Richie Rich, hamsters, etc.

My childhood room has shelves and shelves full of Archie Comics that I used to read dozens of times over. My sister and I would play a game where we would say the beginning of an Archie story and if you were able to finish the story, you would be some kind of victor. Amidst the piles of “Jughead with Archie” and “Betty and Veronica” comics, I had a few others. One of the digests was about Richie Rich., the richest boy of all time.

I loved those stories. I loved that he had clothing made out of money, his mother had a giant diamond ring that helped save a crime (remember that one, sis?), his awesome butler and private genius scientist.

Why did I think about Richie Rich this morning? As a student organizer for the upcoming Occupy Queens College Teach-in, I have been thinking more and more about how much we glorify money in American society. I thought about Richie Rich’s friends, who wore raggedy clothing. Why did he allow that to happen? More than that, why was it up to him?

  I became kind of sad thinking about one particular daydream that I had during tefillah (prayer services) in second grade. If we prayed well, we received a surprise gift! I used to fantasize winning this “contest”, and I would win (a) two hamsters, (b) nail polish that had a different color for each day of the week, and (c) 10 million dollars.

In this instance, the hamsters were my saviors, but to this day, I wish that my daydreams were more about building lasting relationships and strong communities.

Yes, NYC *still* requires that food stamp applicants be fingerprinted. Where is the policy now?

What do you mean New York City still imposes fingerprinting on food stamp applicants? Where is the policy now?

In 2009, a New York Times article reported on a hearing held, that November by the General Welfare Committee of the City Council. There, the topic up for discussion was finger imaging/finger printing for federal food stamp applicants in New York City, claimed by advocates as a practice that deters benefit fraud. In 2009, the only four states to still enact this policy were California, Texas, Arizona, and New York. In 2009, local officials were speaking out against the policy, including Christine Quinn and Bill de Blasio, now New York City’s Public Advocate, but then the chairman of the General Welfare Committee.[1] Today, New York City is one of only two jurisdictions that still require food stamp applicants to be fingerprinted as a part of the application process. Christine Quinn, clearly demonstrating characteristics of a policy entrepreneur on this issue, is still speaking out against this policy and is currently mobilizing towards a policy to eliminate the requirement.

Advocates for finger imaging to access food stamp benefits claim that the practice significantly reduces fraud in the system and does not deter those who are entitled to the benefits from applying. The evidence and arguments against fingerprinting to access federal food stamp benefits, however, are quite strong in comparison to those that advocate for the practice.

Many states have already eliminated the practice due to the emergence of reliable research that has proven it to be ineffective, and due to its high cost (in New York, the policy costs around $800,000 a year). New York found 31 cases of suspected fraud due to fingerprinting in 2006, which are only one out of 34,991 food stamp applicants. [2] Furthermore, while fraudulent practices in individual and family food benefits amount to around $1.50 a meal, it is important to note that food retailers and government officials commit most large fraud cases. Joel Berg, executive director of the New York City Coalition Against Hunger, claims that the policy is “inefficient and degrading,” and since many recipients are minorities, one that touches on civil rights issues. Additionally, he asks why all who desire to access federal food benefits are not fingerprinted, such as owners of rural farm businesses and recipients of farm subsidies, whose federal aid bills run up a huge tab.[3] In 2009, Betsy Gotbaum, then the public advocate, has called the requirement “a very expensive failure.” A study from the USDA found no proof that it actually limits fraud and found that it may drive people away from applying.[4]

In 2007, the policy was lifted from New York State applicants, but at the request of the Bloomberg administration, continued to be a requirement of New York City Applicants, and it is in the City forum that the policy debate is taking place. On October 11, 2011, Christine C. Quinn, speaker of the City Council, pressed the Bloomberg Administration to give a valid reason why New York City still enacts this policy. Since the City Council does not have the power to life the requirement, Christine Quinn and councilmember Annabel Palma plan to introduce a bill to influence the Bloomberg Administration. [5]

The visibility of the issue has increased exponentially since it came to the table in 2007, and it is denounced and questioned constantly in the media as a result of the work of interest groups and of visibility of those testifying at government hearings. Interest groups have mobilized extensively against the policy. The New York City Coalition Against Hunger is at the forefront of the struggle against finger imaging for food stamps.[6]They claim that there are other ways to fight fraud, such as computer matching with social security numbers, and that finger printing forces people who have trouble getting to an office to have it done not to apply. The Urban Institute is another interest group; they supported a study revealing that 30,000 New Yorkers are not applying for food stamps because of the fingerprinting policy.[7] Interest groups coming out in favor of the policy are rare. Some individuals come out in support finger imaging, perhaps because it reframes the issue of fraud and blames it on the poor. Mostly in support of the policy, however, is the Mayoral administration. Robert Doar of the city’s Human Resources Administration claimed that the policy caught 1,200 is duplicated cases and saved $4 million a year in federal benefits, and the Bloomberg administration has consistently come out in support of the policy. Doar stated that “we haven’t found an alternative method that’s any better, we listen and learn from other states, but we also need to make our own decisions.”[8]

Christine Quinn’s policy plan includes introducing a bill that would require the administration to show how much money the city spent on fingerprinting, the cases of fraud detected through finger imaging, and to disclose how many applicants were accused of criminal activity due to the policy. As this policy process begins, interest groups will be aware and active in attending hearings and garnering media attention for the issue.

Food Stamp Challenge?

I started the Food Stamp Challenge yesterday, an awareness building and advocacy exercise being co-sponsored by the Jewish Council for Public Affairs. I skipped my coffee in the morning and did my grocery shopping for the week—under $30.00. When I first saw the challenge, I thought that it was a fantastic idea, a great way to engage people in some of the difficult issues related to food stamp benefits—how they are hard to access and insufficient, among other issues. Most of all, the goal of the initiative is to protect the SNAP program in a climate where cutting government programs is happening right and left.

This is from their website: “The U.S. Census Bureau just reported that the U.S. poverty rate rose to one out of every six Americans, or 14.2 million, living in poverty last year. We cannot stand idly by; we need to take action now.

And so, the JCPA invites you to join us in taking the Food Stamp Challenge from Thursday, Oct 27 – Thursday, Nov 3. This is a challenge to live for 1 week on the average food stamp allotment of $31.50, or approximately $4.50 per day and $1.50 per meal.

The JCPA is also providing you with a unique opportunity to multiply the impact of your Food Stamp Challenge and to support the JCPA’s anti-poverty work. After you register, you can ask your friends, family, colleagues, and neighbors to sponsor your Food Stamp Challenge by making a contribution to the JCPA’s Confronting Poverty Campaign. Contributions in increments of $31.50, the average weekly food stamp benefit, will allow those in your network to help you reach your fundraising goal and support the JCPA’s vital anti-poverty efforts.”

Ok, you ready? I’m about to expose my soul to you. Read on:

I started the Food Stamp Challenge yesterday. I might end it today. This is not because I believe it is a bad program, at all—it’s an incredible way to get people involved in some of the issues, especially if communities are mobilizing to do it together. That kind of initiative is immensely powerful.

Personally, however, I am finding it to be ethically problematic. This will not be everyone’s experience, but it is mine.

First, my studies and my activism immerse me in issues of inequality and poverty. I am constantly exploring the complexity of these issues, and it feels demeaning and oversimplified to think of the issue this way. The CUNY FoodFEST conference that I helped to plan last week was all about the complicated dimensions of these issues. Second, the challenge is beneficial to me. I’m saving money! Learning how to budget! Losing weight! This is not the goal of the project. Thirdly, and most importantly, I feel I am caricaturizing those on public benefits in this country.

Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed was one of first non-fiction books I’ve ever read and enjoyed.  I remember sitting up in my bed past my bedtime, reading about how she to tried to work minimum wage jobs while supporting herself. The book made me furious, and although I did not have a compelte grasp of all the issues, I felt some sort of a commitment to do something, even if that just meant talking about it to other people. This passion is not something I would have received if I were to read a New Yorker article about poverty in America at age 14. I feel the same way about Shira and Yoav Potash’s Food Stamped, an engaging documentary about the Food Stamp Challenge. If I were writing a book, if I felt I had the means to inspire people in a big way through my participation in the food stamp challenge, I might continue.

And I still will continue. I will continue blogging about hunger in America and the food stamp program for the duration of the entire week. Considering I’ve already bought my groceries for the week, I’ll stick to the budget, for the most part. But I might stop when I feel like I’m being disingenuous.

I really would love to hear your comments on this—post below if you have any.

Here’s to a world without hunger—where people never have to make a decision between healthcare and dinner, between a home and breakfast, or between feeding their kids and feeding themselves.

I’m back! For real.

Its literally been months since I last blogged. I’m so busy—hopping from one thing to the next, (loving every minute!) that I haven’t been sitting down to write these reflective pieces. This is mainly because most of the thinking  I do happens on Shabbat, when I am actually prohibited to touch my cell phone, email, or any electronics. Additionally, on Shabbat I make a personal commitment to devote as much time as possible to meaningful face-to-face human relationships as possible (something that seems to be an imperative after last night’s viewing of We Live in Public. Watch this if you want to be terrified of our electronic lives). Shabbat is 24 hours of pure bliss; a reflective balance to what sometimes seems like a never-ending week.

Since we last connected, I’ve been reading, applying to graduate school, being a research assistant, working on my thesis, doing an independent study, taking a full courseload, organizing a food justice conference, facilitating protests, and more.

But just like I make time every day for prayer and Jewish text study, I also want to consistently think about and process the many things I’m doing. If that means blogging, then I’d like to make a pledge to blog more often. So, in advance, thanks for listening!

At the end of the week, I will be starting the JCPA Food Stamp Challenge, where I have pledged to try and live on the average allotment for food stamps each week, which is $31.50. This amounts to approximately a dollar a meal. Stay tuned for a lot of processing about that.

Wishing you a beautiful October full of new romances, pumpkin spice lattes, crunchy leaves, and crisp refreshing air. Ella and Louie can’t say it any better. 

face-to-face: Encounter July 2011

Early Thursday morning (the morning the Encounter trip began),  as I was brushing my teeth and blow-drying my hair, I practiced the only Arabic phrases I knew, being sure to put emphasis on the breathy “h” sounds before the guttural one. I watched myself mouth the words in the mirror, anticipating what the next few days would be like. I was scared to embark on this journey into the Palestinian territories, but not in any way a physical fear. I was going in, with any rational, political, and emotional guards down. I was going to learn things I never knew, or never wanted to know. I was making myself open, vulnerable. But most of all, I was going to finally put a face to the conflict.

