So, last weekend I was frolicking about in a mineral mud pit at the Dead Sea in 80 degree weather and now it’s sleeting and snowing outside. My wussy response to the change in weather has resigned me to the fact that I’m no longer entitled to call myself a New Englander. I decided to skip school because I didn’t trust my feet to make it down the 45 degree angle on which every road in Jerusalem is built. I’m just not equipped for the terrain anymore...I don’t even have a scarf with me...My shoes have lost their tread from all of the walking I do here. I could fall!...Stop judging me. I just didn't feel like going.
Anywho, I’ve just been reminded that I haven’t posted in a long time. My internet connection is pretty erratic, so I have been using the few moments of consistent connection judiciously. You know, for important things like quality celeb gossip surfing and downloading episodes of "The Office" from iTunes. So here is a recap of my life recently:
I cut class on Thursday so I could go get a MUCH needed hair cut. 170 Shekels later I realized that I would have been better off if I just snipped my split ends with toenail clippers and called it a day. I walked out looking like I was wearing a wig from the “Pat Benatar and Chrissie Hynde Rock the 80s” Collection. This is not my first time trying to negotiate a haircut in a foreign language and usually I am able to convey what I want. (Case in point: Quito Ecuador, November 1998. Hair "salon" was actually someone's garage. Hair was washed with dish detergent and request was conducted completely in Spanish. End result was a flawless angled bob. It would be worth the airfare to go back for regular trims.) If I can't give precise instructions, at least I am able to convey that I am absolutely terrified that they are going to chop it to bits, so most stylists are pretty gentle with me. My dentist proceeds with the same kind of caution.
In
my naiveté, I really thought that it would be a safe bet to go to a salon that was a little more expensive. The hairstylist seemed so passionate and meticulous. Seeing my reluctance, he assured me that he loves long hair. What he didn’t mention was that it was long hair of the “business in the front and party in the back” variety. The end result was something that my four year old niece could have pulled off with her safety scissors and a well positioned upside down bowl on my head. After all of the years that I have been trying to grow my hair out long, you couldn’t possibly understand my pain... I'm thisclose to chopping it Winona Ryder short and going back to blonde.
This weekend was pretty mellow. I went out Friday night to see what I thought was going to be Flamenco dancing. It wasn’t—just a quartet playing flamenco music. By the end of the performance everyone was asking each other "The email said "dancing", right?" About halfway through, I realized two things: 1) I have never actually heard flamenco music. I think I went because I had images in my head of a woman in red frilly tiered dresses stomping her feet and clicking her castinettes. And when I say “a woman in red frilly dresses”, I mean “Bugs Bunny dressed as a woman in a red frilly dress trying to outsmart Elmer Fudd”. Sadly, I think that is the extent of my Iberian cultural fluency.
And 2) I don’t know what avant garde means. I really enjoyed their traditional pieces, but every original composition was introduced as being “avant garde”. I suspect it means music without a consistent beat, melody or theme. Not once did the music inspire my foot to tap or make me sway to the beat. We left and went to Jerusalem Hotel to hear some fabulous live Arabic music, and that’s where the foot tapping and swaying began in earnest. My friend and I were coaxed out of our chairs to dance with the local crowd, and I did my best to recall the moves from my “Hip Drop-Hip Hop Belly Dance Fitness for Weight Loss” DVD. True to the spirit of “Arab Hospitality” everyone was very gracious and no one laughed too loudly.
The next day the Mount of Olives community was hit by tragedy. A taxi driver was arrested by Israeli soldiers on Salahedin Street and died in their custody. There have been conflicting stories about what had happened, but the version I heard most frequently was that he was arrested for having a Palestinian woman, who was in Jerusalem without authorization, in his sherut taxi. The Israelis claimed that he had a heart attack, but the man’s family insists that he had been beaten to death. I have not heard whether or not his body had been released for an independent investigation, but no one believes that it was just a heart attack. Maybe if he was severely obese, a heavy smoker with a history of heart problems and a cocaine addiction then, sure... a 35 year old man can have a heart attack. The death of an innocent man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time is just the kind of provocation that brings people out into the streets.
