which would endanger myself or others. My parallel parking may not always be successful on first attempt, but I always get it right by the end. I don't have patience for idiots who aren't paying attention,cause problems with traffic, take up my precious time or endanger my life.

Tonight, I encountered such an idiot. I was on my way to Shaare Zedek hospital to visit my friend Adam who just made Aliya a month ago and managed to land himself in the hospital with a fairly rare intestinal complication. He's hopefully getting out tomorrow, and I came to help him ask a few questions, pay him a visit and bring him back his wallet and winter coat which I was babysitting. Yes, there is lots of theft in hospitals. As I'm waiting at a light, it turns green. I'm waiting 5, 10, 15 seconds for the car in front of me to start, but no go. I honked my horn - perhaps the driver was fiddling with the radio or writing a text message, it happens. The idiot does nothing, so I honked again. Slowly, the car begins to creeeeeep across the intersection. I honk again. I'm not expecting zero to sixty, but zero to 1.5 is a bit slow. The car then sped up and smashed on its brakes almost causing me to crash into it, then repeated that shtick. I then signaled to switch to the other lane, intending to overtake, as I needed to be in the turn lane we were both occupying. The car zigzagged in front of me, constantly cutting me of, and trying to force me into a lane and to have an accident. Thankfully, I turned left while the shmuck went straight. I memorized their license plate number but unfortunately had no witnesses in the car with me. In the States, I would definately have made a call reporting reckless endangerment. Here, I would have been told to "calm down honey" and let it slide.

So here is my way of dealing with it:
If any of you ever see a car with license plate number 69 221 05, give 'em hell and flip 'em the bird, from me.

RENT!!!

2006-02-08T22:17:00.000+02:00

My passion is theater, and my passion within my passion is musicals. I admit, I am a musical theater buff. My earliest debut was a number of home performances from Annie at the age of 4 and continued from there. My life is one big musical - if the moment is appropriate, I will sing a song to go with it. I'd say my four favorite musicals are Rent, Les Miserables, Phantom of the Opera and Wicked. My husband knows to carefully word a request for the time, for if he says "What's the time?", I'll respond by singing, "It's gotta be close to midnight..." (Rent, Out Tonight) regardless of the hour. My CD collection in the car is usually scorned by certain family members, due to the large number of musicals in liue of, oh, U2 or the like.

The trend these days is to turn popular and profitable musicals into movies, to allow larger audiences to see the show (and in my opinion becauser there aren't many good movie ideas out there and Hollywood execs are desperate...). Thus, with great anticiption, I have patiently been waiting for Rent to make it's screen debut. I've seen it twice on Broadway, completely worn out my Rent soundtrack and The Best of Rent CD, not to mention having gone through a period where I swore I would be the first white Mimi. I know every nuance, every note of the show by heart.

Finally, 2 weeks ago, it arrived. I was finishing up my semester, and was completely swamped, and did not get a chance to see it until Saturday night. Ahhh, be still my beating heart. Granted, I have critique. Hey, you're reading the blog of a woman who caused her cousin to miss most of the show because her lip synching was causing uncontrolable laughter. I was suspicious of some of the plot changes, certain changes in words, cutting out songs (how they could cut out the finale to Act I I'll never know). However, certain changes were plot enhancing, and there were some great guest appearances (yay Anna Deavere Smith!).

The greatest thrill for me was the fact that almost the entire original cast was in the film. This was no star-studded production, but had gone back to those actors who had made it a hit. I so appreciated the integrity of the filmakers in that respect.

To summarize - I laughed, cried and lip synched to EVERY SINGLE SONG. Luckily for myself and my friends, there were only 3 other people in the theater with us, so we got to make ourself comfortable, and kick the chairs in front of us to the beat of the songs.

VIVA LA VIE BOHEME!!!

Echo From a Bygone Era

2006-02-05T18:22:00.000+02:00

Normally, I have to car to take to work and run my various errands. Since the hubby needed the car today, I was thrown at the mercy of the public transportation system. I cannot recall the last time I got on a bus, though there was a time (about a year and a bit ago) where I knew where the majority of Jerusalem bus lines went and where their stops were.

