Evidently, I am not the only one living in the linguistic limbo these days. According to a German observer of contemporary Russian life, my compatriots in the old country are having trouble coming up with a way to address each other; it is a sign of having departed from the old Soviet discourse but not having entirely adapted to the discourse of the West, capitalism, or social hierarchy (for the original article in German see here; the Russian translation can be found here).
For obvious reasons, tovarishch (the Russian for "comrade"), which not only denoted classless society and adherence to the communist ideology but was also gender-neutral, is not popular anymore. But neither are pre-revolutionary equivalents of "ma'am" and "sir," "Mrs." and Mr.," at least in the oral speech. As the article points out, "comrade janitor" was acceptable, but "madam janitor" sounds ridiculous and even mocking. The hybrids like "comrade mister" or "madam comrade" while quite appropriate for the "transitional" period did not become popular either.
What is really interesting and very ironic, is that grazhdanin, the Russian equivalent of "citizen," or French citoyen (introduced in France after the Revolution of 1789 and connoting social and civic equality) has never, even in the Soviet days, been very widely used. When it was used, instead of stressing the equal standing of the one to whom it was addressed, it denoted their untrustworthyness, dubious standing in the polity, and lower designation in the society. I guess it was a way -- although probably not quite conscious -- to signal that political society with its comrades was above civil/civic society and citizens. But it is also telling that "citizen" has not gained a positive connotation in the "new" Russia.
The country's post-socialist leaders have not provided much guidance on the issue, nor have shown consistency. Boris Yeltsin used to address his constituents as "dear compatriots," which is fine for a statesman but would hardly work if you need to ask your fellow bus-rider to get out of your way so you could exit the jam-packed vehicle. Vladimir Putin reportedly used "colleagues," but this too would not sound quite right between people in a line to the doctor's office or at the post office. Interestingly, the new president Dmitrii Medvedev is said to use "tovarishch", but it is still too early in his tenure to say whether it is a sign of things to revert to the communist past or just some personal quirk of his.
For now, the Russians are left with "young man" and "miss" even if the addressee is neither young nor single. It might be inaccurate and politically-incorrect, but at least it depoliticizes the interaction. I have to say though that these are not entirely new designations: I remember them being used in my childhood, before the official end of the Soviet endeavor. Which is just another example of my dissertation thesis: delegitimation of socialist ideology (as exemplified by reluctant usage of "comrade") began before Gorbachev's reforms; the collective and uniform (as in tovarishch) was replaced by more private and personal (even if still the same for all and imprecise for many) but nothing ideologically specific like the "capitalistic" "madam" and "sir."
We'll see what happens first: the linguistic stabilization, the political and economic consolidation (I am purposefully refraining from using "democratic" and "market" as it is unclear that Russia is still moving in that direction or that it ever has), or the completion of my dissertation. Personally, I am rooting for the last, as selfish as it might be.
* I'm taking time off from sight-seeing to do some academic work. More travelogue to come soon -- we are going to Jerusalem for a few days in the end of the week.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
Leaving Tel Aviv-Yafo Municipal Boundaries for the First Time, and Coming Back
One of the most difficult things to master in a new city is, in my opinion, its public transportation system. It is especially hard in a country whose alphabet you can barely read. As a result, in the month since my arrival here, I've taken city bus and taxi only once each. (Although this is in part due to the fact that TA is very walkable and it's fun to explore it on foot). That is until yesterday, when my knowledge of how the public transportation works grew exponentially.
CAG and I were invited to dinner in Rehovot, a city some 20 km/12 mls south of Tel Aviv. Prior to my arrival, CAG had made himself familiar with only a handful of city bus routes and had only a vague idea about sherut. (But he is a maven when it comes to intercity commuting. Go figure!) In any case, since we dawdled too long changing outfits for the dinner party a few times, we needed to take a bus to the train station. With only a vague idea what bus to take and where, we walked to one of the bus stops on a major street in the neighborhood. With my almost supernatural ability to decipher maps even in foreign places and CAG's masterful command of this country's backwards (but beautiful) script -- we *are* a perfect match! -- we figured out pretty quickly which buses to take. One of them came almost right away, and we even had exact change although here, unlike in New York, you don't need to, the driver can give you change. When you pay, you are supposed to take a ticket and retain it for the duration of the trip in case a conductor comes onboard. Which I of course didn't know when I took the bus for the first time (CAG wasn't with me to explain) and the driver had to send a fellow passenger after me; it was kind of both of them, I thought.
