Sunday, August 1, 2010
West Bank > Jerusalem > Jordan > now
Wrapping up, I split with Noah in East Jerusalem and hopped a bus to Jordan.
I spent the night in Amman, but not without some adventure. I had been to Jordan before, so naturally I thought my visa situation was all good. Not the case. They took me off the bus at the border, and I was sitting in an air-conditioned office surrounded by pictures of the King of Jordan before I could say "American consulate." It really wasn't bad, though. I was very lucky. The guy phoned it in, all the way to the Ministry of the Interior I was told, and after explaining my situation they eventually let me through.
And everything happens for a reason. Another guy in the same boat turned out to be a Jordanian-American from Michigan. We got to talking and he offered me a ride in a car that was picking him up. Having been the recipient of much generosity, I wanted to pay it forward, so I offered to share the ride with these girls met at the border. The guy had no objections, but then word kinda got around and it ended up being me, the guy, the driver, and three girls. They were all cool: a French-Moroccan, a woman from Texas, and an undergrad from Colombia University. They had female-amounts of luggage, though. But seriously, the trunk couldn't close so the driver stuffed all the bags in and took a piece of string and laced it through the handle of each bag and tied it to the handle of the open-trunk. The Colombia girl ended up sitting on my lap for the hour-long ride into Jordan proper.
In Amman, I met up with my friend Anna, who was having a goodbye party for her roommate. I invited the Moroccan-French girl to come, too, because as it turned out, we both had the same travel plans; Petra, Wadi Rum, and then Aqqaba. So with a new Arabic-speaking travel buddy, we left for Petra the next morning.
Petra is where Indiana Jones "Last Crusade" was filmed. Enough said. It was truly breathtaking, and the Moroccan-French girl, Latifah, and I had a lot of fun taking pictures and hiking through. Things took a sour turn though, and it ended up with me spending some time with the Jordanian tourist police. Let me explain, in brief: Latifah decided she wanted to ride a donkey with this Bedouin guy, so we decided to meet at the top. 30 min. later though, I didn't see them. I waited. Waited some more. At this point, my big-brother instincts kick-in and I go to the tourist police tellin em that Latifah kinda went missing. To spare you (and me) the agonizing details, five hours later she shows up happy as a clam after a wonderful evening with her new Bedoioun friends, while I'm running all over the place writing things like "black shirt, longish hair" on scrap pieces of paper at the police station. Anyway, not important now.
In Wadi Rum I met these really down dudes: two Egyptian Muslim brothers and a German Christian guy. So it was them three and me, the American Jew, wondering through the Jordanian desert talking about The Simpsons and religious tolerance. As it happened, I was wearing my t-shirt from "Operation Understanding," the African-Amerian and Jewish dialogue group I did in High School. The logo is of half an Israeli flag and the other half the colors black, green, and red, colors of black identity but also the colors of the Palestinian and Jordanian flags. Everything happens for a reason.
I spent the night in Amman, but not without some adventure. I had been to Jordan before, so naturally I thought my visa situation was all good. Not the case. They took me off the bus at the border, and I was sitting in an air-conditioned office surrounded by pictures of the King of Jordan before I could say "American consulate." It really wasn't bad, though. I was very lucky. The guy phoned it in, all the way to the Ministry of the Interior I was told, and after explaining my situation they eventually let me through.
And everything happens for a reason. Another guy in the same boat turned out to be a Jordanian-American from Michigan. We got to talking and he offered me a ride in a car that was picking him up. Having been the recipient of much generosity, I wanted to pay it forward, so I offered to share the ride with these girls met at the border. The guy had no objections, but then word kinda got around and it ended up being me, the guy, the driver, and three girls. They were all cool: a French-Moroccan, a woman from Texas, and an undergrad from Colombia University. They had female-amounts of luggage, though. But seriously, the trunk couldn't close so the driver stuffed all the bags in and took a piece of string and laced it through the handle of each bag and tied it to the handle of the open-trunk. The Colombia girl ended up sitting on my lap for the hour-long ride into Jordan proper.