Saturday night we were leaving the compound to go to see “The Lives of Others”. A mob of men were blocking the gate and we were unsure if we were going to be able to leave. They eventually let us through and you could see quite a bit of commotion at the bottom of the hill. One of the men said that we should go to the right because it was unsafe for us to drive down toward the protests. There is something surreal about driving into West Jerusalem, to do something as banal as going to a movie, when there is unrest on the East side. I think with the exception of the few pockets that are obsessed with security, most Israelis are completely oblivious to what is going on a mile or two away.
For a few days after the taxi driver was killed, Israeli military jeeps were parked on the corner down from our compound. The first day they were restricting traffic from entering the Mount of Olives, but on the following days, I think they were just trying to make their presence known. Whenever I see the soldiers camped out at an intersection that leads to Mount of Olives or Wadi Joz, the same image always appears in my mind. The soldiers serve as the lid on a boiling pot. If they keep the neighborhoods contained then no one outside of them will get burned. In reality, it really is just a matter of time before that pot boils over. And when it does, I think the foremost response in West Jerusalem will be one of surprise.
Interestingly enough, “The Lives of Others” has been playing to sold out crowds here. I find it somewhat ironic. The film is about life in East Berlin from 1984 up to the reunification of the two Germanys. The movie revolves around an artistic community and their assumed subversive activities. But as the movie progresses, a Stasi agent emerges as the unlikely protagonist. By observing the lives of others, he is touched by their humanity and begins to realize that his devotion to the ideals of the state was at the expense of his own humanity. Previously he had viewed all civilians as potential enemies of the state, but a set of circumstances led the inspector to become involved in the most intimate details of a couple’s relationship. The more time he spent eavesdropping on their daily lives, the more he began to empathize with them.
What I found ironic is that the Palestinian community lives in a similar state of constant surveillance. Their society has an equal share of collaborators and intelligence gathering institutions designed to crush subversion. There are some checkpoint soldiers who have commented that they don’t blame the Palestinians for their response to the occupation. These soldiers witness the lives of thousands of human beings as they are herded through checkpoint turnstiles. I think that Israelis can only cope with this “security state” by either creating alternative realities that strip an entire population of individual human characteristics, trying to completely avoid witnessing the treatment of the Palestinian population or by abandoning their unwavering allegiance to the state apparatus.
I would highly recommend that others check out this film. You can check out info through this link: http://www.sonyclassics.com/thelivesofothers/
Anywho, I’ve just been reminded that I haven’t posted in a long time. My internet connection is pretty erratic, so I have been using the few moments of consistent connection judiciously. You know, for important things like quality celeb gossip surfing and downloading episodes of "The Office" from iTunes. So here is a recap of my life recently:
I cut class on Thursday so I could go get a MUCH needed hair cut. 170 Shekels later I realized that I would have been better off if I just snipped my split ends with toenail clippers and called it a day. I walked out looking like I was wearing a wig from the “Pat Benatar and Chrissie Hynde Rock the 80s” Collection. This is not my first time trying to negotiate a haircut in a foreign language and usually I am able to convey what I want. (Case in point: Quito Ecuador, November 1998. Hair "salon" was actually someone's garage. Hair was washed with dish detergent and request was conducted completely in Spanish. End result was a flawless angled bob. It would be worth the airfare to go back for regular trims.) If I can't give precise instructions, at least I am able to convey that I am absolutely terrified that they are going to chop it to bits, so most stylists are pretty gentle with me. My dentist proceeds with the same kind of caution.In
my naiveté, I really thought that it would be a safe bet to go to a salon that was a little more expensive. The hairstylist seemed so passionate and meticulous. Seeing my reluctance, he assured me that he loves long hair. What he didn’t mention was that it was long hair of the “business in the front and party in the back” variety. The end result was something that my four year old niece could have pulled off with her safety scissors and a well positioned upside down bowl on my head. After all of the years that I have been trying to grow my hair out long, you couldn’t possibly understand my pain... I'm thisclose to chopping it Winona Ryder short and going back to blonde.This weekend was pretty mellow. I went out Friday night to see what I thought was going to be Flamenco dancing. It wasn’t—just a quartet playing flamenco music. By the end of the performance everyone was asking each other "The email said "dancing", right?" About halfway through, I realized two things: 1) I have never actually heard flamenco music. I think I went because I had images in my head of a woman in red frilly tiered dresses stomping her feet and clicking her castinettes. And when I say “a woman in red frilly dresses”, I mean “Bugs Bunny dressed as a woman in a red frilly dress trying to outsmart Elmer Fudd”. Sadly, I think that is the extent of my Iberian cultural fluency.
