egypt

Israelis are used to look at things through the prism of "is it good for the Jews or is it bad?" and then decide what they think about it. Since I am also an Israeli my knee-jerk reaction to the latest upheaval in Egypt was thinking how it would affect Israel, was it good or bad for Israel? And since I can be very susceptible to the long-held belief that Israel's peace with her Arab neighbors is very fragile and unrest can quickly dissolve into another bloody war, I was leaning toward the thought that maybe this wave of discontent is not the best thing in the world. But then I thought, screw it, that's totally the wrong way to look at it. So I started looking at the pictures coming from the streets of Egypt and realized that what caught my eyes were not the pictures of riot police blocking protesters or the fires burning in Cairo or people carrying the wounded with terrified expressions on their faces, but the women. I was looking for the women. And I saw one picture of a young woman in jeans and a long sleeve sweater waving her arm in the air and shouting in anger; then I saw a picture of an older woman in a head scarf kissing a young bewildered green eyed policeman, and I was sold on the Egyptian revolution.

Egypt gave us one of the most amazing feminists in the world. Huda Shaarawi who came out of the harem and fought for women rights in 1920s Egypt, no less. She was the first to take off the veil and fight against the seclusion of women. Today, when I see the women of Egypt go to the streets along their male counterparts and demand their rights to free elections and free speech, all I can think of is Huda Shaarawi. I only hope that the women of Egypt will not fall into the trap women in Algeria fell during their fight for independence when they donned the veil as their symbol of freedom. I hope Egyptian women are smarter than that.

In Hebrew we call Egypt Mitzrayim. I come in contact with Mitzrayim once a year on the first night of passover when I pretend to read the Hagadda with my friends before we give up and go for the food. In Hebrew Mitzrayim means "straits" מצר or "narrow" צר or "trouble" צרה. In the context of Passover it can mean the literal story in which the children of Israel walked through the narrow straits of whatever hurdle they had to cross in their flight from their enslavers. For those of us who don't take the bible literally but as a literary text, it means a spiritual or emotional rebirth. After all, even an abstract birth canal can feel like a narrow strait.

The latest struggle of the Egyptian protesters is no different from the struggle of the children of Israel which we find in the Jewish Bible. Egypt has finally arrived at its breaking point, facing its own bottle neck, its own birth canal. The army and the police can suppress the movement with brute force, but not for long. Once the gini is out of the bottle it is very hard to shove it back in. The amazing discontent that has been unleashed on the streets of Egypt will be very hard to squash and silence, not in this evolving world of social media and constant agitation by AlJazeera. And bear in mind, Egypt lies right across from Europe, not buried deep in the Middle East like Iran or Yemen.

I think it's about time for the Egyptians to cross their narrow straits and come out free on the other side. I only hope they don't forget Huda Shaarawi when they claim their victory.

road kill

I drive more than 10,000 miles a year. Most of my driving is done in town, to work, to the grocery store, to my daughter's school, and to all kinds of extra-curricular activities. In the mornings, as I drive on highway 1 to work, the sun rises on the passenger's side, the ocean stretches on my left. It's a short drive I cherish every single time because the view is spectacular. Every morning the sunrise entertains me with different shapes of clouds and shades of blue and orange and yellow, the ocean tide performs a different dance of white caps above deep blues and grays and silver all the way to the horizon, and the skyline of the distant mountains shimmers in the morning haze.

And then I see the road kill.

Sometimes it's a squirrel, sometimes a raccoon. Here and there I see a skunk, a seagull, a snake or a lizard. Dogs and cats are rather rare on highways, but they don't escape the fate of their undomesticated peers. Death by a moving car is an equal opportunity provider. Wrong place, wrong time, unlucky move. Bang. Done and over with.

I hate to see these mutilated leftovers on the side of the road. Sometimes lying in the middle of the road. Especially in the morning hours. So many times I see something splashed beyond recognition on the asphalt. Was it a squirrel, a cat, a raccoon? I can't tell. Too many cars have already driven over it, it became a part of the pavement. Almost.