In Amman, I met up with my friend Anna, who was having a goodbye party for her roommate. I invited the Moroccan-French girl to come, too, because as it turned out, we both had the same travel plans; Petra, Wadi Rum, and then Aqqaba. So with a new Arabic-speaking travel buddy, we left for Petra the next morning.
Petra is where Indiana Jones "Last Crusade" was filmed. Enough said. It was truly breathtaking, and the Moroccan-French girl, Latifah, and I had a lot of fun taking pictures and hiking through. Things took a sour turn though, and it ended up with me spending some time with the Jordanian tourist police. Let me explain, in brief: Latifah decided she wanted to ride a donkey with this Bedouin guy, so we decided to meet at the top. 30 min. later though, I didn't see them. I waited. Waited some more. At this point, my big-brother instincts kick-in and I go to the tourist police tellin em that Latifah kinda went missing. To spare you (and me) the agonizing details, five hours later she shows up happy as a clam after a wonderful evening with her new Bedoioun friends, while I'm running all over the place writing things like "black shirt, longish hair" on scrap pieces of paper at the police station. Anyway, not important now.
In Wadi Rum I met these really down dudes: two Egyptian Muslim brothers and a German Christian guy. So it was them three and me, the American Jew, wondering through the Jordanian desert talking about The Simpsons and religious tolerance. As it happened, I was wearing my t-shirt from "Operation Understanding," the African-Amerian and Jewish dialogue group I did in High School. The logo is of half an Israeli flag and the other half the colors black, green, and red, colors of black identity but also the colors of the Palestinian and Jordanian flags. Everything happens for a reason.
Keepin it movin
Post the upside-down world of Hebron, Noah and I went to Nablus. It was that day that we did Bethlehem, Ramallah, Nablus, and Jenin all in the same day. I'll start at the beginning.
We woke up in Bethlehem at our refugee-camp/hostel, then went and got falafel and to an internet cafe. We changed buses in Ramallah so I didn't really see it, but everyone says its the most urbane and modern city in the West Bank (to wit, they say Palestinians in Ramallah drink alcohol). I wish I could have seen more of it, but I guess the "New York City of Palestine" is for next time. In contrast, the city of Nablus is waaay more traditional, perhaps because it's 9,000 years old. For real. It is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. The shops close down at about 8 PM, and alcohol is virtually impossible to buy (so they say, I didn't try). By midnight, the streets are empty.
In Nablus, we again went to a refugee camp there: Balata. It is the largest refugee camp in the West Bank and the place where many (most?) of the suicide bombers and militants of the Second Intifadah hail from. It is one of the most densely populated places on earth: at less than 1 square mile, it is supposedly home to 40,000 Palestinian residents.
We met with a British girl who had studied oboe at Cambridge University and was now teaching music classes in Balata. And, as fate would have it, there was a group of American rappers who had just done a hip-hop workshop for the kids. We also met some Palestinian men who were raised there, and now work in the community center. They were also fascinating, and clearly dedicated.
Around the city of Nablus itself, you can see hand-bills and posters of "martyrs." I don't read Arabic, but from what I'm told these memorials do not distinguish between "martyrs" who were killed fighting Israeli soldiers and "martyrs" who took their own lives as part of suicide-bombing missions. Nablus is also famous for Kanafiya, a deliciously sweet dessert.
I don't mean to be facetious with my transitions but that's really the only way to describe what it's like there. The people are super-friendly, always shouting "you are welcome!" as you pass through. Random strangers walked us to where we needed to go on multiple occasions. One merchant gave us some free figs. Another gave me a free apple. The hummus is delicious. We also went to "Jacob's Well," located inside a beautiful church with astounding religious art.
And finally, we went to Jenin to see a play at the "Freedom Theatre," where the actors are young people from the Jenin refugee camp and the play that we saw about exile and displacement. At least I think it was; it was entirely in Arabic. Still cool, though. Again the juxtapositions: talking and joking with the actors and an American Jewish girl who worked there, I noticed an article from the Washing Post reporting on the fates of some of the actors from the "Freedom Theatre." Of the original 5, only one was not either dead or in jail. This bleak fact was clearly presented in a way meant to invoke moral outrage at the Occupation. What the article said plainly, however, was that the 4 who didn't make it were members of the Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigade. damn.
