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.