Many times I call animal control and ask them to come and pick up the dead, especially if the road kill lies in the middle of the road. That way even the vultures and the coyotes can't get to them, and the cars keep passing by as if these creatures had not walked the earth just a short while ago. I have the phone number of the animal control people on my automatic dial. I think it is the least I can do for these creatures. Give them some respect. It's not their fault we need to get places too fast to lean on the brakes when they manifest themselves in front of us, totally oblivious to the fact that a car is rushing full-speed toward them.

This evening as I was driving toward Monterey on highway 1, I saw on the side of the road a car lying on its roof in the grass. Just like that. As if someone had picked it up and turned it over. A police patrol car was parked next to it. A tow truck was parked on the other side. It was getting dark and the fog was very thick, hiding the damage done to that car. There were no emergency vehicles on the side of the road and the traffic was moving smoothly, so I assumed the accident had happened quite a while ago. I don't know what happened to the people who were in that car and I don't really want to think about it.

I only hope they did not become road kill like the skunk I spotted earlier when I was driving out of town.

online dating

A friend of mine has recently asked me about online dating. She's never done it, she confessed, as she became a single mom only recently, and now she finds herself being pushed to try it by well-meaning friends. So I gave her some advice... Me, the online dating loser. I only hope I don’t make myself look totally pathetic, which is how I feel every time I succumb to the temptation of joining an online dating site. But I am jumping ahead of myself.

Here's a summary: Online dating sucks!!!
 

I once discovered a funny-sad blog written by a single father who answers to the name of David Mott. The man listed all kinds of online dating disasters he experienced. I read his stories with the notion of "know thy enemy," because this dad offered the male perspective. And let me tell you, it felt good to see that men, too, suffer when they venture into cyberspace to find true love.

Those who believe in online dating will tell you many success stories. I've heard some, too. I know people who met on these sites, got married, had children, and lived happily ever after to tell about it. But it's just like the lottery. There are so many more losers than winners.

So here I am, an online dating loser, telling an online dating virgin the do's and don'ts of this endeavor; something that most busy people don’t need to know, because why should anyone bother to learn that stuff. I'd rather learn to change the brake pedals on my car than how to upload a personal profile on a dating site or flirt online with total strangers.

My friend said she didn't want people to know that she was on a dating website. I told her that she didn't have to upload a photo, but then men would assume that she was ugly or married. She was horrified to find out that married women go online to look for adventure. She thought only men were capable of cheating. I was tempted to tell her that scientists using NASA equipment orbiting Mars found ice deposits on the red planet and it was time to wake up and smell the century she was living in.

After I gently brought her back to reality, I told her that most men first look at the photo and next, if you have enough boobs or legs or an enticing smile, they might check your height and weight, if the site asks for it. Of course, no one tells the truth about their weight. Some men write "athletic" if they weigh only 50 pounds above their recommended weight, otherwise they write "slender." Some will not upload their own photo if they have a slender nephew or cousin. Some uploaders will not even be men. Yet.

I was not sure what to say about age. My friend was convinced that all men were interested in twenty somethings. But that’s not true. Many men provide flexible age limits when it comes to women. Which is curious. They write that they will date women ages 18 to 59. And I'm like, "OK... humm... how do you do that? I'll date my daughter or my mother, doesn't matter. I can talk to both. Or maybe, I don't need to talk... I can make her happy... Because I'm so great."
 

Yup, that's what you're about to deal with, sweetie.

 
My friend was concerned about what to include in her profile. I suggested that she doesn't put too much information. It's not like you need to explain everything before you meet the guy. All you have to do is provide a blurb, a bait, just get noticed because without a picture it's a bit hard to get attention since men are visual animals, not too cerebral when it comes to women. But she doesn't want to mislead anyone, she said. Bless her heart. The innocence of online dating virgins is heartbreaking.

Here's something I tried once when the muse landed on me and I felt reckless and full of renewed hope. After explaining in three sentences the type of person I think I am, I added "looking for similar," to be completely clear. Underneath, I provided a couple of examples of what I considered similar. One of the examples was: "If you can talk in full sentences–that's similar."

I can't recall the number of "hi" responses I received. So I'm asking you, since when "hi" is a sentence? I thought sentences were supposed to have a verb in them.

After I gave my friend a few other tips, I told one of my more outrageous online dating escapades. Only to illustrate to her what a bad judge of character I am. Something an online dater should NEVER be under ANY circumstances.
 