We woke up in Bethlehem at our refugee-camp/hostel, then went and got falafel and to an internet cafe. We changed buses in Ramallah so I didn't really see it, but everyone says its the most urbane and modern city in the West Bank (to wit, they say Palestinians in Ramallah drink alcohol). I wish I could have seen more of it, but I guess the "New York City of Palestine" is for next time. In contrast, the city of Nablus is waaay more traditional, perhaps because it's 9,000 years old. For real. It is one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world. The shops close down at about 8 PM, and alcohol is virtually impossible to buy (so they say, I didn't try). By midnight, the streets are empty.
In Nablus, we again went to a refugee camp there: Balata. It is the largest refugee camp in the West Bank and the place where many (most?) of the suicide bombers and militants of the Second Intifadah hail from. It is one of the most densely populated places on earth: at less than 1 square mile, it is supposedly home to 40,000 Palestinian residents.
We met with a British girl who had studied oboe at Cambridge University and was now teaching music classes in Balata. And, as fate would have it, there was a group of American rappers who had just done a hip-hop workshop for the kids. We also met some Palestinian men who were raised there, and now work in the community center. They were also fascinating, and clearly dedicated.
Around the city of Nablus itself, you can see hand-bills and posters of "martyrs." I don't read Arabic, but from what I'm told these memorials do not distinguish between "martyrs" who were killed fighting Israeli soldiers and "martyrs" who took their own lives as part of suicide-bombing missions. Nablus is also famous for Kanafiya, a deliciously sweet dessert.
I don't mean to be facetious with my transitions but that's really the only way to describe what it's like there. The people are super-friendly, always shouting "you are welcome!" as you pass through. Random strangers walked us to where we needed to go on multiple occasions. One merchant gave us some free figs. Another gave me a free apple. The hummus is delicious. We also went to "Jacob's Well," located inside a beautiful church with astounding religious art.
And finally, we went to Jenin to see a play at the "Freedom Theatre," where the actors are young people from the Jenin refugee camp and the play that we saw about exile and displacement. At least I think it was; it was entirely in Arabic. Still cool, though. Again the juxtapositions: talking and joking with the actors and an American Jewish girl who worked there, I noticed an article from the Washing Post reporting on the fates of some of the actors from the "Freedom Theatre." Of the original 5, only one was not either dead or in jail. This bleak fact was clearly presented in a way meant to invoke moral outrage at the Occupation. What the article said plainly, however, was that the 4 who didn't make it were members of the Al-Aqsa Martyrs' Brigade. damn.
Hebron
From Bethlehem we travelled to Hebron, which for me and my buddy Noah encapsulates The Conflict at its most intense. It is in Hebron that Israelis and Palestinians have an immense amount of friction, partly because it is where some of the more extreme elements can be found.
In the Palestinian section of Hebron, there is a fence that covers that top of the market, to catch the trash that the Settlers throw at the Palestinians. There are Jewish houses that literally overlook the Palestinian streets, so Israeli soldiers patrol the rooftops to make sure things don't escalate, as they are wont to do.
Inside Jewish Hebron is a different story. Like the Dheishah refugee camp, there, too is a mural depicting one side's version of history, starting with Talmudic-era Jews in Hebron through Arab attacks on its Jewish residents in the early 1920s through its "liberation" and the return of the (so-called) exiled Jews. The chasm between the Jewish and Palestinian narratives regarding these places are mind-boggling. The starting points are galaxies away, almost like parallel universes.
Noah and I, being Jews, got to walk around the Jewish neighborhood in Hebron, fenced-off from the rest of the city and guarded by soldiers. I wanted to make the most of the opportunity. I walked past an apartment located inside a Yeshiva and heard people talking. I poked my head in and said, "Anybody home? Can I come in?" in Hebrew. "I don't see why not," a calm, welcoming voice answered back, also in Hebrew.
