We're going on a witch hunt

While both the mainstream media and the blogosphere have been buzzing about the interrogation of three Israeli journalists following visits to countries defined by Israel as being "enemy" countries, I have remained silent. I chose to remain silent, as anyone who reads this blog is aware of my close friendship with one of them, and while she is certainly aware of my unwavering support, I wasn't sure that I'd be able to write a post that would sound supportive, yet unbiased. Now, following days of frustration and disgust over some of the pieces that have been written as well as some of the comments I've seen, I find that I just can't keep quiet any longer. I'm horrified by the (usually incorrect) assumptions that people have made, involving everything from her journalistic ethics to her motives, and shocked by the number of individuals who seem to think that Lisa Goldman and her colleagues simply woke up one day, tossed a change of underwear and a toothbrush into their laptop bags, and popped across the border to visit with "the enemy", without thinking of the possible ramifications.

While I can't personally vouch for Lisa's colleagues, I'm going to make an educated guess and assume that these are intelligent, knowledgeable individuals who were well aware of where they were going and took necessary precautions – just like Lisa. And, as opposed to being unable to vouch for her colleagues, I CAN personally vouch for Lisa. I know how much thought went into her trips, how much preparation. I know how she was feeling and what she was thinking, her excitement and her concerns, her expectations. Going to Lebanon was not something she took lightly – if anything, I'd say it was quite the opposite.

There are those who complain about her selfishness, about endangering national security by her actions, and so on, just so that she could do a non-newsworthy "fluff" piece. What these individuals are overlooking is that it was not Lisa's intention to file some hard-hitting scoop. Anyone who reads either her blog or any of the other articles that she's either written or been interviewed for knows that Lisa is drawn to human interest stories, and this is precisely what she reported on for both Channel 10 and Time Out Tel Aviv. Whenever people ask me about living in Israel, talking about how dangerous it is or how scary it must be, I've always responded by saying that daily life here is different from what they show on the news, because you don't see reporters filing stories about regular life, and if nothing is happening, there's not going to be a story about it. Until now. Until Lisa went to Lebanon, and returned to share her impressions, to provide Israelis with a picture of "normal" life in Beirut. Not every story needs to be earth shattering, and frankly, I found these scenes from Beirut – a city just a few hours to the north, one that I will probably never have a chance to visit – to be invaluable.

I am both saddened and distressed as I watch this entire episode unfold. As I've been writing this post, I've learned that Daniel Sharon will soon be indicted for his recent trip to Lebanon, and who knows how many other journalists (and politicians) may soon be caught up in the same web as Lisa and her colleagues. Why is there a witch hunt, and why is it happening now, when these kinds of trips have been made for years? As an Israeli, I am worried about our country's current state of affairs, our misplaced priorities. As a person, I am worried about my friend. I want this to go away. Lisa has said that had she realized that what she was doing was against the law, she never would have done it. I believe her. I'm sure there are those of you who will belittle my stance because I'm biased. And you're right. I am biased. Lisa and I wouldn't be such close friends if I didn't admire her so much as an individual – her intelligence, her warmth, her sense of humor. I'm impressed by her innate ability to connect with people, and how she will always go out of her way to do so. One of her primary reasons for visiting Lebanon had to do with her constant desire to build bridges – to learn about her neighbors and to, in turn, share her newfound knowledge with her countrymen. Yes, a law was unknowingly broken, but the intent was neither criminal nor malicious, and if anything, it was the opposite. The police have made their point by publicizing the interrogation, and unless they are planning to go after every other person who's ever made such a trip, I cannot help but question their motives in making an example of these three individuals, and I cannot help but wonder about the direction in which our society is going.

*******

See Lisa's post on the subject here.

Mmmmm...

I'm not much of a cook. While you certainly won't starve in my home (and you probably won't even suffer), the chances of me having my own cooking show are about the same as being sought after by the folks over at Iron Chef. The Husband is the true cook in our house; he's the one who has the natural cooking talent, the one who can (usually) throw a bunch of ingredients together and come up with some fabulous new dish. I can more or less follow recipes or instructions, but the concept of just knowing what to do, of intuitively knowing what items go together and what don't simply eludes me, and instead of being daringly creative or complex, I usually stick to dishes that are tried and true. The "wow" factor rarely makes an appearance in my kitchen, and when it does, it usually has nothing to do with me.

I say usually, because I do have a few special dishes up my sleeve. I'm good with salmon and fish in general, and am never afraid to experiment with pasta sauce. My spring chicken is always yummy, and I make a pretty nifty crab cake too (when I can be bothered to deal with crab meat). My best dish though, without a doubt, is my Ghormeh Sabzi. As I may have mentioned at some point, the Husband is Persian. As a result, I developed an affinity for all things Persian ( Mahmoud Ahmadinejad not withstanding), especially Persian food. I love Persian food. I did not have a weight problem until I was introduced to Persian food, and I've been battling ever since. I seek out Persian restaurants abroad and keep an eye out for recipes of the Persian dishes I like. Early on in our marriage, I decided to surprise the Husband by making Ghormeh Sabzi, one of the more popular Persian dishes, and on the menu at every Persian restaurant I've ever visited. At that point, I'd never attempted to make Persian food – it hadn't even crossed my mind to try. Once it did, though, I searched the internet looking for a good (read "easy") recipe, and came up with this one. The Husband was suitably impressed, not only by my efforts, but also by the final outcome, and while he might not come right out and say it, I know he's pleased that I took the initiative to learn how to make one of "his" foods.

Since that fateful first attempt, I try to make Ghormeh Sabzi every few months, though more frequently in winter. The recipe I use refers to it as "an exquisite Iranian dish", and I am inclined to agree. I love the sour taste from the dried lemons, the way the greens soak up so much soup and introduce such a fabulous texture. I love the way the chunks of meat practically melt in your mouth, and when I ladle copious amounts over a plateful of rice (Persian, of course!), the world around me almost ceases to exist, as I plunge my spoon into the center of the dish, making sure that the Ghormeh Sabzi is sufficiently mixed into the rice, before carefully guiding the spoon to my mouth, over and over and over again, filling my stomach and dulling my senses, feeling almost sinful because the food is just... so... good...

My Son the Gynecologist

For as long as I can remember, I have always loved to read. Growing up, it was not uncommon for me to be working on two books at once, and even today I often keep one book in my bag and another in the bathroom (yes, I admit it – I keep reading material in the bathroom. What can I say – I bore easily...). Even now, as I sit here on the train writing this, my mind keeps wandering to the Bill Bryson book tucked away in the bag at my feet. I first encountered the marvelous world of Mr Bryson during a visit to the Anglosaxies, and he's since become one of my favorite writers (thanks, AS!). I've read all of his travel books at least once, and have read most of them twice. The man is brilliant, what can I say (I am, of course, referring to Bill Bryson, so don't get cheeky on me Anglosaxy!).

But I digress. Reading. Given my great love of books, it was only natural that I would try to pass on my passion to the Little One, and so far, it seems to be working. His collection of books is growing, and one of our favorite activities is to curl up together with a good story. Most of his books are in English, purchased during trips to the US, or delivered as gifts from family and friends. Every year on his birthday, without fail, he receives at least one gift certificate from Amazon, and I have almost as much fun choosing books for him as I do for myself.

Some of the books, he knows by heart (as do I... sigh...), and not only will he recite them out loud as I read, but he also won't hesitate to let me know if I've skipped a page, always keeping me on my toes.

And then there are times when the books themselves keep me on my toes. We always leave the book selection up to the Little One (though not without a bit of nudging if he chooses a book that we simply can't bear to read yet again). Sometimes he opts for a book in English, and other times, he'll prefer a book in Hebrew. Several weeks ago, he chose the latter, and brought a book that we hadn't read before. It was one of the many we'd inherited from my sister-in-law, whose children had outgrown the books long ago. The book was about bringing babies into the world, and given that it was obviously a children's picture book, I had no concerns about the contents.

Apparently, I should have. What began as a lighthearted description of baby animals quickly gave way to talk of sperm and eggs. As I continue to read out loud, my mind is spinning. "Whoa! Did I read that correctly?" "Sperm?" "I'm reading about sperm and eggs to a three year-old?" "Well Jesus, Mary and Joseph! This has got to stop!" It would seem, however, that I stopped too late, as a little penny dropped somewhere in the Little One's head. While the sperm failed to register, the concept of eggs definitely left its mark. Despite the fact that the book has since been shoved to the back of a high shelf, the mythical eggs live on.

