Things I've learned about Jerusalem and Israel, part 3
I've been ill for most of the past week, which has been deeply deeply boring, not least because it has curbed my attendance at various social events that I would really have liked to have gone to (and at those I have dragged myself out for I have not been on my usual sparkling form). Stupid head cold. However, forcing myself to spend the whole day in bed does give me the opportunity for some blog-time and I vaguely recall promising, before this viral cloud descended upon my head, to entertain my readers with my thoughts on Israeli men, abandoned mosques and a recent visit from friends. So here are some more things I've learned about Jerusalem and Israel.
1. When people tell you to get to Masada before sunrise so that you can a) see that splendid desert sunrise and b) avoid the heat, they're not wrong.
Masada, for those of you that don't know, is an ancient fortress in the Judaean desert south of Jerusalem famous for several things but in the main for the mass suicide of 960 rebel Jews who were besieged there at the end of the Great Revolt of 66-73 A.D. It's a place that is deeply rooted in the Israeli national consciousness - they have IDF swearing-in ceremonies there - and it's also pretty spectacular. It was on the itinerary for my friends Damien and Alex's whistlestop-week tour of Israel, and so we hired a car and hit the highway for a two-day road-trip taking in Masada, the Dead Sea, the Galilee, the Golan, Akko and Tel Aviv, accompanied by my semi-gypsy friends Steve and Dan (always game for a good adventure, the Jeter boys).
We'd all been at a barbecue on my friend Brittany's Old City rooftop the night before so no one fancied a 4 a.m. start and we agreed to leave sometime before 7 a.m. instead. It's a good two-hour drive to Masada, so this meant that we finally began hiking up Snake Path, as the torturous winding footpath up the side of the cliff is known, to the fortress at around 9 a.m. It turns out that it's still pretty damn hot in the desert in October and the climb is pretty steep, which would be have been fine if it wasn't around 40°C that morning. We were all sweating like pigs in a slaughterhouse by the time we hit the top.
The view was most definitely worth it, as was the sight of one man who'd climbed up before us wearing nothing more than a Speedo (budgie-smuggling on a steep hike? really?) but I think that next time I head to Masada unless it's the middle of winter I shall drag myself out of bed at the hour recommended.
2. I love spending time in the Golan
Now, I appreciate that the Golan Heights constitute a particularly painful point of controversy in a country where controversy is around every single corner, so this is not designed to be in any way a political statement. Israel seized the Golan Heights from Syria during the 1967 War, in a move that was not recognised internationally and which remains controversial; I have friends who won't buy wine produced in the Golan for that reason. But, as I say, this particular thing is not designed in any way to be a political point - I just love spending time up there. It's beautiful - green, hilly, big skies, Mount Hermon in the distance. It's cooler up there in the summer than in the sweltering arm-pit that is the Kinneret basin; it's full of vineyards and wineries that produce some really good wine; it's peaceful and quiet; and every time I've gone there I've had a blast. It was part of our road-trip in October and we had a great day driving round the hills, exploring and eating cheese - there's a winery called Pelter that does free wine-tasting, which in itself is a good thing, but they also provide goat's cheese that is produced on-site and which is delicious. When we showed up, having had no lunch (oops), we all had to restrain ourselves from fighting over the last morsels on the plate.
We also visited a tourist site at a place called Mount Bental which was the site of a massive tank battle in the 1973 Yom Kippur War. It's basically an old military outpost and is full of strange cut-out silhouettes of soldiers pointing guns at people. Dan and Steve, both photographers, couldn't resist the temptation in the afternoon sun to take several of their favourite 'jumping' shots - set the camera up so that the shot will contain a silhouette of someone jumping against the sky - and we spent a happy twenty minutes pratting around next to these cut-out soldiers.