This is what kept me going on my walk to the bus early in the morning. Its finally happening, I told myself. I’ll meet people, not newspaper articles, or counter-protestors. I’ll make human connections.

We were told not to speak Hebrew show any obvious Jewish symbols, such as a kippah or star of David, in public spaces during our trip. The staff explained to us that we can’t possibly explain to everyone what we’re doing, and we don’t want anyone to be reactive. In private spaces, when we are working with out Palestinian partners, we are free to show whatever symbols we wished to. It was really hard for me, but I removed my star of david necklace and my joy of speaking Hebrew and put them into a small box, where both the necklace and the language waited for me patiently until the end of the trip.

I think it is important for me to share, however, that as fearful as I was embarking on this trip for my own emotional vulnerability, I am equally as frightened publishing this blog post. Unfortunately, I think speaking about these issues marks me as a certain type of person, and that saddens me. Try to hang in there with me as I struggle with and ask some of the difficult questions about my narrative.

Here goes.

On the way to Bethlehem, we said Tefillat HaDerech (The Wayfarer’s Prayer). A traditional prayer, it is usually recited for a very long trip. I was slightly confused, as the journey to Bethlehem was only 15 minutes. I learned quite soon, however, that the trip we were taking was not just a physical journey. Over a short period of time, we delved deeply into our emotional and political identities. Personally, I travelled to a very distant place within myself, many miles away, in uncharted territory. I am thankful that we said that passage, because as we listened to political perspectives and various narratives, my identity was challenged. The prayer provided me with a crucial groundedness in my tradition and my values. I know that this conflict is challenging, and I’m glad I have the Wayfarer’s Prayer, enriched by my experience with Encounter, to take with me whenever I may need it.

 Arrive in Beit Jala at the Everest Hotel.

The group was incredibly diverse and vibrant—a mixture of young and older Jewish professionals, rabbinical students, and Jewish lay leaders from all across the religious and political spectrum. First, we began by creating an intention for the day. We did this by singing a niggun, a Jewish spiritual tune without words. We reviewed the communication agreement, and affirmed our commitment to listening, dignity, wisdom, compassion, openness, holism, and hearing multiple voices.

First, we met Renna from the Holy Land Trust, and she is one of Encounter’s Palestinian partner organizers. She had long, slick dark hair and sported sophisticated high heels. She told us about the Trust’s initiative with alternative tourism, and about the non-violent training programs that they run. She also told us about the Palestine Network, which reports about civil society organizations and events.

After Renna spoke, we continued to sit in a circle as the owner of the hotel introduced himself. A cheerful man, he told us his wish for the hotel, which is easily accessible by both Palestinians and Israelis (because of the political zone it lies within). He wanted it to be a place for dialogue and peacemaking. He currently has hosted 58 peace groups to date in the hotel since 1945. He told us that people have come with the intention create peace both from Hebron and Hamas, from Kiryat Arba and Jenin. He became somber for a moment. “We are all of us, human beings”, he said. He described that here, there are no guns, and no rockets. The hotel is a safe space.

The mood lightened again as he joked, “If we have peace then no one will come to see us!” The people in the room chuckled.

Small Group Discussion

Encounter employs a unique and (in my opinion) excellent dialogue model. We were broken up into small groups of 5, with one facilitator. We began with serial sharing, where each member of the group spoke to the question being asked for a specific timed period. When that was over, we began “collective sharing”, staying within timed intervals and being conscious of staying not only within the confines of what we considered to be respectful, but within the borders of the communication agreement. This created a very safe environment for dialogue. My facilitator also happened to be wonderful-he had a calmness and dignity about the way he made sure that the dialogue stayed on track. In this group, we simply discussed the question: “What’s on your mind?” Responses varied, as my group was a mixture of ages, political backgrounds, experiences, and perspectives. I voiced that I was fearful. Another of the group members spoke about political concerns, another to the difference between private and public space on the trip. As we spoke, we looked at the big clock facilitator was holding to make sure stayed within the allotted time, keeping track of the red second hand as we spoke.

 Ayid A., Environmentalist, Friends of the Earth Middle East & Water and Environmental Development Organization

A Christian Palestinian from Bethlehem, Ayid explained to us that he had been through both intifadas, and discovered that being in a conflict is both difficult and gives you strength at the same time. Ayid’s activist moment is when he realized that there is immense conflict between nations, but some things can simply not wait for political solutions. In Ayid’s case, this is water. Access to water, preservation of water, cleanliness of water. Water, he said, could be a powerful tool for peace building. He explained that Israel maintains an overwhelming control over water sources, even inside the West Bank.  Therefore, not only is access limited, but according to Ayid, pollution control goes unmonitored due to the logic of “It’s my enemy, I don’t care what their water is like”.

The Israeli side thinks that we’re just complaining, he said, but there is a real need here. When they hear about the lack, they are shocked.

Tour of the Bethlehem Area and Seperation Wall

We got on the bus, and I half-listened to Ayid’s commentary on the area as we drove through Bethlehem. Hazy-eyed, I looked out the window at the kids waving excitedly to the bus, at women hanging up her laundry, and at construction workers lugging heavy tools. I made note of the Palestinian license plates (which I had never seen before) and Palestinian flags flying in some of the windows.

We arrived at the separation wall, and got off the bus.

Just a note on language: Since our Palestinian partners were hosting us, I believe we chose language that was the least inflammatory and the safest for that group. Of course, depending on the narrative, the “separation wall” could be the security fence, the apartheid wall, the barrier, the political failure, or any other number of characterizations. But our group took on one naming, and moved from there.

For me, the wall had always been described in mythic proportions. I remember first hearing about it in Israel advocacy class when I was 16 years old. My teacher told us emphatically that there would be those who wanted to delegitimize Israel on our college campuses, and they would tell us that Israel had erected a racist, apartheid wall. No! Israel needed this security fence to decrease the incidents of violence—and it has accomplished that! The numbers have been steadily declining since the fences’ construction! According to the class and the curriculum, those people were wrong. The point of the wall was for security, for nothing more and nothing less. There was no middle ground. There was no critique.

From there, the wall kept looming over my conversations about Israel. It weighed upon me heavily as I argued over its existence, as I saw it protested against, and as I heard it advocated for.

The first thing I saw was that the cement wall was covered in art. On the ledge near the wall where we got off the bus, five car mats were drip-drying. For me, all sounds were drowned out as I approached the wall to touch it. I recall walking towards the Western Wall for the first time at age 13, wondering if something magical would happen to me upon touching it. As I drew closer to the Western Wall in the Jerusalem winter, I touched the cold stone, and brushed up against some of the tiny, crumpled up notes stuck into the crack. Something rushed through me, but it wasn’t magic—it was the moment of realizing the reality of what was there, and making my own meaning out of the touch. For me, the touch of the Western wall eventually came to inspire me to pray for the restoration of a center of unity and peace for the Jewish people.

As I touched the separation wall for the first time, the same thing happened. I made contact with the cement. A sensation rushed through me. The process of defining the sensation’s meaning began.

At that moment, I thought about the Western Wall for a moment: Why is it a wall that defines a place of unity for the Jewish people? Why not a gate? A door? A room?

I worked through these thoughts as I heard Ayid talking in the background. “We want to have borders, but not physical borders! How will we come to know each other to make peace?” “The wall is not a real solution to peace, peace has more than one definition than security.” He went on to explain the numerous negative effects the barrier was having on the community. I was uncomfortable that he didn’t seem to address the violence that was occurring to Israelis during the intifada, but I tried to just immerse myself in his narrative for that moment.

I went on looking at some of the art and graffiti, which was really very beautiful, some of it disturbing.

Our bus moved on through Beit Sahour, but not before it became hopelessly stuck in the narrow streets. Redirecting the bus became a community event. A dozen people were gathered on the street corner, helping the bus make the correct moves to turn around. A woman holding a baby was giving particularly enthusiastic advice as she stood on her nearby porch. A group of men holding various tools gathered round to observe this momentous event. Eventually, we moved forward and arrived in Beit Sahour at Oush Garab park.

Lunch and Presentation at Oush Garab Park 

A confident woman named Hanan, who was an administrator in the Beit Sahour municipality, gave a presentation about the city. She spoke about grassroots non-violent peace work that was going on, and about demographics and service delivery to the community. She told us that she made a commitment to be a unique municipality known for its exceptional care provision to its residents.

Oush Grab Peace Park was built to be a model for a long-lasting peace. The people of the city worked very hard, she told us, to convert a plot of land, deserted by the Israel army in 2006, to a beautiful park. The people saved it from becoming a dumping site, and they made it “a place that ensures the possibility of peace when we people work together and produce tangible results for a better life for our visitors and residents”. The green space is a place to enhance lives and create potential for peace, she said.

Unfortunately, she also said that they face many challenges from nearby settlements and the army for their work. If you’re interested in the other narrative: (link here).

Personal Narratives Panel

This was one of my favorite parts of the program, because we got to know not only about the activities of three Palestinian women, but also their personal stories. Each woman was radically different, and each was moving or inspiring in her own way.

First, there was Fatima. A Muslim and a vocal feminist, Fatima started the Sharouq Society for Women. She was a sturdy, strong looking woman, who constantly wore a smile that was accentuated by her ruddy cheeks. She glowed like a matriarch under her sheer white hijab, and black espadrilles with rhinestones peeked out of her long dress. “I want to transfer the suffering of women in Israel and Palestine to hope”, she said.

Next there was Reem. The founder of a music academy in Bethlehem, Reem is also a delegation leader for Seeds of Peace. At her music school, she provides music for all, not asking for fees if the student cannot pay. She also emphasized the school’s unique quality to allow the child to choose what instrument they wish to play, reinforcing the empowerment that comes with choice. When Reem was in University during the Intifada, expecting a child, a gas bomb went off and caused her to go into labor many months before her due date. The child’s life was not certain, and after remaining in an incubator for a long time, he had to go through many surgeries during his childhood to restore his health.

Reem began to cry. We took a moment. There was a heavy silence before she said what she said next.

When he grew up and learned about his story, he told his mother that God gave him life for a reason, and now he wants to make Peace. He joined Seeds of Peace soon after.

