tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53704241866057679722024-03-05T10:37:03.003+02:00EVERYWHEREIsraeli life / travel writing / cosmic blues / Yuval Ben-Amiיובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.comBlogger342125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-22714354158901121912010-12-13T15:58:00.004+02:002010-12-13T16:09:39.690+02:00New HomeFollowing a weekend-long writing spree which produced no less than four posts, I feel obliged to admit to myself and to you that I must have moved. This blog is now fully and truly a part of the 972 web magazine, an independent initiative launched by several Israeli bloggers who blog in English. It is there that the latest products of my demented mind are stored,specifically on this channel: <a href="http://972mag.com/author/yuvalb/">http://972mag.com/author/yuvalb/</a> <div><br /></div><div>Moving to 972 did change the spirit of "Everywhere". I now put more emphasis on issues that concern other writers on the site. To say it's a "political" site doesn't really crack it. Everything in this life is political. I would say it's more of an Israeli site, dealing with the bigger issues tormenting this country from an activist, human-rights-minded perspective.</div><div><br /></div><div>Having said that, my most recent post is about Chekhov. The one before it was about pizzas. This blog has not lost its spirit. It simply saught and found new edge, accepted a new home and adopted a new design concept. Please follow me to 972, where other fine blogs await your reading eyes. This URL will remain here, a treasury of memories for me and a resource for all who are interested in, well, everything. </div>יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-9303797761090595112010-09-15T09:38:00.003+02:002010-09-15T09:42:49.333+02:00The Amália Lesson<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyv0LDFjEQdfa5tot6VZjlnPMTpvD96LrejzxR2COd1iUKXY47Xj1j_5HAI0RWXL6Ht-hXwGuGY6QWpqrRML1uLKrPNdsl8omd-iRRCRdo_Keolld5zDYvUNWkbD9ZCX1et32PXM_tzun/s1600/Amalia+better.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUyv0LDFjEQdfa5tot6VZjlnPMTpvD96LrejzxR2COd1iUKXY47Xj1j_5HAI0RWXL6Ht-hXwGuGY6QWpqrRML1uLKrPNdsl8omd-iRRCRdo_Keolld5zDYvUNWkbD9ZCX1et32PXM_tzun/s400/Amalia+better.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517041904888964802" /></a><br />Sometimes we get lucky. A dear friend working in the diplomatic community invited me and my girl to the grand opening of the Portuguese film festival in Tel Aviv. We didn’t even know what movie was to be screened, but enjoyed the port served in small glasses and the company of dignitaries wearing neckties. Israeli society is extremely informal and the attire common at events of the international community make one feel pleasantly “abroad.” Then we stepped into the theatre, the lights were dimmed and suddenly we were back home.<br /><br />The film was named “Amália,” and told the story of Fado legend Amália Rodrigues. Its first scene showed a 1974 concert Rodrigues gave in Lisbon, only a few days after the Carnation Revolution was completed and the totalitarian Nova Estado regime toppled. As the singer joins her musicians onstage, the crowd erupts in protest. Someone yells: “Fascist!” another: “Your beloved Salazar is gone! What will you do now?”<br /><br />Rodrigues, portrayed by the talented Sandra Barata, began singing, and I began thinking of the West Bank settlement of Ariel. In recent weeks the arts scene here gushed over the opening of the first center for the performing arts across the Green Line. Major Israeli theatres, among them the national theatre “Habima,” are scheduled to send their productions there in the coming year.<br /><br />About 50 members of the Israeli theatre scene signed a letter stating that they would refuse to perform in the occupied territories. This won them plenty of disdain from the Israeli public and reprimands from the Prime Minister and the Minister of Culture. Quickly, this exceedingly rare act of protest by Israeli performing artists began to fall apart. Several of the signatories demanded that their names be removed from the letter, citing a “misunderstanding.”<br /><br />Who's misunderstanding what? Amália Rodrigues misunderstood history. She refused to be the people’s voice against a corrupt and violent regieme. Historians now tell us that she did support dissidents in secret, and in the film she is shown bribing an official in order to free a poet friend who was taken a political prisoner. Still, in public she never said a word against Salazar and his murderous PIDE policing force. She drank chapmagne with him while others were tortured by his thugs. She could not see past the present moment to a future in which Salazar would be seen worldwide as Portugal’s greatest historical enemy. Her reputation survived (with a voice like hers, how could it not?), but it suffered as well.<br /><br />The artists who agree to perform in Ariel, and those who fear voicing an opinion against the use of Israeli culture in reinforcing the occupation, see only the present and only the narrow local perspective. Around here, the occupation is taken with a shrug. Most Israelis accept Ariel as being “Israel proper” depite the fact it’s built in the very heart of the West Bank, designed so as to render direct transportation between Ramallah and Nablus impossible. We’ve been taught not to care that its sewage is polluting the water of nearby Palestinian town Salfit, or that it was built largely on land stolen from local farmers, or that its existence forces hundreds of thousands to go through humiliating checkpoints, or that its very existence is a huge obstacle on the way to the peace we all say we want.<br /><br />The artists who accept such notions and embrace the settlements may one day find themselves facing a hostile audience (as they already would – abroad). Times change, regimes fall, occupations end. I would advise every Israeli artist to think about Amália Rodrigues, then think about singers who took the cause of human rights and liberty even when those were unpopular or unsanctioned: Mercedes Sosa in Argentina, Victor Jarra and Violetta Parra in Chile, Vladimir Vysotsky in the Soviet Union, Fela Kuti in Nigeria and more, and more. Think about all of them, dear artists, and ask yourselves who would you rather be.<br /><br />(this post also appears on <a href="http://972mag.com/">+972</a>, the new joint initiative of English-blogging Israelis.)יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-78584643200673218082010-09-13T12:19:00.006+02:002010-09-13T12:29:02.483+02:00How I Became a Time Zone<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVpBjAZNBDIQueDRnAOH8JesFGKDivy1VNWfyDUsbbMff-6qKEn6FVvvgT5wkKvcH8FESMHaAHm6gTQ9jjHTyUQsOdhGN2vsIV-734Q2JHiYEsHNPna6wKG3BskzIj0Wj0j1VoCq7FyzI/s1600/safety-last-harold.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTVpBjAZNBDIQueDRnAOH8JesFGKDivy1VNWfyDUsbbMff-6qKEn6FVvvgT5wkKvcH8FESMHaAHm6gTQ9jjHTyUQsOdhGN2vsIV-734Q2JHiYEsHNPna6wKG3BskzIj0Wj0j1VoCq7FyzI/s400/safety-last-harold.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516341590192601202" /></a><br />Sorry, I will not go into the history of the Israeli summer-time dispute. No time for it. I went to sleep one hour ahead of everyone else here and left some work undone which I should get to as soon as this rant is through.<br /><br />I do remember there being some fuss over the time question when growing up in the eighties. The religious parties were altogether opposed to the implementing of a summer-time. My parents explained their worry that it would interfere with prayer schedules. I sided with them instantly. The whole concept of “moving the clock” seemed ridiculous.<br /><br />It doesn’t seem ridiculous anymore. This year, when the government decided to end summer-time two months before the rest of the world, in order to ease the Yom-Kippur fast, which ends at sundown, I found myself confused. First of all, if you care so much for fasters, why not end summer-time early in August and be kind to fasting Muslims? Besides, people fast on Yom-Kippur in order to suffer, fulfilling the commendment “and ye shall afflict your souls” (Leviticus 23,27), so easing it up sort of defeats the purpose.<br /><br />Even if we accept the merits of such move, assuming that the lives of several particularly pious older fasters may be saved, the Day of Atonement is only a single day. Could we not switch the clock only for that day? Even minister of Interior Eli Yishai proposed this as a compromise, when the debate heated up an the Knesset.<br /><br />It died down since, all compromises were rejected and Israeli winter-time clocked in on the night of Saturday, September 11th. The religious parties hold Israeli coalition by the dials and I suspect that the entire summer-time fiasco is simply meant to prove this. I myself accepted the verdict with a grumble, as secular Israelis often do in such cases, as when we’re deprived of public transport on Saturdays or the right to import pork (a restriction that did wonders to the local pork industry).<br /><br />Then this evening, when the suns last rays bid me farewell over the foam of nucturnal waves at 18:00, when that gloom of winter began settling into my heart still enveloped by a sweat-moistened shirt, I decided that I will not bow. My time will be that of our proper local time zone. I’ll arrive early to meetings, I’ll probably miss a few, never mind. I deserve to be a member of humanity and live according to its timeline. If I last on Yom-Kippur, the achievement will be greater and my bonding with the almighty firmer. It’s worth it.<br /><br />My cellphone was resistant at first, but then I simply changed my timezone to Cairo (our proper time zone, from which we swayed!) My girlfriend, who actually deserves credit for this idea, having brought it up when hope for national sanity was still in the air, soon joined me. We are now autonomous of the rest of the country, which is pretty odd. We went to watch the late show last night and it was really screened rather late.<br /><br />Upon returning home we learned that we are not alone. The city of Givatayim, a suburb of Tel-Aviv, is contemplating turning itself into a time zone. There’s a majority for it at the city council and it would take two weeks to pass the municipal law. That would still provide the mostly secular people of Givatayim with a month and a half of acceptable light management. It would also make Givatayim an environmental spearhead: the skewed time structure forces Israelis to waste one hour more of electricity each night than they would otherwise.<br /><br />Do our legislators care for the environment? It doesn’t seem so. Do they like playing power games that cause damage to all communities (the secular one for obvious reasons, the religious – for being now the target of great animousity)? I’d say – yup. If only they could switch their clocks as I did and turn into earlybirds, that would benefit to us all. Such, after all, is the schedule that makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise, and they’re a tad short on the last count.<br /><br />(This was also posted on +972, a new local web initiative. <a href="http://972mag.com/">Visit it!</a>)יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-152411341980558892010-09-07T09:30:00.007+02:002010-09-08T12:14:10.828+02:00Wishes for a Year of Little Faith<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOQ24u7QyjOkb2bbQ5U4WLul-k6vsMjnDe5cUFOjEQlw3cGg2NdS-7c44SWyi5a0urxVIpZoGxMrrAbJ3OLojPcixMo5mls3b5YAiVXXHfGH06T0cMs-e5JG6dx46ZE5cBEqZoRU_uMbet/s1600/Snow-in-Tel-Aviv.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOQ24u7QyjOkb2bbQ5U4WLul-k6vsMjnDe5cUFOjEQlw3cGg2NdS-7c44SWyi5a0urxVIpZoGxMrrAbJ3OLojPcixMo5mls3b5YAiVXXHfGH06T0cMs-e5JG6dx46ZE5cBEqZoRU_uMbet/s400/Snow-in-Tel-Aviv.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514072823701524930" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Jewish new year begins as the cruel Middle Eastern summer draws to an end. My Non-Jewish ex-wife used to say: “Your New Years' makes sense. Something is actually beginning. Nothing is tangibly beginning on the first of January. Of course the days are getting longer but you really wouldn't notice that until late February.”</span></span></span></a> <p dir="LTR" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To be fair, we really wouldn't know it's autumn by the weather until October. Tomorrow is new years' eve, and I'm sitting here with both fan and AC in full blast, sweating nonetheless, but there was a small breeze here and there over the last few days, instilling hope in a sunburned heart. I pray for such breeze tomorrow evening, when we'll walk down to the synagogue to receive the new year and sing the most beautiful air I know, the one that is hummed by the congregation on that night just before it exclaims “Barchu et Adonai Hamevorach”, bless Hashem, the blessed one.</span></span></p> <p dir="LTR" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I don't believe in Hashem the blessed one, but I believe in beautiful airs. That's perfectly fine in Judaism. Even my religious grandfather, who used to take me along with him to his schul in Rehovoth on Rosh Hashana, could never commit to me that he actually believed in God. He believed in Judaism, he believed in the tradition, in the poetry of it and in what it did to family and community.</span></span></p> <p dir="LTR" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Maybe on this New Years eve I should look into that paradigm more carefully. Living in Israel demands a lot of faith. Peace talks have begun again. Do we believe they will lead to anything? 400 children of work immigrants, born in this country, are due to be deported tomorrow. Do we believe we can possibly still reverse the decision? Wages are low and the cost of living high. Could we ever get out of debt? On all three counts I would say my faith is rather low.</span></span></p> <p dir="LTR" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So here's my New Years' resolution: I'll put faith aside. Faith matters not. What matters is action. We have to keep doing, to keep trying to better this place even though it may not be improvable. A Jewish life consists of action: you perform the Mitzvot, you sing the beautiful air. You work to better this world, work for “tikkun olam”, though you know how stubborn it is. A solution to our troubled situation may never be found, but working to reduce harm on the day to day level is crucial. I will make it a tradition just as my grandfather made going the the Synagogue a daily habit, regardless of whether anyone was listening to his prayers.</span></span></p><p dir="LTR" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">In this world heating up gradually, we can't even trust in the weather cooling down. In “Three Men in a boat” J. K. Jerome describes an English summer in which "the good weather never came". This could be one such year for us. We've known a few: years of drought, of inadequate winter which didn't suffice to refresh us and soon was followed by another punishing summer. We'll celebrate New Years regardless and experience an authentic sense of renewal even at 34 degrees. I wish for all of you, whether Jewish or not, to feel such a sense of renewal and to have a year of little faith and many deeds. Shana Tova.</span></span></p> <p dir="LTR" align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(Image: Snow in Tel-Aviv, 1950)</span></span></p>יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-52581174183667442692010-08-16T12:30:00.018+02:002010-08-16T17:34:11.697+02:00Sakhim, They Don't Mind When Other People Suffer<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgVoxn1aa6zOEbUm6dDwz1kGwzoc9RbX82fnYjraqnEizxtMiyzI0VcdBVx87ulszh7HHsuoGzYP56ondaZkWl73HXQPpEXvMnc1VZ5VNRM0EerdhIW8ym-j4ZYauU6RJT5Ecvqv0Aawz/s1600/sakhit2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgVoxn1aa6zOEbUm6dDwz1kGwzoc9RbX82fnYjraqnEizxtMiyzI0VcdBVx87ulszh7HHsuoGzYP56ondaZkWl73HXQPpEXvMnc1VZ5VNRM0EerdhIW8ym-j4ZYauU6RJT5Ecvqv0Aawz/s400/sakhit2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505978287870511522" /></a>A few months ago, a Hebrew blog emerged entitled: "Sakhim, they are everywhere". the term "sakhi" is Hebrew slang derived from Arabic. It was originally used among consumers of canabbis to imply "sober": either someone who doesn't smoke or one who does, but isn't effected. "Sakhim" is its plural form.<br /><br />In recent months the term came to be used otherwise. It now represents the mainsteam, bourgeois Israeli, as compared to the offbeat urbanite. On the "sakhim" blog, the sakhi is described as "the typical, politically correct Israeli, bereft of self awareness." <br /><br />The anonnymous authors add that: "Sakhism can be percieved by the sakhi as something cool or just. The sakhi is mistaken. while innovative forces always seek to advance and broaden the barriers of the possible, sakhism will forever draw backwards and inwards, to the mainstream, to the common, to the avarage. Sakhism is not dependant on social status or ethnic origin and it appears in the 2010 Israeli sphere in various forms."<br /><br />The sakhim blog, mainly showing Israelis making fools of themselves in weddings and other social gatherings, gathered some interest, especially from Tel-Aviv newspaper "Ha'ir" which dedicated two front page stories to what it perceived as a new social divide in the city, that between sakhim and "hipsterim", who seek more experimental lifestyles. <br /><br />The attempt to paint sakhim as the ultimate conformists and the hipsters as their opposites failed, mainly because hipsters tend to be equally conformist, albeit within their narrower communities, as well as miserable fashion victims. <br /><br />"Ha'ir" hoped to depict a contemporary version of the split which existed in 1960's Israeli society among the "salonim" and the "tnua". At the time, the salonim, who took on a rockn'roll lifestlye represented western influence on Israeli society, while the tnua kids stuck to the values and dress codes of the Zionist youth movements. Today, foreign influences are everywhere. Both sakhim and hipsterim are westernized, not to say Americanized. They're really not all that different.<br /><br />Having realized this, I stopped reading the Sakhim blog and went back to concentrate on other things, until today this blog carried the following <a href="http://sachim.tumblr.com/post/961910853">photo gallery</a>, taken from the Facebook page of a young soldier girl, which was and still is open to the public. The caption on top runs: "Sakhim, the army service is the happiest time of their lives."<br /><br />This is indeed the girl's heading for her photos: "My military service: The happiest time of my life :)". in two of the photos she is seen mocking blindfolded Palestinians. Such photos are nothing new, we've seen blindfolded Palestinians fed Matzas before and made to play other games. It's that innocence, that Sakhi spirit in which the photos are presented, that draws my attention. <br /><br />Are hipsterim less prone to be cruel towards helpless individuals when given the chance? Are they more prone to make a big deal out of someone doing so? I wouldn't bet on it. <br /><br />There are rare people, like the ones who author the sakhim blog, who are appaled by the state of our society and put the time into crying rage, and even they do so in a sardonic manner that signals an acceptance of the dark reality rather than a desire to change it. In action, we're all sakhim in one way or another. We are all of us children of the occupation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvIsqLv1tJ2M8yNxdRqvEA6wNRP2TdWeUpwACAGnyf2JBnrsjzSH2N_27Aavylwm01OR828L55xW5SQedTbzJrMUxjHSXWMXcFNVGn4QZZ9MYvtRiFxCCTtqgLX2ldqDVlipoqohDCc4q/s1600/Sakhit3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvIsqLv1tJ2M8yNxdRqvEA6wNRP2TdWeUpwACAGnyf2JBnrsjzSH2N_27Aavylwm01OR828L55xW5SQedTbzJrMUxjHSXWMXcFNVGn4QZZ9MYvtRiFxCCTtqgLX2ldqDVlipoqohDCc4q/s400/Sakhit3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505981147763989330" /></a>יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-42748979858783333312010-08-12T08:38:00.013+02:002010-08-14T16:14:43.830+02:00The City with no Mongolian Waitresses<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5ieK6YD77pgiOrobVHGLJOLBUAZ470BqUlZiDPFCy_TnIN_U_FJAZfFSw5inGqPKXbJyykr-g_yfXWYt2LhmhC4rUI6MqsyIjRQPEa3Wrs4ErXBqsiqz3etYZOj05IYIwGqUjSBFHz5e/s1600/%D7%94%D7%9E%D7%96%D7%95%D7%95%D7%93%D7%94+%D7%A9%D7%9C+%D7%90%D7%9E%D7%90.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5ieK6YD77pgiOrobVHGLJOLBUAZ470BqUlZiDPFCy_TnIN_U_FJAZfFSw5inGqPKXbJyykr-g_yfXWYt2LhmhC4rUI6MqsyIjRQPEa3Wrs4ErXBqsiqz3etYZOj05IYIwGqUjSBFHz5e/s400/%D7%94%D7%9E%D7%96%D7%95%D7%95%D7%93%D7%94+%D7%A9%D7%9C+%D7%90%D7%9E%D7%90.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504420758983064354" /></a>Last week the government of my country decided to <a href="http://www.haaretz.com/news/national/cabinet-approves-deportation-of-400-migrant-children-from-israel-1.305342">deport</a> 400 children of work immigrants. These children were born here, speak Hebrew and know no other surroundings, but they belong to the wrong ethnicity. Minister of the interior Eli Yishai cited fears for the "Jewish character" of the nation if these 400 kids remained in the country. "It's time to let these families know that the field trip is over," said Yishai.<br /><br />Today Yishai proposed paying 1000$ US to any family of work immigrants who would just pack up and leave the Jewish homeland (to which his parents arrived as North African Jewish immigrants in the 50s). 1000$ arent enough to buy a decent sofa these days. Yishai's attempt to buy people's lives at such a sum shows what he thinks these lives are worth. Foreskin-crowned Goyim are to him no more than filth that can be bought out.<br /><br />Funny thing is, Yishai has a point. If we are to follow Zionist logic, then slanted-eyed and black-skinned children really should be deported and the rest of the lot encouraged to leave. Zionism states that this land belongs to the Jews, not to the Chinks. Niggers - out! there is no black in our blue and white flag (except insofar as Ethiopian Jews are concerned, and we treat them with appropriate prejudice). This is the land of the Jews and we deserve it because of the great racism to which we were subjected.<br /><br />It baffles me how short-sighted Zionism is. It really did start off as a way to escape the pogroms, to dodge violent and dark racism. The early Zionists saw only the murderous Russians and themselves, it didn't occur to them that Filipinos existed in this world and that one day they'll figure into the equation. Hell, they didn't even notice the Arabs. Theirs was "a people without a land going to a land without a people".