Inside was an elderly British-Jewish man, his wife who had late-stage Alzheimer's, and a Filipino caregiver. Soon we were all talking and laughing in English, the man giving us tea biscuits and glasses of water. He was incredibly kind. He reminded me so much of my grandfather, it was erie. And yet there he was, living in an extremely controversial place that is the subject of some of the most vitriolic criticism in the world. I didn't know what to make of it except thank him for the tea biscuits.
Within minutes I found myself literally on the other side of the fence, in a Palestinian home, drinking coffee. The father pointed out how his son had lost part of his vision when a Settler had thrown a Molotov cocktail through his window (which, in reality, would be quite easy to do. The apartments actually face each other with just a narrow alley in between). We also went to visit the "Christian Peacemaker Team," which is essentially a group of Christians of all denominations who act as an observing and monitoring presence in Hebron, documenting the acts of Israeli soldiers and walking Palestinian children to school (otherwise, the children are attacked by Settlers, according to people there).
To complete the unreality of Hebron, I went to the tomb of some of the greatest biblical patriarchs and matriarchs: Abraham, Sarah, Jesse, and Ruth. Bizarrely, Israeli solders again ask you about your religion outside the site, and your answer at that moment completely determines whether you have access or not, with no way to verify the truth of your pronounced religious beliefs. There are some places where saying I was Jewish was like a golden ticket. But there were other places were the same statement means I'm barred. Same goes for Muslims and Christians. The last, and perhaps only, thing I'll say about Jesse's tomb is that it was entirely deserted when we went there, barely marked, unkempt and clearly not well maintained. It made it seem like it was all for nothing.
In the Palestinian section of Hebron, there is a fence that covers that top of the market, to catch the trash that the Settlers throw at the Palestinians. There are Jewish houses that literally overlook the Palestinian streets, so Israeli soldiers patrol the rooftops to make sure things don't escalate, as they are wont to do.
Inside Jewish Hebron is a different story. Like the Dheishah refugee camp, there, too is a mural depicting one side's version of history, starting with Talmudic-era Jews in Hebron through Arab attacks on its Jewish residents in the early 1920s through its "liberation" and the return of the (so-called) exiled Jews. The chasm between the Jewish and Palestinian narratives regarding these places are mind-boggling. The starting points are galaxies away, almost like parallel universes.
Noah and I, being Jews, got to walk around the Jewish neighborhood in Hebron, fenced-off from the rest of the city and guarded by soldiers. I wanted to make the most of the opportunity. I walked past an apartment located inside a Yeshiva and heard people talking. I poked my head in and said, "Anybody home? Can I come in?" in Hebrew. "I don't see why not," a calm, welcoming voice answered back, also in Hebrew.
Inside was an elderly British-Jewish man, his wife who had late-stage Alzheimer's, and a Filipino caregiver. Soon we were all talking and laughing in English, the man giving us tea biscuits and glasses of water. He was incredibly kind. He reminded me so much of my grandfather, it was erie. And yet there he was, living in an extremely controversial place that is the subject of some of the most vitriolic criticism in the world. I didn't know what to make of it except thank him for the tea biscuits.
Within minutes I found myself literally on the other side of the fence, in a Palestinian home, drinking coffee. The father pointed out how his son had lost part of his vision when a Settler had thrown a Molotov cocktail through his window (which, in reality, would be quite easy to do. The apartments actually face each other with just a narrow alley in between). We also went to visit the "Christian Peacemaker Team," which is essentially a group of Christians of all denominations who act as an observing and monitoring presence in Hebron, documenting the acts of Israeli soldiers and walking Palestinian children to school (otherwise, the children are attacked by Settlers, according to people there).
To complete the unreality of Hebron, I went to the tomb of some of the greatest biblical patriarchs and matriarchs: Abraham, Sarah, Jesse, and Ruth. Bizarrely, Israeli solders again ask you about your religion outside the site, and your answer at that moment completely determines whether you have access or not, with no way to verify the truth of your pronounced religious beliefs. There are some places where saying I was Jewish was like a golden ticket. But there were other places were the same statement means I'm barred. Same goes for Muslims and Christians. The last, and perhaps only, thing I'll say about Jesse's tomb is that it was entirely deserted when we went there, barely marked, unkempt and clearly not well maintained. It made it seem like it was all for nothing.