The Little One, bless him, is convinced that I now have a tummy full of eggs, and has proudly shared this news with nearly everyone who crosses his path – the neighbors, his teachers, my husband's business colleagues (who, I'm told, were visibly uncomfortable by the disclosure)... He keeps tugging at my shirt and pressing my stomach in order to try to find them, and has suggested that I go to the doctor, so that he can take pictures of my eggs.

As this saga was unfolding, we received word that our son had drawn the most marvelous pictures, demonstrating a level of skill usually shown by children who are at least five years old, not three. It was, apparently, a picture of me. "And what is that little line in my tummy," I asked him, pleased that he may have inherited his grandmother's art skills (which have obviously skipped a generation...). "Your eggs, Mommy!"

Welcome to my world, folks. Put on your seatbelts - I think we're in for a bumpy ride!

It's not easy being blue and white

Sorry for the silence lately. Life has been hectic, and I haven't really had the time or energy to concentrate on blogging. I've also realized that the focus has changed around here, and I'm not packing quite the punch that I used to. I've been feeling rather frustrated and dissatisfied, and generally too annoyed with the state of the world to actually write about it. It's hard to write passionately about politics and current events when global affairs has taken on a "same shit different day" quality, and I can't seem to write myself into a frenzy about events that have become all too predictable, not to mention overwhelmingly pathetic.

I suppose the biggest story these days is Iranian President Ahmadinejad's visit to New York and speech at Columbia University. Too say that I'm simply bowled over by people's naivete as far as this man is concerned would be an understatement. I almost felt sorry for the Columbia student interviewed on Fox News (I was channel surfing, lest you think that I actually watch Fox – the channel once referred to by the Husband as a pretend news channel) who believed that having Ahmadinejad speak would perhaps create an opportunity for dialog and understanding, as people would have a chance to hear what he had to say and to ask him "tough" questions. Frankly, I can't see myself developing understanding or wanting to dialog with a head of state who openly questions whether or not the Holocaust took place, calls for the country I call home to be "wiped off the map", and claims that there are no homosexuals in his country, but hey, that's just me.

Tales of Mahmoud in the big city weren't the only saga to get my knickers in a twist yesterday. As you all know, I decided several months ago that comment moderation would be required. I was tired of providing a voice for people who seemed to believe that my blog could be used as a platform for some rather serious venom spewing, like the individual who periodically pops up to inform me that I'm spreading ideological AIDS and should be locked up or to astound me with incredibly racist, hate-filled comments about Germans (in response to this post) and Arabs. While this individual drops by for a visit only once every few months or so, the visits are rather long-winded, and the number of comments awaiting moderation skyrockets, as he or she sends comment after comment after comment, with barely enough time for a bathroom break in between.

There are those who would say that I'm deserving of such comments, given the nature of my politics. There are many who believe that I am too accommodating and too naive/ignorant/stupid when it comes to Palestinian/Arab issues, and these people don't hesitate to share their opinions with me – sometimes respectfully, but often, not so much. For those of you, however, who might choose to believe that I go too far, there are others who believe that I don't go far enough. Yesterday morning, I had the pleasure of discovering four comments awaiting moderation, all from someone named Liza. I have a cousin named Liza, and given that I'd sent her a birthday message the day before, I assumed the comments were from her. Suffice it to say that I was wrong. Very wrong. This woman had googled her own name, and thus found my blog. From the comments she left, I gather she wasn't terribly impressed by what she had read.

Comment #1 reads as follows:

"Hi, Liza,
How would you like to be living in Gaza?

Or how would you like to have been living in Lebanon during the summer of 2006.

Ah, yes, the message is slow. But people will eventaully (sic) get it. In fact, most of
the world gets it. "

Comment #2:

"Oh, blog approval is needed.
Ha Ha
Bet you get a lot of hate mail."

And in case you weren't getting the full gist of her feelings, here's comment number three:

"You're full of it, Liza. I'm so sick and tired of people who find the foreign policy of the state of Israel to be despicable accused of being anti-Semitic. No, you do not know the difference and don't claim that you do.

I do not know a Jewish person when I see one and I know nothing about your religion. That is true of almost everyone.

It is Israel that I have a problem with.

Anyhow, I have to stop reading your blog. It just infuriates me.

I have an idea for Israel that they haven't thought of yet.

STOP KILLING INNOCENT PEOPLE. Stop saying that you were looking for such and such a "terrorist" and using that as an excuse for genocide.

God, please let me live to see the day when the US does not pay for Israel's wars against the Arabs. "

And the utterly charming comment number four:

"A human face on the monster known as Israel?

Good luck.

The monster remains a monster. Stop killing Palestinians and maybe in a few
generations you might look different.

The victim becomes the aggressor. It happens all the time. In this case, the victim turned aggressor is more brutal than could ever be imagined. And my tax dollars support it, against my will, of course.

Go ahead and moderate me, Liza. I'm kind of sorry we have the same name. That's how I happened to find your little blog.

I thought I would share this little message with you. The truth will eventually
spread in the US. Truth does that. And one day Americans will realize they do
not have to shoulder the blame for the Holocaust. Has there ever been a more
complete and total guilt transfer?

Maybe one day Americans will realize that Muslims are not all terrorists and that what is taking place in Gaza is genocide.

Good bye, Liza, lady with my name. I won't be back to your little propaganda filled world. Just wanted to leave you a message."

Kermit the Frog thought it wasn't easy being green. I bet it's a picnic compared to being blue and white...

Just a moment?

Living in Israel for sixteen years means that I don't often pay attention to those "only in Israel" moments anymore, and events that may strike a new immigrant as unusual are no longer something out of the ordinary. The times when I'd wake up and go through my days being conscious of the fact that I was in a "foreign" country are long gone, and while I still mutter and mumble about some of the more maddening aspects of life here, it is more often than not with the full agreement of my native Israeli friends and acquaintances - in other words, I'm grumbling about life, and not about "life in Israel" (though admittedly, sometimes I become a bit more focused in my grumbling...). During my time here, I've gradually undergone a metamorphosis, changing from the wide-eyed, easily-excitable immigrant into a jaded, cynical Israeli (though the foundations for my jaded cynicism had, quite obviously, been laid far before I'd ever set foot in this country, so it really wasn't much of a stretch).

Yesterday, however, I had a rare "only in Israel" moment. While sitting at my home computer playing around on Facebook trying to get some work done, I was repeatedly distracted by a truck going through the neighborhood with a megaphone. From my seat in front of the computer, I couldn't see the truck, nor did I try very hard to hear what was being said. Ordinarily, these megaphone masters are trying to sell something, whether it be fruits and vegetables or household items, and frankly, I wasn't interested. I had to hand it to them this time around, though. He was nothing if not persistent, and I finally stepped outside to hear the message, which was clearly being broadcast by an individual who had honed his craft by watching reruns of old Peanuts episodes and emulating Charlie Brown's teacher. Well, I'll be damned! Nobody was trying to sell me anything. Quite the opposite, in fact. They'd come to collect something. They'd come to collect our gas masks. That's right, you heard me. These guys were here on official government business, asking citizens to please come outside with all gas mask kits in order to return them.

They'd left a notice in our stairwell last week, but I'd forgotten. We'd had them since the second Gulf war. I'd even opened mine to check things out, as per the instructions of the Home Front Command at the onset of the war. I carried it to work with me one day, following those same Home Front Command instructions. The Husband laughed at me and my gas mask kit, and once I reached the office, I understood why. The only other colleagues who had followed instructions were immigrants. The natives were blasé, and in my desire to "go native" (not to mention the desire to get the Husband to stop laughing), I immediately left my mask at home too. After all, I was determined to assimilate, and certainly wasn't going to let a small detail like the threat of chemical warheads get in my way...

The war came and went (at least the bits that were considered dangerous for Israel), and our gas masks were once again relegated to their spot at the back of the top shelf, left to gather dust until the next threat of war would require us to take them down again. As luck would have it, we did have another war, but fortunately, the missiles being fired in our direction weren't chemical-tipped, so instead of grabbing my gas mask (which was still at the top of the guestroom closet) as I ran to our safety room when the sirens went off (an infrequent occurrence in our area), I grabbed a glass of white wine, and found it to be equally, if not more effective than my gas mask.
I didn't give our masks another thought until yesterday, when the guy from Manpower (yep, you heard correctly – the government outsourced the gas mask collection) snapped me out of my reverie and sent me scurrying for a ladder, as no chair in the house would have allowed me to reach the top shelf in our closet. As sounds of the megaphone drew closer, I dug around, dodging falling playing cards and ankle weights as I perched on the ladder's top rung, plucking two dusty gas mask kits from the murky depths.