The buses here are pretty cheap, about $1.5, but they -- and everything else -- are getting more expensive by the day for those who are paid in the currency that was formerly known as the powerful American dollar. There is no subway in Tel Aviv, although there is some talk about light rail in some near future. But the bus network is quite extensive; from what I can tell, the buses run frequently and late into the night. But there is no service on Shabbos, i.e. from Friday late afternoon till Saturday evening. (Same goes for intercity buses and trains.) The one thing that surprised me about buses was that they all -- I am generalizing from my still limited experience -- have trashcans onboard, usually tucked between seats around the rear door. Not only this is uncommonly civilized for public transportation, but I also thought trash receptacles can be used to hide bombs (I seem to remember something about the IRA using a trashcan to bomb London Tube). But I guess in this part of the world it is more common to use a person than a trashcan for a bomb.
But back to our trip. Israeli trains are cozy double-deckers, very civilized in their own way. Seats are comfortable though a bit smaller than their Amtrak counterparts and are organized in a way that four seats share a table. We shared our little "compartment" with a soldier, who was probably going home for the weekend (Thursday is the last workday of the week here). As a matter of fact, there were many soldiers on the platform waiting for the train with us -- and many carrying their guns -- so I was left wondering who guards the country over the weekend. "Our" soldier was unusually pale, blond, and freckled for a Sabra; I thought he might be from the old country up North. And sure he was, as we found out when he took a call on his cell phone. There were a few others speaking Russian within hearing range. I still find it a bit strange, but not as startling as before, and even getting used to it: the "cheese ladies" in our supermarket are Russian-speakers, and so is the guy from whom I buy cigarettes. They haven't given me any special treatment or discounts, although I've been told the Russians here like to take care of their own. The cigarette guy upon learning I was from Russia immediately suggested that I stay here for good.
Our host in Rehovot was also of Russian descent, although I didn't have a chance to bond with him on these grounds, we all mostly talked academics. We happened to witness the observance of a minor local holiday, which began with lighting bonfires at sundown. Even though our hosts had all the windows closed, the bonfires in their neighborhood were so numerous and big that the smoke got into the apartment anyway. You could see the smoke rising all over, and, to tell the truth, it was somewhat disturbing. I guess the sight and smell of fire in an urban setting brings back certain unsettling memories.
Despite the smell of the smoke we lingered till past the last train back to the city. Our hosts had reassured us that that would we okay as we could catch the sherut, the most mysterious means of public transportation around here. Sherut, literally meaning "service," is usually -- and misleadingly -- translated as "a shared taxi." In CAG's description, it sounded very unreliable and shady. In fact, it is one of the most dependable and efficient means of getting around. It is ten-passenger vans that run along the same routes as city and intercity buses, cost the same or a bit less, pick up and drop off passengers anywhere along the route (as long as there are free seats), and operate afterhours and on Saturdays. But we did happen to have somewhat shady co-riders on our sherut from Rehovot: one looked like a Russian wiseguy with a lot of bling around his neck and on his fingers, too much cologne, and a snazzy suit, and the other -- like a low level drug runner or a pimp for dime-a-dozen prostitutes. Also, the sherut dropped us off at a random curb outside the Central Bus Station, in a parking lot swarming with dozens sheruts, their screaming drivers, and this time truly shady characters. The atmosphere of that place reminded us of the Port Authority Bus Station back home twenty times amplified. It was also a new part of town for both of us, and for that reason it looked scarier at midnight than it would have at noon.
We walked back home through the working-class Florentin, the touristy Allenby street, and the quiet and respectable City Center. When at the Promenade -- where we went to see more celebratory bonfires -- a Hebrew-speaking stranger asked us for directions and I could understand her and explain to her -- in English though -- how to get where she was going -- I felt I was back home.
Back in elementary school, we read many stories about kids going on various trips. Most of them closed, or at least it seems to me that way now, with "They came home tired but satisfied." It had never occurred to me before, but now I wonder whether "they" were satisfied by the trip, or because they were finally back home.
I love going to new places. But I also love the feeling of being home. Have I made Tel Aviv my home or, as I used to say a lot when I was younger, home is what you carry inside you? I can't choose now; either sounds quite good.
