My best friend in Holon, without doubt, is my bus pass. Aside from its flashy and colorful appearance-- bordered by a new and exciting primary color each month, and with a glamorous, sparkling stripe down its middle-- my "chofshi chodshi" (free monthly) is nearly magical in its powers. By simply presenting this lone 2 by 4 piece of cardboard to the bus driver upon entering any Dan or Egged bus in the entire Tel Aviv area, I am suddenly a free woman: free to travel anytime, anywhere, free of charge. (The small catch here, of course, is that the card was at some point in time indeed paid for, before my kind madrichim left it in my grateful hands. But that it might have been paid for sometime in the distant past, likely by my own tuition, is seemingly and blissfully irrelevant when I whiz importantly past the bus driver on a hot and uncomfortable day and sit myself down for an air-conditioned, lazy bus ride.) With my bus pass, I can go anywhere- I can visit the shuk on Allenby or the mall in Rishon or the decorated tapestry shops in Yafo. (In other words, I can go spend money, free of charge.) I can go to and from the gym three times in one day- theoretically I mean, if I happen to be feeling fat, or something. My bus pass is my ticket to exploration, and I can say with a sizable amount of conviction that I- for better or for worse- might know this best.
You see, I speak from experience. Upon discovering the near superpowers of my new handy companion- namely, my bus pass- I decided I would take full advantage of them. And so the experiments began. Where does line one take me? I asked myself, after having lived in my new home in Holon for what I recall amounted to less than a week. I proceeded to drag some poor yearcourse souls with me onto the bus, encouraging them that line one might just take us back from our faraway field trip to our apartments on Eilat Street. That I, with my negative sense of direction, might recognize our brand new neighborhood if we happened to arrive somewhere remotely close was a longshot, but I kept this small truth to myself. Alas, we didn't, and after a long half hour spent sightseeing various streets of Holon through the bus windows, the group of us noticed that we were soon heading towards that formidable, unpromising highway and decided to get off. We were left- a bit dazed from our long trip to nowhere- at a vast and unfamiliar cemetery outside Bat Yam, and from there we left it to the one Israeli with us to find a familiar bus route and take us back home.
Two more such bus adventures followed. One involved taking a long, unintentional detour to Yerushalayim Street in Yafo while seeing if bus 88 would maybe take me home from work. (It didn't.) The next was that time I traveled around Holon at night on bus 92, hoping to at some point arrive at the gym, and instead finding myself in Tel Aviv. The 92, I realized later, is the one bus outside my apartment that does not pass by the gym. Figures. That day, I took eleven buses. Eleven! And I didn't pay a cent. Or more importantly, an agurah.
One might argue that these experimental bus trips were an utter waste of my time. That I was foolish, perhaps, for thinking to get on a bus simply on the blind hope that it might, coincidentally, take me to my exact destination. That I should have at least thought to ask the bus driver before investing hours of my time traveling to mysterious and surprise locations. And these arguments, I concede, would in fact hold some validity- if, that is, I wasn't at all times accompanied by my all-powerful bus pass. I would argue that equipped with my bus pass, my bus adventures (as I would term them) were worthwhile experiments, in which I was able to both see more of my temporary home here, while also learning more about the various bus routes. (Generally, which bus routes not to take, but no matter. Just as worthwhile information.)
I say all this about my bus pass to arrive at a semi-unrelated subject, and that is the subject of my recent, traumatic loss of my wallet. Here is the connection: when I lost my wallet the other day, when I absentmindedly dropped what is probably my most treasured and important possession while on a bus in Bat Yam- it was not my debit card that I later fretted about missing, and not my license or other forms of ID either, but rather my beloved bus pass. While I raced frantically up and down Yoseftal searching for my wallet and making phone calls to various bus companies and family members, questions raced through my mind: How would I get to and from volunteering? Would I stop going to the gym, and go on simple runs instead? And what about going out on Thursday nights: would I be the lone poor soul struggling to keep my balance on a jerking bus while I pay for a short bus ride, while my peers smoothly pass by with their shiny, still-intact bus passes? HOW unfair. And who's the lucky jerk who's probably already found my wallet at this point, and discovered my magical pride possession within. Where will he choose to travel with it. I had to find my wallet.
