JG arrived a couple of days ago, so we took the opportunity yesterday to explore the Armenian quarter of the old city of Jerusalem. According to Let's Go, the Cathedral of St. James was holding vespers at 3pm. We killed time looking at hand-painted porcelain, and then a little before 3 started looking for the entrance to the cathedral. The Armenian quarter has more of a closed feel than the other quarters--there aren't a lot of signs advertising attractions or shopkeepers badgering passersby. We did see a bunch of people coming out of a gate though, wearing what I would describe as "Sunday best", so JG asked them where the entrance to the cathedral was. They gestured to the interior of the courtyard, and we entered. Still unclear where the cathedral was, we followed a black-robed priest who looked like he was in a hurry, and then converged with a tour group. Soon, we were at the service. One of the worshippers reminded me to remove my hat, and I noted the old ladies in attendance covering their hair with Lacy scarves.
The "Cathedral" was more of a chapel, or at least the part we were in was. It was gorgeous though. The ceiling had a lot of silver, porcelain, and glass candle lamps hanging from it at different heights. It occurred to me that this kind of lighting scheme, which I have also seen in Eastern Orthodox churches here, may have been the inspiration for the very modern hanging lights in the sanctuary at my home synagogue. None of these lamps was lit, however, and natural light from the upper story of arched windows filtered down to illuminate the space. When the angle of the sun was just right, a thin pencil of light would penetrate all the way to the floor, highlighting the previously invisible dust particles suspended in the air. The walls had medieval-looking paintings all over them. What wasn't covered with paintings was intricate tile in green, blue, and white, and what wasn't tiled was stone, etched with crosses. The floor was covered by Persian-style rugs.
Priests and alter boys were chanting a melancholy tune in a non-diatonic scale. From time to time the music would change and an alter boy would come out swinging a ringing silver incense burner that put out puffs of smoke from (I think) frankincense. The smell along with the chanting was sleep-inducing. I was jealous of the old priests who had plush armchairs to sit on. Changes in music were accompanied by changes in dress. Alter boys would bring out brilliant cloaks and help the priests put them on, arranging their headgear (pointed like Mt. Ararat, I remembered a tour guide explaining at some point) just so. When the music became more vigorous, the whole host headed for the back, which I had assumed was just a vestibule when I walked through it, and did some chanting back there. During this time, priests and alter boys shuttled old books on shtenders back and forth.
After the service ended, the alterboys changed out of their robes and back into blazers. We thanked a priest and he told us to come again.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Friday, May 18, 2007
A question of semantics
Part of the reason it can be so hard to make any progress when discussing religion is that different people think the word "religion" means different things. The rifts in definition of "religion", however, need not run along lines of belief/nonbelief, or religious/secular. Quite the contrary, believers and nonbelievers in a specific religion may in fact agree on what "religion" is, while disagreeing about whether it's true. This phenomenon partly explains the difficulty American Jews face in communicating with secular Israelis about religion.
So, what is religion?
As an illustrative example, let me explain what "religion" means to most Americans: that is, to American Christians and to American nonbelievers. For American Christians and for American nonbelievers, religion should answer the following question: What happens after I die?
Those Americans who find Christianity's answer to this question satisfactory become Christians; those who don't find Christianity's answer satisfactory reject Christianity. Of course, this is a broad simplification of a complicated social trend, but I argue that believers and nonbelievers in American Christianity share this basic expectation of religion.
Israelis have a different expectation of religion. I hypothesize that, for both secular Israelis and ultra-orthodox Israelis, religion should answer the following question: What is the relationship between God and my people?
Israelis may have beliefs about the afterlife, rooted in the Jewish tradition, but the question of the afterlife is peripheral to religion for Israelis (as for Jews generally), just as the notion of peoplehood vis-a-vis God is peripheral, or even foreign, to most Christians. Israelis who find in the Jewish religion a satisfactory answer to the question of peoplehood vis-a-vis God generally become orthodox. Israelis who do not find in the Jewish religion a satisfactory answer to that question generally become secular.
And what about American Jews? I hypothesize that American Jews have a hard time communicating with secular Israelis about religion because American Jews have a different definition of religion. And what is the question which American Jews expect Judaism to answer? I'm not sure, but as an attempt, let me quote the Cambridger rebbe (who, to be sure, has started many sentences with "Judaism is..." only to finish them differently). He said, "Judaism is the conversation about what Judaism should be."
I realize that the foregoing "question" is not a question at all, but an elliptical statement. I further recognize that it is self-referential in a way that neither the "American Christian" nor "Israeli" definitions of religion I have proposed are, and that therefore my "American Jewish" definition of religion is not parallel to my other two. But, in a way, I think this lack of structural parallelism accurately evokes the difficulty American Jews have in talking about religion with Israelis: not only do we define religion differently, but we define religion as two different kinds of things entirely.
The Israeli may say simply that he rejects Judaism, and such a statement is logical according to his definition of religion. By rejecting Judaism, he means that he finds Judaism does not satisfactorily inform him of the nature of the relationship between God and the Jewish people. Perhaps he doesn't believe in God, or perhaps he has found the meaning of Jewish peoplehood elsewhere, such as in secular Zionism--there are many possibilities, and they all amount to a denial of Judaism, for the Israeli.
But the American Jew, exhibiting his stereotypical erudition and penchant for acrobatic philosophical posturing, cannot comprend the Israeli's rejection of religion. The reason is that, under the American Jew's definition of religion, it is utterly impossible to "reject Judaism", except if it be by simply ceasing to think about Judaism at all one way or the other. Try it! The circularity is sternly inclusive:
Under the American Jewish logic,
(1) to reject Judaism would mean coming to believe that Judaism inadequately answers the question of what Judaism should be;
(2) yet for a skeptic to believe that Judaism fails adequately to answer the question of what Judaism should be implies that our skeptic holds some rationale for judging a reasonable answer to the question of what Judaism should be;
(3) and if our skeptic holds a rationale for judging answers to the question of what Judaism should be, he is davka already participating (at a rather high level) in the conversation about what Judaism should be;
(4) making him...QED...an exemplary Jew.
As American Jews, with our bizarre, sternly inclusive, circular definition of Judaism, we can be quite comfortable with participating in Jewish ritual life and traditional Jewish study to any greater or lesser degree. The whole spectrum of religious observance becomes an open field for trial and subsequent reflection. And if we are inconsistent in our practice, it is only because we are searching.
So, what is religion?
As an illustrative example, let me explain what "religion" means to most Americans: that is, to American Christians and to American nonbelievers. For American Christians and for American nonbelievers, religion should answer the following question: What happens after I die?
Those Americans who find Christianity's answer to this question satisfactory become Christians; those who don't find Christianity's answer satisfactory reject Christianity. Of course, this is a broad simplification of a complicated social trend, but I argue that believers and nonbelievers in American Christianity share this basic expectation of religion.
Israelis have a different expectation of religion. I hypothesize that, for both secular Israelis and ultra-orthodox Israelis, religion should answer the following question: What is the relationship between God and my people?
Israelis may have beliefs about the afterlife, rooted in the Jewish tradition, but the question of the afterlife is peripheral to religion for Israelis (as for Jews generally), just as the notion of peoplehood vis-a-vis God is peripheral, or even foreign, to most Christians. Israelis who find in the Jewish religion a satisfactory answer to the question of peoplehood vis-a-vis God generally become orthodox. Israelis who do not find in the Jewish religion a satisfactory answer to that question generally become secular.
And what about American Jews? I hypothesize that American Jews have a hard time communicating with secular Israelis about religion because American Jews have a different definition of religion. And what is the question which American Jews expect Judaism to answer? I'm not sure, but as an attempt, let me quote the Cambridger rebbe (who, to be sure, has started many sentences with "Judaism is..." only to finish them differently). He said, "Judaism is the conversation about what Judaism should be."
I realize that the foregoing "question" is not a question at all, but an elliptical statement. I further recognize that it is self-referential in a way that neither the "American Christian" nor "Israeli" definitions of religion I have proposed are, and that therefore my "American Jewish" definition of religion is not parallel to my other two. But, in a way, I think this lack of structural parallelism accurately evokes the difficulty American Jews have in talking about religion with Israelis: not only do we define religion differently, but we define religion as two different kinds of things entirely.
The Israeli may say simply that he rejects Judaism, and such a statement is logical according to his definition of religion. By rejecting Judaism, he means that he finds Judaism does not satisfactorily inform him of the nature of the relationship between God and the Jewish people. Perhaps he doesn't believe in God, or perhaps he has found the meaning of Jewish peoplehood elsewhere, such as in secular Zionism--there are many possibilities, and they all amount to a denial of Judaism, for the Israeli.
But the American Jew, exhibiting his stereotypical erudition and penchant for acrobatic philosophical posturing, cannot comprend the Israeli's rejection of religion. The reason is that, under the American Jew's definition of religion, it is utterly impossible to "reject Judaism", except if it be by simply ceasing to think about Judaism at all one way or the other. Try it! The circularity is sternly inclusive:
Under the American Jewish logic,
(1) to reject Judaism would mean coming to believe that Judaism inadequately answers the question of what Judaism should be;
(2) yet for a skeptic to believe that Judaism fails adequately to answer the question of what Judaism should be implies that our skeptic holds some rationale for judging a reasonable answer to the question of what Judaism should be;
(3) and if our skeptic holds a rationale for judging answers to the question of what Judaism should be, he is davka already participating (at a rather high level) in the conversation about what Judaism should be;
(4) making him...QED...an exemplary Jew.
As American Jews, with our bizarre, sternly inclusive, circular definition of Judaism, we can be quite comfortable with participating in Jewish ritual life and traditional Jewish study to any greater or lesser degree. The whole spectrum of religious observance becomes an open field for trial and subsequent reflection. And if we are inconsistent in our practice, it is only because we are searching.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Monolatry
Monolatry is an important word to know for understanding a country like Israel whose nationhood is bound so closely with its religion.
Monolatry means the worship of one god. This is as distinguished from monotheism, which means the belief in one god. Catch the distinction?
So, the role of monolatry in the history of the Jewish religion is as a middle form between polytheism and monotheism. King David, like all Israelites at that time, was a polytheist. At some point after David, however, there was a change. Judaism changed into a henotheistic religion, which is to say it believed in several gods but preferentially worshipped one. The next stage after henotheism (and this would be about 300 years after David) was monolatry.
Monolatry was a little different from henotheism because monolatry introduced the idea of god having a special relatioship with the nation of Israel. Monolatry is where religion and nationalism become linked. A monolater may or may not believe that other gods exist, or he may be agnostic about them. But he believes that, as far as his nation is concerned, there is only one god for them. Unlike a henotheist, a monolater does not fear the dust storm god or the bad luck god and the sea storm god and so forth; even if they do exist, they can't touch him because his nation is protected by his national god. As long as his nation stands, so does his god.
Monolatry is not monotheism. Monotheism developed only after the Jews were exiled to Babylon. For then, their nation really was destroyed, and they needed an enlarged, more universal understanding of god in order to carry on being Jews. So, they developed monotheism: the positive belief that there is one and only one god for all of man kind.
Monotheism is a pretty tall order, and I would argue that many many modern Israelis are in fact not monotheists, but monolaters. I mean this in the following sense: their religion is bound up in nationalism. Think of the kotel, the western wall. Its most powerful association for most secular Israelis is as the place where certain army units are sworn in. The kotel is a religious symbol co-opted for nationalist purposes (and has been ever since Herod built it). For a true monotheist, god is a parable for universalist ideas such as universal human dignity, human rights, human brotherhood, etc. One god is the proverbial reflection of the idea of one humanity. But for a monolater, one god is a parable for the unity of his nation. One god is the reflection of his unified nation.
I think ideally Judaism is a religion of both monotheism (belief in one god) and monolatry (worship of one god). Judaism says that there really is only one god for everyone, but that the Jewish people has a special relationship with that god. (Judaism is open to and ultimately agnostic about the possibility that other peoples also have special relationships with that same god.)
Monolatry means the worship of one god. This is as distinguished from monotheism, which means the belief in one god. Catch the distinction?
So, the role of monolatry in the history of the Jewish religion is as a middle form between polytheism and monotheism. King David, like all Israelites at that time, was a polytheist. At some point after David, however, there was a change. Judaism changed into a henotheistic religion, which is to say it believed in several gods but preferentially worshipped one. The next stage after henotheism (and this would be about 300 years after David) was monolatry.
Monolatry was a little different from henotheism because monolatry introduced the idea of god having a special relatioship with the nation of Israel. Monolatry is where religion and nationalism become linked. A monolater may or may not believe that other gods exist, or he may be agnostic about them. But he believes that, as far as his nation is concerned, there is only one god for them. Unlike a henotheist, a monolater does not fear the dust storm god or the bad luck god and the sea storm god and so forth; even if they do exist, they can't touch him because his nation is protected by his national god. As long as his nation stands, so does his god.
Monolatry is not monotheism. Monotheism developed only after the Jews were exiled to Babylon. For then, their nation really was destroyed, and they needed an enlarged, more universal understanding of god in order to carry on being Jews. So, they developed monotheism: the positive belief that there is one and only one god for all of man kind.
Monotheism is a pretty tall order, and I would argue that many many modern Israelis are in fact not monotheists, but monolaters. I mean this in the following sense: their religion is bound up in nationalism. Think of the kotel, the western wall. Its most powerful association for most secular Israelis is as the place where certain army units are sworn in. The kotel is a religious symbol co-opted for nationalist purposes (and has been ever since Herod built it). For a true monotheist, god is a parable for universalist ideas such as universal human dignity, human rights, human brotherhood, etc. One god is the proverbial reflection of the idea of one humanity. But for a monolater, one god is a parable for the unity of his nation. One god is the reflection of his unified nation.
