The mundane-NES of dreams

When you spend your summer writing a book, (or at least attempting such a feat), the blog just gets shoved aside, and stays close to the shore, away from the current of life, where we're all swimming, trying to duck waves and all the things they carry. Here a log, there a rock, here a job, there  a jog, and before you know it, you're Old McDonald, counting your sheep sitting in the wheelchair in the old age home.
But what I really wanted to say is this: when you become religious, or maybe when you grow up in a community, one of the things you hear constantly is that material things cannot make you happy. And so children are taught to scoff at possessions, and make do with little, and share, and recycle and reuse, and to look forward and appreciate. All true and wonderful.
But, a rebel that I am, I've got to argue with that, too. And when I turn into Old McDonald, I won't be counting sheep, I'll be counting the times I escaped. (or my neighbour's sex toys)
I'd say, material possessions that bring you closer to your true self, do make you happy. Material possessions that serve a higher goal, that trampouline you to your higher self level, that enable you to achieve, give you an equisite, sparkling, glorious sense of joy.
And how do you know, which is which? How do you tell a simple desire for an object from a desire for a higher purpose? The urge you harbour feels exaclty the same in both cases, and you don't know until your wish has been fulfilled.
When your desire stems from the selfish, want-it-all-right-now part of you, you regret the purchase by the time you bring it home. You feel like your higher brain has been hijacked for a time - and it has been. Your conciousness lsitened to the simpler, more primitive part of you, the part that causes road rage, hate crimes, binge consumption, and impulsive behaviour. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amygdala_hijack) When your achievement makes you hate yourself, you know you've desired the wrong thing.
When you have a dream, (oh yeah, I Have a Dream), and then suddenly you find yourself living it, as real as could be, larger thsn life, and you ask yourself, why is it so mundane? Where are the fanfares, at least the mental ones? Why does it feel so... every day? So normal and "always been this way"?
I call this "the mundaneness of dreams". For me, that's a sign that I have been dreaming in the right direction. When the dream continues to walk in step with the drums of my soul, when I don't feel like vomiting it out the second I have it, I know that I've wanted right. And then I make sure to remind myself, that it's mundane-NES, the miracle that is hidden in every day, every move and every breath. And that's when the happiness comes - the sparkling, bubbling, colourful joy, the rainbow of song and the dance of the heart, sprinklers on the spring grass and the maroon-and -orange autumn sunset, all blended into one.  I just hope I am never too old to dream, and to springboard myself in the right direction.

Beep your cat, and accept what God sends you

Every exit out of the RBS comfy haven and into the real Israel world leaves me with enough experiences to write a story. 
This morning, as I stood in a queue for the metal detector frame at the entrance to a governmental institution, there was a guy in front of me, wearing a long black cloak, looking more like a robe than a capota, with peot below his waist. He went through and the frame beeped. Now, the guard woman there wan't blessed with much patience. Metal out - she commanded. He looks behind her and says, I have no metal. Goes through - beep! She growls. He says, ah! and empties a pocket full of dozens of coins in small change. Goes through - beeeeep! - Metal! - she barks at him. -No metal, he pleads. After a prolonged search, he discovered a key and some wipes. Goes through. Again - Beeeeep!!! 
The guard takes him aside, barely holding herself together, and empties him all out. In the bottomless pit of his left pocket she discoveres a packet with dociments, miniscule nail sccisors, some string, and a clove of garlic. Yeah, I'll still be pondering this mystery tomorrow. What do you think? 

Then I had to help an Ethiopian woman, who explained to me in pantomine that her daughter gave birth, and the husband doens't work, and she needs papers for that, and it took me a few minutes, and I explained to her that she is in the wrong institution,  and we were both cracking up, and parted as good frends. 

Then I had to buy some ant poison, because the invincible creatures are pretty much taking over my house, we've got ants in the pants, and the disinfestation companies only guarantee cockroaches. Ants cannot be guaranteed. No, I'm not kidding. Maybe it has to do with ancient Egyptian magic rules, as in, they are smaller than a "seah", or maybe because the only thing that kills ants is a nuclear explosion, or maybe because phosphoorganics are illegal, I'm not sure.

