United (and divided) Nations

In this laden land, one cannot escape the biblical depth and historical breadth that accompany the various sites. A couple weeks ago we went to Jerusalem. Last week, we spent a morning in Caesaria.

When was the era of King Herod? What is the Tower of David? These are the sort of byzantine questions by which I am barraged by my husband. Normally, I start to reply, assuming the familiarity that is supposed to be a part of my culture, then pause, reflect, stammer, and finally stop short, realizing that my knowledge in the matter is sadly and sorely lacking.

When the question of the tower of Babel surfaced the other day I was admittedly thrilled. I pulled my shoulders back, inhaled a cool breath of self-assurance, and started explaining the theme of scattered peoples, diverse languages, and the misunderstandings that ensue.

The idea of language and culture has always been of interest to me. I am a product of two cultures, two languages –- at home in both and not entirely at home in either. The contrast between the two cultures – Canada and Israel – is marked.

“Would you like a massage and a latte with that?” is how Lance describes the everyday encounter with the service industry in “lala-land” (aka Vancouver).

Meanwhile, the saleslady in the cosmetics section of the Super-Pharm insists (almost angrily), while trying to sell us a pricy product, that “she is not Shiseido, she is just trying to help us.”

I am often intrigued by the preeminence of one or another cultural trait in the context of an other milieu. In Canada, I will charge across the street at a red light because, hey look at me, I’m Israeli, I’m no “פרייר” (patsy). While in Israel, as I discovered the other day while astride my bicycle, I yield to traffic when I have a green light.

In our home, both dynamics – Canada and Israel -- are in constant play.

Sebastian, whom we’ll call Canada, asks me to compile lists of his favorite classical Hebrew poets, contemplates the nature of death, and declares that he’d like to study at university – opera, mathematics, and sculpture. He freaks out when we venture a few steps ahead of him and panics at the sight of stray cats because their nails are sharp and scratchy.

“Lech mi-po chatul”(“get out of here cat!) (emphasis on the guttural “lech”), Liliana shouts while flinging her hand abruptly, matching the physical vigor with the vocal command. Physical and vocal is “bul” (precisely) what Liliana is. Inotherwords, Liliana is Israel. Her booming bellows and rollicking laughter can be heard up three flights of stairs. 

“Kodem Ani”, “first me”, she insists when it comes to everything. "Day!" ("enough”) she pronounces repeatedly and with increasing animation to the blanket, the fork, and a host of other inanimate objects that don’t bend according to her will. “Matzchik” (“funny”) she informs us when her spoon falls to the floor, and proceeds to infect us with a gurgling laughing fit. And today she surprised me with “nu?” (the mark of the typically Israeli brand of impatience that is loosely translated as “well?!” even as it intimates “come on already”.)

We harbor divided nations in our home, and the result, as may be expected, is sometimes invariably fraught. The two prod each other and recoil in turns. But sometimes, right about when I just about lose it and decide it’s time to intervene and separate the two, a prod is pressed and pushed just a little farther --- and the other suddenly starts laughing. It is fascinating this magical and mysterious point of transformation. I don’t know how to determine or evaluate just where it resides but I do know that it happens when the two parties are enmeshed in contact, and that it is always a welcome and delightful surprise. For the moments that follow the “push beyond”, both cultures are united, sharing the mutual language of giggles.

Friday

Beep Beep, Honk Honk. These sounds no longer faze us. This is city living and an Israeli city at that. People are invariably impatient and in a rush. Tune the noise out and turn your head though and you would never know it. Enter into view young hipsters (this city, it is said, belongs to the young people) decking the sidewalk cafés. Suede and leather knee-high boots (never mind that it’s a balmy 75 degrees), funky tunics, skinny jeans, cigarettes, frothy lattes, dark shades, plentiful salads, copious breakfasts, and a relaxed look that says we have all the time in the world.

In Tel Aviv, it seems, everyone is in a rush to get to the sidewalk café. It is a city that runs on highly charged nerves: enjoy life – or bust.