After returning the ladder to the porch (with the Little One so engrossed in "Dora the Explorer" that he hadn't even noticed when I'd walked past him with it the first time), I left my little couch-potato-in-training and scampered off with the kits, finding the collector downstairs dealing with one set of neighbors as a motley assortment of others made their way over with identical boxes. As we each patiently waited for our turn, we exchanged stories about the lengths we'd gone to in order to find our masks. Houses torn apart seemed to be a recurring theme, and one neighbor mentioned how relieved she'd been to have a child in the house small enough to fit into the attic crawl space and retrieve the family's masks.

As I ran back up the stairs, my mind replayed the afternoon's main event, and I couldn't imagine it happening anywhere else but here. After sixteen years spent honing my jaded cynicism and trying to become more native than the natives, I was having an "only in Israel" moment. Good grief. If I start peppering my English with Hebrew words spoken with an American accent more than I pepper my Hebrew with English words spoken with an Israeli accent, then we'll know that I'm truly "een da sheet".

Celebrating the holidays once again

There's something about the holiday season in Israel that makes me realize that there's no place I'd rather be at this time of the year. In some respects, it reminds me of the Christmas season in the US. The excitement and anticipation in the air are palpable, and talk inevitably turns to holiday plans. Strangers smile at one another and exchange holiday greetings as everyone gears up for the feasts and festivals that lie ahead, and inboxes are filled with electronic cards and wishes. At work yesterday, we gorged ourselves on the annual festive holiday meal served in the dining room, and found ourselves back there two hours later for a company toast of wine and sinfully delicious desserts. Leaving the office, I cheerfully exchanged my customary goodbyes for "happy new year" and "happy holidays", receiving smiles and holiday wishes in return.

Of course, given the events of last week, my usual joy is tainted with sorrow and feelings of loss, but life goes on, and given that we will have a house full of people tonight, sitting around in mourning isn't really an option. Fortunately, my sister-in-law, who loves to cook (which would be the exact opposite of me), is bringing nearly all of the food with her. Still, there's much to be done, especially as I have real work to do as well.

Happy new year to all...

See Liza run...

Well hey there everyone. I didn't mean to pull a runner yesterday, but life has been totally hectic with my parents here, unexpected deadlines at work and so on. We've been running around the country, hitting such spots as the Sanhedrin burial caves at Beit Shearim, the old city in Acco, the Neve Tzedek neighborhood and Jerusalem. I'll write a more extensive post with photos after they leave tomorrow and life has returned more or less to normal (it won't return to complete normalcy until the Little One has returned to pre-school next Sunday), but just wanted to mention a few of the highlights of their visit.

The Jerusalem Time Elevator. We went yesterday, and the effects were great! The seats move in accordance with what you're seeing on the screen, and it was brilliant. I did feel sorry for the couple that took the "walk of shame", though. Part way through the film, there was a pause and the lights came on, and the reason for the pause (announced, of course) was that someone in the moving seats wasn't feeling well, and had asked to move to the stationery seats (and no, it wasn't me!). We all sat and watched as a young couple made their way to the new seats quickly and silently, before the lights were dimmed once again and the movie restarted.

Manta Ray. My parents and I spent a fabulous day in Tel Aviv with Savta Dotty, whom they met when we were all in Florida in April. Savta Dotty took us to lunch at Manta Ray, making her a star forever in my parents' eyes. The food was divine. The dessert was unbelievable. Sitting at a table overlooking the Mediterranean, we chatted over the salads, laughed over the fish and seafood, drooled over the chocolate concoction with four spoons moving furiously between plates and mouths. The service was excellent, and we will definitely be going back. Lunch was followed by a stroll through Neve Tzedek, where we wandered around the grounds of the Suzanne Dellal Center, strolled in and out of the small galleries and shops scattered about the neighborhood (which is undergoing some serious gentrification these days), and even managed to acquire a beautiful necklace from the gallery of Ayala Bar, as Savta Dotty found herself an amazing pair of earrings.

The Sanhedrin burial caves. The contents of the caves were interesting to see, and given the fabulously cool temperatures underground, this place is the perfect outdoor summer excursion. From the caves, we went to lunch on Moshav Beit Shearim, and dined at a restaurant called "Ha'kdera Shel Noga" (Noga's Stew). To put it mildly, the food was simply outstanding, not to mention beautifully presented. The setting was gorgeous, the service was excellent, and don't forget to order the parfait for dessert.

Anyway, that's about all I have time for at the moment. Stay tuned for more details (and photos) later on in the week…

Documents, rashes and one Norwegian blogger

Life has been rather hectic in something something world, lately, hence the lack of blog entries. The Little One has been sick on and off for the past week, beginning with a throat infection last week and ending in a rash and swelling that was serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital yesterday evening, at his doctor's suggestion. According to the Husband, he's already looking better this morning, and with any luck, they should be on their way home soon. One humorous moment passed last night during a visit to the eye doctor, who asked us if the Little One has any allergies. Husband and I looked at each other, and then looked at our son, whose face, hands and feet were severely swollen, and whose body was covered from head to toe with a rash. I turned back to the doctor, answered, "apparently", and the Husband and I laughed.

And of course, while this whole situation was unfolding, my old friend Murphy came to pay me a visit. For the past few weeks, I've been totally swamped at work, drowning in over two hundred pages of last-minute documents and tight deadlines. The individual managing the project believed that it wouldn't take too long, given that the documents only required formatting, and that checking the English wouldn't be necessary. Ummmm… Yeah… Sure… They believed that checking the English was "extra", especially since the target audience isn't made up of native speakers either (and are living in a third country, not known for excellence in its mastery of the English language). Knowing that I was essentially shooting myself in the foot, I begged to differ, and won approval from my boss to, ahem, "do my job". Suddenly, I was drowning in a torrential sea of badly written documents, I had other work-style projects on the burner as well, and at home, we were in crisis mode. Hopefully, now that the Little One is returning to his usual dimensions and he's no longer the color of a strawberry, life will revert back to its normal hectic state.

There has been one very bright spot during this period. Last Thursday evening, I had the opportunity to meet up with a really terrific politics and current events blogger, Jan, from Secular Blasphemy. Jan is a Norwegian blogger whose blog I've been reading for years, and whose writings tend to be very pro-Israel, unlike a great deal of the Norwegian mainstream media. Anyway, while reading Jan's blog just over a week ago, I discovered that he was vacationing in Israel. I quickly sent him and email and left him a comment, asking if he'd like to meet up at some point during his trip. He quickly responded in the affirmative, and on the day he arrived in Tel Aviv we all (all being Jan, his two friends, and me) met for drinks and dinner. It was a fascinating, very enjoyable evening, where we discussed everything from politics to lutefisk, and I was once again amazed by how well Norwegians can hold their beer.

Anyhow, I really must go read Harry Potter do something productive before the family returns…

The Wonderfully Wacky World of Why

The Little One turned three a few months ago, and our lives have turned into a live version of Toy Story. While taking the dog for a walk, he spends enormous amounts of time switching his "laser" from "stun" to "kill" (while perfecting his Buzz Lightyear stare - see the picture below - and yes, he really does try to make that face!), and he can often be found running around, pushing the "button" on his chest (while doing his own interpretation of what a button sounds like) in order to "expand his wings", and then calling out "To infinity and beyond!" before leaping at a surprised adult who, fortunately, has lightning quick reflexes (we haven't dropped him yet – does that make us good parents?).

Of course, it's not ALL about Toy Story. Have you ever heard the "Bob the Builder" theme song sung at the top of a three year-old's lungs – as he switches back and forth between English and Hebrew? How about when your only party trick is having your son show people how he says "Dora" or "Dohhra", depending on which language you ask him to say the name in? And speaking of Dora, I'm in the process of trying to coordinate with Allison for us to take the kids to go see the hottest show of the summer among the under-five set – "Dora and the Pirate Adventure" (or something like that...). In Hebrew. Because apparently, we really love our kids, and we just can't seem to get enough of that charming monkey sidekick of hers.