CAG and I were invited to dinner in Rehovot, a city some 20 km/12 mls south of Tel Aviv. Prior to my arrival, CAG had made himself familiar with only a handful of city bus routes and had only a vague idea about sherut. (But he is a maven when it comes to intercity commuting. Go figure!) In any case, since we dawdled too long changing outfits for the dinner party a few times, we needed to take a bus to the train station. With only a vague idea what bus to take and where, we walked to one of the bus stops on a major street in the neighborhood. With my almost supernatural ability to decipher maps even in foreign places and CAG's masterful command of this country's backwards (but beautiful) script -- we *are* a perfect match! -- we figured out pretty quickly which buses to take. One of them came almost right away, and we even had exact change although here, unlike in New York, you don't need to, the driver can give you change. When you pay, you are supposed to take a ticket and retain it for the duration of the trip in case a conductor comes onboard. Which I of course didn't know when I took the bus for the first time (CAG wasn't with me to explain) and the driver had to send a fellow passenger after me; it was kind of both of them, I thought.
The buses here are pretty cheap, about $1.5, but they -- and everything else -- are getting more expensive by the day for those who are paid in the currency that was formerly known as the powerful American dollar. There is no subway in Tel Aviv, although there is some talk about light rail in some near future. But the bus network is quite extensive; from what I can tell, the buses run frequently and late into the night. But there is no service on Shabbos, i.e. from Friday late afternoon till Saturday evening. (Same goes for intercity buses and trains.) The one thing that surprised me about buses was that they all -- I am generalizing from my still limited experience -- have trashcans onboard, usually tucked between seats around the rear door. Not only this is uncommonly civilized for public transportation, but I also thought trash receptacles can be used to hide bombs (I seem to remember something about the IRA using a trashcan to bomb London Tube). But I guess in this part of the world it is more common to use a person than a trashcan for a bomb.
But back to our trip. Israeli trains are cozy double-deckers, very civilized in their own way. Seats are comfortable though a bit smaller than their Amtrak counterparts and are organized in a way that four seats share a table. We shared our little "compartment" with a soldier, who was probably going home for the weekend (Thursday is the last workday of the week here). As a matter of fact, there were many soldiers on the platform waiting for the train with us -- and many carrying their guns -- so I was left wondering who guards the country over the weekend. "Our" soldier was unusually pale, blond, and freckled for a Sabra; I thought he might be from the old country up North. And sure he was, as we found out when he took a call on his cell phone. There were a few others speaking Russian within hearing range. I still find it a bit strange, but not as startling as before, and even getting used to it: the "cheese ladies" in our supermarket are Russian-speakers, and so is the guy from whom I buy cigarettes. They haven't given me any special treatment or discounts, although I've been told the Russians here like to take care of their own. The cigarette guy upon learning I was from Russia immediately suggested that I stay here for good.
Our host in Rehovot was also of Russian descent, although I didn't have a chance to bond with him on these grounds, we all mostly talked academics. We happened to witness the observance of a minor local holiday, which began with lighting bonfires at sundown. Even though our hosts had all the windows closed, the bonfires in their neighborhood were so numerous and big that the smoke got into the apartment anyway. You could see the smoke rising all over, and, to tell the truth, it was somewhat disturbing. I guess the sight and smell of fire in an urban setting brings back certain unsettling memories.
Despite the smell of the smoke we lingered till past the last train back to the city. Our hosts had reassured us that that would we okay as we could catch the sherut, the most mysterious means of public transportation around here. Sherut, literally meaning "service," is usually -- and misleadingly -- translated as "a shared taxi." In CAG's description, it sounded very unreliable and shady. In fact, it is one of the most dependable and efficient means of getting around. It is ten-passenger vans that run along the same routes as city and intercity buses, cost the same or a bit less, pick up and drop off passengers anywhere along the route (as long as there are free seats), and operate afterhours and on Saturdays. But we did happen to have somewhat shady co-riders on our sherut from Rehovot: one looked like a Russian wiseguy with a lot of bling around his neck and on his fingers, too much cologne, and a snazzy suit, and the other -- like a low level drug runner or a pimp for dime-a-dozen prostitutes. Also, the sherut dropped us off at a random curb outside the Central Bus Station, in a parking lot swarming with dozens sheruts, their screaming drivers, and this time truly shady characters. The atmosphere of that place reminded us of the Port Authority Bus Station back home twenty times amplified. It was also a new part of town for both of us, and for that reason it looked scarier at midnight than it would have at noon.