I think ideally Judaism is a religion of both monotheism (belief in one god) and monolatry (worship of one god). Judaism says that there really is only one god for everyone, but that the Jewish people has a special relationship with that god. (Judaism is open to and ultimately agnostic about the possibility that other peoples also have special relationships with that same god.)
Monday, May 14, 2007
Just another shabbat in Jerusalem
On shabbat, MA and I went to TS's seuda shlishit. There were some secular Israelis there, and some other Americans, and somehow we started talking about the relationship between government and religion here. It is striking how these conversations always seem to go the same way, Americans totally impassioned, Israelis staring blankly.
From the American point of view, Israel's government supports one form of Judaism to the exclusion of others, and a particularly obnoxious one at that: ultra-orthodoxy. The ultra-orthodox minority controls marriage, death, and conversion for all Jews in Israel. And their form of Judaism is really sexist. "Why should the government support this?" the Americans demand. "Why do the rest of us have to live under their form of Judaism?"
The secular Israelis, meanwhile, feel disconnected from religion, and can't figure out why the Americans care so much what shade of silliness is recognized as the official religion. Moreover, they can't quite figure out how we American Jews-- modern orthodox, traditional egalitarian, or liberal--are different from the ultra-orthodox. "You are wearing a kippah and you just said kiddush, so doesn't that mean you are religious too?"
We reply that we are, but differently from the ultra-orthodox. We aren't sexist, for example. Or, we see the bible as a literary or historical document, rather than simply as devine revalation. "Why does the ultra-orthodox form of Judaism get government recognition, and not ours?"
"Because they practice the Jewish religion," reply the Israelis, quite innocently. "They are living the traditional life the way it's always been."
At this point, TS, flushed with emotion, had the best line of the evening: "Who made them God?" Her point was that Judaism has always changed and developed in every age and this idea that the ultra-orthodox are preserving authentic Judaism is a myth that the ultra-orthodox have fed to the secularists, and that the secularists have swallowed with a gullability not often associated with Israelis.
"But, if you don't like religion, why are you so worried about what the crazy ultra-orthodox do? Just leave them alone and live your own life," say the secular Israelis.
"We won't let them co-opt Judaism and steal it from us," we reply. And, indeed, for those committed American Jews born of a Jewish father and a non Jewish mother, they are literally fighting for their Judaism against a religious establishment that says they aren't Jewish.
Slightly confused, the Israelis ask, "Well, what is Judaism to you, then, if not the religion of the ultra-orthodox?"
And this it seems is the crux of the communication gap. We American Jews have had to live as a minority, and therefore we have had to think about what it is to be Jewish. We have lots of ideas about this. Judaism is a history, a set of values, a culture, a family, much more than a religion. Judaism is a nation, a civilization, encompassing a great profusion and diversity of religious practice.
These secular Israelis who don't even really consider themselves Jewish can't even anwer the question of why the State of Israel should exist, though they fight and die in place of the ultra-orthodox in order to ensure the continued existence of the State. Why does the world need a Jewish state? To protect the Jews? Perhaps, but Jewish people are really safer in the United States. It is true that Jews in Germany in 1930 thought they were perfectly safe and turned out to be tragically wrong, but the idea that the Jewish state exists solely as a refuge for the Jews rings terribly hollow to me. Perhaps it is because I have lived a life in which assimilation has always been easily within reach whereas Judaism I've had to search for and work at. Really, what can a secular Israeli say when asked why the state of Israel should exist? 3000 years of history so that...
"So that we can have a bonfire on lag baomer and cheesecake on shavuot."
That wasn't the Israelis, that was me, and I think it was my best line of the night.
After about an hour of this argument, the Israelis wearied and wanted to talk about something else. It's strange, because as American Jews in Israel, this is sort of all we ever talk about.
So no resolutions came out of this conversation, but I did learn something. I haven't had a chance yet to snap a picture, but if I think of it I will take one of a window in a Tel Aviv bridal shop. The wedding dresses in this country are scandalous. They are these lacy, revealing affairs that are not decent. Cleavage, bare midriff, bare shoulders, open back, the whole deal. It's a little shocking. "There is white material piled on in places that don't need to be covered and nothing in places that do need to be covered -- it's like what Barbie would get married in," said TS. The reason davka is religion.
(Davka, by the way, is an adverb meaning "because of but also in spite of." It's a word that recognizes that impossible ironies are integral to the cosmos.)
During the actual ceremony, there is of course an ultra-orthodox rabbi present. The ultra-orthodox rabbinate requires that wedding dresses be sufficiently modest - everything that has to be covered has to be covered, as well as a lot else. So, these brides wear some kind of a shawl thing during the ceremony, and then, as soon as the rabbi is gone, off with the shawl, on with the debauchery. The tastelessly revealing wedding dress is a thinly veiled middle finger to the enforcers of traditional morality. A little like graduating with nothing on under your robe.
From the American point of view, Israel's government supports one form of Judaism to the exclusion of others, and a particularly obnoxious one at that: ultra-orthodoxy. The ultra-orthodox minority controls marriage, death, and conversion for all Jews in Israel. And their form of Judaism is really sexist. "Why should the government support this?" the Americans demand. "Why do the rest of us have to live under their form of Judaism?"
The secular Israelis, meanwhile, feel disconnected from religion, and can't figure out why the Americans care so much what shade of silliness is recognized as the official religion. Moreover, they can't quite figure out how we American Jews-- modern orthodox, traditional egalitarian, or liberal--are different from the ultra-orthodox. "You are wearing a kippah and you just said kiddush, so doesn't that mean you are religious too?"
We reply that we are, but differently from the ultra-orthodox. We aren't sexist, for example. Or, we see the bible as a literary or historical document, rather than simply as devine revalation. "Why does the ultra-orthodox form of Judaism get government recognition, and not ours?"
"Because they practice the Jewish religion," reply the Israelis, quite innocently. "They are living the traditional life the way it's always been."
At this point, TS, flushed with emotion, had the best line of the evening: "Who made them God?" Her point was that Judaism has always changed and developed in every age and this idea that the ultra-orthodox are preserving authentic Judaism is a myth that the ultra-orthodox have fed to the secularists, and that the secularists have swallowed with a gullability not often associated with Israelis.
"But, if you don't like religion, why are you so worried about what the crazy ultra-orthodox do? Just leave them alone and live your own life," say the secular Israelis.
"We won't let them co-opt Judaism and steal it from us," we reply. And, indeed, for those committed American Jews born of a Jewish father and a non Jewish mother, they are literally fighting for their Judaism against a religious establishment that says they aren't Jewish.
Slightly confused, the Israelis ask, "Well, what is Judaism to you, then, if not the religion of the ultra-orthodox?"
And this it seems is the crux of the communication gap. We American Jews have had to live as a minority, and therefore we have had to think about what it is to be Jewish. We have lots of ideas about this. Judaism is a history, a set of values, a culture, a family, much more than a religion. Judaism is a nation, a civilization, encompassing a great profusion and diversity of religious practice.
These secular Israelis who don't even really consider themselves Jewish can't even anwer the question of why the State of Israel should exist, though they fight and die in place of the ultra-orthodox in order to ensure the continued existence of the State. Why does the world need a Jewish state? To protect the Jews? Perhaps, but Jewish people are really safer in the United States. It is true that Jews in Germany in 1930 thought they were perfectly safe and turned out to be tragically wrong, but the idea that the Jewish state exists solely as a refuge for the Jews rings terribly hollow to me. Perhaps it is because I have lived a life in which assimilation has always been easily within reach whereas Judaism I've had to search for and work at. Really, what can a secular Israeli say when asked why the state of Israel should exist? 3000 years of history so that...
"So that we can have a bonfire on lag baomer and cheesecake on shavuot."
That wasn't the Israelis, that was me, and I think it was my best line of the night.
After about an hour of this argument, the Israelis wearied and wanted to talk about something else. It's strange, because as American Jews in Israel, this is sort of all we ever talk about.
So no resolutions came out of this conversation, but I did learn something. I haven't had a chance yet to snap a picture, but if I think of it I will take one of a window in a Tel Aviv bridal shop. The wedding dresses in this country are scandalous. They are these lacy, revealing affairs that are not decent. Cleavage, bare midriff, bare shoulders, open back, the whole deal. It's a little shocking. "There is white material piled on in places that don't need to be covered and nothing in places that do need to be covered -- it's like what Barbie would get married in," said TS. The reason davka is religion.
(Davka, by the way, is an adverb meaning "because of but also in spite of." It's a word that recognizes that impossible ironies are integral to the cosmos.)
During the actual ceremony, there is of course an ultra-orthodox rabbi present. The ultra-orthodox rabbinate requires that wedding dresses be sufficiently modest - everything that has to be covered has to be covered, as well as a lot else. So, these brides wear some kind of a shawl thing during the ceremony, and then, as soon as the rabbi is gone, off with the shawl, on with the debauchery. The tastelessly revealing wedding dress is a thinly veiled middle finger to the enforcers of traditional morality. A little like graduating with nothing on under your robe.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
The Ride to Tveria
I'm getting a little out of chronological order here, but I just have to tell you about the ride to Tveria from Tel Aviv. At the bus station, there were a number of sheruts around looking for passengers. A sherut is a shared taxi that looks like a mini bus. It has a destination, but not a schedule. It waits until it has 10 passengers, and then it leaves. You pay once you are underway. So, when I got to the bus station, with my big bag, the sherut drivers knew I was going somewhere, so they piped up. "Jerusalem!" "Haifa!" "Tveria!" "Tveria!" I shouted back. It was like marco polo. "Put your bag in the back and wait here,"said the driver in Hebrew. Soon, we had 10 passengers, and the driver got in. But when he turned the key, the sherut wouldn't start. A wild and scragly looking hasid came over, said something quickly in Hebrew to the driver, and the driver told us to get out and go with this other guy. We all got our bags and shlepped to the other sherut. "Kol hazayin," I found the opportunity to say. Wild hasid driver pulled out as soon as we were all loaded, but he didn't get out of the parking lot before a third driver ran up to the driver's window, furious about something. I don't know what unwritten rules the drivers keep for determining who gets to collect passengers and whose turn it is, but I gathered that wild hasid driver had broken them. I didn't catch most of what was said, but I did catch the parting salvo: "You will pay for this! (spits on the ground)" We started moving again but were soon stopped again by a fatter, angrier driver. This one berated wild hasid for breaking the rules and said, "You should be ashamed of yourself for doing this, and you are a man who wears a kippah!"
"Yes," wild hasid replied, eyes gleaming, "and I have to finish my shift before shabbat."
With that, we drove away. Nothing else very interesting happened on the way to Tveria, except that one passenger heard the call of nature and asked the driver to pull off the highway so he could urinate. The passenger seemed to feel no embarassment at making this request, and the driver obliged without protest.
"Yes," wild hasid replied, eyes gleaming, "and I have to finish my shift before shabbat."
With that, we drove away. Nothing else very interesting happened on the way to Tveria, except that one passenger heard the call of nature and asked the driver to pull off the highway so he could urinate. The passenger seemed to feel no embarassment at making this request, and the driver obliged without protest.
More Tsfat
As I was coming back from my hike in the wadi, I started to feel pretty hot, since the sun was up by that time. I decided to take a cool, refreshing dip in the Mikvah of the ARI. A mikvah is a ritual bath, and this particular mikvah is adjacent to the cemetary. The mikvah of the ARI is fed from a natural spring where the ARI (famous kabbalistic rabbi from way back) used to do his ritual immersion. In the first picture, you see the waters gushing from the spring and running down the hill to the mikvah.
It was still pretty early, but there were two hasids at the mikvah. One was in the tub, splashing around pretty vigorously; the other was getting dressed. I have to confess part of the fascination of going to the mikvah of the ARI was voyeuristic - the idea of peeking behind the curtain. Here are these hasids, these men who dedicate themselves to what they believe to be a righteous lifestyle, these guys who wear the black suit, white shirt, black hat, and fringes no matter how hot it gets. Their lifestyle is supposed to transcend the physical and reach for the spiritual reality in everything. Just what would they look like without all their holy clothes? Would their underwear be black, or white? (Or some other color, say, magenta or chartreuse?)
The answer is, they looked pretty scrawny. Pale, thin, with shoulders hanging forward. Wet beards and peos clinging to translucent skin. Their underwear: white, or gray (which is halfway between black and white).
I have a certain amount of sympathy with the idea of living a life that emphasizes the spiritual and deemphasizes the physical. The hasids who taught the classes on Judaism told us when we meet someone we should not think so much about what that person looks like, but rather try to understand the person inside - try to see what a beautiful soul they might have. Modern secular life certainly gives too much weight to outward characteristics in telling us how to present ourselves and judge others, and the kabbalistic approach of looking at the person inside seems to me more likely to produce social harmony. Whether the Chabadniks of Tsfat actually are better at looking at the person inside than anyone else is remains an open question - even by the Chabadniks' admission - what they say is we should WANT to see the person inside.
However, the mikvah showed me another consequence of deemphasizing the physical life in favor of spiritual pursuits. These guys were not a picture of physical well being. I can't see into people's souls, so I don't know about spiritually speaking, but they did not look like they could do ten pullups or run a mile or touch their toes or chop a cord of wood. The yogis of India see physical fitness as integral to spiritual well-being - the hasids could learn something from them!
Anyway, when Reb Splish Splash got out, it was into the mikvah for me. It was not as cold as the lake at Glacial Trails Scout Ranch, but it was cold enough that it seriously sucked the breath right out of me. Three immersions in that and I was good and cooled off, believe me. The mikvah of the ARI also explained why our sages of blessed memory, who insisted that a man ought not recite a blessing while nude, had no problem reciting a blessing in the mikvah: the water was so cloudy you couldn't see more than two inches into it. Thus, one's nudity is not in view, so saying a blessing is not a problem (remember, this is a spiritual cleansing, not a physical cleansing).