But, tot pop culture aside, one of the more fascinating things to happen lately is that he's recently entered a new phase, one that I like to refer to as "the wonderfully wacky world of why". Why? Yes. Precisely. Why. The Little One has suddenly become very curious about everything, and always wants to know why. "Why did he do that, Mommy?" "Because he was upset, sweetie." "Why was he upset, Mommy?" "Because of what his friend said." "But why, Mommy?" And on and on it goes. It can happen anytime, anywhere. It frequently happens while watching television, though it's also been known to happen when we're out and about, shopping, eating out, or hiking. Sometimes, for a bit of variety, the "whys" are interspersed with "whats" or "hows", but essentially, it all comes down to the same thing – "how can I wear Mommy and Aba down," or "how long can I get them to answer these totally inane questions," and no, it absolutely wouldn't surprise me if he secretly knew the word "inane", but was keeping it to spring on us when we least expected it. He's special that way...

Things I've learned from the Little One...

• Band-Aids (preferably if they have pictures of the Backyardigans on them) can cure any boo-boo, even if there's only been a small bump on the head, and even when there's already a scab and the bleeding has long stopped.


• Dresses, apparently, are only to be worn on Shabbat. To put one on at any other time is a sign of confusion.


• If you're cute, compliments will get you everywhere ("Little One, why did you break that? Now, I'm angry." "Mommy, you're soooo pretty! You're beautiful! I love you!" Sigh...


• My reflexes are quicker than I'd ever imagined possible.


• It's already quite light outside by 5:30 in the morning.


• Construction vehicles that communicate with one another and do jobs with no assistance from humans are normal.


• Ditto the builder who consults with said construction vehicles in order to decide how jobs will get done.


• Crayons work much better once they've been broken in two and their pointy ends have been mashed into oblivion.


• It's okay to cry when your best friend goes home – even if he lives right downstairs.


• Running around the house without any clothes on is fun. If you come to my house, don't forget to knock first...

We Didn't Call You Behemoths

As promised in this post, here is the translated version of the article I wrote for Nana last week. I've tried to maintain the structure and links used in the Hebrew version, and I've made only one change to the content, in order to include a mention of Lisa Goldman's recent trips to Beirut, which could not be included at the time when the original article was published (who says I can't keep a secret?!).

**********

A rather interesting article was published on Nana's Computers portal recently, whose title was "We are all Behemoths". The article purported to provide an overview of the English-language blogosphere in Israel, with one of the more salient points being that as English-language blogs, the bloggers who write them are, in essence offering a skewed view of Israelis and of life in Israel, given that these bloggers, by virtue of the fact that they are native English speakers, are not at all representative of the average Israeli.

The article's author, Dana Peer, (whose mother, incidentally, is American), opts to focus on the blogs of relatively new immigrants, including "What War Zone?", "Zabaj", and "Ari Lives in Israel". The highlighted posts all have one thing in common – experiences mostly revolving around encounters with native Israelis. Peer then goes on to belittle the bloggers of the Anglo-Israeli blogosphere for choosing to focus on these experiences, and claims that,

"the Israeli image in the global blogosphere is proffered almost solely from the viewpoint of immigrants and tourists - and it's possible to say a great deal about them, except for one thing - that they faithfully represent the image of the average Israeli. Forget representing - most of them don't understand it at all."

One of the issues that Peer addresses is the way that some of these new immigrants poke fun at the way that Israelis have incorporated various English words into the Hebrew language. Peer points out in an ongoing email exchange (which began after the article was published) that it is a "natural phenomenon that words from one language are assimilated into another language, and then adapted to meet the relevant rules of grammar." I am inclined to agree with that statement, though as one whose native language is the one from which these words often originate, I must admit that it does sound amusing at times to hear native Hebrew speakers use words in "English" while speaking Hebrew.

The amusement is not necessarily directed at the speaker, but rather at the concept. For the record, I am similarly amused when I hear Americans in the US say the word "chutzpah" with a totally American accent (or any other random word that has entered the English lexicon from another language) in their daily lives, lest you think it is limited to Americans making fun of Israelis.

The Internet Changes the Rules

One of the suggestions that Peer brought up in her email is that perhaps she should have included a disclaimer at the beginning of her article, noting that it was not intended to be a serious look at the Anglo-Israeli blogosphere, but rather a humorous take on a very specific aspect of this virtual society. Indeed, one of the greatest "pitfalls" facing writers today is that the internet has created a situation where one's words have the potential to go farther than ever before.

As such, the writer essentially loses all control over their own creation. Writers can no longer get by with excuses about intended audiences, and it is something that we as bloggers and journalists must take into consideration, accepting that our words may reach unintended audiences who can twist our thoughts to suit their own needs.

A prime example of this would be an incident that occurred last summer, when Norwegian author Jostein Gaarder published an article about Israel and the Jews in a Norwegian newspaper. The article was intended for Norwegian audiences only, and Garder was reportedly completely shocked by the worldwide condemnation he received after his article was translated into other languages and seen to be rather anti-Semitic, even though Garder claimed that this was not his intention, and that his words were taken out of context.

I also think, perhaps, that Peer did not take into account that there might be immigrants reading her article who would not see it as being a funny, cynical piece at all, but rather a personal attack on "those immigrants". In her email, Peer explains that she has taken care to focus on both sides of the issue – that of the immigrant and that of the native-born Israeli, and has tried to maintain a balance in her criticism of both groups. However, in the same way that comedians can openly mock their own group without anyone raising an eyebrow, but will often be criticized for mocking another group, it should come as no surprise that immigrants would have issues with being criticized by someone who is not "one of their own". An indication of this can be seen in the responses to Peer's original article, which, while obviously quite amusing for the native Hebrew speakers (whose comments reflected a rather alarming trend to bash immigrants who had chosen to make Israel their home, which makes me wonder whether some of them had taken the article as seriously as I had), seemed to lose something when the article crossed cultures.

On the one hand, Peer is accurate in her assessment that the new immigrant bloggers among us often focus on their unique immigrant experiences and encounters, which is certainly not an unusual phenomenon, and indeed, is entirely legitimate. Of course, perhaps we, as immigrant bloggers, must also take into account that just we have chosen to make Israel our home, we must be more accepting and open to the nuances of Israeli culture and the local lexicon. Peer mentions an incident in her email of an immigrant blogger poking fun at native Israelis for not being able to say "Massachusetts". Frankly though, until you can master any Hebrew word or name with the letter "resh" in it, you're really not in a position to make fun of "the natives" (unless, of course, you are trying to emulate MK Michael Eitan).

Putting a Human Face on "The Monster"

Humor aside, though, Peer does a disservice to her readers by limiting her article to these few blogs while ignoring the richness and variety of the Anglo-Israeli blogosphere as a whole, a heterogeneous group of writers whose blog postings cover an incredibly wide range of topics, whether it be politics, current events, local culture, family, and so on.

Our corner of the blogosphere includes both new and veteran immigrants, religious and secular bloggers. We have bloggers in the Territories and bloggers who live in Tel Aviv's trendy Sheinkin neighborhood. To say that we've had a few battles over Israeli political issues would be akin to calling last summer's war a minor border incident.

Residents of our virtual neighborhood include bloggers like Canadian-born Lisa Goldman, a journalist whose blog "On the Face" not only received worldwide attention during the war last summer (and whose clips that touch on her recent trips to Beirut can be found on Nana's news portal), but also won the Best Non-Muslim Blog award in a competition held in the Islamic blogosphere; British expatriate "Anglosaxy", a non-Jewish blogger who writes about his view of life in the Holy Land; Bert de Bruin, a Dutch-born blogger who posts at "Dutchblog Israel" in both English and Dutch, primarily about current events and political issues; "Chayyei Sarah", a blog written by an American freelance journalist and teacher living in Jerusalem; Australian expatriate artist Nominally Challenged writes over at "A Whiff of the Med". And these are only a few examples of what can be found out there.

These Israel-based bloggers who write in languages other than Hebrew are the face of Israel for readers around the world. We are the writers who put a human face on the "monster" known as Israel, and do so on a daily basis. We are the writers who readers turned to during the Second Lebanon War last summer, when people the world over were anxious to dig up any shred of information they could find about the human side of the conflict.

It must be noted that the Hebrew-language blogosphere and the English-language blogosphere (not to mention the Russian and Arabic language blogospheres) serve very different purposes. While the Hebrew-language blogosphere is for domestic consumption, Israeli blogs written in English (or in other foreign languages) are often specifically targeted at the world outside of Israel. These bloggers see their natural role as being that of explaining Israel to the rest of the world.