We walked back home through the working-class Florentin, the touristy Allenby street, and the quiet and respectable City Center. When at the Promenade -- where we went to see more celebratory bonfires -- a Hebrew-speaking stranger asked us for directions and I could understand her and explain to her -- in English though -- how to get where she was going -- I felt I was back home.
Back in elementary school, we read many stories about kids going on various trips. Most of them closed, or at least it seems to me that way now, with "They came home tired but satisfied." It had never occurred to me before, but now I wonder whether "they" were satisfied by the trip, or because they were finally back home.
I love going to new places. But I also love the feeling of being home. Have I made Tel Aviv my home or, as I used to say a lot when I was younger, home is what you carry inside you? I can't choose now; either sounds quite good.
Saturday, May 17, 2008
The Old, the New, and the Weird
It's been three weeks since I arrived, but I haven't been outside of Tel Aviv yet. First, because I am working on an article manuscript and a dissertation chapter. But then, there is so much to do and see here in the city (not to mention the temptation of the beach which is less than a five-minute walk from our apartment).
Of course, there are not as many Biblical sites or Roman ruins here as elsewhere in the country. But one can argue that Tel Aviv-Yafo, as the municipality is officially known, epitomizes the amalgam of the ancient and the modern that the Jewish nation and Israel as its state (and "historic homeland," as it is often referred in my old country) are today.
Yafo is about 3,000 years old. Tel Aviv will celebrate its centennial next year. And the weird is timeless.
CAG and the Whale, the one that reportedly swallowed Jonah right outside of Yafo (aka Joppa or Jaffa)
View of Tel Aviv beaches and beachfront hotels from Yafo outskirts
Donald Duck's Israeli cousin on top of the City Hall Building, in front of which Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated in 1995
Mural of Jewish intellectuals-residents of Neve Tzedek (the first Jewish neighborhood outside of Yafo, established in 1887) in late 19th-early 20th century
A courtyard in Neve Tzedek. And more palm trees!
Contemporary sculptures in front of the house of Neve Tzedek's founder, Shimon Rokach, by his granddaughter
Old house -- contemporary additions, Neve Tzedek
Of course, there are not as many Biblical sites or Roman ruins here as elsewhere in the country. But one can argue that Tel Aviv-Yafo, as the municipality is officially known, epitomizes the amalgam of the ancient and the modern that the Jewish nation and Israel as its state (and "historic homeland," as it is often referred in my old country) are today.
Yafo is about 3,000 years old. Tel Aviv will celebrate its centennial next year. And the weird is timeless.
CAG and the Whale, the one that reportedly swallowed Jonah right outside of Yafo (aka Joppa or Jaffa)
View of Tel Aviv beaches and beachfront hotels from Yafo outskirts
Donald Duck's Israeli cousin on top of the City Hall Building, in front of which Yitzhak Rabin was assassinated in 1995
Mural of Jewish intellectuals-residents of Neve Tzedek (the first Jewish neighborhood outside of Yafo, established in 1887) in late 19th-early 20th century
A courtyard in Neve Tzedek. And more palm trees!
Contemporary sculptures in front of the house of Neve Tzedek's founder, Shimon Rokach, by his granddaughter
Old house -- contemporary additions, Neve Tzedek
I Think I am in Love...
...with palm trees.
They are everywhere here: beach and boulevard, backyard and city square.
I am not exactly sure why I like them so much: maybe because I find them so exotic, or maybe because they look so good against the very blue sky. Or maybe because they are tall and proud -- and a little scruffy -- just like the local people.
But they give me butterflies in my stomach and make me happy each time I see them.
It was love from the first sight. I can only hope it's mutual.
They are everywhere here: beach and boulevard, backyard and city square.
I am not exactly sure why I like them so much: maybe because I find them so exotic, or maybe because they look so good against the very blue sky. Or maybe because they are tall and proud -- and a little scruffy -- just like the local people.
But they give me butterflies in my stomach and make me happy each time I see them.