I ask the guy, will my cat be safe if I use this poison? 
Sure, - he says. - and if she isn't, get another one. All cats are the same, no?
- No, actually not. My cat is so tame and lovely, she sleeps with me. 
- Oh, bullshit! You have to throw out the cat and get yourself a guy! So you don't have to sleep with cats. And don't be picky, take whatever comes! Don't complain! You need a guy! May God send you a good one, but take him in! Don't pick and look for faults! Feed him! Pamper him! And then you can sleep with a man, not cats!
I say, don't worry, man, I've got 4 kids, they keep me busy. 
-So what happened to your guy, he asks? 
-Um... em.... he's gone, no more, good bye. 
-No good. - he tuts and tuts. - Mamash no good! Get a guy and then you can come and take my cats also, I have plenty in my yard. 
At least I got a discount. Nothing like flirting with an 80 year old. Why didn't I think to say, if you think guys are not all the same, you've got to admit that cats aren't, either. 
Oh, but I suffer from severe case of staircase wit. No good. 
I'm off to have a cup of turkish coffee with the pet show owners, they treat cutomers like royals. And then the Russian cashiere at the supermarket will greet me with, how are your kids? Are you done studying yet, or you'll study forever? And I'll say, oh, but has your daughter come back from the army yet?
No place like Israel. 

Pre-Pesach Tiger and the Magic mirror

Last night, this house was visited by a mosquito plague. I managed to sleep right through it, seeing dreams with soapy rags flapping their wings at me and with some pitot, lisping something incomprehensible out of their gaping mouths as they crossed the road on a red light. But in the morning my kiddles woke up with hundreds of mosquito bites all over them. It must be the season. It must be that my cat, flooded by her feline hormones, sorely failed her job. What else do I feed her for, if not for her incessant efforts to keep the house creature-free. (Get off the hamster cage, you beast! The hamsters are not included in the "creature" definition. No. Just kidding, I speak Russian to my cat, and most of you wouldn't understand, anyway)
In the morning, as the opening notes of the latest floral sqeak in detergent fasion floated through my window, my now five year old baby woke up and moaned: "mommy, I need a qui-tow cream".
And so it happened, that in our trip to the Old City, a little jar of Tiger Balm came with, making regular reappearances all the way through the bus ride, the tram experience and the sauna hike.
On the tram, this Israeli woman starts tut-tutting at me, saying, look, your child is all covered in bites, do you know? Of course I know, I say, pulling out the Tiger. She says, "but why don't you use Fenistil?" "Only in Israel" - I answer her. "What?" - she doesn't quite follow. Only in Israel people would give you parenitng / medical advice on the tram, I think. Not the first time, either. 16 years ago, by this very same Safra square in Jerusalem a stately policeman of about 2 meteres tall approached us in a brisk step, scaring the daylight out of us, only to inform us that Jerusalem weather is no joke, and I should dress my baby warmer. "Have you got a hat?" - he asked, - "if you do, you should put it on the baby, or go home", - and he strolled off a little less urgently.
I thank the woman and explain why I prefer the Tiger. She pulls out her phone and takes notes of what else it's good for.
We are so lucky to live in a place where people dish out advice unashamedly. Where we are not too polite to comment, and ask, and be involved. Where every baby is everybody's baby. For good and otherwise.
Everywhere we go, people talk to Tamara. One seller at the shuk gave her a dried apricot, and another praised her for helping mommy. An exhuasted- looking Cofix waiter smiled and waited so patiently as she chose her cake. Coming from a country where kids are seen but not heard, if at all, I appreciate the feeling those people give my daughter. That she is real, she matters, she is special. Thinking back to my childhood, it's impossible to imagine. I believe very strongly that the way a society treats its children and the elderly defines it more than any other attribute. It's the mirror of our humanity, its measure and expression rolled into one. A magic mirror of who and what we really are.
At the hardware shop she settled on a chair, behind the sweaty, stressed, pushy crowd, and looked at the giant poppies opening and closing gently above our heads. A woman standing behind me in the queue stepped aside to give me a view of my daughter, so tiny and so grown up, taking in the world through a dirty Shuk window; her kindness and the view, together, made my breath catch in my throat. Just like every time I see the youth group volunteers singing Shabbat zemirot with a Down syndome kid who likes singing best of all, and they don't mind singing with him for hours in the park. Just like when I see the neighbors' kids holding back in a race to let the weaker boy win, and I turn away so they don't notice my tears. Just like when I see 17 year old boys taking babies to the park to let mommy rest. Just like when my own kids are loving to each other, and I, for one brief second, see my job done.
May we never lose our humanity, neither out of fear nor out of stress, and may we cherish the light in each other, in our children, and in this blessed Land, which we may inherit only if we learn to see and appreciate.