And on Fridays, as we say in Hebrew – פעמיים כי טוב! – all the more so. With a Sunday through Thursday workweek, Friday heralds the unhurried release that the weekend assumes.

One typical Friday, I decided to venture westward. I yearned to catch a glimpse of the glimmering sea and headed to the less crowded side of the beachside restaurant at Metzitzim Beach. No fashionable young Tel Avivians in my corner; just a few old guys (I’ve learned here that alterkakers is an “American” term) shootin’ the shit.

Here was a very different scene and one that I welcomed. The cappuccinos, baskets of fresh bread and supersize salads were transformed into home-packed peanuts, olives, and salami in Tupperware.  One or two black coffees sat forlorn on the table as the five or six members of the חבורה (clan) that would keep growing, sunk into the upholstery and spoke in animated jibes. Only cigarettes were the great equalizer, spanning the generations. As the smell of fine salami wafted in the warm sea air, I smiled to myself and turned an attentive ear to the brusque Israeli sounds punctuated on occasion by the more precise register of Yiddish and German.

ארץ אוכלת יושביה “Eretz ochelet yoshveah” – “a country that eats its citizens” – is the fruitful theme. Or in other words: “Hakol Politika” – “everything is politics”.

The banter betrays disgruntlement pierced with humor, nostalgia, laughter, and brotherhood. Old School.

Problems and solutions to all of the nation’s ills are vigorously presented and debated. “They should bring Giuliani over here to clean up the corruption. Why not? They bring over basketball players from America, why not a police force huh?”

Membership to this clan, it appears, is exclusive but broad. Another old guy making his way along the promenade approaches the group.

“Did you hear about the shooting in Korea?”

“What’s new, there’s always shooting.”

“North or South?”

“What difference does it make, one’s a scoundrel, and the other’s a predator” (זה נבלה וזה טריפה)

“There’s nothing to eat but there’s an atomic bomb,” another one chimes in.

“All the states that have nothing to eat are like that… food – no, but a bomb they have,” rejoins another.

Still another starts out elucidating that these countries “train” their citizens to subsist on a bare minimum amount of food.

After a while, naturally, the conversation drifts back to the woes of this little nation. As if we don’t have enough.

“Seriously, what major city doesn’t have a subway system? You know why no one gets the process going, because it would take a number of years to build it, and by the time it’d get done his term would end and there’d be a new prime minister in office and the one who spent the energy building it won’t get the credit, that’s why.” Simply put.

The end, in view of this prolific exchange, is not surprisingly, grim: “there’s no chance for this nation; a country that eats its… eats its…” “Peanuts!”, a fellow chum completes the sentence, chomping on some nuts. ארץ אוכלת בוטניה! "Eretz Ochelet Botneiah" (In Hebrew, the rhyme engendered here between “botneiah” (its peanuts) and the “yoshveiah” (citizens) of the original axiom adds a bemusing twist.)

After a series of plaintive shakes of the head, a positive note concludes: “Look at this – summer in December ah? – only the weather they can’t ruin for us, these politicians.” The group gazes onto the sea and relishes their unhurried social encounter.

I too gazed out at the sea glimmering in the sunlight. Then I smiled, glanced at my watch and asked for the check. 12:30 pm. Time for the pickups. I set off to fetch the kids from their ganim, first Liliana, then Sebastian, anticipating the sweet taste of the mini challahs that they make and take home with them on Fridays.

Kids in tow, we walk down Basel, stopping at our neighborhood bakery to buy a big challah. We push, routinely, through the crowd and partake in the liberal exchange of “shabbat shalom”s. Then down Basel to Ibn Gvirol, where we are stopped on the street corner by an old man sitting on a chair in the middle of the sidewalk, who, charmed by the kids, extends a friendly hand, and promptly reaches into his plastic bag, extending a loaf of cake and a stainless steel knife and offers each of us a generous piece as he bids us “Shabbat shalom”. Next, our juice guy: A nod of the head: “Shalom Dana! How’s it going Sebastian?” Then a shake of the head: “It’s a travesty what happened in the North, huh?”, head now nodding to the television screen in the little threadbare store. Shabbat Shalom. Shabbat Shalom.