But I didn't. Bus 46 passed me four more times, and each time I bothered the bus driver to let me on and search quickly for a dropped wallet. Not to be found. I suffered through Dan bus company's on-hold music at least three times before their secretaries managed to forward me the correct number- that is, a number that actually had a voice on the other end, a number that was actually functioning. But of course, as these things always work, that bus employee's search was to no avail either.
I didn't have time for this, I realized with a sigh. There was a yearcourse party that night, and I was going, wallet or no wallet, and (gasp) bus pass or no bus pass. I had just a little more than two weeks left in Israel, and I would enjoy it, even wallet-free. My mom and I devised a plan to get me some cash, we canceled my debit card, and that was that. It would be Ok. (There was no replacing my bus pass, but I thought for a few weeks I could stand a simple cartisiyat noar punch card. Obviously not comparable, and a bit of a sad turn of events, but would have to do under the circumstances.)
And then - the glorious climax to a dramatic afternoon. I received a call from an Israeli woman who asked in her accented Hebrew if I was "Naomi Rena Forman." Indeed I was. Am. My wallet had been located! It still existed, and was in seemingly good hands with this kind civilian. It's a wonderful country. And it was a wonderful party. And the next morning (a little dizzy, but beaming), I set out to the woman's apartment to retrieve my wallet. And here's the best part: when I arrived, not only did she hand me that familiar green leather wallet with the black duct tape, complete with all my receipts and ID cards and emergency phone numbers and my lovely monthly bus pass, but she proceeded to invite me inside to share a drink and chat for a bit. Where did I come from? What was I doing inn Israel? she wanted to know. Would I want to come over for dinner sometime? I learned her story, too, how she came here from Iran when she was just a little girl, how half her siblings live in New York, how she could never move there because of the cold. I told her repeatedly how eternally grateful I was of her gesture, of the trouble she went through to locate me, the "miskenah." Tell your mother you're in good hands here, she told me. We take good care of you here.
And I am. And they do. Even in Bat Yam, where this entire saga unfolded. Bat Yam, the (excuse my terminology here) "Shit hole of Israel," Bat Yam, where crime levels and poverty levels are high, and the people live modest lives (to put it nicely), and a good number of them are total creeps (to put it bluntly). Despite all this, my abandoned wallet rode a bus un-stolen for who knows how long, even with its grand bus pass inside. It's one of those "only in Israel"s, I decided, while reflecting on the whole event on my way home. I try to imagine, but simply can't really, dropping my wallet on the T in Boston and then becoming buddies with my new friend in Dorchester who's located it. It's just something that wouldn't really happen.
So it's with a genuine tear, for sure, that I'll leave this country soon, these friendly, welcoming people, and of course, my bus pass.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
A Type of Melting Pot
Generally, I try my best to avoid the central bus station in Tel Aviv. The building is six or seven long and winding floors, connected by randomly situated zigzag staircases and broken escalators. I'm not the best with directions in the first place; I'm always getting lost in malls and such. So when I am forced through that station, half my time is spent navigating my way to the information center and then circling more to find the right spot. On top of that, the building is located in a poor and dangerous part of Tel Aviv, making walking around the place for an hour not the safest activity. In short, if you include finding my way to the sparse and hidden bathrooms (nature calls me often), I've spent far too much time wandering that bus station.
But as I live right outside the city this section, I inevitably end up in that dreadful sketchy maze of a building at least once a week. Last time I was there, while waiting that never-ending wait for our barely existent 90 bus- I people-watched a bit, and got to thinking: Tel Aviv, demographically, is starkly different than Jerusalem. Aside from the large number of Ethiopians passing through the area, there's also a sizable population of other Africans (refugees from Sudan, Eritrea...), as well as a surprising amount of Asians from I don't know where. In contrast to Jerusalem's very European, Anglo, and religious feel, Tel Aviv at times seems more exotic, foreign. To me, it's a less-familiar feel, a less-Jewish feel, but interesting for all those reasons.