You see, if a guy tells you that in his youth he lived under a bridge and spent time in prison for stealing cars to support his meth habit, you might want to consider not seeing him again. Even if he explains that he was self-medicating to manage his ADHD because his parents, the famous actors, barely noticed he existed. You should still not give him a pass just because he tells you about the rabbi who got him out of prison and into a halfway house where he could kick the habit, just to convince you that he is Jewish. Or after he shows you a copy of his latest blood test results to reassure you that he no longer has hepatitis B. You should just leave. But no, you think this is cool, because the guy has some fascinating stories to tell and he is not a bad writer and he becomes borderline funny after he smokes a few joints. And then you discover that he is into S&M when one day he asks you to take a photo of his back, and when he lifts his shirt you see blue bruises and bloody lines carved by whip lashes crisscrossing his tattooed back, and only then, finally, your brain kicks in, and you realize that if you don’t pretty much evaporate to a different dimension at this very moment, you will have to expect some serious intervention from those who care about you.

So if you give in to your pushy friends who think they are being helpful by telling you to go look for Prince Charming on the internet, make sure you know what’s you’re doing. Otherwise, do yourself a favor. Don’t upload a sexy photo of yourself, don’t share the story of your life and your real or imaginary body measurements with voyeurs, don’t respond to anonymous “hi’s” and don’t believe everything that people tell you .Use your computer and your brain for more productive undertakings. It will save you time and some embarrassment. Or, you might end up like me, with stories to tell and some thinking to do. But if you are not a writer, or me, you really don’t need this type of skeletons in your closet. 

another year is starting

I think one day I will make a list of where I was and what I did on each New Year's Eve since I first landed in the U.S. I will not remember all of them, for sure. Only those that made a lasting impression. Like my first New Year's Eve which I spent standing at Time's Square next to the Dominican dishwasher of the restaurant I was working in at the time. He was an interesting guy who made a living in New York City without ever learning to read and write English. Not sure about his Spanish, though. To me, that piece of information was a lot more interesting than the thousands of people who were standing on the street around me screaming ten-nine-eight... as a large ball descended from a spear attached to the top of a building, approaching an invisible point that marked the beginning of the year. At touch down, all hell broke loose. Whistles, shouts, banging on things, smoke and all kinds of hazards erupted in an explosive crescendo into the freezing night skies. I looked around me at the ocean of unknown faces and tried to feel excited that a new year has just began. But nothing really kicked in. It was just another freezing night with lots of people on the streets, looking for a reason to party. I've been in many New Year's Eve parties since then. Different cities, different people, different wine bottles and different music. But pretty much, it's just another party. Even the night of Y2K, the night we thought life was about to end, was just another night. The ball came down, all hell broke loose in New York City, the new year started on the East Coast, and here in California we were just beginning to gear up for it. Just like on elections night. Living in California can be totally anti-climactic. Here we are getting ready to start the evening, but everyone already knows how it is going to end. So I guess the new year is almost here. Have a fun night. Enjoy the party. Don't drive while intoxicated. See you next year...

my xrissmess gift from barack obama

Some people are really good at gifting. They buy gifts, they send gifts, they give gifts and they receive gifts as if it is the most natural thing to do. They give chocolate and scented candles and picture frames on special days, and little knickknacks when they come back from trips. They make the giving look like the easiest thing to do.

They are not tormented by deep existential questions when they reach for gloves or scarves or whatever crosses their field of vision when they embark on the traditional pre-Christmas eve hunting expedition.

I, on the other hand, can struggle with gifting questions that can practically solve the meaning of life before I decide what to give, even when it's something small. Are they going to like it? Is it usable? Should I get a couple of things? What would it say about me if I give X? Do these things convey what I want them to convey? Does the receiver already have it? Will it make me look like a total ass if I give this thing? Am I making a total faux-pa?

Furthermore, while giving can be quite complicated, receiving can be just as awkward. I will never forget how strange it was for me to open gifts in front of a cheering crowd during the baby shower for my daughter. In Israel, as far as I remember, we don't open gifts in front of the givers. But here people take pictures of you when you open their gifts so you have to be really careful with whatever expression that pops into your face or you'd live to regret it for the rest of your life.