The collective and the personal here are eternally intermeshed. The collective seeps into the most mundane human interactions. The result is a sense of intimacy that is at once candid and perfunctory. All the same, it is a sense of intimacy that leaves one feeling good. That we are friends, neighbors, citizens, – alike in our mad and importunate need to relax and enjoy life.   

Hanukkah

“I don’t care if they don’t learn anything,” I divulged to Lance, grinning, while seated on the tiny hard kid-size bench at Sebastian’s gan. We were partaking in the annual class Hanukkah party, watching 27 preschoolers sing and motion rhythmically, and my heart was overflowing with joy. “This,” I exclaimed, “makes it all worthwhile.”

There are few things more heartwarming than seeing your child sing, tap, clap, hip-sway, spin like a dreydl, and perform a rendition of a Ukrainian dance, small hands placed tentatively, stiffly, and proudly, on narrow hips.

The preparations for the Hanukkah party at Sebastian’s gan have been going on for about a week now. I’ve echoed the expectant mood with my own “preparations” -- walking the city streets singing, accompanied by a zealous and spirited little vocalist naturally, in search of sufganyot (the traditional holiday jelly beignets). The search itself is not taxing -- sufganyot grace nearly every storefront – but the selection is tricky. Nowadays, sufganyot range from basic to deluxe, chocolate to apple caramel. ‘Tis the season here this warm and sunny winter and the sights and sounds are sweet.

At home, the sights and sounds reflect their own variety of new traditions. When Sebastian was asked to bring in a Hanukkiah to school accompanied by an explanation of where it came from (i.e. my grandfather gave it to me), we knew we had to get creative. And so we did. Creative, messy, and colorful.

Here, the time-honored songs also incur a creative spin. At the dinner table, Sebastian deliberately sets the mood by singing a handful of traditional Hanukkah songs before a glimmer flashes in his eye and he giddily begins to sing what he calls the “mixed up” version -- the one that lives on the streets and in the ganim (plural of gan).  By a wily sleight of the imagination that is commonly the property of children, the songs of praise over “the miracles and the wonders that the Maccabees performed” are craftily transformed: “I got zero on an exam; my mom will kill me and my dad will strangle me, and that’ll be the end of the world.” Innocence and spoil are joined in a hazy glow.

I would be quite surprised if my four year old knew what an exam is and am quite certain he has no idea what getting a zero on one suggests. But he’s grinning. He learnt this version of the song from his friends. He feels a part of a social group. And he’s beaming. If this is his Israeli education, let it be.

Old Age and Colored Hearts

At Sebastian’s gan, the letter of the alphabet that is introduced every couple weeks is dubbed the “friend” of the week.

At home, especially at the dining table, numbers have become our friends. Sebastian enjoys the challenge, the pattern, and the order they pose. So we apply them in various molds. If you have eight pieces of fish and you eat two, how many will you have left? If you have three carrots and I give you another four, how many will you have? Oh now we’re playing restaurant? Yes I’d like to order a grilled cheese sandwich and a glass of milk. 8 dollars? Here’s 10. How much change do I get? Thank you.

The other day, after three bites of scrambled egg, Sebastian glanced admiringly at his father and started to smile, as his eyes glimmered and his voice filled with wonder: “How did Aba get to be 40 so fast?”

He then hurried to declare: “I want to be 100 first!”

He is going through his “first” phase. I want to be out of the bath first. I want to be in pajamas first.

He is after all the first-born.

Other number games have highlighted this prodigious rank: “How old will Liliana be when I’m 48?” “How old will I be when Liliana is 26?” Sebastian readily offers the answers with a disarming smirk. And we nod and beam as our hearts fill.

But when he asked Lance “how old will you be when I’m 85?” our hearts splintered.

For Sebastian time can’t move fast enough while we wish desperately that it would slow down. Oftentimes I teasingly beseech him not to rush when he professes that he wants to be 11 years old or in grade L. The pleading tone of my voice and the animated expression on my face make him laugh.