Bethlehem and Dheishah Refugee Camp
After wrapping up Northern Israel, my man Noah and I set out for a three-day stint in the West Bank. We took an Arab bus (that's what they're called) from East Jerusalem to Bethlehem. In a moment that sums up part of what it is to be in the Middle East today, in Bethlehem we got falafel just feet away from where Jesus was born (allegedly). Strange in a different way, the hostel Noah and I stayed at was located inside a Palestinian refugee camp.
I don't know about you, but in my mind "refugee camp" evokes images of rows of tents and the absence of permanent structures. But this is a refugee population going on 40 years. A friend put it like this: "being a refugee just means you're not at home." That's certainly how many people there feel: the older generations of Palestinians are said to still carry around the keys to the locks of their homes in Israel, dreaming of one day going back and opening their old doors. Heavy stuff.
We also took a "graffiti tour" of the Dheishah refugee camp. Not that we needed to leave the hostel to see graffiti: the walls on each floor were painted with murals of people throwing rocks and molotov cocktails at tanks, along with less provocative paintings, like a Palestinian woman baking bread. Though it sounds like it could be unsafe, there were foreign tourists there from all over, and it's not like the people there were themselves violent. I actually hung out with a little with the manager and his friends, and I even tried to help one of the Palestinian guys there with his English application to a university in the West Bank, but we couldn't do much because the internet wasn't working.
A note about the concept of safety and "violence": I met people who said that throwing a rock or molotov cocktail at an almost-impenetrable tank is actually non-violent. It's an effect-centric definition. "No harm, no foul" kinda thing.
But back to the graffiti tour, which was very enlightening. There was some really deep art there, including by the British graffiti legend Banksy, whose work you should check out, period. His piece in the camp was of a soldier with his hands against the wall being frisked by a little girl. There was also one with a map of Israel coded with blue for "Jews" and Green for "Palestinians" over a series of years. In 1946, it's all green. By 2005, it's virtually all blue. "But there was no Palestinian state in 1946. It was the British mandate," I pointed out to our guide. He failed to see the relevance of that distinction.
I don't know about you, but in my mind "refugee camp" evokes images of rows of tents and the absence of permanent structures. But this is a refugee population going on 40 years. A friend put it like this: "being a refugee just means you're not at home." That's certainly how many people there feel: the older generations of Palestinians are said to still carry around the keys to the locks of their homes in Israel, dreaming of one day going back and opening their old doors. Heavy stuff.
We also took a "graffiti tour" of the Dheishah refugee camp. Not that we needed to leave the hostel to see graffiti: the walls on each floor were painted with murals of people throwing rocks and molotov cocktails at tanks, along with less provocative paintings, like a Palestinian woman baking bread. Though it sounds like it could be unsafe, there were foreign tourists there from all over, and it's not like the people there were themselves violent. I actually hung out with a little with the manager and his friends, and I even tried to help one of the Palestinian guys there with his English application to a university in the West Bank, but we couldn't do much because the internet wasn't working.
A note about the concept of safety and "violence": I met people who said that throwing a rock or molotov cocktail at an almost-impenetrable tank is actually non-violent. It's an effect-centric definition. "No harm, no foul" kinda thing.
But back to the graffiti tour, which was very enlightening. There was some really deep art there, including by the British graffiti legend Banksy, whose work you should check out, period. His piece in the camp was of a soldier with his hands against the wall being frisked by a little girl. There was also one with a map of Israel coded with blue for "Jews" and Green for "Palestinians" over a series of years. In 1946, it's all green. By 2005, it's virtually all blue. "But there was no Palestinian state in 1946. It was the British mandate," I pointed out to our guide. He failed to see the relevance of that distinction.
Go Golan
After spending a lovely Shabbat with good friends from my 2003 trip to Honduras, I was back in Tel-A for my last week of work.