<br /><br />Today it's concept of a Jewish state ends up making Tel-Aviv the only modern, westernized city in the world where foreigners are unwanted by law by virtue of their ethnicity rather than citizenship status. A friend of mine sojourning in Berlin writes about the beauty of a Mongolian waitress who served him at a restaurant. This land will be thankfully clean of Mongolian waitresses as soon as they bite the 1000$ bait.<br /><br />It's time to admit it. Our short-sighted forefathers have created a monster, and we've nourished it and helped it grow. Ours is a country where police will be soon searching for children in attics due to their ethnicity. Today a public debate over the fate of these children is raging, tomorrow the public may internalize the full meaning of the "Jewish state". <br /><br />Our only hope is to ditch the whole Jewish state concept and replace it with something else, perhaps an "Israeli State", where little <a href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=3619304&id=734463443#!/photo.php?pid=3623668&id=734463443&fbid=371908453443">Yuval</a>, whose parents speak Tagalog can feel at home. We could also search for some other term, one that would even allow Little Ramzi from Jaffa to feel that his native land embraces him lovingly.<br /><br />(Artwork: "Roots", an iron sculpture by my mother, Orna Ben-Ami. Photo: A. Hay)יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-45255995786682133762010-08-08T15:25:00.023+03:002010-08-09T10:34:07.913+03:00If You're Going to Jerusalem on Foot, Be Sure to Take a Tel-Avivian Duck With You<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiRCL1Cx1W4uUm5gW9csJnbg3KVpNIG93LLwXxatBFU1-vvxg25dT8p8onCGwO7IhJg_N6P4B5N5dPb5RG_IjaK9yVATx_ycCt8QU91nKglvVRaG88t3Dmzkegpddtk9JA_8MVchTVBNkF/s1600/%D7%A6%D7%99%D7%95%D7%A8+%D7%94%D7%91%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%95%D7%96.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiRCL1Cx1W4uUm5gW9csJnbg3KVpNIG93LLwXxatBFU1-vvxg25dT8p8onCGwO7IhJg_N6P4B5N5dPb5RG_IjaK9yVATx_ycCt8QU91nKglvVRaG88t3Dmzkegpddtk9JA_8MVchTVBNkF/s400/%D7%A6%D7%99%D7%95%D7%A8+%D7%94%D7%91%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%95%D7%96.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503018806159905730" /></a>The Preparation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiGQjjw-kO4H7w96pWGT4MUtXwUaS8rbpoRCfZ9-BoEH3tVcf6ikOB8T-pH8SOxxo8-a7zA_AyqTJJN99h4wsRZF_YSX0gm9aM59K5G5Q8TwIsCPwBgXSMmBbmb5P3SML1dG27dQBVVWwc/s1600/%D7%91%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%95%D7%96+%D7%9E%D7%AA%D7%99%D7%99%D7%91%D7%A9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiGQjjw-kO4H7w96pWGT4MUtXwUaS8rbpoRCfZ9-BoEH3tVcf6ikOB8T-pH8SOxxo8-a7zA_AyqTJJN99h4wsRZF_YSX0gm9aM59K5G5Q8TwIsCPwBgXSMmBbmb5P3SML1dG27dQBVVWwc/s400/%D7%91%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%95%D7%96+%D7%9E%D7%AA%D7%99%D7%99%D7%91%D7%A9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503021590036143970" /></a>The drying up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOql8Mdnd93JoRgWYAwHMuU3oHJ6lIZyXsMzCIU77Xp1jjoRmOAAodB8UYDgUiZ-zp6a1hMbyUILxiYdrQNMcI-zWuSmkkjz5ap1Dbet62Cuz2090Hv7Y7IuFT0pgnr69owb9yz3_BtQGe/s1600/%D7%94%D7%91%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%95%D7%96+%D7%91%D7%93%D7%99%D7%96%D7%A0%D7%92%D7%95%D7%A3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOql8Mdnd93JoRgWYAwHMuU3oHJ6lIZyXsMzCIU77Xp1jjoRmOAAodB8UYDgUiZ-zp6a1hMbyUILxiYdrQNMcI-zWuSmkkjz5ap1Dbet62Cuz2090Hv7Y7IuFT0pgnr69owb9yz3_BtQGe/s400/%D7%94%D7%91%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%95%D7%96+%D7%91%D7%93%D7%99%D7%96%D7%A0%D7%92%D7%95%D7%A3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503018791286088098" /></a>The 5:00 AM streetcorner.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjEpn3QI5XDHm9YM70Jb9CiBRvKe51YVazldl74bS4wqxc-Z1Tjkl9EEmyBS6hZyaSradvyM3YFwQKYXWiBPwR0sO-IfWuQucdlD8aSm0zhXsy9VwLUuhKnh9zxb4xncr9kGx111Looyx/s1600/%D7%A4%D7%A7%D7%A7+%D7%91%D7%91%D7%95%D7%A7%D7%A8+%D7%94%D7%99%D7%95%D7%9D+%D7%94%D7%A8%D7%90%D7%A9%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggjEpn3QI5XDHm9YM70Jb9CiBRvKe51YVazldl74bS4wqxc-Z1Tjkl9EEmyBS6hZyaSradvyM3YFwQKYXWiBPwR0sO-IfWuQucdlD8aSm0zhXsy9VwLUuhKnh9zxb4xncr9kGx111Looyx/s400/%D7%A4%D7%A7%D7%A7+%D7%91%D7%91%D7%95%D7%A7%D7%A8+%D7%94%D7%99%D7%95%D7%9D+%D7%94%D7%A8%D7%90%D7%A9%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503018780074044866" /></a>The morning traffic.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo73wxWyekGjlGDp6S-hi6ahj9EAHIcSgIYzImTfl1O4kgOtEKSft4HpTZoWDFoCxRZA9Z-FItHt1Cfr6oAr8o6TvasxiwprZI90FDed4y1F9q1OvhWYxUepXyCywkAyU-Gh5wQFycFgwi/s1600/%D7%9E%D7%A2%D7%91%D7%A8+%D7%91%D7%92%D7%A9%D7%A8+%D7%9E%D7%97%D7%9C%D7%A3+%D7%A9%D7%A4%D7%99%D7%A8%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo73wxWyekGjlGDp6S-hi6ahj9EAHIcSgIYzImTfl1O4kgOtEKSft4HpTZoWDFoCxRZA9Z-FItHt1Cfr6oAr8o6TvasxiwprZI90FDed4y1F9q1OvhWYxUepXyCywkAyU-Gh5wQFycFgwi/s400/%D7%9E%D7%A2%D7%91%D7%A8+%D7%91%D7%92%D7%A9%D7%A8+%D7%9E%D7%97%D7%9C%D7%A3+%D7%A9%D7%A4%D7%99%D7%A8%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503018771572506210" /></a>The passing under a bridge the most difficult way conceivable because it was Anna's bright idea.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVcUDCfG_NtFSintJp7GVI2qu92fT3soYui49USegkwVV-fIYf280LfzPlW-KGbILFV_n1b1E3zXPVjMB_Fd_J2Ssarbw7xl4Zqsb81IL-uzhLJkCF4yNI3G7NpVFHiPSl9L9k_ZJaa7z/s1600/%D7%90%D7%A0%D7%94.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjVcUDCfG_NtFSintJp7GVI2qu92fT3soYui49USegkwVV-fIYf280LfzPlW-KGbILFV_n1b1E3zXPVjMB_Fd_J2Ssarbw7xl4Zqsb81IL-uzhLJkCF4yNI3G7NpVFHiPSl9L9k_ZJaa7z/s400/%D7%90%D7%A0%D7%94.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503070964868743330" /></a>The Anna.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdAXqGay373pEoq5cW9RHTL4cW2nQjJHpZaAaoYznFdCtML8R0qaQIwfgzOSTS-RI3x2veiirRhHkKBpt0RotmG8XaloqqQyrn3xqWgyzbwTMaH34sT8ST_R5xOAvOQj4J0AH408aloKyf/s1600/%D7%90%D7%9D+%D7%94%D7%93%D7%A8%D7%9A.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdAXqGay373pEoq5cW9RHTL4cW2nQjJHpZaAaoYznFdCtML8R0qaQIwfgzOSTS-RI3x2veiirRhHkKBpt0RotmG8XaloqqQyrn3xqWgyzbwTMaH34sT8ST_R5xOAvOQj4J0AH408aloKyf/s400/%D7%90%D7%9D+%D7%94%D7%93%D7%A8%D7%9A.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503018765086865394" /></a>The roadside.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJu70CsqeP-Ag28Pnb3T2BAmnJwzaQa9vGdn1hR-UBPNQstWnLrH1nX8g8yMc7olSdwxP2C4gk9cpmZ0iw1_QrJluvYrviAB0zICTvoMgRFsixbGt_ZyvK4Cc7y66R0EJPdhz5hWK23v6/s1600/%D7%90%D7%A0%D7%94+%D7%9E%D7%A7%D7%91%D7%9C%D7%AA+%D7%9E%D7%99%D7%A5+%D7%A4%D7%98%D7%9C+%D7%91%D7%9E%D7%95%D7%A9%D7%91+%D7%99%D7%92%D7%9C.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQJu70CsqeP-Ag28Pnb3T2BAmnJwzaQa9vGdn1hR-UBPNQstWnLrH1nX8g8yMc7olSdwxP2C4gk9cpmZ0iw1_QrJluvYrviAB0zICTvoMgRFsixbGt_ZyvK4Cc7y66R0EJPdhz5hWK23v6/s400/%D7%90%D7%A0%D7%94+%D7%9E%D7%A7%D7%91%D7%9C%D7%AA+%D7%9E%D7%99%D7%A5+%D7%A4%D7%98%D7%9C+%D7%91%D7%9E%D7%95%D7%A9%D7%91+%D7%99%D7%92%D7%9C.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503015414659753426" /></a>The raspberry juice served by complete strangers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMaWTfdQxfeK1b4xC0YM8rksyt6hjs2ax-xe-0bCnpwPtEu2FCOOEdo0WyNZFNtqo-eWI2t4kDhe0EWWS_-7mE3VdrieifzczuRziWNXev4i0vPH68gnqb-tGPDEVMXbeyQTnXIEVk3N06/s1600/%D7%A2%D7%9D+%D7%93%D7%92%D7%9C+%D7%94%D7%91%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%95%D7%96+%D7%91%D7%9B%D7%99%D7%95%D7%95%D7%9F+%D7%94%D7%A0%D7%9B%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMaWTfdQxfeK1b4xC0YM8rksyt6hjs2ax-xe-0bCnpwPtEu2FCOOEdo0WyNZFNtqo-eWI2t4kDhe0EWWS_-7mE3VdrieifzczuRziWNXev4i0vPH68gnqb-tGPDEVMXbeyQTnXIEVk3N06/s400/%D7%A2%D7%9D+%D7%93%D7%92%D7%9C+%D7%94%D7%91%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%95%D7%96+%D7%91%D7%9B%D7%99%D7%95%D7%95%D7%9F+%D7%94%D7%A0%D7%9B%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503017530704499218" /></a>The right direction.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4Zdvhgrzmq5M6emcb7fZtzkVnErbb3mrEdTvHlcWLb7yTUI3ptD7n6BjMpn7-xQTfGe4Pl6l-LcWtljeed-LTsiTlODZ61Vq7UROsUf6z61dF-2KroO62-2t1xR_3z7ryvs9srooM87N/s1600/%D7%91%D7%9E%D7%98%D7%A2%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ4Zdvhgrzmq5M6emcb7fZtzkVnErbb3mrEdTvHlcWLb7yTUI3ptD7n6BjMpn7-xQTfGe4Pl6l-LcWtljeed-LTsiTlODZ61Vq7UROsUf6z61dF-2KroO62-2t1xR_3z7ryvs9srooM87N/s400/%D7%91%D7%9E%D7%98%D7%A2%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503015413457726578" /></a>The snack.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6eMi7MPLgtu3Ub52FLgLYoPgFGn3pilnXKy0WttZxsCGJApAnTauv6JR6kZm0Ljipibz-W2jorQx0Uf_IBZMCnq8eQsnF7z08njBXY0KGXd8BlBNtzSE9mupEtRBmFZY9a2sd3rZ8-gH/s1600/%D7%A9%D7%95%D7%A4%D7%A8+%D7%A9%D7%91%D7%95%D7%A8+%D7%A2%D7%9C+%D7%90%D7%9D+%D7%94%D7%93%D7%A8%D7%9A.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS6eMi7MPLgtu3Ub52FLgLYoPgFGn3pilnXKy0WttZxsCGJApAnTauv6JR6kZm0Ljipibz-W2jorQx0Uf_IBZMCnq8eQsnF7z08njBXY0KGXd8BlBNtzSE9mupEtRBmFZY9a2sd3rZ8-gH/s400/%D7%A9%D7%95%D7%A4%D7%A8+%D7%A9%D7%91%D7%95%D7%A8+%D7%A2%D7%9C+%D7%90%D7%9D+%D7%94%D7%93%D7%A8%D7%9A.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503069872592816962" /></a>The shofar.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirixxOhqOm34_QrVKXdsWkc_l4GYTmt6o_reZ8kK5V0QduWFMWK8pScqd1T9garox2Hw3E5es_lKzi2Q9Y8Qc45rAoTjkUXrLR7-jkMNTtkEebmGLcpO8OeXYn1ZLRqaVed01E-ASvswkV/s1600/%D7%AA%D7%A0%D7%95%D7%91%D7%94.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirixxOhqOm34_QrVKXdsWkc_l4GYTmt6o_reZ8kK5V0QduWFMWK8pScqd1T9garox2Hw3E5es_lKzi2Q9Y8Qc45rAoTjkUXrLR7-jkMNTtkEebmGLcpO8OeXYn1ZLRqaVed01E-ASvswkV/s400/%D7%AA%D7%A0%D7%95%D7%91%D7%94.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503071728201868434" /></a>The field where they grow milk containers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7fdouBkUeSXQ3tC8HJkhk701KSr1NNOy86zuwdDLMZGGj1fNxSIETkJ-oBoGq2MOBGyWrzn9It019hVyTqErtWYU6nbcHhoGLgLRqS4Sw30WViz4CthVGmPf6YWzBiOnla9txMfZRjJTm/s1600/%D7%91%D7%99%D7%A6%D7%95%D7%AA+%D7%94%D7%99%D7%90%D7%95%D7%A9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7fdouBkUeSXQ3tC8HJkhk701KSr1NNOy86zuwdDLMZGGj1fNxSIETkJ-oBoGq2MOBGyWrzn9It019hVyTqErtWYU6nbcHhoGLgLRqS4Sw30WViz4CthVGmPf6YWzBiOnla9txMfZRjJTm/s400/%D7%91%D7%99%D7%A6%D7%95%D7%AA+%D7%94%D7%99%D7%90%D7%95%D7%A9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503029531411062994" /></a>The marshes of despair.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjecq1oL0ZjsqDaE9E3sfR3NjalgcFpVcshJQXhJoTIX3gWRvxwbrZynNThPXQok1b0W3PeF4gWsQEfW_ckK4jQdgSBRPsNFxuZlZOIXpz6ZiGLIUmBndqS63aT96n2oi0LjnjF39TfBTZi/s1600/%D7%A9%D7%A8%D7%99%D7%98%D7%95%D7%AA.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjecq1oL0ZjsqDaE9E3sfR3NjalgcFpVcshJQXhJoTIX3gWRvxwbrZynNThPXQok1b0W3PeF4gWsQEfW_ckK4jQdgSBRPsNFxuZlZOIXpz6ZiGLIUmBndqS63aT96n2oi0LjnjF39TfBTZi/s400/%D7%A9%D7%A8%D7%99%D7%98%D7%95%D7%AA.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503029522526896242" /></a>The legs that have just traversed the marshes of despair.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHn7on4lMIGKlFZ9TErFuVMxa0cFuoDc4O5TcMC7LongKusxDBH3fgRJPW5cuCxjcmdqV3bbpR3PhZ-jmYeGYvUQz4e6DC3tgGtN0RtSmMv2AgWA6ecdeuuvcPJ8kP3Dm_yjlOKSoAC1pj/s1600/%D7%94%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9B%D7%94+%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%AA.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHn7on4lMIGKlFZ9TErFuVMxa0cFuoDc4O5TcMC7LongKusxDBH3fgRJPW5cuCxjcmdqV3bbpR3PhZ-jmYeGYvUQz4e6DC3tgGtN0RtSmMv2AgWA6ecdeuuvcPJ8kP3Dm_yjlOKSoAC1pj/s400/%D7%94%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9B%D7%94+%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%AA.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503029517259698530" /></a>The evening walk.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSyKbF93FO825F7zmQbS2aqh5mbbNpRBiM2n-efKmBGzRUl-nLS6o4eJKJpAMipS6_GPkCA23oB7sZS60nKoGR06qui7r7CaZHME0hNLuP7LUykMahRBZfB1BL8-nENdqgGDHiYL-IuYY4/s1600/%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%93+%D7%9E%D7%A9%D7%9E%D7%A8+%D7%90%D7%99%D7%99%D7%9C%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSyKbF93FO825F7zmQbS2aqh5mbbNpRBiM2n-efKmBGzRUl-nLS6o4eJKJpAMipS6_GPkCA23oB7sZS60nKoGR06qui7r7CaZHME0hNLuP7LUykMahRBZfB1BL8-nENdqgGDHiYL-IuYY4/s400/%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%93+%D7%9E%D7%A9%D7%9E%D7%A8+%D7%90%D7%99%D7%99%D7%9C%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503015405771668258" /></a>The haystacks of a new day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUV6T-ihwqjUwKvs-9zItrrFOyCTrvOhCIAApmsjJN7CXCIuG9A9hVgnfQsokfmxX_19vxE6dIGu2TOqzq7JooAz_mhS8DxrI2KOXoXh881a4C0pQoyyyqINb9U_gA72FRNrE4KCxQ719i/s1600/%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%93+%D7%9C%D7%98%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUV6T-ihwqjUwKvs-9zItrrFOyCTrvOhCIAApmsjJN7CXCIuG9A9hVgnfQsokfmxX_19vxE6dIGu2TOqzq7JooAz_mhS8DxrI2KOXoXh881a4C0pQoyyyqINb9U_gA72FRNrE4KCxQ719i/s400/%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%93+%D7%9C%D7%98%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503015400120930850" /></a>The flower I picked and brought home to Itka.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6C4THfQAVfHZf1Iagh8mjaDCqauyL-4XtdDBATAGWkSbuOEDzDKx-9BBlRbUG6mseO7K4K4WTCHQE5d9utb6cfmVqPOIygWUEmxFm1IVz6dAFvLbk_30ybi_hl7fC15QuZ70ZS8mnE5-/s1600/%D7%98%D7%A0%D7%92+%D7%98%D7%A0%D7%92.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK6C4THfQAVfHZf1Iagh8mjaDCqauyL-4XtdDBATAGWkSbuOEDzDKx-9BBlRbUG6mseO7K4K4WTCHQE5d9utb6cfmVqPOIygWUEmxFm1IVz6dAFvLbk_30ybi_hl7fC15QuZ70ZS8mnE5-/s400/%D7%98%D7%A0%D7%92+%D7%98%D7%A0%D7%92.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503015392987908754" /></a>The laughing Catholic volunteer from Hong Kong named Ting Ting.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0w32kASPyXcDGexd5CG-1yRmXBPL1JU7Vgeo0gqa5ASvsv3Zt75a80ZflGTTgbtnqPfAuTOGTCnd6TWEK79sNnR2WcINl1ld21J1TuEWPagQ6Fz70VRILAQgxsi-GzQzHSPqF9T8MZtI/s1600/%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9C%D7%95%D7%AA+%D7%91%D7%9C%D7%99+%D7%92%D7%92.jpg"><img style="text-align: right;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb0w32kASPyXcDGexd5CG-1yRmXBPL1JU7Vgeo0gqa5ASvsv3Zt75a80ZflGTTgbtnqPfAuTOGTCnd6TWEK79sNnR2WcINl1ld21J1TuEWPagQ6Fz70VRILAQgxsi-GzQzHSPqF9T8MZtI/s400/%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9C%D7%95%D7%AA+%D7%91%D7%9C%D7%99+%D7%92%D7%92.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503011939027766802" /></a>The mysterious home by the roadside.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nI9td6YpOxRZ4Xl25cY3viMlV64e3kgIPM7kSOG0c_opzKAevfZZ0Ab_GJkHIaLmEpTffhceG4Zecc8pDaPzcJsnYsev8Uq6HOf47NEbZDs24Twaa5PLGxviDB0QNwuSWn-SgQyGObA6/s1600/%D7%A9%D7%A2%D7%A8+%D7%94%D7%92%D7%99%D7%90.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3nI9td6YpOxRZ4Xl25cY3viMlV64e3kgIPM7kSOG0c_opzKAevfZZ0Ab_GJkHIaLmEpTffhceG4Zecc8pDaPzcJsnYsev8Uq6HOf47NEbZDs24Twaa5PLGxviDB0QNwuSWn-SgQyGObA6/s400/%D7%A9%D7%A2%D7%A8+%D7%94%D7%92%D7%99%D7%90.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503011928349771026" /></a>The highway at Bab Al-Wad seen from above.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQuRaOOA99Qriful81rNEkLeXPve0gdDGqvNqfo-7_pBpUSkhj699gIrFdw4qxsn2IA9P1O7zyNXaEblehbRcROFOWA1OIPzormGMCUAP6KSus1xecsTBAv_bS36dsc7cFhmkBBBmTOeyJ/s1600/%D7%91%D7%9B%D7%A8%D7%9E%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQuRaOOA99Qriful81rNEkLeXPve0gdDGqvNqfo-7_pBpUSkhj699gIrFdw4qxsn2IA9P1O7zyNXaEblehbRcROFOWA1OIPzormGMCUAP6KSus1xecsTBAv_bS36dsc7cFhmkBBBmTOeyJ/s400/%D7%91%D7%9B%D7%A8%D7%9E%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503011924600154994" /></a>The yummy grapes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3o_XOk0WLv0Fvun7wt2A48UEzASrQ6w9eKLxB6kBu9uAy4FvCS4tCw08b7DdhorR_kskDyJFwsGk1_bwKZkiTwWi0G72QIe4hsQrD-hOh4W-n3qIPq8OJuwtoQr24myFiIvJE42uWqYS8/s1600/%D7%90%D7%9C%D7%95%D7%99%D7%A1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3o_XOk0WLv0Fvun7wt2A48UEzASrQ6w9eKLxB6kBu9uAy4FvCS4tCw08b7DdhorR_kskDyJFwsGk1_bwKZkiTwWi0G72QIe4hsQrD-hOh4W-n3qIPq8OJuwtoQr24myFiIvJE42uWqYS8/s400/%D7%90%D7%9C%D7%95%D7%99%D7%A1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503011918495013346" /></a>The Elvis<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnweERXbAFkzFv_FSvW14ni5Dk5IxB64_HvDqgIKBzYA5WAH0tgCNqIXEdviAuJMuLVtsWZ4O8g2LBffdtXSj46vyqfTIBpUnUEt0jKr1bxdxPf713Wf9hiC7EADVnmTw43zUMojkDS3b/s1600/%D7%91%D7%AA%D7%A2%D7%9C%D7%94.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTnweERXbAFkzFv_FSvW14ni5Dk5IxB64_HvDqgIKBzYA5WAH0tgCNqIXEdviAuJMuLVtsWZ4O8g2LBffdtXSj46vyqfTIBpUnUEt0jKr1bxdxPf713Wf9hiC7EADVnmTw43zUMojkDS3b/s400/%D7%91%D7%AA%D7%A2%D7%9C%D7%94.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503010280147156930" /></a>The ditch I had to walk in.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht60A2-bJBPUD_UcM50ofzECDe5j52AEsq1du7UMXTx6d_wSidc8ttl6lFnQNEFasVXJfqJU3D8DAYbRF43-pOFkqTskVPPDZyiYNxFrVcj_EqOIpkHMV73UmHHcuyXb2YZqv3B9AvudT0/s1600/%D7%90%D7%A9%D7%A4%D7%94+%D7%9C%D7%90%D7%99%D7%9F+%D7%A7%D7%A5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht60A2-bJBPUD_UcM50ofzECDe5j52AEsq1du7UMXTx6d_wSidc8ttl6lFnQNEFasVXJfqJU3D8DAYbRF43-pOFkqTskVPPDZyiYNxFrVcj_EqOIpkHMV73UmHHcuyXb2YZqv3B9AvudT0/s400/%D7%90%D7%A9%D7%A4%D7%94+%D7%9C%D7%90%D7%99%D7%9F+%D7%A7%D7%A5.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503010274371319970" /></a>The cupious amount of trash.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDK8deGy_K6zBiEd06JYLjm_G-LIZcWkDynkdswJutaGHllxy-2ztxrX8Nw_yAsNvg7iRFMwiiaxR8LqXGFK_ZJjn2nCp0sTtIkcFJ_Hv1FXJEvirXPqu2JViWdoxRHPP1ouyFF4yZrKX/s1600/%D7%9E%D7%95%D7%A6%D7%90.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZDK8deGy_K6zBiEd06JYLjm_G-LIZcWkDynkdswJutaGHllxy-2ztxrX8Nw_yAsNvg7iRFMwiiaxR8LqXGFK_ZJjn2nCp0sTtIkcFJ_Hv1FXJEvirXPqu2JViWdoxRHPP1ouyFF4yZrKX/s400/%D7%9E%D7%95%D7%A6%D7%90.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503012933496498818" /></a>The twighlight in which I found myself again in the ditch.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh243mcN_dTeBB2pTF5mWKXFi5QOtIJzABZ-EcVM7BonPqJ7WOGjHu2y1EGpMCctqtGrJ9XXLx-e2wwYpFUhgEaoqamhDAIKVBUeDvJwWkVokzSB7ElB9vWLNzorCM2oCO0EhhEJaTmRrih/s1600/%D7%94%D7%9B%D7%91%D7%99%D7%A9+%D7%94%D7%90%D7%97%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh243mcN_dTeBB2pTF5mWKXFi5QOtIJzABZ-EcVM7BonPqJ7WOGjHu2y1EGpMCctqtGrJ9XXLx-e2wwYpFUhgEaoqamhDAIKVBUeDvJwWkVokzSB7ElB9vWLNzorCM2oCO0EhhEJaTmRrih/s400/%D7%94%D7%9B%D7%91%D7%99%D7%A9+%D7%94%D7%90%D7%97%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%9F.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503010265304070146" /></a>The only road going into the city that didn't involve walking in a ditch.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufYuZLYWx6UY9lVDJrjMPgpk8HdqqSu1prOB_ntRU-Noh73U8GvGqQxMA1h2KibaBSgvMapDJh07hEAUAzkz111dNxvkN4I0XBNd65ZkJymNDBCF3PFY462E70ym4uaZ_oWJ5H28MwZ79/s1600/%D7%A9%D7%A2%D7%A8%D7%99+%D7%99%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%A9%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiufYuZLYWx6UY9lVDJrjMPgpk8HdqqSu1prOB_ntRU-Noh73U8GvGqQxMA1h2KibaBSgvMapDJh07hEAUAzkz111dNxvkN4I0XBNd65ZkJymNDBCF3PFY462E70ym4uaZ_oWJ5H28MwZ79/s400/%D7%A9%D7%A2%D7%A8%D7%99+%D7%99%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%A9%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503010260016349266" /></a>The real gate of Jerusalem.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-qlzPImKD_v5H8K86vqNmy9L3Gb_AfIqBnyxKf9l4PbI9DBwLDgZMVJ4nEre7D43wNIOTh0ehXVdqVqD-bRLE4hSwsl3yczXQxLRjuZWQrKcVBB5IBwq-pgWPuqjY9Zy2PTBerWcPPky/s1600/%D7%AA%D7%9E%D7%95%D7%A0%D7%94+%D7%A8%D7%90%D7%A9%D7%95%D7%A0%D7%94+%D7%91%D7%99%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%A9%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB-qlzPImKD_v5H8K86vqNmy9L3Gb_AfIqBnyxKf9l4PbI9DBwLDgZMVJ4nEre7D43wNIOTh0ehXVdqVqD-bRLE4hSwsl3yczXQxLRjuZWQrKcVBB5IBwq-pgWPuqjY9Zy2PTBerWcPPky/s400/%D7%AA%D7%9E%D7%95%D7%A0%D7%94+%D7%A8%D7%90%D7%A9%D7%95%D7%A0%D7%94+%D7%91%D7%99%D7%A8%D7%95%D7%A9%D7%9C%D7%99%D7%9D.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503010253403019346" /></a>The first image of me in Jerusalem, taken by a little girl named Shoshana.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIjtvI8vI_nmZy4TPqYuq0S30roOkc2hAyvW7DAXAmRAPu5-VM9sA7cWPYD_09VRDhBGrgSxruGCWSyVWDeYakza2IOdKdFicYgVF8QYc5cS1NjAh1RifCX82Ln6j6RShaibhZDLBfJA2/s1600/%D7%9E%D7%A1%D7%99%D7%A8%D7%AA+%D7%94%D7%9E%D7%A0%D7%97%D7%94+%D7%91%D7%9E%D7%A7%D7%93%D7%A9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRIjtvI8vI_nmZy4TPqYuq0S30roOkc2hAyvW7DAXAmRAPu5-VM9sA7cWPYD_09VRDhBGrgSxruGCWSyVWDeYakza2IOdKdFicYgVF8QYc5cS1NjAh1RifCX82Ln6j6RShaibhZDLBfJA2/s400/%D7%9E%D7%A1%D7%99%D7%A8%D7%AA+%D7%94%D7%9E%D7%A0%D7%97%D7%94+%D7%91%D7%9E%D7%A7%D7%93%D7%A9.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503020496245766450" /></a>The arrival of the pilgrim at the temple (the Uganda bar and bookstore) and handing of the offering (Dakka 6 poetry journal).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimf6rW9WOgf6qMz5mhfF5zvv722r3R3LhrhEliZqb6ii4hlVUHKmMlXki26gtxCXH26yr8fzpYJiisb6LxCXH-d1YilYiDjWl4r1smqPTRkEQANGV3_AscbaRNo5_HgKpykH3TEmCyF-cL/s1600/%D7%A9%D7%A2%D7%A8+%D7%99%D7%A4%D7%95.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimf6rW9WOgf6qMz5mhfF5zvv722r3R3LhrhEliZqb6ii4hlVUHKmMlXki26gtxCXH26yr8fzpYJiisb6LxCXH-d1YilYiDjWl4r1smqPTRkEQANGV3_AscbaRNo5_HgKpykH3TEmCyF-cL/s400/%D7%A9%D7%A2%D7%A8+%D7%99%D7%A4%D7%95.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503016789658149266" /></a>The end.<br /><br />BTW, while the title advice stands true. It's also advisable to bring a good friend along. I'm deeply indebted to Anna Wexler who sacrificed the wellbeing of her legs for this.<br /><br />The story of the pilgrimage will appear in full in the Succot holiday edition of Israel Hayom. For more about the duck and its legendary creator Dudu Geva, read <a href="http://www.woostercollective.com/2008/04/dudu_gevas_giant_duck.html">here</a>.יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-22999737251381611842010-07-31T16:14:00.016+03:002010-08-01T11:08:21.033+03:00Worse than Jewish<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUopeUo6cK4TTAE8t_yfrueXfRqDVAvojtHwnXXjeZqAQmuFMq9OIM_Gst4cJMWRZn0mm93rB-znIC3LdeeBw7MVb7Sd3DzRo59ssH9aA5GPl8xJUF7-b_pdJmTUFqZF6mbzsrur2-c17o/s1600/django_reinhardt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 385px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUopeUo6cK4TTAE8t_yfrueXfRqDVAvojtHwnXXjeZqAQmuFMq9OIM_Gst4cJMWRZn0mm93rB-znIC3LdeeBw7MVb7Sd3DzRo59ssH9aA5GPl8xJUF7-b_pdJmTUFqZF6mbzsrur2-c17o/s400/django_reinhardt.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5500084547484037394" /></a>Thursday night, the Israeli opera performed its rendition of Bizet's "Carmen" at Hayarkon Park. 70,000 culture enthusiasts came to watch poor Corporal Don Jose choose to defect for the love of a cigarette factory girl, only to get dumped for Escamillo the bull-fighter.