Yet I am quite serious. I smile along with him on the outside as I tear up on the inside. Motherhood is frequently dishing such poignant vibrations.

As far as Sebastian is concerned, time and us are equal partners, marching forward infinitely.  But we know that there is no parity; that time marches without us, that our days are numbered. And our conclusion, of course, must be glaringly simple: to embrace today with all of our hearts.

This morning Sebastian turned to me and asked: “Ima, what color is your heart?”

Um…. I hesitated, trying to come up with a sparkling reply. “Purple” I cheerfully blurted. “Why?” he queried. “Because purple is a bold and lively color,” I said assuredly.

“I have a golden heart,” he rejoined.

And my heart extended. It’s all about quality, not quantity.

Then he darted off to color his heart red.

Yom Kippur

“It’s really fun right?” Sebastian blurts animatedly as he whizzes by the living room sofa on what he calls his  אפנוע (ofno'ah=motorcyle). I turn my head. What’s really fun? “Yom Kippur! Next Yom Kippur I want to ride on the streets again on my ofno’ah.

[And so, I am compelled now, as Channukah swiftly approaches, to (quickly) hark back to September 18 and write about Yom Kippur.]

Really fun! Not the first phrase that comes to mind when talking about the Jewish Day of Atonement. I would offer, based on my Jewish experience in the Diaspora all these years, adjectives like somber, solemn, reflective, pleasingly meditative even. But fun – no.

In spite of the absence of “fun” however, Yom Kippur has in truth always been one of my favorite holidays. I always liked the introspective thrust of the holiday. The quiet, the austerity, the rumination; it lent the day a special tenor, it awarded it import, it set it apart from the rest.

But this year, our first Yom Kippur in Tel Aviv, I was hard pressed to find this meditative state.

Here the roads were bustling. Not with cars or busses evidently, but with pedestrians and kids on bicycles. Yom Kippur here is indeed a street party for kids!

I must admit there was something exhilarating, cathartic, certainly extraordinary, even holy, about ambling in the middle of the main roads with hoards of others on this one day of the year when all other traffic comes to an abrupt halt.

Here Yom Kippur is keenly felt – there are no cars on the streets, no school, everything is shut down  – but not observed. There, it is just the opposite. 

There, over recent years, I purposefully sent the kids to preschool so that I could spend a good chunk of the day in solitary repose (if you sleep most of the day the fast goes much easier), fasting, reflecting. Here, the kids of course don’t’ go to school. And telling people that you fast on Yom Kippur will yield a look that will make you question whether you are in fact from this planet. The supermarkets and grocery stores are jam-packed on the afternoon of the eve of Yom Kippur before shutting down for the one-day holiday, because people need to stock up. 

There I would try to go to synagogue to hear the mournful and soulful Kol Nidrei chant. Here we of course don’t (yet?) have a synagogue. Reform synagogues in general, though a lovely one does exist in North Tel Aviv, are simply scarce in these parts. In Israel, politics seeps into everything. In the case of Judaism, it bleeds. Judaism (as in the religion) here is sadly relegated to the orthodox sector, which meets (understandably) with deep and bitter resignation by the secular population (Tel Aviv!) for the political coercion in which they are embroiled. There is a sense that their fruitful families are taking over the country (a very bad thing politically), and “just leave us Tel Aviv, for gods sake” – a small haven of secular liberalism.

No solitariness, no synagogue, no one with whom to break the fast. (Who here even fasts?)

I woke up to prepare breakfast for the kids. Walked through the middle of the roads in the moist and sticky heat of the day, Liliana prancing freely and Sebastian zipping on his ofno’ah. Went to a lively playground, and felt like I was about to collapse. When no one was looking I furtively stuck my hand in my bag, unwrapped the cereal bar that I had brought along for the kids, and snuck a bite.

This was the first time in 15 years, save when I was pregnant, that I broke the fast midday. 

Aba Aba Aba

I know I’m lucky.