After drying off, I headed back up the hill to my hostel. But at the top, I took the second picture. It seems that water that was bursting so vigorously from the hillside was not the mineral-rich bounty of a protected aquafer. It was coming from a truck. Why, then, was it so murky? Why, then, did it smell vaguely sulferous? What, exactly, did I immerse myself in? I don't know.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Tsfat
Yesterday and today I was in Tsfat ("that place I can't pronounce," says mom). Tsfat is a mystical city. The Jews of Spain in the Middle Ages started to get quite a mystical tradition going, and when they were expelled in 1492, a bunch of them settled in Tsfat. Tsfat is high on a mountain. It is as you can see still green there, unlike most of Israel now.
Tsfat has a lot of synagogues. A lot of art galleries. A lot of ultra-orthodox. A lot of Americans who started out secular, did a lot of drugs, and then found orthodoxy and kabbalah. A lot of trinkets and magical crap. A lot of Tsfat is suffused with mysticism/superstition. The grocery store where I bought breakfast this morning is called "Super Rav-Hesed," which means "super great in compassion." I stayed at the Ascent Institute of Tsfat. They are among other things a hostel that charges 60 shekel a night for a bed, but refunds you 10 shekels for every class you attend on Judaism. Yesterday morning, when I went to check in, I asked, "Is there a bed available?"
"Are you Jewish?" asked the innkeeper.
A little offended at having my Judaism challenged, I responded, "Yes," but as soon as I had I regretted it. Did the availability of a room depend on my religion? In the United States it would be illegal (I'm pretty sure) for her to ask me the above question in that context. I immediately wished I had simply repeated my question, as in, "First tell me if there is a bed available and then we can discuss my religion." In any case, there was a comfortable bed available in a clean room, and before I could even check in I was accosted by a wild and bushy American hasid asking me where I was from, what I studied in college, telling me how much more fun I must be having now than he had when he had my youth and good looks, and trying to give me a tape of some kabbalistic stuff.
I went to two Judaism classes, so my stay was only 40 shekels.
So what are these pictures?
I went on a hike this morning to the Nahal Amud, which is a wadi, or seasonal river. I didn't know where the trail was, so I cut cross country, scrambled over boulders, clung to trees, etc. to get down to the wadi. This was all before sunrise, since I knew as soon as the sun was up I'd have to get indoors. On the way through the brush and jumble, I came across a couple tombs of old rabbis out there in the forest. They were hollows in rocks, sort of cemented into little bunkers, with blue dombed roofs. Inside, burned up candles, notes from the faithful, lots of books, some old chairs. I came across what looked like a hermit's sukkah. The hermit was not home.
Something about the air in Tsfat is elevating. Out there in the quiet morning, things just seemed so clear. It was exactly the kind of place I would like to go to everytime I have an intractable problem. A good place to go to let the pieces fall together. The trees and rocks and wildflowers all seem to say, "There are answers out there, and you are so close to finding them." I guess those rabbis felt the same thing. The patterns of wear on the limestone boulders were pretty distinctive too. They were linear cracks and scratches, crossing each other obliquely. They made me think of perhaps a homo habilus's first grasps toward abstraction - just scratches made in clay or rock as he tries to get his head around the idea that an image in his mind can be manifest in the world through a stroke of his hand.
Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Two burial/resurrection sites
Within the last two days, I've visited two different sites of the burial and resurrection of Jesus. One was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and the other was the Garden Tomb. They are quite different from each other.
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was originally built by the Byzantines when their empire became Christian. They built it on a hill that the Emperor's mother, in consultation with the local bishops, identified as Golgotha. It was a likely site because
*it had a hill
*it had a garden
*it had a tomb,
and it was outside the walls of Jerusalem at the time of Jesus, although the Romans had subsequently enlarged the walls, encompassing the area, and
*it is in a place that the Via Dolorosa could conceivably lead to.
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was destroyed by the Muslims, then rebuilt by the Crusaders. Currently, a whole bunch of different sects have chapels there, for example the Catholics have a chapel where he was nailed to the cross, and the Greek Orthodox have a chapel where he was crucified. It doesn't stop there though: Armenians, Coptics, Ethiopians, and I think a couple other branches of orthodoxy and perhaps some other catholic orders have their places there. The church as a whole thus feels kind of disunified, and is also in bad repair. Let's Go says this is because the sects can't agree on anything and don't want to cede an inch. Without compromise, nothing gets done.
Let me attempts to describe the asthetic of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Kind of dark. Lots of vaulted ceilings and niches and paintings of saints. Lots of places to light candles. Lots of graphic pictures of Jesus on the cross. Smells like incense and sweat. Lots of priests in various robes. Crowded. No interpretave signs or materials whatsoever to tell you what you are looking at. Graphiti and scratchiti on the walls and banisters. Steep staircases are definitely not to code. Merchandising is not coordinated. People buy their chatchkes outside on the Via Dolorosa from independent vendors, then bring them into the church to bless them by laying them on the stone on which Jesus's body (according to some of the gospels) was purified. If you buy oil or perfume, you can even pour it onto the stone, them absorb it with a towel or piece of gauze and subsequently wring it back into the vessle so you can take the holy essence home. As for the tombs, you can't go into the tomb of Jesus because it is actually under the building, but the chapel over that spot recreats the experience - you have to crawl or severely hunch to get in. There was a long line to do so, so I skipped that experience. I did, however go into the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea (the one he bought after giving his away to Jesus). It was cramped, dank, creepy, everything a 1st century tomb should be. (Joseph and family are no longer there.)
Among the sects with sections of the church of the Holy Sepulchre, Protestantism is noticably absent. I don't know what site, if any, protestants officially recognize as the tomb of Jesus, but from what I know of the protestant tradition and asthetic sensibility, I think most protestants would be more comfortable at the Garden Tomb than at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
The Garden tomb has a shorter history than the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In the nineteenth century, a Christian family bought some land just north of Jerusalem, in a place that had been a quarry in ancient times. They hired a consultant to help them turn it into a productive orchard or something, and that consultant happened to have archeological experience. He noticed that the hollows in the cliff of the quarry looked like the eye sockets and nose of an enormous skull. He posited that this could be Golgotha, since Golgotha means "place of the skull" in Aramaic. On the theory that this was the site of the crucifixion, they began excavating to find the tomb. It took them a long time, but they did eventually find one. Apparently it is of the right era. Also, it is not a natural cave but is hewn from the rock, which is supposedly also in agreement with the gospels. There is a chamber adjacent to the place for laying the body, which could be the weeping chamber described in the gospels. There was, naturally, no body inside the tomb, but they did find "part of a cross." Also, they found a wine press nearby. So, the Garden Tomb has perhaps just as good a claim to being the site of the crucifixion as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre does, since it has
*a hill (actually a cliff, thanks to the quarrying activity that was done there in earlier times),
*a garden (the wine press is evidence), and
*a tomb.
The Garden Tomb was also outside of the city walls at the time of Jesus, as is still is, and it is in a place that the Via Dolorosa could conceivably lead to.
The Garden Tomb's asthetic is really different from that of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. For one, it's outside. It's a garden, with lush flora, birds singing, meandering paths, shaded walks and open-air chapels. When you come in, you are greeted warmly by a middle aged Englishwoman who gives you a glossy trifold in the language of your choice explaining the grounds and everything that is to be seen there. Everything is well-signed and well-kempt. In place of the muttering monks of Holy Sepulchre, Garden Tomb has smily gardners who greet everyone with a jolly how do you do. You can go right into Jesus's tomb and see it for yourself, although the place where the body was lain is fenced off. Everything smells of flowers. There is a unity of design at the Garden Tomb. The entire thing is operated by "The Garden Tomb (Jerusalem) Association, England; established in 1893 for the preservation of the Tomb and Garden outside the city walls of Jerusalem, believed by many to be the Sepulchre and Garden of Joseph of Arimathea." The entire production is so English. The queen would be quite at home here with her hymnal, I'm sure. Even the mens' room door says "gents." (The Holy Sepulchre doesn't even have a bathroom.)
And the theology at Garden Tomb is more Anglican, too. In the interpretive materials, there is a lot of archeological evidence - an attempt is made to take a reasonable and sensible approach to this miracle, rather than just accept the tradition of the church and pass it on. There are no arcane rituals to participate in, no candles to light, nowhere to kneel. People may pray here, but with discretion. Naturally, there are no saints, and there is an attempt to reduce the number of miracles as much as possible down to just the resurrection, rather than to multiply miracles (the Greek Orthodox section of Holy Sepulchre has a rock that split open at the moment of Jesus's death to reveal the skull of Adam, the first man, and worshippers may line up to stick a hand through a hole in a metal plate and touch the rock). Indeed, the Garden Tomb doesn't definitevely claim to be the site of the resurrection:
"We cannot be sure where the crucifixion took place, but the actual site is of less importance than the spiritual significance of what really happened. Jesus went willingly to his death on the cross. It was all part of God's loving plan to bring us forgiveness."
The sign they have on the door to the tomb could probably be the motto of the place: "He is not here, for he has risen." In accordance with this theme, one doesn't see any statues, paintings, or mosaics of Jesus suffering on the cross at the Garden Tomb.
Finally, the Garden Tomb could teach Holy Sepulchre a thing or two about merchandising. In order to exit the complex, you have to go through the well-stocked gift shop which accepts all major foreign currencies as well as credit cards.
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was originally built by the Byzantines when their empire became Christian. They built it on a hill that the Emperor's mother, in consultation with the local bishops, identified as Golgotha. It was a likely site because
*it had a hill
*it had a garden
*it had a tomb,
and it was outside the walls of Jerusalem at the time of Jesus, although the Romans had subsequently enlarged the walls, encompassing the area, and
*it is in a place that the Via Dolorosa could conceivably lead to.
The Church of the Holy Sepulchre was destroyed by the Muslims, then rebuilt by the Crusaders. Currently, a whole bunch of different sects have chapels there, for example the Catholics have a chapel where he was nailed to the cross, and the Greek Orthodox have a chapel where he was crucified. It doesn't stop there though: Armenians, Coptics, Ethiopians, and I think a couple other branches of orthodoxy and perhaps some other catholic orders have their places there. The church as a whole thus feels kind of disunified, and is also in bad repair. Let's Go says this is because the sects can't agree on anything and don't want to cede an inch. Without compromise, nothing gets done.
Let me attempts to describe the asthetic of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Kind of dark. Lots of vaulted ceilings and niches and paintings of saints. Lots of places to light candles. Lots of graphic pictures of Jesus on the cross. Smells like incense and sweat. Lots of priests in various robes. Crowded. No interpretave signs or materials whatsoever to tell you what you are looking at. Graphiti and scratchiti on the walls and banisters. Steep staircases are definitely not to code. Merchandising is not coordinated. People buy their chatchkes outside on the Via Dolorosa from independent vendors, then bring them into the church to bless them by laying them on the stone on which Jesus's body (according to some of the gospels) was purified. If you buy oil or perfume, you can even pour it onto the stone, them absorb it with a towel or piece of gauze and subsequently wring it back into the vessle so you can take the holy essence home. As for the tombs, you can't go into the tomb of Jesus because it is actually under the building, but the chapel over that spot recreats the experience - you have to crawl or severely hunch to get in. There was a long line to do so, so I skipped that experience. I did, however go into the tomb of Joseph of Arimathea (the one he bought after giving his away to Jesus). It was cramped, dank, creepy, everything a 1st century tomb should be. (Joseph and family are no longer there.)
Among the sects with sections of the church of the Holy Sepulchre, Protestantism is noticably absent. I don't know what site, if any, protestants officially recognize as the tomb of Jesus, but from what I know of the protestant tradition and asthetic sensibility, I think most protestants would be more comfortable at the Garden Tomb than at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre.
The Garden tomb has a shorter history than the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. In the nineteenth century, a Christian family bought some land just north of Jerusalem, in a place that had been a quarry in ancient times. They hired a consultant to help them turn it into a productive orchard or something, and that consultant happened to have archeological experience. He noticed that the hollows in the cliff of the quarry looked like the eye sockets and nose of an enormous skull. He posited that this could be Golgotha, since Golgotha means "place of the skull" in Aramaic. On the theory that this was the site of the crucifixion, they began excavating to find the tomb. It took them a long time, but they did eventually find one. Apparently it is of the right era. Also, it is not a natural cave but is hewn from the rock, which is supposedly also in agreement with the gospels. There is a chamber adjacent to the place for laying the body, which could be the weeping chamber described in the gospels. There was, naturally, no body inside the tomb, but they did find "part of a cross." Also, they found a wine press nearby. So, the Garden Tomb has perhaps just as good a claim to being the site of the crucifixion as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre does, since it has
*a hill (actually a cliff, thanks to the quarrying activity that was done there in earlier times),
*a garden (the wine press is evidence), and
*a tomb.
The Garden Tomb was also outside of the city walls at the time of Jesus, as is still is, and it is in a place that the Via Dolorosa could conceivably lead to.
The Garden Tomb's asthetic is really different from that of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. For one, it's outside. It's a garden, with lush flora, birds singing, meandering paths, shaded walks and open-air chapels. When you come in, you are greeted warmly by a middle aged Englishwoman who gives you a glossy trifold in the language of your choice explaining the grounds and everything that is to be seen there. Everything is well-signed and well-kempt. In place of the muttering monks of Holy Sepulchre, Garden Tomb has smily gardners who greet everyone with a jolly how do you do. You can go right into Jesus's tomb and see it for yourself, although the place where the body was lain is fenced off. Everything smells of flowers. There is a unity of design at the Garden Tomb. The entire thing is operated by "The Garden Tomb (Jerusalem) Association, England; established in 1893 for the preservation of the Tomb and Garden outside the city walls of Jerusalem, believed by many to be the Sepulchre and Garden of Joseph of Arimathea." The entire production is so English. The queen would be quite at home here with her hymnal, I'm sure. Even the mens' room door says "gents." (The Holy Sepulchre doesn't even have a bathroom.)