Willingly and Not by Force

Judging by the article itself as well as the numerous talkbacks it received, Peer and her "Israeli" readers seem to think that these new immigrants, all of whom chose to live in Israel, are not allowed to be critical of their adopted country. A running theme throughout the comments was that if these Americans aren't happy in Israel, then they should just simply pack up and go home. If everyone who lived in Israel was asked to leave if they complained, chances are excellent that within a relatively short period of time, there'd be no one living here (except, perhaps for Ehud Olmert, who clearly lives in a world of his own where everything is good and everyone loves him...).

Western immigrants come to Israel because they want to, not because they have to. Israel is where they want to be, but that certainly doesn't mean that life is perfect here. I have been living here for sixteen years. My life is here, my family is here. Do I believe that daily life would be easier in the US? Yes. Do I believe there's a lot to complain about in Israel? Of course. Am I planning to leave? No.

Israel is my home, just as it is the home of all these new immigrants that people seem so keen to mock and send away.

War! What was it good for? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Life in Israel and Lebanon was irrevocably altered exactly one year ago. Illusions of calm were shattered and dreams lay torn, ripped apart by powers beyond our control. Physical recovery from the war has been difficult, harder in some places than in others. Emotional recovery has been equally fraught, as people attempt to gather the shards of broken lives and broken relationships, with some attempts being more successful than others.

A big deal is being made of this one-year anniversary in Israel. Special news reports abound (including several from intrepid fellow bloggers Lisa and Rinat, who are taking the Hebrew language news media by storm these days, following their recent trips to Beirut, as well as Rinat's harrowing journey into South Lebanon), and the Prime Minister toured the north yesterday, stopping along the way to make such unremarkable comments as, "I'm convinced as I was on July 12 last year that we took the right decision (by going to war) that this threat should once and for all be driven away from our border." Major Israeli websites replaced their main pages for five minutes yesterday morning with messages showing solidarity with the missing soldiers, and several local bloggers are also taking note.

Whether we want to or not, we cannot escape these images of the war last summer, and the big question on everybody's minds these days seems to be whether or not we'll have another one this summer, and indeed, it has been a popular survey question in the both the mainstream media and in the local blogosphere. I cannot help but remember how our world turned upside down, how the relative normality of our lives was blown apart. I remember the haunting sounds of the sirens signaling an incoming rocket (which fortunately, I didn't hear too frequently in my own area, as we were "only" in long-range missile range); I remember sitting on the train heading home in the evenings, wondering what would happen if the train were hit by one of these rockets, waiting to be picked up at the train station after hearing that a rocket had fallen in the vicinity. Rumors abounded as we all did what we could to find out where rockets had landed, and I remember how fascinating it was to observe how easily the collective national lexicon was transformed in order to include the words of our war; how every citizen became a military analyst.

To be sure, it was a frightening, tense time, and sadly, while I do not believe that we will have another war this summer, I'm rather inclined to believe that the regional situation is at least as bad as it was one year ago, and that important lessons have not yet been learned. Israeli society no longer believes or trusts its politicians to follow the right path, and Lebanon has not been this unstable since its civil war. Our soldiers are still missing, and we do not know whether they are alive or dead. Hizbullah is still entrenched in Southern Lebanon, and it is as though nothing has changed. Innocence is lost, replaced by cynicism and suspicion. There are no winners. We are all losers in this game, no matter which side of the border we live on.

And with that, I share with you the post that I wrote one year ago today - my first post about the war.

The Game of Life

“Due to the security situation, all trains heading north will terminate in Acco. No trains will travel to Nahariya under orders from the Israel Police. The Nahariya train station has been closed. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause.”

Granted, this announcement doesn’t affect me, as I am traveling south to Tel Aviv. That is, it doesn’t directly affect me. In a greater sense, it affects all of us here in Israel, a sign the times, so to speak. The situation is spiraling out of control at a frightening pace, and I feel like I just don’t know what to do with myself right now. Yesterday it was a series of attacks on the Northern border that left seven Israeli soldiers dead and two kidnapped into Lebanon. This morning a katyusha rocket slammed into Nahariya, killing one woman in her home and injuring tens of other people. Katyushas also hit near Mt. Meron. Israel has retaliated by hitting the international airport in Beirut and Hezbollah’s television station. Who knows what will happen next. Life is suddenly worse than it was a few days ago, and my pacifist persona has been abruptly shunted aside as I decide that nothing would delight me more than to see that arrogant smirk wiped off the face of Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah, preferably by an IDF explosives expert.

I think of the bloggers across the Arab blogosphere who have afforded me the privilege of making their acquaintance, exchanging comments and emails as we work together to break down barriers, barriers put in place by those whose greatest fear is the discovery that we are all merely people and not the monsters they make us out to be. We may not always agree, but there is both a mutual respect and curiosity that we have chosen to embrace. Despite the actions of governments and organizations in our countries, we are trying hard to make our neighborhood a better place. Now, as I sit here on this train heading south, I can’t help but wonder, is it all for naught? It is so easy to forget the big picture as we focus on the relationships, the bridges being built. We share the same interests, the same tastes in food (who would have thought that sushi is so popular throughout the Middle East?), similar musical tastes. Thanks to these bloggers, I have learned about life in Jordan, in Lebanon, in Egypt, and so on. Never before have I been in a position to see a trip to Damascus as something normal, or to discover the excitement and beauty of Beirut.

Fantasy trips between Tel Aviv and Beirut have been planned (*and one year later, some have even fulfilled the fantasy), and we eagerly drink in each others’ words as we enjoy getting to know one another. It’s almost like a drug, and it’s so easy to become addicted, as we get sucked into a virtual world where disagreements still exist, yet borders are there to be traversed and not fortified. Then suddenly, reality comes crashing down as those with the real power make their presence felt through violence and destruction, and you wonder if your dreams of normalcy are only childish visions that will never come to pass. Are we being foolish? Is our bridge-building mere folly, a way to pass the time while allowing ourselves to think that we can somehow make a difference? I have no doubt that for the most part, we are all quite sincere in our quest, but while the perfect sunny skies of summer in the Middle East are tainted with falling rockets and fresh graves are dug in the cracked, brown earth, I cannot help but feel that we are all very small and insignificant as the Nasrallahs of the world show us who is really controlling the game of life.

* Added today.

In memory of little boys

When I was pregnant with our first son, at a time when I believed that we had cleared the hurdles of our previous pregnancies and had finally broken our curse of bad luck, a friend mentioned that sometimes, once that stage of pregnancy was reached, if I laughed or coughed, I might, well, to put it bluntly, leak a little. I filed that bit of information away for safe keeping, and soldiered on. One night, I woke with a horrible leg cramp, and while walking it off, I suddenly felt a great deal of liquid runnng down my legs. While racing to the bathroom, I silently chastised my friend, thinking that she had greatly under-exaggerated, and that what I'd just experienced was quite a bit more than a little leak. And then I realized that the "leak" hadn't stopped. We grabbed our pregnancy books, and it slowly dawned on me that what I was experiencing was a premature rupture of the membranes, a very premature rupture. We quickly drove to the hospital, where our worst fears were confirmed. My waters had broken in the 25th week of pregnancy, and so the nightmare began.

I suddenly found myself lying in a hospital bed, getting up only to go to the bathroom or to shower. I was lonely, miserable and frightened, and there was nothing I could do about any of it. All we could do was wait, knowing that the longer our baby stayed inside me, the greater his chances were for survival. Together, we managed to hold on for about a week, which is when I began having terrible stomach pains. These pains, of course, turned out to be contractions, and a few hours later, following an emergency c-section, our first son was born, weighing all of 700 grams. And all of this occurred nine years ago today.

The next six-and-a-half months were perhaps the most intensely draining I've ever experienced. The first four months were spent in a Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU). As many parents of premature babies will tell you, it was like being on an emotional rollercoaster, where some days went by without a hitch (which is considered a good day), and other days the situation took a turn for the worse, and you fear that all is lost. You can assess how serious your case is by the seniority of the staff member who explains things, and we were practically on a first-name basis with the director of the neonatal department. To this day, we are in touch with the staff members there, who are still a part of our extended family, and no one was more excited than they were when the Little One was born, just over three years ago. Anyway, after those initial four months we transferred to a children's hospital in the center of the country, and spent the next two-and-a-half months doing shifts, in order to ensure that at least one of us was there at all times. Some days we both stayed, just so that we could see one another for more than a few hours at a time. Once all surgeries were behind us and our baby seemed to be on the mend, we finally began to talk about taking him home, but then he got sick again, and he just couldn't fight anymore.