Finally, Suzan spoke.  She told us that growing up, you never really met an Israeli. You only met soldiers. She had both good and bad memories of soldiers, but many of them from her youth were quite negative. She recalled one instance where someone was suspected of throwing a stone, and the soldiers saw them come in the direction of her house. They came in and turned everything upside down. Then, when they couldn’t find anything, one of the soldiers went to the water well where the family got their water. Wanting to make sure no one was hiding inside, he spat in the well.

Suzan remembers her base rage, and as a young person, she remembers screaming: “does it make you happy to make us unhappy?!”

Now, Suzan runs the Bethlehem Fair Trade Artisans organization, and she believes strongly in peace. She believes there is suffering on both sides, and it needs to end.

“We want peace, we want to live together”.

I asked a question at this point: “I am hearing your frustrations, and I know you don’t have much hope for the current political situation. But I am also hearing about each of your commitments to non-violent grassroots work that is really inspirational. What keeps you going?

Suzan answered that it was her family, her daughters, that kept her going, and the hope for a better future for everyone.

It was during these answers that it happened. I felt a strong identification with one of them, the final panelist. Not an insincere one, or one where I had to really try to imagine myself in their shoes. I really felt that I could be her, or her daughter.

As an aside, I found that throughout the day, I was writing down questions that I didn’t quite know the answers to. In my notes, I wrote here: “What does it mean that Palestinians cannot go into Jerusalem?” How could I not know that?

Small Group Sessions

During the next small group session, we talked about a lot of issues that came up for us, particularly about the relationship between pragmatism and idealism. I voiced that I was having trouble articulating some of the really honest questions that were coming up for me. I made a commitment to myself that I would try to ask some of them in the future sessions.

As the day went on, we davened Mincha and Maariv. I found praying on this trip meaningful and important. When the trip ended, all I wanted to do was go to Friday night services to immerse myself in a private, soulful, searching prayer.

Cooperative Games and Interactive Activities with Palestinian Youth Leaders

During this session, we used drama and movement to connect with one another. We ran around the room, switched places, and played rock-paper-scissors, as we indulged in some of the most popular teambuilding games.

We ended with a more intense activity. We all stood in a circle, Jews of various backgrounds and ages, and Palestinians from the age of 7 to the age of 60. The leaders put forth various statements, and if the statement applied to us, we were to step forward a few steps.

“I am a person who likes ice cream.”

“I am a person who has been to Jerusalem.”

“I am a person who has family in Jordan.”

“I am a person whose family has been a refugee in the last 100 years…the last 50 years…the last 10 years…”

“I am a person who feels scared when they hear Arabic.”

“I am person who feels scared when they hear Hebrew.”

“I am a person who has lost someone I love in an act of terror, violence, or genocide”.

Too many people stepped forward for this one. I locked eyes with someone across from me in the circle, and we shared a look that was heavy with both pain and understanding.

The debriefing session that followed included some of our Palestinian partners. The discussion questions were translated and all of answers were translated into both English and Arabic. Unfortunately, we learned from one of the Palestinians in our group that two Palestinian youth had come for the event but left immediately because they saw kippot.

After the debrief, we ALL piled onto the bus and headed to the Tent Restaurant in Beit Sahour, where our host families were waiting for us. We were seated at tables with our host families, and we ate and laughed together as the night went on. The dinner somehow evolved into a giant dance party, at which I proudly beat everyone in the room for the amount of time I was able to hold my middle-eastern-celebratory-cry (ask me to model this for you at some point), and feigned fainting at the end out of exhaustion. Suddenly, people crowded around me, asking me if I was all right. “Yes, yes, I’m fine! It was a joke, I’m fine!”

Oops.

We eventually recovered from that incident and the dancing continued. Moving to the beat of traditional Arabic music, I was taught some Palestinian dance moves. Towards the end, one of the teens connected their ipod to the speaker and put on some English hip-hop music. One of the boys began breakdancing after some hesitation, and then another girl from town joined him in some seriously sweet hip-hop moves. The traditional adults observed, partly with amusement, and partly with disapproval, at the dancing teens. I reflected for a moment at the Westernization of youth all over the world, and wondered what various impacts this cultural shift has on communities.

My friend and I climbed into our host family’s car. The car was from 1985, and you could see that it had been through a lot. I closed the door gently, fearing that the whole car would collapse if I shut it too hard. The father of the family was a handsome man in his fifties, who smiled constantly from ear to ear. When we arrived at their home, he showed us graciously around his workshop—he sculpts olive wood into religious figures. As we looked at the intricately carved figures from the New Testament, the air smelled oddly sweet in the workshop, a mixture of turpentine and burnt wood.  He told us that he also makes figures from the Old Testament. One of his best-selling pieces is a figure of the spies carrying a giant cluster of grapes.

As we went up to the house, we learned that the family has been hosting Encounter participants for 15 years. The apartment was so cozy. It was full of all kinds of knick knacks, ticking clocks, old Christmas photos, and smells of home. A cat (whose name we later learned was Bebe) spread his paws apart and stretched up against the whirring fan. On the wall, there were three large wedding photos, one of each of their children, glowing with the happiness of young love. Their youngest daughter, who was 16, was home. She wore tight jeans and heels, and after we went to bed, she came into the guest room in her pajamas and the three of us talked before we fell asleep.

In lieu of a traditional Western dining room configuration, the living room was lined with beige couches and a large coffee table. We sat on the couches, looking through their old wedding album. A Turkish movie dubbed in Arabic played softly in the background. Our host “father” looked exactly like John Travolta on his wedding day, sporting 1976 side burns and a gorgeous face. Our host “mother”, a cheerful woman in jeans, brought fresh plums from the tree outside, and hot nana tea. We munched on the crisp, juicy, fruit and we continued talking.

An elderly woman, the host father’s mother, entered the room, muttering something in Arabic and looking distressed. We learned that she has been living with them since their marriage. Eventually, she gave us a warm welcome.

The mood got a bit heavier when we went out to the porch and our host father showed us where the army shot from during the second intifada. Due to the fact that some violence was emerging out of their village, they were right in the  line of fire. He told us that his son was shaving one morning, and bent down for a moment, narrowly dodging a bullet to his head.

He showed us the corridor where the entire family lived for 40 days, enclosed by many walls to protect them from bullets.

After some more chatting, we said good night, and then I learned that our host father wakes up every morning at 4 AM to start work. In this way, he reminded me of my own father.

the guest room

I slept deeply and dreamt of embroidered tissue pouches and celebratory dancing.

We woke up to the smell of eggs and the bright sun shining through the window. Even at 7:00 AM, our host mother had prepared an extravagant breakfast for her guests. (For those that are interested, I decided that in peace-making types of situations, my status on Kosher would be that I would be  fine eating vegetarian). The table was spread with pita, olive oil, za’atar, homemade Chinese orange marmalade, cheeses, butter, eggs, and (oops!) sausages.

the view from their balcony, where the shooting was coming from.

We bid each other farewell with firm hugs and smiles. “You are welcome here anytime,” our hosts kept repeating. Or host father drove us to the hotel and we took some final photos and said last goodbyes, or at least for now.

host father

He drove off, and we entered the hotel, still reeling from the excitement of our homestay. It was at this point we realized we had been dropped off at the wrong hotel.

Ha! After calling our trip leaders, we eventually got into a cab and made it to our intended hotel.

Facts on the Ground 

We then heard from Hamed, who has an international MBA from Bar Ilan, and works with both Israelis and Palestinians on the ground. He has also been working with the UN for 7 or 8 years. He examines the humanitarian impacts of political decisions on both sides, particularly in terms of life, homes, and access to services. The main thrust of his presentation was describing the physical situation of the West Bank, and his doubt that a two-state solution would work as it is now.

As it stands, there are three zones in the West Bank.

Zone A: Palestinians have complete control over security and administration.

Zone B: Palestinians are responsible for civil administration, security is in the hands of Israelis.

Zone C: Everything under Israeli control.

Area A and B, Hamed told us, make up less than 40% of the territories, and 95% of Palestinians live there. With Zone C, military zones, seam zones, and closures, little fragmented islands are left, barely a feasible state. Hamed stated that “as a Palestinian, I don’t believe that the Israelis are ready to engage in a meaningful negotiation, and in Netanyahu’s time, it is clear that the peace process in going to fail”.

He also stressed the difference between Israeli political leadership, who largely have control over the peace process, and Israeli citizens and activists.

At the end of his presentation, I finally asked my burning question. “I have a specific set of experiences and a narrative that includes hardships, violence, and history from the Israeli and the Jewish perspective. I came here to listen to other narratives, open up, and learn. I’m hearing you, but the dots aren’t connecting, the pictures aren’t matching up. Can you help me understand?”

The answer to the question was not that clear to me, but I was proud that I was able to articulate the question.

Al-Walaje

We then moved on to Al-Walaje, a small village, where we met another strong woman. Having been fed up with the conflict in her village, she spent a number of years in Sudan working on peace initiatives there. But now, she’s back, trying to seek justice for her village.

She apologized in advance for anyone that may be offended. She told us she was particularly angry this week about a case she had brewing in the Supreme Court. This woman did not hide any rage that she had.

This was her narrative (a barebones version): In 1948, the entire village was forced out, and they were left only with around half of the land that they used have, and even less after some had been taken over by Jordan. Very few that were expelled returned, but some didn’t believe that it was the end. They felt could go back. So they went, and they lived in caves in anticipation of their return to their village.

In 1967, part of their village was annexed, but the land was still considered Jerusalem. They were given West Bank permits. This residency status created various problems.

Furthermore, they are dealing with complications with the separation barrier, which plans to completely enclose their village, with the only entry being a single gate. She told us how angry she was that an “18 year old boy would have sole control over the welfare of her entire village”. Angry, she told us that no violence had ever come out of this village. There hadn’t even been violence occurring elsewhere committed by people from the village. She showed us a tiny house that would be completely enclosed by the barrier. We saw the breaks in the barrier where you could easily walk through right to Jerusalem, and catch an Egged bus from the road.

Though I listened intently to her story, her heavy emotions made it hard to identify fully. We both were coming with different backgrounds, and I was letting myself become vulnerable, but I didn’t feel she was meeting me half-way.

We had lunch at the Al-Walaje community center, where Yasser Arafat smiled down upon us as we ate. At my table, we discussed what the impact would be of what we were learning in our home communities.