And the theology at Garden Tomb is more Anglican, too. In the interpretive materials, there is a lot of archeological evidence - an attempt is made to take a reasonable and sensible approach to this miracle, rather than just accept the tradition of the church and pass it on. There are no arcane rituals to participate in, no candles to light, nowhere to kneel. People may pray here, but with discretion. Naturally, there are no saints, and there is an attempt to reduce the number of miracles as much as possible down to just the resurrection, rather than to multiply miracles (the Greek Orthodox section of Holy Sepulchre has a rock that split open at the moment of Jesus's death to reveal the skull of Adam, the first man, and worshippers may line up to stick a hand through a hole in a metal plate and touch the rock). Indeed, the Garden Tomb doesn't definitevely claim to be the site of the resurrection:
"We cannot be sure where the crucifixion took place, but the actual site is of less importance than the spiritual significance of what really happened. Jesus went willingly to his death on the cross. It was all part of God's loving plan to bring us forgiveness."
The sign they have on the door to the tomb could probably be the motto of the place: "He is not here, for he has risen." In accordance with this theme, one doesn't see any statues, paintings, or mosaics of Jesus suffering on the cross at the Garden Tomb.
Finally, the Garden Tomb could teach Holy Sepulchre a thing or two about merchandising. In order to exit the complex, you have to go through the well-stocked gift shop which accepts all major foreign currencies as well as credit cards.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
It's a small country
Thursday I went to Tel Aviv and stayed with AH. I met up with him at his house, and we went out to meet up for beer with another friend of his (H). AH and H each ordered a hetzi (one half liter), I ordered a shlish (0.3 liter or one third liter). As we got to talking, we realized that H is currently teaching some of my former students - students I taught last year at a dual-curriculum, community Jewish high school on the Upper West Side. The students are on a year-long program of some sort, here in Israel.
After beer, we were hungry, so we went to an Indian restaurant that functions on a unique basis...There is a buffet and you pay as much or as little as you think you should. There is a little more to it than that, actually. There is no host to greet you and explain the unique system, so when you walk you see a bunch of regulars raise their heads and look at you as if to say, "Who's the new guy?" A server hands you a card with a lot of different zones and incomprehensible bubbles and multicolored options on it, with a few holes punched through it apparently at random. You are told not to lose this card. On the buffet, there are no prices, but certain dishes have signs that designate them as "special dishes" - the implication being I suppose that if you take some of the special dish you should pay a little more. Also, there is a chalk board with some suggested price ranges on it, but those guidelines were pretty vague (basically saying you should wind up paying between 10 and 70 shekels, depending on what you take) and I didn't understand much of what the board said. Drinks and desserts are bought on an a la carte basis. After taking our food, we went to the upstairs seating area and joined up with some of H's other friends, so that we were now a party of 6 Americans. I wish I could have relaxed and enjoyed the food and conversation more, but I just couldn't stop worrying about how much I was expected to pay. The atmosphere was Hindu-chintz. Big soft dirty sofas, beads and hamsas on the walls, along with psychadelic posters of many-armed deities. Most of the clientel had dred locks. (The Jewish people has a rich, ancient, cultural legacy of its own; why do so many Tel Avivim feel the need to appropriate the superficial elements of buddhism, hinduism, rastafarianism, islam, chinese culture, tibetan culture, take your pick? The cultural watch word of the city might as well be, "Cast down the kippah, pick up the Che Guevara T-shirt.") During dinner, some people (the band?) were setting up odd props, turning on and off lights, and knocking things over. Two people had brought their dogs into the dining area, naturally off leash, this being Israel, and in the middle of dinner the dogs got into a snarling, growling fight. Honestly, I have never been so uncomfortable in a restaurant before. When it came time to pay, there was no check. The server collected our tickets and then we each took turns agonizing about how much we should pay, making change, trying to do mental math, wondering about how much to tip and when. Someone only had a large bill, and the server was totally unprepared to make change - there seemed to be no cash register. "Well, um, let's see, I guess I could, like, ask around and see if anyone has small money or something...?" she said. It took a long time to pay, and at the end I still wasn't sure whether we had overpaid or underpaid. I learned later that it is a socialist restaurant, that it has stayed in business for at least six months (miraculously, to my mind), and that it is a big hang out for the younger activists in the labor party.
On the way out, I walked right into two other new Jerusalem friends of mine, R and J, who were having dinner together. I was dumbstruck. "I didn't know you were in Tel Aviv tonight." "We didn't know you were." (Actually, I didn't even know they knew each other!) All I could say was, "What a small country." If they were surprised by this chance meeting, they didn't show it.
The thing about it being a small country is that you can't really gossip about people - it will quickly get back to them. Nor can you keep secrets very well. If you want to leave your past behind and reinvent yourself, you can't just move to another state, like in the US. You have to leave the country, because there will always be someone around who knew you when. This situation, AS explained to me, gives rise to a colorful Israeli saying: Anachnu rokdim et hatango, mechazkim ze et ze bebeitzim, which means, in polite language, "He and I work together closely, and neither of us is able to pull away from the relationship, not because there is great affection between us, but because each of us holds incriminating information about the other and could publicize it out of spite."
And as long as I'm on the subject of how modern Hebrew can sometimes sound shockingly vulgar to someone whose primary introduction to the language has been the bible, here is another gem. Kol hazayin, which as an interjection means "tough beans," or "what a mess," but can also have a connotation that cuts a little deeper. Something like, "Do not elaborate too much on the details, lurid though they may be, of how you feel you have been unfairly treated; it begins to give the impression that you secretly relish the abuse."
After beer, we were hungry, so we went to an Indian restaurant that functions on a unique basis...There is a buffet and you pay as much or as little as you think you should. There is a little more to it than that, actually. There is no host to greet you and explain the unique system, so when you walk you see a bunch of regulars raise their heads and look at you as if to say, "Who's the new guy?" A server hands you a card with a lot of different zones and incomprehensible bubbles and multicolored options on it, with a few holes punched through it apparently at random. You are told not to lose this card. On the buffet, there are no prices, but certain dishes have signs that designate them as "special dishes" - the implication being I suppose that if you take some of the special dish you should pay a little more. Also, there is a chalk board with some suggested price ranges on it, but those guidelines were pretty vague (basically saying you should wind up paying between 10 and 70 shekels, depending on what you take) and I didn't understand much of what the board said. Drinks and desserts are bought on an a la carte basis. After taking our food, we went to the upstairs seating area and joined up with some of H's other friends, so that we were now a party of 6 Americans. I wish I could have relaxed and enjoyed the food and conversation more, but I just couldn't stop worrying about how much I was expected to pay. The atmosphere was Hindu-chintz. Big soft dirty sofas, beads and hamsas on the walls, along with psychadelic posters of many-armed deities. Most of the clientel had dred locks. (The Jewish people has a rich, ancient, cultural legacy of its own; why do so many Tel Avivim feel the need to appropriate the superficial elements of buddhism, hinduism, rastafarianism, islam, chinese culture, tibetan culture, take your pick? The cultural watch word of the city might as well be, "Cast down the kippah, pick up the Che Guevara T-shirt.") During dinner, some people (the band?) were setting up odd props, turning on and off lights, and knocking things over. Two people had brought their dogs into the dining area, naturally off leash, this being Israel, and in the middle of dinner the dogs got into a snarling, growling fight. Honestly, I have never been so uncomfortable in a restaurant before. When it came time to pay, there was no check. The server collected our tickets and then we each took turns agonizing about how much we should pay, making change, trying to do mental math, wondering about how much to tip and when. Someone only had a large bill, and the server was totally unprepared to make change - there seemed to be no cash register. "Well, um, let's see, I guess I could, like, ask around and see if anyone has small money or something...?" she said. It took a long time to pay, and at the end I still wasn't sure whether we had overpaid or underpaid. I learned later that it is a socialist restaurant, that it has stayed in business for at least six months (miraculously, to my mind), and that it is a big hang out for the younger activists in the labor party.
On the way out, I walked right into two other new Jerusalem friends of mine, R and J, who were having dinner together. I was dumbstruck. "I didn't know you were in Tel Aviv tonight." "We didn't know you were." (Actually, I didn't even know they knew each other!) All I could say was, "What a small country." If they were surprised by this chance meeting, they didn't show it.
The thing about it being a small country is that you can't really gossip about people - it will quickly get back to them. Nor can you keep secrets very well. If you want to leave your past behind and reinvent yourself, you can't just move to another state, like in the US. You have to leave the country, because there will always be someone around who knew you when. This situation, AS explained to me, gives rise to a colorful Israeli saying: Anachnu rokdim et hatango, mechazkim ze et ze bebeitzim, which means, in polite language, "He and I work together closely, and neither of us is able to pull away from the relationship, not because there is great affection between us, but because each of us holds incriminating information about the other and could publicize it out of spite."
And as long as I'm on the subject of how modern Hebrew can sometimes sound shockingly vulgar to someone whose primary introduction to the language has been the bible, here is another gem. Kol hazayin, which as an interjection means "tough beans," or "what a mess," but can also have a connotation that cuts a little deeper. Something like, "Do not elaborate too much on the details, lurid though they may be, of how you feel you have been unfairly treated; it begins to give the impression that you secretly relish the abuse."
Friday, April 27, 2007
The most stereotypical Israeli cab ride ever
The other day I was waiting for a bus to the Israel Museum, since I wanted to catch an English language tour of the Shrine of the Book. After 20 minutes of no bus, I hailed a cab. I told the driver where I wanted to go. "20 shekels" he said. I said, "No, start the meter" (in Israel, cabs have meters but passengers often forgo them and just haggle over the price of the ride - a yellow cab and a gypsy cab all in one). "Then get out!" the driver yelled, "20 shekels or get out! It's not so much to ask. Just 20 shekels, what's your problem? You think 20 shekels is so much?" I should have gotten out at this point, but I thought I was going to miss the tour. "OK 20 shekels," I acquiesced. As we drove, the driver continued on this theme. "You know, it's a sad day." (It happened to be Israeli Memorial Day.) "How can we think of using a meter on a day like this - on Yom Hazikaron? Also, I'm not feeling very well," he began to kvetch. "I think after this I need to drive home. I have really got something. I need to rest." When we got to the museum, the driver drove up to the parking lot kiosk and told the attendant he needed to drive into the parking lot because his passenger worked at the museum, and had a very important job. I tried to say it was fine he could let me off and I could walk the remaining 50 feet to the door, but he shot me a look. The attendant gave up protesting after not very long, and as we drove into the parking lot the driver turned around and gave me a wide grin, the kind where one of his teeth twinkled, the kind that says, a bad man like me, it's good to have on your side, eh? I was not reassured, and I later figured out he had totally overcharged me for the ride. And there was no tour because of Yom Hazikaron. But, the museum was very enjoyable anyway.
Sunday, April 22, 2007
What the name of my blog means
This is a plaque from the sea shore in Jaffa. It bears the emblem of the ministry of tourism, which is an image of two men carrying an enormous bunch of grapes on a pole. I took a picture of it because it is a good opportunity to explain the name of my blog. The image is from the bible. The spies Moses sent to scout out the land of Israel came back with an enormous bunch of grapes. It was so big it took two men to carry it. The phrase "latur et haaretz" means "to scout out the land" and it is the phrase Moses uses to instruct the spies what to do.
As I think about this image, I wonder what prizes I will be bringing back from Israel. Certainly there will be some souvenirs. (The shuk doesn't have any enourmous bunches of grapes, but they do have some pretty huge loofahs.) But what really meaningful things do I want to bring back? Knowledge of the country. A little better knowledge of Hebrew. Self-knowledge. New friendships. These are the things I want to take back.
A couple of pictures of me atop the Tower of David in Old Jerusalem. Above you see the church of the Dormition in the background. Below you see the Dome of the Rock.
Cats of Jerusalem.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Second Shabbat in Jerusalem
When I got back to Jerusalem from Tel Aviv, I really had to scramble. From the central bus station, I had to catch a bus out to Ora, where AS and SC live. The bus stops at the bottom of the hill that Ora sits on, so then I had the now familiar hike up the hill to A & S's. Carrying my big pack and listening to Jon Krakauer's Eiger Dreams on the iPod, I fancied myself an extreme sportsman. All the time, I watched the sun sink slowly west, knowing that at some point before it set the busses would stop running and I would be without transportation.
A quick shower and shave at A&S's, and then back down the hill with my big bag, headed to the bus stop. Mercifully, I was in time to get a bus back to the city, and when I dropped my big bag off at MA's, and began rehydrating from a long, dry day, I said to him, "I think now I can transition into a shabbat consciousness." We talked for a bit about the relative merits and possible unfairnesses of a public transportation system that observes the Jewish sabbath. I like it because it sets a tone for the city. Even a completely secular person can understand the benefits to wellness of taking a break from hurrying and worrying. Having a day of the week when economic activity stops publicly expresses a value that everyone can believe in: we are not just producers and consumers, we are people. Put another way, it expresses a value often obscured in modern life: convenience is not our highest value, nor is it an end in itself, but rather it should lead to a fuller and more enjoyable life. If the religious overtones of a "SABBATH" are too hard to look past, think of the French, who take relaxation and leisure seriously for utterly secular reasons. The average American worker is far more productive than the average French worker, and he is rightly proud of the contribution he makes every day to an ever more efficient marketplace, but he is dumbfounded when a Frenchman asks him, "What do Americans do with all the time they save?"
Shabbat consciousness, for me, is the idea of taking one day a week just to be, rather than to do. A day to stop worrying so much, stop trying to change everything, and just appreciate the people in your life and the blessing of rest and relaxation. Ideally, in that mad Friday rush one gets all the food ready for shabbat, gets the house reasonably clean, and gets the table set, so that during shabbat everyone can just relax comfortably. On shabbat, there isn't supposed to be any rush to go anywhere, the idea is to enjoy where you are.
