In style we trust?

Responding to an article I read a few days ago, and it stayed with me. In a nutshell - a woman has to be a woman. If you want to find yourself in a stable relationship with a man, and not have a man walk out on you (sic!), you must: look gorgeous, constantly improve your style, figure and face - that is your personal growth. A woman's role in a relationship is to admire her man, agree with him, even if he is wrong, be soft and kind and organize his free time, not talk too much about your own problems, and put him at the centre of your life. This is human (male)  nature, and even centuries of feminism cannot change it. How wonderful.
The cold rage I felt after reading it is still quite there.  I have to respond, one way or another.

And just by the way, I already did all that, minus the style, because that requires money, and we never had any,  and my man walked out on me, just like that, one bright day. Putting him in the centre of my life did not work for me.
And secondly, only after he did, I began to realize how wrong it was to try and put my opinions aside. To put myself out of his way. It was dead wrong to always admire him, forgive him everything, and have no pride, no self, no presence. That is exactly why he lost respect for me. That is why (amongst other things) - men leave, and not because women are not perfect enough ( that is not to justify dirty robes and erased slippers, don't get me wrong!)
Our Sages said that a love that is based on a physical thing, will pass without a trace, whereas love not based on physical things will last forever. God help that perfect woman the author imagines,  when botox no longer works for her.

The article comes from an assumption that for a woman being alone is akin to death. That a woman would do anything to keep a relationship, including erasing her own self, going mute and turning herself into a living doll - beautiful and silent. A pet horse to parade in society.   But to call that her personal development?! To say that, the author must believe that a woman is not capable of any other kind of development, or that it has no value. To study, have a career, be a mother, collect shells or paint graffiti - if it's within the law, and has value for me, it's valid. There are things besides relationships, you know. Sometimes equally satisfying.

Now, looking down at that time from the height of  the last two years, I laugh. Seriously, I don't need a man for whom I'd be just a silent doll. It's wonderful to be in a stable and loving relationship, but it's not an ultimate goal. If that goal  is erected onto a pedestal, life will be spent in expectation of the Prince. What a waste.   I love it that I have the time to think. That I bought myself more clothes in the last month than in all the 14 years with him, and I'm about to buy a car. I have my kids, my jobs and my hobbies, and I'm so so happy. For goodness sake, I laugh at people who pity me.

I'm happy that my personal growth - which was always there, just in lower gear,  - is uninhibited by his opinions, his judgement, his heavy presence.  Personal growth directed into developing more patience, more tolerance for deeds I cannot tolerate, more kindness for someone who ended up being infinitely cruel  - I can't say I regret it, because in the end it's useful, but I think I'll get a lot farther if I think about where I want to be after 120, and not about what my best half wants to eat for supper. Energy should be placed where it could bear fruit. Indeed, if your relationship is worthwhile, then sure, invest in it. But please, don't ever forget to invest in yourself. Because in the end of the day, an empty vessel cannot over-spill and share its bounty with the world. Give yourself so that you can give to others. 
And if there is a man in my life ever again, he will not be like the author of this article, that's for sure. A relationship, to be worth it, has to include mutual effort, mutual respect, and mutual interest. I'm a person with my own life, and not somebody else's shadow, an attachment to the real thing - a man. That's so passe.  I want to be a whole and not a half.  I'll only love a man who will love me for my soul, for the things I do and believe in, for what I am, and not for how successfully I manage to hide my age, my stretch marks and my wrinkles.  If a man loves a woman, she'll be beautiful to him, even if she breaks the scales she dares to step on, or her breasts spread on her knees when she's sitting. Just as I hope to see his soul and not his pot belly/bold head/flat feet. It has to be mutual.
Religiously speaking, I believe that women give account on their own lives, just like men do. And when I'm called up to give account, I don't want to say,  ahem... dunno.. ask my man... I served him and not God all my life... No bloody way. I'll have a story to tell.

Human inertia

Human inertia. Why do we humans find it so hard to change things?

My herbs teacher says, "suffering is the easiest thing in the world". What he means is that people would much, much rather suffer for years, than do something about it. Regardless of what "it" might be, sometimes the action needed to bypass the "it" and move on is so absurdly little, and yet people find it impossible to move on in life. And I know I'm equally guilty of this, with my pet sugar addiction and habit of complaining. 