Откуда повеяло холодом?

Севивон сов-сов-сов. Индустрия развлечений гребёт деньги, вертится колесо сансары. По всей стране дети ходят в кино, требуют и получают подарки, едят пончики.

Но не все. Трое подростков, имена которых запрещены к публикации, сидят в тюрьме по обвинению в ужасном, невероятном преступлении, оправдания которому нет и быть не может. Конечно, виновных надо найти и примерно наказать. Но лишь один факт - в этой деревне поджоги - обычное дело, результат кровной мести. За последние полгода сгорело 8 домов….

Взрослые дяди бьют подростков, как могут, до потери сознания, до помешательства, до пожизненной инвалидности, физической и психической, до попыток самоубийства. Не предоставляя им законного права на встречу с адвокатом. Три недели жутких издевательств… и подростки не признались. По словам одного из них, «я бы признался в чём угодно, но не знаю, чего от меня хотят. Убейте меня, я больше не могу».

Где прекраснодушные защитники прав человека? Жалкий писк, изданный одной из организаций, не идёт ни в какое сравнение с тем рёвом, который звучит, когда они защиают наших врагов. Да-да, какое грязное слово. Враги. Политически корректные наименования не изменяют сущности зверей в человеческом обличье, которые хотят уничтожить всех нас. 

Скажите, вам ничего не напоминает?

Мне сразу вспомнилась совсем другая страна, где новости обсуждались шепотом, не называя вещи своими именами… «вы слышали… наши разбили наших» - анекдот про 67 год.  Где мы все жили, стараясь не очень высовываться, молчать, смотреть вниз и думать тихонько о своём. Потому что где-то, на другом конце города, были (и есть!) подвалы, где людям отбивали почки и другие маловажные, по мнению «органов», органы. Уж простите за тавтологию. За слово, за шутку, или просто потому, что этого человека в чём-то заподозрили. Ведь признание- царица доказательств. Лишь потом оказалось, что бывает дым без огня, и признание - без вины. Позволю себе напомнить всем, что ехали мы не за колбасой, а от беззакония, страха, безнадёжности, в правовое общество. Где полиция - на стороне граждан, а спецслужбами -гордятся.

Процитирую шутку, опубликованную сайтом новостей «Муката». Устроили однажды соревнование спецслужб Америки, Франции и Израиля - кто скорее найдёт в лесу слона. Американцы разбомбили лес, и на пожарище обнаружился труп слона. Через неделю по наводке справились французы. Израильтяне зашли в лес, и через три часа вышли оттуда с… кошкой. «Она призналась в том, что она - слон».

Отчаявшиеся семьи этих подростков устраивают демонстрацию, на которую приходят… 750 человек. И это всё? Мы боимся? Или неужели наш народ настолько поглощён каждодневным выживанием, что действительно не видит, что происходит? Ожирение мозгов или совести?