3. Signs of the conflict are all around you, whether you notice them or not
Later on, whilst driving back to the Kinneret on a very isolated road near the Syrian border, we came across an abandoned mosque that had clearly come under artillery and gun-fire at some point in either one of the wars I mentioned above. One corner had been hit and was part of the roof was barely still attached by some metal wires, swinging gently in the evening breeze; there were bullet-holes and graffiti all over the walls; and people had clearly used this building as a camp-site. There was more pratting around with jumping shots and then we climbed the minaret, feeling a little unsafe given that no one knew how structurally sound this building was - though I'm rather proud to say that going up there was my idea; not for nothing do I take after my father, both of us in his words 'too stupid to be scared'. The view from the top of the tower was astonishing, looking right down to the Kinneret, so despite the lack of a guard-rail we lingered for several minutes to take it all in.
It was, I have to say, a strange feeling to spend time in that abandoned mosque - similar to the feeling I used to get whenever we went out to Freud's in Oxford, an old church that had been deconsecrated and turned into a rather smart bar. A building that has been built to honour and worship God loses all its meaning when that primary purpose is abandoned; it feels pointless, like like keeping an empty fish-tank in your front room after all the fish have died. The mosque had clearly served a local community - there were ruins of houses all along the road - but now was a hollow, useless shell representing a conflict that goes on still. Syria wants the Golan Heights back but Nitanyahu's government is not willing to negotiate; three Syrian tanks entered the demilitarized zone today and no one really knows why - to take attention off the ongoing civil war? A first foray into military attempts to reclaim the land? IDF soldiers vow never to let Masada fall again; protecting Israel from the enemy all around lies in the subconscious of almost every Israeli I've met. I read an interview given by Amos Oz, one of Israel's most celebrated and reknowned authors, to The Times this week and I found what he said to ring true, that for many Israelis “There’s a permanent unease about life here. There’s a permanent state of conflict, of siege, a state of menace...” It lies under the surface but it's there. I have no idea how to react to it, as a foreigner in their land; I can just dwell on those moments when it becomes more obvious to me.
4. Hebrew is a confusing language
Those of you keeping track of my adventures here will know that I've been banging on for a while about my attempts to learn Hebrew, beyond the phrases taught me by my friends to get by in the shuk and fend off unwelcome male attention ('t'azov oti besheket', if you're interested). Two weeks ago I finally began ulpan, as Hebrew language courses here are known, so every Sunday and Wednesday evening I trot off to join a random group of Greek Orthodox priests, Spanish journalists, German teenage volunteers, local Arabs and one very taciturn and inscrutable Russian in an attempt to learn how to read and write modern Hebrew (as distinct from Biblical Hebrew, a task I feel I may never be emotionally ready to take on).
And this is what I'm discovering: Hebrew is well confusing. Not so much speaking it, although that in itself is challenging because it is almost nothing like English, so unlike when I learned French at school there are few similarities to latch onto to aid the process. No no, it's reading and writing Hebrew that is so entertainingly perplexing. Here's why:
5. Israeli men can be counted upon, when in a night-club, to hit on you in a very specific and relentless way
I've been trying to point this out to my friend Charlie every time we've been out clubbing lately, because I find it amusing that this is a consistent pattern. You'll be there, shimmying away on the dancefloor to whatever crappy hip-hop/entertaining house/eclectic soul is being played at whatever club you're in and you'll find that an Israeli guy will take hold of one of your hands, spin you round in a faux-fifties jive fashion, then endeavour to drape your arm around his neck whilst introducing himself in a smooth manner. Most of them also assume I'm Russian - because I'm blonde? - and then ask me if I've made aliyah before seguing neatly into vague chat designed to get my phone number out of me. It doesn't take long to shake them off, but it does become boring after a while when all you're trying to do is have a bit of a dance with your mates. It actually can become pretty damn irksome when you're out with just a group of girls because it starts to become more like harassment; I went out clubbing with three guys the other week who formed a sort of protective circle around me and I was able to dance my little heart out without needing to fend off any wandering hands. Clearly if this is the standard move that Israeli men make when out on the town, it must work on someone. Just not me.
(I feel I should add that Charlie is not looking for tips in this area and tbh doesn't really need them given the deep v-neck t-shirt he generally wears when out on the town.)