Diabetes is considered the easiest condition to treat with alternative means - and yet the most difficult. We were advised against taking on diabetes patients, even though they don't even need us - they can easily do it themselves, with diet, exercise and supplements. Why? Because improving your state in case of  diabetes requires a significant behaviour change. It would be necessary to change habits, walk off the beaten track into the unknown, and persisit with it.  So no, I have my pills, they say, yeah, I know, and yet I can't...

A person suffers from horrific heartburn, gastritis, soon to be ulcer. Her diet? Sausages, chips, pickles. I don't like vegetables. Are you serious, woman? Would you rather have ulcer?! Would you rather take aluminum for 20 years? Apparently, the answer is yes. 

A man working 14 hours a day in an office, then sometimes more at home,  suffers from severe  psoriasis, colitis, palpitations and insomnia. I won't tell you what he eats, you'll cry. I know he needs money, but will he be taking it to the grave? 

A woman who's been a housewife for 10 years. Wants to get a job, needs to get one, but "I can't get up early. I'm an owl". Again - are you kidding me? Would you rather continue suffering from poverty? Do you even hear yourself? You can't? Oh, but it's such a familiar suffering. Another helping of familiar suffering, please. 

I hear that "I can't" daily. And not only from patients. It's much easier to announce that "my life cannot be changed" and "nobody can help me", than to do it.

Why is that so? What's holding us back? 

One - fear. What if I do whatever it is, take the plunge, and nothing changes? Then the suffering will  be really  unbearable, because then it will be coupled up with a sense of failure and an awareness of hopelessness. I suspect that I'm nothing, but if I fail, I'll know for a fact that I'm nothing.  Our education is success-oriented from birth and on. We don't think of Edison, who failed 100 times  and succeeded on the 101st.  Refraining from taking action gives us hope, which is as essential to us humans as bread and water. Take away bread and water, but give me hope.  A lottery ticket in my purse, called "one day". One day I'll do it. One day things will change (by themselves). No wonder astrology is only ever gaining popularity - please tell me when the things will  change for me? When is an opportune time?  It just illustrates how people  believe that nothing is in their control. That creates apathy, tiredness, inertia. Another tired generation is growing up. I'll get my BA, start dating, lose weight , quit smoking and start working out. I promise you. One day. 

Two - we feel so little against the circumstances, our destiny, we fell pushed up against the wall. We feel like little children,waiting for mommy to take us by the hand and do whatever is necessary.

However,  we are not children anymore. According to Erikson's stages of development, middle aged adult has to choose between generativity and self- absorbtion. Do we choose to contribute or do we choose to live in fear? Do we choose to change or to continue suffering. The first step is to realize the choice is there. The second is to see yourself as a worthwhile investment. 

 We lack self- esteem, confidence, courage. We sell ourselves so cheap. If you were kidnapped, God forbid, would anyone be willing to pay ransom for you? If you fell down on the street with a cardiac arrest, would people rush to help you? I dare say, the answer is yes. Congratulations - we've established it as a fact. You are worthwhile just by virtue of being human. You - your body and soul - deserve the effort you can invest in them. 

The thing is, God/life/carma will keep on trying.  It will keep on giving us hints big and small, to remind us that our time on this Earth is so so limited. That in the end of the day, your only real acquisition in this world is yourself. That what you want written on your tombstone is not "I couldn't" or, "she was a victim of circumstances".  And I hate to break this to you - you are a grownup. You are in control- exactly as much as you choose to be. Obviously, we don't get to pick things that happen to us, but we sure do choose how to react to them. Sometimes it doesn't even matter what you do - do something. Anything. As one of my favourite songs goes - 

Life is bringing us surprises, Life is whacking us away

And depression just cuts down our neat combinations

The situation's so stressful, the psychiatrists collapse...

 And his advice is: 

Do anything - have sex, do sports or swim, 

Breed fish, slap your boss in the face, at least once, 

Do something, just don't sit. Lift your relics off the couch, 

get up and move, seduce your neighbour, your in-laws, but just don't sit. 

Timur Shaov, "Fighting depression"

He has a point, no? 

Деточки на свободе, или глас вопиющего в классе.

Первое Сентября – красный день календаря. Книжки куплены, обёрнуты, тетрадки подписаны, форма постирана, ждём – не дождёмся. Чего? Ах да, начала школьного года. И мои дети, и я – "училка" со стажем.

Но память – вещь упрямая. Её провести трудно.