Like most ideals, shabbat often plays out imperfectly in reality. From MA's, I walked to the apartment where Kol Zimrah was meeting. I brought along two cartons of a lentil dish I had prepared on Wednesday for the vegetarian potluck following the service. The service itself consisted of lots of spirited singing, with branching, improvized harmonies, led by someone with a drum, and lots of clapping. There was some dancing, but mostly in place, since the apartment was crowded. In attendance were probably 40 people, mostly between the ages of 20 and 35, but with one family with young children, and a small contingent of high school students. After dinner, the singing picked up again and lasted long into the night.
In Israel, the familiar text of the prayers comes alive in a way that is both rapturous and scary. Speaking first of the non verbal parts of the ritual, at all the points in the service where we "rise and turn toward Jerusalem," we are already in Jerusalem, so we turn toward the Kotel, the Western Wall. The physical act is the same (it's still turning west), but the act of picturing the Kotel, and the knowledge of how close it is, really changes the experience. It's much more immediate, less abstract. As for the text, all the references to Jerusalem feel very different when you are physically in the actual city of Jerusalem. From outside Israel, the word "Jerusalem" connotes far away, mystical place, but in Jerusalem, "Jerusalem" means here. (Imagine praying, "May Orangevale be rebuilt speedily and in our days.") It's so obvious and yet so jarring. In fact, the psychic dissonance that attends on the juxtoposition of the idealized Jerusalem of one's imaginings with the reality of the city of Jerusalem, is one explanation for why people who visit here sometimes become convinced they are the messiah.
Going beyond this, the text starts to sound political, and can even echo a rather bald and obnoxious nationalism. When the text speaks of "rebuilding Jerusalem," instead of hearing a rosy metaphor for creating a more just and compassionate society, I think of all the factions of society here, with all their different visions of how Jerusalem should be "rebuilt". I think of the construction that hampers my navigation through the city, the new train line that would be so helpful if only it were complete, and the new shopping mall that feels like it could be anywhere, offering the Jerusalemite a taste of Sacramento. I think of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is falling apart because the various denominations cannot agree on how to renovate it, and the ramp Israel is building up to the Temple Mount, a ramp that makes the Arabs nervous because it will be wide enough for a vehicle to drive on. I'm nervous too, if only because the second Intifada started when Ariel Sharon went up the the Mount with some troops. All sides are struck with the irony that Palestinian labor is building much of Jewish Jerusalem, including that ramp.
When the psalmist praises God for leading us upon the heights of our enemies, I can't help but think of Lebanon, where we did walk on the heights of our enemies last summer, and where Hezbollah is even now amassing weapons to attack us again. When the text urges my soul to be silent to those who curse me, I think of my classmates who refused to mourn the victims of the Holocaust and the Sephardi chief rabbi who this week blamed Reform Jews for the Holocaust. When the grace after meals thanks God for giving us a good land, I can't just think about arable land in general, because it's talking about this Land of Israel, which the Jewish nation reacquired only recently in our long history, and which we hold onto through our soldiers' continual sacrifice. When Deuteronomy talks about how we need to follow the commandments or else we will be driven from the land, I think about all the unfriendly neighbors who stand ready to do just that.
As for the bald nationalism in Scripture, it is not hard to find. The bible is a very nationalist document. The use of scripture by Religious Zionists is thus not hard to understand. What's interesting is when secular Zionists use it. For example, I can remember a certain secular Zionist, who never attended synagogue, didn't keep the ritual commandments, and had a demonstrated lack of knowledge of the rudiments of Jewish worship tell me that the Temple Mount is the place where Abraham almost sacrificed Isaac. She didn't say it was the place the tradition ascribes to that legend. Proudly and unreflectively irrational, she said it was the place where it happened. I wondered if in her heart of hearts she liked to imagine that we would discover the Tablets of the Covenant, Indiana Jones style, hidden under the Temple Mount and enshrine them in a brand new, multi billion dollar recreation of the Second Temple. In the same vein, my Muslim classmate T (who is not entirely secular but definitely does not pray five times a day) proudly told me that the Noble Sanctuary was the place where the Koran fell on Mohammed. Thus the religious establishments induce societies at large to fight and die over a hill.
The text turned dark during mincha when we prayed for the Temple to be rebuilt. From far away, it is easier to reason this prayer away as a metaphor, but the fact is that the rabbis wrote it with the idea that God would destroy the temple of Jupitor that the Romans had built and reestablish the Jews on the Temple Mount. In our day, how can I pray the the Temple be rebuilt? Isn't that just doing what the Muslims accuse us of doing, i.e. hoping someone will destroy the Dome of the Rock and the Al Aqsa Mosque so we can put our own real estate up there? I began to feel sympathy with the early Reformers, radical anti-Zionists so suspicious of the particularizing effects of Jewish nationalism that they declared Judaism to be no longer a nation, but only a religion, and struck passages about rebuilding the Temple from the prayer book. (The Reform movement has since changed its stance and embraced Zionism, but it still rejects a return to the days of priests and animal sacrifices.)
Back to shabbat, and how it fell short of the ideal, my lentil dish was bland and limp. Fortunately, there were also some really great dishes at the potluck. At last, after lots of eating, talking, and singing, I left and went to the home of my host for the night. It took 45 minutes to walk there, and when I got there her door was locked and repeated knocking yielded no response. There was a miscommunication, I assume. Feeling cold, alone, exhausted, and still somehow dehydrated, I hailed a cab back to A&S's in the 'burbs. Lesson learned: when staying on someone's couch, borrow their extra key.
At least I finally got to do some sleeping. And really Ora is a good place to spend a contemplative afternoon. The wind blows in the pines, the views are great, the neighbor's kids are washing the car and spraying each other with the hose. I hope you are all having a peaceful sabbath, wherever you are.
A quick shower and shave at A&S's, and then back down the hill with my big bag, headed to the bus stop. Mercifully, I was in time to get a bus back to the city, and when I dropped my big bag off at MA's, and began rehydrating from a long, dry day, I said to him, "I think now I can transition into a shabbat consciousness." We talked for a bit about the relative merits and possible unfairnesses of a public transportation system that observes the Jewish sabbath. I like it because it sets a tone for the city. Even a completely secular person can understand the benefits to wellness of taking a break from hurrying and worrying. Having a day of the week when economic activity stops publicly expresses a value that everyone can believe in: we are not just producers and consumers, we are people. Put another way, it expresses a value often obscured in modern life: convenience is not our highest value, nor is it an end in itself, but rather it should lead to a fuller and more enjoyable life. If the religious overtones of a "SABBATH" are too hard to look past, think of the French, who take relaxation and leisure seriously for utterly secular reasons. The average American worker is far more productive than the average French worker, and he is rightly proud of the contribution he makes every day to an ever more efficient marketplace, but he is dumbfounded when a Frenchman asks him, "What do Americans do with all the time they save?"
Shabbat consciousness, for me, is the idea of taking one day a week just to be, rather than to do. A day to stop worrying so much, stop trying to change everything, and just appreciate the people in your life and the blessing of rest and relaxation. Ideally, in that mad Friday rush one gets all the food ready for shabbat, gets the house reasonably clean, and gets the table set, so that during shabbat everyone can just relax comfortably. On shabbat, there isn't supposed to be any rush to go anywhere, the idea is to enjoy where you are.
Like most ideals, shabbat often plays out imperfectly in reality. From MA's, I walked to the apartment where Kol Zimrah was meeting. I brought along two cartons of a lentil dish I had prepared on Wednesday for the vegetarian potluck following the service. The service itself consisted of lots of spirited singing, with branching, improvized harmonies, led by someone with a drum, and lots of clapping. There was some dancing, but mostly in place, since the apartment was crowded. In attendance were probably 40 people, mostly between the ages of 20 and 35, but with one family with young children, and a small contingent of high school students. After dinner, the singing picked up again and lasted long into the night.
In Israel, the familiar text of the prayers comes alive in a way that is both rapturous and scary. Speaking first of the non verbal parts of the ritual, at all the points in the service where we "rise and turn toward Jerusalem," we are already in Jerusalem, so we turn toward the Kotel, the Western Wall. The physical act is the same (it's still turning west), but the act of picturing the Kotel, and the knowledge of how close it is, really changes the experience. It's much more immediate, less abstract. As for the text, all the references to Jerusalem feel very different when you are physically in the actual city of Jerusalem. From outside Israel, the word "Jerusalem" connotes far away, mystical place, but in Jerusalem, "Jerusalem" means here. (Imagine praying, "May Orangevale be rebuilt speedily and in our days.") It's so obvious and yet so jarring. In fact, the psychic dissonance that attends on the juxtoposition of the idealized Jerusalem of one's imaginings with the reality of the city of Jerusalem, is one explanation for why people who visit here sometimes become convinced they are the messiah.
Going beyond this, the text starts to sound political, and can even echo a rather bald and obnoxious nationalism. When the text speaks of "rebuilding Jerusalem," instead of hearing a rosy metaphor for creating a more just and compassionate society, I think of all the factions of society here, with all their different visions of how Jerusalem should be "rebuilt". I think of the construction that hampers my navigation through the city, the new train line that would be so helpful if only it were complete, and the new shopping mall that feels like it could be anywhere, offering the Jerusalemite a taste of Sacramento. I think of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, which is falling apart because the various denominations cannot agree on how to renovate it, and the ramp Israel is building up to the Temple Mount, a ramp that makes the Arabs nervous because it will be wide enough for a vehicle to drive on. I'm nervous too, if only because the second Intifada started when Ariel Sharon went up the the Mount with some troops. All sides are struck with the irony that Palestinian labor is building much of Jewish Jerusalem, including that ramp.
When the psalmist praises God for leading us upon the heights of our enemies, I can't help but think of Lebanon, where we did walk on the heights of our enemies last summer, and where Hezbollah is even now amassing weapons to attack us again. When the text urges my soul to be silent to those who curse me, I think of my classmates who refused to mourn the victims of the Holocaust and the Sephardi chief rabbi who this week blamed Reform Jews for the Holocaust. When the grace after meals thanks God for giving us a good land, I can't just think about arable land in general, because it's talking about this Land of Israel, which the Jewish nation reacquired only recently in our long history, and which we hold onto through our soldiers' continual sacrifice. When Deuteronomy talks about how we need to follow the commandments or else we will be driven from the land, I think about all the unfriendly neighbors who stand ready to do just that.
As for the bald nationalism in Scripture, it is not hard to find. The bible is a very nationalist document. The use of scripture by Religious Zionists is thus not hard to understand. What's interesting is when secular Zionists use it. For example, I can remember a certain secular Zionist, who never attended synagogue, didn't keep the ritual commandments, and had a demonstrated lack of knowledge of the rudiments of Jewish worship tell me that the Temple Mount is the place where Abraham almost sacrificed Isaac. She didn't say it was the place the tradition ascribes to that legend. Proudly and unreflectively irrational, she said it was the place where it happened. I wondered if in her heart of hearts she liked to imagine that we would discover the Tablets of the Covenant, Indiana Jones style, hidden under the Temple Mount and enshrine them in a brand new, multi billion dollar recreation of the Second Temple. In the same vein, my Muslim classmate T (who is not entirely secular but definitely does not pray five times a day) proudly told me that the Noble Sanctuary was the place where the Koran fell on Mohammed. Thus the religious establishments induce societies at large to fight and die over a hill.
The text turned dark during mincha when we prayed for the Temple to be rebuilt. From far away, it is easier to reason this prayer away as a metaphor, but the fact is that the rabbis wrote it with the idea that God would destroy the temple of Jupitor that the Romans had built and reestablish the Jews on the Temple Mount. In our day, how can I pray the the Temple be rebuilt? Isn't that just doing what the Muslims accuse us of doing, i.e. hoping someone will destroy the Dome of the Rock and the Al Aqsa Mosque so we can put our own real estate up there? I began to feel sympathy with the early Reformers, radical anti-Zionists so suspicious of the particularizing effects of Jewish nationalism that they declared Judaism to be no longer a nation, but only a religion, and struck passages about rebuilding the Temple from the prayer book. (The Reform movement has since changed its stance and embraced Zionism, but it still rejects a return to the days of priests and animal sacrifices.)
Back to shabbat, and how it fell short of the ideal, my lentil dish was bland and limp. Fortunately, there were also some really great dishes at the potluck. At last, after lots of eating, talking, and singing, I left and went to the home of my host for the night. It took 45 minutes to walk there, and when I got there her door was locked and repeated knocking yielded no response. There was a miscommunication, I assume. Feeling cold, alone, exhausted, and still somehow dehydrated, I hailed a cab back to A&S's in the 'burbs. Lesson learned: when staying on someone's couch, borrow their extra key.
At least I finally got to do some sleeping. And really Ora is a good place to spend a contemplative afternoon. The wind blows in the pines, the views are great, the neighbor's kids are washing the car and spraying each other with the hose. I hope you are all having a peaceful sabbath, wherever you are.
Friday, April 20, 2007
While the laundry soaks...
I'm at an internet cafe in Tel Aviv while my laundry spins next door. Last night I went to a dance performance here. It was OK but I think their main act is on the road at the moment. The choreography emphasized chaotic shaking...maybe it was a show about epilepsy? I'm sure it took a lot of energy to execute (almost all the dancers were on stage almost the whole time), but there were few moments that were expecially graceful or (aside from the endurance factor) especially athletic. I spent last night with JB in Bat Yam. I admired the way he carried on with the cab driver on our way back from the bars. They both spoke slowly, but naturally, with simple vocabulary. I understood everything they said, yet I knew that I would not have been able to speak readily enough to have that conversation, at least not yet. JB is, as they say, quite a fellow.
The bus on the way back to Tel Aviv this morning made an impromtu route change, so I had to get off and walk a bit. I passed a shoe store called "Gentile Shoes," an old woman playing accordian, and millions of Israeli flags.