I finished up my project on comparative domestic intelligence powers, and had some cake. Everyone at the office was super nice as I said goodbye, and it was all in all a pleasant resolution (for some reason I almost typed "it was all in all a peasant revolution," which I think says a lot about the subliminal associations I've formed regarding my office). As soon as I ducked-out with that, it was onwards and upwards for a three-day trip to the Golan, Israel's Northsideeeee.
Close followers of the blog will remember the time I tried to go to Jordan and ended up in Sinai, Egypt. Even more unexpected, the beach I landed on in Sinai had a bevy of homeys I had meet the week before at a Kibbutz in Southern Israel ("Ketura"). It was one of these fine people, Noah, who invited me to go with him and two other friends to explore the Israeli North.
All I can say is that it was some of the most fun I've had since High School. It was basically a road trip with three Torontonians that involved poorly-planned camping (tents but not sleeping bags), spontaneous hiking, and stopping for fruit and falafel at places I've never been before. One such place was a Druze town called Majdal Shams. There we went to a Druze "holy site" (that's all the specificity the English sign provided) and slept out under the stars. We swam in the Jordan river and the Sea of Galilee, made some campfires, went to the Israeli-Lebanon border, the Israeli-Syrian border, and climbed a hill that took us to the highest point in all of Israel.
We went to the Arab town of Acco, and drove through Hafia. Which reminds me: though I've jumbled the chronology, I also met up with an Israeli Professor of Civil Rights law at Haifa University who is a really cool guy. He took me to his favorite falafel stand, we did a little walking tour of Haifa, and talked about Tupac. I even spit a Warmbodys verse for him. The whole thing was tight. Haifa also has the Ba'hai gardens, which are beautiful, and which are the second-holiest cite for the Ba'hai. The breadth, immensity, and range of spiritual communities that are historically invested in this land is startling.
Ok, I'm gettin warmed-up now.
I finished up my project on comparative domestic intelligence powers, and had some cake. Everyone at the office was super nice as I said goodbye, and it was all in all a pleasant resolution (for some reason I almost typed "it was all in all a peasant revolution," which I think says a lot about the subliminal associations I've formed regarding my office). As soon as I ducked-out with that, it was onwards and upwards for a three-day trip to the Golan, Israel's Northsideeeee.
Close followers of the blog will remember the time I tried to go to Jordan and ended up in Sinai, Egypt. Even more unexpected, the beach I landed on in Sinai had a bevy of homeys I had meet the week before at a Kibbutz in Southern Israel ("Ketura"). It was one of these fine people, Noah, who invited me to go with him and two other friends to explore the Israeli North.
All I can say is that it was some of the most fun I've had since High School. It was basically a road trip with three Torontonians that involved poorly-planned camping (tents but not sleeping bags), spontaneous hiking, and stopping for fruit and falafel at places I've never been before. One such place was a Druze town called Majdal Shams. There we went to a Druze "holy site" (that's all the specificity the English sign provided) and slept out under the stars. We swam in the Jordan river and the Sea of Galilee, made some campfires, went to the Israeli-Lebanon border, the Israeli-Syrian border, and climbed a hill that took us to the highest point in all of Israel.
We went to the Arab town of Acco, and drove through Hafia. Which reminds me: though I've jumbled the chronology, I also met up with an Israeli Professor of Civil Rights law at Haifa University who is a really cool guy. He took me to his favorite falafel stand, we did a little walking tour of Haifa, and talked about Tupac. I even spit a Warmbodys verse for him. The whole thing was tight. Haifa also has the Ba'hai gardens, which are beautiful, and which are the second-holiest cite for the Ba'hai. The breadth, immensity, and range of spiritual communities that are historically invested in this land is startling.
Ok, I'm gettin warmed-up now.