Вот возвращается домой моя дочь, швыряет в угол сумку, и сообщает, что они опять не учились. Учительница не пришла, другая родила, третья забыла, четвёртая не подготовилась, пятая велела играть, но только тихо. И так – изо дня в день. Вы это серьёзно? Шестой класс был целиком посвящён выпускному вечеру и подготовке к нему. При намёке на любой праздник уроки отменялись и начиналась "активность". Поездки, походы, сбор милостыни для нуждающихся, костюмы, представления, песни и пляски... главное – чтобы ребёнку было в школе весело. Каждое лето мы сдаём пустые учебники, пустые теради отправляются в переработку.

Учитель английского у моего сына, держащий книгу вверх тормашками. Только сидите тихо, понятно? И я вас трогать не буду.

Учитель математики у него же.  Спрашиваю, решают ли они задачи ( на иврите – "беайот милулийот"- "словесные проблемы.")  Отвечает, да, конечно у детей словесные проблемы, они же все иностранцы – олим. Немая сцена и тихое похрюкивание под дверью – мой муж сползает по стенке от смеха. Хорош математик...

Мой сын – одарённый мальчик. Спрашиваю, что они могут ему предложить. Ответ – дополнительный урок в неделю с девушкой – солдаткой. Всё. Вот если бы он у вас был даун или аутист.... Конечно, помогать больным детям намного важнее, это святое дело. Но и одарённым тоже надо дать шанс. Вдруг изобретут что-то для страны.

И из моей практики – дети лежат на столе. "Начинаем записывать" – ответ: "Учительница, у меня нет сил." Смотрю и вижу – действительно, нет. Писать – тяжёлая работа. Такое впечатление, что я поросила переставить мебель или поднять пианино на десятый этаж. Они действительно не могут. И так очень часто. Не привыкли.

Едем дальше. Класс с нулевым уровнем английского. Спрашиваю – вас, что , вообще не учили? Не было учителя? Нет, почему, была. Но она рассазывала нам о поездках в Таиланд и туфлях от "Гуччи". Я посмеялась, а потом встретила эту красавицу и убедилась, что дети говорили правду.

Авраам, 10 лет,  сидит на крыше школы, свесив ноги. Внизу бьётся в истерике завуч, учительница иврита звонит родителям, и я объясняю ему, что там опасно. Ребёнок, хихикая, бросает в нас огрызками и голубиным помётом. Потом, не спеша, слезает.

Выдаю 11 классу материал по биологии. 10 страниц. Вопрос – вы что думаете, мы можем это всё прочитать?! Мы столько не можем!

Первый класс. Где Миша? Нету Миши. Вот он сидел, а вот его нет. Прошло две секунды. Ах, вот он. На моих глазах он ныряет под стул, на котором он стоял. Головой вниз. Если бы это сделал взрослый, его бы собирали по кусочкам. Потом Миша разрисовывает колени фломастером и рвёт свою тетрадь на полоски, которые поливает из бутылочки. Миша забыл взять Риталин. Звоним маме, она приносит. И таких "Миш" очень много, по 3-5 в каждом классе.

В пятом классе Гай просится побегать. Ему это надо, иначе он сейчас всё здесь будет крушить. Я отпускаю... 2-4 раза с каждого урока.

10 класс – детки кидают друг в друга стульями. У некоторых бороды. Крови пока нет, но "щас будет". Упоминаются мамы и другие родственники, обещаются всякие изощрённые казни.  Я вызываю завуча, она долго истерически кричит на них, срывает горло, затем спрашивает: "Но ведь вы будете хорошими мальчиками? И не будете так больше?" – и уходит. Всё, воспитательные мероприятия окончены, тушите свет и ползите домой, пока детки не достали ножи. Занавес.

В школе, где я работаю, классы закрываются изнутри, когда идёт урок, чтобы ученики не сбежали, и снаружи, когда урока нет, чтобы не разгромили.

Пятый класс – я раздала карту мира, прошу найти Китай, Индию, Россию. Слёзы на глазах у девочек. Некоторые держат карту вверх ногами, другие – вертикально. Они никогда её раньше не видели. Нагоняй от директора школы – зачем я издеваюсь над детьми? При чём тут к английскому карта? И так рано? Они же маленькие!

Приводят ко мне ученицу, 18 лет. "Сделай хоть что-нибудь, Багрут через неделю". Проверяю – читать она не может, букв не знает. Сидит, обнимая грелку, хотя и не больна.  Где она была 11 лет?! Вопрос – "Учительница, как мне не забеременеть?"

Не спрашивайте, как они поступают потом в университеты. Не спрашивайте, что будет с этими детьми. Я этого не знаю. Не знаю даже, что будет с моими.