Finally, we came back to the Everest Hotel where we heard Sam B. speak, a Palestinian-American who started a telecommunications company in the territories. He spoke about the complications with frequencies and electricity, and he showed us the stack of identification documents he has to carry with him at all times. He explained to us how he needs various permits to leave the territories, and that is not permitted to fly out of Tel Aviv (only out of the country, like Jordan) or visit his alma mater, Tel-Aviv university. He gave really nuanced and well-grounded answers to questions we had, particularly about the BDS movement

By the time we arrived at the closing circle in Tel-Aviv, did our final small group session and sang our final niggun, I was completely exhausted; physically, intellectually, and emotionally.

Reflections

I am writing this post early on in my stages of processing, but I have some initial reactions and reflections. I had closed myself off for a long time to some of the things that were happening in the West Bank. Both the facts and emotional connections I held toward the region were seriously challenged, and I’m still grappling with what I learned.

Initially, I felt a sense of rage towards my teachers and community leaders. Why didn’t they tell me this? Were they worried that Israel “advocacy” wouldn’t succeed if I knew about how difficult it was to access certain services in the territories? Did they not trust me with this delicate information? Did they not believe I knew how to think critically? Or did they not know about these issues themselves? Didn’t they known that I would be a better advocate for Israel if I had learned about everyone’s suffering, not just those of my own people?

I also want to tell you that this was hard to share because one of the main goals of the trip was to put a human face to the conflict. Now, I am doing the best I can to relay the personalities of the people I met, but as they say, “you had to be there”. It is important to remember that it was about connecting with human beings, not about being swayed to a certain political position. I am also aware that there are dozens, if not hundreds, of narratives about the conflict that I have yet to hear.

I almost wish that we had an additional day to workshop how to have these conversations outside of Israel. What I’ve learned from the activism I’ve done here, is that Israel/Palestine activism is much more real in the land itself. There, there is not question of who should exist and who shouldn’t exist. Both parties are there, they are looking at one another. No one’s going anywhere. They just need to figure out how to move on from there. Outside of Israel, there is a huge war of words, mainly over policies. The line between delegitimization and critique becomes hard to define.

You’ve almost finished the post. You may want to tell me that I’ve barely scratched the surface of Palestinian suffering, or that I have no idea what the Israeli army goes through every day to defend the people of Israel. But this is not what I’ve concerned with right now.

A dear teacher of mine told me recently that it is less important to agree on practical issues, and more important to agree on how we talk about things and treat one another. We must do so with the values of respect and understanding.

After Encounter, I made an important commitment, informed by my Jewish values and my experience with Encounter.

I will do my best to always listen to the narratives of others, regardless of how left, right, liberal, or conservative they are. At the end of the day, they are just like me. A human being. Even if I don’t agree with everything they might say, I know that I will definitely be able identify with something, whether it’s a love for cooking or a value on justice. I commit myself to always try to find that shared value, and work with that common ground we find together.

התלהבות לשם שלום-fervor for the sake of peace

I’ll bet many of those reading this blog check the news once a day to see what the news is in Israel/Palestine. For some of you, your homepage is the Jerusalem Post, Haaretz, or Al-Jazeera.

I’ll bet many of you are thinking about the flotilla, or accusations about border violence. Every day there is something in the news about this conflict. Every day the media creates bitter feelings and frustration.

But did you see the picture above in the news last week?  I was fortunate to be able to march with a group of 500 dedicated Jews, Arabs, and many other types of people from all over Israel and from abroad. We circled the gates of the old city in the striking midday sun, singing a mix of songs from many traditions about creating peace. The event is an annual event organized by the Jerusalem Peacemakers, a group of community leaders from different faiths and across borders creating dialogue in the region. There, not only did I dance like a crazy person, but I also hugged Israeli hippies, danced with Arabs from a village near Gush Etzion, and participated in the most inspirational Horah I had ever taken part in. Passersby looked at us with puzzled expressions. What are you protesting?

Nothing. We’re celebrating each other.

As we danced together excitedly in the circle, we shared glances with one another. Our eyes said: I get you. We’re in this together. We are two very different types of people. We both exist. And we have a shared humanity.

We chanted things like “Bring in the Love!” and “All we need is a hug!”

My activist-meter kicked in. This activism might have worked in the sixties, but that’s not what we need! We need legislation, community organizations, funding! No, its true. Hugs are not all we need.

Nor is it even close to all that there is, as I have been slowly learning during my time here.

Not that I really knew about all the other initiatives before I got here. I didn’t know about the 350 non-profit organizations that exist in this tiny country to promote peace-making and co-existence. Al-Jazeera didn’t tell me. I didn’t know about the Abrahamic Reunion, which seeks to bring mystics of all religions together to hold onto the visions of justice of the prophet Isaiah. The Jerusalem Post didn’t mention it. Nor did I know about Kulanana, a coalition of organizations which aim to help young Israelis of all backgrounds become increasingly comfortable with the diversity that characterizes our society by providing a meaningful and inclusive sense of civic belonging.

There are so many amazing peace-seekers and activists here from different backgrounds. Every day, they face cynicism and resistance from their respective communities. As Eliyahu McLean of Jerusalem Peacemakers (and an organizer of the Jerusalem Hug), you need to have a type of Holy Chutzpah to be involved in this type of work. One must look at the resistance that exists and say: “There are two deeply wounded and traumatized nations existing in this land, both competing over victimhood identities. There is a lot of emotion. How can we, as community leaders, transcend these feelings, and awaken a sense of shared humanity?”

When Eliyahu spoke, I cried. I was so, so, hopeful–even just for a moment.

I ask myself a related question all the time: how can my religious fervor be important to create understanding and positive within our nation and among others?

What do you think of the Jerusalem Hug?

Photos courtesy of Erica Rothschild

pesto deliciousness-made with fresh basil from the shuk!

fieldwork. literally.

My blogging ethic has been seriously out of whack for the last few weeks, and I apologize for that. Its not just having a full schedule that is causing my absence on the blogosphere. Its just that I’m having a harder time processing things here—in a totally different way than in London.

I was having a conversation with a friend of mine over the weekend about our respective relationships with Israel. We had really similar views and concerns about living here, but she seemed to deal with it ridiculously better than I was able to. I told her that I just had all this generalized anxiety about this place-I was thinking about so much; it was even hard for me to process to update the blog. She told me that she noticed that I, as a more emotional person than she is, seem to have a really hard time compartmentalizing complicated feelings about Israel.

So, yeah. That’s me. Still learning how to separate the struggle with Israel from my greater consciousness. No wonder I’m a bit exhausted when this is what is buzzing through my brain every day:

LOVEhatedefenseCIVILRIGHTShumanityJewishobligation?homeland.nationalism nationpeopleidenityDon’tlikefalafelballs.arabisraeliminoritiesrefugeesrights.opportunities.

restrictionsbetterthanotherplacesinthemiddleeast

butdoesntmakeitperfectsCATSEVERYWHEREhabbateverysaturdayWOMEN?happinessstressangersadnessMISUNDERSTANDING

westernwallsecurityfencewomenofthewallwomentothebackofthebusLIVINGTORAH.

But I know, it is important to process. And I said I would at the beginning of this journey, so here goes.

I wanted to tell you about a really interesting fieldwork trip I took with a colleague of mine through my internship. The goal of the trip was to research the effect of pesticides on migrant workers in Israel, specifically on Thai workers. Having called the farms in advance, we told farmers that we were American students doing a study on pesticides and agriculture, taking precautions so that they wouldn’t hide anything related to their workers from us when we visited their farms. We were going to rent a car, and drive all around the upper part of the country—and I mean all around. We were in that car for a long time.

Let me work backwards. I think you will like this image. At around midnight, I stumble through my apartment doorway, clothes starchy from dried sweat and my hair oily and windblown. I am clutching two overflowing shopping bags of sweet bell peppers in majestic yellows, reds, and oranges, and breathless, I dump them on the table.

My alarm clock played the iTunes Blues riff at around 4:55 AM. I rolled out of bed, showered, and got dressed. I threw my notepad and laptop in my backpack, along with a pile of snacks, and headed out. I did my typical commute to Tel Aviv (approx. two hours), and arrived at the Tel Aviv bus station.

My parents didn’t really want me to go on this excursion. They expressed to me that they felt it was dangerous. I felt as if it was a well-researched trip, and a safe one. Though I felt guilty about going against their wishes, I felt I went about it in a respectful way. I called throughout the day to check in and assure them that everything was fine.

Now, just as an aside, the Tel Aviv Central bus station is one of the most eerie and uncomfortable places I have ever been in. It reminds me of a nightmare. Kinda dark, really dirty. Since there are over 70 exits, how do you even leave? Should you even leave? Or is each exit a portal to a destiny of doom? All crucial questions.

Since I arrived a bit early, I bought a coffee and sat at a table near the coffee sop in the bus station. A man reading a newspaper offered me one, because he had two. I politely declined, but I almost instantly regretted it, as I wanted something else to look at besides the hunk of black goop in the corner on the floor near the table.

Eventually, my colleague picked me up a bright blue rental car, and we were on our way. We were refreshed, and excited to be on our way.

We drove for a little over an hour, and waited for our first farmer to show up so he could lead us to the fields. He was really late, because he had a flat tire, but he eventually came and we headed over to the main office.

We arrived in the office and two older men were sitting at a big desk, arguing loudly and examining an almond branch with a special magnifying glass. Two other men lounged in chairs, observing quietly. There were farming tools hung on the wall, and it seemed like it was some sort of farm shop.

A middle-aged woman with plastic-framed glasses (who we soon learned was the office manager) emerged from the other room with a plate of fresh-cut melon. We were quickly introduced. The man behind the desk with the white hair was the head farmer, the others were also of high rank on the small farm, and they had been there for many years.

The head farmer was an interesting man—he came across as the king of pesticides. He knew so much about them, and was instrumental in using them 50 years ago in Israel. There were black-and-white pictures of him, a sun-kissed young fellow, majestically spraying the chemicals on the fields. He sincerely believed that the lack of pesticides was more harmful than using them.

He continued with his story.“This war that they talk about? It’ on the television and the radio, not on my farm”. The room of men nodded in acquiescence. He points to his Arab colleagues, some who have been working with him for over 40 years.