Last week, on my way from Tel Aviv to Ein Tsurim (where I ate the seder with my parents and cousins), a black soldier sat down next to me on the bus. I immediately assumed he was Ethiopian, until he started talking on the phone in perfect English in what I thought was an American accent. Which led me to think that he was a black American, which confused me, because among the entire mesh of populations and nationalities and skin colors in this country, there are very few black Americans. (There are the basketball players and the "Black Hebrews" in Dimona, but what were the chances?) So I asked him if he was American, and after talking to him for a bit found out I was conversing with the first and only Kenyan ever to serve in the Israeli Army. Turns out, his dad had been Israeli and his mom a Kenyan. After his parents died in a car crash, the Israeli Army called him and asked if he'd like to move to Israel and serve in the army. So he did, why not. He learned his English in grade school back in Kenya, where apparently everything is taught solely in English. And now he spends his time serving in some elite unit of Tzahal, staying with friends he's met at various ulpans, and explaining to countless Ethiopians who assume he speaks Amharik that he is in fact a Kenyan and can only help them in Hebrew. (Soon after he told me this, an older Ethiopian woman turned around to ask him something about where to get off. "I'm sorry," he told her in Hebrew and shook his head. "I don't know Amharik. I'm from Kenya.") Anyways, it seemed he was sort of a big deal, being the only Kenyan in the army- he said he'd met some important people and been on TV etc. So I felt like sort of a big deal, sitting next to him and all.
On the subject of Africans, I also was able to meet and hang out with some Sudanese refugees here recently. Over changeover, I very spontaneously traveled to Eilat with some friends. Spontaneous, meaning that Pam and I, after suddenly deciding to go, literally had ten minutes to run around the Jerusalem hostel and grab our bathing suit and sunglasses before racing to make the last bus down south. There's a lot of Sudanese refugees around there, around 1,000 I think. I met a Dutch woman on the beach who was watching over a group of Sudanese children, talking to them in English. She explained that it was an after-school program. That the kids attend Arabic schools (because Arabic is their native language), learn Hebrew at school, and English in the afternoons from the volunteer social workers like herself. I volunteered with the group for a few hours the next afternoon, aka played with them, took funny pictures of them, had a free meal. They were adorable and hysterical; one girl wouldn't let me go and kept pulling me around through the tunnels on the playground. It was a good day.
And then there was Save a Child's Heart. It was one of the day volunteer placements while all the schools where we normally volunteer had started their Passover vacations, and yearcourse's hadn't begun yet. The organization is really incredible: It was started by an American cardiologist who made aliyah to Israel, and with the help of donations, decided to bring kids with heart problems from nearby third-world countries to Israel and treat them at the Wolfson hospital in Holon. For three months, the kids live in a group house nearby, some with their moms and some without, and have all kinds of heart surgeries at the hospital. The idea is that they go home cured, when in their country they absolutely wouldn't have had that chance, and would have most likely died before reaching 20. They go home happy. When we volunteered there, there was a group from Iran and a group from Zanzibar. We played with them and interacted with them, without language of course- although one little girl from Zanzibar did congratulate herself at one point with an excited "Kol Hakavod!" Aside from the girl I had to pry off me so she wouldn't steal my camera, the kids were all good-natured and adorable and fun.
And that is Israel, in a different light...when it's not black hat or rich American or even Jewish. The country is so centrally located- smushed between Arab countries, Asia, Europe, and Africa- and the population does, in a sense, reflect that. It's the sense I've been getting more and more while being here, while I help teach English to a class full of Russian immigrants in Holon, or a group of Ethiopians at Ben Yakir. Or, of course, while I wander for too long in Tel Aviv's Central Bus Station, lost again.
But as I live right outside the city this section, I inevitably end up in that dreadful sketchy maze of a building at least once a week. Last time I was there, while waiting that never-ending wait for our barely existent 90 bus- I people-watched a bit, and got to thinking: Tel Aviv, demographically, is starkly different than Jerusalem. Aside from the large number of Ethiopians passing through the area, there's also a sizable population of other Africans (refugees from Sudan, Eritrea...), as well as a surprising amount of Asians from I don't know where. In contrast to Jerusalem's very European, Anglo, and religious feel, Tel Aviv at times seems more exotic, foreign. To me, it's a less-familiar feel, a less-Jewish feel, but interesting for all those reasons.