6. Knafeh is an acquired taste
As part of the tourist trail I was determined to take Damien and Alex to eat knafeh at Jafar's in the Old City, the most famous place in town for it (though not, it has to be said, the best). For those of you who have never had the pleasure, knafeh is a sort of sweet treat made from cheese and pastry soaked in sugar syrup and it's traditional Arab food. It's delicious, in small doses, but it does have a very distinct flavour and it turns out that my friends were not that keen... We didn't make it even halfway through the massive slice that we were given and both Damo and Alex came away feeling rather queasy.
7. Having friends visiting from back home means that you can, actually, eat too much falafel
My goodness did we eat a lot of food the week that Alex and Damo were here and somehow, perhaps because of my personal craving for the stuff, a lot of what we ate was falafel. At Abu Shukri's in the Old City, at the little stand opposite Lina's on the Via Dolorosa, at a restaurant in Akko's Old City, at my regular falafel place in town, at the cafeteria in Masada's tourist centre, at the place on Hanevi'im, starving after having missed lunch during a guided tour of Yad Vashem. I generally eat falafel once or twice a week, usually grabbed on my way into town to meet Tamar for beers somewhere; the week after Damien and Alex left I couldn't actually go near the stuff. You'll be surprised to hear that, given that I have blogged here on the joys of falafel in this place, but it's true. Didn't last long though.
8. Life here never ceases to amaze, astonish, frustrate and delight
Having friends from home come to visit gave me plenty of opportunity to reflect on life in the country I've chosen to make my home in (for now, though permanently if Amos gets his way and I do actually marry an Israeli and stay here forever). I'm still learning about what it's like to live in this beautiful, messed-up, fascinating, crazy place; I'm still trying to find God in the place where the Messiah I believe in was born; every day my outlook on life gets more and more grey, nuanced, complex and concrete answers seem to scurry from view. But despite all the challenges to my faith, my politics, my sense of justice, I'm still greatly enjoying living in Israel. Or at least, I'll be back to enjoying it when this damn head-cold that has taken possession of my body finally decides to check out.
PS. Further to blog-reader appreciation for my book recommendation last time, may I suggest that you take it upon yourself to track down a copy of Half the Sky by Nick Kristof and Sheryl Wudunn. It's an astonishing, shattering, heart-breaking and inspiring read.
1. When people tell you to get to Masada before sunrise so that you can a) see that splendid desert sunrise and b) avoid the heat, they're not wrong.
Masada, for those of you that don't know, is an ancient fortress in the Judaean desert south of Jerusalem famous for several things but in the main for the mass suicide of 960 rebel Jews who were besieged there at the end of the Great Revolt of 66-73 A.D. It's a place that is deeply rooted in the Israeli national consciousness - they have IDF swearing-in ceremonies there - and it's also pretty spectacular. It was on the itinerary for my friends Damien and Alex's whistlestop-week tour of Israel, and so we hired a car and hit the highway for a two-day road-trip taking in Masada, the Dead Sea, the Galilee, the Golan, Akko and Tel Aviv, accompanied by my semi-gypsy friends Steve and Dan (always game for a good adventure, the Jeter boys).
We'd all been at a barbecue on my friend Brittany's Old City rooftop the night before so no one fancied a 4 a.m. start and we agreed to leave sometime before 7 a.m. instead. It's a good two-hour drive to Masada, so this meant that we finally began hiking up Snake Path, as the torturous winding footpath up the side of the cliff is known, to the fortress at around 9 a.m. It turns out that it's still pretty damn hot in the desert in October and the climb is pretty steep, which would be have been fine if it wasn't around 40°C that morning. We were all sweating like pigs in a slaughterhouse by the time we hit the top.
 |
| A little sweaty... |
 |
| IDF soldiers at their swearing-in ceremonies promise that 'Masada will never fall again' |
The view was most definitely worth it, as was the sight of one man who'd climbed up before us wearing nothing more than a Speedo (budgie-smuggling on a steep hike? really?) but I think that next time I head to Masada unless it's the middle of winter I shall drag myself out of bed at the hour recommended.