It was love from the first sight. I can only hope it's mutual.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Second First Impressions
Now that I’ve unpacked my suitcases (even the one with my dissertation materials), got organized and acclimated to local time and weather, I’ve begun paying attention to native ways beyond food, drink, and smoke options, although most of my observations are so far from Tel Aviv, so things elsewhere in the country might be quite different. But a few things here have caught my attention as they are different from either New York or my prior expectations.
First, very very few women wear dresses or skirts, despite or maybe because of declarations of some local religious authorities that “women should not wear pants even when alone” as it is immodest and sacrilegious. Pants, shorts, capris, and of course jeans seem to be the bottoms of choice for local women regardless of age. I do wonder whether it is a way – not necessarily completely conscious – to manifest their secular-ness. Or is it because most women serve in the army where skirts are not an option? Whatever the real reason, a non-pants wearing woman is likely to be either religious or a foreigner. I feel both very foreign and very “Jewish” in my summer skirts and dresses, although of course the truly religious immediately recognize my above-the-knee and sleeveless outfits as decidedly different from theirs and just as immodest as pants.
If less “traditional” in dress, it seems to me – although my evidence is based entirely on naked-eye observations – that local women marry and have children earlier than their counterparts in New York. CAG and I have been to a few public events in the past few days and there were a *ton* of people younger than us with children, often more than one per family and who seem to be older than children of our friends in New York. In fact, strollers were a *huge* nuisance! I am only assuming these couples are married: I don’t quite understand yet the local customs regarding wedding rings. There does not seem to be a pattern: some wear them on their right hand, others – on the left; sometimes only one person in a couple has the ring; and the rings themselves seem to look different from what I’m used to seeing in NY, but again there’s no discernible pattern. As a result, my own wedding ring (not ostentatious but it won’t be missed or misinterpreted on the other side of the Ocean) is probably just another piece of jewelry in the eyes of the natives. Otherwise, I don’t think I would have been asked on a date while watching the Independence Day Air Show (although it mostly likely would have been just a hookup, had I agreed).
And speaking of hookups: the local Russian-language newspaper that I picked up a few days ago has a sizable “personals” section where I saw several ads by men – at least one of whom was married – looking for “discreet” relationships and/or willing to offer “[financial] support.” I don’t really read personals back home, but I don’t think solicitations are that open there.
And my Russian compatriots are indeed ubiquitous here, a rare trip outside goes without hearing my native tongue. I of course knew that over a million Russian Jews came here in the 1980s-1990s, but I was under the impression that Tel Aviv was expensive for them, as it is for many other newcomers. But I must have been mistaken, as I bump into them wherever I go: supermarket, mall, promenade, and especially the beach; basically every sixth or seventh person on the street is a Russian-speaker. Many local websites (the bus company or cable providers) have Russian language websites, there are Russian food products in the store (Baltika no. 9 – the strong and very tasty beer – and three kinds of pel’meni – Russian meat dumplings – are among our favorites), and many businesses, like the one in the picture below (which reads: "Always fresh, tasty, cheap"), have signs in Russian. Not to mention at least half a dozen of television channels – produced both locally and in Moscow – that the local cable company carries.
As a result, I’ve been having a minor case of identity crisis. Because of all the exposure to the mother language, which I haven’t had to the same degree in almost eleven years, I am again dreaming in Russian. A couple of times I woke up as if from a nightmare, but then realized that my distress came from dreaming in a different language than I’m used to. English is my language of choice when I need to communicate with the locals, which I try to avoid as much as I can for I do feel embarrassed and inferior because I do not speak Hebrew. But since I don’t have a choice (speaking Russian isn’t really an option for me for a variety of reasons), I’ve come to accept that for the next three months I will be playing the role of a “stupid American girl” who sometimes buys a Russian newspaper. I do wonder whether I might encounter pressure to at least try to learn some basic vocabulary. Not so much because “in Rome do like Romans,” but because as every self-respecting Jew I need – and ought to want to – make an aliyah, learn the language of my people, and become an Israeli. Even though some academics claim that Zionism is no more (I personally think this is an acute case of the Ivory Tower syndrome or severe projection on the part of some Israeli intellectuals), I have already met a few people who upon discovering that CAG and I were Jews asked us whether (but probably meaning "when") we were going to make aliyah or those who complained that some new olim (immigrants), particularly from the former Soviet Union, did not want to learn the language and to assimilate. But this pressure also might come from within: I now understand the strong emotional connection to Israel some diaspora Jews have, and I have experienced it myself. Sometimes I do want to rid myself of my paleness, bad posture, and fear of pogroms after sporting events (like big football games in that Midwestern town I frequent) and be one of them – fit, tan, and speaking this beautiful though incomprehensible language.