The bus on the way back to Tel Aviv this morning made an impromtu route change, so I had to get off and walk a bit. I passed a shoe store called "Gentile Shoes," an old woman playing accordian, and millions of Israeli flags.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Just a quickie
Hi Readers,
I'm at an internet cafe in Jlem waiting to catch a bus to Tel Aviv, so I only have time to write a quick note. On the way over here, I stopped at a little store to buy snacks-some nuts and crackers. There was only one person in line in front of me, but it still took forever because he disputed the total and insisted that the cashier meticulously go through every item's price. In the end, the cashier's total was right, but the amount in question was about $1 on a $30 purchase. This is the second time I've been in line behind someone who did this, and the second time that the cashier was right.
What else is new? Yesterday we had some mean winds. I think they blew in from the south because the air was dusty, as though someone had clapped two giant erasers together. Now things are clearing and warming up, and billowy clouds are riding low over Jerusalem. On Sunday, the ulpan class is taking a field trip to the supreme court. That should be interesting.
And tomorrow is Kol Zimrah, Jerusalem!
I'm at an internet cafe in Jlem waiting to catch a bus to Tel Aviv, so I only have time to write a quick note. On the way over here, I stopped at a little store to buy snacks-some nuts and crackers. There was only one person in line in front of me, but it still took forever because he disputed the total and insisted that the cashier meticulously go through every item's price. In the end, the cashier's total was right, but the amount in question was about $1 on a $30 purchase. This is the second time I've been in line behind someone who did this, and the second time that the cashier was right.
What else is new? Yesterday we had some mean winds. I think they blew in from the south because the air was dusty, as though someone had clapped two giant erasers together. Now things are clearing and warming up, and billowy clouds are riding low over Jerusalem. On Sunday, the ulpan class is taking a field trip to the supreme court. That should be interesting.
And tomorrow is Kol Zimrah, Jerusalem!
Monday, April 16, 2007
Yom HaShoah
Today was Yom HaShoa, Holocaust rememberance day. On Yom Hashoa, at 10 am, a siren sounds in the city, and everyone is supposed to stop what they are doing and stand silently for the duration of the siren. I am told that even cars on the street pull over and the people get out to stand. I was in ulpan what the siren sounded.
Some minutes before the siren, three Arab students got up and left class. This is because the teacher told us that everyone had to stand for the siren. They left so they would not have to stand for the siren, and they came back as soon as the siren was over. These three surprised me: they are good students and speak Hebrew much better than I. They are always attentive and respectful. I suppose leaving the room was less disrespectful than remaining and not standing, but it was insulting nonetheless--to refuse to mourn a crime against humanity simply because the victims were Jewish. Some of the goofier Arab boys in the class waited for the teacher to prod them before they stood, and one made for the door once the siren had started. The teacher breathed fire and said in Hebrew: "You do not leave; you do not move." He stayed. As soon as the siren was over, the goofballs went back to goofing around. All in all, the experience left me feeling pretty uncomfortable in that class.
As an exercise, we read a short text on the Holocaust. First we listened to the text being read on headphones. Then we read it again to ourselves and underlined words we didn't know. For me, every sentence contained words I didn't know, yet I understood perfectly. The story is , of course, very familiar. Finally, we raised our hands to ask the teacher the meaning of words we didn't know. For me, there were many of these, but there were also many words I definitely DID know, words I would know even if I didn't know a word of Hebrew. Therefore, I was shocked to hear Arab students ask the meaning of...
shoah ghetto Treblinka
gaz anti-shemiut
On a happier note, today I got a haircut, IN HEBREW! I came in, said hello, explained what I wanted, asked how much it cost, paid, and said goodbye, without ever asking the barber, "Can you say that in English?" Granted the haircut I wanted was pretty simple, and the barber was the least talkative beauty professional in existence, but still, it's a milestone. Usually I don't get too far into these kinds of transactions before I have to switch to English.
Some minutes before the siren, three Arab students got up and left class. This is because the teacher told us that everyone had to stand for the siren. They left so they would not have to stand for the siren, and they came back as soon as the siren was over. These three surprised me: they are good students and speak Hebrew much better than I. They are always attentive and respectful. I suppose leaving the room was less disrespectful than remaining and not standing, but it was insulting nonetheless--to refuse to mourn a crime against humanity simply because the victims were Jewish. Some of the goofier Arab boys in the class waited for the teacher to prod them before they stood, and one made for the door once the siren had started. The teacher breathed fire and said in Hebrew: "You do not leave; you do not move." He stayed. As soon as the siren was over, the goofballs went back to goofing around. All in all, the experience left me feeling pretty uncomfortable in that class.
As an exercise, we read a short text on the Holocaust. First we listened to the text being read on headphones. Then we read it again to ourselves and underlined words we didn't know. For me, every sentence contained words I didn't know, yet I understood perfectly. The story is , of course, very familiar. Finally, we raised our hands to ask the teacher the meaning of words we didn't know. For me, there were many of these, but there were also many words I definitely DID know, words I would know even if I didn't know a word of Hebrew. Therefore, I was shocked to hear Arab students ask the meaning of...
shoah ghetto Treblinka
gaz anti-shemiut
On a happier note, today I got a haircut, IN HEBREW! I came in, said hello, explained what I wanted, asked how much it cost, paid, and said goodbye, without ever asking the barber, "Can you say that in English?" Granted the haircut I wanted was pretty simple, and the barber was the least talkative beauty professional in existence, but still, it's a milestone. Usually I don't get too far into these kinds of transactions before I have to switch to English.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Ulpan and Bible Lands Museum
This morning I went to an ulpan to ask about when classes start, etc. They just sent me to a class! Presumably if I decide to stick around they will ask me to pay some money, but if they don't say anything...
The class was fast-paced. I was exhausted by the end.
Interesting note, the ulpan is held in the same building where Eichmann was tried and hanged. The classroom where we met today was his holding cell. Creepy, huh?
Most of the class was Arabs, which surprised me. I talked to two Arab girls, A and G, after class. A asked me, "So, are you going to emigrate to Israel?"
"I don't know. Maybe many years from now. Not soon," I said.
"But why would you come here? You are from the United States and you want to come here? If I could go to the United States, I would."
I thought about this for a bit, then said, "Well, there are not many Jews in the United States."
"There aren't?" A seemed shocked.
"2 percent. But here there are a lot of Jews. It's hard to be the only one of something."
"I understand that."
After Ulpan, I went to the Bible Lands Museum. It houses a collection of ancient Near Eastern artifacts. The idea is to give information about the many peoples and places mentioned in the bible. It was a good idea on the part of the curators, I think, to organize the museum around a familiar text. There will be a short quote from the bible, for example mentioning the spears and axes of the tribe of Simon, and then a whole section of spears and axes. It gives the pieces some cohesion. The danger, of course, is that the visitor will draw the erroneous conclusion that Simon's axes looked like these, or that Simon necessarily existed at all. The museum did nothing to counter such inferences, and, on the whole took the bible text at face value in a way that seems to me ahistorical.
But, even when the pieces are well organized, you can only look at so many ancient pots and reliefs. I sometimes wonder what the point is of presenting so many "facts" in a museum exhibition. The exhibition inevitably has to gloss over lots of scholarly disputes to get to a smooth presentation of the facts, and in the end it only presents them according to one scholarly opinion. A lot of conjecture goes into history (especially ancient history) and you don't see the conjecture in a museum exhibit unless you go with a very critical eye and probably a lot of background knowledge. What if there were a museum NOT dedicated to presenting loads of historical facts? I mean, the dry facts of history are usually boring and forgettable. What if there were a museum that focused on the questions? Wouldn't it be so much more interesting and engaging to come out of an exhibit with a sense of the broad historical questions that motivate the study of these old helmets and tablets? If you could allow the viewer to see how that same helmet could serve three different theories, you've made the helmet three times as interesting. But I digress.
I liked the section on Tu Bishvat. An ancient Babylonian cunaiform tablet described how the priests would look for Venus in the evening sky on the 15th of their month corresponding to Shevat. If Venus did not rise, that meant the lunar calendar had gotten out of sinc with solar reality, and they would announce the addition of an extra month (Second Adar) to compensate. If Venus rose, no extra month. The exhibit claimed that the Jews first began observing Tu Bishvat after Babylonian exhile, the implication being that they imported the holiday along with the Babylonian calendar. (It did not explain what the new year of the trees had to do with Venus.) Wouldn't it make a cool Tu Bishvat tradition, though, to go out side and observe Venus?
The class was fast-paced. I was exhausted by the end.
Interesting note, the ulpan is held in the same building where Eichmann was tried and hanged. The classroom where we met today was his holding cell. Creepy, huh?
Most of the class was Arabs, which surprised me. I talked to two Arab girls, A and G, after class. A asked me, "So, are you going to emigrate to Israel?"
"I don't know. Maybe many years from now. Not soon," I said.
"But why would you come here? You are from the United States and you want to come here? If I could go to the United States, I would."
I thought about this for a bit, then said, "Well, there are not many Jews in the United States."
"There aren't?" A seemed shocked.
"2 percent. But here there are a lot of Jews. It's hard to be the only one of something."
"I understand that."
After Ulpan, I went to the Bible Lands Museum. It houses a collection of ancient Near Eastern artifacts. The idea is to give information about the many peoples and places mentioned in the bible. It was a good idea on the part of the curators, I think, to organize the museum around a familiar text. There will be a short quote from the bible, for example mentioning the spears and axes of the tribe of Simon, and then a whole section of spears and axes. It gives the pieces some cohesion. The danger, of course, is that the visitor will draw the erroneous conclusion that Simon's axes looked like these, or that Simon necessarily existed at all. The museum did nothing to counter such inferences, and, on the whole took the bible text at face value in a way that seems to me ahistorical.
But, even when the pieces are well organized, you can only look at so many ancient pots and reliefs. I sometimes wonder what the point is of presenting so many "facts" in a museum exhibition. The exhibition inevitably has to gloss over lots of scholarly disputes to get to a smooth presentation of the facts, and in the end it only presents them according to one scholarly opinion. A lot of conjecture goes into history (especially ancient history) and you don't see the conjecture in a museum exhibit unless you go with a very critical eye and probably a lot of background knowledge. What if there were a museum NOT dedicated to presenting loads of historical facts? I mean, the dry facts of history are usually boring and forgettable. What if there were a museum that focused on the questions? Wouldn't it be so much more interesting and engaging to come out of an exhibit with a sense of the broad historical questions that motivate the study of these old helmets and tablets? If you could allow the viewer to see how that same helmet could serve three different theories, you've made the helmet three times as interesting. But I digress.
I liked the section on Tu Bishvat. An ancient Babylonian cunaiform tablet described how the priests would look for Venus in the evening sky on the 15th of their month corresponding to Shevat. If Venus did not rise, that meant the lunar calendar had gotten out of sinc with solar reality, and they would announce the addition of an extra month (Second Adar) to compensate. If Venus rose, no extra month. The exhibit claimed that the Jews first began observing Tu Bishvat after Babylonian exhile, the implication being that they imported the holiday along with the Babylonian calendar. (It did not explain what the new year of the trees had to do with Venus.) Wouldn't it make a cool Tu Bishvat tradition, though, to go out side and observe Venus?
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
First full day in Jerusalem
I think I said to AS yesterday that I thought I was over my jet lag...I spoke too soon. Spent most of the night wide awake. I took a pill and everything, but I just could not sleep. Finally the sun came up and I figured I might as well just get the day started early. So, full of determination I did stretches, calisthenics, made tea. And then I sat down for a second on the couch around 7 and felt suddenly sleepy. I remember A waking me up to say he was going to work. I remember my phone alarm going off. I woke up around 1 pm.
But I woke up full of resolve! I took my first hot shower of the trip (the hostel only offered cold). I took in the views of Jerusalem from A & S's front yard (see pictures above). I took a bus into the city and spent the day walking around. There was a lot more action compared to yesterday, now that Pesach is over. My guidebook describes Tel Aviv as "down right sexy." It doesn't describe Jerusalem as sexy. Certainly the style is less revealing here, but that doesn't necessarily mean it can't be sexy. For example, I saw several shoe stores doing a booming business in those tall, black leather boots for women. Under a knee-length skirt, they don't show anything, but they are suggestive.
I took a detour around a block that was closed off. Quite a crowd gathered to watch the police blow up a bag that had been left unattended at a bus stop. Turned out to be just clothes inside, to the surprise of no one.
I think it will take me some time to get used to the security presence. Seeing police on the street with big assault rifles is the obvious example, but really it's the less visually obvious stuff that I think will take longer to get used to. For example, just about every cafe and restaurant has a security guard. I ducked into McDonald's just to use the bathroom, but first I had to have my bag searched. There is good reason for it of course, and it is reassuring, but, as I walked down the street today my eyes just kept being drawn to the guards: There's one, there's one, there's another one. And the guards for the most part don't just sit there sleepily, they look back, not threatening, just observing. One is watched as one walks down the street. I'm sure I'll get used to it.
The other two pictures above are a sculpture that I thought looked like a big goldfish mouth and a lovely arbor. To get the full effect of the second one, you have to imagine the smell of barbeque, because there were several families having cook-outs in that park.
I asked for directions twice today. Once I was answered in Hebrew and given wrong information. Once I was answered in English and given correct information.
Monday, April 9, 2007
More Pictures!
I took all these today in Jerusalem. Top left-guy in redwas playing this instrument that looks like a turtle and sounds like a steel drum. I asked him what it was called and he said something like "Alfa." Anyway, it had a very pleasant, exotic sound, so I stayed and listened to him for quite some time.