The Return of the Blog
This post is the hardest to write, because I have so much to say. At one point I was in 4 different Palestinian cities in a single day. I have not been in the same place for more than twenty-four hours since July 21. Since my last post, I've finished working at ACRI (the Association for Civil Rights in Israel), stayed at two Palestinian refugee camps, and seen one of the "Seven Wonders of the World." Putting a "refugee camp" in the same sentence as "Seven Wonders of the World" somehow seems inappropriate, but that's what's challenging about writing this: trying to catch-up on a whole bunch of disparate events that were all personally significant but in ways that feel completely separate. I'll try to sort them out. Let's go:
Fun stuff:
I went to the Tel Aviv opera. Well, Simone says it wasn't technically an opera, it was merely a "performance" or something. All I know is that there was an orchestra, people in tuxedos with binoculars, and, actually, a "heavy" lady singing. Call it what you will. Entirely unrelated, I was lucky enough to have some members of my synagouge from back home in MD hit me up while on their own trip in Israel. I met up with my Rabbi and his wife, long-time friends and all-around great people. it was amazing to see em. To hear how their relationship with Israel has evolved in all the years since they've been coming here, what it's like to be an American Rabbi in Israel, and what Israelis and Americans both need to understand about the idea of peace. The other cool thing about it was that we went to a restaurant that gets their dairy from the Kibbutz I stayed near about a month ago. So maybe I met the cows that were now supplying the cream-cheese on my bagel. Feels local.
More friends from shul were also out in about in Jerusalem, and we had a really wonderful time at a Moroccan restaurant there. It was all decked-out Morroccan style, with a beautiful courtyard and halls with painted ceilings and women in traditional dress (as far as I could tell). I also learned that Morrocan food involves putting powdered sugar on everything, which I see as a plus.
Spiritual stuff: I took a day off from work to go to the Pardes center in Jerusalem, a pluralistic Yeshiva-style center for studying Jewish texts. My study partner was a Professor of psychology from Carelton College, I think. Our first assignment was to take the first and last sentence of each of the Five Books of Moses and organize them by themes we create. It was a surprisingly insightful excercise. We kept finding more and more connections and metaphors and before the hour was up we had created a pretty elaborate cosmology. So that was dope. Other aspects of it were disapointing. I went to a lecture on "personal prayer" and found the teacher to be one of the coldest, stalest, and least-spiritually awake people I have met in some time. "Those who can't do, teach," I guess. That's too harsh. Maybe she's enlightened on the inside. Like a spiritual M&M or something.
Alright, that's installment one. Get ready.
Fun stuff:
I went to the Tel Aviv opera. Well, Simone says it wasn't technically an opera, it was merely a "performance" or something. All I know is that there was an orchestra, people in tuxedos with binoculars, and, actually, a "heavy" lady singing. Call it what you will. Entirely unrelated, I was lucky enough to have some members of my synagouge from back home in MD hit me up while on their own trip in Israel. I met up with my Rabbi and his wife, long-time friends and all-around great people. it was amazing to see em. To hear how their relationship with Israel has evolved in all the years since they've been coming here, what it's like to be an American Rabbi in Israel, and what Israelis and Americans both need to understand about the idea of peace. The other cool thing about it was that we went to a restaurant that gets their dairy from the Kibbutz I stayed near about a month ago. So maybe I met the cows that were now supplying the cream-cheese on my bagel. Feels local.
More friends from shul were also out in about in Jerusalem, and we had a really wonderful time at a Moroccan restaurant there. It was all decked-out Morroccan style, with a beautiful courtyard and halls with painted ceilings and women in traditional dress (as far as I could tell). I also learned that Morrocan food involves putting powdered sugar on everything, which I see as a plus.
Spiritual stuff: I took a day off from work to go to the Pardes center in Jerusalem, a pluralistic Yeshiva-style center for studying Jewish texts. My study partner was a Professor of psychology from Carelton College, I think. Our first assignment was to take the first and last sentence of each of the Five Books of Moses and organize them by themes we create. It was a surprisingly insightful excercise. We kept finding more and more connections and metaphors and before the hour was up we had created a pretty elaborate cosmology. So that was dope. Other aspects of it were disapointing. I went to a lecture on "personal prayer" and found the teacher to be one of the coldest, stalest, and least-spiritually awake people I have met in some time. "Those who can't do, teach," I guess. That's too harsh. Maybe she's enlightened on the inside. Like a spiritual M&M or something.
Alright, that's installment one. Get ready.
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