Все давно привыкли к тому, что закон, защищающий всех нас, хотя бы теоретически, в поселениях не действует, и на поселенцев не распространяется. Вместо этого приказы отдаёт военное командование. Все мы равны, некоторые совсем, окончательно равнее всех, но некоторые вообще оказываются вне континиума «равности».

Когда ракеты ежедневно падали на Сдерот, вся остальная страна спокойненько себе жила, и в ус не дула. Но когда ракеты посыпались на столицу и на «государство Тель Авив», правительство вдруг очнулось и послало пехоту на устаревших бронетранспортёрах в логово дракона. Когда прокуратура открыто, не стесняясь, шила дело Задорову, дело в котором 2 и два равно даже не 5, а вообще 150, где было наше хвалёное гражданское общество?

Демократическое общество можно превратить в тоталитарное почти мгновенно, волшебным мановением наручников, набором лозунгов и давлением СМИ, как описано в книге «Волна» о социальном эксперименте в одной школе в Калифорнии.

Где волна тошноты от очередной волны обвинений в домогательствах? Объясните мне, пожалуйста, нами действительно правят озабоченные самцы, или СМИ пляшут на крови, или нас таким образом отвлекают от того, что происходит с нашей страной на самом деле?

Теперь, когда мы так же спокойненько воспринимаем новости о пытках несовершеннолетних, о нарушении их прав, мы просто ещё не понимаем, что за нами тоже придут. Не сегодня, не завтра - по придут обязательно.

Или мы уже боимся? Тётя одного из мальчиков методически вывешивала во всех группах Фейсбука статью о происходящем, и точно так же, методически, эту статью модераторы убирали. Связываться уже никто не хочет.

Я 20 лет живу в Израиле. В мою первую неделю здесь мне пришлось проехать мимо оторванной половины 18 автобуса на улице Яффо в Иерусалиме. Мы сидели в «Сбарро» за день до того, как кафе взорвали. Мы ездили в автобусах, где напряжение можно было резать ножом. Но я ощущаю страх впервые. Боюсь того, что наши права и законность - всего лишь фасад. Права, прописанные в Основных законах, доступны не всем, и не распространяются на всех в равной степени.  В угоду Западу, требующему от нашего правительства раскрытия «правого подполья», мы назначаем виновных, пытаем своих. Из тех, кто не равен. Тех, на кого не распространяется закон.  Я боюсь того, что грядёт время, когда мои дети побоятся открыть рот и выразить своё мнение. Боюсь холода, повеявшего из подвалов «Шабака» на нас всех. Боюсь того, что завтра «назначат виновными» кого-то из знакомых. Того, что кошке придётся опять быть слоном, и отвечать за слона.

Полтора года назад вся страна рыдала и молилась за трёх похищенных подростков. Скажите, а за этих вам не хочется помолится?

The declaration of light

Looking at the endless rows of candles in my news feed. Outside. Candles in my own house.
So much light.
And I'm thinking that Chanuka is a celebration designed for the Exile. A holiday in memory of heroism, when our distant ancestors won on the battle field and earned the right to believe and practice as they they saw right. And all the later attempts to shift the victory into the world of spirit. It took 5 Roman legions to crush tiny Judea, same amount as Julius Caesar drafted for Gallic wars. But Jews have vowed to abstain from assuming the hands of Esav role ever again. Chanuka became a peaceful memory of a miracle of oil, with the battle background shoved aside.
But no.
Think about the dark, smelly and dangerous world of the Middle Ages. The enormous amount of daring required to declare out loud, I belong to the ancient persecuted religion. Yes, I'm one of those who crucified your god. Who rejected your prophet. Who poisoned the wells/drank blood.... or whatever they chose to believe about us. To stand unarmed, holding no rights, with only the faith at their side, opposing the vast numbers of locals.  Perhaps, at least as much as going out to battle on foot against heavily armored battle elephants. To remember our miracles out loud, to declare that God hadn't forsaken us just yet, to parade those candles in front of the whole world - demanded an unusual amount of bravery. Perhaps that's what our Sages intended, perhaps not...
Where do we hold today? Is it military heroism or the bookish memory of miracles of the olden days?  What do we declare today? What is bravery in our day and age?
 What do you say?