All during the intifada, I insisted in taking buses as a means of defiance. In my mind, refusing to take a bus out of fear was acquiesing to terrorists, allowing others to set my path for me. I've never been one to take being bullied and felt that continuing to use and support the public transportation system (along with cafes, restaurants and bars) was a means of resistance, defiance and my own little way of saying "*F*&% You" to all those who wished to terrorize me.

However, certain habits still remain, despite the near cessation of bombings. Whenever I get on a bus, I quickly scan everyone sitting there, and try to sit near an exit. During the bus ride, and elderly gentleman sat down in the seat next to me. As I felt someone settling in next to me, I quickly turned to see who my new seat companion was. To my suprise and utter delight, the gentleman (and I purposely use this term) nodded at me, and then raised his cap, saying,

"Boker Tov G'veret" (Good Morning Ma'am)

In today's day and age, where we interact with the majority of people in our lives via cell phones and internet, it was a pleasure to have such a pleasant interaction with a stranger, albeit brief.
And hey, I am an utter romantic. Having someone tip their cap at me is straight out of the movies and really made my day.

A Jewish Thing

2006-02-05T11:56:00.000+02:00

Last week was a fairly busy one for me - my semester ended and I was involved in organizing two major events. The first was organized solely by moi, as an opening event for new students at the Rothberg international school. I was extremely pleased by the turnout and success of the event, and my bosses are happy with me. The second event was the Jerusalem Winter Ball, a peer organized charity event, which serves the purpose of creating a reason for people to get dressed up and party for the fun of it, while still doing some good by donating all proceeds to a charity organization. Props to my friend Eli Gurock who spear-headed the ball and did most of the hard work. But back to the first event. As the student evening was slowly dying down, I was standing by the door, saying goodbye to students as they left. A pretty, sweet girl tapped me on the shoulder and asked if she could ask me a question in private. We walked over to a corner, and I smiled at her, in order to give her a bit of confidence, as she was twisting her hands a bit nervously. What next came out of her mouth still causes me to chuckle as I write this:

I'm a single 20 year old religious Jewish girl, looking for a nice guy. Know anyone?

As I spent a few seconds composing myself, trying not to laugh, it struck me how some things just never change. As I was the visible face of a Jewish event organized for students, I had unknowingly cast myself into the role of matchmaker (matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. . .). My response was simple, and luckily a practiced one. I'm often approached by female friends, who know that my husband still has a number of single, eligible buddies and by male friends of mine and my hubby's friends who know that I'm still in university, with bachelorettes galore. My standard response is:

"We need to sit down over a cup of coffee and talk about who and what you are looking for, I refuse to set people up just because they happen to be of the opposite sex and single."

I stated this to the student, who immediately pulled out her phone to take my number in order to call me to arrange a coffee date. On the one hand, I'd like to be able to find her a boyfriend. Dating is fun and the personal self esteem and security offered by a boyfriend/girlfriend can be helpful, especially while abroad at universty. However, I am reluctant to set up an overseas student with an Israeli or someone who has made aliya. If you are making aliya, great. But why would I want to set up my friends with someone who is leaving in June? To let them get their hearts broken or have them follow her back to America?

Those concerns aside, I now have a new title to add to my job - Matchmaker!

When the Shoe Is On the Other Foot....

2006-02-02T08:08:00.000+02:00

I've been following, with some amusement and growing concern, the Muslim world's reaction to derogatory cartoon depictions of Muhammd in a Danish newspaper. Today's latest bit of reporting had me snorting at the seemingly "macho" reaction of our neighbors. I understand that Islam forbids any depiction of Muhammed or Allah, but open your eyes people - not everyone is Muslim, nor do they have to adhere to the rules of your faith!

Personally, the trend of automatic obescience towards any sense of affront felt by any Muslims has gotten a bit extreme. I advocate sensitivity towards religious group (Hell, I work with international students, of all races and religions) but this constant turning to pacifism which is seeming to border on subsequience is flaming a serious fire. As a student of Communications, one of the basic principles taught is the necessity of freedom of the press, and unbiased reporting. While the latter has disappeard for quite some time, the former is a necessity in order to enable democracy. The world must take stock, and ask if they are willing to create a framework of mollification every time someone is upset. Granted, it's not just poking fun at a leader or political issue. However, if we are arriving at a stage where countries are threatened for their allowance of freedom of speech and press, then this is a wake up call - stop constantly assuaging every perceived slight and say "Welcome - this is the world we live in, it's not solely Muslim. Get used to it."