2. I love spending time in the Golan
Now, I appreciate that the Golan Heights constitute a particularly painful point of controversy in a country where controversy is around every single corner, so this is not designed to be in any way a political statement. Israel seized the Golan Heights from Syria during the 1967 War, in a move that was not recognised internationally and which remains controversial; I have friends who won't buy wine produced in the Golan for that reason. But, as I say, this particular thing is not designed in any way to be a political point - I just love spending time up there. It's beautiful - green, hilly, big skies, Mount Hermon in the distance. It's cooler up there in the summer than in the sweltering arm-pit that is the Kinneret basin; it's full of vineyards and wineries that produce some really good wine; it's peaceful and quiet; and every time I've gone there I've had a blast. It was part of our road-trip in October and we had a great day driving round the hills, exploring and eating cheese - there's a winery called Pelter that does free wine-tasting, which in itself is a good thing, but they also provide goat's cheese that is produced on-site and which is delicious. When we showed up, having had no lunch (oops), we all had to restrain ourselves from fighting over the last morsels on the plate.
 |
| Dan, showing us all how it's done |
3. Signs of the conflict are all around you, whether you notice them or not
Later on, whilst driving back to the Kinneret on a very isolated road near the Syrian border, we came across an abandoned mosque that had clearly come under artillery and gun-fire at some point in either one of the wars I mentioned above. One corner had been hit and was part of the roof was barely still attached by some metal wires, swinging gently in the evening breeze; there were bullet-holes and graffiti all over the walls; and people had clearly used this building as a camp-site. There was more pratting around with jumping shots and then we climbed the minaret, feeling a little unsafe given that no one knew how structurally sound this building was - though I'm rather proud to say that going up there was my idea; not for nothing do I take after my father, both of us in his words 'too stupid to be scared'. The view from the top of the tower was astonishing, looking right down to the Kinneret, so despite the lack of a guard-rail we lingered for several minutes to take it all in.
 |
| Abandoned mosque jumping - that's the corner of the roof hanging in the background |
+(480x640).jpg) |
| Nervous smiling at the top of the minaret |
It was, I have to say, a strange feeling to spend time in that abandoned mosque - similar to the feeling I used to get whenever we went out to Freud's in Oxford, an old church that had been deconsecrated and turned into a rather smart bar. A building that has been built to honour and worship God loses all its meaning when that primary purpose is abandoned; it feels pointless, like like keeping an empty fish-tank in your front room after all the fish have died. The mosque had clearly served a local community - there were ruins of houses all along the road - but now was a hollow, useless shell representing a conflict that goes on still. Syria wants the Golan Heights back but Nitanyahu's government is not willing to negotiate; three Syrian tanks entered the demilitarized zone today and no one really knows why - to take attention off the ongoing civil war? A first foray into military attempts to reclaim the land? IDF soldiers vow never to let Masada fall again; protecting Israel from the enemy all around lies in the subconscious of almost every Israeli I've met. I read an interview given by Amos Oz, one of Israel's most celebrated and reknowned authors, to The Times this week and I found what he said to ring true, that for many Israelis “There’s a permanent unease about life here. There’s a permanent state of conflict, of siege, a state of menace...” It lies under the surface but it's there. I have no idea how to react to it, as a foreigner in their land; I can just dwell on those moments when it becomes more obvious to me.
4. Hebrew is a confusing language
Those of you keeping track of my adventures here will know that I've been banging on for a while about my attempts to learn Hebrew, beyond the phrases taught me by my friends to get by in the shuk and fend off unwelcome male attention ('t'azov oti besheket', if you're interested). Two weeks ago I finally began ulpan, as Hebrew language courses here are known, so every Sunday and Wednesday evening I trot off to join a random group of Greek Orthodox priests, Spanish journalists, German teenage volunteers, local Arabs and one very taciturn and inscrutable Russian in an attempt to learn how to read and write modern Hebrew (as distinct from Biblical Hebrew, a task I feel I may never be emotionally ready to take on).