Знаю только, что это абсурд. Что школа может быть разной, но уж точно не такой.

Что пока кто-то где-то не поймёт, что образование должно образовывать, а не кормить армию чиновников, ничего не будет. Что министр образования дожет быть сам хоть немного образован и не отменять всё, что только можно. Что нельзя отменять уроки ради игр. Что родители должны иметь право слова и реальное влияние на процесс. Я знаю, что есть родители, которым именно эти игры и нужны, но всё же надеюсь.

Что есть много толковых учителей, которые либо не могут пробиться, либо уже отчаялись. Что армия репетиторов, исправляющая ошибки учителей, может подсказать, что и как надо исправить.

Ради Бога, перестаньте жалеть детей за то, что им приходиться учиться.

Если начать с дисциплины, то изменится очень многое. Чётко сформулировать, что в школу ходят, чтобы у-чить-ся. Не развлекаться, не просто потому, что так надо. А для того, чтобы что-то сделать для себя, чего-то добиться. Этого понятия просто нет.

Потому что – возьмём для примера английский – для того, чтобы сдать "Багрут", нужно учить по 30 слов в неделю, начиная с пятого класса, как минимум. Багрут требует высочайшего знания языка. В университетах не принимают работы на других языках, включая иврит. Я думаю, что так же обстоит дело и с другими предметами. Те, кто жалеет "деточку", перекрывает ему путь к профессии. Наши мудрецы говорили: "Тот, кто не учит сына ремеслу, учит его воровать".

 Необходимы профтехучилища для тех, кто не может, не успел, кому тоже надо зарабатывать на жизнь. Чтобы учителя смогли сосредоточиться на тех, кому это надо, кто может.

 Необходимы меры, которые восстановят авторитет учителей, научат детей уважать друг друга. Воспитание морали, вне зависимости от религии,  должно быть превыше всего. В Сингапуре штраф за бумажку на улице – пять тысяч долларов. Почему-то там очень чисто. А нам слабо?

 Чёткое указание целей учёбы, повышение мотивации. Эти дети - наше гражданское общество завтрашнего дня. Каким оно будет – зависит от чиновников Министерства Образования... увы.

Best case Jews.

Scene one: "Do you really want to tell me those are Jews? With crosses tattooed into their foreheads?" – My mother about Ethiopians.

"What can I possibly have in common with a walking tent?" – my daughter is outraged when I tell her that the ladies in Rama B, clad in 7 layers of cloth, are Jewish.

Scene two: two boys are talking in our garden. A is about 9, D, with red hair, blue eyes and a knitted kippa,  is about 7, and they're speaking English.

A – are you Chareidi?

D – no…

A – So who? Mizrochnikim?

D – What's that?

A – Are you right or left?

D – Duh! Of course we're right wing!

A – Ok. Are you chassidish? Chabad, Breslev?

D – Of course not!

A – Oh, I know! You're Sfardi!

D – I'll ask my Aba..

A – So what kind are you?

D – We're just Jewish.

A – You talk shtuyot! (Nonsense). There is no such a thing, just Jewish! Are you bichlal religious?

Scene three:

I'm standing in front of a class.

-          Teacher, are you religious? And then – Are you American?

I say, I'm Russian. And yes. Religious.

-          But you don't look like that!

This scene repeats itself time after time, anywhere I teach. I give in and answer, because, I guess, they cannot perceive me without classifying me. People without a "box" just don't exist, to paraphrase Chechov's genius and still so timely "Man in a case" story.  I shatter their notions a bit, by being Russian and religious, and that's uncomfortable, ties their brains into a knot.

So here's the paradox. Starting from kindergarten we divide, by all possible attributes. We're boys and girls, religious and not, black and white, and xenophobia is a universal human phenomenon, from before dawn of Civilization. Xenos- a foreigner – looms large and scary. But within OUR OWN NATION?

But the worst rift of all slices our society into Right and Left. British notion about politics discussions being rude would not survive here for very long. Everybody argues – Land for Peace or Peace for Peace? Peace for War and War for Peace. Peace as a whole and Peace in pieces. Really, one's head could explode, if you permit me a pun over here. I see bus drivers forget the wheel and wave their arms around frantically to prove a point. Old ladies at the market greet each other not with "How are the grandchildren?" but with "Did you hear what the putz said?" Whoever the culprit may be. Couples divorce not over who is to take out the garbage, but over what they think of the Prime Minsiter. Even the kids are politicized. And the opponent here is not just wrong – he's crazy! Traitor! Idiot! Tfu, spit over your left shoulder.