Since my colleague did not know any Hebrew, I referred to my agricultural vocabulary list I had put together, and conducted the remainder of the interview in Hebrew.

We connected to these farmers through a manpower agency. The farmers we were scheduled to meet with all worked with one of the better manpower agencies, and so we were told in advance that they would most likely be good and humane employers. Though each farmer had a distinct personality and approach to their work, they for the most part treated their migrant workers with respect. We found this to be mostly true.

One of our questions was “If the workers are sick, do they get a day off to recover?”

The farmer looked at us with a puzzled expression and said: Of course he does…he’s a human being!

The first farmer we spoke with took his migrant workers, who he sees like family, on hikes and vacations, the second said that he felt a true camaraderie with them, the third mentioned that there were special rules in the kibbutz to protect them, and the fourth made sure they all had laptops and internet connection so they could stay connected to the greater world.  This last farmer’s wife was also a nurse, and she told me that if anything at all went wrong with any of the workers, she would personally ensure that they would be cared for.

There was a general respect for the workers, but this didn’t seem to be true with the living conditions. All Thai workers lived in similar standards. The workers lived together in a type of small caravan, with sleeping areas, entertainment spaces, and eating rooms. The appliances, like washing machines and refrigerators, were outdoors. These living conditions struck us as simply sufficient, not respectful. If they are family, is this how you would treat them?

There was also an elitist mentality among the Israeli and Arab farmers. The Thai workers were less in some way. We asked how they learn the tasks, and one farmer responded that they are simple, unsophisticated, people. They repeat tasks. You just have to show them exactly what to do.

We saw and heard many interesting things throughout the day. The second farmer we visited had a bumper sticker that read; instead of “Israel will win!” it read,  “agriculture will win!” Having come to Israel from America 30 years before, this farmer decided on a whim to devote his whole like to agriculture, and currently is in charge of irrigation on the kibbutz. He saw farming as a professional pursuit.

Another farmer was young, and told us that he used the fewest number of pesticides possible. He came at the whole endeavor from a scientific angle.

In between each stop, we debriefed, stopped for snacks and picked up Israeli pop stations and Syrian news stations on the radio. A cover of Alanis Morrisette’s Ironic was particularly painful, though most of it was pure, unadulterated, eighties pop.

Our last stop was definitely my favorite. The farmer had brought his wife and son to show us his pepper fields. I have never seen someone so excited about growing things. While the other farmers approached the field professionally, scientifically, or otherwise, this man’s relationship with the soil was simply a joyous one. We ended up in his home, where we were fed sweet watermelon and cold drinks. It was already 9:45, and we were beat. It was just the pick-me-up we needed to make it home. They were lovely. To top it all off, he tapped my shoulder and told me in Hebrew to open the trunk. He proceeded to dump 4 overstuffed bags of beautiful peppers in the car.

And this is how we get to where we started. We drove back to Tel Aviv, and I took the bus back to Jerusalem. This was around 2 and a half weeks ago. I’m still eating the peppers.

Look out for my next post-I’ll be talking about full-time Torah study and the annual Jerusalem Hug.

safety sign translated into Arabic, English, and Thai

chemical-free natural pesticides in the pepper fields

banana fields in the North of Israel

so beautiful.

on the road.

we stopped into an Arab restaurant for drinks on the way-this was on the wall. It is a blessing for peace.

packing crates at one of the farms

a pesticide sprayer

living quarters for Thai workers

living quarters for Thai workers

living quarters for Thai workers

Kav LaOved, public space, and East Jerusalem

I’m starting to get the sinking feeling that it is only a matter of time before cats overthrow the Israeli government and run the country (which might, actually, make everything a whole lot easier. I’m imagining the protests now). Yesterday, as I exited my apartment building, eight cats were just lined up, staring at me

Eight.

“Heyyyyy…?” I said gingerly.

One of them mewed angrily, and I scurried away as fast as possible.

Since I last wrote, I have been exploring this country as much as possible. I am trying to open myself up to people and organizations all across the political spectrum. I’ve been discussing issues with many different kinds of people over foamy cappuccinos and butter-rich pastries, and it has been eye opening. If it seems that my travels this summer are politically more “left-heavy”, it is because I have been exposed to the right wing perspective my whole life, and I am trying to expand on the views I already know.

I have been learning a tremendous amount at my post as a volunteer intern at Kav LaOved, a NGO in Tel Aviv. This mission of the organization is as follows:

Kav LaOved (Worker’s Hotline) is a nonprofit non governmental organization committed to protecting the rights of disadvantaged workers employed in Israel and by Israelis in the Territories, including Palestinians, migrant workers, subcontracted workers and new immigrants. Kav LaOved is committed to principles of democracy, equality and international law concerning human and social rights.

The Kav LaOved staff is an amazing potpourri of people from all ethnicities and walks of life. Though I have mainly been working on fundraising and resource development for the organization, I also am fortunate to observe regular office functions such as the open hours for face-to-face consultations. Each day, a different population (Palestinian workers, caregivers, migrant workers, Israeli workers) is invited to come in and bring their grievances. Devoted and skilled volunteers listen and help connect the workers to the appropriate resources. In some cases, they work on filing legal cases for the workers, though they try to avoid this as much as possible because of the stress and cost related to the legal process. The waiting area is packed with between 20-40 workers at a time, waiting for their turn.

While I am sitting at a desk typing out grant proposals or translating a document, I hear sound bytes of the consultations. One man was fired and his employer racked up his cell phone bill, and as of next week, we will no longer be legal in the country. A Filipino woman worked for a family for over 13 years. When the old woman she was caring for passed away, the family withheld some of her salary. Since she is no longer working, she must leave the country. A boy who could not have been more than 15 from Sudan came to bring his complaints yesterday afternoon.

Eventually, it was really bothering me that all the names of employers who were violating labor and human rights were Jewish names. I know it is not shocking that these employers are from a Jewish background, considering Israel’s status as a Jewish state. Nonetheless, I expressed my discomfort to one of the coordinators, a secular Jewish Israeli, and told her that it was incomprehensible to me that this was the case. Isn’t so much of our Torah about protecting the vulnerable in our society? As the coordinator chuckled at my mention of the word “Torah”, as if it was the most ridiculous thing I had ever said, I began to feel incredibly frustrated. If these occurrences are so widespread, why isn’t the whole religious community in Israel mobilizing to end them or seriously decrease their frequency?

Furthermore, why is it (generally, definitely with the exception of a few orgs, B’Maaglei Tzedek being one of them) the case that to work for an organization concerned with social justice and social issues in Israel you have to be placed in a very specific box with the borders of “non-religious “and “politically left”?

This politicization continues to shock me. These are core Jewish values that seek to respect human beings equally as made in the image of God.

Nothing more and nothing less.

The holiday of Shavuot interrupted last week, and it was a welcome interruption. I am always appreciative for these holy times, where it is an imperative to reconnect with your community and with your own spirituality. As per the tradition of the holiday, I stayed up all night learning Torah. I was in an open-minded Israeli synagogue, and I connected with a lot of interesting people with amazing perspectives on the country and on the world in general.  Unlike Diaspora Jews, Native Israelis do not celebrate the second day of the Holiday. Jews from the out of the country visiting Israel keep the second day of the holiday in accordance with their tradition.

During the second day, which was a normal workday for Israelis, I took a long walk, with the intent of exploring public space in Jerusalem. In the center of the city, where I live, most public spaces seem to be basically shared. What was nice about my walk was acknowledging the fact that many of the public spaces are not based around corporate activity, Ben Yehuda Street, the main shopping area in the center of town, is mostly comprised of independent shops. There are dozens of green spaces throughout the city, and I observed a young Palestinian family having a picnic together on the grass while the little members of a Haredi family splashed around in an adjacent fountain, still wearing thick their white tights and long-sleeved shirts.

Mamilla, however, an extravagant new outdoor mall located right outside of the walls of the old city, is lined with corporate staples, such as Mac and Topshop. The diversity in this space is incredible (it is almost as common to see a hijab as it is to see a kisui rosh walking down the plazas), but people come here to buy, not to build community. Though the pathway is lined with interesting art exhibits, the fact that is based around the act of spending money makes it a lot less valuable in my mind.

Last Friday, I went on a study tour of East Jerusalem with an organization called Ir Amim. Ir Amim takes groups on tours in Hebrew and English, and they work with a very clear political agenda. Their mission is defined as making Jerusalem an “equitable and sustainable city with an agreed political future”.  The tour was comprised of some English-speaking Israeli activists, tourists looking to get the full picture, and a large number of graduate students working on projects connected to the region.

With maps in our hands, we looked at Arab neighborhoods in East Jerusalem. We talked about discrepancies in education and housing. We talked about how it would be the benefit of all of Jerusalem if these areas were properly developed and cared for.

As we travelled through the city on the tour bus, I looked at the mountains, specifically at the edge where you can see the multiple geologic layers. This is what Jerusalem is to me. So many layers. So many stories. As the tour guide went on about this policy and that, this peace talk and that one, 1967 and 1948, the information kept swimming frantically in my head. Though the speaker’s presentation was excellent and fairly nuanced, it seemed that those that were attending the tour were quick to assume the worst of Israel. It almost seemed that the most exciting part of the tour for them was seeing a chunk of the security fence that was written on (mostly in English, I’ll add).

It was mind-blowing to venture into areas that were previously defined for me as “dangerous” or “disgusting”. It was important for me to take in the neighborhoods, the schools, the bus stops, the mothers carrying their children. I tacked these images on to my complex mental bulletin board regarding this issue. Though I have been in socio-economically deprived areas in the United States, I felt more of a responsibility and an emotional connection to these particular neighborhoods, strange as that may seem.

At the end of the tour, the speaker told us that there is a fine line between being critical of Israel and delegitimizing it completely. I went up to her after the tour, and she told me she often feels she needs to state this explicitly to the English speaking groups. In the Hebrew-speaking groups, most of the people are on the same page in that they are critical of Israel’s policies, but they don’t believe Israel should be wiped off the face of the map. That is not always the case with international groups.

As I stood with the group on an outlook overlooking the Arab villages we had just visited, I saw a group of gazelles dance gracefully and peacefully across the sun-parched hills. Jerusalem is so, so beautiful. Jerusalem is so, so contentious.

shokron.