<br /><br />The performance was splendid. Rinat Shaham was both intense and precise in the title role. It was as though the open air inspired her to be a more powerful, charismatic Carmen that the one she was at the Tel-Aviv Opera House. Mayor Ron Huldai acted as the evening's MC. While sets were replaced between acts, he filled the audience up on the plot, some which became a little blurry due to cuts and omissions. <br /><br />Huldai also gave some background on the opera but did not go into analysis and criticism. Thus a very crucial aspect of Carmen did not come up that evening in the park: the fact that it's a work full of ethnic prejudice. <br /><br />Carmen is based on a novella by Prosper Mérimée. In the prose text, Don Jose is recounting his misadventures to a prison cell-mate. "I should never have gone with such a woman," he tells him. "After all, we all know her kind."<br /> <br />"Is she Jewish?" asks the cell mate.<br /><br />"Worse," says Don Jose, "She's a Gypsy."<br /><br /> ۞<br /><br />For me as a Jew, it's almost calming to hear that the Roma were considered "worse" than us in Mérimée's 19th century Europe. They certainly are considered "worse" these days. In contemporary Scandinavia, for example, I found that disdain toward the Roma is largely acceptable and may be voiced freely, while antisemitism certainly isn't. Why is that so? Both ethnicities burned shoulder to shoulder in Auschwitz, did they not? <br /><br />They did, but the Romani historical foundations and political lobbies were never very effective or efficient. This is partially how come French President Nicolas Sarkozy could this week announce his plan to deport all Romas without proper French documents.<br /><br />Sarkozy, his Minister of the interior, Brice Hortefeux, and the Secretary of State of European Affairs, Pierre Lellouche, claim that French is swamped by Roma who moved in from the most recent EU members in the Balkans, that this had caused a culmination in theft and drug trade. <br /><br />I don't doubt that Roma culture tolerates petty crime far more than mainstream European culture does, but Sarkozy has far greater thieves to worry about: corporate thieves who steal in a day more that what a Roma settlement would steal in a decade. Besides, even if the Roma are involved in crime, there is no greater crime than to reinforce a damaging stigma placed on a community and deem this community unwanted.<br /><br /> ۞<br /><br />It's sad to see this taking place in France. French Roma are known for being progressive and open. Traveling in rural France I often received lifts from Gypsies, pitched my tent among their trailers in Sts. Maries de la Mer, spoke to them and learned of their world. <br /><br />Of all Roma societies, this is the one most welcoming to the non-ethnic Roma traveler, providing an alternative for those who couldn't take the burdon of mainstream French life. It's also open to the world - French Manouche Gypsies were the first to integrate western pop music into their musical repertoire. Modern Jazz would be unthinkable without the blessed influence of Django Reinhardt, pictured above. <br /><br />French Roma had a modernizing influence on their Spanish neighbors and would doubtlessly have a similar effect on Balkan newcomers. By singling those newcomers out, Sarkouzy is causing great damage to their French brethren. He is identifying Gypsies in general as thieves, drug dealers and a burden on society. Worse than Jews? Much worse.<br /> <br />Is it any surprise that this is happening in the one European country where the Roma have become most integrated? The Jewish community of Weimar Germany was more modern and culturally assimilated than any other in Europe. Rather than embrace this, the Germans perceived the Jews as a threat and acted accordingly. <br /><br />Europeans have portrayed the Roma as a treacherous woman who would pick your wallet or your heart, whichever she gets her hands on first. Gypsies have always been taken for a threat, so legislation against them is almost inevitable, but it is tragic and disgusting nonetheless.<br /><br /> ۞<br /><br />I can't really conclude this without a word about the semi-nomadic people of this land. This passing week. 1,300 Israeli policemen arrived at dawn to the Bedouine village of Al-Arakib, evacuated its hundreds of residents and demolished it entirely. Al -Arakib, a shanty town north of Beer-Sheva, had existed since before the founding of the state of Israel, but it's located within a ring of land around the city which the state wishes to preserve as "Bedouine free". <br /><br />45 houses were demolished in the village, which means hundreds of homeless souls. The Israeli press paid minimal attention to the event. In the two largest newspapers it recieved no mention at all. In place of Al-Arakib, the Jewish national fund intends to plant a grove of pine.יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-13728143620826060752010-07-27T11:06:00.010+03:002010-07-27T20:11:44.900+03:00Frankfurt Dream<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif4pkVuPGDz4xB7JHIeDHpQMy5qRl9xlf9Ucb41XQRUhSUKQkUhLsZrBH41oqvBz7clQX7F0RY5lskFhbYVjc-ks-Y9lLuomyWw3J8Pv1VfIbWhecwaCt3qZ_JLkC8a8KrIz8UIKplE_aY/s1600/Germany+and+Poland.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 322px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif4pkVuPGDz4xB7JHIeDHpQMy5qRl9xlf9Ucb41XQRUhSUKQkUhLsZrBH41oqvBz7clQX7F0RY5lskFhbYVjc-ks-Y9lLuomyWw3J8Pv1VfIbWhecwaCt3qZ_JLkC8a8KrIz8UIKplE_aY/s400/Germany+and+Poland.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498513851900396258" /></a>In my dream I was on the tarmac in Frankfurt's airport, gazing through the oval hatch at the air traffic controllers as they perform their elegant dance-of-the-orange-rods before the gargantuan airplanes. I soon got tired and wondered aloud when we would take off. The passenger seated beside me said that we were grounded and I might as well just leave the plane and go for a stroll.<br /><br />So I walked out of the airport and into a nearby suburb of Frankfurt. It turned out to be an historical town, with quaint streets winding twixt medieval houses. Evening was falling and lights were coming on in the houses. One door was open, letting warm yellow light pour out onto the narrow sidewalk. From within I heard the chatter of young people and the shuffle of kitchenware. I walked in and up a steep staircase, an uninvited guest.<br /><br />atop the stairs was a corridor running between many doors. Evidently, this was a students' apartment. Several young men and women from around the world walked here and there, speaking English to each other. Some on their way to the kitchen, some to see friends outside. The place seemed to be accustomed to strangers since no one paid me much mind. <br /><br />Still, I felt uneasy being there. After stopping in the kitchen and chatting with some petite latino girl who was cooking lentils inside a great pot, I left the flat and returned to the street. I walked downhill, searching for river Main and for a glimpse of Frankfurt's famous skyline. The suburb had a modernist center with modest glass highrises and a waterfront cycle lane. at some point the river and the lane separated, the river disappeared among the rushes, and across the dark asphalt of the lane appeared home.<br /><br />Home: a barren hill of chalk, topped with the separation wall. Mediterranean bushes grew on the slope, climbing over old stone ruins on their way to the concrete crest. The side of the bike lane closer to home was dustier. I was almost tempted to step over it and climb the hill but then stalled and looked back to the suburb of Frankfurt, which was there alright, and looked back to the Jerusalemite hill, which was there alright, and woke up.<br /><br />(artwork: "Germany and Poland" by Joshua Neustein, taken from the Moonriver's fantastic <a href="http://www.mooonriver.blogspot.com/">treasury</a>.)יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-16951421658244247082010-07-25T12:51:00.027+03:002010-07-26T13:57:56.612+03:00A Working Class Borough is Something to BeThe deeper you dig, the closer you come to the bone. Cities will teach you that. <br /><br />Haifa is a three tiered one: Atop Mt. Carmel are the posh quarters, complete with pretty parks and a cinematheque. Halfway down is Haddar, the city's first "modern hub", mixing urban grit with pleasent residential streets. All the way down is the "Lower City", and that's where the heart is, the rugged, blue collar heart.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-6XwvRdM1qbYshifSOywjUG6MdSOGKZsMjJGmunbNuGgJjetL_uk3hrGiN0cIiBLigE5C7wGjvxp13F06oPtf3HDQrkLPv-zuv6XKRywFfaI68Z7nxTSf87F3xqLbsdgP7SH2Io1rZBj/s1600/Haifaa+078.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm-6XwvRdM1qbYshifSOywjUG6MdSOGKZsMjJGmunbNuGgJjetL_uk3hrGiN0cIiBLigE5C7wGjvxp13F06oPtf3HDQrkLPv-zuv6XKRywFfaI68Z7nxTSf87F3xqLbsdgP7SH2Io1rZBj/s400/Haifaa+078.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497785666674453794" /></a>Each time I visit this neglected bit of cityscape, I go through something dramatic. My first true venture here was for an article in the Hebrew edition of National Geographic. The editor sent me and Eddy the photographer to seek out the seamen haunts. Is Haifa still a port city in the days of nearly unmanned, mechanized ships, that linger in the harbor for no longer than a day or so? Did it still have taverns? prostitutes? Tattoed nights? We took the train up and descended at the shadow of cranes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_g8HZUUQlB85B54CelVs3lEE8bgJY8XJ98ugiz9Idgw1kBH-Ebd9QSEjqUbN3XUXgjxS4voPPPCXG3z2zYO6sLDwaKAZwtUU9Niuik8enJRaBrp0DvdNV0CcC2MeULPo18496BGqQ0y8/s1600/Haifaa+125.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7_g8HZUUQlB85B54CelVs3lEE8bgJY8XJ98ugiz9Idgw1kBH-Ebd9QSEjqUbN3XUXgjxS4voPPPCXG3z2zYO6sLDwaKAZwtUU9Niuik8enJRaBrp0DvdNV0CcC2MeULPo18496BGqQ0y8/s400/Haifaa+125.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497788510068605298" /></a>It took us a little while to come up with a positive answer. The bars are hidden, but when you're in them, there's no mistaking them. Old timer Israeli sailors drink arrack and eat salami at the "Habanera", American musclemen, fresh off a cargo ship, gozzled it down at "the anchor", and there was "the Godfather", where Eddy took the sexiest photo ever of a woman smoking. Haifa was drenched with salt water alright. <br /><br />On my second sojourn here I came with a broken heart. a girl dumped me in Tel-Aviv and I escaped north to ease the pain. I took a bed at the "Port Inn", truly a sweet little hostel, but through an unfortunate fluke got stung by some mysterious insect and spent the night awake, scratching myself, walking the empty, shabby streets and trying to write a love poem that would bring her back.<br /><br />All I ended up coming with was a <a href="http://yuvalbenami.blogspot.com/2008/08/patras.html">blog post</a> about another city and another girl. When morning came, I straddled into old fashioned cafe "Shani" on the main drag, and got served good coffee with the words "good morning" sprinkled on it in cocoa powder, through some kind of a friendly stencil. That made my day. I swore to love Haifa forever, more than any girl, ever!<br /><br />This weekend, though, I came to Haifa with a girl, so I had to balance my effections out somehow. You see her here standing on the atypically elegant Ben-gurion avenue, with its old houses built by German evangelists in the 19th century. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS77aw3kD2NKLgqtN282r0p0TG6abJiLkGRvo2ClNRYzBMLHRTaCREyKYZliZCCPKrA3cQtZOWUpUuSYAZkpFvkrXMRLnhqX9rudSPZ-p4nJHw48XnlNMbxnKW73hSIi_QnETjxKzxHkRY/s1600/Haifaa+139.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS77aw3kD2NKLgqtN282r0p0TG6abJiLkGRvo2ClNRYzBMLHRTaCREyKYZliZCCPKrA3cQtZOWUpUuSYAZkpFvkrXMRLnhqX9rudSPZ-p4nJHw48XnlNMbxnKW73hSIi_QnETjxKzxHkRY/s400/Haifaa+139.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497788522836689714" /></a>Never worry. She herself has a romantic history with the city. She and her legendary ex-boyfriend used to frequent a Romanian restaurant called "The fountain of Beer" and feast on its "Kostitza": some sort of a smoked, garlicky concoction of pork that is simply too amazing to describe. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BJC22qfKA_b6-foUx6o2R49pZoYuRrxAK1kHp7XG4NTZJ3C70NnxNPdcTbU2UiMWJDiTZlcNsU9-61ubvAoAG-68hEfHC6Kh3GVDt57tNVGJ1E3vOmVmtQ9nt2m7SlPOa0UgFUzPVAoy/s1600/Haifaa+148.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BJC22qfKA_b6-foUx6o2R49pZoYuRrxAK1kHp7XG4NTZJ3C70NnxNPdcTbU2UiMWJDiTZlcNsU9-61ubvAoAG-68hEfHC6Kh3GVDt57tNVGJ1E3vOmVmtQ9nt2m7SlPOa0UgFUzPVAoy/s400/Haifaa+148.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497783518463220514" /></a>A band was playing old favorites, pleasing the multitude of non-kosher Haifa-ites who croud this place on a Friday.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDcNZo_TPjW8rJnjT2u9OkXceuFpBoKnhCh4NuQeq6SMFTINphzZXONLHpPFB33DOHRaq8njUskaFy-bZzZ5Dd-YYmIulpF2s06np_1Pcjomb9WGOBk5rfiv94keGlIHXYvEVwwxT_ADI/s1600/Haifaa+150.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDcNZo_TPjW8rJnjT2u9OkXceuFpBoKnhCh4NuQeq6SMFTINphzZXONLHpPFB33DOHRaq8njUskaFy-bZzZ5Dd-YYmIulpF2s06np_1Pcjomb9WGOBk5rfiv94keGlIHXYvEVwwxT_ADI/s400/Haifaa+150.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497783511466959266" /></a>Since I hummed along, I got to sing into the microphone. You'll notice that I am literally pregnant with the Kostitza. Please don't show this picture to anyone.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_MeP5PDzf8JR2msXf9zr0quDg4LC617ql_xdH_vtj_GVIs566JxC-gZuVJppNfaMoNz9VP6cLW5QupiMHtQvB6KRkFaemSWjuPiL18yEmRMgeP-RhuK_raA3hIRgOBR9gqXQRxwhsngw/s1600/Haifaa+151.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD_MeP5PDzf8JR2msXf9zr0quDg4LC617ql_xdH_vtj_GVIs566JxC-gZuVJppNfaMoNz9VP6cLW5QupiMHtQvB6KRkFaemSWjuPiL18yEmRMgeP-RhuK_raA3hIRgOBR9gqXQRxwhsngw/s400/Haifaa+151.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497783524853726546" /></a>This was a great little kickoff to the weekend, and I forgave Itka her nostalgia to the ex-boyfriend, but the streets were beginning to empty and we got worrying that the lower city was not really that great a place in which to pass a shabbat. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOi-gD1RWtAcYy8aCD5OrXhEXs-UkxCefKmKGGiL9BTy-YKE9BSNtrCac2vmltl9GUGwoSswD3zqUrIl295y_wkjdjWL6rjkkexnRvXc0Q7mPxMGIeVS55anOQMMlNuk5FwbJooGprSIx/s1600/Haifaa+154.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdOi-gD1RWtAcYy8aCD5OrXhEXs-UkxCefKmKGGiL9BTy-YKE9BSNtrCac2vmltl9GUGwoSswD3zqUrIl295y_wkjdjWL6rjkkexnRvXc0Q7mPxMGIeVS55anOQMMlNuk5FwbJooGprSIx/s400/Haifaa+154.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497794301246215474" /></a>I mean, these days even the golden dome of the Baha'i shrine, the ornament of the city, is undergoing renovations. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN0-sw03-rOkbIrHOG9OJilgMgbllZm_F4kBbnI1SY7Qb51KD0lhdbjmAEagYNv61nR3e4_ulqF7UxmTk5-_MvAkJtMHmdZ1cYvsNMbmZWGyRBZ_JrD9x0Fp2pEtOE2onzEMljjjZl3r7V/s1600/Haifaa+026.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN0-sw03-rOkbIrHOG9OJilgMgbllZm_F4kBbnI1SY7Qb51KD0lhdbjmAEagYNv61nR3e4_ulqF7UxmTk5-_MvAkJtMHmdZ1cYvsNMbmZWGyRBZ_JrD9x0Fp2pEtOE2onzEMljjjZl3r7V/s400/Haifaa+026.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497785651353236274" /></a>So we went into the Anchor bar to drink the afternoon away, and met the mayor. Seriously, this is Yona Yahav, the Mayor of Haifa, in a bar.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySd3jJAk0JJNlVM8k5lSIR_PG3iK6VubGKOwktGLa4IiGqss9jFSYZU4eU1sLVOkN8mz7Rlt1v-urvKX8vSQ9Z9b9rapfIsxM3k9iEv5WVOu__1jvPz-IqZALEgvTm-czNvRycVxfGQi1/s1600/Haifaa+165.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiySd3jJAk0JJNlVM8k5lSIR_PG3iK6VubGKOwktGLa4IiGqss9jFSYZU4eU1sLVOkN8mz7Rlt1v-urvKX8vSQ9Z9b9rapfIsxM3k9iEv5WVOu__1jvPz-IqZALEgvTm-czNvRycVxfGQi1/s400/Haifaa+165.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497788514234770706" /></a>It's not that romantic actually. You know that I don't have money for vacations. The weekend in Haifa was a work trip, an invitation extended by the municipality in honor of a new play in Haifa's municipal theatre. Mr. Yahav came to greet the culture correspondants. He has an agenda to promote with the press and the Lower City is at the heart of this agenda. There has been a huge investment in trying to beautify this area and bring fresh blood - particularly students, to live here. Yahav showed us a newly paved area between the Anchor bar and the port, and led us into a bustling, if mild-mannered, street party. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRF5P0ROk8GyRF6Vlz8kRLFOivkIJM0b6qGhFSUuUTtSWYFv_F-tx3DmOPTtNR457QuNvrjvhscchF-_o89OGyHZn51sJA8CG2uRLgFmAGkWQDWnfyW3v8DS_x64CXesaFr6kWRSHRvXK/s1600/Haifaa+002.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwRF5P0ROk8GyRF6Vlz8kRLFOivkIJM0b6qGhFSUuUTtSWYFv_F-tx3DmOPTtNR457QuNvrjvhscchF-_o89OGyHZn51sJA8CG2uRLgFmAGkWQDWnfyW3v8DS_x64CXesaFr6kWRSHRvXK/s400/Haifaa+002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497799011209113394" /></a>It starred the mild-mannered yet legendary trio of Shem-tov Levi, Shlomo Yidov and Yitzhak Klepter.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJ1gSb4M2t-YP_jZ-oPIa3wB5f06umCllwdJsOoQzzTjWs_4spnEywxZK5EsnvrKR2dSgnxc5QtFFbEpcfT9LXmRZc7ncq4CcAP_a_0T-2ZnpT_ZSNA1_Xp6bVKcDxch-DqmnV4BYiVyg/s1600/Haifaa+014.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJ1gSb4M2t-YP_jZ-oPIa3wB5f06umCllwdJsOoQzzTjWs_4spnEywxZK5EsnvrKR2dSgnxc5QtFFbEpcfT9LXmRZc7ncq4CcAP_a_0T-2ZnpT_ZSNA1_Xp6bVKcDxch-DqmnV4BYiVyg/s400/Haifaa+014.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497802206870650498" /></a>Yahav's plans for the lower city, which include moving the commercial port east and planting a marina in the current basin, are likable. then again, he should be careful not to over-gentrify this very unique cityscape, which is, in its horizontal way, as multi-tiered as the city itself. It certainly isn't all grit. It's a lovely place to feast, working class style, of course.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh95mlOS28Hn8HgRge1ntx2FfDaAA6TK1BLGoWrshcVTRAyVZ5pYuyat-uOUGQrP14VO9ZCVsHFwX0OTksUafOVSuRljCvB2aEmOb9TCt3kV8VDa2hNvA9sbLFpB-f0Y_2hdaLtSxjA3Yl/s1600/Haifaa+096.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh95mlOS28Hn8HgRge1ntx2FfDaAA6TK1BLGoWrshcVTRAyVZ5pYuyat-uOUGQrP14VO9ZCVsHFwX0OTksUafOVSuRljCvB2aEmOb9TCt3kV8VDa2hNvA9sbLFpB-f0Y_2hdaLtSxjA3Yl/s400/Haifaa+096.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497805207839427090" /></a>It's full of creativity: the graduates' show at the Wizo design academy was mind blowing<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbPE3Ox2ab79FpEHmr2YLijZqyDPYNLf2GXz1mVnTlwcV3OWVHv_gckEwNQ0YK8yDYVgoELeg5YCQ_j9P9Ujcst6RchPXD8RxqYptJQMxX8LMPEH_EpFCspqlvEK61BprsRQ6S6yVSyhf/s1600/Haifaa+048.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbPE3Ox2ab79FpEHmr2YLijZqyDPYNLf2GXz1mVnTlwcV3OWVHv_gckEwNQ0YK8yDYVgoELeg5YCQ_j9P9Ujcst6RchPXD8RxqYptJQMxX8LMPEH_EpFCspqlvEK61BprsRQ6S6yVSyhf/s400/Haifaa+048.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497807187781547762" /></a>and expressed healthy liberalism.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFFCbldNpDuD2x0gJVsKAME5jNA9F0QBZUcwS1S3gx9fpHS5U277nDncPwL4QChiNGmQ5JuNvLhzJcazPR7RahmG5T9tM3VBwTiBj0l9vp9Hmhsj5x0pI14uq9f-5HkQJy49H1zm8rAC1/s1600/Haifaa+067.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTFFCbldNpDuD2x0gJVsKAME5jNA9F0QBZUcwS1S3gx9fpHS5U277nDncPwL4QChiNGmQ5JuNvLhzJcazPR7RahmG5T9tM3VBwTiBj0l9vp9Hmhsj5x0pI14uq9f-5HkQJy49H1zm8rAC1/s400/Haifaa+067.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497785659078698130" /></a>To top it all, relationships between Jews and Arabs here are, if not impeccable, at least better than elsewhere in the country. Haifa knew the pain of the Naqba, but was also always the hotbed of cooperation between the societies, with the internationalist values of the working class helping build bridges. This poster uses the smile of an Arab real estate agent as a "seller" to a Hebrew-reading public. Such things aren't to be taken for granted around these parts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhbflstkorJDGK6bpkDtUSByosjqBKcqbAZAaTramauqCG01c8WIEeFHu_a9YlKLCJyIG3VBXBU5YH_s2tllPn09OkEp9pnrKvUT99cWYe5eWrhal5zqkonVzxM-PWIXcTzsWKepOJvWw/s1600/Haifaa+161.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGhbflstkorJDGK6bpkDtUSByosjqBKcqbAZAaTramauqCG01c8WIEeFHu_a9YlKLCJyIG3VBXBU5YH_s2tllPn09OkEp9pnrKvUT99cWYe5eWrhal5zqkonVzxM-PWIXcTzsWKepOJvWw/s400/Haifaa+161.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497783494801406530" /></a>The Lower City, shyly identified as "Downtown" on the signs, has no reason to feel inferior to the other boroughs and to look up to them. It thrilled me when I sought a thrill, It lifted my spirit when I was down. It's as good as they come. Not every city can be the celestial Jerusalem. I like my terrestrial Haifas served with garlic sauce.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmo-Xxb5CB_-HNRq1nnAczPdWR_-o8Rq0zUUVV5X7drIbD7-k2mDbACxnXjvr83uvAKk4EsPcI-GAf7HYchAgRkz37nO7P1MH6zwJk6oggKAbQVcc9vjkdIITNQnUJM7zV0lMilaSufmo/s1600/Haifaa+057.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxmo-Xxb5CB_-HNRq1nnAczPdWR_-o8Rq0zUUVV5X7drIbD7-k2mDbACxnXjvr83uvAKk4EsPcI-GAf7HYchAgRkz37nO7P1MH6zwJk6oggKAbQVcc9vjkdIITNQnUJM7zV0lMilaSufmo/s400/Haifaa+057.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5497810624393481746" /></a>יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-29478876212571804072010-07-21T11:45:00.023+03:002010-07-22T12:11:33.113+03:00How Shall we Sing the Lord's Song in a Strange Land?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOY7o9freNixpCFihVga7i7B3BsS3Yt0eo0PvzvMQOA1FN_eh5FZ-ciL7WJEfYZdW01mVj931p43D_fYlb6Bakg19H56vd7BirkT4haEnWYfVbuI2ek8hAfRC-EvTy-j-qst_-aE34VSbN/s1600/Bony+M+008.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOY7o9freNixpCFihVga7i7B3BsS3Yt0eo0PvzvMQOA1FN_eh5FZ-ciL7WJEfYZdW01mVj931p43D_fYlb6Bakg19H56vd7BirkT4haEnWYfVbuI2ek8hAfRC-EvTy-j-qst_-aE34VSbN/s400/Bony+M+008.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496283899066794546" /></a>If there's anywhere that scares Israelis, it's Ramallah.<br /><br />We have several good reasons not to go to Ramallah, even if we put aside the incident of the year 2000, in which two soldiers who lost their way and wound up here were killed by a mob. That event took place in the height of hostilities, immediately following the death of Mohamed A-Dura in Gaza. Still, it's a precedent, and many people here hate our guts. <br /><br />So there's one good reason not to visit Ramallah. especially at night. Ramallah is not the capital of streetlights.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-ZDhdpNPW0IFH4_qSTflbb39OcgWaClBhnEubwjkmnfbSUYYlHZ_Jd-Y-u95ns4QWTqDk-8TiK-NryPlOCot8dsUu25bqb8PVn_KNLVZewnADACtah38wBsBZD5NWwKVUVctAJ3Onn_c/s1600/Bony+M+043.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9-ZDhdpNPW0IFH4_qSTflbb39OcgWaClBhnEubwjkmnfbSUYYlHZ_Jd-Y-u95ns4QWTqDk-8TiK-NryPlOCot8dsUu25bqb8PVn_KNLVZewnADACtah38wBsBZD5NWwKVUVctAJ3Onn_c/s400/Bony+M+043.