Don't be a xenos to me

Our society is so divided that it seems as if we are about to wander apart into another 12 tribes who do not even remember being related to each other. How is it reflected in the Israeli schools? Could the teachers, who also belong to a dozen different groups, prevent xenophobia amongst the students?

From my subjective experience – if the teacher can communicate in tolerable Hebrew, even if the accent makes your ears wilt – the students will listen and even help him get the point across when he is at loss for words. But in case of a conflict, the teacher’s community, race and country of origin will be brought in, with all the stereotypes possible.

I’ve once seen a Russian teacher confuse the grammar structure, and she ended up saying exactly the opposite of what was intended. The class simply exploded with laughter and comments about “those Russians”, which she ignored, and eventually they let it go as well.

Another time I watched an 11^th grader (girl) attack a Russian teacher with her firsts, while yelling out racist slurs. There was nothing much we could do besides offering the distraught teacher some tea. The student had been suspended, but the damage was done.

Another example – it’s a known fact that Russian teachers rarely get to teach English for the Bagrut. Even though I barely contained giggles at the sight of the mistakes the Israeli teachers leave on the board. A folder entitled “gremmar” in the teachers’ room… But one of my bosses, looking me straight in the eyes, said: “Why are you giving them grammar? Anyway they won’t know it. They don’t need it to pass the Bagrut. Only you Russians care for grammar, native speakers manage without it, somehow”. You do not say…

If you intend to teach in a regular school, you better grow some very thick skin. Every other word that comes out of their mouths is a swear, and the way to address a friend is “you, son of a *****”. They don’t even get offended, it’s a figure of speech.

One of the main causes of xenophobia – in my opinion – is that people usually have no clue about the life of people in other communities. In 6^th grade all students write a paper on their community and background. How wonderful… maybe we should make them research other communities?

Once, when I was teaching a group of Ethiopians, I overheard them discussing the Charedim, who live on the other side of the street. I said:

-have you spoken to them?

- no, - said the boy – we threw stones, and they spat at us. They think we are all murderers, haha.

-have you ever been to their houses? Even once?

-no, why would we ever?

- have they visited you?

-Are you kidding, teacher? We don’t visit them, they don’t visit us.

-but why do you hate them so?

- because they are black, - answered the kid, whose only white part is his sparkiling teeth.

When I got my words back, I told him:

-          If I give you guys bad grades, you call me a racist. And what are you, exactly?

That got him thinking…. But not for long.

Any class I had ever taught, assumed I was American. Any explanations about me being from the Ukraine were rejected outright. I don’t fit their stereotypical image of a Russian. The only thing they knew about Americans is that they eat gefilte fish. Yeah, that slimy stuff in a jar – that’s Americans. No questions about the Wild West, New York or anything else. Just the undead gefilte.

My daughter, studying in an amazing school in Jerusalem, got teased for being American (which she isn’t), and not for being Russian, (which nobody knew, till she interfered in a conversation of some lost nuns ranting about Jews at some graveyard they visited with her class,  in Russian, but that’s another story altogether) and saw a certain amount of irony in that.

Once I found myself on the stairs of the Begin school here in Bet Shemesh, waiting for my son who was taking an exam inside. There were about 40 parents waiting, and they were distinctly divided into 3 groups – Israelis, Anglos, Russians. That got me thinking – where do I belong? Maybe all 3? And I decided to listen in in all of them.

The Israelis were talking about the latest scandal with the police. An obese man in a blue uniform was trying to persuade a woman in white trousers a la the 20s that Israeli police is not just a vast libido, but also… eventually they started talking about schools, teachers salaries, homework…

I wandered over to the Anglos. They were discussing hot lunches, trips, and how to get the kids to read in their mother tongue. The Russians were – you won’t believe it! – also talking about schools. But why can’t they discuss it with each other?