I almost forgot what going to the shuk, the open-air market, is like on the Eve of Shabbat. It is insanely crowded. Locals shop there because the prices are low, and it is a must-see for tourists.  When I lived here for the year, I went every Friday to pick up a sweet and doughy challah, and treat myself to a juicy fruit or two, but I almost forgot what exactly it felt like to be there. The atmosphere is chaotic, but in an almost routine kind of way. You expect to hear competing merchants yelling over each other, offering the best and the cheapest produce. There are always piles of fragrant ruby-red and saffron yellow spices overflowing from burlap sacks. The same disheveled bearded man sprawls out in the middle of the walkway, rhythmically shaking a cup of coins. Whiffs of fresh cheeses, roasting chickpeas, and spicy meats waft through the air.

So, before I met a friend, I swam through the ocean of tourists and haggling customers to buy a hunk of the freshest and tastiest goat cheese I had ever tasted in my life, and some beautiful vegetables. I met my friend, and we nibbled food and sipped water while we caught up on old times.

She too, shares some of my concerns about civil society in Israel. She explained to me that she was in an ulpan (a Hebrew immersion class), and every Friday evening, they would have a mandatory Kabbalat Shabbat service. My friend found this bewildering, as at least 1/3 of her class was Arab—either Muslim or Christian. After the service, she went up to the leader, and told her that making this service obligatory was insensitive and undemocratic.

The leader replied that she was being oversensitive; she just feels that way because she had been westernized and was being overly politically correct. My friend replied that on the contrary, the leader was being undersensitive, because it seemed that she had already forgotten what it was like to be in the ethnic minority.

I thought about this concept a great deal throughout Shabbat. In America, it took some serious personal growth to be able to acknowledge my social position. Though I am a woman, I am also white. I am privileged.  Every time I feel like everything is going well for me, I remember what the Torah reminds us 36 times—that we, too, were strangers in the land of Egypt. I remember that I have a specific responsibility to make other strangers feel welcome and included, whether that be a minority group, immigrants, asylum seekers, or any other population.

It’s sometimes easy to forget that in Israel.

If you’ve been following my blog, you may remember how I enjoyed staying in central London for Shabbat, carrying the holy secret of Shabbat observance along with me in my pocket while everyone went about his or her daily activities. In Israel, it is completely different.

The buses stop more than an hour before Shabbat. As Shabbat enters, a siren sounds throughout Jerusalem. People head to Shabbat dinners with friends and family or to services. There is a silence on the streets that is difficult to define.

Celebrating Shabbat is not unique; it is the norm. What are the implications of this?

This past Friday night, I celebrated the Sheva Brachot of two of my close friends in a hotel around a 35-minute walk from my apartment. As I walked, the breeze whipped through my hair, a welcome change from the oppressive sun that left me with a heat headache earlier. The sky, as it plunged deeper into nightfall, was an amazing shade of indigo blue. As I looked up, I imagined painting it, squeezing both blues and purples onto the canvas, and blending it in the middle with titanium white.

Every ten minutes or so, a person walked by me. Cars driven mostly by taxi drivers and Palestinians occupied the streets. There was an eerie peace to the evening.

In the hotel, the waiters who remembered me from the week before greeted me, and we schmoozed as the family trickled in. The dinner was amazing, and it was lovely to celebrate with my friends.

Towards the end of the meal, however, one of the younger guests turned to me and said:

“This is just uncomfortable.”

“What’s uncomfortable”? I asked.

“Just that Arab waiters are serving us”.

“Why is that uncomfortable”? I responded.

“What’s not uncomfortable about that?”

Sigh.

I learned from some of my waiter friends how to say “nice to meet you” in Arabic, and went on my way. On the way home, I thought about the Palestinian street cleaners, and the Palestinian supermarket worker who cleaned up the bottle of Balsamic vinegar I had smashed earlier on in the day. I thought about the teenager on the bus who helped me collect my apples, which were rolling every which way around the bus, and who smiled widely when I told him Shokron, thank you, in Arabic.

What does it all mean?

The next morning, I was excited to roll out of bed and go to services. I looked outside, and it was raining. Really raining. This is no ordinary occurrence in the region; people around here pray for rain all year round. As I was walking to the synagogue, bundled up in my London rain jacket, I heard mothers telling their children how exciting it was that it was raining. I saw men in drenched shirts that were once crisp and white, smiling. A car drove by and a large splash of water drenched me. But the cheer was infectious-I took my muddy legs and my wet cheeks right into synagogue with me.

In the synagogue, we said the blessing of the new month:

“May the Holy One renew the month unto us, and unto all of his nation Israel, for life and for peace, for happiness and for joy, for salvation​ and for comfort, and let us say amen.”

I silently hoped to myself that this month would bring personal clarity. That it would bring together a community amidst a fragmented Jerusalem.

After Shabbat, my roommate and I watched the big Manchester United vs. Barcelona game on a big screen outside of a bar nearby. I enjoy watching sports, but I was never a fanatic. For me, however, the best is watching the spectators. Everyone had so much fervor and excitement for the game, and there were so many different types of people. There were religious folks in black velvet skullcaps, Arab waiters and chefs from neighboring restaurants, women-dressed in jeans and halter tops, but also some with their hair tied back in scarves (a religious symbol of marriage), children of varying ages and ethnicities, men with knitted skullcaps and sandals-even a police truck had pulled up to watch the game. It was amazing to watch the unifying capabilities of this football game.

I only wish they had been playing together, too.

struggling with Jerusalem

Here I am. I’ve established my perch for the summer months. On the fourth story of a Jerusalem apartment building, there is a charming apartment with lots of windows cracked open and a kitchen with creaky cabinet doors. Towards the back of the apartment, there is a large room with a twin bed in the corner and a window that also acts as a sliding door. Through this door is my very own mirpeset, or balcony, which looks out onto the hills of Jerusalem. Next door, my neighbors’ porch serves as their drying rack. Whiffs of fresh laundry smell occasionally drift by. Birds occasionally swoop down from up high, and every morning they chirp to wake me up. Below me, there is a field with small fruit trees, tufts of bushes, and cacti lazily leaning towards the sun. The Jerusalem cat, similar in nature to the New York squirrel, densely populates this particular field. Someone in my apartment building has been feeding them, so they congregate by the dozen in this small yard, a multicolored herd, mewing, creeping about, and dozing in the midday sun.

I take a deep breath of sweet air, and smile.

I am lucky to have this small balcony. It is my own, and on it, I can reflect without feeling pressured to think a certain way. Here it is. Jerusalem, Israel. Sometimes, in the activist community, I’m afraid to say the word Israel. Among some of my Zionist friends, I’m afraid to say the word Palestine. I’m sure that both of you are reading this blog, and both of you had visceral reactions to these two particular words.

Before I start posting for the next few months I wanted to tell you a little bit about where I am coming from.

These words, these places, are loaded heavily with anxieties and joy, passion and fervor, sadness and anger. I feel lucky to have a family who looks upon the Israeli-Palestinian conflict from many different perspectives. As I’ve grown up, my mind has twisted and turned in many different directions. I’ve hungered to know all sides of the story.

So here I am. Somewhere lingering in the cloud of the politics of this particular region. I seem to be an anomaly-I’m a young Jewish person who supports the existence of the State of Israel, but also wants to devote her life to the pursuit of social justice.

Though I know there are many others like myself, I often feel like I don’t belong. In the activist community, I’ve been called a racist. I’ve overheard myself being called a dirty Zionist. I’ve seen my opinions invalidated because of my “conservative” political opinions. I feel I have to hide what I believe in to be taken seriously.

In the pro-Israel world, I’ve been called an “Arab-lover.” Just a few nights ago, I was laughed at for engaging in conversation with an Arab waiter. “Why are you talking to a suicide bomber?”, she said. I fear working with particular organizations because their “politics” might prevent me from being employed by a mainstream Jewish organization that is pro-Israel.

In the past few years, I’ve felt frustrated. I feel that the whole conflict has turned into a war of words. When I did the David Project Israel Advocacy training program in my final year of high school, I felt uncomfortable with what they were teaching us. They warned us that there would be people in university that would try and delegitimize Israel, so they gave us a grab bag of responses and a quick log of history to throw back at any arguments made. I got to university, and all I heard were people shouting at each other. There was no dialogue, only debate. There was no conversation, only claims.

I came to Israel for the first time when I was 13 years old. My teachers and classmates told me that it would feel special, that I would never want to leave. When I landed, I didn’t feel that way. I thought it was neat that everything around me was Jewish, but it was still an alien culture.  It felt bizarre. When I lived here for the year when I was 18, engaged in Torah study, I didn’t really allow myself to think about the region critically. I was mostly engrossed in my own bubble, living in the old city and focusing on religious study.

But now, I am present.

Every moment, I will be here, with all the kavannah (intention) I can muster. I will be a part of this community, and attempt to understand every storefront, every interaction between people, and every tense stare between conflicting parties. I will think about history and politics, but I refuse to become caught up in the aforementioned war of words. I am here; I am interacting with human beings. I will try not to discount what anyone has to say. This summer, my soul is vibrant. I see myself like Jacob wrestling with the angel. I am struggling with Jerusalem, for Jerusalem.

Sometimes, people ask me if I am going to move to this country. I tell them that I will only move here on one condition: if I know that I can make a meaningful contribution of social justice leadership to the country. Only if I feel I can contribute to the process of “Litaken Olam B’malchut Shakai”, to make this region a place of God. A place of peace, of harmony, of justice.

This blog, in the following few months, will be observations. I will not make overtly political statements. I will share with you what I see, and how I understand things from the perspective that I come from. I have explained to you where I am coming from, and I respectfully ask that you not turn this blog into a war of politics. Please don’t throw your protest signs violently at one another, or at me.

I look forward to embarking on this very important journey with you.

In peace, בשלום, and مع السلام

Hadas/Dasi

confirmed: pigeons are indeed everywhere

A few weeks ago I finished my exams. This ended an incredibly stressful and busy (yet interesting) period for me. In celebration, Bracha and I decided to take a little excursion through a small part of Europe. Though we started arranging for our trip a mere 5 days before, numerous people throughout our travels lauded us for how “organized” we were. Hah!

The best part of our trip, hands down, was meeting new and exciting people. The second best part was exploring the numerous aspects of cities with another urban enthusiast. The third best part? Seeing pigeons in every city. They are just everywhere. Its great.