As I said, this all happened nine years ago. We have, for the most part, moved on with our lives, and we have been blessed with the Little One, whose mission seems to be to keep us on our toes at all times. The loss is always back there somewhere, but it doesn't rule my life; it doesn't define who I am. My life is the normal life of any sleep-deprived, caffeine-craving mother of a toddler – indeed, many of the people who entered my life after this period have no idea it even took place. It's always there somewhere, though, somewhere in the back of my head, waiting to surface as life dictates. It surfaced a few weeks ago with the sickness and death of that little boy, and obviously, it surfaced again now, on what would have been our child's ninth birthday.

On the day of the other little boy's funeral, I began to think about words that a bereaved mother might find comforting. I was on the train, coming home late at night, and the phrases started coming together in my mind. When I got home, I grabbed a pen and paper, and the words just tumbled out as I thought of two little boys whose lives were cut short. I've never really considered poetry to be one of my strengths, but this is what I wrote...

"Fragile little arms wrapped tightly 'round my neck. Through love and pain, laughter and tears, fragile little arms remain, wrapped tightly 'round my neck.

Time is playing games again and nothing stays the same, save fragile little arms wrapped tightly 'round my neck.

Worlds are spinning, moving, crashing; the grip is growing lighter. Pulling, tugging,
wrenching free, fragile little arms wrapped loosely 'round my neck.

The warmth around my neck is gone, replaced by shards of ice and stone. Checking once, checking twice, unbelieving, not accepting that fragile little arms are gone.

Fragile little arms float freely now, drifting through the skies, softly, slowly drifting, off to parts unknown. Gently oh so gently, fragile little arms are safe again, wrapped forever 'round my heart."

It's in the bag...

I've been at my current job for 20 months now, lugging my beloved laptop back and forth everyday, often using my train time as writing time. I'm not a big laptop expert, and am quite happy with my work-provided Dell (though I'm desperately in need of a new battery, which I keep forgetting to remind out IT guys about...). What I'm not happy about is the work-provided Dell laptop bag, which is big, bulky and heavy, not to mention terribly unfashionable. And, not that I am terribly fashionable (think "Gap chic" on a good day...), but I would still like to drag said beloved laptop around in a trendier, more useful bag. As it stands today, I barely have enough room for my "required" items, such as my wallet, a book (which will become even more problematic once I receive my pre-ordered version of the new Harry Potter book, due out in just a few weeks' time), a hairbrush (which I even remember to use on occasion), copious amounts of tissues, glasses case, and in winter, a small umbrella (fortunately, the Little One has long left the Cheerios phase, or I'd have little baggies with Cheerios in them as well, with the baggie often getting punctured by the brush and resulting in a smattering of Cheerio crumbs spread throughout). Everything must be fitted just so, and I often find myself having to take everything out and start from scratch. Chronic paininthebuttitis, that's what it is...

Hence, I've started the search for a new bag. I love bags – not the sleek yet impractical mini-bags, but rather bags with lots of room and lots of pockets and compartments. I love pockets and compartments (my father is the same way, so it's clearly a genetic trait). When I go bag shopping, I always make sure to bring a book with me, just to verify that it will fit in any bag to which I take a liking. If a bag doesn't pass the book test, it's probably not going to pass over the threshold out of the store, at least not with me. It's not that I buy a lot of bags, mind you. Truly, I don't (though I'm guessing that some males would probably disagree with my assessment, but seriously, how could I even debate this with individuals who only needs three pairs of shoes or less to get them through all of life's twists and turns?). I just tend to lust over them from afar, hoping to come up with a legitimate reason to make the purchase. I may look with longing, but I need to a definite reason to buy, and if the price is outrageous, I will never find the justification. Of course, the term "outrageous" is relative...

Where was I? Oh yes. A bag for the laptop. There's a chance I might have a suitable bag at home that would only require the purchase of a laptop sleeve, but I'm secretly hoping that I don't. Or maybe not so secretly, seeing as I've just let you all in on my little secret. Jeez, I can't even be trusted to keep my own secrets! Sigh... So anyway, I've been perusing the internet, getting bag ideas. And I've discovered something. I've discovered that I'm clueless (which some of you may have realized long before this). I don't know what I need, what will best suit my requirements. I don't know if I'll be happier with a tote bag or a messenger bag, and I keep finding myself surreptitiously staring at women's bags wherever I am, trying to envision myself with a similar bag and wondering if the particular style in question will do the trick. I've always tended to favor the messenger bag style, but that's only because I've never seriously considered the tote style, never really taken an in-depth look. Could I be a tote bag person? Could I have that trendy tote, or will I always be destined to go with the (more casual) messenger bag? Decisions decisions. If I go the messenger route, I'd have to make sure that I'm not taken in by canvas which, while totally laid back and comfortable (totally me), may start to look tatty, especially after one rainy Israeli winter. I'm not big on those brand emblems either, and I just can't see myself getting one of those flashy bags with brightly colored stripes or patterns, or some hideously loud-colored bag – it would have to be either black or brown, I'm thinking. After all, it has to be a bag that I can carry around with me wherever I go after work, on those rare occasions when I meet up with friends or go to a meeting of some sort, something that will fit in with my usual style (or lack thereof). Polka dots and plaids just won't do.

Which brings me to my next discovery. Who knew that bags could be so ugly? Some of the designs and patterns I saw were truly horrifying, as though a paint factory had exploded, or that my son had had a hand in the design. Or I did. People who choose laptop bags with garish polka dots should not be allowed to have laptops. There. I've said it. The truth laid bare. It's like letting guests from the Jerry Springer show breed. It just isn't right. Period. I may not have a lot of style, but I can certainly recognize an item that has none. I mean, it's not rocket science, you know. Besides, let's say for the sake of argument that you get the garishly polka-dotted bag. As long as you carry that bag, you can never wear polka-dots or stripes. You will clash with your bag.

I'm not saying that laptop bags can't be stylish and trendy, and even have color. Of course they can! Colored solids, elegant stripes (admittedly, my stripes would be in neutral colors). Knock yourselves out. Just remember what always used to say to the New Zealander who used to cut my air – make it interesting, but not embarrassing. There's a fine line between the two, and easily blurred at that.

And of course, now that I've probably managed to alienate the few readers that I have, if any of you have managed to read this far without being insulted, I'd, ummm, welcome your suggestions for a new laptop bag...

Wandering around the North

Since moving to our home in the north approximately ten years ago (though in this case "north" is open to interpretation, as some would refer to it as the "Northern Sharon" or simply as part of the ever-expanding boundaries of the "center"), we have done our best to take advantage of our proximity to some of the more beautiful parts of the country (and this, of course, also being open to interpretation). While I enjoy a good walk, I've never been a big hiker. The husband, on the other hand, lives to hike, and consequently, we've spent a great deal of our marriage meandering along various trails around the country, trails with varying degrees of difficulty. Fortunately, Israel has a great deal to offer when it comes to communing with nature, whether you fancy a treacherous hike through the desert, a leisurely stroll through a forest or past a waterfall, a picnic in a nature reserve (watch those campfires, folks!), or an educational outing to any one of a great number of antiquities sites and ancient ruins.



We've spent a great deal of time in the wild lately, and I never cease to marvel at all this country has to offer. A few weeks ago it was Nazareth and the Basilica of the Annunciation with friends, and just this past weekend we managed to hit the ancient synagogue (with its very impressive mosaic floor) at Kibbutz Beit Alfa, the Belvoir (Kochav Hayarden) fortress (the photo above was taken there), and the water channels by Nachal Hakibbutzim (see the photo below). We also managed to hit a tremendous amount of traffic on the drive home, but that's simply par for the course when returning home late on fabulous Saturday afternoon.

The Basilica of the Annunciation took my breath away. One of my favorite things about living here is the accessibility to so much history, and the Basilica did not disappoint. Wandering through its intricately designed halls filled me with a great sense of awe. I gazed around the chapel and stood by the grotto, allowing myself to be taken in by the historical impact of my surroundings, feeling as I had felt many years earlier when I first visited various sites in Jerusalem's Old City, feeling the history come alive. I never grow tired of the seemingly endless sightseeing opportunities here, but few have struck me as the Basilica did.