We all have so much in common. We all strive to teach our kids how to live in the society, we survive heatwaves and terror attacks, army and elections. But always alongside each other and never actually together.

 Dear Anglos, have you ever been to a Russian's house? (Not mine, a real Russian). What is our biggest holiday of the year? Or maybe you've been to an Ethiopian house? What's their bread called? Have you invited them over? What do they eat in the Yemeni community for supper? What's Mimuna all about? What do the Indian Jews call themselves? How do 'regular Israelis' address a random guy on the street? Which Israeli writer is known for his most poetic Hebrew? In which Israeli group of society do Americans constitute 15%? (research came out last week). Is falafel really Israeli or it comes from elsewhere? Why do Hungarian Jews shave their heads? Who are the Neturei Karta and why do they call themselves that? Which chassidut wraps their peot around the ears and which ones fold them under the kippa? What's a gartel? What language do the French Jews often speak to their grandparents? 

How convenient – Russians chew their salami,  Anglos enjoy their gefilte fish, Israelis – their matbuha, and we continue to be xenoses (strangers) to each other. Maybe let’s at least say hello? 

A bit of geometry from a maths idiot

I always kind of envied people for whom life is simple. When you ask them, what's your opinion on the conflict between religion and life? And they answer you, what conflict?

Of course, it's all so simple. If we all quickly do teshuva, kill all the enemies out, send away all the gentiles back to where they came from, delete all the sinners, and cover up all the women completely,  God will bring the redemption immediately. Like a computer game - one, two, three, pass the levels, and you win. Are you for real? Are you in the first grade? Or do you think God is in first grade?
I think each person is born very simple. Like a triangle. The world is very black and white, there is good and evil, and we choose to be on the side of what we consider good. You do good and you get good.
And then it's all shattered and the world becomes - say, a tetrahedron.    
When you see that some people might not be perfect, but they are on the side you call good. They might not wear a kippa. but they're still Jewish. A shock. And also, not all Jews "look Jewish", as you understand it. Some of them had no idea Jews could be white. Some of them are allowed to eat locusts and marry two women. Could you imagine? It's a reality-crumbling realization. Just like finding out that not all those who suffer are punished by God for terrible sins - usually we (and they) have no idea why they suffer. It has nothing to do with their deeds. And we shall never know why. And then we can choose how we believe and how we settle the conflict...
And then you graduate to be a cube. 
Another dimension: what about the people who are not on your side of things, not what you choose to call good, but they believe themselves to be right? Some believe in the right of women to wear tefillin, others believe in their right to remain childless, and yet others think it's not Jerusalem but Al-Quds. And could you imagine, to them it's the absolute truth. Wow. Could you come out of your comfy little world and try to enter their heads just for a second? Because calling them "wrong" will not help you grow, no, not in the least.
How about becoming an octahedron? If you are a thinking person and wish to dive deep.



Some people live in an entirely different reality from yours. Fishermen in Burma and beer brewers in Ireland. Do you think they know God? The world is full of nations, and they have no idea about you and your chosen-ness. And yet their life rolls on for thousands of generations. I think it's both sobering and humbling for a Jew to know about them. We are so not running the world. We are so not the only ones here. We are very little indeed and the only reason we are still here is because we have a job to do. But it's not about just resisting temptation - that's Catholicism. Simplifying the task the way Christianity did. God is both in complexity and in simplicity- the living cell is both simple and infinitely complex. Just like our souls. Just like science. Like every sunrise and sunset we are lucky enough to see here. Just like our job in this world - both so simple and so complex.

And there are more dimensions, more shapes, more depth. Here is a dodecahedron.

I don't know where the fifth dimension is. .Maybe it's in seeing everything you see, and yet keeping your faith. Faith bound to knowledge and understanding, faith full of hope and curiosity.  But the world is infinitely complex, and by deeming it simple, we insult God. By pretending the conflicts do not exist, we cheat ourselves out of possible depth of character.
No, I don't really envy the people who are still a triangle by age 40 something.