Why is it so?

Firstly, because our very lives depend on those decisions the politicians make.

But there is more than that.

I think, a Jew is naturally a believer. Take away the Torah, and he'll attach to any "–ism" left lying around, to global warming, to Greenpeace, he'll save the whales and run for charity. A Jew needs a cause, at the very least.

So with the Right Wing it's all very simple – this is how we/they see the Torah rules, applied to today's reality. From burning the wigs and iPhones to building concrete boxes on the tippity-top of another hill, to have it demolished by the Army on the morrow. We believe. We are ready to listen and obey, each to his own.

But think about it – the Left is also a belief! A religion, if I may. Based on some understanding of Judaism and its special role in the world.

How would you define a religion?

I reckon it has to have the following attributes: a faith in some ideal; sacrifices, a necessity to give of yourself, the dearly beloved; prophets of one's own or borrowed; rituals; holy places; a hope for a better future; rejecting things or people that contradict the religion, a desire to annihilate/humiliate/ convince/subdue them – fill in the blank.

The Left believe not just in peace, but a Peace. It needs no proof; Of course our enemies also want Peace! Who wouldn't?! Faith is by definition irrational. So, the worse, the better. The worse for our country, the sooner it can be convinced into the glorious future. Love your enemy, dress him, educate him, give him money/water/electricity – and you shall be loved back. Blessed is he who beleiveth.

Sacrifices are the "sacrifices on the altar of Peace'. They do actually say that. They're unavoidable, and only prove how determined we are to reach… that's right. Peace!

The martyred prophet's name glorifies every city, town and village. There is a memorial day, ceremonies, songs and poetry. No more resurrections, please, though. One was enough.

Rituals take place on the square where the martyrdom took place. "Those who did not yet… we all, as one…. To defend… to declare…." Covering my head with a volume or Orwell, I instinctively fix my pioneer tie/hat/chador/turban/cross – fill in the blank – and crawl to the safe room.

I will not dwell on the hatred part – we all read the news plenty. And it's sad. Settlers are the enemies, occupants, who do not believe in the great god of Peace. Believing  in it must give a fantastic boost of confidence, of feeling yourself to be the real Jew, the truly chosen, light onto the nations, sweet and fluffy. We all think we're the only right kind of a Jew, don't we?

So, what's to be done? Divide, as my dear Bet Shemesh is about to divide? But the whole country?

Firstly, we must realize that there is no use arguing with a believer. This is his vision. Could you persuade a Christian that there was no virgin birth? Good luck to you. In the best case scenario, you'll get slightly bruised.

Accusations and hatred will only get us deeper into exile. The only hope we have is to find common points, things which make us One Nation, despite it all. Stop seeing a Jew as a xenos. Stop seeing them as idiots. If they believe, there must be a grain of truth in it, one of the 70 faces of the Torah, or some rational spark. And our job is to see it. Our job is to stop being "case men" and see people as people, not as labels. We are all reflected in each other, as in a crooked mirror. Not one of us is completely right or righteous, as much as we wish that was the case. That is not to say we should have our own faith dissolved – on the contrary! Faith could only mature when it crawls out of its comfy case. If we make the only true peace possible – with each other – our enemies will fall in multitude to our left side, as well as on our right side, as the Torah says. And if not – at least we won't have the additional pain of being tormented by our own brothers. And that's why we cannot tolerate foreign beliefs in our midst – because we are brothers. That is why we are ready to strangle each other on the bus and in a  café. Because deep down, we care. Let's recognize that, at least.

Евреи в футляре

"Да что это за евреи, с крестами на лбу?" -моя  мама.
"Да что может быть у меня общего с ходячей палаткой?" - моя дочь. (Имеются в виду женщины секты в Бейт Шемеше, носящие семь слоёв одежды).


Одним из ярчайших первых впечатлений от Израиля стал для меня разговор двух малышей у нас в саду. А - 10 лет, Д, новому репатрианту из Америки,  - наверное, семь. Соседские дети, не мои:
А-  Вы кто? Харедим?
Д- Нет...
А- А тогда кто? "Мизрохники"?
Д-  Нет...
А. - Правые или левые?
Д. - Конечно, правые! 
А - Ну, ладно... Хасиды? Хабад,  Бреслав?
Д - Нет, конечно!
А - А, я знаю, вы Сфарадим!
Д - кажется, нет... я спрошу у папы. 
А - А тогда что же вы такое? Так не бывает, чтоб человек был просто так. (Прям по Успенскому! Так не бывает, чтобы мальчик был сам по себе мальчик!)
Д- Мы просто евреи.
Д (уверенно) - да что за чушь! Никогда не слышал! Ты вообще религиозный?