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496283906194373666" /></a>A second good reason not to visit Ramallah is that coming here is a criminal offence by Israeli law. No one checks us on the way in but we risk arrest, interrogation and then imprisonment or a heavy fine if caught on the way out. Palestinian police who find us must hand us over to the Istraelis. So that's another good reason not to visit Ramallah, especially if you have a nice Jewish face like mine. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJZAzsFjxLeFkRUnnmZyH9APTmI4k99IKPcKo-xbg-cgXQxb1el_BLPAxMiQCL_k0VsfJymoyae5pmpe56v9gBo2ahHtkYqLXAVyecI3F25SS_IP06mFTIMtpHNeDq3oclClmn95f_-h2/s1600/ramallah+coke.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlJZAzsFjxLeFkRUnnmZyH9APTmI4k99IKPcKo-xbg-cgXQxb1el_BLPAxMiQCL_k0VsfJymoyae5pmpe56v9gBo2ahHtkYqLXAVyecI3F25SS_IP06mFTIMtpHNeDq3oclClmn95f_-h2/s400/ramallah+coke.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496283914640868786" /></a>But observe the photo above and you'll find one good reason to visit Ramallah. When was the last time you got served your coke bottle with a straw in it? that is so 1982! <br /><br />Ramallah retains in it the charm of decades gone by. which is why we just had to come here and attend a Boney M concert. Boney M? You've got to be kidding me! what won't I give to stand with the Palestinian people who've known so much hardship, and sing with them that eternal anthem of oppressed nations:<br /><br />By the rivers of Ba-ha-bylon (dark tears of Babylon) <br />Where we sat do-hown (You've got to sing a song)<br />Yeah-hey we we-hept (sing a song of love)<br />When we remembered Zi-ha-yon (yeah yeah yeah yeah).<br /><br />facing all the arguments for not coming was the one decisive argument for coming: Disco! <br /><br />Boney M were to appear at the open air theatre right outside the Ramallah Cultural Palace.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90-A0YazQcHjXeANLlEi1LDoskdw4saPlgg4EQLe00H9xwaXo182BKURZ6OS-fmi4o0XyGKV_Zu4Rfmluil1NUltIeeYQi6nX3EG1-L62yvD2WHCAZ2F9VoRiTz4Q4nCnnk61PRvUkEbM/s1600/Bony+M+048.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi90-A0YazQcHjXeANLlEi1LDoskdw4saPlgg4EQLe00H9xwaXo182BKURZ6OS-fmi4o0XyGKV_Zu4Rfmluil1NUltIeeYQi6nX3EG1-L62yvD2WHCAZ2F9VoRiTz4Q4nCnnk61PRvUkEbM/s400/Bony+M+048.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496286511343022274" /></a>There were less hijabs to be seen here then on the streets, both because there's something deeply un-Islamic about lines such as "Rasputin, Rasputin, Russia's greatest love machine" and because at least 30% of those present were internationals. I did find a few, though, dyed here by a glam boa scarf that someone waved over my lense. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjw3AweDekZkRYHvLVms0c5jSow0hndm5hRFQK0PnqikmSIW-uIaqGraHfWvPtjhCQtwj7THiyYBFY_vwnk-VEfDDQkFqf8kCW8WOmk6DziX5ZokI-a5YDattoj-8FiPC4lfPuA4QHkJqY/s1600/Bony+M+132.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjw3AweDekZkRYHvLVms0c5jSow0hndm5hRFQK0PnqikmSIW-uIaqGraHfWvPtjhCQtwj7THiyYBFY_vwnk-VEfDDQkFqf8kCW8WOmk6DziX5ZokI-a5YDattoj-8FiPC4lfPuA4QHkJqY/s400/Bony+M+132.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496286522349639938" /></a>And boy did we ever wave these glam boa scarves. Today's Boney M features only a single member of the original ensemble, the unbelievably energetic and lovely Maizie Williams. she totally justifies using the famous brand and the rest of her team was terrific as well. They strutted their hits: "Daddy Cool", "Sunny", the very applicable "Belfast"...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiku3hhPuUoZXXIHn1daeTDCGQ3rW8cm87fj78Ba6mfjhEMY3fh2dtN-ab6AunZC9JLR4MrdbGtZfGetqBqwM5gkLdSo_JwyUuYj_GnSiz6nXbsIgrdxW2EoWVR_NEAZWOwkNeKGBuuDJ5D/s1600/Bony+M+075.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiku3hhPuUoZXXIHn1daeTDCGQ3rW8cm87fj78Ba6mfjhEMY3fh2dtN-ab6AunZC9JLR4MrdbGtZfGetqBqwM5gkLdSo_JwyUuYj_GnSiz6nXbsIgrdxW2EoWVR_NEAZWOwkNeKGBuuDJ5D/s400/Bony+M+075.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496291544382249954" /></a>As well as Boney M's famous cover version of Marley's "No Woman no Cry".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimnIHYqGg56agne4kbe_bONONnxbgyZuuzrr90LCf1hO6ql2AHrPPv8RnwBIHVVCuGofG2QqzKXhml7qVdb5zpMnRlSyE956tGpLuomEYIf08V0XU66VtiwD09t8eqfjaE4AEh8lOcDGJE/s1600/Bony+M+111.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimnIHYqGg56agne4kbe_bONONnxbgyZuuzrr90LCf1hO6ql2AHrPPv8RnwBIHVVCuGofG2QqzKXhml7qVdb5zpMnRlSyE956tGpLuomEYIf08V0XU66VtiwD09t8eqfjaE4AEh8lOcDGJE/s400/Bony+M+111.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496289172240044034" /></a>Then suddenly the lights went out.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKm0TfQotHjXPSwRJ6-F8nR7X8SfLTWbAEifs9cYFRV6qlOYAL1gD5akASRbZQVskEd25ZBapWTR5ROytvJQvbUSCi7qngeOMEpmT0_brq9dv977w-gcyqNck1KZ6amGDqDiI31xHfudtL/s1600/Bony+M+112.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKm0TfQotHjXPSwRJ6-F8nR7X8SfLTWbAEifs9cYFRV6qlOYAL1gD5akASRbZQVskEd25ZBapWTR5ROytvJQvbUSCi7qngeOMEpmT0_brq9dv977w-gcyqNck1KZ6amGDqDiI31xHfudtL/s400/Bony+M+112.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496289162427217490" /></a>It was towards the end of "No Woman no Cry." The microphones died too and the band fell silent, but the audience kept singing: Everything's gonna be alright! Everything's gonna be alright!<br /> <br />It took Williams a second to understand that she was faced with the true spirit of Ramallah. If there's any city in the world that's used to the lights going out and knows that everything's gonna be alright, it's here. She returned to the front of the stage and swayed to the chanting.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LJZAqySj9igm_Tta7N92_vMFhXyOEnV2cYH0Y2hNqIu6nDaVXfETeocpqWU3obDMo0KwA-4Hm4CjyeVoRGYO8lJ4qZjf_xzzQMitlaVQYdktFL8uqYZRokDHrFKIWKXmYmhdOHL2uUoE/s1600/Bony+M+115.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-LJZAqySj9igm_Tta7N92_vMFhXyOEnV2cYH0Y2hNqIu6nDaVXfETeocpqWU3obDMo0KwA-4Hm4CjyeVoRGYO8lJ4qZjf_xzzQMitlaVQYdktFL8uqYZRokDHrFKIWKXmYmhdOHL2uUoE/s400/Bony+M+115.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496289155587477714" /></a>When the lights returned. Everyone was in full form. and the rest of the evening simply rocked. We had only one major disappointment: Babylon was not sung. I can only assume that the festival organizers banned it for fear that the word "Zion" (as in "Zionism") would offend the audience. Sometimes deeper meanings are lost on people. The crown chanted "Babylon" harder than it chanted "everything's gonna be alright" but to no avail. A token identification with the local struggle was the best we got.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz50vYGAA8pZqSjyurgubERkogBuUf4jmD9IpHjG9hk353Id3ok7nU6wyKU1nYnnVZ6JtXXM0pSJYfDay_M_yYgQVC-K1P-14diC-SqYQHqC88wYEZKEOzhODcVOfmLHzvVUeMI5-5JgWa/s1600/Bony+M+143.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz50vYGAA8pZqSjyurgubERkogBuUf4jmD9IpHjG9hk353Id3ok7nU6wyKU1nYnnVZ6JtXXM0pSJYfDay_M_yYgQVC-K1P-14diC-SqYQHqC88wYEZKEOzhODcVOfmLHzvVUeMI5-5JgWa/s400/Bony+M+143.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496295506827911666" /></a>So we went away with dear Palestinian friends we bumped into, looking for somewhere to sit and weep. The best party in Ramallah these days is a house party. Grandma Aniseh died, and her offspring turned her old home into a popping bar: "Aniseh's House".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UV2BbX9iSDbN_oceTakErHI2WKH3j-eSOKg2G1OPX204K86Za4rRq2H__zrxNcUD08Q0fAIR3VsUwgl_fOaFV63Qj4iWMHVpAHBNu7nrs4uGZR78mldI6S1l-nRoO4jUPOlG0Tf93uSk/s1600/Bony+M+182.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8UV2BbX9iSDbN_oceTakErHI2WKH3j-eSOKg2G1OPX204K86Za4rRq2H__zrxNcUD08Q0fAIR3VsUwgl_fOaFV63Qj4iWMHVpAHBNu7nrs4uGZR78mldI6S1l-nRoO4jUPOlG0Tf93uSk/s400/Bony+M+182.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496291549662174050" /></a>No one killed us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrX1Lmy330r5vDgjbnUuFusvHQmwKpD-LSkJKYa6qrkRYZI0Ldu9uF46R1lT-UoPdLMSXM-P-Dnk1lgCitSjFDoy41yVmg3X0dsRdR2eapmfqMkqLdH_UzNl_D7CtTFZA-aQNRR_4CCHUj/s1600/Bony+M+174.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrX1Lmy330r5vDgjbnUuFusvHQmwKpD-LSkJKYa6qrkRYZI0Ldu9uF46R1lT-UoPdLMSXM-P-Dnk1lgCitSjFDoy41yVmg3X0dsRdR2eapmfqMkqLdH_UzNl_D7CtTFZA-aQNRR_4CCHUj/s400/Bony+M+174.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496295515568264082" /></a>No one arrested us.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWvZhAIAgtWmg3WMuoPhnwQCu-gmvhvVWAQzNhCd5e1c5loDxKdzeHmEJ3Qh4Noe4PZVRPq_nxkPqXqsNlYZQGXvZflonhbzr3EYPrM5g3q702Y4EeD3yiY05bu3d0pjzqTABdP0tlCGo/s1600/Bony+M+178.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWvZhAIAgtWmg3WMuoPhnwQCu-gmvhvVWAQzNhCd5e1c5loDxKdzeHmEJ3Qh4Noe4PZVRPq_nxkPqXqsNlYZQGXvZflonhbzr3EYPrM5g3q702Y4EeD3yiY05bu3d0pjzqTABdP0tlCGo/s400/Bony+M+178.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496291559062758674" /></a>It was only paying for our Taybeh beers in Sheqels that reminded us the occupation even exists. We pocketed the change and focused on the extraordinary hospitality of our neighbors, easing the shift between the glittery clothes we saw on stage and the uniforms we would meet at the checkpoint later.יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-61392522610893375512010-07-16T19:21:00.030+03:002010-07-18T17:14:37.839+03:00Oxymoron CityOn our way to the birthplace of the redeemer, we bumped into a fan of his. Frère Christian was fueling a car belonging to his Trappist monetary. The contrast between his robe and the Renault was the first of many on our excursion. In fact, sharp contrasts and dichotomies would turn out to be a staple of the trip. Welcome to oxymoron country. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXORKMRqeq9kmeJ-dpIotKnH-x8_OyUAX0oL4cUmxbl1PF3-XTDfiHnFlQJixV9qEhFWSawx0ykSEo3LPbJhm4Rdgb9DOfU__l1TvFNDTjqFoHkZB7Fkm1k7sy6lCSdoOamDznL_vhNOV1/s1600/Bethlehem+011.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXORKMRqeq9kmeJ-dpIotKnH-x8_OyUAX0oL4cUmxbl1PF3-XTDfiHnFlQJixV9qEhFWSawx0ykSEo3LPbJhm4Rdgb9DOfU__l1TvFNDTjqFoHkZB7Fkm1k7sy6lCSdoOamDznL_vhNOV1/s400/Bethlehem+011.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494544414011795714" /></a>Take the contrast between the open countryside and the many walls running through it. This one isn't even the famous "separation Wall". It's another wall, shielding a road used mostly by settlers from Palestinian houses.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZMJfUJtt4UQWLDYKIeiSknlfcUtVAhGcdZ7HWDV1EKlxV7Me1mnfIs93-rrHe_xu886ZdujIe5XXVJPPEomCvT1Rk03bADLL0fDl58II0nSZfyqVk1nveY38koWjHFM9rIcyzF7eMLl6m/s1600/Bethlehem+036.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZMJfUJtt4UQWLDYKIeiSknlfcUtVAhGcdZ7HWDV1EKlxV7Me1mnfIs93-rrHe_xu886ZdujIe5XXVJPPEomCvT1Rk03bADLL0fDl58II0nSZfyqVk1nveY38koWjHFM9rIcyzF7eMLl6m/s400/Bethlehem+036.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494544432274422194" /></a>We were going to Bethlehem because such walls haunt my dreams. A short while ago I was in Beit Jala to watch the World Cup semi-finals <a href="http://yuvalbenami.blogspot.com/2010/07/away-game.html">screened</a> on the separation wall. Afterward I found myself waking each morning with troubling visions of barriers and gates on my mind. I had to come and see what Beit Jala was like during the day. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsUvJ2yd4MtsF5u0nCcxYjJJ6NcahJ_YwJHEelllJQU6eXFbCwYaRhr1cKpPhOc42zVJI7ip5zhw5VkcmimkEZyJUAIQ0n0z7i2vzVpEW2oB0bIHm_5r_ZvUucbkv5TPimJ68_LOilA4o/s1600/Bethlehem+038.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIsUvJ2yd4MtsF5u0nCcxYjJJ6NcahJ_YwJHEelllJQU6eXFbCwYaRhr1cKpPhOc42zVJI7ip5zhw5VkcmimkEZyJUAIQ0n0z7i2vzVpEW2oB0bIHm_5r_ZvUucbkv5TPimJ68_LOilA4o/s400/Bethlehem+038.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494588363016399586" /></a>I also wished to experience once more the intense feeling of being an illegal. As an Israeli, my government strictly forbids me from visiting any Palestinian city and returning to Israel through the checkpoints demands know-how and cunning. The experience of being only a few meters away from a home I may not easily reach was intense (though all ended well, thanks to the help of a few kind smugglers). Going through all of that through a few hours of a dark night, on which none of the world across the wall could be seen, left a mark on me. I had to come back for closure.<br /><br />We took a tricky path in and were back in Beit Jala, where the contrast of the Jacir Intercontinental hotel and a distant Israeli watchtower greeted us.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEzq9QG_IsYHq30IPZofOtWULhwjmFxD-3odoLUJ860AsU4_Yi_1qdCxG8hxcTi7zHwmVxRbXKQz42U5pi5_kYxXeWWRWXgf9skGF5eSPSYuIGfM40uBHSaJC42eiszIDRvCthbKtUtGR/s1600/Bethlehem+042.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSEzq9QG_IsYHq30IPZofOtWULhwjmFxD-3odoLUJ860AsU4_Yi_1qdCxG8hxcTi7zHwmVxRbXKQz42U5pi5_kYxXeWWRWXgf9skGF5eSPSYuIGfM40uBHSaJC42eiszIDRvCthbKtUtGR/s400/Bethlehem+042.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494544440567043074" /></a>This time, Itka and Ben couldn't come. Instead I was with Bea, who rears from the tiny princedom of Lichtenstein, and Ron, who rears from the slightly larger land of Israel. We came to the place where the game was screened. The screen was still there, along with the restaurant's menu, providing another peculiar combination.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH9Wl6wTgU74uB8C6KHC3LmXwJBs9WER0Uou6Cs1ardBGkGYP58ooupyViX-VoMU-mUhgMtJmitL-ZPo8u_HUvgNlBA-9IgE7NIckH7HQvHPS8ZecOayn6QV5o6fg3JkWBIH1LWEz9W47A/s1600/Bethlehem+051.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH9Wl6wTgU74uB8C6KHC3LmXwJBs9WER0Uou6Cs1ardBGkGYP58ooupyViX-VoMU-mUhgMtJmitL-ZPo8u_HUvgNlBA-9IgE7NIckH7HQvHPS8ZecOayn6QV5o6fg3JkWBIH1LWEz9W47A/s400/Bethlehem+051.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494580428051538066" /></a>I could see over the wall this time, there were other walls there.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ZFUKWGX8okDwUIFy1XGx8wPKoGn7hA8cAMaGwPMT6R2EpaHPICNtjwngYZto9QxhlCM-wH4dDrIbv8wyd3kuFtX6qMl7ODc302VvpjQmdg1mA_0j5_0Zba3wujuL7B3LX1hP_MJoAf5q/s1600/Bethlehem+048.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7ZFUKWGX8okDwUIFy1XGx8wPKoGn7hA8cAMaGwPMT6R2EpaHPICNtjwngYZto9QxhlCM-wH4dDrIbv8wyd3kuFtX6qMl7ODc302VvpjQmdg1mA_0j5_0Zba3wujuL7B3LX1hP_MJoAf5q/s400/Bethlehem+048.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494587484542565698" /></a>It was the walls proximity to the town that shocked me so much on the initial visit. As Israelis, if we get to see the wall at all, we see it from afar. Here it's part of the urban fabric. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJwdLO7Q7BtKmF65SUwlDPzVthH0ayKQD1gQUsvOPMbBSs43RiDIskz3G-ul52cTKkX0dwS6u18_MhbLvgOb7e0hg5KsLQ9oQPdZQYBgvwYT_rZT_xXiSrGXmqMBrQd7dPDS5QcQu0ij4/s1600/Bethlehem+053.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJwdLO7Q7BtKmF65SUwlDPzVthH0ayKQD1gQUsvOPMbBSs43RiDIskz3G-ul52cTKkX0dwS6u18_MhbLvgOb7e0hg5KsLQ9oQPdZQYBgvwYT_rZT_xXiSrGXmqMBrQd7dPDS5QcQu0ij4/s400/Bethlehem+053.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494580417428934290" /></a>It's so much a part of life, some people find it funny.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1BUah1K7Xj6p8CwxZ82yiN0uMpnz3Hew47hjnFMmw_BRe9uuPg2UG8q4CtOPGm6NutSpeatThWB63F85Ufmf3-FYNKolRtgohAz8R7qmqhcQEQImblm9dV0kX4jU1y0pCmzzSbJeGeorG/s1600/Bethlehem+057.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1BUah1K7Xj6p8CwxZ82yiN0uMpnz3Hew47hjnFMmw_BRe9uuPg2UG8q4CtOPGm6NutSpeatThWB63F85Ufmf3-FYNKolRtgohAz8R7qmqhcQEQImblm9dV0kX4jU1y0pCmzzSbJeGeorG/s400/Bethlehem+057.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494580416505482114" /></a>Having taken it all in, we went on towards central Bethlehem, the city to which Beit Jala is a suburb. New contrasts abounded. The palestinian cityscape as seen through the windshield vs. our Israeli parking sticker stuck on it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilmSMAuEroLBOfNRgr3Z4mYt0UqUJIXIMrFLBRnmqglT-7xfyVnPohZeE5KEelLREI6wt1Iqh0E5-CTQXtqVzZfMvlFstPGyXYJnDE3zauhsJ2j46-4ek-k-EM4uw2IkJc3FzTOU18XIW5/s1600/Bethlehem+070.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilmSMAuEroLBOfNRgr3Z4mYt0UqUJIXIMrFLBRnmqglT-7xfyVnPohZeE5KEelLREI6wt1Iqh0E5-CTQXtqVzZfMvlFstPGyXYJnDE3zauhsJ2j46-4ek-k-EM4uw2IkJc3FzTOU18XIW5/s400/Bethlehem+070.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494587500100075970" /></a>The old Arab city<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-M4IoSaz0UgFAYPutewjDyaT8509mnfV05cJsOpE7vWhl8Iib1m8dHv35nMboGbZI46yVK5zHzzC5LuJiHc7F2qV2sBNydTldqHidP2ctjazbFJCgwnRjZpLJxz7Wx6O0AEALaTjQKnQT/s1600/Bethlehem+071.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-M4IoSaz0UgFAYPutewjDyaT8509mnfV05cJsOpE7vWhl8Iib1m8dHv35nMboGbZI46yVK5zHzzC5LuJiHc7F2qV2sBNydTldqHidP2ctjazbFJCgwnRjZpLJxz7Wx6O0AEALaTjQKnQT/s400/Bethlehem+071.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494587514649492274" /></a>Vs. the new Israeli settlement of Har Homa, across the valley and the wall from it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgprTKK6UD-avLm2CbThOpNoyHqUI37YXnUkizhVRKTsdj7j0fUXam18gLjpBVmHVuJHjfEPtoGEvO3AZ1ucFXQC7xLNovgqpYEa7w0fGSkY6VnQ4acemXA5HKMhDAv5QAQeFRAWt6WHEX8/s1600/Bethlehem+156.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgprTKK6UD-avLm2CbThOpNoyHqUI37YXnUkizhVRKTsdj7j0fUXam18gLjpBVmHVuJHjfEPtoGEvO3AZ1ucFXQC7xLNovgqpYEa7w0fGSkY6VnQ4acemXA5HKMhDAv5QAQeFRAWt6WHEX8/s400/Bethlehem+156.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494590008818199266" /></a>The abundance of the market<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk9qTPN6tS39049S0mId9ux6z2VCg741vQwKr-trNQcV2L9dDH7nnoiymew3GW5CIMj0NR-1WLepSSQ2oajbJxB2uAfrXh60F18Im4WobHq3ybRmXGF5C7UxZGV_ANGwuOStBPAJHt8EvM/s1600/Bethlehem+141.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk9qTPN6tS39049S0mId9ux6z2VCg741vQwKr-trNQcV2L9dDH7nnoiymew3GW5CIMj0NR-1WLepSSQ2oajbJxB2uAfrXh60F18Im4WobHq3ybRmXGF5C7UxZGV_ANGwuOStBPAJHt8EvM/s400/Bethlehem+141.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494592842386820434" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyxP22vJ28AX3NMfWm9RdLfMUR9xjgbMiQZt0o4qjtZUOhlrsObzMwYXtps0DdlGTlzXSH9OFcHG23GCxPZ72vFFWPCGFHRN26gN3_SfzKLeRxmQKjY-kmvX5wxglCJ_2Q0j0GOxvoE4m/s1600/Bethlehem+139.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikyxP22vJ28AX3NMfWm9RdLfMUR9xjgbMiQZt0o4qjtZUOhlrsObzMwYXtps0DdlGTlzXSH9OFcHG23GCxPZ72vFFWPCGFHRN26gN3_SfzKLeRxmQKjY-kmvX5wxglCJ_2Q0j0GOxvoE4m/s400/Bethlehem+139.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494592834837030178" /></a>vs. the empty shopping mall, a true indicator of the state of Bethlehem's economy. The only stores open offered overpriced goods for tourists. all prices were in U.S. dollars. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiInF4MdBNUT_zISfuRdvolwJ8eicY9m7qdnl4UXhM7pjn6BY2Cqn3h8OzrUscUxa1jSTwSnDDX6iGQq3-T5zpCvawuLiBFClAJy5JAwpI5gF5hIFD7iQJVV3BMmKncgDm2jneIVCDFSYbe/s1600/Bethlehem+168.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiInF4MdBNUT_zISfuRdvolwJ8eicY9m7qdnl4UXhM7pjn6BY2Cqn3h8OzrUscUxa1jSTwSnDDX6iGQq3-T5zpCvawuLiBFClAJy5JAwpI5gF5hIFD7iQJVV3BMmKncgDm2jneIVCDFSYbe/s400/Bethlehem+168.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494592853785937842" /></a>There was also the quaintness of the renovated central district<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTvjKMfHKycLKYtYEI0yyyDveph-FY-hpD8xmRHiJZ7umDPYN2zfSniUsn1TDOliw8pXodgsiKQH9hR7ZxDCaHZTSHVnmQyV7vG_Tgojo3RzeRJgDOLcHWw_ArlelSjKTc5PxwxxSRnZo/s1600/Bethlehem+118.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwTvjKMfHKycLKYtYEI0yyyDveph-FY-hpD8xmRHiJZ7umDPYN2zfSniUsn1TDOliw8pXodgsiKQH9hR7ZxDCaHZTSHVnmQyV7vG_Tgojo3RzeRJgDOLcHWw_ArlelSjKTc5PxwxxSRnZo/s400/Bethlehem+118.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494594822397189010" /></a>vs. the rustic outskirts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrPCIFv3BwMujIjMaZF4jN0KwF3qSq7amDynO0SVwWhmHsgba98APVy15shaEPEeK1H2221cl5knCEqGMAbEWI_pdQZMz0VUrOwmQZaZAcuJEWRKVROrshMzZ0hdV1Ta_6kXp9wb4x62er/s1600/Bethlehem+115.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrPCIFv3BwMujIjMaZF4jN0KwF3qSq7amDynO0SVwWhmHsgba98APVy15shaEPEeK1H2221cl5knCEqGMAbEWI_pdQZMz0VUrOwmQZaZAcuJEWRKVROrshMzZ0hdV1Ta_6kXp9wb4x62er/s400/Bethlehem+115.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494594834508359426" /></a>And finally, the size of a normal human being vs. the doorway of the Church of Nativity. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZ3YuF7isXVIP5NEmc63yPpkpdKWYSZNycCmPrL9lfOWmkNiJL2UpQO6WvxIZosUUKj1yRdKP1_YiMW59sxsOP8K6rczXfBnyq7GiXLeX9gyxba4-BP9MiEYkwXqY3rKste3gLLXrczp6/s1600/Bethlehem+091.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZ3YuF7isXVIP5NEmc63yPpkpdKWYSZNycCmPrL9lfOWmkNiJL2UpQO6WvxIZosUUKj1yRdKP1_YiMW59sxsOP8K6rczXfBnyq7GiXLeX9gyxba4-BP9MiEYkwXqY3rKste3gLLXrczp6/s400/Bethlehem+091.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494598163519839698" /></a>Now that we mixed into the tourist crowd, I can show the faces of my brother and sister in crime. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURimTK-QSlMparEWdp0pCsb54LpoXg5fZ_QlTtnBJKG_UyWDNYY6hj0SeTUv1RqF5BI1jJqEKsym38f6UEme2OgaiKr5URkUKRl2Pax_DyyrTvhGhV8S3ExvRG7ba7RSoMWGlBTgTbaAy/s1600/Bethlehem+083.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjURimTK-QSlMparEWdp0pCsb54LpoXg5fZ_QlTtnBJKG_UyWDNYY6hj0SeTUv1RqF5BI1jJqEKsym38f6UEme2OgaiKr5URkUKRl2Pax_DyyrTvhGhV8S3ExvRG7ba7RSoMWGlBTgTbaAy/s400/Bethlehem+083.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494598156188319074" /></a>All of us enjoyed the best of Bethlehem, its peculiar architecture,<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjM9yt2gGwi5pxIVCfPnSSSAZObLxcfpvWe5mhTjZIvLbnz8R_YtE5ZrTAkZ1PxPoLQt12xB3bq8YzAZVqMTrC1XTk8Msh89mNfBJ1Y05VLzN100D6H9Pin1bKM6eHCs5apNw40SpFvsP/s1600/Bethlehem+108.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDjM9yt2gGwi5pxIVCfPnSSSAZObLxcfpvWe5mhTjZIvLbnz8R_YtE5ZrTAkZ1PxPoLQt12xB3bq8YzAZVqMTrC1XTk8Msh89mNfBJ1Y05VLzN100D6H9Pin1bKM6eHCs5apNw40SpFvsP/s400/Bethlehem+108.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494600425066014610" /></a>its amazing children<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-RnQVOo-PrbPpvw4DYQ4c-z5G_S2BuY_2vxsaqqPjT6c6py5ZvRsOmtqSW0kBUAZnSKJVmBV-xCKcZTXnemAvIM7NNGni0U_dwaHBoKVEVTP8cs4DigH3BozKPswsXhTxpKwrbfJ3Wbrv/s1600/Bethlehem+194.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-RnQVOo-PrbPpvw4DYQ4c-z5G_S2BuY_2vxsaqqPjT6c6py5ZvRsOmtqSW0kBUAZnSKJVmBV-xCKcZTXnemAvIM7NNGni0U_dwaHBoKVEVTP8cs4DigH3BozKPswsXhTxpKwrbfJ3Wbrv/s400/Bethlehem+194.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494600444403600882" /></a>its striking street names<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SLpLM4Rb51XuroFc3Ou3hJv7kkgOLFQVZApb6rOcd2VoCID2sz8P68VhHOfxcBgw179vqyx7kaeWbwPkk2CVsJKOwZ61feyeNK2DNNECAoxqVHei8JOknFFFsSPnf9IytIC0sfpxCaog/s1600/Bethlehem+204.