He sweeps. He mops. He hangs laundry on the drying rack. He rubs my feet.

He sits on the little green stool next to Sebastian at the activity table, and fastidiously draws and cuts and pastes for what seem like hours. He deftly lifts Liliana from her bed and soothes her softly when she cries out at night. He bends forwards to carry Sebastian on his back and bends backwards to airplane Liliana on his legs. He is patient, loving, and kind.

And it’s driving me crazy.

I know what you’re thinking: oh please, get over yourself, you've got nothing to bitch about. But please: hear me out. Consider these scenarios.

We appear outside Sebastian’s gan at 1:30 pm to pick him up. We is me and Lance; Ima and Aba, side by side. Sebastian runs excitedly to Lance and jumps into his arms calling Aba Aba. I hold my arms out readily and beg for a hug. Then close them in gracelessly.

Or this.

Liliana is seated at the breakfast table sniveling. I go to appease her, to pacify her, to soothe her. I try to take her into my arms. But she cries “Aba’ye”. I give up.

What woman doesn’t want a good dad for her children?

But a super-dad? Well like we say in Hebrew, לא צריך להגזים, there’s no need to exaggerate.

Just the other morning Sebastian climbed into our bed, clambered in between Lance and I, and nestled up to Lance. Naturally, I tried to get close to him, to partake in this velvety morning delicacy. But the small and purposeful hand that was thrust in my direction told me that there was no place for me in this morning delight.

Feeling completely spurned and rejected by the child I had nursed and nurtured all these (FOUR!) years, I sullenly dragged myself out of bed, set to preparing the oatmeal, and grudgingly plopped a bowl in front of my firstborn as tears clotted in my throat. Such is behavior I might be willing to entertain ten years from now, when I harbor an aloof teenager in my home, but now? At age four? Why these early years are supposed to be the cuddle era, the nuzzle era -- the mommy era!!!

Later that morning, after Sebastian had gone to school, I turned dourly to Lance, as tears welled in my eyes. He took me in his arms, caressed me, rocked me, and as my heart melted and my wounded tears turned tender, all I could think was Aba Aba Aba.

Postcript: A few evenings ago I returned home to an exuberant reception. Sebastian ran over and embraced me snugly. I clasped him firmly and held the moment as I held my son. Until my trance was shaken by Liliana’s cry. She too was waiting for her hug. Hurt feelings and hugs it seems, is the substance of childhood. And parenthood. 

Kishkush

Hovered over the small white table, Sebastian draws scrupulously as he leans forward on the lime green stool. His focus is sharp and his concentration is heightened.  

He was never “big” into art. At least not any more than your average kid. “Let’s do a chick-chack art project,” he sometimes called out before dinner. Chick-chack is that Hebrew turn of phrase whose gist connotes something quick, off the cuff, nothing too terribly involved. Let’s just eat a falafel chick-chack before the movie.

Drawing, during the chick-chack era, was carefree, natural, unspoiled.

Nowadays it is resolute, determined, and persistent.

The discourse of the קשקוש (kishkush =scribble) has insidiously woven itself into the subject of conversation at home over recent weeks. Yes, he knows that the kishkush appeals to the imagination, that every artistic piece is a worthy creation in its own right, that art cannot be quantified, that tastes differ, and that I like it and Aba likes it and Tata (grandma) likes it. 

But the kids at school don’t like it. For them it’s just a kishkush. Bottom line.

When I came home yesterday to find Sebastian seated at his current workplace, he breathlessly offered me a sneak peak of his oeuvre. I uttered the appropriate oohs and aahs. Moments later, while I was setting the table, he exclaimed brightly “But Ima, this is  be’emet (TRULY) not a kishkush.”

Another little heart-rend was joined to the chain of slits and scratches. 

My heart, a mother’s bursting heart, is swiftly becoming a battleground, blotted with nicks and scars.

Suddenly, I hear Sebastian cry out “Wow, look at this! The red one, it’s a REAL flower! ממש!” Yes! “Like the big kids draw.” Another slump.

But then I stop, look, and smell the flower.