The one thing that definitely bothers me about Tel Avivians is their rudeness and pushiness, especially noticeable on the sidewalks (New Yorkers do not stand a chance against them). I am relived to report that this is not only my personal perception: in a recent local opinion poll, over 60 percent of respondents named impudence and impatience the most distinctive features of the Israeli national character. In my opinion, it is a remnant of the 2,000-year exile experience, not chalutz fortitude. But as much as I might not want to, this is an easy thing to emulate, and maybe a necessary one not to be bulldozed over by the incoming pedestrian traffic. I might not have the mental agility to learn the local language quickly, but I sure do have the physical one to blend in on the streets. Hey, lady with a stroller, watch out -- here I come!
First, very very few women wear dresses or skirts, despite or maybe because of declarations of some local religious authorities that “women should not wear pants even when alone” as it is immodest and sacrilegious. Pants, shorts, capris, and of course jeans seem to be the bottoms of choice for local women regardless of age. I do wonder whether it is a way – not necessarily completely conscious – to manifest their secular-ness. Or is it because most women serve in the army where skirts are not an option? Whatever the real reason, a non-pants wearing woman is likely to be either religious or a foreigner. I feel both very foreign and very “Jewish” in my summer skirts and dresses, although of course the truly religious immediately recognize my above-the-knee and sleeveless outfits as decidedly different from theirs and just as immodest as pants.
If less “traditional” in dress, it seems to me – although my evidence is based entirely on naked-eye observations – that local women marry and have children earlier than their counterparts in New York. CAG and I have been to a few public events in the past few days and there were a *ton* of people younger than us with children, often more than one per family and who seem to be older than children of our friends in New York. In fact, strollers were a *huge* nuisance! I am only assuming these couples are married: I don’t quite understand yet the local customs regarding wedding rings. There does not seem to be a pattern: some wear them on their right hand, others – on the left; sometimes only one person in a couple has the ring; and the rings themselves seem to look different from what I’m used to seeing in NY, but again there’s no discernible pattern. As a result, my own wedding ring (not ostentatious but it won’t be missed or misinterpreted on the other side of the Ocean) is probably just another piece of jewelry in the eyes of the natives. Otherwise, I don’t think I would have been asked on a date while watching the Independence Day Air Show (although it mostly likely would have been just a hookup, had I agreed).
And speaking of hookups: the local Russian-language newspaper that I picked up a few days ago has a sizable “personals” section where I saw several ads by men – at least one of whom was married – looking for “discreet” relationships and/or willing to offer “[financial] support.” I don’t really read personals back home, but I don’t think solicitations are that open there.
And my Russian compatriots are indeed ubiquitous here, a rare trip outside goes without hearing my native tongue. I of course knew that over a million Russian Jews came here in the 1980s-1990s, but I was under the impression that Tel Aviv was expensive for them, as it is for many other newcomers. But I must have been mistaken, as I bump into them wherever I go: supermarket, mall, promenade, and especially the beach; basically every sixth or seventh person on the street is a Russian-speaker. Many local websites (the bus company or cable providers) have Russian language websites, there are Russian food products in the store (Baltika no. 9 – the strong and very tasty beer – and three kinds of pel’meni – Russian meat dumplings – are among our favorites), and many businesses, like the one in the picture below (which reads: "Always fresh, tasty, cheap"), have signs in Russian. Not to mention at least half a dozen of television channels – produced both locally and in Moscow – that the local cable company carries.