So as a result of the daunting uncertainties that accompany the gift giving season, when the holidays come upon me I usually want to go into hiding. But this year things turned out quite well.

When I asked my daughter what she would have liked to get for Christmas-Hanukkah she asked for an IOU without specifying the dollar amount. This, she said, would be provided at a later date when the dust settles after the holidays. [not her exact words, but in this vicinity.]

Great, I'm raising a shrewd businesswoman, my brain alarm noted quietly. Not that I didn't know it already. However, since this absolved me from going to the mall to fight the crowds in search of stuff, I was more than happy to comply.

But what about the other people I want to gift?

Coincidentally, I came across Dan Ariely's blog during my philosophical contemplation on the meaning of gift giving. Ariely is an Israeli-born professor of behavioral economics who writes about all kinds of interesting stuff in a very reader-friendly way. In one of his blog entries he discussed the question of what makes a good gift. He put it out for his readers and after doing all kinds of studies and interviews and such, came up with this answer: “A good gift is something that someone really wants, but feels guilty buying it for themselves.”

Well, this only goes to show that professor Ariely has not met me, the guilt-ridden Israeli-American phenomenon. Because if I feel guilty buying something for myself (because it's too expensive), I would feel ten times more guilty if my guilt-ridden conscious made someone else pay for it.

And since an owner of two Ph.D. degrees and a professor of economics can't figure it out, I had to come up with my own answer. And my answer was exactly the opposite of Ariely's. I realized that I usually give my friends what I would like to have myself. I am the litmus test of gifts. So I give books I would like to read, and movies I would like to watch, and music I would like to hear, and massages and facials I would like to receive, and whatever else I would like to indulge myself in. I am the most self-centered gift giver in the world. If I want it, there is a pretty good chance, you will get it. So watch out.

Just in case you are wondering what to get me this season - you don't need to. I just got the gift I wanted. And Barack Obama gave it to me with the help of some Republican senators.

The repeal of DADT.

For all I care, it is the best xrissmess gift I could have wished for.

A tribute to my mother

Today my mother would have turned 79 had she not died a little over 8 years ago from cancer. In 2001, I landed in Israel on the morning of her birthday knowing that this was going to be our final days together. My mother knew her days were numbered. She was not afraid to die. She kept saying "whatever happens, happens." Her total disregard for death made it so much easier for me. Like death was not a big deal. There was no emotional outbursts or tears or sudden insights. Just a matter of fact approach to the situation. Life is running out, take it one moment at a time.

I think my mother is glad she did not live to be 79. She hated the thought of getting old. Age was her enemy. She never told her real age and always complained about getting old, not because she felt tired or pain or useless or bored, but because she felt compromised by the undignifying numbers.

One morning she took off her wedding ring and gave it to my sister. I guess my sister got the ring because she wears jewelry better than I, and also because she is the first born. When I saw my mother giving her the ring, I realized it was my time to ask for the masterpiece table cloth she crochet during the First Gulf War while she was waiting in the gas-proof room for the scud missiles to explode above the skies of Haifa. Years ago I told her that I hoped she would leave me that piece in her will and she rolled her eyes and gave me one of her "I give up" half smiles. She knew I could be very persistent once I put my mind into something.

While the drama surrounding the certainty of her death was rather subdued, a very different storm was brewing around her imminent departure from this world. You see, my mother wanted to leave her kibbutz apartment to her three children who were born and raised on the kibbutz. She knew that soon, each member of the kibbutz would become the legal owner of his/her apartment through the process of privatization, but she had no time to wait for this process to be finalized. She knew that she was dying. So from her deathbed at the hospital she asked the members of the kibbutz to let her children keep her apartment after her death until privatization was finalized. But the leadership had other plans for this small apartment and refused to bring my mother's very unusual request to the assembly.

I remember the shock and grief I felt when I heard that my mother's request was denied. Not only was I losing my mother, I was about to lose the only place I ever felt connected to, my parents' home, my home. No pleading could have changed the minds and hearts of those who were in charge, I realized. There was no one to talk to, no one to beg. It was again The Kibbutz, the invisible entity and its invisible regulations that we were facing.

The morning after the final verdict was given to us by the kibbutz secretary, I went to the hospital to see my mother as I did every day. It was pretty early and I did not expect her to be awake. But she was waiting for me. She had something important to say.