And of course, what outing would be complete without food? Indeed, some of the best food I've eaten in Israel has been discovered far away from the culinary center of Tel Aviv. We recently had the distinct pleasure to eat at El Babor (click the link and then scroll up to the first restaurant listed under "North"), a restaurant in one of the Arab-Israeli towns lining Route 65. Just thinking about the lamb's neck stuffed with rice and pine nuts makes me drool with longing, and I'm not even a big fan of meat! Unusual salads and professional service have put El Babor on our permanent radar, and we will undoubtedly look for reasons to return.

The north is filled with excellent restaurants that are well-worth the detour off the beaten path, but should you wish to bring your own, there's certainly no shortage of picnic and barbecue sites, many of which also have large, well-designed play areas. I've lost track of the number of times when we've stumbled upon one of these spots during our travels, caught totally unprepared (in other words, not having had the forethought to actually pack and bring food), and added the location to our growing mental list of spots to return to with food and friends. And, in typical Israeli style, if you stay long enough, the inevitable four-wheeled Israeli phenomenon affectionately known as the "gazlan" will roll up, proffering a splendidly fattening selection of ice cream. The kids are happy and everyone is sated. Now if only someone would come around with the mobile cappuccino maker, life would indeed be complete...

Can you say that in English?

I can't believe it's been nearly a year since we were last in the US. I remember the trip vividly, as though it took place just last month, yet suddenly I find myself making preparations to fly once again. It will be different from last time though, for two reasons. First of all, we will be flying to Florida instead of New York, and second of all, the Little One and I will be flying solo without the Husband, as he has too much going on work-wise and can't get away right now.

I'm really looking forward to the trip, though not without some trepidation. We'll be flying the route recommended by SavtaDotty, which involves a direct flight from Tel Aviv to Atlanta lasting just over 13 hours, a layover of just under three hours, during which we'll have to go through Customs, grab luggage, return luggage, and probably take a train to our next gate (which I plan to milk for maximum entertainment value). The last leg of our journey should take a little more than 90 minutes, where the Little One's grandparents will be waiting for us by the massive aquarium to help us collect our luggage and make the fifteen-minute drive back to the house. I've ordered kiddie meals for the kiddie and selected our seats for all four flights (sadly, no bulkhead seats were available), and have more or less decided that potty training will be put on hold while in transit so that we won't have any unfortunate incidents at inconvenient times. The last thing I need while standing in the Customs line is "Mommy, doody/pee pee", and not having any place to run (and not wanting to give up our place in line).

But I digress. One of the things that concerns me the most about this trip (aside from having to keep my son entertained for three weeks straight) is language. As time goes by, he is speaking more and more in Hebrew, and less and less in English. He understands everything we say to him in English, he chooses books and videos in English, but the language he usually opts to speak in is Hebrew. If I ask him how to say a certain word in English, he can tell me, and occasionally initiates in English, but for the most part, his primary spoken language is now Hebrew. Our conversations usually occur with me speaking to him in English and him responding in Hebrew. I'm not overly thrilled with this situation, but don't like the idea of trying to force him to use English, as I don't want him to rebel against the language. I don't want him to see English as a chore.

I've begun preparing him for the trip, and he knows that in a few weeks we'll be getting on an airplane and flying to visit Grandma and Grandpa (and possibly Mickey Mouse, which has proved an effective deterrent when I want him to do something or stop doing something, as he doesn't want to miss meeting the mouse), and a slew of cousins, and aunt and uncle, etc. While gently pushing him to speak more English, I've been trying to explain to him that when we go to visit Mommy's family, he has to speak in English, as they don't speak Hebrew, but I'm not sure he understands yet. He seems to understand the concept in reverse, in that if we tell him to say something to someone else, and we tell him in English, he switches to Hebrew, even when it's a word that he normally uses in English. I'm hoping that once he's fully immersed in a totally English-speaking environment, the language will come to him naturally, and that after three weeks there, his English speaking skills will be on par with his Hebrew speaking skills. Needless to say, I don't relish the thought of having to play full-time translator for the duration of our trip, and I know that my parents will be incredibly frustrated if he responds to them only in Hebrew.

Given that he is not yet three years-old, I'm not sure how much he comprehends of his bilingualism. He understands that there's an accent he uses on certain letters when speaking in Hebrew and that the accent changes when speaking in English. Sometimes, if I ask him to say a particular word in English, he simply repeats it in Hebrew, using an American accent. While watching Balamory last week, Archie came on the screen. I made some innocuous comment about Archie and was immediately chastised by my son, who explained that it wasn't "Archie", it was "Ahhhrrrchie", and no amount of explaining and cajoling would convince him otherwise, even though Balamory is in English. On the other hand, while being read to in English by one of his young Israeli cousins recently, when the girl stumbled over a word or two, the Little One (who knew the book virtually by heart) corrected her while using his American accent.

Before we flew to the US last year, he was speaking, but not really connecting words into sentences yet. While there, he had something of a language explosion, and because it happened while we were in an English speaking environment, the "explosion" was mainly in English. After we returned to Israel, his Hebrew caught up with his English, and then surpassed it as he began to truly interact with his peers and other Israelis who were, of course, all around him. I am hoping for a similar explosion (or at least concrete recognition of the fact that there are two distinct languages, and that not everyone speaks both) during this trip, but given that his language skills are far more developed this time around, I'm not quite sure what to expect.

*This post cross-posted to Brio.

Shake It, Mommy. Shake It!

A major milestone is now being reached in the something something household. We are currently in the throes of potty training, after an unsuccessful attempt was made last summer (resulting in copious amounts of urine being removed from various items that shall remain unidentified, lest you think twice about where to sit during any upcoming visits to our home). We're doing much better this time around, and aside from the increasingly infrequent accident, I'd say we're doing quite well.

The technicalities of the potty training process are accompanied by much running and cheering – I've lost track of the number of times I've been forced to leap up from the chair in our home office, chasing after the little blur that ran past the door while yelling, "Mommy! Pee pee!" We race to the bathroom, and he hops onto his little step stool. Pants are quickly pulled down, and for me as a female, this is where it gets tricky. Aim. Who knew? Certainly not me. I can honestly say that I'd never really thought about it. Until now. Until I watched as the Little One proudly managed to hit everything but the inside of the toilet bowl. The walls, the floor, the plumbing, the raised toilet cover. Who'd have guessed that such a little boy could make such a big mess? I quickly mastered the fine art of aiming, given that it seemed preferable to take an active role in the urination process than to have to clean up the resulting mess if I didn't.

You'd think that once the stream had stopped, we'd be finished. Umm, not quite. Unbeknownst to me, there's a part two. Little One has finally emptied his bladder, and as I start to reach for the toilet paper, he offers a brief instruction. "Shake it, Mommy. Shake it!" Shake what? What? OH! That? I have to shake that? Good grief. Once again, I find myself asking, "who knew?" I'd never have guessed that one. After all, our plumbing works differently, and unless I'm doing something wrong, there's no shaking required at any stage.

And of course, lest you think that this process is done without speaking, think again. Think "positive reinforcement". While the Little One is shooting his stream, I'm shooting off a verbal stream of encouragement. "Way to go, Little One!" "That's right. You ARE making pee pee in the toilet!" "Ooops! Not on the wall, Sweetie." "What? You don't have pee pee, you have doody? Turn around! Turn around!" "No, you can't see your doody while you're actually sitting on the toilet, Sweetie. It doesn't work that way."

Finally, once all is said and done, once we've shaken, wiped, flushed and dressed, it's time for congratulations. "You made pee pee/doody in the toilet! You rock the house, Little One!" "Let's tell Aba what you did!" "Yay!"

Then there are those occasions when we are somewhat less successful, though thankfully, there seem to be fewer and fewer of these. In this case, the scene usually plays out as follows:

"Little One, do you have to make pee pee or doody?"

"No, Mommy."

Five to ten minutes later. "Little One, do you have to make pee pee or doody?"

"No, Mommy."

Five to ten minutes later, after hearing peculiar "straining" noises coming from the Little One. "Little One, did you make pee pee? Did you make doody?"

"No, Mommy. I'm farting."

"Are you sure? You're a little stinky, and your pants are wet. Did you make doody?"

"YES!"

Sigh... "Why didn't you tell me, Sweetie? You're supposed to do it in the potty, remember?"