As a result, I’ve been having a minor case of identity crisis. Because of all the exposure to the mother language, which I haven’t had to the same degree in almost eleven years, I am again dreaming in Russian. A couple of times I woke up as if from a nightmare, but then realized that my distress came from dreaming in a different language than I’m used to. English is my language of choice when I need to communicate with the locals, which I try to avoid as much as I can for I do feel embarrassed and inferior because I do not speak Hebrew. But since I don’t have a choice (speaking Russian isn’t really an option for me for a variety of reasons), I’ve come to accept that for the next three months I will be playing the role of a “stupid American girl” who sometimes buys a Russian newspaper. I do wonder whether I might encounter pressure to at least try to learn some basic vocabulary. Not so much because “in Rome do like Romans,” but because as every self-respecting Jew I need – and ought to want to – make an aliyah, learn the language of my people, and become an Israeli. Even though some academics claim that Zionism is no more (I personally think this is an acute case of the Ivory Tower syndrome or severe projection on the part of some Israeli intellectuals), I have already met a few people who upon discovering that CAG and I were Jews asked us whether (but probably meaning "when") we were going to make aliyah or those who complained that some new olim (immigrants), particularly from the former Soviet Union, did not want to learn the language and to assimilate. But this pressure also might come from within: I now understand the strong emotional connection to Israel some diaspora Jews have, and I have experienced it myself. Sometimes I do want to rid myself of my paleness, bad posture, and fear of pogroms after sporting events (like big football games in that Midwestern town I frequent) and be one of them – fit, tan, and speaking this beautiful though incomprehensible language.
The one thing that definitely bothers me about Tel Avivians is their rudeness and pushiness, especially noticeable on the sidewalks (New Yorkers do not stand a chance against them). I am relived to report that this is not only my personal perception: in a recent local opinion poll, over 60 percent of respondents named impudence and impatience the most distinctive features of the Israeli national character. In my opinion, it is a remnant of the 2,000-year exile experience, not chalutz fortitude. But as much as I might not want to, this is an easy thing to emulate, and maybe a necessary one not to be bulldozed over by the incoming pedestrian traffic. I might not have the mental agility to learn the local language quickly, but I sure do have the physical one to blend in on the streets. Hey, lady with a stroller, watch out -- here I come!
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Relocation, not Exile
As many of you already know, I've left -- temporarily -- New York and my couch there for the warmer and sunnier shores of another not-quite-capital city, Tel Aviv. I will be here for the next three months and am hoping that the local couch would make me much more productive -- as both a blogster and a dissertator (I brought a suitcase full of books and research materials with me and, to my great relief, the airline did not lose it).
In the last few days in New York, I had some serious pre-travel jitters. I hadn’t traveled outside of the US for almost ten years (I’m not counting my two trips to Canada: despite border control, different currency, and their funny dialect, it did not feel too much like “abroad”). Somehow, in New York I feel pretty cosmopolitan, but as soon as I booked my flight, I began feeling like an uncouth hick going to a metropolis whose language I didn’t speak and whose customs I didn’t understand. On the other hand, for three-quarters of my flight here I felt guilty and imperialistic for speaking English to my German flight attendants. But then I remembered that I am not an American and English is not my first language and therefore the “parochial Yankee” stereotype does not apply to me. But then, when entering Israel, I was reminded that some might see me as a “ubiquitous Russian” – I heard a muted sigh of disappointment from the passport-control officer when she, after having interrogated me in Russian (!), found no excuse not to let me in. This was one of those days when I really resented notions of nations, states, citizenship, silly ideas of self-determination and longed for the worldwide spoken Esperanto.
This feeling mostly passed as I recovered from sleep deprivation. I also realized that between my Russian, English, and rudimentary Hebrew (for now I can only recognize “tuna” in “טונה” and “chips” in “צ'יפס” and say – timidly – “thank you,” “excuse me,” and “please”) I’ll be okay, if still a foreigner. After all, I am almost like the natives – I am a Jew – albeit a lot paler. And this is the thing that astonishes me the most: almost everyone I encounter (three out of four people, I am told, and probably even more here in Tel Aviv) is Jewish. After a lifetime of knowing you belong to a minority – and often a despised or feared one – it is really hard to wrap your head around the fact that it can be otherwise. I wonder whether Sabras – native-born Israelis – truly comprehend the uniqueness of their situation and, also, whether any minority person rejoining her people from the diaspora will be in the same awe I am.
And speaking of group solidarity: Today is the Holocaust Remembrance Day here in Israel. I went outside just before 10 AM to see and participate in one of the public commemorations of the day. Exactly at 10, sirens went on around the entire country and everyone and everything stopped. Traffic halted, drivers got out of their cars, people got up from their café tables or froze on the sidewalks. For two minutes, there was no sound or movement. It was dead silent, except for the sirens, eerie, and very moving – even for me, usually skeptical of collective action.