Last week, on my way from Tel Aviv to Ein Tsurim (where I ate the seder with my parents and cousins), a black soldier sat down next to me on the bus. I immediately assumed he was Ethiopian, until he started talking on the phone in perfect English in what I thought was an American accent. Which led me to think that he was a black American, which confused me, because among the entire mesh of populations and nationalities and skin colors in this country, there are very few black Americans. (There are the basketball players and the "Black Hebrews" in Dimona, but what were the chances?) So I asked him if he was American, and after talking to him for a bit found out I was conversing with the first and only Kenyan ever to serve in the Israeli Army. Turns out, his dad had been Israeli and his mom a Kenyan. After his parents died in a car crash, the Israeli Army called him and asked if he'd like to move to Israel and serve in the army. So he did, why not. He learned his English in grade school back in Kenya, where apparently everything is taught solely in English. And now he spends his time serving in some elite unit of Tzahal, staying with friends he's met at various ulpans, and explaining to countless Ethiopians who assume he speaks Amharik that he is in fact a Kenyan and can only help them in Hebrew. (Soon after he told me this, an older Ethiopian woman turned around to ask him something about where to get off. "I'm sorry," he told her in Hebrew and shook his head. "I don't know Amharik. I'm from Kenya.") Anyways, it seemed he was sort of a big deal, being the only Kenyan in the army- he said he'd met some important people and been on TV etc. So I felt like sort of a big deal, sitting next to him and all.
On the subject of Africans, I also was able to meet and hang out with some Sudanese refugees here recently. Over changeover, I very spontaneously traveled to Eilat with some friends. Spontaneous, meaning that Pam and I, after suddenly deciding to go, literally had ten minutes to run around the Jerusalem hostel and grab our bathing suit and sunglasses before racing to make the last bus down south. There's a lot of Sudanese refugees around there, around 1,000 I think. I met a Dutch woman on the beach who was watching over a group of Sudanese children, talking to them in English. She explained that it was an after-school program. That the kids attend Arabic schools (because Arabic is their native language), learn Hebrew at school, and English in the afternoons from the volunteer social workers like herself. I volunteered with the group for a few hours the next afternoon, aka played with them, took funny pictures of them, had a free meal. They were adorable and hysterical; one girl wouldn't let me go and kept pulling me around through the tunnels on the playground. It was a good day.
And then there was Save a Child's Heart. It was one of the day volunteer placements while all the schools where we normally volunteer had started their Passover vacations, and yearcourse's hadn't begun yet. The organization is really incredible: It was started by an American cardiologist who made aliyah to Israel, and with the help of donations, decided to bring kids with heart problems from nearby third-world countries to Israel and treat them at the Wolfson hospital in Holon. For three months, the kids live in a group house nearby, some with their moms and some without, and have all kinds of heart surgeries at the hospital. The idea is that they go home cured, when in their country they absolutely wouldn't have had that chance, and would have most likely died before reaching 20. They go home happy. When we volunteered there, there was a group from Iran and a group from Zanzibar. We played with them and interacted with them, without language of course- although one little girl from Zanzibar did congratulate herself at one point with an excited "Kol Hakavod!" Aside from the girl I had to pry off me so she wouldn't steal my camera, the kids were all good-natured and adorable and fun.
And that is Israel, in a different light...when it's not black hat or rich American or even Jewish. The country is so centrally located- smushed between Arab countries, Asia, Europe, and Africa- and the population does, in a sense, reflect that. It's the sense I've been getting more and more while being here, while I help teach English to a class full of Russian immigrants in Holon, or a group of Ethiopians at Ben Yakir. Or, of course, while I wander for too long in Tel Aviv's Central Bus Station, lost again.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Section Three
It’s been a long time gone, I know. The good news is that it wasn’t only sheer laziness that kept me from writing (though I won’t deny that that didn’t play a small part…), but also that I’ve been so immersed in my volunteering here, so busy and caught up with everything outside my computer, that I haven’t found much time to sit down and write an entry. So having stalled long enough, here’s another small glimpse of my life here in the Land of Milk and Honey (and Beaches and 2-shekel Rugelach and Egged bus rides...)