И ещё. Перед каким бы классом я не стояла, первый вопрос всегда - "Учительница, ты религиозная?" Затем, "Ты русская или американка?" Отвертеться от ответа невозможно. И в конце концов я поняла, что им действительно надо это знать. Они меня не могут воспринять без "коробочки", класса, отряда и подвида. Иначе я не существую на самом деле. Человека не в футляре просто не бывает.

Вот так-то. Начиная с детского сада мы делимся на группы, классы, партии. По всем признакам, включая расовые и половые. На правых и левых, религиозных и нет. Извините, а на кой...? Зачем нам это? Кроме того, что у евреев, как известно, на двоих - три мнения.
При этом английская догма о неприличности политики в общественно месте здесь не работает. Спорят все. В автобусах, поездах, на рынке, на работе. Люди ссорятся и разводятся, мирятся и братаются на основании того, какую бумажку каждый из них кинул в урну в день выборов. Политизированны даже маленькие дети. При этом собеседник нас не просто не прав - он сумасшедший! Предатель! Идиот! Тьфу, гадость!

Почему это так?
Мой ответ - во, первых, еврей - это существо религиозное. И если с правыми всё понятно, у них -
"Каждый тонет - как желает,
Каждый гибнет - как умеет.
Или просто умирает,
Как мечтает, как посмеет." (А. Вертинский)
Как читает Тору, так и верит ( От Рабби Нахмана и до Великого Израиля от реки и до моря), и спорит( айфон запрещён Торой!) , и настаивает (изучение Торы - превыше всего! Вы что, не видите этого?) , и ненавидит( левые - предатели!) , и проклинает. И любит тоже.  Но что у нас с левыми?

Так вот - левизм - это тоже, братцы, религия. Основанная на некоем понимании иудаизма, конечно.  Как можно определить религию? Основные компоненты религии это:  вера в какой - либо идеал; жертвы, пожертвования, какая-нибудь потребность отдать что-то от себя, любимого; свои пророки или заимствованные; ритуалы; святые места; надежда на светлое будущее; неприятие противоречащих религии людей, фактов, ненависть к ним и желание их покорить/уничтожить/переубедить/унизить - ненужное зачеркнуть.
Вера левого лагеря в возможность мира весьма похвальна, но часто иррациональна. Их бог/идеал - часто настолько иррационален, что чем хуже, тем лучше. Чем ужаснее война, тем скорее все - все!!! - увидят, как нам нужен Мир. Враги наши - вовсе не враги; они хотят мира. Так кто же с нами воюет? Ах да, эти, отдельные элементы, их надо поскорее накормить, воспитать, полюбить, и тогда! Ах - тогда, вы даже не представляете, что будет тогда.
Жертвы - это "жертвы на алтарь Мира". Так и говорят. Они неизбежны, и лишь доказывают, как мы привержены делу Мира. Вот какие мы хорошие. Вплоть до самопожертвования, кидания на амбразуру и под танк.
Пророк у нас один, и нет Рабина, кроме Рабина. В каждом городе улица Ленина... ах, нет же, тьфу! Рабина . Ему день памати, ему стихи и слава. Перес помрёт, и будет у нас двоица. Слава Богу, пока никто не воскрес, но кто его знает, один, говорят, уже таки да...
Ритуалы - митинги. Все, кто ещё не отрёкся...все, как один... на защиту...  слыша эту риторику,  что правых, что левых, я инстинктивно поправляю пионерский галстук/шляпу/чадру/тюрбан/крестик - ненужное зачеркнуть.
О непряитии противоположных мнений и ненависти я говорить  не хочу - все и так знают. Слишком грустно. Поселенцы - вот враги! Они не хотят Мира! Так им и надо! Оккупанты! Вот мы зато, белые и пушистые, и сознанием этого факта и живут, и поддерживают себя. Мы - настоящие евреи! А не эти экстремисты. Стыдно за них!