Little One opts for the diversionary tactic. "MOMMY! LOOK! IT'S FIREMAN SAM ON TV! DID YOU SEE FIREMAN SAM? FIREMAN SAM! FIREMAN SAM!"

By now I am hip to his tactics, and while he continues to chatter on about Fireman Sam, I carefully pick him up and run to the bathroom. I extol the virtues of toilet use, while he again chooses to go with the diversionary tactic.

"Little One, you know you should be making pee pee and doody in the toilet, right? You have to use the toilet, Sweetie."

More often than not, he responds with, "In da name uh-duh Hundred Maker (sic) Wood, I cature (sic) you!"

And really. How could I possibly argue with logic like that?

Liza – Queen of the Desert

"Welcome to Jordan and thank you for using UMNIAH GSM network. We wish you
a pleasant stay in Jordan. For customer care inquiries please dial XXXX"

This was the SMS text message that I received on Saturday morning as we drove along a trail known as the Peace Road, running parallel to the Jordanian border, deep in the Arava Desert between Moshav Idan and Moshav Ein Yahav.

As you may have surmised from the cacti photo in the blog header (taken on our porch), we are big fans of the desert. Without fail, whenever we head down south to either the Negev or the Arava, my mind immediately kicks into high gear as I try to come up with a feasible plan for relocating. Such was the case this past weekend, as we made our way through the Arava with various members of Husband's family, stopping here and there to see the sights and to hear absolutely nothing aside from the sounds of our own voices.

The desert in Israel is simply magnificent. While I've never been much of a hiker, there are few sights that I enjoy more than the stark desert landscape, with its ragged-edged mountains and snaking wadis, and as we delve in deeper and deeper, I feel more and more at peace with myself. Suddenly, nothing else matters, and my stress is gone. In fact, here's the text message that I sent to nrg after we arrived at our desert accommodations (with a few minor modifications):

"We're down in the desert. I'm sitting on a sofa outside of our little cottage, drinking coffee and watching the stars come out. It's absolutely incredible. Wish you could see it. Just had to tell someone how amazing it is here. We're right on the border with Jordan, and Husband's cell phone has even switched to a Jordanian network (as mine did the next morning). So incredible here. I don't want to leave."

And it truly was that incredible. We stayed at a little place on Moshav Hatzeva called La Siesta, and as you can see from the pictures, it was absolutely idyllic. We relaxed, we barbecued, we relaxed some more (especially after I downed my own mini-bottle of white wine at breakneck speed), and for the first time in a long time, I almost felt like me again. And, needless to say, I miss that feeling. Exhausted by the rat race and growing increasingly wary of hi-tech, my soul is in dire need of rejuvenation, which will hopefully happen before it's sucked away completely.


Anyway, back to the desert. We left mid-morning on Friday, stopping to drop off the dog with family and pick up one of the nephews, who would act as a playmate for the Little One during the long drive south. Following a brief detour through the bowels of Beersheva, in a fruitless search for a long-closed yet fondly remembered ice cream parlor, we left the world behind us, watching as the buildings were replaced by Bedouin communities and the cars were replaced with camels. Husband had put together an itinerary that ensured we would have a journey of never-ending vistas, and as usual when it comes to all things desert, he did not disappoint. We ooohed at lookout points over the big and small craters, we aaahed over the rock formation that somehow resembles a frog. We held on tight as we wound our way around the hairpin turns along the narrow road that hugs the crater wall, and we dragged the children on foot to admire the views and the solitude of the desert.


Upon arrival at our cottage, I gently placed the napping Little One in the middle of our big bed, and woke him up when dinner was ready. I spent the interim leaning back on the pillows on our patio, looking up at the stars and wishing that I could stay in that position forever. There is no sky like the desert sky at night, with its velvety blackness peppered by millions of sharp pinpoints of light. The desert and the sky seemingly go on forever, and without realizing it, you have become an integral part of this magnificent, awesome setting. The feelings of oneness with the surroundings are total and undeniably soothing, and suddenly, you feel complete and at peace in ways that you have forgotten are even possible. And this is how I felt.

Of course, it certainly helped that the weather was perfect, and unusually warm for this time of year. Winter nights in the desert are quite cold, and somehow, we'd lucked out. Our luck would continue into Saturday, as we saw the desert sights while wearing short-sleeves, and sometimes no sleeves, as Little One felt the need to remove his shirt whenever it got wet, which happened with greater frequency than one might expect. After making our way from one end of the Peace Road to the other (periodically thinking about my Jordanian friend Rami, knowing how much he misses the desert in his native country, and knowing that he would have enjoyed these views just as I did) and stopping briefly to view desert sculptures, we ended up at Park Sapir, where some of the adults prepared lunch while others chased a certain small, topless child over bridges, around a lake and through trees and bushes (who'd have guessed that such little legs could move so fast?! Pant pant...).

Following lunch and a tad more chasing, we packed up, collected all children, and headed for home, accompanied for most of the journey by an all-encompassing dust storm that turned the skies and the air a dull shade of brownish gray and making everything look hazy and blurred. The Little One slept, and I daydreamed about moving to the desert. As we say in this neck of the desert, life is something something...

Mommy-blogger strikes again

Yesterday, I inadvertently introduced the Little One to YouTube, after he walked in on me fiddling with our home computer. In order to keep him from playing with the stapler and drawing on the desk, I quickly typed in the address and ordered him to turn and face the screen. Working our way through various clips of Sesame Street, Thomas the Tank Engine, and the greatly revered Bob the Builder, we discovered that not only could Bob and the gang fix pretty much anything, but they could also probably hold their own on American Idol.

It is strongly recommended that beverages not be consumed while viewing the clip below. With any luck, high-brow, intellectual blogging will return to these pages shortly. In the meantime, you'll just have to put up with more low-brow, mommy-blogger silliness...

Open Sesame

Fortunately for me, my early childhood took place before big purple dinosaurs roamed the earth. My brother and I grew up on a diet of Mr. Rogers, the Electric Company, and Captain Kangaroo, among others. The unquestionable king of this genre was, of course, Sesame Street, where we learned our numbers in English and Spanish, we became intimately acquainted with the alphabet ("the sponsor of today's show is the letter 'L...'"), and discovered that people from different races, large birds, invisible elephants, and happily unkempt inhabitants of garbage cans could come together in harmonious diversity, teaching children that our differences should be embraced and celebrated. To this day, I have fond memories of Sesame Street, and admit that I felt a flutter in my heart upon seeing the Sesame Street display at the New York State Museum during our visit to the US last summer, containing sections of the original set, as well as explanations about the show's various rites of passage.

I tried to get the Little One interested in the current American version of Sesame Street when we were in the US, but he greatly preferred the numerous other shows being broadcast on PBS Kids and the Disney Channel. We do, however, have a few Sesame Street videos that we brought back with us, and he enjoys watching Baby Bear learn the alphabet (which includes the classic song shown below) and Ernie teaching the others how to count. It's not quite the same, though, and he'd much rather focus his attention elsewhere.



Therefore, you can imagine my joy at discovering that the Israeli version of this classic is now being broadcast on our local children's channel, not to mention my delight in seeing my son fall in love with this current local version just as I did more than thirty years ago. Rehov Sumsum (pronounced "soom-soom"), has captured my heart just as much as it has captured the heart of the Little One, and we snuggle together on the couch as we watch the antics of Arik and Bentz (the Hebraicized names given to Ernie and Bert) taken from the original American show, as well as the characters created especially for the Israeli version. They have continued with the tradition of diversity by including characters who are native-born Jews, native-born Arabs, and immigrants. Our favorite character is a trendy little muppet of Arab descent named Mahboob, who speaks mostly in Hebrew, but counts in Arabic and often teaches the others about different aspects of his culture.

I want my son to love his country and to be proud of his identity, and I also want him to understand and embrace the concept of diversity. I want him to realize that exposure to different cultures provides an opportunity to learn, whether it be the exotic cultures of distant lands or different cultures existing in Israel and the US. I want him to know that he has neighbors whose holidays are different from his own, and whose cultures are just as rich and beautiful as the one in which he is being brought up. Most of all, I want him to accept these people and their differences, and to know that different does not mean bad. And if it is spiky-haired, bespectacled Mahboob who teaches him such things, then so much the better. I know that life is not Sesame Street and Sesame Street is not real, but the lessons it offers my son are the lessons he will carry with him for a lifetime, just as the original Sesame Street did for his mother.