My three months at Ben Yakir Youth Village ended a few weeks ago. To put it bluntly, I don’t think I’ve ever had such a hard time leaving a place. Thinking about leaving began at the beginning of February, when the Young Judaea powers-that-be answered my request to stay at the village third trimester with a definitive, curt, Israeli-accented “no.” I was devastated when I heard it, cried for two days, and tried for a few weeks to argue with what I came to see as a bureaucratic, unfeeling, wall of authority. Obviously, it was all for naught in the end (I write here from our elegant (cough), sheet-covered couch in my apartment in Holon), but after a few weeks of the whole thing I started to adjust to the idea of leaving. I was attached to the place, yes, and more than attached to the boys there, but once I calmed down I began to recognize that moving on to a new section and a new experience might also hold its own benefits. I did make lasting connections with the boys at Ben Yakir, I was there long enough to accomplish at least that, which is no small thing. Which is what I came there to do in the first place. My time there, though in the grand scheme of life not a huge chunk of time, did make a significant mark in both my life and theirs—and I can be completely sure about this. I comfort myself now by talking to the boys on the phone, by visiting the village when I can; to know that they’re still there, that the place is still there, that none of it disappeared when I left, that I didn’t disappear in their eyes, is all comforting—has all helped to ease the transition.
And now for my life in Holon. Our entire section is now spread between Holon and Bat Yam (Classic in Holon, Shevet in Bat Yam), where we live in apartments of five or six chanichim. My apartment is multicultural: we’ve got three Americans (one of whom is also Israeli), two Brits, and one Israeli. It’s a good group; we have a lot of fun together. It’s only a bit less fun when we find every few days that our storage room is flooding, or that our water has turned off, or that our showerhead is broken. (I’m not really exaggerating—that’s what’s sad.) During the week I’ve been volunteering in an elementary school, where the kids are shockingly normal compared to those at Ben Yakir—too easy, even, at times. Sometimes not so challenging. But I’ve been getting some actual experience teaching, because the kids let me teach, so in that sense it’s nice. Weird, but nice. Two afternoons a week we go to Ulpan. It’s the biggest waste of time Hebrew class I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot. Thirteen, to be exact. I’ve had thirteen before this to compare it to. My teacher is Russian and a silly character and simply doesn’t really know how to cater to our level. At least she is entertaining. At least there’s her to laugh at.
Holon is:
1) Boiling hot. These past few days have been in the 80’s, and we’re not even through March yet! Sleeping on the top bunk doesn’t help. The fan in our room doesn’t reach where I am up there, and so often I spend my nights waking up every half hour, tossing and turning and subsequently shaking and creaking our entire bunk bed. Loads of fun.
2) Just south of Tel Aviv, right by the beach. It’s location is far better, in many ways, than our location in Jerusalem was. Two malls, a gym, the beach, and Tel Aviv are each just one bus ride away.
3) Friendly. My first random-act-of-friendliness encounter occurred while I waited for the bus on the first day of volunteering. At the bus stop, I sat next to an old man with a cane, who quickly engaged me in small talk and then asked if I would be waiting at that bus stop every day. I told him yes, and he smiled and said (translated from the Hebrew:), “We here, at this bus stop, are a family. I’ll let you into the family.” So I have a family at my bus stop. So even if I sprint to the stop every morning now, sometimes arriving at the last possible minute, just before that egged 90 passes, there’s at least one old man there cheering me on.
The second random friendly act was on the beach. I was sitting alone, waiting for some appointment down the street, and reading my book. A street cleaner noticed that my book was in English, approached me, and started conversing with me in English about who he was, where he came from, the whole shpiel. He told me he was a Christian from Eritrea, and had just arrived in Israel a few months ago. In Eritrea he was a university student, had learned English there. I showed him my Ethiopian-colored anklet, and showed him how I can count to ten in Amharik. It was a nice exchange—he was smiley and happy to talk to me, and in the end asked me to bring him a book in English so he could practice. Have yet to do that, have yet to return to that spot, but who knows…?
Here is a random shout-out to Pam Slifer. She’s screaming on Skype in the next room. Before, she was singing Joseph in the shower. I don’t think she realized that I was here.