And 2) I don’t know what avant garde means. I really enjoyed their traditional pieces, but every original composition was introduced as being “avant garde”. I suspect it means music without a consistent beat, melody or theme. Not once did the music inspire my foot to tap or make me sway to the beat. We left and went to Jerusalem Hotel to hear some fabulous live Arabic music, and that’s where the foot tapping and swaying began in earnest. My friend and I were coaxed out of our chairs to dance with the local crowd, and I did my best to recall the moves from my “Hip Drop-Hip Hop Belly Dance Fitness for Weight Loss” DVD. True to the spirit of “Arab Hospitality” everyone was very gracious and no one laughed too loudly.
The next day the Mount of Olives community was hit by tragedy. A taxi driver was arrested by Israeli soldiers on Salahedin Street and died in their custody. There have been conflicting stories about what had happened, but the version I heard most frequently was that he was arrested for having a Palestinian woman, who was in Jerusalem without authorization, in his sherut taxi. The Israelis claimed that he had a heart attack, but the man’s family insists that he had been beaten to death. I have not heard whether or not his body had been released for an independent investigation, but no one believes that it was just a heart attack. Maybe if he was severely obese, a heavy smoker with a history of heart problems and a cocaine addiction then, sure... a 35 year old man can have a heart attack. The death of an innocent man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time is just the kind of provocation that brings people out into the streets.
Saturday night we were leaving the compound to go to see “The Lives of Others”. A mob of men were blocking the gate and we were unsure if we were going to be able to leave. They eventually let us through and you could see quite a bit of commotion at the bottom of the hill. One of the men said that we should go to the right because it was unsafe for us to drive down toward the protests. There is something surreal about driving into West Jerusalem, to do something as banal as going to a movie, when there is unrest on the East side. I think with the exception of the few pockets that are obsessed with security, most Israelis are completely oblivious to what is going on a mile or two away.
For a few days after the taxi driver was killed, Israeli military jeeps were parked on the corner down from our compound. The first day they were restricting traffic from entering the Mount of Olives, but on the following days, I think they were just trying to make their presence known. Whenever I see the soldiers camped out at an intersection that leads to Mount of Olives or Wadi Joz, the same image always appears in my mind. The soldiers serve as the lid on a boiling pot. If they keep the neighborhoods contained then no one outside of them will get burned. In reality, it really is just a matter of time before that pot boils over. And when it does, I think the foremost response in West Jerusalem will be one of surprise.
Interestingly enough, “The Lives of Others” has been playing to sold out crowds here. I find it somewhat ironic. The film is about life in East Berlin from 1984 up to the reunification of the two Germanys. The movie revolves around an artistic community and their assumed subversive activities. But as the movie progresses, a Stasi agent emerges as the unlikely protagonist. By observing the lives of others, he is touched by their humanity and begins to realize that his devotion to the ideals of the state was at the expense of his own humanity. Previously he had viewed all civilians as potential enemies of the state, but a set of circumstances led the inspector to become involved in the most intimate details of a couple’s relationship. The more time he spent eavesdropping on their daily lives, the more he began to empathize with them.
What I found ironic is that the Palestinian community lives in a similar state of constant surveillance. Their society has an equal share of collaborators and intelligence gathering institutions designed to crush subversion. There are some checkpoint soldiers who have commented that they don’t blame the Palestinians for their response to the occupation. These soldiers witness the lives of thousands of human beings as they are herded through checkpoint turnstiles. I think that Israelis can only cope with this “security state” by either creating alternative realities that strip an entire population of individual human characteristics, trying to completely avoid witnessing the treatment of the Palestinian population or by abandoning their unwavering allegiance to the state apparatus.
I would highly recommend that others check out this film. You can check out info through this link: http://www.sonyclassics.com/thelivesofothers/
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