The rest of the pictures are from my walk today along the ramparts of the old city (in full gear, as you can see). I think my legs are going to be sore. But there were some great sites. If you look inward, you see people's yards, their laundry drying, their kids' toys, their trash. Old Jerusalem is built on so many levels. Except for the main streets, there is no sense of "ground level" universal to the whole city. New was built on top of old, so one is always stepping up and down. It's like a city designed by MC Escher. I had a hard time capturing all of this depth in a photo, though, and I got the sense that people in their yards didn't really want to be on display. I did attempt a picture of a camel through an arrow loop (the walls were built to keep out crusaders).
Pictures!
OK whoops a couple of these are sideways...
sorry about that. To the left is me when I first arrived at the hostel in Tel Aviv. Below is one of the trippy paintings found throughout the hostel.
Then here is a picture of some grown men who were gleefully climbing into the fountain in Jerusalem.
First Post From Israel
I've been in Israel for a few days now, but this is the first chance I've had to blog.
I spent my first two nights in a hostel in Tel Aviv. Actually, I spent my first night partying in Tel Aviv, and I spent the next day in the hostel recovering. So, I have seen what Tel Aviv has to offer at night. Soon I hope to see what it has to offer during the day.
Today I checked out of the hostel and took a shared taxi to Jerusalem. On the way to the bus station, I had to ask for directions a couple of times in Hebrew, both times I was answered in Hebrew, and both times I got the gist of what they were saying. Yay! When I reached the bus station, I went to where the shared taxis were parked and stood there looking quizzical. Immediately, a driver pointed at me and said "Yerushalayim?" I nodded and hopped in. I guess he had already recruited 9 passengers, I made the tenth so we all got in and were on our way in no time. Paying was another thing. The ride cost 25 shekels, I tried to pay with a 100 shekel bill. The driver was stopped at a light at this point, he open his change drawer and said, in English, "Here, take change." I reached in to take my change and he swatted my hand a way. "Don't be primitive!" he said in Hebrew. Then he handed me my change.
When I try to speak Hebrew to people, I am usually successful. If the conversation continues past the opening stages, it generally switches to English. Still, though, I get a kick out of the fact that I am understood at all in Hebrew.
I spent my first two nights in a hostel in Tel Aviv. Actually, I spent my first night partying in Tel Aviv, and I spent the next day in the hostel recovering. So, I have seen what Tel Aviv has to offer at night. Soon I hope to see what it has to offer during the day.
Today I checked out of the hostel and took a shared taxi to Jerusalem. On the way to the bus station, I had to ask for directions a couple of times in Hebrew, both times I was answered in Hebrew, and both times I got the gist of what they were saying. Yay! When I reached the bus station, I went to where the shared taxis were parked and stood there looking quizzical. Immediately, a driver pointed at me and said "Yerushalayim?" I nodded and hopped in. I guess he had already recruited 9 passengers, I made the tenth so we all got in and were on our way in no time. Paying was another thing. The ride cost 25 shekels, I tried to pay with a 100 shekel bill. The driver was stopped at a light at this point, he open his change drawer and said, in English, "Here, take change." I reached in to take my change and he swatted my hand a way. "Don't be primitive!" he said in Hebrew. Then he handed me my change.
When I try to speak Hebrew to people, I am usually successful. If the conversation continues past the opening stages, it generally switches to English. Still, though, I get a kick out of the fact that I am understood at all in Hebrew.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Disburdening
Each stage of my journey, I clear away another responsibility and shed a bunch of stuff. For example, when I left LA, I sent a bunch of stuff home with mom and dad. When I got to New York, I made a major shlep across town in the rain and ditched a bunch of stuff in a storage locker. Then to Connecticut yesterday to get good and rested at RSCF's for today's interview at a well-known educational institution. Class visit...check! Lunch with students...check! Interview...check! Then back to New York, back to the storage locker to ditch more stuff, including my suit. I actually changed out of it in that 3 ft x 3 ft x 3 ft metal cube 7 feet up in the air. I walked out of that storage facility, into the cold New York night, DISBURDENED. I am now just a backpack. Everything I need is in a 30 lb bag I can carry anywhere. I was smiling at strangers I passed as I walked through the shadows on that post-industrial Chelsea street, as if to say, "Isn't it cool that I'm totally FREE?"
I am blogging right now from SG and IG's apartment in Brooklyn. Tomorrow I depart for Israel.
I am blogging right now from SG and IG's apartment in Brooklyn. Tomorrow I depart for Israel.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Packing for Dummies
I feel like all I've done the last two days is pack and unpack, pack and unpack. I suppose I should get used to it, since that's what I'll be doing for the next two months! Here is all the wisdom I have about packing:
Step 1) Start by packing everything you think you want to bring. Stuff it all into your backpack, then put on your backpack and walk around for a few minutes.
Step 2) Have a back spasm. Nearly fall over backwards. Put the bag down, throw up your hands, and walk away.
Step 3) Take everything out of the bag. Carefully consider each item and only put back the ones that are absolutely essential to life.
Step 4) Put on the backpack. Notice how light it feels. Walk around the neighborhood wearing it, thinking, "Yeah, I could do this!" and get weird looks from people.
Step 5) Compartmentalize! Inside the big bag there should be NOT a bunch of clothes and books and wires all mixed up in each other, but rather a bunch of littler bags. One sack for electronics. One sack for writing utensils. One sack for socks. One sack for underwear. One sack for books, etc.
Step 6) Step back and admire your compartmentalized bag.
I feel like the compartmentalizing represents giving in to the reality that I will be constantly packing and unpacking. By having lots of little bags, I can find what I need and put everything back with a minimum of disruption. That's the idea, anyway.
Last night, I went to a seder. (Happy Passover, everyone.) It was at UCLA Hillel. It was your typical, reform, institutional seder. Lots of 10-person, round tables. Too-salty food. Suspiciously moist brownies. Matzo balls the size and consistency of golf balls.
The seder was led by a rabbinic intern from HUC, rather than by students, which does not speak well of UCLA Hillel, IMO.
I might offend some of my readers by saying this, but in some ways the seder typified reform practice at its worst. The rabbinic intern reminded us several times that asking questions was integral to the seder and to Judaism, and that everyone was encouraged to ask questions and discuss. After each of these reminders, we were instructed to turn the page and hurry on to the next phase of the seder, so that it would not take too long. So, there was really no time for questioning. The readings in the seder packet did raise questions at times, but generally these readings immediately answered their own questions with pat, politically correct sentimentalism. The singing, such as there was, was perfunctory, not joyful. E.g. "Now it's time to sing Dayeinu, but we're only going to do three verses so we don't get bored." By the end, the leader resorted to cheap tactics to get people to sing along: "The mitzvah of singing chad gadya is not complete unless you make animal noises." When the photographer would wander by, we'd try to look interested. Well, it was an institutional seder, so I should not have expected too much.
And, don't get me wrong, I'm not writing off the UCLA Hillel community just because they couldn't muster some students to lead the seder. For all I know, there may be a very dedicated circle of student leaders there who were all home with their families for seder.
Step 1) Start by packing everything you think you want to bring. Stuff it all into your backpack, then put on your backpack and walk around for a few minutes.
Step 2) Have a back spasm. Nearly fall over backwards. Put the bag down, throw up your hands, and walk away.
Step 3) Take everything out of the bag. Carefully consider each item and only put back the ones that are absolutely essential to life.
Step 4) Put on the backpack. Notice how light it feels. Walk around the neighborhood wearing it, thinking, "Yeah, I could do this!" and get weird looks from people.
Step 5) Compartmentalize! Inside the big bag there should be NOT a bunch of clothes and books and wires all mixed up in each other, but rather a bunch of littler bags. One sack for electronics. One sack for writing utensils. One sack for socks. One sack for underwear. One sack for books, etc.
Step 6) Step back and admire your compartmentalized bag.
I feel like the compartmentalizing represents giving in to the reality that I will be constantly packing and unpacking. By having lots of little bags, I can find what I need and put everything back with a minimum of disruption. That's the idea, anyway.
Last night, I went to a seder. (Happy Passover, everyone.) It was at UCLA Hillel. It was your typical, reform, institutional seder. Lots of 10-person, round tables. Too-salty food. Suspiciously moist brownies. Matzo balls the size and consistency of golf balls.
The seder was led by a rabbinic intern from HUC, rather than by students, which does not speak well of UCLA Hillel, IMO.
I might offend some of my readers by saying this, but in some ways the seder typified reform practice at its worst. The rabbinic intern reminded us several times that asking questions was integral to the seder and to Judaism, and that everyone was encouraged to ask questions and discuss. After each of these reminders, we were instructed to turn the page and hurry on to the next phase of the seder, so that it would not take too long. So, there was really no time for questioning. The readings in the seder packet did raise questions at times, but generally these readings immediately answered their own questions with pat, politically correct sentimentalism. The singing, such as there was, was perfunctory, not joyful. E.g. "Now it's time to sing Dayeinu, but we're only going to do three verses so we don't get bored." By the end, the leader resorted to cheap tactics to get people to sing along: "The mitzvah of singing chad gadya is not complete unless you make animal noises." When the photographer would wander by, we'd try to look interested. Well, it was an institutional seder, so I should not have expected too much.
And, don't get me wrong, I'm not writing off the UCLA Hillel community just because they couldn't muster some students to lead the seder. For all I know, there may be a very dedicated circle of student leaders there who were all home with their families for seder.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
The God Delusion
A couple of days ago, I listened to this interview on npr with my family, while we were driving. It's Richard Dawkins.
Now, I have to say I never gave Dawkins a fair shake, and I still haven't. Don't get me wrong, I buy the whole Selfish Gene thing, and the meme thing is interesting, too. But I have never listened seriously to Dawkins's views on God and religion.
Why should I? He is a scientist by profession and an athiest by confession. He is not an expert in religion, and he doesn't even practice it, so why should he have anything worth saying about it? His only qualification to speak about religion is that he's a really smart guy. And yet, he persists in talking about religion. He is so persistent, it makes me wonder if maybe he does have something to say.
Still, Dawkins tends to use really inflammatory language when talking about religion (e.g. The God Delusion), so that prejudices me against hearing him out.
Well, with all that preamble out of the way, let me tell you about the interview. He was much less inflammatory that I had expected. He even expressed respect for certain aspects of religion, such as the desire to do right or the desire to connect to one's people and heritage. OK, Dawkins, I'm listening. Well, the really interesting thing about Dawkins is that he really considers science to be his religion. He says that he does feel a sense of awe at the laws of physics and the infinite variation of biology, but he refuses to call those laws God or say that they were created by a God. He has no need of that hypothesis (to paraphrase).
That's because Dawkins has an implicit narrative (I believe) that says that the only things worth believing in are those that have explanatory force. God, as a hypothesis, is worthless to Dawkins because the existence of God does not explain anything in the realm of scientific fact.
Dawkins acknowledges this, and says that many people who believe in God also acknowledge that God is a feeble hypothesis. I happen to agree. So why do such people, who understand that theory of evolution by natural selection, believe in God? According to Dawkins, because they are afraid not to. They just can't bear to think there is nothing out there, they can't bear to think they are alone. This, for Dawkins, is not a good reason to believe in something.
I agree with much of the above. Yet, somehow, Dawkins emerges from this chain of reasoning as an athiest, and I emerge from it an agnostic. Where did we diverge? I think there is a difference in our implicit narratives.
Dawkins has an implicit value of humanism in there. He might say, "Why believe in mystical stuff when we have real scientific knowledge right here that is so much more wonderful, scientific knowledge that was discovered by people?" I think somewhere deep down, Dawkins is very attracted to the human empowerment that scientific progress represents. Scientific discovery is for him the pinnacle of human flourishing. And that belief attracts him to science. I imagine Dawkins has an implicit narrative somewhere back there with two panels: in one, people crouch in the dark in fear of the unknown God of their own imaginings; in the other, people walk confidently in the bright light of science.
I approach this whole thing with a somewhat different implicit narrative (which I am trying now to make explicit, I suppose). In my deep down value system, humility is good. Something in me is attracted to humility and repulsed by arrogance. I can't support that, it's just something that is in me. And to this value system, the idea of making science into a religion seems supremely arrogant. Science is just a knowledge system of recent, human invention...how can that substitute for a God? In the same vein, I recognize that religious dogmas and dialectics are also just knowledge systems of recent, human invention, and that they are not God either. But the idea of ever saying, "That's it, that's the Truth, that's all there is," just doesn't make sense to me.
So what is God? Maybe for me God is just a reminder that there is an infinite number of things I don't know.
Now, I have to say I never gave Dawkins a fair shake, and I still haven't. Don't get me wrong, I buy the whole Selfish Gene thing, and the meme thing is interesting, too. But I have never listened seriously to Dawkins's views on God and religion.
Why should I? He is a scientist by profession and an athiest by confession. He is not an expert in religion, and he doesn't even practice it, so why should he have anything worth saying about it? His only qualification to speak about religion is that he's a really smart guy. And yet, he persists in talking about religion. He is so persistent, it makes me wonder if maybe he does have something to say.
Still, Dawkins tends to use really inflammatory language when talking about religion (e.g. The God Delusion), so that prejudices me against hearing him out.
Well, with all that preamble out of the way, let me tell you about the interview. He was much less inflammatory that I had expected. He even expressed respect for certain aspects of religion, such as the desire to do right or the desire to connect to one's people and heritage. OK, Dawkins, I'm listening. Well, the really interesting thing about Dawkins is that he really considers science to be his religion. He says that he does feel a sense of awe at the laws of physics and the infinite variation of biology, but he refuses to call those laws God or say that they were created by a God. He has no need of that hypothesis (to paraphrase).
That's because Dawkins has an implicit narrative (I believe) that says that the only things worth believing in are those that have explanatory force. God, as a hypothesis, is worthless to Dawkins because the existence of God does not explain anything in the realm of scientific fact.
Dawkins acknowledges this, and says that many people who believe in God also acknowledge that God is a feeble hypothesis. I happen to agree. So why do such people, who understand that theory of evolution by natural selection, believe in God? According to Dawkins, because they are afraid not to. They just can't bear to think there is nothing out there, they can't bear to think they are alone. This, for Dawkins, is not a good reason to believe in something.