And this is what I'm discovering: Hebrew is well confusing. Not so much speaking it, although that in itself is challenging because it is almost nothing like English, so unlike when I learned French at school there are few similarities to latch onto to aid the process. No no, it's reading and writing Hebrew that is so entertainingly perplexing. Here's why:
- even though there are vowels, they are just dots and lines and are generally not written in words anyway so half the time reading a word is just a guessing game.
- there are three other letters (that I've learned so far) that function as vowel sounds in random, random places - aleph (א), vav (ו) and ayin (ע). Vav is, according to my Hebrew teacher, multi-talented and therefore does four different things depending on where it is in a word. Confused am I. And it didn't help when my friend Helen pointed out that English has loads of random letters in random words - the gh in laughter, to name just one strange spelling quirk - not least because, as I pointed out to her, I already know English.
- some letters at the ends of words are written differently - m, n and ts, for example. It's called 'sofit' and it makes the challenge of my Hebrew homework all the harder because I get them wrong. And you all know how I hate being wrong.
5. Israeli men can be counted upon, when in a night-club, to hit on you in a very specific and relentless way
I've been trying to point this out to my friend Charlie every time we've been out clubbing lately, because I find it amusing that this is a consistent pattern. You'll be there, shimmying away on the dancefloor to whatever crappy hip-hop/entertaining house/eclectic soul is being played at whatever club you're in and you'll find that an Israeli guy will take hold of one of your hands, spin you round in a faux-fifties jive fashion, then endeavour to drape your arm around his neck whilst introducing himself in a smooth manner. Most of them also assume I'm Russian - because I'm blonde? - and then ask me if I've made aliyah before seguing neatly into vague chat designed to get my phone number out of me. It doesn't take long to shake them off, but it does become boring after a while when all you're trying to do is have a bit of a dance with your mates. It actually can become pretty damn irksome when you're out with just a group of girls because it starts to become more like harassment; I went out clubbing with three guys the other week who formed a sort of protective circle around me and I was able to dance my little heart out without needing to fend off any wandering hands. Clearly if this is the standard move that Israeli men make when out on the town, it must work on someone. Just not me.
(I feel I should add that Charlie is not looking for tips in this area and tbh doesn't really need them given the deep v-neck t-shirt he generally wears when out on the town.)
6. Knafeh is an acquired taste
.jpg) |
| Mmmm... |
As part of the tourist trail I was determined to take Damien and Alex to eat knafeh at Jafar's in the Old City, the most famous place in town for it (though not, it has to be said, the best). For those of you who have never had the pleasure, knafeh is a sort of sweet treat made from cheese and pastry soaked in sugar syrup and it's traditional Arab food. It's delicious, in small doses, but it does have a very distinct flavour and it turns out that my friends were not that keen... We didn't make it even halfway through the massive slice that we were given and both Damo and Alex came away feeling rather queasy.
7. Having friends visiting from back home means that you can, actually, eat too much falafel
+(640x473).jpg) |
| Falafel at Abu Shukri - if only they knew how much of the stuff they were about to eat |
8. Life here never ceases to amaze, astonish, frustrate and delight
Having friends from home come to visit gave me plenty of opportunity to reflect on life in the country I've chosen to make my home in (for now, though permanently if Amos gets his way and I do actually marry an Israeli and stay here forever). I'm still learning about what it's like to live in this beautiful, messed-up, fascinating, crazy place; I'm still trying to find God in the place where the Messiah I believe in was born; every day my outlook on life gets more and more grey, nuanced, complex and concrete answers seem to scurry from view. But despite all the challenges to my faith, my politics, my sense of justice, I'm still greatly enjoying living in Israel. Or at least, I'll be back to enjoying it when this damn head-cold that has taken possession of my body finally decides to check out.
PS. Further to blog-reader appreciation for my book recommendation last time, may I suggest that you take it upon yourself to track down a copy of Half the Sky by Nick Kristof and Sheryl Wudunn. It's an astonishing, shattering, heart-breaking and inspiring read.
Comments
Post a Comment