A note to the Palestinians - if you would like to have the world pity you and support your cause, I highly suggest restraint in public utterances, especially those which blatantly state your intention to blow up embassies over a cartoon. Stuff like that ain't great for public relations.

Now really, don't you think it's all a bit extreme?

A Glitch in the System

2006-02-01T23:15:00.000+02:00

In The Matrix, Neo is told that deja vu is merely a glitch in the system. Real life is a bit different, and any feeling of repetition is based on experience and memory, not just some code experiencing a momentary problem. Our human code allows us to recall via one of the most primal senses we contain - intuition.

Today's feeling of deja vu was one which evoked so much pain and so many memories, that I found myself wishing it was all just a product of complex computer programming. I was in a Hebrew U cafeteria buying lunch with a friend, and as we passed by a TV over one of the counters on our way out, my friend stopped and motioned to the screen. At first I thought there had been a terrorist attack - there was fire, smoke, soldiers and screaming people. Then I realized it was the evacuation of Amona. The Amona issue is a delicate, and one which I haven't got the strength to go into now. But watching the evacuation, I was mentally catapulted back to August, and the Gaza Disengagement.

I was against the disengagement, and while I didn't go down to Gaza to participate in a last stand, I proudly wore my orange ribbon on my bag and my car made it's statement as well (much to the chagrin of my husband, who was pro-disengagement). During the days when they were evacuating the Gush Katif and Neve Dekalim shuls and yeshivot, I would come home from work every day and sit in front of the TV crying. I deal with stress and pressure in various ways, and one of them comes in the form of my old friends Ben & Jerry. The hubby would come home and find me red faced, eyes swollen, with empty ice cream cartons on the side. But the saving grace of the disengagement was the humanity which shone through it all, on both the settlers and soldiers sides. Today was a different story. Today was the disengagement gone wrong.

The news ribbon on the bottom of screen reported hundreds had been injured and a total state of chaos had ensued. I began to cry. Now, for those of you who are unaware, academia in general is fairly left wing. Hebrew U is a proud bastion of left-wing sentiment, much like the proverbial ostrich with it's head buried in the sand. Getting an alternative voice to be heard is a bit like surgery minus the anesthesia. Results are achieved, but at a cost. My friend whom I was with was shocked. She asked me why I was crying, and placed what she thought was a calming hand on my shoulder. She could not understand why I was so affected and how someone "like you" could be right wing.

I was crying for the settlers being evicted from their homes, who were living there for the purest of motives.

I was crying for the soldiers who were in the position where they were being attacked by their fellow man, their fellow Jew.

I was crying for the teenage activists whose belief in G-d and the Torah, and in their mission is so pure and is being shattered to pieces, and innocence being destroyed.

I was crying for my country, my people, what we've come to.

Have we brought ourselves to this place? Has world intervention brought us to this place? I loathed the sight of youths throwing tables from rooftops as much as soldiers coming in with truncheons and riot gear. The youth of Gaza and Amona be of army age in a few years. Will their encounters with the army have soured them so much and destroyed so much of their ideology and love for our country that they will become like the Tel-Avivniks who are proud to state that they refuse to serve in the Israeli army? Will the soldiers forever be embittered against those who are doing their utmost to staunch them?

Will the wound keep being reopened and reopened, until the tissue can no longer heal and a festering wound is all that's left? As I go to sleep with a heavy heart and tears in the back of my throat, all I can do is pray that my little country can pull itself together and get past the self-inflicted wounds, which some say will save us and some say will break us.

Does it make it any better?

2006-01-19T08:02:00.001+02:00

As I was skimmin the morning headlines, I found this:

Uri Binamo prevented two suicide bombings, not one

Uri was a 21 year old soldier who was killed on December 29th while at a checkpoint specifically set up to apprehend a suicide bomber the army had received intelligence on. As Uri approached a taxi cab and requested ID, the bomber dentonated himself, killing Uri and the other three people inside the cab. The papers had reported that the others in the cab were unaware that their fellow passenger had an explosives belt strapped to him, and I remember feeling a moment of sadness for people who had innocently gotten into a cab to get to work, family, whatever.