Brussels, Belgium

On Friday morning, we left for the train station while the London sky was still only dimly lit by the sun. We checked into the Eurostar train, which required getting our passports stamped and our luggage scanned. While we were waiting for the train to depart, we lamented the lack of a vibrant train culture in the United States. We sat next to each other on lovely, comfortable seats with a sturdy table at our knees, dozing off, talking, and listening to music. A mere 2 ½ hours later, we arrived in Brussels. With the exception of the Holocaust trip I took to Poland, Belgium was the first country I went to which spoke in a language I didn’t understand. Brussels actually speaks three languages-French, Flemish, and English.

One sign, whose purpose was to promote awareness about pickpocketing, showed an elephant, fully clothed,  pickpocketing another animal with its trunk. I told Bracha that I think I would enjoy getting pick-pocketed by an anthropomorphized elephant, that it would be worth losing my wallet for that. She disagreed.

You know how you get a “vibe” from certain cities? For example, the vibe I get from Philadelphia is incredibly different than the one I get in New York. To me, New York says: busy, chaotic, dark. Brooding, crammed, explosively interesting. Poor, rich anxious, and multicolored. In contrast, Philadelphia says: quiet, spread out, an air of mystery. Segregated, historical, aesthetic. To me, both are generally good signals, but Brussels sent something strange.

Though the weather was lovely, the city gave off a bit of a stale air. The streets seemed to be fairly neglected as we navigated through them. Paint peeled unabashedly off the buildings, and the streets were lined with litter. The walk from the train station to the center of town was on one main road, Stalingraad—which was lined with cafes. Men congregated outside of the cafes, smoking cigarettes and speaking in quick Arabic. It was a long time before we saw a woman sitting in one of these cafes.

Public spaces were ignored and misused—giant plazas were empty and dirty, parks remained unkempt and locked up behind gates. Eventually, we made it to the city center, which seemed to be the tourist hub and the “nicer” area. We popped into a café and drank some Belgian cappuccinos. Then, we arrived at the main tourist destination in Brussels: Mannekin Pis: The fountain of a peeing boy. I had no idea that this town thrived on this small , kind of bizarre sculpture. Belgian chocolate shops carried hundreds of chocolate variations of this sculpture, and you could easily purchase any souvenir item with this little boy on it.

This town did seem to like its sculptures—only just a block over, another bronze relief sculpture seemed to grant good luck or blessing to those who touched it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=885X-nVlQo4

The center of Brussels was everything you can imagine about Belgium. The chocolate shops were unbelievable—there were at least a dozen on a single street, and each shop carried every type of chocolate imaginable, in many different shapes, sizes, and textures. Windows displayed intricate Belgian lace and figurines, and other souvenirs.

Belgian ceramic figurines. (fruchters, note "helga")

The main square was an awe-inspiring plaza surrounded on all sides by architecture dating back hundreds of years. In this general main tourist area, there did seem to be several public art works, such as a giant mural of tintin and a beautiful AIDS memoral and awareness mural. As we passed through adorable narrow streets lined with cafes selling mussels and lobster, we arrived at our next tourist destination, the Delirium Café, which sells 4,000 types of beer. Whoa.

the main square in Brussels

tintin mural

AIDS mural in Brussels

the Delirium Cafe in Brussels which serves over 4,000 varieties of beer

The rest of the walk of the city gave us an uneasy feeling, though. There was a beautiful park, but it seemed to only be well-kept near the historical sites.

the main park, on the tourist side.

a neglected fountain on the other side of the park

a homeless man sits on the other side of the park

The main court house and other city buildings were set so far apart from the residential area, that it is unlikely that the wealth and tourism probably never really trickles into the poorer neighborhoods, which are mostly populated by a South Asian demographic. A strange outlook overlooked the city from a bizarre vantage point, where we took photos.

giant plazas with monuments could be vibrant public spaces, but in Brussels, they are set apart from any areas with busy pedestrian traffic. Furthermore, they don't seem to encourage socialization or interaction.

overlooking Brussels

From there, we ventured back to the train station, with Bracha’s wonderful navigational skills.

We passed by the Great Synagogue of Brussels on our way to the train station

Antwerp, Belgium

the main train station in Antwerp

We arrived in Antwerp fairly close to Shabbat, even though it wasn’t brought in until quite late. We popped into a flower shop and bought the most beautiful bouquet of flowers for our host, at only a mere 12.75, a bouquet which in New York would cost around 50 dollars. We noticed at the till there were little cards, and one of them read “gut shabbes”. Cool! We bought it, hopped into a cab, and went to our first destination, which was to the house of the woman who was helping us set everything up.

When we got out of the cab (after a cyclist who was blocked by our door screamed us at. We were not shocked by this, as our hostess told us not to expect the same level of helpfulness/politeness from Belgians as we would from Londoners), we were surprised at how close it was to the station. We got out and met the couple who would be our host and hostess for Shabbat lunch, who lived in a flat with her family on a quiet street in Antwerp. Though they seemed to be quite religious, they apparently were one of the more open families in the community. I gave her my sister-in-laws cookbook and we had a nice conversation. She then walked us to where we were staying.

We stayed in a large home, with a very sweet (originally Parisian) woman and her amazingly sweet and kind 14-year-old son. All of her older children were away at Yeshiva or married. The house had a massive amount of character, with high ceilings, rickety staircases, extravagant rugs, and a heavy dose of books and photos. In the morning, dozens of bird species sang to wake us up.

Friday night dinner was interesting. A maid, who spoke only Flemish, served and seemed to cook most of the meal. A countless amount of plates, spoons, and forks were set in front and cleared away from us in the course of the meal. One of the woman’s nieces was there with her husband and children. Bracha and were floored that all Jewish children in Antwerp spoke not only three, but often four languages, if not more: Flemish, French, English, and Yiddish among the more popular ones. After Friday night dinner, the boy told us that he loved this publication called Zman, which he gets from America. He brought us a stack, and I began leafing through them.

I noticed that there were no photos of women, and that a lot of the stories seemed a bit sensationalistic. I tried to remain non-judgmental, because I often feel that I am too critical of people to the right of the spectrum in my own faith. Then, however, I came across something that struck me hard. “Rubashkin: The Full Story”, the cover read. The article inside basically explained how there was a conspiracy by animal rights groups, the media, the law, and self-hating Jewish organizations (such as Hechsker Tzedek and Uri L’Tzedek) to destroy Rubashkin’s kosher meat plant. I was upset by this, because I do a lot of work with Uri L’Tzedek, and the publication did not seem to hold Sholom Rubashkin accountable for anything at all. I smiled, and gave the magazines back, and thanked the boy for bringing them down. I decided not to start a discussion, but seeing that article brought up some very familiar anxieties about doing activism and being disliked as a result.

Bracha and I had a lovely time in Antwerp. The people we met were so spiritual, approachable, and helpful. On Shabbat morning, we went to a famous shul, whose services were occasionally blessed by the singing of a famous cantor. It also happened to be the most “modern” shul in Antwerp. Girls wore colorful clothing and heels, and there were a smattering of knitted kippot in the men’s section (a custom which denotes a more Modern Orthodox approach).  The cantor, who wore a special hat, was truly remarkable, and he commanded the entire sanctuary with his voice.

Afterward, we went to Shabbat lunch and talked for a long time with the host, their hostess, and their guests. It was an interesting crossover of lives and perspectives, and we all helped each other see things in new ways. Bracha and I then took an epic walk throughout the main city of Amsterdam, through the amazing tiny streets with buildings often branded with the year they were built. Though the Eruv extended to the water, there was not a single Jew taking a leisurely walk around the bustling city, with its beautiful plazas and sculptures. The friend we make in shul that morning, a 28-year-old (unmarried) nurse, was telling us that the Jewish community doesn’t really venture out of its borders. Yes, they are inclusive of people if they are Jewish, but they seem to be afraid and feel threatened by non-Jews. They truly segregate themselves from the rest of the community. This is as a result of anti-Semitic episodes, of which we heard several, but it also seems to be an internalized victimhood narrative. At the top of the street that encloses the small and intimate Jewish community, a Holocaust memorial stands. The emaciated bronze man symbolizes not only those that died in the Shoah, but it also seems to create a physical border around the community. The sculpture defined the community by its victim history instead of its spirit, or its future potential and growth.

The city was beautiful, and because it was Shabbat, our cameras did not distract us. We took in every breath of fresh air, listened to every unique bird sound, and analyzed the different shades and textures of brick on the old buildings. Shabbat went out very late in Antwerp, at 10:30, when our hostess’ fourteen-year-old son promptly served us some lox and fruit salad.

Amsterdam

Good morning! Bracha and I headed out to the train station early. The girl we had met in shul offered to drive us to the station, and also stop at the famous Kleinblatt bakery on the way.

Ohmygosh.

Now I understood why it was famous. Bracha and I started with cheese danishes, which were perfectly sweet. The dough pulled just right, and melted in your mouth. Lunch was giant onion rolls, baked to perfection and soft to the touch.

In fact, the pastry was so good, that while we were on the train, I offered some to a boy sitting next to us (in his mid to late twenties, from Amsterdam). The three of us ended up talking for two hours about cities, economics, and immigrant labor markets. He then asked us if we were coming to see the big game. We asked him “what big game?” He told us today was a crazy day for Amsterdam. Their home team Ajax (pronounced eye-ax) had a huge match today, and the city would either turn into a giant party or a giant riot, depending on the outcome of the game. Since we had told him earlier that we were Jewish, he warned us that the nickname of the Ajax team is “The Jews”, because the stadium was originally based in a Jewish area.

And indeed, we heard “Juden! Juden!” being chanted in volumes that shook the ground beneath us. Fans also waved Israeli flags as another symbol of the team. Boy, was it a strange day. The city was mayhem, and police on horseback and bomb squads patrolled to keep things under control. See some photos and videos below.

Ajax fans emerge from the central train station in Amsterdam.

climbing on a lamppost to get a good view

"refreshments" for the game, sitting on an electrical box

yup. unbelievable.

Though the day was overcast, I got a bright feeling from Amsterdam. Unlike many other cities, I didn’t see a host of homeless people sitting outside the main train station. The public transportation, especially the tram system, was efficient and clear. I watched an arrest take place with respect and dignity towards the person that was arrested, not with the racist slurs and aggressiveness you sometimes overhear during arrests in New York.