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SLpLM4Rb51XuroFc3Ou3hJv7kkgOLFQVZApb6rOcd2VoCID2sz8P68VhHOfxcBgw179vqyx7kaeWbwPkk2CVsJKOwZ61feyeNK2DNNECAoxqVHei8JOknFFFsSPnf9IytIC0sfpxCaog/s400/Bethlehem+204.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494600437623407410" /></a>its perfect kebabs, consumed at a hole in the wall restaurant with the best ceiling ever<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0uQcEWYdaXAzj2FNPeKa-UDMtWEBCqKL4hyE3X5_zUPXURYh-G_jDuct4ObrVg5ACJEf2hxtGrgvdNKVn-9FLlQ7k5FyYm3CwFw_x6eV1P5Dj7hmU4OA-ooAqo-M-okAPKulJ39SxS_7/s1600/Bethlehem+145.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin0uQcEWYdaXAzj2FNPeKa-UDMtWEBCqKL4hyE3X5_zUPXURYh-G_jDuct4ObrVg5ACJEf2hxtGrgvdNKVn-9FLlQ7k5FyYm3CwFw_x6eV1P5Dj7hmU4OA-ooAqo-M-okAPKulJ39SxS_7/s400/Bethlehem+145.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494603358359483554" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipfnsi0ksaHv80zuG67Ys-LNoSmP3wEGqgF-sjrv5BCYIWtQXuaC_Q6fZlgdTX5mqEnM4PyULGK7ezQOMPu4RMg6la3l6UW3ZTj0tE1dgzXUmqI0hsh5XObhgB-JhPgIfJgJqjKkoE65Mk/s1600/Bethlehem+150.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipfnsi0ksaHv80zuG67Ys-LNoSmP3wEGqgF-sjrv5BCYIWtQXuaC_Q6fZlgdTX5mqEnM4PyULGK7ezQOMPu4RMg6la3l6UW3ZTj0tE1dgzXUmqI0hsh5XObhgB-JhPgIfJgJqjKkoE65Mk/s400/Bethlehem+150.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494603346282979602" /></a>and the company of Mohamed, a local zucchini farmer/real estate agent who joined us out of nowhere and chatted with us for nearly an hour. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BTm7Me_Pw5K2bv3oT1si_0QULz0h39GvO6x2zhT1-LkllYlmhH0qgmN08alxaNm65MH8ozm9EMOpwJtfY486EXSHtiTgi4IJgcgD8byNb3__m1rMXCsxF_-yB_OxtWsEJOfMMIxdzV4P/s1600/Bethlehem+147.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1BTm7Me_Pw5K2bv3oT1si_0QULz0h39GvO6x2zhT1-LkllYlmhH0qgmN08alxaNm65MH8ozm9EMOpwJtfY486EXSHtiTgi4IJgcgD8byNb3__m1rMXCsxF_-yB_OxtWsEJOfMMIxdzV4P/s400/Bethlehem+147.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494603368300703634" /></a>We also all enjoyed the thrill of succesfully breaking back out to our side of the wall. I felt much better following this visit. The light of day changes everything. <br /><br />The return to Israel of course provided the most intense contrast of the day. We drove directly across Jerusalem to the Hebrew University atop Mt. Scopus where graduates of the Betzal'el art school showed their final project in a massive exhibition. I found much of the stuff to be worthwhile.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslIdbGFFP9yboWgm8hb9ZMlt3V5Oso8EWw5kZmR7TMvmy7Efw8aByxbBR-HnKIZL2JXKt0uicOz0AHoWNbOGnKU7WkbwO2b7eTefPGiDbIGF_jQvHS2Ff6Gq7OFbsvnd4KXr6pl_ti1kb/s1600/Bethlehem+255.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhslIdbGFFP9yboWgm8hb9ZMlt3V5Oso8EWw5kZmR7TMvmy7Efw8aByxbBR-HnKIZL2JXKt0uicOz0AHoWNbOGnKU7WkbwO2b7eTefPGiDbIGF_jQvHS2Ff6Gq7OFbsvnd4KXr6pl_ti1kb/s400/Bethlehem+255.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494606343830103650" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbiQGC-IP9YImodjSWYDJN4gPve7oXZbnbiTK2yACfHuPlqR2DcG9u_gtyQg7tqCowD1jRcQmy5xqVucK9yKzZLcT8q45Xt-8KENgEa126LxglWHYG8KqxBCZQkvIrPoJ1UiChhwJjl6c/s1600/Bethlehem+288.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAbiQGC-IP9YImodjSWYDJN4gPve7oXZbnbiTK2yACfHuPlqR2DcG9u_gtyQg7tqCowD1jRcQmy5xqVucK9yKzZLcT8q45Xt-8KENgEa126LxglWHYG8KqxBCZQkvIrPoJ1UiChhwJjl6c/s400/Bethlehem+288.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494606333841759394" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl0Za1VNedsfmyRmxILb-LzpZTF4fWo-O_iFXoU-7IVLPTmJrdMvWpvIov-8j2hduAoDLultQvrHFHV_uhx7ft2rX3z2yfiWT7cRdDADvu6qdrquyVK2yWL1CMu9sbYZeDU_wUKrzv8451/s1600/Bethlehem+213.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl0Za1VNedsfmyRmxILb-LzpZTF4fWo-O_iFXoU-7IVLPTmJrdMvWpvIov-8j2hduAoDLultQvrHFHV_uhx7ft2rX3z2yfiWT7cRdDADvu6qdrquyVK2yWL1CMu9sbYZeDU_wUKrzv8451/s400/Bethlehem+213.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494608464394792482" /></a>In one of the corridors, guest of the exhibition were encouraged to participate in the exhibition by letting their creativity go wild.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMHqSYTX6R0dv3yqqZtpIoP3pdQrYpl4nKrPhn5ER6gn9y7dsX9hgFaG7j8Llv3ZXPXgA_Wq45Mr8r3wqBloLsL7KIoglFmb5WAOzp7xfz9_4x9BHCko_4RX12i5eq1hyphenhyphenNC_9879kO0-Si/s1600/Bethlehem+251.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMHqSYTX6R0dv3yqqZtpIoP3pdQrYpl4nKrPhn5ER6gn9y7dsX9hgFaG7j8Llv3ZXPXgA_Wq45Mr8r3wqBloLsL7KIoglFmb5WAOzp7xfz9_4x9BHCko_4RX12i5eq1hyphenhyphenNC_9879kO0-Si/s400/Bethlehem+251.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494608455450374306" /></a>I couldn't help but offer what was on my mind.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikwXjpCLkuCDwUoBMxLgGIfmbVmWOS-H08YXXNV2uwvj6luodPy-wtbVK0KZUrenVzhALJRwp2UyEnsSJTAiepAbZ6RuQKlPemcojLqT-JaqH5rWCkVWnybmh-Qj-QDy-VJGAJVB366Nxp/s1600/Bethlehem+261.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikwXjpCLkuCDwUoBMxLgGIfmbVmWOS-H08YXXNV2uwvj6luodPy-wtbVK0KZUrenVzhALJRwp2UyEnsSJTAiepAbZ6RuQKlPemcojLqT-JaqH5rWCkVWnybmh-Qj-QDy-VJGAJVB366Nxp/s400/Bethlehem+261.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494608447054876690" /></a>יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-45253347759449406522010-07-13T15:06:00.010+03:002010-07-14T09:34:14.118+03:00Ignoranceright<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdcoME1QOFjdMltsN-6UA-sTYi_vL629WaF0-llgyX2BCHCN8q_iJcCxXyvRLHQAJigpr3E0mhW7euTwCTIxQfkBQRa5JYjBTdY5ecLCX-rjWQWvui7gLtU5IYDwPgaeK0-bZLvhq205L/s1600/Raban-Zeev-Come-to-Palestin(4).jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 314px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYdcoME1QOFjdMltsN-6UA-sTYi_vL629WaF0-llgyX2BCHCN8q_iJcCxXyvRLHQAJigpr3E0mhW7euTwCTIxQfkBQRa5JYjBTdY5ecLCX-rjWQWvui7gLtU5IYDwPgaeK0-bZLvhq205L/s400/Raban-Zeev-Come-to-Palestin(4).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493379784723328722" /></a>We had a lovely couchsurfer stay over for two nights. Leora is an American art student who's just been through a "Birthright" trip and needed to recuperate before heading on a journey through Europe. <br /><br />Leora is intelligent. She's seen something of this world, having moved away from her New Jersey home to the very unJerseylike mountains of North Carolina. She's creative and special and she's here to explore and learn. I would expect a person like this to benefit from a Birthright trip, as uncomfortable as I may be with the concept. <br /><br />What makes me uncomfortable? According to the organization's website "Taglit-Birthright Israel provides the gift of first time, peer group, educational trips to Israel for Jewish young adults ages 18 to 26." The youths are flown for free and journey Israel from a Zionist perspective. I have nothing against a Zionist perspective, its a legitimate perspective held by my very beloved parents. <br /><br />Maybe it's just the name "birthright" that bothers me. A Jewish youth who's never been to Israel can arrive here and become a full citizen in a matter of weeks, while people born on this soil, whose great great grandparents were born here, are denied basic rights. Birth doesn't count for much in Israel, Ethnic background does.<br /><br />Leora has the right Ethnic background to enjoy Birthright, yet she emerged from the adventure full of doubt. While having lunch together on Ben-Yehuda st. she asked me to give her my own angle to the history of this country. I started talking and soon found out I had to explain everything. She's never heard of the war of 1948, nor of the war of 1967. She did not know about the existence of the separation wall. They somehow managed to hide that eight meter tall atrocity from the eyes of the travelers. <br /><br />At one point I brought up Bedouins. "Do Bedouins still exist?" Leora asked. <br /><br />"They do." I said.<br /><br />"We went into this tent and were served coffee by 'Bedouins', but I wasn't sure they weren't some kind of an historical people."<br /><br />"Oh, they really exist, though the map won't tell you that. Most local Bedouins live in shanty towns in the desert, but these towns are "unrecognized" by the state, so they don't get connected to water or electricity." I asked to have a look at Leora's map, and pointed the area around Beer-Sheva, mostly blank of names. "This area isn't really empty. It's one of the most densely populated parts of the country, but the state wishes these people weren't there, so it pretends they're not there."<br /><br />Oh, and if we have to admit they're there, why not present them as a Biblical-style people that pours coffee to Jews? I was beginning to lose my wits. Had Birthright been presented on the onset as an opputunity for Jewish girls to develop crushes on the armed bodyguards escorting them through the country, that's one thing. But the website does use the word "educational."<br /><br />It's only "educational" if an effort isn't made to conceal any difficult truth, just as it's only a "democracy" if everyone gets equal rights. <br /><br />"Do Bedouins serve in the Army?" Leora asked.<br /><br />"They often do. They're considered excellent trackers."<br /><br />"And yet they don't get water to their towns."<br /><br />"Well, not to all their towns." I didn't want to fall into the Birthright trap and start telling things from a one sided perspective. <br /><br />Nevertheless, I would love to see a birthright tour visit a Bedouin town like Rahat, pictured below, that is indeed connected to water. I would love to see the guide point out the poverty and decrepit infrastructure and then tell them this: "The money that could have made this place acceptable is used for the immigration grants of middle-class North Americans like yourselves."<br /><br />I would love to hear him tell them to feel free and decide whether or not they wish to live in this country, but whatever the case, they must work to better it, to make it fair to all, because right now this isn't the case.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx6tNKMTrrR9h2WDN9fpATGhscKwOy2ra0LWoaWeU9UPFcWtakHK5WUErWAtl-roiBmc0btQ6HEdo-K4n18P0Nxltis7csaJUY9Y-NN17mnQpShuMW4BlzEtl4Id4BCK-oOSyZLy6nZRiG/s1600/Rahat.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx6tNKMTrrR9h2WDN9fpATGhscKwOy2ra0LWoaWeU9UPFcWtakHK5WUErWAtl-roiBmc0btQ6HEdo-K4n18P0Nxltis7csaJUY9Y-NN17mnQpShuMW4BlzEtl4Id4BCK-oOSyZLy6nZRiG/s400/Rahat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493377992818360594" /></a>יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-15466498270181180052010-07-08T10:33:00.020+03:002010-07-10T18:53:37.147+03:00Away GameThere's a place in east Jerusalem where the ramparts of the old city are only a few meters tall. A steep bluff renders scaling them difficult, but not impossible. I often dreamed of giving it a shot. Living in this country does that to the spirit. you see a wall, you want to get past it. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdaaiXxYFOu2WIlEqNpXLk2q6OyI22cptQMLjhEKWwjusi_ddsANjoHfSbcf7i3v3KA-kfpiaHG4JaUEvBuuOvWt3ScdFagcE1tgR8QEV_87Z6usIj-8ZePOUt5JOwWod9x-Of1m78J3b/s1600/Beit+Jala+007.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSdaaiXxYFOu2WIlEqNpXLk2q6OyI22cptQMLjhEKWwjusi_ddsANjoHfSbcf7i3v3KA-kfpiaHG4JaUEvBuuOvWt3ScdFagcE1tgR8QEV_87Z6usIj-8ZePOUt5JOwWod9x-Of1m78J3b/s400/Beit+Jala+007.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491441141687751906" /></a>There are plenty such walls to work the imagination. Last night, for example, we took a bus from a terminal directly across that bluff to the town of Beit Jala - a neighborhood of Bethlehem. Beit Jala lies immediately across the separation wall from Jerusalem, which means Israeli law forbids us Israelis from entering it. There will be no checking of documents on the way in, but there should be on the way out. We haven't yet figured out a plan of how to dodge it. We risk arrest and interrogation leading to a fine of several thousand sheqels, but we just have to try. There's a wall there, you see.<br /><br />Also, there was a game to be watched there, a football match. Friends belonging to the American and European journalist community let us know of a special event: A Beit Jala restaurant is to screen the world-cup semi-finals on the wall itself. Ben, Itka and myself decided to head down after a long workday. Neither of them has been in the Bethlehem area before. I visited it often in the 90s, before the seperation became definite. I had only faint recollections and was awed by the city that greeted us, with its fine exteriors<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFCcwJ9AMMrSY77b-tkB3fFgpBfByAV4-zbw9QtbduAWeJq043vBi8mK0H-0zd9JhBJS1aapbcUHg8Sn9-8NjSdIdtrY84FXWfpqrZ0HWE-FK5n1Gm0cRtbONpR6butg1EOyqc9p28y3FA/s1600/Beit+Jala+044.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFCcwJ9AMMrSY77b-tkB3fFgpBfByAV4-zbw9QtbduAWeJq043vBi8mK0H-0zd9JhBJS1aapbcUHg8Sn9-8NjSdIdtrY84FXWfpqrZ0HWE-FK5n1Gm0cRtbONpR6butg1EOyqc9p28y3FA/s400/Beit+Jala+044.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491444157981308530" /></a>and interiors<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir17wM_nden5SFCIUKBuFfqICEtmNcrjr3vzmGsrsBq8Zf-wRuO77xtOrlkVI9j8Kl8vO18ke58BWITiPKsF2Fe_xweCD2LpK4iLJIl0u8UG5o3a6ih4QzbDVcWEzEuqbbzvEM7dJ-eGIf/s1600/Beit+Jala+053.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir17wM_nden5SFCIUKBuFfqICEtmNcrjr3vzmGsrsBq8Zf-wRuO77xtOrlkVI9j8Kl8vO18ke58BWITiPKsF2Fe_xweCD2LpK4iLJIl0u8UG5o3a6ih4QzbDVcWEzEuqbbzvEM7dJ-eGIf/s400/Beit+Jala+053.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491444143922504178" /></a>All of which are now surrounded by the most insanely opressive prison wall.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglh8DgTjPB8BwXMfHyEzot40whuKqW8J0KEmlehW2YsPht4okwWirfyoQHkJMs3k-2whnAidpCSYhMnpBfGrUSDzsDdysmdUN1QStJ89MMEdWycLL-2t-rilIhs61EcFq9LcN3tIAht7_r/s1600/Beit+Jala+041.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglh8DgTjPB8BwXMfHyEzot40whuKqW8J0KEmlehW2YsPht4okwWirfyoQHkJMs3k-2whnAidpCSYhMnpBfGrUSDzsDdysmdUN1QStJ89MMEdWycLL-2t-rilIhs61EcFq9LcN3tIAht7_r/s400/Beit+Jala+041.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491444131495058530" /></a>Construction of the separation wall began following the second intifada. Israelis were told that it would reduce terrorism within Israel and thus many, progressive, human-rights minded Israelis, scared to death following a wave of bombings, supported its construction. Guess what? there really is less terrorism inside Israel. Guess what again: the wall isn't the reason for that. There are ways to bypass it (as we will prove later in the night, by being easily smuggled into Israel). If terrorism receded, it is thanks to a changed political situation and and a temporary, undeclared ceasefire. This ceasefire began before the wall was built, with the "Hudna" ending the second Intifada.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDZ_JUV-8la4qfgYGjMgE_j6w4sv_mz4UgOZUI4m2LVlIjQhGY1zyVpCfNryX8Z_FrJQTyRRPti6q1JAv8AYms26imUtlvbwhxFqzqo1sW8TqFQZa0SvDduE5wdpygmJ6b5iQ81k15Byh/s1600/Beit+Jala+093.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDZ_JUV-8la4qfgYGjMgE_j6w4sv_mz4UgOZUI4m2LVlIjQhGY1zyVpCfNryX8Z_FrJQTyRRPti6q1JAv8AYms26imUtlvbwhxFqzqo1sW8TqFQZa0SvDduE5wdpygmJ6b5iQ81k15Byh/s400/Beit+Jala+093.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491458350266370802" /></a>Moreover, the wall works on terrorism in the same way a dirty band-aid works on an open wound. For the time being it may trap some of the blood flow, but ultimately is infects the area, making things much worse. Imagine growing up at the shadow of this monster. What would you think of those who trapped you and your family? What sort of fate would you wish for them? and if an organization supported by God himself offered to provide them with a punishment, with your kind help, would you not offer your hips to the explosive belt?<br /><br />The answer depends on one's mental condition. Palestinians across the wall are working hard to keep their mental condition good and avoid violent thoughts. The owners of the Bahamas restaurant in Beit Jalla are looking for advantages in the wall. For starters - it's a great place to post their menu.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6mEoW-_ktq61fRJv1iWQpzikRRQARQPz77t0gZjttpzKzlgFia2ABqJp2sUzwaoQIH2pvfkW4xw_j3MN2vTzXR31TCgoXag_8OGTrdslnXS5MyPeGuhidOWUQo3KhwLd1az-ZIrKgJF-S/s1600/Beit+Jala+082.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6mEoW-_ktq61fRJv1iWQpzikRRQARQPz77t0gZjttpzKzlgFia2ABqJp2sUzwaoQIH2pvfkW4xw_j3MN2vTzXR31TCgoXag_8OGTrdslnXS5MyPeGuhidOWUQo3KhwLd1az-ZIrKgJF-S/s400/Beit+Jala+082.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491451252139096114" /></a>Where do they get mussels? every single mussel in the world is to be found on the other side of this wall. <br /><br />Anyway, the real talk of the town, every town on earth, from Beit Jalla to all the settlements surrounding it, was about another mussel: the Spanish Mussel eaten by Paul the oracle octopus, predicting a Spanish win in the game. Over a hundred people gathered outside the Bahamas to see whether Paul was correct. About half of them were Palestinians, the other half - foreign journalists and diplomats stationed in Jerusalem. For the most part we felt comfortable saying we're Israelis and using our given names, a bit less comfortable admitting we support Germany. The public in Beit Jalla was overwhelmingly pro-Spain. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIpilMORUecFdbm6EhTMMkzBN44phE2tKYbVk_Vgp2ZwWpMGzEuKXtQDHtDqWPYZL5vfhyphenhyphenEktaKnut4soLtkxE53L6zPC3DgE7xy2qMYwG_JfacPM0PiIp-5kSsXhNCA05dxrspBgVvkVP/s1600/Beit+Jala+094.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIpilMORUecFdbm6EhTMMkzBN44phE2tKYbVk_Vgp2ZwWpMGzEuKXtQDHtDqWPYZL5vfhyphenhyphenEktaKnut4soLtkxE53L6zPC3DgE7xy2qMYwG_JfacPM0PiIp-5kSsXhNCA05dxrspBgVvkVP/s400/Beit+Jala+094.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491454712448760722" /></a>Some supporters of Spain brought an authentic Vuvuzela.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilm8XJ8JrEfck7Ty2nJUViZbTAWpUFqZoc3e2YoVshIEEHpodyD2zNS-WRF4g50FaThu9mL6IOas9A5NxG0T7rTSk5z_-xrDlctp_D6ak9Y5T90xBr56vJjJY1Z3fvRpop_BG6OdB8Eux3/s1600/Beit+Jala+085.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilm8XJ8JrEfck7Ty2nJUViZbTAWpUFqZoc3e2YoVshIEEHpodyD2zNS-WRF4g50FaThu9mL6IOas9A5NxG0T7rTSk5z_-xrDlctp_D6ak9Y5T90xBr56vJjJY1Z3fvRpop_BG6OdB8Eux3/s400/Beit+Jala+085.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491451262055445218" /></a>As You may have heard, Paul was right. This photo, taken during the first half of the game, is the last image of me smiling.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwTNl0_DqaPoXnOsOGtnYrAzIDD6tO9bwJ0E-vzUfGqmuKa9RNM9UWrvDKWtOTnXXCGj-7_JHwBQkjBYjeXIdxvEP-3sn2_H2wFzhzoXXiGjsoXDI9tl0ncHkaERjJn-oXF5wgf42Exl0c/s1600/Beit+Jala+097.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwTNl0_DqaPoXnOsOGtnYrAzIDD6tO9bwJ0E-vzUfGqmuKa9RNM9UWrvDKWtOTnXXCGj-7_JHwBQkjBYjeXIdxvEP-3sn2_H2wFzhzoXXiGjsoXDI9tl0ncHkaERjJn-oXF5wgf42Exl0c/s400/Beit+Jala+097.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491454723808975186" /></a>I actually stopped smiling well before the final whisle was blown. During halftime I took a short walk in the vicinity of the restaurant and discovered this: a house surrounded by the wall on three sides. This family, who built its home with a view to the hills and to Jerusalem, found itself imprisoned for no fault of its own. The concrete is only a physical manifestation of the humiliation and intimidation these people have suffered by the occupiers, by us.<br /><br />After seeing that, the Spanish could win and the Germans could grill their octopus for all I cared. It'll take a long time till football will actually matter for anything in this world. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcCrLzupZNz17_oOLjnyzrFyN346gkRhZSJCnmMr0tyBlq5UzIOwQUICP-Yp5g3fsio2Rn90z8lziWmTevLZer8kx8rcbkCR8UtUlyXgRflm2PcvMORUZ1dEaQ83vKFT5VHv_CVidt71vE/s1600/Beit+Jala+092.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcCrLzupZNz17_oOLjnyzrFyN346gkRhZSJCnmMr0tyBlq5UzIOwQUICP-Yp5g3fsio2Rn90z8lziWmTevLZer8kx8rcbkCR8UtUlyXgRflm2PcvMORUZ1dEaQ83vKFT5VHv_CVidt71vE/s400/Beit+Jala+092.JPG" border=0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5491454704317551186" /></a>יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-62698025567324289472010-07-06T19:26:00.011+03:002010-07-06T21:28:25.311+03:00The Wall<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8BLm0dfKkPplqvy-HC1y6heC9jVRq6CTRhx6cHCl45_WS99cQcsOev15g5qMSrC57g9iXpRS2ma5eLe1AtpQUeLnWXUEApd-Z179Xg1Azl6Rwq6zPQYMKZGJRZaIctV9riRpwJROhBcF/s1600/grafitti.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu8BLm0dfKkPplqvy-HC1y6heC9jVRq6CTRhx6cHCl45_WS99cQcsOev15g5qMSrC57g9iXpRS2ma5eLe1AtpQUeLnWXUEApd-Z179Xg1Azl6Rwq6zPQYMKZGJRZaIctV9riRpwJROhBcF/s400/grafitti.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490842404950912626" /></a>A group of activists armed with spray cans marched last week in Warsaw in protest of the Gaza blocade. Among them were Palestinians, Poles, Israelis, and one celebrity: Israeli peace activist and former fighter pilot Jonathan Shapira. <br /><br />Shapira first gained fame for refusing to bomb Palestinian targets from the air. He later became even better known as the protagonist of a pop song. His classmate, singer Aya Corem, authored a funny hit about her old crush for him. One line of the song sets Shapira apart from all other, run of the mill, members of the male species:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Mom Always says: all men are the same<br />One goes today, another will come tomorrow.<br />But mom never met Jonathan Shapira. </span><br /><br />Oh, if mother only knew what Jonathan Shapira does where grandmother was starved and enslaved. At the end of their march, the activists performed an unexpected act of provocation: they sprayed grafitti on remains of the old ghetto's walls with the statement: "Free all ghettos, Free Gaza". <br /><br />Organizations of Holocaust survivors were outraged, calling for Shapira to visit Yad Vashem and "get his history straight". Their idea of course is that Jerusalem's (truly incredible) Holocaust museum will teach him how much worse the Holocaust was than the occupation and make him rethink his deeds. <br /><br />I doubt that Yad Vashem would do the trick. Personally, I come out of every visit to the place with a sense of double loss. I lost a great number of family members in the Holocaust, only to witness my nation lose it's moral path. <br /><br />We, the Jewish people, have a great responsibility and privilege. As those who witnessed and suffered such horrors, we can be a beacon unto the nations and shine the light of human rights around the world. We have forsaken this responsibility, this privilege. Instead of caring for everybody, we decided to care for ourselves. Rather than making sure such thing will never happen again, we are making sure such things will never happen again to us.