Ahhhh, the naivety of youth....

There is a term in Judaism called Dan Lekaf Zechut, which means giving others the benefit of the doubt. I have tried (and often failed) to remember that not all Palestinians want to destroy Israel or support suicide bombings. My faith is then shaken when I read polls that say 75% of Palestinians support suicide bombings, and after a course in statistics last year (yech) I realize the number is, in most probability, much higher. However, I try to think of those who just want to get through the day, make some money and have a normal life. Perhaps one day, they'll be the majority. I applied those thoughts when I read of the taxi passengers who were killed.

We learn mercy for others in so many ways in Judaism, especially from the Passover seder. At various parts of the seder, we spill some wine out of our glasses, lessening our joy, to remember the Egyptians who were killed in the 10 plagues and the Red Sea. This is a lesson to remind us that we are all God's creations, even our enemies, and values like this are but one of the reasons why I love my religion.

But woe to ye who breaks my trust. Granted, there are those of you who are probably snorting at this point, thinking "Hasn't she learned anything?!" I know, I know, but I still felt my stomach twist when I read that the other passengers in the car were suicide bombers and the driver was the one to take them to their mission. How am I supposed to stay open minded, give the benefit of the doubt, try to remember the "good guys" when this sort of thing confronts me? Am I really to believe that there is a "partner for peace" or that there ever was?

And my last question - as someone with a brother in the army for the last three years, and my younger brother going in for the next three years - Do Uri's family and friends feel any sort of change in their perception and emotions surrounding his death because they discovered that stopped not one but two suicide bombings? Confronted with the knowledge that there might have been two separate suicide bombings in the same period, my heartfelt thanks goes out to Uri, along with a prayer for him and his family, and my hope for some sort of agreement with the Palestinians dies a little bit more.

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all

The above, written by Emily Dickinson, has always been a favorite of mine. But as time passes, the headlines and news are slowly defeathering my hope, until it will no longer be able to fly, but sink to the ground, and my attempt at trust and hope in my neighbors crippled as well.

Skewed View

2006-01-18T15:09:00.000+02:00

I admit it - I'm an award show junkie. Tonys, Grammys and especially the Oscars. I've been faithful to the Oscars since I was 8, only missing 2 of the shows (but watching the tape the next day) in 14 years. The one show I really never got into was the Golden Globes. It all seemed like a bit much, trying to shmoosh television and cinema into one evening. This morning, I logged onto the website to see the results, and was saddened, disappointed but not altogether suprised to see the award for best foreign film went to Paradise Now, a film which attempts to give a humane perspective to Palestiniane suicide bombers. I was further suprised to see that the entry was from Palestine, despite being filmed by a director who is currently a Dutch resident and by the fact that there is currently not a country named Palestine.

I then came upon a fantastic op-ed in the Jpost. The gist of it is that any film trying to give a humane perspective to other suicide bombers, from 9/11 or Madrid or London, would have been lambasted by the international community and not received so much as a nomination. Within this terrible conflict that Israel and the Palestinians have been embroiled, stereotypes and generalizations have been propgated on either side. It is important to view Israelis not just as soldiers and settlers, and Palestinians not just as terrorists and suicide bombers. However, a film such as this gives a tacit permission to identify with and pity a murderer who explodes himself amongst innocent men, women and children. People who are guilty for nothing more than wanting to get a slice of pizza with friends or trying to get to school on time to hand in a piece of homework.

The importance of not overly demonizing the other side must be emphasised, but at what cost?

When it rains. . .

2006-01-18T13:48:00.000+02:00

The last week has been a difficult one. My uncle passed away early Monday morning after a long battle with colon cancer. While we have been waiting for the call, it still came as a shock. My mother had flown into America during a scare in November, but realized that she would miss the funeral and prefered to sit shiva at home with family and friends. My father hasn't been able to take time off of work to be at home with my mom because he's flying out to America on Sunday morning to be with my grandmother, who is having intensive back surgery next week. I'm the only child (out of 4) with the flexibility to be with my mom as much as possible, especially in the early afternoon when it gets very quiet, and there aren't many visitors.