We walked leisurely through the streets, taking in the city. We watched the oceans of bikes pass by in the well-marked, wide bike lanes. We looked at the glittering canals that served as the “avenues” of Amsterdam. We took in the patchwork-quilt architecture that leaned lazily against the river. Though there were a few franchise stores here and there, I noticed way more independent shops.

what could be better than drinking a cappucino (with soymilk!) in Amsterdam? A lot of things. But that was pretty fun too.

the trams are uber efficient and easy to use.

biking culture in Amsterdam

the famous flowermarket in Amsterdam

public spaces encourage protest and social interaction

yes, they are riding bikes while texting and walking their dogs.

In the afternoon, we went to Anne Frank’s house, which was an amazing experience. The museum was packed with international visitors. It was pretty meaningful to share Anne’s story and the story of the Shoah with people from so many different backgrounds.

Finally, we ventured off to the “Jewish Area” to eat a hot kosher dinner. One of the reasons I loved traveling with Bracha is that we both were less crazy about touristy sites, and more excited about seeing the intricacies of the city. This neighborhood was so different from what I’ve seen. On a giant road in the middle of the area were the tram and metro tracks. On both sides of the road, there were giant blocks of residential buildings, built in the functionalist style. The area was sterile and quiet. Every few buildings there was a pocket of retail shops, including the place we ate pizza. We actually asked two Jewish Dutch boys who were also ordering pizza to join us, and we talked for an hour and a bit about being secular Jews in Amsterdam, and about other random things. The pizza was all right, but the company was the best part.

Exhausted, we headed back to our hotel and we saw the carnage from the celebrations—Ajax won the match. Museumplein (like Museum Mile) was literally hidden by a layer of trash and broken beer bottles, and the streets were piled with garbage. I had never seen anything like it. By the time Bracha and I were almost to the hotel, however, the street crews were working on the mess like it was nobody’s business.

The hotel was unbelievable. I would recommend it to anyone who decides to travel to Amsterdam. Priding itself on its ethical and eco-friendly practices, The Conscious Hotel Museum Square has gorgeous chocolate-colored wicker lamps, bedside tables made out of tree trunks, beautiful wallpaper printed with soy inks, pillows with old maps of Amsterdam, a state of the art television, a “living wall” made out of plants in the lobby, and a bathroom with a shower you would not believe. The bed, whose mattress was produced using recycled material, just ate you up, and sleeping that night was a luxurious activity.

The next day we reserved for art and walking around. We did indeed see art, including a great collection Vermeers and Rembrandts (we saw the Night Watch!) at the Rijksmuseum. We looked at the old Sephardi Synagogue and the former Jewish quarter of Amsterdam. Our final stop was the Red Light District, where we passed (yes, passed) the famous “coffeeshops” which serve marijuana. We did enter a store called “Condomerie”, however, where we talked to sales clerk about sex workers in Amsterdam and STD awareness.

canalside architecture

Rembrandt Plaza

one of Amsterdam's famous "coffeeshops", which serve "green energy"

It was a really charming trip, and a great end to the semester. The train ride on the way back was a bit of a disaster, though, but I won’t bore you with that. I can say it in one word: ourtraingotcancelledfromamsterdamtobrusselsbutwehadtocatchthelastrainfrombrussels

tolondonsowegotputonadifferentcompanystrainandletsjustsaythetrainmanager

wasunhappyaboutthatandnotonlyyelledatuscontinutouslybutmadeusstandfortheeentire2hourtrip.

Yup. I mean, it was an experience, and a random man in the snack car (this is where we were banished) bought us beer. We also made some Dutch friends along the way who helped us to get the new tickets.

one of our new Dutch friends

We were exhausted, but exhilarated, and I only had a few more days before my departure from England…

Leaving England

So, I just wrote a giant post about my trip to Brussels/Antwerp/Amsterdam, and it got deleted :(. Unfortunately, I am too wiped to deal with it at the present moment, and hopefully you’ll see it soon. For now, I will post the following reflections:

I am sitting on my bed, in my new empty room in Jerusalem. The sun is hot, and the air is familiar. I’m fairly exhausted (and a bit frustrated, because British Airways did not allow me to take my guitar and they were incredibly strict about baggage) but I did want to give London a proper farewell.

Dear London,

I’m really going to miss you.

I’ll miss my three-mile walk in the morning though historic districts and wide streets with the rest of London’s working population.

I’ll miss the rare and exciting burst of sunshine that illuminates the Thames and makes it glitter.

I’ll miss adorable phrases, like “lovely” and “oh dear”.

I’ll miss getting lost on the winding, historic, streets.

I’ll miss Clapham South and Leicester Square.

I’ll miss florid street names, like “Theobald’s Road” and “Frognal Road”.

I’ll miss Cadbury chocolate. No need to elaborate.

I’ll miss Regent’s Park, with its brilliantly colored gardens.

I’ll miss the oystercard, which allowed me easy access to all public transportation.

I’ll miss the fact that public employees are respected, and that workers in the London underground wear suit jackets to work.

I’ll miss the European train culture, and that its so easy to access so many other amazing places from London.

I’ll miss the buses, whose convenience and clarity cannot be matched.

I’ll miss the public art and graffiti art in the East End.

I’ll miss the dozens of open-air markets all over the city.

I’ll miss the fashion. Londoners dress respectably; it is a place where wearing a skirt and long-sleeved shirt is not out of the ordinary.

I’ll miss the theatre.

I’ll miss the vibrant social action culture and the protest culture.

I’ll miss the frequent, well-kept public spaces and green spaces where community is built.

I’ll miss the fact that living in social housing does not brand you with a degrading label.

I’ll miss London social housing and mixed income residences, which actually look like real homes.

I’ll miss my university, where I feel challenged by the life experience of my peers.

I’ll miss the potpourri of languages spoken on the street from all over the world.

I’ll miss the Jewish community there, and the inspiring Rabbis and Teachers I met along the way.

I’ll miss the enthusiastic and active Tav HaYosher (Ethical Seal) team I worked with in North London.

I’ll miss the amazing people I met along the way who touched my life in incredible ways.

In addition to those I’ve listed above, there are many more things that I will miss about London. I always will think dearly about my time in London, as a place where I grew intellectually and spiritually, and as a time that I was able to assert my independence. I look forward, however, to taking the positive feelings I have about London and using them to foster positive change wherever I am.

Exploring the Built Environment, Part 4: My Route to Campus: Islington/Shoreditch/East End

The second route to campus is quite different, especially in terms of the built environment.

It goes through Islington, which is the second poorest borough of London. Towards the end of the route, the city starts to look more like a gentrified Williamsburg or Lower East Side, with hipster-like humans abound.

What do you think about the difference between these two routes?

Toynbee Hall, where the architects of the welfare state came to study and find solutions to poverty in London.

wow.

A more residential area. Will see children going to and from school, or just hanging out on the streets.

The International Flavour of Islington/Tower Hamlets.

The outside of a public housing "estate". The stigma associated with living in "council estates" is much less in the UK than in the United States. My tutor for my Management of Welfare class asked the students; "who here lives in a council estate or government subsidized housing?" Almost 3/4 of the class raised their hands. Imagine if that happened in the US; "How many of you live in the projects"? Who would raise their hand? The culture around welfare in the US is much more "shameful".

Neglected litter by the Old Street tube station.

City Road is home to many charitable (non-profit) organizations, perhaps due to the lower price of the properties.

even the second to poorest borough has beautiful and well-kept green spaces. note the resting pigeon.

the morning commute-though much quieter than the City of London route

brand new mixed-income housing building

locals eat breakfast and read the newspaper at the Sherpardess cafe, looking out onto passersby as they sip their morning cuppa

"The Shoreditch Social Centre"

the street art in this area is absolutely incredible. This is just the tip of the iceberg. The art brightens up the streets, and it also conveys a certain sense of passionate, unrestrained self-expression.

I guess they feel at home in this neighborhood...

The fever of the royal wedding still lingers upon a local bar.

socially-concious coffee stand.

post box not the shiny red as it would be in the tourist districts...

Upon entering Tower Hamlets, people begin to look very real, in many different shapes, colors, and sizes.

Exploring the Built Environment, Part 3: My Route to Campus: The City of London

Hi all,

I apologize (apologise) I haven’t blogged for a while, I’ve been bogged down with lots and lots of papers. But now, they are over and done with (whew!), and before I head off on a weekend excursion with my friend Bracha, I wanted to share a few posts with you. Stay tuned!

Campus is approximately 2 and 3/4 miles from my door, and I like to walk there at least one way every day. It’s a great way to see London, and really feel like you are a part of the rush, either morning or evening. So, once a day, I don my trainers (sneakers) and head over to campus. Its actually pretty amazing–it seems fairly normal to walk to work, even if it takes a long time. I assume this is because the tube is both expensive and crowded, and the bus sits in standstill traffic during morning rush hour. Plus, London is stunning to look at as you walk through.

As the weeks progressed, I noticed that they were almost exactly the same distance, but it was possible to walk to campus in two completely different ways. In this post and the following post, I document, from a critical urban perspective (oh, goodness. I’ve been writing too many papers), the stark contrast between the two routes.

This route goes through the City of London, which may be equivalent to New York’s financial district.

My favorite place in London: Close to my residence hall, on Grays Inn Road, the Calthorpe Project is a community green space and productive garden.

Grays Inn Road. wide and curvy, diverse architecture.

On this route, seeing monuments and sculptures is not unusual.

on this route, there are many plazas and green spaces where tourists, students, and professionals congregate (but don't necessarily mingle...)

Look at the width of that pavement (sidewalk)!

These stands encourage cleanliness on the street. Furthermore, dozens of public workers line the streets doing everything from picking up garbage, to hammering gum off the pavement.

Commuters walk right past these historic statues.

A potpurri of architecture, stacked right up against each other.

Ethical consumption and food awareness is much more prevalent in the United Kingdom than in the United States.

thanks to the 2012 olympics, the changing face of London

a biking city

St. Paul's Cathedral peeking through two office buildings

congregating outside of St. Paul's subway station

look familar, American folks? on this route, high end shops are not uncommon.

right around Bank station in the City of London. Fantastic.

benches are in every public space.

This man looks out of place because of his casual attire--suits are the main dress code here.

who's surprised? And if you want to be even more surprised...http://www.blackgoldmovie.com/story.php.

"The Gherkin" office building

I made it to University! Check out the next series for a drastically different feel of London...