<br /><br />Of course the Holocaust was worse than the occupation, much, much worse. Of course the holocaust and the occupation have things in common, many, many things. The wall of the Warsaw Ghetto has everything to do with the fence surrounding the Gaza strip. Ignoring that is akin to disrespecting the memory of the Holocaust's victims. pointing it out is fulfilling their legacy. Their loss can and must teach us to be humane towards each other, to shun state propaganda, to promote personal dignity and liberty to all and not to stand by when someone near us is suffering. <br /><br />Their loss left us with a disaster that we must learn from. It's too bad mother never met Jonathan Shapira. Mother has a lot to learn from such an individual, one who keeps his eyes open and his compassion strong despite our horrible national PTSD. Of course there is no comparing to the Holocaust, but if we do not draw analogies from history we're doomed to repeat it every day, never mind on what scale. <br /><br />Those who fear that Shapira's act is defaming the Jewish people and wronging the memory of six million victims should make absolutely sure they are not doing so themselves by supporting Israel's various policies. I understand their sensitivity and I respect it, but I am saddened by the immunity to the suffering of others that such sensitivity produced. <br /><br />I'm glad that it did not have this effect on all hearts, and that a few are willing to make a stand. A simple sand cannon can clean the graffiti and return the Warsaw wall to its original condition. It'll take much more to make that wall as irrelevant as we wish it were. <br /><br />(Top image shows grafitti found in the vicinity of Hebron.)יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-14841171222218855312010-07-04T16:21:00.011+03:002010-07-04T20:44:40.211+03:00Utah<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnUxREsyPNqRLuzgNiveLevLDjth3GHZz-8vxN63jytQ-lsc4-gfhDV7IfJOEIJC-fUliSuTLiOsGqCXwwJKOx5Z0lynDTb9ox4oiqpe0cNALhePysJcaAykIDFdQtNLOf1WJakwOYFWN/s1600/fourth.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnUxREsyPNqRLuzgNiveLevLDjth3GHZz-8vxN63jytQ-lsc4-gfhDV7IfJOEIJC-fUliSuTLiOsGqCXwwJKOx5Z0lynDTb9ox4oiqpe0cNALhePysJcaAykIDFdQtNLOf1WJakwOYFWN/s400/fourth.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490054880483996882" /></a>For want of fireworks to stare at, I spend the 4th of July reminicing of my American years. There were nearly seven such years, split about half and half between two major cities of the East: Boston and DC.<br /><br />In between I managed to slip nearly six months in a more exotic location: Salt Lake city, Utah. My ex-wife was a Salt-Laker and indeed a Mormon when I met her (she later left the church, a difficult and intense process). Her family all lived on the Wasatch front and we visited it often. I spent one entire winter there, one entire summer, plus many a Christmas and, well, 4ths of July.<br /><br />Each 4th, a traditional picnic was held on Lin's grandparents' deck. We had burgers and green Jello pie (a local delicacy) on paper plates decorated with the star spangled banner. more stars and stripes were hanging from the trees. The house itself was full of pictures of WWII fighter planes, a hobby of Granpa's. On the floor was a furry rug about a meter deep. These were the most foreign surroundings in which a non-American can find himself. Blues dens in Mississippi slums are tuned into tourist haunts, a suburban SLC backyard never is.<br /><br />The great majority of people on the deck were Republican and Mormon. Republicans were extra confident and talkative during the Bush years. Mormons, on the other hand, are secretive. Their religion cannot be discussed openly or in depth with an outsider since it features ineffable teachings, secret temple ceremonies et al.<br /><br />This combination of the outspoken and unspoken complicated our visits to Lin's family. There were so many words I couldn't say: "Shit", "John Kerry", "The Celestial Room", "Abu Ghraib"... even "Oh my God!" is considered taboo in Utah-LDS culture. There was no alcohol in any of the starred and striped cups to help me face the challenge, nor even coffee. <br /><br />I must admit, I loved it. <br /><br />I loved Utah, I still adore it. It's the best place I lived in the States. Those mountains that grow directly out of the city, the broad streets, the drama of the west, and that of a split society: 50% devout, 50% irreverent. I loved the family too, it was warm and generous and made up of the most spectacular individuals. They accepted me so beautifully despite my being a gentile (this is the exact word Mormons use). A heathen married their offspring, depriving her of the right to the celstial kingdom, and yet they loved me and lavished green Jello on me.<br /><br />Sometimes a place that seems the most wrong for us, is just right. The places in America I miss the most are not necessarily the progressive streets of Cambridge, MA. They are often places that challenged me as a liberal, a foreigner, an Urbanite. If I could make it across the room through that thick rug, I could make it across the nation and truly know its many realities.יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-54528032638018356992010-06-30T11:56:00.013+03:002010-06-30T16:03:47.502+03:00Cookies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheb9qH4f4B_a4KOtrS3iV6U92JZSSmUoNpn6GmdtMyumTc99W1pgxRjnyrM7QP10aR6-xHQhVVSIIlncW2EtqFpVw0MDLTkzNi9NEww5GbYCjbcy3vM6UON32XpbViWjf6CTMSLgH_Gxfj/s1600/cookies.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheb9qH4f4B_a4KOtrS3iV6U92JZSSmUoNpn6GmdtMyumTc99W1pgxRjnyrM7QP10aR6-xHQhVVSIIlncW2EtqFpVw0MDLTkzNi9NEww5GbYCjbcy3vM6UON32XpbViWjf6CTMSLgH_Gxfj/s400/cookies.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5488500849281760034" /></a>Coffee dehydrates, must drink water. Water's boring, I shift to Coke. Coke dehydrates, I feel tired, drink some coffee, cycle resumes. <br /><br />Jewish mourning traditions are wonderful, they really are. I even like our coffinless funerals that involve no beautification of death. Jews are buried in shrouds, the shape of the corpses clearly visible. The dead is dumped into the grave rather than lain into it. Before the act, the rabbi reads a line of the Mishnah: "Know where you came from and where you are headed, and to whom you will need to explain your deeds. Where you came from: a smelly drop. Where you are headed: the place of gravel, insects and worms. To whom you will need to explain your deeds: to the king of the kings of kings." Merciless? indeed. Poetic? 100%.<br /><br />I also like the "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shiva_(Judaism)">shiva</a>", the seven days of community mourning, during which the family receives guests and the memory of the lost one is recreated in conversation. I like it - in theory. In practice, it's exhausting. We are at my uncle and aunt's place in a northern suburb of the city. There's a long wooden table in the back yard, an espresso machine and plenty of good cookies. On the third day of the shiva, I'm completely choked with cookies. We're all bound to gain a few pounds thanks to this tradition. Indeed, we risk being soon afflicted with atherosclerosis and getting dumped into the place of gravel, insects and worms. <br /><br />Ours is not a very traditional shiva. We eat warm food. We sit on normal chairs rather than low stools. We bathe and shower through this week. We do not observe the ban on leather shoes or jewlery. The mirrors in the house are not covered (by far Judaism's spookiest custom), but my grandmother is sitting there in the shirt she wore at the funeral, with its collar that was <a href="http://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/281558/jewish/Keriah-The-Rending-of-Garments.htm">torn</a> by the rabbi. It's truly a heartbreaking sight. She will continue to wear this shirt throughout the weeklong observence. The shiva doesn't let her nor us forget for a moment how much her life just changed. This is its purpose, this is its curse.<br /><br />A very different challenge of the shiva is the "bar-mitzvah effect". I happen to suffer from mild prosopagnosia - a neurological condition impending recognition of people by their faces. My bar mitzvah was an absolute nightmare. I knew nobody there. My grandfather's shiva is even harder. At least at 13 I was quite sure everyone was there for me. I was <span style="font-style:italic;">supposed</span> to recognize them, so a friendly smile and feigned recognition were always in order. Here many people have no idea who I am, others are my direct uncles. I do my best not to mix them up, and fail.<br /><br />But there's a lot of love going around here. My aunt warmly hugs her two ex husbands to the astonishemnt of all, old friends of my folks appear at the door, thrilling them with their presence. My grandfather left behind a rich life story, fit to fuel many a conversation. The way he died, calmly and painlessly after having a beer and watching the England-Germany match, gives a great little story with which to break the ice. His last phone call, ten minutes before his heart failed, involved a detailed critique of the English team's disastrous loss, so we even get to talk about the world cup. I just hope Wayne Roony knows to whom he needs to explain his deeds the day he kicks the Bucket. Shimon Yaar is waiting for him up there with a dish of fresh cookies and a few tough questions.יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-73677935070169609032010-06-28T10:01:00.011+03:002010-06-28T16:25:59.765+03:00In Memoriam Saba Shimon<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHUHp7H2FIio0RYub2lhpKY0LUyWdXLZb9dCngBWSR43k45FQOJN7EwNHeZL74noCmJWX5jCUtG-lPX4XlCNDFhKYGSWCSwLwTXz6YQGRhWtltE2fvqgPNF84u_ONNfd0cfg5nHRKJZAi/s1600/Berlin+013.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKHUHp7H2FIio0RYub2lhpKY0LUyWdXLZb9dCngBWSR43k45FQOJN7EwNHeZL74noCmJWX5jCUtG-lPX4XlCNDFhKYGSWCSwLwTXz6YQGRhWtltE2fvqgPNF84u_ONNfd0cfg5nHRKJZAi/s400/Berlin+013.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487725489890021778" /></a>Last winter, when traveling with a friend to the outskirts of Berlin, we passed by the city's monumental Olympic stadium, built by the Nazis in the thirties. Suddenly I was stirred by a memory. "You know," I told her, "This is the place my grandfather wanted to visit more than anything else, and couldn't."<br /><br />In 1936 Shimon Waldman was a champion long distance runner, competing all over the Middle East. He was accepted to the olympics, but then Hitler decreed that no Jews could participate and my grandfather was forced to stay at home. Throughout his life he kept a clipping from a Berliner Jewish newspaper. The headline reads: "Waldman Kommt nach Berlin!" Waldman is coming to Berlin, a celebrity, a power to contend with.<br /><br />My friend took a photo of me running in front of the stadium, symbolically fulfilling that old aspiration. Unlike my grandfather, who passed away last night, I'm a slow enough runner to be caught by a cheap lens. The Athletic skill was not something I inherited, but I'd like to think that he did bequeath the athletic spirit to all of us. <br /><br />Berlin's stadium was the only place my grandfather wanted to go to and failed. No other destination was unattainable, be it the finish line, a high rank (he was an officer in the British Army's Jewish Brigade and later the chief of Israel's military police), faraway lands like Peru, the ripe age of 96 or a home he dreamed of. He dreamed of quite a few and moved again and again, so besides the determination I should also credit him for the travel-bug-gene.<br /><br />After WWII, still in British uniform, my grandpa visited Rome and happened to be on St. Peter's square when Pope pius XII came out to greet the multitudes. My grandfather did not bow as the others. Religion meant less than nothing to him, but he remembered that Jews were not supposed to bow before a human being and that fit well with his stubborn, irreverent spirit. <br /><br />The Pope approached the only man on the square left standing, noticed the symbol of the Jewish Brigade on his shoulder, and said to him in Hebrew: יברכך ה' וישמרך - may God bless you and protect you, the opening words of Judaism's most potent benediction.<br /><br />A man who's gutsy enough to stay standing has little need for God's protection. A determined human being fulfills his own wishes. The night my grandfather met my grandmother he returned to barracks and told his fellow officers: "Tonight I met the woman I'll marry." Sure enough, the beautiful Malka Shtul was to be by his side for life. This life ended last night, but the determination remains in us, a very fine gift indeed.יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-48337050927016098102010-06-26T15:56:00.016+03:002010-06-27T09:39:05.637+03:00Germans<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTCQNqKZLImwoax-JYfy4_ctRedvvFp1DwYE9fqTaX2n42yi-7pTB6fMuLF1MrKwLuRW7TcTGxq5TSdlEfrgfAhq3cGaIuNMoelxhzymmVKCa_LCFtW3zq-4tl4aoMtGXQxZXX7IV9ZlG/s1600/berlin-Jaljulya+009.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTCQNqKZLImwoax-JYfy4_ctRedvvFp1DwYE9fqTaX2n42yi-7pTB6fMuLF1MrKwLuRW7TcTGxq5TSdlEfrgfAhq3cGaIuNMoelxhzymmVKCa_LCFtW3zq-4tl4aoMtGXQxZXX7IV9ZlG/s400/berlin-Jaljulya+009.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487198569419976946" /></a>The first time I ever met a German, I slept with her, or rather - next to her. I had no choice. I was 18 years old and trapped on a chilly mountaintop on the island of Crete. With me was a Geordie chap my age named Alex, whom I met on the ferry over. We missed the last bus descending to the valley and ended up building a campfire not far from two blond girls who were putting up a tent. <br /><br />Finally we amassed the courage, invited them to sit by our fire and in return received an invitation to sleep the night in their tent. The chill was intensifying as we entered, they saved our lives, no less. I lay by the chubby one, careful not to disrespect my hostess despite the narrow space. She giggled through the night in her sleep, as sweet a person as I've ever known. <br /><br />Hitler came up the next morning, as we all descended into the gorge of Samaria. I think I brought him up. I've been bringing him up since when meeting Germans, an act that simultaneously breaks and forms the ice. Ultimately, young Germans and young Israelis are like-minded about history, although I did find a few of my German friends to be undereducated about it. I would use German terms such as "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Einsatzgruppen">Einsatzgruppen</a>" (SS death squads, responsible for systematic massacres) and notice a raised brow. My teachers taught it, theirs didn't. <br /> <br />Then again, you speak to young Israelis about the massacre of Kafar Qasem, inspired by the same Einsatzgruppen, and recieve a similar raised brow. We never like to look at our own faults, but we do like to look at the faults of others and in that Germany is an underprevilaged nation. While all of Europe is taking the case of the Palestinians and faces Israel with hard questions, the Germans are forced to go easy on us. No one likes to have "Look who's talking" thrown in their faces.<br /><br />This isn't a new story, of course. I heard that journalists who get a job with "Bild", Europe's most succesful tabloid, published in Berlin, must sign a form stating they will never write anything critical of Israel. These days, as international media screams in joyful rage, Bild journalists must be tearing their hair out much of the time.<br /><br />The Bild is unhelpful, but in general the German media's dillema is a good thing. Bereft of the mandate to be unreasonable, it must be mature in its treatment of Israel. Those who read my blog regularly know exactly how much I encourage criticism of Israel, but if it isn't fair it's not pragmatic. Germany is a country that can produce mature, helpful criticism at this time, and I hope it picks up the glove and does so.<br /><br />Not only the press is influential. Last night I had an astounding theatrical experience. Frankfurt's Mousonturm theatre brought to Tel-Aviv it's production of "My First Sony", a theatrical interpertation of a Hebrew novel by Benny Barbash. The director, Stephane Bittoun, is German-Jewish. He staged a terrificaly subtle presentation of one Israeli family's decomposition, one that is so humorous and elegant one doesn't quite understand how come it moves us to tears. This is the greatness of German theatre since Brecht. It does not seek to emulate life, thus it is life.<br /><br />All the family's misadventures are recorded by one of the children on a primitive tape recorder. The entire play is a record of things that have been, which is what our present is due to become. Bittoun's all German crew treat Israel's enormously complex present with a mix of courage and elegance. Everything is there, the settlements, the Einsatzgruppen, the emotionality of being Israeli.<br /><br />Itka and I were standing outside the Kameri theatre, wiping tears from our eyes. "My First Sony" was a promise. There's a culture besides our own that shares our history and has the capacity to contribute to our future. It's endowed with the sensativity to see what's happening here and the responsibility to treat it tastefully, carefully, maturely. I wouldn't expect much from "Bild", but other Berliners can be true allies to all of us here, Israelis and Palestinians alike. <br /><br />I take that promise seriously and am glad for it. Hence, I will be rooting for Germany on Sunday as it faces England at the world cup. Somewhere out there, my kind German host from that Cretan mountaintop will be cheering along.<br /><br />(Image on top is of my dear friends in Berlin-Neukölln, twin city to Bat-Yam, Israel.)יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-80658829911240813862010-06-23T22:34:00.020+03:002010-06-26T14:59:47.568+03:00Caught in CandylandOnce again I'm taking a photo of myself in the mirror of some lonely hotel room. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmG9XjXzqheB4yum1vtbPJsdEZb22oeG_8h1D1NyXcyQ85PtRkrHIQ0zlOOq2X2KTOvAmM9pbxfBWbP0987VWl0AEIIA6Lh1dC2e3ZrKs2Blyv9T8u2zcjtfLBgz3mMveNa_Caf89sV9N/s1600/Zurich+081.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwmG9XjXzqheB4yum1vtbPJsdEZb22oeG_8h1D1NyXcyQ85PtRkrHIQ0zlOOq2X2KTOvAmM9pbxfBWbP0987VWl0AEIIA6Lh1dC2e3ZrKs2Blyv9T8u2zcjtfLBgz3mMveNa_Caf89sV9N/s400/Zurich+081.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264660518592546" /></a>This time outside the window is a particularly mundane suburb of a particularly mundane city: Zurich. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9XhCRLVcZt5s5krg33YqiujpVnRmKwK3ug80t1bvtYnLuOii2GKwwuI3byvaeTy7ITPiPY6NvQi5_FFodVfmaC8DDFVUywyeIYm700-dnozBRm0rT3uQ6jZW3MOhz_3R1s5wFye6KmtV/s1600/Zurich+091.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9XhCRLVcZt5s5krg33YqiujpVnRmKwK3ug80t1bvtYnLuOii2GKwwuI3byvaeTy7ITPiPY6NvQi5_FFodVfmaC8DDFVUywyeIYm700-dnozBRm0rT3uQ6jZW3MOhz_3R1s5wFye6KmtV/s400/Zurich+091.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264669030855282" /></a>Coincidentally, a few weeks ago I published here a post entitled “<a href="http://yuvalbenami.blogspot.com/2010/05/fohn.html">Föhn</a>” It was all about Switzerland and how much I like it. I started it by wondering how come I've been dreaming so much of Switzerland recently, and really I have. That post did not contain a word about Zurich. Nor did I dream of Zurich, ever.<br /><br />Not that it's not a pretty town, in its prosaic way<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1T_yTROxYe55NormUDXXgzGP62KLsDvdzlKieqT8Fv9iuE3XMc0Shq7sVWvGuskaL-xmQfP2cZWBfSwis3R8Gk5V_szq62ypyuzd2zJIjxTUkUFcmC0x2poWM60y8iK37IRKFPKfuD5_v/s1600/Zurich+005.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1T_yTROxYe55NormUDXXgzGP62KLsDvdzlKieqT8Fv9iuE3XMc0Shq7sVWvGuskaL-xmQfP2cZWBfSwis3R8Gk5V_szq62ypyuzd2zJIjxTUkUFcmC0x2poWM60y8iK37IRKFPKfuD5_v/s400/Zurich+005.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264272818243298" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwN7nY3BG_WoyINncz8KuIsL1zYfAotkgb8XDrjt0Te9Ho2zS0EeEcX294fP-kygeLHN-L-BhB9-jNy1eXdNfCCF_4kJdWNs0s0myKoZS-JSqxxuvvwjFXhnLjwANWqenO-mktpcbdJuuJ/s1600/Zurich+016.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwN7nY3BG_WoyINncz8KuIsL1zYfAotkgb8XDrjt0Te9Ho2zS0EeEcX294fP-kygeLHN-L-BhB9-jNy1eXdNfCCF_4kJdWNs0s0myKoZS-JSqxxuvvwjFXhnLjwANWqenO-mktpcbdJuuJ/s400/Zurich+016.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264277617130018" /></a>It's just too goddamn clean <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKU6V0RGfKb46y3uDDLXJISURRy8ln-_5sTHWAL3CL5JQg-6HqiBQdahq-lJ_D5oM3y52vnnBOGo4AeGMUHPU1WBBcx2uC_ksAY4-BTGpncsPmziJ9YzZLL0ZrJ8qeIzNU4nPlptNcCen/s1600/Zurich+032.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAKU6V0RGfKb46y3uDDLXJISURRy8ln-_5sTHWAL3CL5JQg-6HqiBQdahq-lJ_D5oM3y52vnnBOGo4AeGMUHPU1WBBcx2uC_ksAY4-BTGpncsPmziJ9YzZLL0ZrJ8qeIzNU4nPlptNcCen/s400/Zurich+032.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264288766793378" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRl4AD0Mvmj7Xw_aLokF3HluNdjy-GPwmpns8zRpsT1w31aNcnPuFEeRYnGPkIOXiLcmTTh38DcY0rL6j-sZRBX0iN181jNH87o22xePUbR819jq_90FSfALaOGzzLB7Zdj5avN5m-AO9/s1600/Zurich+075.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRl4AD0Mvmj7Xw_aLokF3HluNdjy-GPwmpns8zRpsT1w31aNcnPuFEeRYnGPkIOXiLcmTTh38DcY0rL6j-sZRBX0iN181jNH87o22xePUbR819jq_90FSfALaOGzzLB7Zdj5avN5m-AO9/s400/Zurich+075.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264301064615954" /></a>No one would argue this, whether or not this is the home of the Dadaist movement, Zurich is just too clean and settled in its ways. You can even walk out of it into perfectly serene nature in a short stroll. I am only in the city for 24 hours. It's just not right that I was able to take these photos a short stroll away from the hotel:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qDGvkq-XTm-9grcg29Sz9Iw4pVUKXa7pPTx44nBhmrSwFwER2gXCu6g3IFvYzIpokshym6GhhVgOEOHF99dcehChDl5NLRBoqQiDJ5l4DhTyIbWeF9PHCmqIk2moBzw9qqyWUFKtL9OP/s1600/azurich1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0qDGvkq-XTm-9grcg29Sz9Iw4pVUKXa7pPTx44nBhmrSwFwER2gXCu6g3IFvYzIpokshym6GhhVgOEOHF99dcehChDl5NLRBoqQiDJ5l4DhTyIbWeF9PHCmqIk2moBzw9qqyWUFKtL9OP/s400/azurich1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486268401331008514" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp1xfdm_XRFoHLcuMFeCgTQGOEUiq_RH7ZAF7UaQvB2wM59yp4Gm-pckwaoLckNU28I5R6Qjq2HUmC8QxuiT2vbi6cWN9iggSnyBxsIbnWa1w-YnPhUP3m0a4Hpun7i-1X8Z15e1x2T_9q/s1600/azurich2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp1xfdm_XRFoHLcuMFeCgTQGOEUiq_RH7ZAF7UaQvB2wM59yp4Gm-pckwaoLckNU28I5R6Qjq2HUmC8QxuiT2vbi6cWN9iggSnyBxsIbnWa1w-YnPhUP3m0a4Hpun7i-1X8Z15e1x2T_9q/s400/azurich2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486268417300487394" /></a>Zurich makes me miss Israel/Palestine for how boring it is. I need action. Why in the name of the almighty Alpine God Toblerone did my workplace choose to send me here? They just sent somebody else to Istanbul to write of the anti-Israeli sentiment there. Here I can't even sense any such sentiment. Everyone is extremely sweet. Why did they sand me to candyland, where even the terrine is crowned with redcurrants and a pretty peach?