This morning, I called my mom to say good morning and to let her know what time I would be arriving. She asked me if I had seen the paper that morning. When I asked why, she said, "Your brother and his unit are in the paper." My twin brother has three weeks left in the army, but has been in Jenin for the last few weeks, involved in a fairly intense offensive operation against the various terrorist groups. Thank G-d, my brother is ok, but the group commander was badly hurt, the details are here.

My brother is finishing up 3 years of army service, which has been far from uneventful, but he's been ok. My little brother is going into the army shortly after my twin is getting out, and it's an emotional whirlwind. I've discovered that if I push it to the back of my mind, I can function, I can't imagine how parents and spouses can supress the panic, keep it from bubbling over the top. I remember when my husband (whom we'll call sweetie for purposes of anonymity) was doing miluim (reserve duty) and how nervous I got if I didn't get an sms each night saying he was safely back in his base, and going to sleep.

But that's part of living in Israel. This wonderful country presents such a paradox - I love that I live here, yet my heart is constantly perched on edge. I have such pride in being an Israeli, yet it is so difficult to live in a place which makes my heart ache and causes my nails to be bitten to the quick. But at the end of the day, I swell with pride when I tell people that my brother is fighting in the army, that I study at an Hebrew University, that I live in Jerusalem. At the end of every Yad Vashem tour that I give, I leave with my convictions and beliefs in my counry renewed and strengthened.

Stay safe, my brothers, come home in one piece and may we know a time of peace.

Only in Israel. . .

2006-01-15T22:45:00.000+02:00

I spent the morning in the office at one of the dormitory blocks of Hebrew U, helping register students who were arriving for the winter ulpan and spring semester. The dorms officer, "Sarah", and I were shmoozing until students began arriving, and began asking about each other's background. Sarah is Ethiopian, a beautiful, petit woman with chocolate colored skin and absolutely huge eyes, while I encompass your general American stereotypes (blonde hair, blue eyes). Sarah mentioned that she was learning English by reading the subtitles on what I first heard to be "opera". I began enthusiastically expanding upon the topic of musical theater, which is my passion, until a confused Sarah interjected with, "But she's on every day" and I realized that Oprah was the true topic of discussion. Sarah then confessed that she was, oh shall we say, slightly obsessed, and to make a long story short, I helped her realize a dream by aiding her in properly registering on oprah.com and then helping her write a letter to Oprah.

It must have been a sight, the two of us smushed together in front of the computer, Sarah's eyes glittering and my fingers attempting to translate all that was pouring out of her mouth.

Oprah, if you ever read this, please reply to Sarah!!!

A Fresh Perspective

2006-01-15T22:07:00.001+02:00

One of the many hats I wear is that of Yad Vashem freelance tour guide. I took the course in April '05 when I randomely stumbled onto the fact that there was a need for foreign language guides whilst speaking with an Israeli friend from uni. I really love what I do, which sounds a bit morbid, but working there is something which utilizes so many of my talents. I've always said one of the things I love about acting is taking words and directions off of a page, giving them feeling and emotion, then conveying that to an audience, giving them an experience. Giving tours at Yad Vashem encompasses much of that - I need to utilize the knowledge I have in order to create an intellectual and emotionally stirring experience for the group I'm leading, many of whom are in Israel for the first time.

I usually judge my success by how many people I've made cry, but the group I took last Friday demanded a whole new set of standards. Since December, Israel has been invaded by birthright
which brings college students who have never been to Israel for a 10 day trip during their semester break. A mandatory part of the tour, for every single group, is a trip to Yad Vashem. No exceptions are made, even when the museum might not be particularly appropriate for the group.