Так что же тут делать? Делиться, как собирается делиться мой родной Бейт Шемеш? Во-первых, понять, что спорить с верующим человеком бесполезно. Он видит так, и всё тут. Не преубедите. Обвинять и ссориться - не поможет, только хуже будет. Именно за это и ушли евреи в изгнание две тысячи лет назад.
Можно только найти точки соприкосновения. То, что делает нас одним народом, несмотря ни на что. Перестать видеть в других идиотов. Если они верят, значит, что-то в этом видят. Можно сделать лишь одно - выйти из собственного удобненького футляра, и увидеть, что в принципе, у других верований внутри нашего общего иудаизма есть рациональное зерно. Один из 70 ликов Торы. Искажены мы все, как в кривом зеркале, и полностью не прав не может быть ни один из нас, как бы этого не хотелось. Так и задумано, в принципе. Это и есть наша задача на национальном уровне - просто увидеть в противнике человека. Просто еврея. Или не еврея, но всё равно человека.  Да, так бывает. Попытаться договориться между собой. Признать право другого верить иначе. Вырасти из детского сада с футлярчиками для каждого.  Не обязательно соглашаться со всеми и потерять собственную веру. Просто увидеть и услышать. И тогда внешние враги отступят. Или нет - но хотя бы мы не будем терзать сами себя. 
Именно потому, что мы один народ, братья, нам так тяжело принять инакомыслие. Если у человека брат ударился в Кришнаизм, ушёл с работы,  побрил голову и весь день медитирует и звонит в колокольчик, брату будет тяжело это принять, именно потому, что он брат. Чужому человеку всё равно, а брату - нет. Именно поэтому и хочется спорить, переубеждать, уговаривать. Давайте это помнить. Потому то, на самом деле, мы все хотим мира. Без помпы, митингов и криков. Просто - мира.

Golden wrappers

There are days that just beg to be spilled onto paper. Some bits of those days that one wishes he could treasure forever, like we used to keep the golden wrappers from chocolate. Smooth it out, carefully, on a hard surface, take care not to tear it, and put it somewhere safe. Then you get to feel so rich and special, because there is a golden paper in a secret place, and you can take it out and feel it, and rustle it, and remember it, whenever you wish. There are days when golden papers come raining onto you from the sky, so unexpected, so unreal, that by the time you realize they're coming, all you have is a white sheet of paper to immortalize them in.
Those are the days when I have the strength to laugh at annoying and painful things. At a fight on the bus, a man yelling in a thin squeaky voice, through tears, I can do whatever I want in here! You can't stop me!  When the prospective employer, looking into my CV, thoughtfully mutters, but you don't know how to use a computer, right? No-no, of course I do, I assure him. Office, and Internet, whatever you wish. Certainly enough to teach. - But you can't manage a tablet, right? Can you read in English? I  mean, to teach literature? No, that's not enough, if you have no experience. Teaching literature to Anglos is not good enough, no.  And you don't have this experience and that, and you're no good altogether, and you're a woman, we don't need you, good bye. Thus he spake to his own sweet self, and showed me the door.
And that's when the real fun started.
Because when one is sad, Jerusalem is the best medicine. And so are the kiddies. I don't know if they really were interested in prehistoric antlers, ossuaries, hieroglyphics, African masks and abstract art, but even if they pretended to listen for my sake, that is already one golden paper in my collection.
The Rose Garden, and Gan Sacher, and the taste of Jerusalem sweet chilly wind on my lips. And dancing in the sprinklers, to the utter amusement of the drivers of diplomatic cars in the Government District. There is a taste of the winter in the summer, and a ray of the summer in the winter. Just like in the depth of sadness and mourning there is always a ray of light, and at the height of joy there is a trace of sadness. Jerusalem crows  have the garments and the gait of a Rabbi, they tilt their heads aside, look at you, as if they know where you keep all your golden foils. There are trees to climb and grass to earth yourself on, and a silly-noisy-Bradbury's  "Farenheit" -like talking walls. Inescapable noise and light. Suddenly remedied for me by Biblical quotations on the wall. Whaaat? Yeah, you heard me. They have C3PO, and Winnie-the Pooh, and smurfs, and Moses hovering over it all, right by the roof, with the quote right next to him. Lest we forget we're Jewish over here. Another golden foil paper descending onto me while my kids eat ice cream and talk about films and football. 
And another golden leaf comes floating down when I meet somebody I've been looking forward to meeting for such a long time,  recognize her in the crowd not because I saw her, but because I felt her being there. And that feeling of having known someone your whole life. 
And all the while Jerusalem air, and noise and presence,  and tasting it with my whole self. I missed you so much, my dear city. You're forever in my dreams.
And another golden leaf is given to me when we get on that bus, and there is no room, and I'm hanging on by some miracle, and a woman comes over, and carries Tamara over for me, till we can both sit down, and I'm overwhelmed by the kindness from a  complete stranger. By the miracle of my child not minding strangers to a point of hysteria. By this day, so full and so real. And then my son turns to me, and says, mommy, thank you so much. Even when you do something for yourself, we know that in the end, it's really for us. That's it, the curtain must come down now.  
Somehow, the smaller the thing is, the more precious it will be to me, because life is weaved of small things, and if I miss them, I shall miss out on life itself. But really, God has a sense of humour, because as I develop the philosophy of small things to keep me happy, muse and write and dream, Michlala decides to check my writing skills by giving us a composition to write... about the small things in life. But that's already another story.