And here are a few more, more mundane, observations:
1. Cheese, bread, and produce taste WAY better than in the US.
2. Tap water, comparing to New York, sucks. Some say it has a foul taste. I won’t go this far, but it does have some funky, not in a good way, flavor.
3. That is probably why Israelis drink so much bottled water and every so often on the streets you see these cagey looking depositories for bottle recycling. Otherwise, recycling is nonexistent; everything else – cans, paper, glass bottles – goes into trash. When CAG jokingly suggested that it all must be going to the Negev (a desert in the south probably half the size of the entire country), our friends without a smile confirmed it.
4. Falafel sandwiches are stuffed with pickles, sauerkraut, and French fries.
5. There is no skim milk and ultra-light cigarettes here. Apparently, living healthy stops at 1% and “blue label,” respectively.
It’s been only a week since I arrived and I clearly haven’t done much but sleep, eat, and drink. I am still waiting for my sociological instincts to come back completely, but hopefully it won’t be too long.
In the last few days in New York, I had some serious pre-travel jitters. I hadn’t traveled outside of the US for almost ten years (I’m not counting my two trips to Canada: despite border control, different currency, and their funny dialect, it did not feel too much like “abroad”). Somehow, in New York I feel pretty cosmopolitan, but as soon as I booked my flight, I began feeling like an uncouth hick going to a metropolis whose language I didn’t speak and whose customs I didn’t understand. On the other hand, for three-quarters of my flight here I felt guilty and imperialistic for speaking English to my German flight attendants. But then I remembered that I am not an American and English is not my first language and therefore the “parochial Yankee” stereotype does not apply to me. But then, when entering Israel, I was reminded that some might see me as a “ubiquitous Russian” – I heard a muted sigh of disappointment from the passport-control officer when she, after having interrogated me in Russian (!), found no excuse not to let me in. This was one of those days when I really resented notions of nations, states, citizenship, silly ideas of self-determination and longed for the worldwide spoken Esperanto.
This feeling mostly passed as I recovered from sleep deprivation. I also realized that between my Russian, English, and rudimentary Hebrew (for now I can only recognize “tuna” in “טונה” and “chips” in “צ'יפס” and say – timidly – “thank you,” “excuse me,” and “please”) I’ll be okay, if still a foreigner. After all, I am almost like the natives – I am a Jew – albeit a lot paler. And this is the thing that astonishes me the most: almost everyone I encounter (three out of four people, I am told, and probably even more here in Tel Aviv) is Jewish. After a lifetime of knowing you belong to a minority – and often a despised or feared one – it is really hard to wrap your head around the fact that it can be otherwise. I wonder whether Sabras – native-born Israelis – truly comprehend the uniqueness of their situation and, also, whether any minority person rejoining her people from the diaspora will be in the same awe I am.
And speaking of group solidarity: Today is the Holocaust Remembrance Day here in Israel. I went outside just before 10 AM to see and participate in one of the public commemorations of the day. Exactly at 10, sirens went on around the entire country and everyone and everything stopped. Traffic halted, drivers got out of their cars, people got up from their café tables or froze on the sidewalks. For two minutes, there was no sound or movement. It was dead silent, except for the sirens, eerie, and very moving – even for me, usually skeptical of collective action.
And here are a few more, more mundane, observations:
1. Cheese, bread, and produce taste WAY better than in the US.
2. Tap water, comparing to New York, sucks. Some say it has a foul taste. I won’t go this far, but it does have some funky, not in a good way, flavor.
3. That is probably why Israelis drink so much bottled water and every so often on the streets you see these cagey looking depositories for bottle recycling. Otherwise, recycling is nonexistent; everything else – cans, paper, glass bottles – goes into trash. When CAG jokingly suggested that it all must be going to the Negev (a desert in the south probably half the size of the entire country), our friends without a smile confirmed it.
4. Falafel sandwiches are stuffed with pickles, sauerkraut, and French fries.
5. There is no skim milk and ultra-light cigarettes here. Apparently, living healthy stops at 1% and “blue label,” respectively.
It’s been only a week since I arrived and I clearly haven’t done much but sleep, eat, and drink. I am still waiting for my sociological instincts to come back completely, but hopefully it won’t be too long.
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