A few weeks ago, my boss booked me for a Friday tour, and then casually mentioned the group had special needs, but told me that it wouldn't be a problem. The day before the tour, the term was expanded upon and I learned that the group was a birthrigh Yachad group, comprised of young adults with a variety of emotional and developmental issues. I was fairly nervous as I've never really had any special ed experience, nor worked in any of the summer camps dealing with special needs. Friday morning, my fellow guide and I approached the group, and my stomach dropped. The group was comprised of individuals in their late teens through early thirties and for the most part, their physical features categorized them. There was a large number with Down's Syndrome, and many who looked just a little "off". The counselors divided the group into two smaller groups and I was told not to speak for over 2 minutes, and to constantly engage the group, ask questions, involve them. So, I started by taking the group over to a great view of the museum and asking them why they were here. I received a whole variety of answers, for the most part on the ball, excluding the one individual who told me that we were here to remember those who "...passed away in 1987". One member of the group (let's call him Joe) contained an impressive knowledge of the Holocaust, including dates and locations. However, as soon as Joe mentioned the word Germany, a voice from the middle shouted out, "I dated a Nazi, my boyfriend was from Germany!". After a slight ruckus, and some group reshuffling, we were ready to proceed.

As we entered the museum, I explained that we would be watching a film compsed of clips taken of Jewish communities in Poland between WWI and WWII, in order to have an idea of what life was like before the Holocaust. Joe spoke up again, and I suddenly heard

"The Holocaust is like the AIDS virus."

Not wanting to discourage, but fairly sure that my training hadn't include any analogys like this, I asked Joe to expand upon this statemtent.

"Well, AIDS starts off with the HIV virus, and when Hitler began making laws and ghettos, that was HIV. But when he opened up concentration and death camps, that was AIDS."

For one of the very rare moments in my life, I was speechless. The analogy was on the ball, not one that I would have used, but accurate and incredibly sharp. This was the beginning of an hour which brought me a number of suprises and lessons. It is often noted that children are incredibly honest individuals, and dealing with a group of adults whose emotional and often intellecutal level was that of children gave me a completely unique experience. The groups I usually take are teens or young adults, and are fairly jaded and involved in maintaining a cool facade, more than being open to exposing themselves to what the museum imparts. Every question I asked elicited refreshingly honest answers and results. I had to be very careful with my language and what sorts of terminology I used, but when I spoke about hatred, and people being made to wear a yellow star, the group reacted with anger and true hurt, not understanding how people could be so cruel. It drove home a point which I try to make, and was taught to me by the group - no matter how you perceive it, no matter how educated or mature you are, the sheer senslessness of it eludes you, and leaves you with the question of "why?"

After exiting the museum in the middle, as it was deemed inappropriate to take the group through parts of the museum detailing mass murder, we went to the childrens memorial. Many of the group began to cry as I spoke about children not having a childhood, and at one point, one of the women suggested that I give some hugs. I usually am careful to maintain a physical distance from the groups I guide, even when people are crying, but by giving hugs, I was also able to remind the group that crying is ok. People are often so afraid of visible emotion, and are told to control themselves, and that point was driven home with this group whose emotions are so often on the surface, but who were so worried when their companions began to cry. The worry could have been a product of genuine caring for their friends, or of being told to control themselves in public, but it was incredibly emotional to watch this group, whose attention span was so short, who wouldn't remember the details or know the extent of the horrible facts, cry for the children who had lost their lives, for people they perceived to be their peers, for they had truly grasped, even for a moment, the enormity and sadness of the event.

When it was over, I was exhausted but gratified. We ended the tour by singing Hatikva and then singing and dancing. It was amazing to see a group that embodied not one, but two of the traits which Hitler had wished to eradicate - Judaism and mental handicaps- singing and dancing in a memorial to their slain brethern in the hills of Jerusalem.

Heeeeere's Aliza!

2006-01-10T19:51:00.000+02:00

I've done it. I said that I didn't have time, that I wouldn't be able to keep it up. I swore that I wouldn't engage in yet another activity which would take up more of the little free time I had. I even teased my hubby for his blogging habits in the beginning. Yet here I am, writing my maiden posting as I journey into the stormy seas of blogging. Ahhh, I can see how having a venue for my writings is bringing out the poet in me...

I've always liked to write, and for those of you who know me, I'm definately open to various forms of expression. This allows me to comment on and express my opinion on events in Israel and the world, on my life in general, and will be a place for me to blabber on where I know I'll always have an audience.

Alright blog world - Here I come!!!