Shigrat Cherum - emergency routine.

When Russians drink "le-chayim", they toast : "To Peace!". Or, "To clear skies!"
Growing up, we knew that war is the worst evil that there is. Watching the black and white chronicles of the Great Patriotic War, we saw huge explosions creating craters in the ground, soldiers getting covered in dust and blood. Orphans with dark streaks on their cheeks, and hunger. That's the picture of war as I always had it in my mind.
When my mother hold her hands to her heart and regrets "moving to a warring country", I know she is seeing those pictures in her mind. Pictures of her childhood, Messerschmidt aeroplanes with crosses on their wings, bearing death, and  constant gnawing hunger. All my life we had cans stocked up in rows, "in case of a war". Sugar would turn into a rock, and grains would crawl away before we could get to them. There was always this huge fear, a fear of war, underlying so many things, coming through like a shadow, and coming out as tears with the first notes of "Arise, oh mighty country" march on the 9th of May.
Naturally, when I realized that the terrifying monster called War was brushing us with it's wing, I felt like crawling under the table and never coming out. What?? My children?? Under rockets? You've got to be kidding me!
For a bit, I just let the fear take over. Every time I was in an open space, I would plan where I could run if the siren would sound now. There is no point denying it - with the first low rumble of that warbling wail my heart would take this huge leap right into my toes. It's a purely biological reaction to danger, it happens before  I have even one solid thought about it. And then I calmly grab the children and drag them to the safe room, hoping they can't hear my heart pounding through my t-shirt, louder than the siren in my ears. 
And then there is the media. The media carries words, and images. I see the greatness of our people, and I feel the lump in my throat getting bigger, and my eyes sting. It's a different face to a war. It's a face of greatness of our people.
When Jews go out to war, we hand our enemies medicines, offer them blood donated by our people, for their wounded, we warn them - do you hear? Warn our enemies that we are coming to attack. We continue to provide them with gas, water, electricity. We don't cut their internet, and their phones stay plugged. We continue to operate and save the lives of their sick children... it goes on.
The greatness of our people. The wave of chessed. Cookies for soldiers, and people opening their houses to families from the South. People they don't know from Adam. In their house. Our people.
The songs and cartoons made for the little children, who are scared of sirens. Immediately, from today to tomorrow - it's there. Women keep on saying, we don't have to explain anything to our children - they understand. They know they will not have a summer vacation this year, there will be no pool, trips or BBQ. And they accept it without a word! Our famously spoiled little Israelis accept it. The greatness begins and ends with the children.

I think about my beautiful country, cowering in fear, the elderly stumbling on stairs when they run for the shelter, mothers covering children with their bodies, and tears choke me. Our people. My beautiful Ashdod. Proud and elegant Tel Aviv. Endlessly brave and patient Sderot. Ancient and ever-young Jerusalem. How dare they?!!

We are an endlessly strong people. We have lasted out bigger evils than Hamas. They're all gone, and we're still here, in our ancient Land. We came back to claim it as ours and hold onto it forever.
400 French Jews made Aliya this week. Now, with the rockets and all, they come off the plane and kiss the dust of this Land, soaked with our presence, the Land where every rock weeps for its children, breathes and hopes with us. And whatever befalls all of us, is good enough for me, too. It's a privilege to be here, to see, to hope, to accept and pray with everybody. I am not so afraid anymore - I take strength from this tremendous sense of unity. From the fact that life carries on as usual - couples going out for walks, zumba and shopping and kiddies playing in the park. It's a different kind of a war. Shigrat herum - emergency routine. Israel is still the safe, cozy home it always was for me.
The commentators on the news say it openly - another miracle. We have no explanation. Miracle. Again and again.
I will end it with a Russian toast - "To peace. To clear skies." - and a Jewish one - "to life". May all of our soldiers come back safely. May God be with us all. May the miracles keep on coming.