My three months at Ben Yakir Youth Village ended a few weeks ago. To put it bluntly, I don’t think I’ve ever had such a hard time leaving a place. Thinking about leaving began at the beginning of February, when the Young Judaea powers-that-be answered my request to stay at the village third trimester with a definitive, curt, Israeli-accented “no.” I was devastated when I heard it, cried for two days, and tried for a few weeks to argue with what I came to see as a bureaucratic, unfeeling, wall of authority. Obviously, it was all for naught in the end (I write here from our elegant (cough), sheet-covered couch in my apartment in Holon), but after a few weeks of the whole thing I started to adjust to the idea of leaving. I was attached to the place, yes, and more than attached to the boys there, but once I calmed down I began to recognize that moving on to a new section and a new experience might also hold its own benefits. I did make lasting connections with the boys at Ben Yakir, I was there long enough to accomplish at least that, which is no small thing. Which is what I came there to do in the first place. My time there, though in the grand scheme of life not a huge chunk of time, did make a significant mark in both my life and theirs—and I can be completely sure about this. I comfort myself now by talking to the boys on the phone, by visiting the village when I can; to know that they’re still there, that the place is still there, that none of it disappeared when I left, that I didn’t disappear in their eyes, is all comforting—has all helped to ease the transition.
And now for my life in Holon. Our entire section is now spread between Holon and Bat Yam (Classic in Holon, Shevet in Bat Yam), where we live in apartments of five or six chanichim. My apartment is multicultural: we’ve got three Americans (one of whom is also Israeli), two Brits, and one Israeli. It’s a good group; we have a lot of fun together. It’s only a bit less fun when we find every few days that our storage room is flooding, or that our water has turned off, or that our showerhead is broken. (I’m not really exaggerating—that’s what’s sad.) During the week I’ve been volunteering in an elementary school, where the kids are shockingly normal compared to those at Ben Yakir—too easy, even, at times. Sometimes not so challenging. But I’ve been getting some actual experience teaching, because the kids let me teach, so in that sense it’s nice. Weird, but nice. Two afternoons a week we go to Ulpan. It’s the biggest waste of time Hebrew class I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot. Thirteen, to be exact. I’ve had thirteen before this to compare it to. My teacher is Russian and a silly character and simply doesn’t really know how to cater to our level. At least she is entertaining. At least there’s her to laugh at.
Holon is:
1) Boiling hot. These past few days have been in the 80’s, and we’re not even through March yet! Sleeping on the top bunk doesn’t help. The fan in our room doesn’t reach where I am up there, and so often I spend my nights waking up every half hour, tossing and turning and subsequently shaking and creaking our entire bunk bed. Loads of fun.
2) Just south of Tel Aviv, right by the beach. It’s location is far better, in many ways, than our location in Jerusalem was. Two malls, a gym, the beach, and Tel Aviv are each just one bus ride away.
3) Friendly. My first random-act-of-friendliness encounter occurred while I waited for the bus on the first day of volunteering. At the bus stop, I sat next to an old man with a cane, who quickly engaged me in small talk and then asked if I would be waiting at that bus stop every day. I told him yes, and he smiled and said (translated from the Hebrew:), “We here, at this bus stop, are a family. I’ll let you into the family.” So I have a family at my bus stop. So even if I sprint to the stop every morning now, sometimes arriving at the last possible minute, just before that egged 90 passes, there’s at least one old man there cheering me on.
The second random friendly act was on the beach. I was sitting alone, waiting for some appointment down the street, and reading my book. A street cleaner noticed that my book was in English, approached me, and started conversing with me in English about who he was, where he came from, the whole shpiel. He told me he was a Christian from Eritrea, and had just arrived in Israel a few months ago. In Eritrea he was a university student, had learned English there. I showed him my Ethiopian-colored anklet, and showed him how I can count to ten in Amharik. It was a nice exchange—he was smiley and happy to talk to me, and in the end asked me to bring him a book in English so he could practice. Have yet to do that, have yet to return to that spot, but who knows…?
Here is a random shout-out to Pam Slifer. She’s screaming on Skype in the next room. Before, she was singing Joseph in the shower. I don’t think she realized that I was here.
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