I agree with much of the above. Yet, somehow, Dawkins emerges from this chain of reasoning as an athiest, and I emerge from it an agnostic. Where did we diverge? I think there is a difference in our implicit narratives.
Dawkins has an implicit value of humanism in there. He might say, "Why believe in mystical stuff when we have real scientific knowledge right here that is so much more wonderful, scientific knowledge that was discovered by people?" I think somewhere deep down, Dawkins is very attracted to the human empowerment that scientific progress represents. Scientific discovery is for him the pinnacle of human flourishing. And that belief attracts him to science. I imagine Dawkins has an implicit narrative somewhere back there with two panels: in one, people crouch in the dark in fear of the unknown God of their own imaginings; in the other, people walk confidently in the bright light of science.
I approach this whole thing with a somewhat different implicit narrative (which I am trying now to make explicit, I suppose). In my deep down value system, humility is good. Something in me is attracted to humility and repulsed by arrogance. I can't support that, it's just something that is in me. And to this value system, the idea of making science into a religion seems supremely arrogant. Science is just a knowledge system of recent, human invention...how can that substitute for a God? In the same vein, I recognize that religious dogmas and dialectics are also just knowledge systems of recent, human invention, and that they are not God either. But the idea of ever saying, "That's it, that's the Truth, that's all there is," just doesn't make sense to me.
So what is God? Maybe for me God is just a reminder that there is an infinite number of things I don't know.
Friday, March 30, 2007
The G. C.
March 29 was a day at
This is not a picture of Grand Canyon. This is a picture of the worst faucet ever. This faucet is located in a rt 66 motel. The knobs are a great demonstration of the principles of torque and friction. With soapy hands, there is absolutely no way to turn those things.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
The Whole Fam Damly
So, March 26 was an enromously long day. I started in Los Angeles and drove to Pasadena with my brother. We had breakfast with EJ and SJ and played with their wonderful labradoodle Quigley. I’m going to try to upload some pictures of Quigley. He is as fun to touch as his name is to say, he has a very sweet nature, and he is well-trained. Props to the Js for having great taste in most everything, including dogs.
From Pasadena we set out for Las Vegas. On the way we saw land sailors. They are wheeled carts with big sails and they just shoot across the desert at terrific speed.
Things in the desert appear in the panorama even when they are very far away. A mountain range appears on the horizon 30 minutes or more before it is reached, and the utter emptiness of the intervening space makes for a lack of references for scale. One drives at 85 mph or more, but seemingly without moving, since the mountains don’t get perceptibly closer. Therefore, Las Vegas appeared hours before we reached it. Partly the delay was due to the desert-distance contraction illusion, but mostly it was due to the traffic time-dilation effect.
Vegas held two main attractions for us: the Bodies exhibit and the Cirque du Soleil Mystere show.
BODIES
These were way more dead people in 90 minutes than I had seen in my entire life up until that point. It reminded me of those old paintings of a philosopher holding a skull. The Cliffs notes explanation is always, “Man contemplates his own mortality.” But viewing and handling (indeed, interrogating—to take a page from Bruno Latour) the remains of the dead is one rather specific way to contemplate one’s mortality, and a powerful one, at least for me. Especially considering that I’m not going to medical school and will not get the opportunity afforded by a course in gross anatomy to interrogate the remains of the dead, I’m glad I went.
A few disconnected impressions:
The heart is smaller than I expected.
A lot of our insides look like plants, branching and so forth.
The brain is smaller than I expected.
The uterus is way, way, way, smaller than I expected.
The pyloric sphincter is really substantial.
The embryo develops really quickly.
MYSTERE
I have seen Cirque du Soleil three times in my life, and I think only during this show did I understand the importance of the clowns. Cirque du Soleil has the world’s best acrobats, and they will be flipping around impressing everyone, while some clown gawks on, inexpertly bouncing a ball or something. Why the clown? Why draw the audience’s eyes off the performance onto something merely odd?
I think it has to do with the need for scale and perspective. After 30 minutes or so of watching the most astounding, eye-popping of stunts, the audience can’t help but cease to be quite so impressed every time someone jumps from one flying trapeze to another. In the absence of clowns, the implicit narrative becomes somewhat Roman: Bigger, higher, more extreme! But that is not the only possible narrative. The clowns call our attention to the other possible narratives. They validate the other feelings the performance evokes in us—wonder, fear, concern for the safety of the performers, haughtiness (e.g. “I could do that”), even boredom, and thereby give the experience more richness. For example, to give voice to our concern for the safety of the performers, Mystere employs two clowns acting as children—one an enormous, ugly, baby; the other a distracted and winsome little girl. Both children innocently (or not so innocently) walk into dangerous situations, play with things they should not, and evoke the parental concern of the audience. Having gasped and laughed at the clowns’ antics, we feel freer to let ourselves experience concern for the acrobats—these human performers with superhuman powers. The trope of parenthood is a brilliant one: our children’s exploits and accomplishments give us naches (because our children are exceeding us), but we also look on their bravery as foolhardy daring (since we also are painfully aware of how fragile our children are, and perhaps a little jealous that they can do what we cannot). How much more richly we experience the performance when we can experience some of these emotions toward the performers.
Anyway, there are other important ways in which the phenomenon of implicit narrative affects our public and private life, which I hope to explore in later posts. For now, BRING IN THE CLOWNS!
March 27 we left Las Vegas and drove to Hoover Dam. Hoover Dam provoked mixed feelings for me. Visually, the Dam and Lake Mead are an ugly scar on the Earth. It is sad the way we’ve choked off the Colorado river. Nevertheless, the flood protection and electricity the dam provides are very valuable. Projects like these allow people to make the desert commercially and agriculturally useful. Hoover Dam makes the desert bloom. And it is also a testament to human ingenuity and cooperation.
However, it makes the desert bloom in a wasteful way. Hoover Dam enables the ubiquitous fountains of Las Vegas, the golf courses of Arizona, the endless tract homes and rotary sprinklers of Southern California. The money spent on maintaining the dam could be spent much more effectively if people conserved water. Differential flush toilets are much cheaper than dams and do just as much to make the desert bloom. There is more potential for solar power generation on the roofs of Las Vegas than there is for hydroelectric generation in the Colorado river, but instead of putting up solar panels, they top those ugly houses with dark, heat-trapping roofs and then cool them houses with electric air conditioners powered by the dam.
And it is a little sick how much human blood went into that dam. 96 official deaths during construction, but that number is low because it doesn’t even count workers mortally injured on the job who died at the hospital off site, not to mention those who met early deaths from chronic illnesses they contracted on the job site. A project of that size (read Big Dig) would never finish ahead of schedule and under budget today, but I am happy that we value workers’ safety more now than they did in the 30s.
The Israelis have made the desert bloom in a less spectacular, but more impressive way. Their ethic emphasizes conservation over production, understanding the land over dominating it. And, significantly, the Zionists intended to improve themselves as they improved the land. They set up new kinds of communities, tried social experiments in the desert (and still do). The Americans simply infected the desert with the same counterproductive, socially isolating forms of development they originated elsewhere and let the ‘burbs spread over the sands without a thought.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
A Journey of a Thousand Miles Begins...
My adventure has begun. I'm blogging from Los Angeles, in the midst of (gasp) a college party. I'm staying with my brother. This morning I had an admission interview at a prominent Southern California business school. It went well, but I felt tense and uncomfortable in the suit. I'm still not used to standing tall, collecting business cards, gladhanding, and shmuzing. Reminds me a little of those first few weeks of teaching, when I was just weeks out of college and would look at myself in the mirror at 6 in the morning, tie around my freshly-shaven neck. The thought in my head would be, "There's Mr. F____." It was an identity I was not yet comfortable with. It took most of a year to comfortably integrate my teaching persona into my overall personality, to be relaxed in front of a class. I guess it will be the same with wearing a suit and a smile.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
"Shelo sam helkenu kahem..."
Today I learned that Israel has its own plug, unique among the nations of the earth. I can only assume this was the realization of Herzl's vision that the Judenstat would invent a new system of electricity, ever so slightly different from, and superior to, that of the European nations, inspired by the design communicated by God to Moses on Sinai: "And thou shalt make thee a plug basically like the European plug, and with pretty much the same voltage. With prongs slanted outward shalt thou fashion it, like the face of an alien. Take care that ye not fashion it with prongs slanted inward, like that of the Australians, whom I shall deliver into your hand, as I swore to your fathers."
It's Official!
From the irony desk...
Olympic Airlines's frequent flyer program is called Icarus.
I know this because I went through a fiasco today trying to book my flight to Israel. After spending several hours carefully and diligently comparing prices on hundreds of airlines, via hundreds of online retailers, fiddling with the dates, etc, I settled on the perfect flight, at a nice price. It was at just the right time, and only a little over budget. It was on Olympic. I thought I was almost done.
Well, halfway into the booking process, Orbitz tells me that this itinerary only offers paper tickets. Paper tickets. What the hell is a paper ticket for an airplane anyway? Isn't that a redundancy or the exact opposite of an oxymoron or something? You need ID to board the plane, and the ticket has your name on it and is not transferable, and the airline has a record of the ticket. Well, whatever, Greece is not in the 21st century yet, I figured, I can play along.
Well, it turned out it would be an extra $35 to overnight the tickets to myself via UPS, and they would require a signature, possibly my signature. That was a problem, since I'm going to LA on Friday and if UPS for some reason didn't manage to actually "overnight" it, I couldn't get it. I involved Mom at this point, and we took turns flipping out and making each other crazy. We investigated having the house-sitter sign for it, then mail it to me in LA, but that seemed to involve a troubling number of connections. We investigated having it sent to a UPS "customer service" center in LA, but after talking to several UPS representatives learned that the customer service center does not accept calls from customers and does not hold packages for customers to come pick up, unless they have a HOLD sticker on them, and sometimes not even then. We investigated having UPS deliver the tickets to my cousin in LA, but I could just see some UPS guy at the end of his shift deciding to forego the signature part and just leaving the envelope in front of my cousin's door to get stolen.
We called Orbitz to ascertain whether they could send it some other way, whether they could put a hold sticker on it, whether they could authorize someone else to sign for it, whether I could pick it up at LAX, etc. The Indians on the other end were polite and patient, speaking too softly and often incomprehensibly. They were all eager to help, but were careful not to make any guarantees, and all three Indian customer service representatives told us different information.
In the end, I coughed up an extra $200 to book on British Airways, which offers electronic tickets. Then, just as I was about to hit SUBMIT, a message popped up telling me the price had stam been reduced by $80. So in the end it hardly matters, except that I'll have a one hour layover in London instead of a 17 hour layover in Athens.
The point is...I AM REALLY GOING TO ISRAEL NOW!
Mom invented a new word today. We were talking about whether I needed a bigger memory card for my digital camera. I explained that some digital pictures take up 2 Mb, while other s take up a mere half Mb. She asked if there was a way on my camera to adjust the megabyteness of the pictures I was taking. She could be George W. Bush's speech writer.
Now I'm just hoping this labor strike will be averted before I go to Israel. Also that any impending strikes by Hamas, Hezbollah, or Iran will be averted.
Olympic Airlines's frequent flyer program is called Icarus.
I know this because I went through a fiasco today trying to book my flight to Israel. After spending several hours carefully and diligently comparing prices on hundreds of airlines, via hundreds of online retailers, fiddling with the dates, etc, I settled on the perfect flight, at a nice price. It was at just the right time, and only a little over budget. It was on Olympic. I thought I was almost done.
Well, halfway into the booking process, Orbitz tells me that this itinerary only offers paper tickets. Paper tickets. What the hell is a paper ticket for an airplane anyway? Isn't that a redundancy or the exact opposite of an oxymoron or something? You need ID to board the plane, and the ticket has your name on it and is not transferable, and the airline has a record of the ticket. Well, whatever, Greece is not in the 21st century yet, I figured, I can play along.
Well, it turned out it would be an extra $35 to overnight the tickets to myself via UPS, and they would require a signature, possibly my signature. That was a problem, since I'm going to LA on Friday and if UPS for some reason didn't manage to actually "overnight" it, I couldn't get it. I involved Mom at this point, and we took turns flipping out and making each other crazy. We investigated having the house-sitter sign for it, then mail it to me in LA, but that seemed to involve a troubling number of connections. We investigated having it sent to a UPS "customer service" center in LA, but after talking to several UPS representatives learned that the customer service center does not accept calls from customers and does not hold packages for customers to come pick up, unless they have a HOLD sticker on them, and sometimes not even then. We investigated having UPS deliver the tickets to my cousin in LA, but I could just see some UPS guy at the end of his shift deciding to forego the signature part and just leaving the envelope in front of my cousin's door to get stolen.
We called Orbitz to ascertain whether they could send it some other way, whether they could put a hold sticker on it, whether they could authorize someone else to sign for it, whether I could pick it up at LAX, etc. The Indians on the other end were polite and patient, speaking too softly and often incomprehensibly. They were all eager to help, but were careful not to make any guarantees, and all three Indian customer service representatives told us different information.
In the end, I coughed up an extra $200 to book on British Airways, which offers electronic tickets. Then, just as I was about to hit SUBMIT, a message popped up telling me the price had stam been reduced by $80. So in the end it hardly matters, except that I'll have a one hour layover in London instead of a 17 hour layover in Athens.
The point is...I AM REALLY GOING TO ISRAEL NOW!
Mom invented a new word today. We were talking about whether I needed a bigger memory card for my digital camera. I explained that some digital pictures take up 2 Mb, while other s take up a mere half Mb. She asked if there was a way on my camera to adjust the megabyteness of the pictures I was taking. She could be George W. Bush's speech writer.
Now I'm just hoping this labor strike will be averted before I go to Israel. Also that any impending strikes by Hamas, Hezbollah, or Iran will be averted.
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