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8AgucqruCzBwXcDFdVVVqKvtoGFsIWXNKWHElnNzUHSeQ6DY6k-wAGkCRNCrwi9s_XWYQYoiU6Nw-eozewmrG9okFnWPr4x8POv2_f4YMyefn2BAa934PIo9Nea5sRa1PL4YLQnLazJz/s1600/Zurich+019.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8AgucqruCzBwXcDFdVVVqKvtoGFsIWXNKWHElnNzUHSeQ6DY6k-wAGkCRNCrwi9s_XWYQYoiU6Nw-eozewmrG9okFnWPr4x8POv2_f4YMyefn2BAa934PIo9Nea5sRa1PL4YLQnLazJz/s400/Zurich+019.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264285214671250" /></a>The answer is simple and tragic: They sent me to review a Rod Stewart concert.<br /><br />Rod Stewart, there's a Zuricher rock star for ya, as safe as a stroll up the Banhoffstrasse. I miss the war! I miss the occupation! I miss the rise of fascism! I make a vow. If nothing saucy happens to me on my single evening in town, I'll never travel again to any city that's not been demolished at least once.<br /><br />The early evening doesn't carry much promise. Myself and another journalist arrive at the venue, a hockey stadium, to review it. Then word's out on 2 things. <br /><br />1. The journalists are extended a rare backstage invitation. The Danish producer Lars seems to have taken to us.<br /><br />2. Frida from Abba is in the building.<br /><br />We both head directly back to the catering hall, and witness a birthday surprise, presented to a crew member.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQVdO4yWl5DcGHKHhLqScPhzPJxok8poQed0Obc1eKYsf81LZ0vxrREUFPq2rPasYfHwGgz6L2u-qWPfv1dGWyzixBvgRooqH8e55diJwU51ARar5oW8UKGdKe_FfhZYBpPNgliPdZtsIx/s1600/Zurich+101.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQVdO4yWl5DcGHKHhLqScPhzPJxok8poQed0Obc1eKYsf81LZ0vxrREUFPq2rPasYfHwGgz6L2u-qWPfv1dGWyzixBvgRooqH8e55diJwU51ARar5oW8UKGdKe_FfhZYBpPNgliPdZtsIx/s400/Zurich+101.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264693094661138" /></a>We also meet a few legendary musicians who are in Stewart's band, among them David Palmer, formerly with The The, and guitar hero Paul Warren.<br /><br />We have a delightful dinner featuring local delicacies that really stink up the room. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq484Gk3mvmQYiJ4WSIWXbuANi6YsNC3-91fuIiDj1JTL_gQEkD_FRTnBbdR4mti4IF5BiJ51FhKML5r3m4U91VvcFjRFSP2_ZjgetQKV1XTH-H3s53K29aN_Hgl09zeqXs0QHTtm3Ygbb/s1600/Zurich+099.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq484Gk3mvmQYiJ4WSIWXbuANi6YsNC3-91fuIiDj1JTL_gQEkD_FRTnBbdR4mti4IF5BiJ51FhKML5r3m4U91VvcFjRFSP2_ZjgetQKV1XTH-H3s53K29aN_Hgl09zeqXs0QHTtm3Ygbb/s400/Zurich+099.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264678390635250" /></a>Having digested, we meet Stewart himself. I recently published a <a href="http://yuvalbenami.blogspot.com/2010/06/pushing-stop.html">post</a> in support of artists who join the BDS and cancel their Israeli shows. When I interviewed Warren over the fondue, he drew a comparison between appearing in Israel today and in South Africa during the eighties. He himself played Sun City with Tina Turner at the time and said he felt “uncomfortable”. He added that Turner herself later came to the conclusion that she's made a mistake.<br /> <br />I ask Stewart about his choice to hit town at this time. “I have a contract and I intend to respect it,” he said, “A deal's a deal.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFC3EhyZgJlTpFVkG-YDkllP4NjeQV2kzBojGL9ZigbWFe7h9VPZkBqieWzHVtroifWOqL1oxU8MhK6z40NXmsdxn-_1M1neb1FZtN5F_qRvWarVKYAIM4uCQWjcCO_ZpkchL3emDjB5r/s1600/Zurich+104.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFC3EhyZgJlTpFVkG-YDkllP4NjeQV2kzBojGL9ZigbWFe7h9VPZkBqieWzHVtroifWOqL1oxU8MhK6z40NXmsdxn-_1M1neb1FZtN5F_qRvWarVKYAIM4uCQWjcCO_ZpkchL3emDjB5r/s400/Zurich+104.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264881789801842" /></a>A deal's a deal and a show's a show. His concert is rockier than I had expected, an extremely happy event. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh_feDXTJGDbBBtBLETJZzZeE3axxVdshUn6JxdpjunwE4GiNZx-GwjyWFLKXiADd2rqpSR2IH11pyclPflJJLrJgm2xC4MGirgs3adU26-04kmyc81DrpKGdhTTz_4SvGp-xJq3f7J92d/s1600/Zurich+136.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh_feDXTJGDbBBtBLETJZzZeE3axxVdshUn6JxdpjunwE4GiNZx-GwjyWFLKXiADd2rqpSR2IH11pyclPflJJLrJgm2xC4MGirgs3adU26-04kmyc81DrpKGdhTTz_4SvGp-xJq3f7J92d/s400/Zurich+136.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264902892302994" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZAqjNQqaFg8wBhV0sfVQpShNKnvZLb6CgR_a6uI7WyopGIIpn5tdv-IglZP3bwB41fqnYyQJVg0le0nR-Z1YxDMH1tH8siuNkYWXr2qFc87ZzQJtkLUgaW5Y9dy6wjzQjo27DSdmnB9mX/s1600/Zurich+135.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZAqjNQqaFg8wBhV0sfVQpShNKnvZLb6CgR_a6uI7WyopGIIpn5tdv-IglZP3bwB41fqnYyQJVg0le0nR-Z1YxDMH1tH8siuNkYWXr2qFc87ZzQJtkLUgaW5Y9dy6wjzQjo27DSdmnB9mX/s400/Zurich+135.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486264883283654418" /></a>I leave with “I am sailing” on my lips, trying hard not to think of flotillas. Backstage, the artists are preparing to leave for Germany that same night. I have to discover nocturnal Zurich on my own, if it indeed exists.<br /><br />Here's a guy with dreadlocks. He tells me to go to “El Lokal”, on Gasner Alee. I take the train down. Young people are sitting outside by picnic tables, drinking homemade brew. The atmosphere reminds me of the <a href="http://yuvalbenami.blogspot.com/2010/06/get-thee-to-nunnery.html">Minzar</a>. Not bad, but I have a Minzar at home. <br /><br />Then comes my streak of luck. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotpA7hEBBx5AX3L5UpnlmbvQxJkjeFPugZv6LLvr5cAmQEF4HLU5CZTws3fL6XNXgpZpL-Alg_TI7x43mCWYKhIBNCTmHQRgt4gje4wQQ7W7pviQFzXeOG5CXkFyj5BuIrSX9H7PELFeF/s1600/azurich3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotpA7hEBBx5AX3L5UpnlmbvQxJkjeFPugZv6LLvr5cAmQEF4HLU5CZTws3fL6XNXgpZpL-Alg_TI7x43mCWYKhIBNCTmHQRgt4gje4wQQ7W7pviQFzXeOG5CXkFyj5BuIrSX9H7PELFeF/s400/azurich3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486073211994005618" /></a>They are not Swiss, though that would make for a better story. The girl is German, a doctor of virology. The guys are both Canadian tattoo artists. I bum a cigarette off them at El Lokal. They are on their way out, things were being to mild there.<br /><br />The doctor leads the way. She leads us west.<br /><br />Soon we are walking down streets lined with gray buildings, shabbier than anything I'd seen in Switzerland before. Alternative types, my favorite crowd, spill out of the many nightspots.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-1H7UZMH5gCsV6WFwFpttcdBClS1csnwhWRe06_cpIlr6WYJdNjQN5susKii-G7NEGR270x0a-7X1E6eM92HOoNZ0ipf8TBtmqD6jWoBybUfbCeMDZoE-WIWhpkJdmN8xuSQumLqtuGI/s1600/azurich2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8-1H7UZMH5gCsV6WFwFpttcdBClS1csnwhWRe06_cpIlr6WYJdNjQN5susKii-G7NEGR270x0a-7X1E6eM92HOoNZ0ipf8TBtmqD6jWoBybUfbCeMDZoE-WIWhpkJdmN8xuSQumLqtuGI/s400/azurich2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486073202279442066" /></a>The first bar we enter has an altar with botanica candles. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm5rEh-XKC55QpHeFc2DKulEMePr3l1c7kQbebyvtESjr_ErlRbJsf9z24Ymh_3Qcx4pgo6dXUzSb_YTPFNxd8YmIVwnOYWVkeMT2aUAzX5W5vGBZQGFLyD3QxY7NP59KOnGL2nkIupROW/s1600/azurich1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm5rEh-XKC55QpHeFc2DKulEMePr3l1c7kQbebyvtESjr_ErlRbJsf9z24Ymh_3Qcx4pgo6dXUzSb_YTPFNxd8YmIVwnOYWVkeMT2aUAzX5W5vGBZQGFLyD3QxY7NP59KOnGL2nkIupROW/s400/azurich1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486073211142076082" /></a>The second one is further west, on a street filled with buxom prostitutes, drunken laughter, the sweet smell of weed and that of cheap grilled meat. We have reached Beauerstrasse in west Zurich, the city's street of shame. It too is lined with some smashingly urban alternative bars. Here is the scene, and the scene is rough and real.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDii-vzwx_JlS0Gw60C0kzpFiVFqOo1742RELVWrV5KPw3ulnDsXswSNUTWflXJhX8tbYxIz_jm692bp2bnqPJtMnr1wxJXF3l_fPIa2q9EHrUKzVeDSy33qXGT2VZpYDJjGTi4lpzAZAa/s1600/azurich4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDii-vzwx_JlS0Gw60C0kzpFiVFqOo1742RELVWrV5KPw3ulnDsXswSNUTWflXJhX8tbYxIz_jm692bp2bnqPJtMnr1wxJXF3l_fPIa2q9EHrUKzVeDSy33qXGT2VZpYDJjGTi4lpzAZAa/s400/azurich4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5486073218195994946" /></a>Not being a fan of prostitution, I never plan to wax poetic about a city's red light district, but in the case of Zurich, it's seeing the dark side that gives the bright side meaning. Perhaps no place is incomplete if you just take the time to dig an inch underneath its surface. Who knows what tattoo artist you'd find there.<br /> <br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/rVcAG009yms&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/rVcAG009yms&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-37505371366748217282010-06-20T09:35:00.026+03:002010-06-26T01:03:22.619+03:00highway 13Despite a terrible bad back that kept her in bed for nearly a week, Itka joined me in Dimona. I went down to write about the surprising cultural revival in that dusty desert town. She needed a cure. "I think my back pain is a result of too much city tension." she said. "I need to go over the mountains and relax."<br /><br />I empathized. I too needed to escape the familiar reality, catch a bit of dry desert air, be in a land without people. Recent events have turned me into a misanthrope. How unbelievably sad. We decided to catch a lift off of Dimona's plateau down to the Dead Sea and indulge in its bromide-rich air. Bromide in small quantities acts as a relaxant.<br /><br />I took on the load as we left Dimona<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRzpQO8TCphiDoo6FsInj-SQfjhoPbVSRg8EXum2r3QsF_q7pT6uk0VbSR83TLy8G7A0X8kFd2hUqL0mZvFj9mdv0YY8SHT2eegGXyKCl7aPqQrxytmpF-1xG4ItquVRDxCdJx3LcA1He/s1600/Dimona+162.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBRzpQO8TCphiDoo6FsInj-SQfjhoPbVSRg8EXum2r3QsF_q7pT6uk0VbSR83TLy8G7A0X8kFd2hUqL0mZvFj9mdv0YY8SHT2eegGXyKCl7aPqQrxytmpF-1xG4ItquVRDxCdJx3LcA1He/s400/Dimona+162.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484757971119071538" /></a>The first lift took us to the very middle of nowhere,<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5GD_nLwqoM5Z7F3-a7hdFEMG67SltM4NciIZ_p3PljLSQx33_POjMbzzUQHbwqbhTBKEOJmGCyy-C536pBr9v8uEiJPOxtiLFL7PhNhu0mCbQ7EcVGcK_W9dX7p3zu-ZPWea4ffaCsQ7/s1600/Dimona+189.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJ5GD_nLwqoM5Z7F3-a7hdFEMG67SltM4NciIZ_p3PljLSQx33_POjMbzzUQHbwqbhTBKEOJmGCyy-C536pBr9v8uEiJPOxtiLFL7PhNhu0mCbQ7EcVGcK_W9dX7p3zu-ZPWea4ffaCsQ7/s400/Dimona+189.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484757080954347426" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nbbCWg0BI_wimUM_cuO3fZJ43k__oeiqbYZiojuhsStY5z0NhPzCOrfrBj3yWa_D3jV1KtbAwFiOvSaoJ7Ifpozo1gaaffBxHTUh_J5xdGoSp7vrPnfmTB7732zoCD2ok1lqxVeRHYqv/s1600/Dimona+186.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nbbCWg0BI_wimUM_cuO3fZJ43k__oeiqbYZiojuhsStY5z0NhPzCOrfrBj3yWa_D3jV1KtbAwFiOvSaoJ7Ifpozo1gaaffBxHTUh_J5xdGoSp7vrPnfmTB7732zoCD2ok1lqxVeRHYqv/s400/Dimona+186.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484757070150553586" /></a>though in a way we were in a very famous spot, only several electrical fences away from Israel's secluded nuclear reactor, which generates no elecricity (any better photo than this one could get me into serious trouble).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06b1xZPdE04DWpp7XDxIuEHWibZ_hO-Tf1thq42c4i5uB0-l15TEJvu3eFXlBg_x-mMTyDhGdsr18_Yp318IIOXXWybEYvAqfuUPkFgjUe6Gy0awXZFXeka5HpNrqXA5Ps-GjyZd1awqh/s1600/Dimona+194.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi06b1xZPdE04DWpp7XDxIuEHWibZ_hO-Tf1thq42c4i5uB0-l15TEJvu3eFXlBg_x-mMTyDhGdsr18_Yp318IIOXXWybEYvAqfuUPkFgjUe6Gy0awXZFXeka5HpNrqXA5Ps-GjyZd1awqh/s400/Dimona+194.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484792605946459842" /></a>The second car was driven by a guy who's been living in the desert for four years now. Most of the time he spent in a secluded inn called "The Ashram". "I went there one day to fill up on water and stayed for years." He said. <br /><br />Itka liked that. "I need a hippy environment" she said. The Ashram was in the very south of the Negev, 80 kilometers north of Eilat. the driver explained its location. We were to travel another 100 kilomerets south of where he left us, then turn right from the main road to a tiny road, then left to another, tinier road, then we're there. Trying to hitchhike to a place like that seemed like lunacy, but the lady with the aching back has made her request. On we rolled.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwyl16LQcVpkiv9WwmD_RRELyyy_656R3OKKIi8yKtvrfMJfp4hO6TRc7oRCaLfuzM19Ddx1fgKLSpFG5CPMwhPfDduohp81qd2YU75zq-Rqc50j6Z3jKaq3z8Uf0xFrygwXpWHkdOsKI1/s1600/Dimona+196.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwyl16LQcVpkiv9WwmD_RRELyyy_656R3OKKIi8yKtvrfMJfp4hO6TRc7oRCaLfuzM19Ddx1fgKLSpFG5CPMwhPfDduohp81qd2YU75zq-Rqc50j6Z3jKaq3z8Uf0xFrygwXpWHkdOsKI1/s400/Dimona+196.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484767235447554498" /></a>Two hours later, in the heat of the afternoon, we reached the first of the two turns. Highway 13 leads from nowhere to nowhere. we waited there for an hour or so. nothing happened.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPVdIkQ6b1wBJ1iXzX4X-HOQfdwfiCiREcN3zYCiedV6Jt6EEtNfZy-fhx9dR3tzcjvdGC1kbuSn7hJLNNFHprQdrgk60Z2p8zYDCKX8vMaZLxe6CXJO6FFLzri4tUpAYjZcIBw89Mqr74/s1600/Dimona+215.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPVdIkQ6b1wBJ1iXzX4X-HOQfdwfiCiREcN3zYCiedV6Jt6EEtNfZy-fhx9dR3tzcjvdGC1kbuSn7hJLNNFHprQdrgk60Z2p8zYDCKX8vMaZLxe6CXJO6FFLzri4tUpAYjZcIBw89Mqr74/s400/Dimona+215.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484754587790722050" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrp2WKv-B9hQ3-0fkuhtAHW1QzxHLexGkv6g6oWLRcsd-CF3Kae3T9AKQjBx4Geh569mjzT9V1a8npnmJtUd3N2jhBlwlWUV5v7ZLtpmdVo3XFBLLQQ5S6Z0stojesakE8sPeObyY8wjMA/s1600/Dimona+227.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrp2WKv-B9hQ3-0fkuhtAHW1QzxHLexGkv6g6oWLRcsd-CF3Kae3T9AKQjBx4Geh569mjzT9V1a8npnmJtUd3N2jhBlwlWUV5v7ZLtpmdVo3XFBLLQQ5S6Z0stojesakE8sPeObyY8wjMA/s400/Dimona+227.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484754578845182290" /></a>Bored with all the gravel, she put her scarf over her head and asked: "would you have picked me up?" <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EfXuBFfCIM8P47ct69zfbRgasXjJtoMbpCV9WoHTXzTRnKubhbZXk8scL7LBE4c7fCg8xQmbIVkbvY3xwQ6cHDiRE-LTv4WU2mNP9visA3lSE1ajlHSjRpSlubWtlrwzo8XmvpcGGr-1/s1600/Dimona+230.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3EfXuBFfCIM8P47ct69zfbRgasXjJtoMbpCV9WoHTXzTRnKubhbZXk8scL7LBE4c7fCg8xQmbIVkbvY3xwQ6cHDiRE-LTv4WU2mNP9visA3lSE1ajlHSjRpSlubWtlrwzo8XmvpcGGr-1/s400/Dimona+230.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484754559426709762" /></a>I said: "Yes, if I were Marcello Mastroianni."<br /><br />Finally we gave up and headed north. The first guy to give us a lift was a hardcore settler from the environs of Hebron. He was dressed in an orange shirt, a remnant of his days in the rebel movement opposing the evacuation of settlers from Gaza. he told us he was jailed at the time. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKOKy_QTfkKvNJPimTzxozd8xTCSc2N0rltY6sLvHjk_SWx3f1Z61lTRkAJwjO28pDSEOIiAXTry8GQQJ8qeIC5fbADeyVY5Cv8d7bEfj_DGEQ4DQcqoKeoPP7c7gh3Dl4goP4JS-Sx8e/s1600/Dimona+237.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLKOKy_QTfkKvNJPimTzxozd8xTCSc2N0rltY6sLvHjk_SWx3f1Z61lTRkAJwjO28pDSEOIiAXTry8GQQJ8qeIC5fbADeyVY5Cv8d7bEfj_DGEQ4DQcqoKeoPP7c7gh3Dl4goP4JS-Sx8e/s400/Dimona+237.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484767244390953666" /></a>He really was a very nice chap, a lettuce farmer. We avoided the political stuff for an hour or so, then tones rose over the imprisonment of Ashkenazi ultraorthodox parents who wouldn't send their daughters to study with Sepharadic girls. thankfully this is when we reached the intersection: west to the West Bank, East to the Dead Sea. No time to discuss Baruch Goldstein.<br /><br />The next car was driven by a mixed couple, and Arab man and a Jewish woman. This was the first time in my life i've ever met such a couple. I'm 34. <br /><br />The couple took us to the Dead Sea's patch of luxury hotels. I was worried for my girl's back and wanted to check about prices. Could I spoil her? However, the heat had drained me and I ended up slumping on a bench in the midst of this peculiar oasis, drinking an ice coffee. She's the one who ended up asking around for room prices. None fell below the 1000 Sheqel mark. Insanity.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgds5VIB4uzHeKC0GUnXA8z344cMUlTUfn_bqGavijaJuJOpvt3_IlgVxqAEXdVGMVldBGivt5nno9HV1mP4axwj-8pJRVeEuXuRGJyFxjhzMR7e5uzy6raYhs-hNzrjN8n_ZInmm70BwWO/s1600/Dimona+251.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgds5VIB4uzHeKC0GUnXA8z344cMUlTUfn_bqGavijaJuJOpvt3_IlgVxqAEXdVGMVldBGivt5nno9HV1mP4axwj-8pJRVeEuXuRGJyFxjhzMR7e5uzy6raYhs-hNzrjN8n_ZInmm70BwWO/s400/Dimona+251.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484767216268631522" /></a> At least we knew of a youth hostel 30 kilometers up the road. A lighting engineer of children's theatre took us there in his shiny new Masda (he freshly divorced, and the car was his "gift to himself").<br /><br />The place turned out to be full of automatic weapons. Some army commanders' course took over it for the weekend. There was no room left for us. We relaxed a bit on the balcony, right next to the Israeli version of an AK 47 (forgive me for not being better versed in the names of our weapons), then went to dip in the vaseline-like water.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinkKijXk9QJJLwbkQhML_Cl6xyYgugYClxdsiOeu4-HWzvXOkMWyTKEQy0SL59UtEQR7KoEc_MUddpCloc-x3iaDjoa_ZplLVoZppHANPjXafhTKfhMmskXmRtU9aNnywLD23ZZQU2TcXF/s1600/Dimona+262.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinkKijXk9QJJLwbkQhML_Cl6xyYgugYClxdsiOeu4-HWzvXOkMWyTKEQy0SL59UtEQR7KoEc_MUddpCloc-x3iaDjoa_ZplLVoZppHANPjXafhTKfhMmskXmRtU9aNnywLD23ZZQU2TcXF/s400/Dimona+262.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484762308932061490" /></a>By the time we stepped out, dusk has fallen.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZA4kQLXdZb7jKTUkDgKVdk2A1ywn0_UHwYbqtt7BlSFS8Aa_8ICIF5Hk7Rpe9yShsqJRySyinh7STvwpzpaLlgbUfapxDTe3e_pKUkNWcNf42NKHDkwEJAS2KBi0Yc_Q7dxQjl3zjnw9Y/s1600/Dimona+267.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZA4kQLXdZb7jKTUkDgKVdk2A1ywn0_UHwYbqtt7BlSFS8Aa_8ICIF5Hk7Rpe9yShsqJRySyinh7STvwpzpaLlgbUfapxDTe3e_pKUkNWcNf42NKHDkwEJAS2KBi0Yc_Q7dxQjl3zjnw9Y/s400/Dimona+267.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484763303849793522" /></a>We desperately needed a place to stay. North of Ein Gedi and up the mountain is another hostel, called "Metzokei Dragot". Neither of us had ever visited it. We found the number and were told by Eddy, the warden, that he'll be glad to pick us up from the main road and bring us to the crest. <br /><br />We waited for Eddy at the intersection. It just happens to be the same spot where the road going along the Dead Sea leaves Israel and enters the West Bank. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkFkva6UODD64XF2zbIU0t0Bf3xsQJ2I56PIFOn0BiNw6PxivNKhaV-1TQJeMz78Dhy47UXXK36DfobilBR7MX8E9ibpP8zXx0PM3WiCPnc578Vj1c_6MFcq44glG_-0NN7d7wP0PI6Ed/s1600/Dimona+281.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAkFkva6UODD64XF2zbIU0t0Bf3xsQJ2I56PIFOn0BiNw6PxivNKhaV-1TQJeMz78Dhy47UXXK36DfobilBR7MX8E9ibpP8zXx0PM3WiCPnc578Vj1c_6MFcq44glG_-0NN7d7wP0PI6Ed/s400/Dimona+281.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484770428658929554" /></a>The road up to Metzokei Dragot, at the top of a nearly vertical cliff overlooking the Dead Sea, winds sharply for about six kilometers in the dark. At the top is a military base with a massive antena and a small, fenced holiday village. The rooms were not to our liking, small spartan and asbestos roofed, each with three tiny single beds. None of them was worth the money charged by Eddy. <br /><br />We offered to pay him for his trouble and gas if he drove us back down. Eddy refused. We asked about tents, knowing the place offered a few. Eddy said he didn't want to go into the trouble of setting one up for us. "I did my job. I'm done," he said. <br /><br />What to do now? I was willing to take the blow, pay what he asked and give my woman rest for her vertebrae, but she wouldn't hear of it. "We're outa here," she said, and headed for the gate.<br /><br />So there we were in the middle of the desert, walking down a steep road by the light of the moon. The heat of the day gave way to a magnificent dry breeze, we were cracking jokes about Eddy and about life, having a wonderful time all in all, until Itka remembered the leopards.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uddTKGL0sOsU47HyE2C3exIXifaBRQ1GDHaV1iRj5Ai2xuJVH9EzA-Hn-YELBpmlQMEWlnfNuWDbif-jq0tWIDu2S7OPr28LCHc3QRVXkiGPv0M10Sc3P_-cDlBQJBek9EIa9kgr5ILr/s1600/Dimona+303.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-uddTKGL0sOsU47HyE2C3exIXifaBRQ1GDHaV1iRj5Ai2xuJVH9EzA-Hn-YELBpmlQMEWlnfNuWDbif-jq0tWIDu2S7OPr28LCHc3QRVXkiGPv0M10Sc3P_-cDlBQJBek9EIa9kgr5ILr/s400/Dimona+303.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5484770438007740338" /></a>"What if a leopard springs at us?" she asked.<br /><br />"I think you need to be a rodent or a fox to worry about that. they're not huge leopards around here." <br /><br />"What about Hyenas?"<br /><br />"I think they're only found north of Jericho."<br /><br />"Why do you just think all these things? why aren't you sure of them?"<br /><br />"Darling, I wouldn't really worry about Hyenas so much as I would about your back. It's 22:00 and you've been zigzagging around this entire country the whole day. Aren't you crippled already?"<br /><br />She wasn't. in fact, her back didn't ache at all anymore. The adventure cured her.<br /><br />We had to draw several conclusions:<br /><br />1. Adventure can cure backache, at least in certain people.<br /><br />2. Meandering for an entire day, crossing hundreds of miles without reaching a single destination is the best way to travel.<br /><br />3. There's no escaping Israel. Even as you go into the emptiest portions of it, the settler from Atniel will be there, as will the reactor, the checkpoint and the guns. A group of Eddy's guests who witnessed the scandal came by to give us a lift down the hill. They spoke of the fotilla and said all its passengers should have been shot on the onset.