"I am going to leave the kibbutz," she said.

I was not sure I heard her right. How could this woman who always said, "the kibbutz decided," "they said...," "this is how it is," could say such a thing? I told her I needed to call my brother.

"She wants to leave the kibbutz," I said to him.

A couple of days later she signed a legally binding separation statement from the kibbutz and from her deathbed she taped a short speech, berating her old comrades' lack of foresight and explaining why she decided to leave the kibbutz.

I found out later that people on the kibbutz thought my brother and I talked her into doing it. They thought we intimidated her to do something against her will. They could not believe that my mother could have done such a thing on her own. I could not believe it, either.

I still have the videotape she had made a month before she died. I haven't seen it yet. I am too scared to look at it. The day she made that video, I did not go to the hospital. I did not want to see her sign any papers or making that video. She did not look too good in her final days. The pain and the drugs took it all out of her. Except for her humor and her resolve. She could barely sit up when she had to read and sign her declaration, my brother told me later. But she was determined to complete her final mission. Standing up for her own principles.

Maybe the time has come for me to watch that video.

I think I'll sleep on it tonight.

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Related material:

If you'd like to learn more about my mother check out my e-book Daughter of the Kibbutz

Hannukah-how good does it get?

Image via WikipediaHanukkah has been upon us for the past week so it is time to reflect on what it means.

In the early days, back in the kibbutz, it was all about donuts (sufganiyot), the Israeli style. I still remember them and miss them terribly. Burning hot dough, filled with injected red jam that burns your tongue at the first bite, and tons of powdered sugar all over my face. Yummmm. They don't make them this way here, so I've been deprived of suf-ga-niyot for the past 25 years. Oh, well. At least I'm saving on the calories.

The interesting part of Hanukkah now is that I have to impart the story to my daughter. And as I have already confessed before, my success rate at Jewish education is abysmal.

This morning my daughter bragged that she knew the letters on the dreidle. Kind of.

Is it 'nun',(נ) she asked me to make sure she was right. Is it 'vav'? I know 'hey',(ה) like hey you, she said proudly.

I squirm when I see the ignorance. But then she tells me that she took a bunch of dreidles to a party at the neighbor's house and taught the other kids about the meaning of the letters and my heart was filled with pride and joy. She knows the Hebrew word for dreidle (sevivon) and she thinks it is a cool word, like her mom is a weirdo from some esoteric tribe that mumbles unintelligible words and eats strange vegetables and celebrates the aversion of disasters. It is just too funny to see my own flesh and blood knowing so little about things that are part of my DNA.

So speaking about averting disasters, this morning she said something about Hanukkah and crossing the sea and maybe she even mentioned Moses, I'm not sure. So of course, using my motherly compassion I told her that was passover, and that passover was the miracle of being saved from the Egyptian, but on Hanukkah it was about a miracle of being saved from the Greeks, and on Purim we were being saved from the Persians.

So getting into the car she went like, without even looking at me, "Don't you have anything with Muslims?" I swear to the almighty evolution that I am not making this up!

I guess through the grapevines she had heard about the Israeli-Arab conflict. I mean, I talk about stuff at home once in a while, you know. So I was like, Muslims? We are celebrating miracles that occurred five thousand years ago, girl, two thousand years minimum. Muslims? There were no Muslims around five thousands years ago.

But then, lo and behold, I remembered, we do have a holiday for overcoming the Muslims. Independence Day. The Nakba, as our Palestinian friends call it. This holiday does not mention god or miracles, but still, again, we were almost annihilated, and we were saved, Yee-pee. Let's celebrate and eat something.

So just to cover my base I asked her, do you know when is Yom Kippur? You should know that stuff because one day you might be kidnapped by Jewish fundamentalists and the only way you can save your skin is by knowing about Yom Kippur and proving that you are a good Jew. After all, this is what the Taliban are doing now when they kidnap people. If you can say allahu akbar convincingly enough you don't get beheaded.

So this girl of mine, whom I have been trying to teach something about what it means to be a person of the Jewish persuasion for over a decade now, settled in her seat and said it as if it were the most obvious thing in the world: Ten days after Rosh Hashana.

I'm cleared and vindicated for eternity.