<br /><br />4. Bromide really works. We didn't get mad when our benefactors suggested the mass killing of hundreds. We didn't get mad when they spoke racistly about Bedouins, desert souls who would never have kicked us into the night as their Israeli host did. They described all Bedouins as rapists and killers, then called us: "rapist huggers".<br /><br />We kept our calm.<br /><br />We didn't get mad after returning to the roadblock, seeing Arab families with yellow license plates turned back at the roadblock, not permitted to reach Ein Gedi.<br /><br />We didn't get mad seeing Palestinians youths who came to camp on the shore harassed by the soldiers. For once we were too stoned by peculiar minerals and tired to care. <br /><br />We got a lift directly back to Tel-Aviv with two French tourists, watching the lights grow more and more numerous around us with every turn.יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-51303402543644198692010-06-15T17:09:00.011+03:002010-06-16T19:02:20.901+03:00Pushing "Stop"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqAw56GL29xMOsqU-Tdj9WrwEkxEjr1gpnnFz9rsr_ZGE2dFW_hNDW6Nz-FAIUlhMo3a_MuyH2BBIympOX6iPhuvI5Zf8qI06Fl7vMte_5MorbZusztCtQN6p5UKmysqluYPLZphU2ONZf/s1600/silence1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqAw56GL29xMOsqU-Tdj9WrwEkxEjr1gpnnFz9rsr_ZGE2dFW_hNDW6Nz-FAIUlhMo3a_MuyH2BBIympOX6iPhuvI5Zf8qI06Fl7vMte_5MorbZusztCtQN6p5UKmysqluYPLZphU2ONZf/s400/silence1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5483012640933541666" /></a>At last I can afford to buy tickets to shows of visiting music stars. This is because they are sure to be canceled and the money is sure to be refunded. The cultural embargo on Israel has begun, and boy is it shaking us up.<br /><br />I enjoy these little dramas the same way as I do the current World Cup matches - from afar. I read that the Pixies are coming. I read that a ticket to the Pixies show will cost over 400 sheqels. I read that the Pixies canceled their show. I read that the public is in an uproar. <br /><br />Last night I read that Denvedra Banhart also canceled his show, appearently because eager Zionists were making him out to be "the Israel lover" for choosing to come after all, and he wasn't too pleased with being politicized (This is implied in his apology to his Israeli audience. A recent tel-Aviv concert by British indie band "Placebo" is said to have been turned into a nationalist rally, complete with flags and chants). Israeli fans find it hard to internalize that choosing to perform here is just as political an act as choosing not to. We have a lot to learn and local media will teach us none of it.<br /><br />You should have seen my Facebook page last night, it's even more full of freak-folk-freaks than of people appreciating the ingenuity of Elvis Costello. "Devendra Benhart, You broke my heart" one writes. I hastened to comment: "It's Ehud Barak who broke your heart, honey. Keep your eyes on the money." <br /><br />Israeli fans of those foreign stars, many of them educated urbanites, have a huge power to promote change in this country. an embargo by, say, the Coca Cola company, which caters to all, may produce public unrest that could promote reactionary forces in Israel's politics (as if those need any more promotion) but the artist embargo touches on the lives of dormant liberals, those who could make a difference but are too busy DJing. <br /><br />That The cancellations shake them up, that's evident, Will they eventually take their anger to the streets of Sheikh Jarrakh and cause something to actually change? It's worth a shot. My impression is that the Tel-Avivian hipsters can no longer pretend that everything is just fine, and that's an important thing. <br /><br />It's now important to help them focus their anger on the government rather than on the artists. That shouldn't be too hard. They <span style="font-style:italic;">love</span> these artists, these artists break their hearts. Folks, mend this country and your hearts will be mended. You've got to fight the occupation for your right to party.<br /><br />If you live here and side with me on this, make sure you make your voices heard. Open up the eyes of upset music lovers to their call to action. Soon we may be dancing again.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OjWENNe29qc&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OjWENNe29qc&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object>יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-34962746013027235742010-06-14T01:05:00.019+03:002010-06-14T17:44:32.144+03:00Get Thee to a Nunnery<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cUd8oAXXHCXjPKI6afgVAdjIEZn-v5x74WSR9SUJfZD4HYF_fmfRpmiZdlLj1ti-jCG-rPstQqNTwcqjqpwVhb7t7gDleyHDIVYPEFQKZpKVj_Tj-vQc0otJDs3XTyeQXFmBTjKwOVyB/s1600/minzar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1cUd8oAXXHCXjPKI6afgVAdjIEZn-v5x74WSR9SUJfZD4HYF_fmfRpmiZdlLj1ti-jCG-rPstQqNTwcqjqpwVhb7t7gDleyHDIVYPEFQKZpKVj_Tj-vQc0otJDs3XTyeQXFmBTjKwOVyB/s400/minzar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482394862210462738" /></a>I've been very negative recently. I would like to write about something good, something indisputably good. I can only think of one such thing: The Minzar.<br /><br />Is it the best bar in the world? Is it, rather, the most boring default destination for when nobody knows where to go? A true Tel-Avivian hears the words: "So let's just go to the Minzar" at least twice a week. Nevertheless, I opt for the first definition. The Minzar is the best bar in the world. The Minzar is the best place in this city. The Minzar is home. The Minzar is mother, ok, I'm getting carried away. No more Taybe on tap for me. <br /><br />Let's tell this story as a story should be told, lets begin with once upon a time.<br /><br />Once upon a time, in an ancient eon called the early 90s, when Sheinkin St. was still the hub of the dangerous, black clad bohemia, there were three bars worth mentioning in the city. The first was called the "Gloola" (pill) the second the "Midbar" (desert) and the third was the "Minzar" (Monastery or abbey). <br /><br />I got to sip my first underage beer at the Gloola. My friend summoned the guts and asked some girl with black nail polish to buy us two pints. He called her "auntie", as that was the quaint slang of those bygone days "Hey auntie, buy us a couple?". I was surprised at how readily our newfound aunt assumed her criminal role.<br /><br />We left the Gloola experiencing a dizziness previously unknown to either of us, pissed in an alleyway and started walking north joyfully. Soon enough we got beat up by two drunk English tourists, who thought they heard us swearing at them. We escaped them into a bar. That bar was the Minzar.<br /><br />Actually no, that bar wasn't the Minzar. It was some other random place that - like the Gloola and Midbar - failed to survive the passing of the auntie years. I'm just desperately looking for an excuse to write about the sole survivor of those times, a seemingly charmless bar, perfectly undecorated, with bare tables spread around the alleyway about its entrence, with its one bathroom (of two) that only features a pissoir, all within choking distance of Allenby. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTNDeWxvNvIABGk9EAf2ygUCREnsmVtYNbY4KE1SwiZjc_fo1vyy-OXj3GlDRL7wc0Dkom8Y_NHWQxaZ612H5mrEwgNeqjmRet32HyiMTMPQQE1yGVmlHJ-ZjXv3d5qHOFqrjNpk1aFAvl/s1600/minzar+noon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTNDeWxvNvIABGk9EAf2ygUCREnsmVtYNbY4KE1SwiZjc_fo1vyy-OXj3GlDRL7wc0Dkom8Y_NHWQxaZ612H5mrEwgNeqjmRet32HyiMTMPQQE1yGVmlHJ-ZjXv3d5qHOFqrjNpk1aFAvl/s400/minzar+noon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482396293042472642" /></a>Call it Patriotism or Zionism, but I need to truly embrace at least one thing on our slender map. Love letters don't really call for excuses, I'll try to compose a quick one right now, and just get it off my chest. <br /><br />Dear Minzar,<br /><br />Is it because you are such casual place that I can practically visit you in my underwear? Is it because despite how casual you are, I once found myself sitting in your so called terrace, right next to a group that obviously just left an opera gala? <br /><br />Is it because you serve Palestinian beer, making me feel that I'm fighting for a cause even as I'm getting myself silly drunk in the very napel of the bubble? Is it because besides this Palestinian beer you also serve that strong Belgian Maredsous that knocks everyone out for the evening?<br /><br />Is it the wonderful artichoke and feta salad? Is it the veal sausages? is it the very fact that no one would expect a joint like yourself to produce anything better than a little bowl of peanuts, and yet you're one of my favorite restaurants in town? Is it Ari's spicy wings that nearly fried me alive from within just before the management made him subdue them? (I loved them just the way they were. ahhh!) Is it the pickles in the back room that can be subtly stolen when the beautiful blond waitress isn't looking?<br /><br />Is it that beautiful blond waitress? Is it the equally beautiful not blond waitress who used to wear dreadlocks? Is it the other, even less blond waitress with the dark retro look? is it the other, fourth beautiful waitress? is it Ari and his lovely whiskers? Is it already five in the morning?<br /><br />Is it the night Stellina cried on my shoulder tears that came directly from her broken heart? Is it that night that the Danish girl recognized me though we haven't seen each other for an entire decade? Is it the night Itka composed her beautiful crazy poem amidst all the noise and loud music in the main room? <br /><br />Is it that our comfort zone is so small we can cross it in two leaps? (mind the stairs!)<br /><br />Whatever it is, Minzar, I love you and all the monks and nuns who walk your narrow cloisters. I drink to you and to a city that only becomes itself after dark, and then grows more and more beautiful with every sip, every cig, every sound of laughter.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqZs-661dxkw0y48wYKx1S26JgjxCENbrzIZGZuwjTMlzVR_m7f07EdACSa2JvRx_j-maLqzOKlhag1pPaK_Hb62XsjiRZjYbqGvhjbpozE1KCvae8Tf5YdkxPYpXPDKrhCLBZ0UWg-Z0/s1600/minzar+night.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUqZs-661dxkw0y48wYKx1S26JgjxCENbrzIZGZuwjTMlzVR_m7f07EdACSa2JvRx_j-maLqzOKlhag1pPaK_Hb62XsjiRZjYbqGvhjbpozE1KCvae8Tf5YdkxPYpXPDKrhCLBZ0UWg-Z0/s400/minzar+night.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482397322029044050" /></a>(all photos are from the Minzar's Facebook <a href="http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=2246636&id=58586977876&fbid=94413922876#!/pages/Tel-Aviv-Yafo-Israel/hmnzr/58586977876">fan page</a>)יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-39482668441284856592010-06-07T14:42:00.022+03:002010-06-07T17:40:34.366+03:00Arabiyah KushkushiyahI spent the better part of yesterday interviewing members of the old Zionist militia "Haganah" for an article. I fell in love with them, these beautiful, silvery moustached men and ever-young ladies. I believe that they were the right people at the right time and that what their struggle was justified. Zionism was once a neccesity, a reality, a calling.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DQoVdO5byhbxrILYew7wppCX4tQSuijcKekMG1pV0A-52EX6scSXVOK1qaCbxhMQfuJY0ib9ZpooVGaLhP9wO77Ma00fBNtlLX-nLvOP7mWn795RydDhGrRAVqN0PuVp0FzhIG6weoaQ/s1600/haganah.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 296px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-DQoVdO5byhbxrILYew7wppCX4tQSuijcKekMG1pV0A-52EX6scSXVOK1qaCbxhMQfuJY0ib9ZpooVGaLhP9wO77Ma00fBNtlLX-nLvOP7mWn795RydDhGrRAVqN0PuVp0FzhIG6weoaQ/s400/haganah.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480010971131538226" /></a>It no longer is so for me. How does Zionism die in the heart? Here's a review of three major turning points in my experience. In other words: here's how I became a self-hating traitor worthy of being thrown in the sea with all the Arabs, in three simple steps: <br /><br />1. When I was eleven years old, the first Intifada was raging outside my Jerusalem window. At the time the news was only about one thing: wild, angry Palestinian boy throwing stones at soldiers, who responded with rubber bullets. I couldn't believe the viciousness of the boys. Didn't they know that tossed stones could kill? There was some talk about that in the press too, how deadly a weapon they were. We' on the other hand were humane, using virtual toys as ammunition.<br /><br />Then one day I saw, in the newspaper, a cross section of a rubber bullet. It was only rubber on the surface, inside it was metal. Yes, Rubber bullets don't tend to be lethal, but they can seriously wound and are the sause of many a lost eye. Toys? not quite. Those were rubber-coated bullets. Using the term "rubber bullets" was a lie, one intended to make us feel better about ourselves. Eleven year olds don't like being lied to. Step 1 was completed.<br /> <br />2. When I was fourteen years old and living in Washington DC, we read an exceptionally interesting book in class. It was “Black Boy” by Richard Wright. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-JjrndzfiG5BbeGzJEyMVaZ1-7CrvHXr-Gug4rytYhl0y-3pETnSEdiFAoZZCy_uNeCTCBSIS0DpYsrO51PLfYpoefntKA1j_4WaeFv1_RAVn80IA2iYmopvG0ZQVmOO0vm8bgHAIn4v/s1600/richard_wright-716697.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC-JjrndzfiG5BbeGzJEyMVaZ1-7CrvHXr-Gug4rytYhl0y-3pETnSEdiFAoZZCy_uNeCTCBSIS0DpYsrO51PLfYpoefntKA1j_4WaeFv1_RAVn80IA2iYmopvG0ZQVmOO0vm8bgHAIn4v/s400/richard_wright-716697.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480030898373530306" /></a>In his record of growing up black in the deep South, Wright recounts how he and his childhood friends would stand outside the store of the town's only Jew and sing: <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Jew Jew<br />How do you Chew?</span><br /><br />and also:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Jew Jew<br />Two for five<br />That's what keeps<br />Jews alive<br /><br />Bloody Christ killers<br />Never trust a Jew<br />Bloody Christ killers<br />What won't a Jew do.<br /></span><br />I was shocked that antisemitism filtered also to the ranks of southern blacks, who certainly knew the taste of prejudice. How could that be? I wondered, then suddenly remembered how me and my friends would stand by the fence of our kindergarten's yard and wait for Palestinian women to pass by, on their way to Shu'afat or Anata. Once a lady would pass, wearing an embroydered dress and balancing a full basket on her head, we would sing zestfully, loudly, over and over: <br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Arabiyah Kushkushaiya<br />Yesh la Tachat <br />Shel Gaviyah.<br /><br />A bozo Arab woman<br />Has an ass <br />Like a wineglass.</span><br /><br />When my parents caught ear of this they strongly repremended me, but the memory remained supressed for nearly a decade. Once it surfaced, I was changed. I may have accepted rubber bullets for a while, but I didn't shoot them. The case of Arabiyah Kushkushiyah was different. I grew up in an environment in which intolerance was tolerated. I had to wonder how that was possible.<br /><br />3. Watching this morning a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DRf0aB3BNEY&feature=player_embedded#!">clip</a> of MK Haneen Zoabi speaking at the Knesset made me sick to my stomach. The speaker of the house, Reuven Rivlin, is pretending to silence the restless auditorium, while in fact not letting Zoabi, who was aboard the Gaza flotilla, speak a word. At one point he tells her to shorten her speech to a minute and a half. By that point Zoabi spoke only two sentences. She protests and he tells her: "you've been speaking for five minutes."<br /><br />In my mind, I add words he leaves unsaid: "You've been speaking for five minutes, Arabiyah Kushkushiyah".<br /><br />"You spoke enough, shut up or I'll shoot a rubber bullet into one of your dirty Arab eyes. Choose which."<br /><br />The Knesset this morning stripped Zoabi of certain privilages reserved to its members and the campaign to remove her as public servent is ablaze. Right wing parlamentarians have recently worked hard promoting various initiatives that would deprive non-Zionist citizens of their rights. Today Minister of the Interior Eli Yishai proposed to strip of citizenship "Anyone who acts disloyaly towards the State".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxTO8vshNHhO_nlAZ6J8Zvwsj-enHunV8zuwPkjMZDgnGTKMX0Ue-4IQy0Q3cAyoEfhN4ukIrfblV7uZamGNqaoRO5_i98AdFtq2o1qKS4rdXxoYIosdJziXNniFcdsipIhCzlH25xyeeL/s1600/Alfred-Dreyfus.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 380px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxTO8vshNHhO_nlAZ6J8Zvwsj-enHunV8zuwPkjMZDgnGTKMX0Ue-4IQy0Q3cAyoEfhN4ukIrfblV7uZamGNqaoRO5_i98AdFtq2o1qKS4rdXxoYIosdJziXNniFcdsipIhCzlH25xyeeL/s400/Alfred-Dreyfus.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5480020085495274834" /></a>In the days of the Haganah, such move was certainly not unthinkable and indeed no Arabs were members of the Pre-state Zionist establishment. My interviwees of yesterday were at war with the country's Arab population. Hell, one of these sweet grandmothers admitted to burning a village, with dynamite, not rubber or rubber-coated bullets. Yes, but this was in 1946, before the State was founded. It's now 2010. Our national idology has for years not been what it wishes to be, what it pretends to be. We have a bullet, a song and a speech to learn from. Let's be attentive to all three and change our way of thinking.יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5370424186605767972.post-24000771937019614862010-06-06T00:29:00.017+03:002010-06-07T09:37:17.213+03:00ThereI met my old lover on the street last night. She seemed so glad to see me, I just smiled. Later I dreamt of Madrid, the city in which we spent our only vacation. <br /><br />In my dream I was south of Madrid, at an amusement park, with Itka. It was in fact Virginia's "King's Dominion" where my family used to go for fun when we lived in Washington D.C.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRLW7Sbbi2QMYxQGxlGd4jHwE-L4a6eFpZBAQp-yp3DcggaZdpybixWhAh2uNlGyJXWKhJhygQYFAS_uLquSeuvH-ynAvGAgFsm3impV8m75C9ecjfnMmLzVKeHyy6YO-Zbs88EeePkz8/s1600/king's+dominion.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIRLW7Sbbi2QMYxQGxlGd4jHwE-L4a6eFpZBAQp-yp3DcggaZdpybixWhAh2uNlGyJXWKhJhygQYFAS_uLquSeuvH-ynAvGAgFsm3impV8m75C9ecjfnMmLzVKeHyy6YO-Zbs88EeePkz8/s400/king's+dominion.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479407176618851458" /></a>Ok, but in my dream it was south of Madrid, not D.C. and we only had that day to be in Madrid. Itka was in a sexy swimsuit and I was trying to get her to dress up so we make it to the subway train and hit town, otherwise we'd miss our last few Spanish hours. I did my best to excite her by describing Madrid's structure: East to west goes Gran Via. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxqlCi2Oe8nnU65FEznM3kzK0MMfaBxMJA9xXT3Gdso8tdOQGwzlRJ59Z4lDgiOLkt0cV00Uw5TP7VZbocREEOwHRntmHLOeHJ3Uyz4cN7-fM02gUC56C9oK2JmqykRTSTDbKy_kz1l_fM/s1600/gran+via.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxqlCi2Oe8nnU65FEznM3kzK0MMfaBxMJA9xXT3Gdso8tdOQGwzlRJ59Z4lDgiOLkt0cV00Uw5TP7VZbocREEOwHRntmHLOeHJ3Uyz4cN7-fM02gUC56C9oK2JmqykRTSTDbKy_kz1l_fM/s400/gran+via.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479408767597847362" /></a>South of it is the old center, north is Bohemian Malasaña. This arresting boulevard meets the corso Del Prado going north to south, with Uptownish Salamnaca and the beautiful park El Retiro to its east. So really Madrid is a cross.<br /><br />It's the cross I bear, like anywhere in Europe, Europe that murdered my family, Europe that taught me culture, Europe that fed me fine chocolates, Europe that broke my heart time and again. I dream of europe like crazy. I dream of old loves, European old loves. I don't even miss them, I just dream. <br /><br />I read of Swedish author Henning Menkel imprisoned in Beer Sheva's dour prison following his participation in the Gaza flotilla, and I nearly weep. My heart is Swedish, my eyes are Croatian, My feet are Italian. I'm not speaking poetically. My roots are in Europe. My grandparents spoke Polish, Hungarian, Russian and Romanian. I ventured into that continent as a teenager, seeking love. Found some love, still came back here. Why? Does being a Humus lover really make me a Middle Easterner?<br /><br />Israel is the first colonial society that das no "mother country". There's nowhere for us to return to. When the state was founded this was even worse. Not even the U.S. accepted Holocaust refugees until 1949. We were all homeless souls doomed to the colonialist deed. <br /><br />We still are. Following 43 years of brutal occupation in the West Bank and Gaza Strip, all partially paid for by my tax money, I would readily leave the Middle East if anyone offered me a foreign citizenship, but no one does. The world really is hypocritical. You don't like us being here? Show us the way out.<br /><br />Currently the way out is only in dreams. I paid 1500 Euros worth to social security and another 1600 to Tel-Aviv's municipality over the past two weeks. I don't even have enough money to vacation by the sea of Galilee, never mind breath the moist air of Brussels. Maybe it's better that way, My friend Alma writes from Weimar that she feels threatened for the first time since coming there as a student, at least in Trukish grocery stores. <br /><br />Nevertheless, she loves Thuringia. Here's a photo she took there, posted in an album entiteld "I can't believe I live here".<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGFDEEZ2sA8fxjPARcDC_eDz3fuj-dWkq6MgsXkWHwPjYTUbP6cYZFXHUVr70FF-UKRs__AOCSB-e2QSw-_VymrxxX-2a-AzaYBJhGxtFODsarW55JouEfD67aomHPP2aHzc8QyZQa-CN/s1600/DSC00455.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYGFDEEZ2sA8fxjPARcDC_eDz3fuj-dWkq6MgsXkWHwPjYTUbP6cYZFXHUVr70FF-UKRs__AOCSB-e2QSw-_VymrxxX-2a-AzaYBJhGxtFODsarW55JouEfD67aomHPP2aHzc8QyZQa-CN/s400/DSC00455.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5479428418001470002" /></a>I can't believe I live here, in a land where right wing thugs throw smoke grenades into peace demonstrations, as happened tonight, where the army spreads doctored videos to try and cover up its viciousness, as it admitted to have done tonight. My old lover whom I've met on the street is going to spend the summer in Europe, blissfully. I know that this bliss is never complete, wherever we go we carry Israel on our backs like a cheap un-orthopedic rucksack, yet there's a comfort to being away, in green pastures where we once belonged.יובל בן-עמי Yuval Ben-Amihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08990566978902353143noreply@blogger.com4