From Mark Freeman: Mark's last day in Jerusalem, first day back
I spent my last day in Jerusalem angry. Just angry. Angry with everyone. A few details, then I'll get on.
We returned from a lovely Erev Shabbat on our own in Tel Aviv, swimming in the warm Mediterranean and at sunset enjoying the sight of secular Israelis (led by a blonde with huge boobs) line dancing at a hotspot near the beach's outdoor showers, then hanging with the Arab boys AND Jew boys at a late night foam party. The day began with a warm and sweet visit to my cousin near Tel Aviv and her husband who has advancing Parksinsons, plus his Pilipina caretaker, in the morning. And it ended with a 4 am taxi ride--Ken had asked me not to bring up politics with the Palestinian Israeli driver , but the guy started the conversation and kept it up for the whole 45-minute ride, going on about how frustrated he was with the stupid Hezbollah for attacking his country, and that everything could still be OK if and when the occupation of the West Bank ended and Iran and Syria and Al Qaeda and everyone else would not be able to use Palestine as their playing card. We got scant sleep, but loved the relative freedom of Tel Aviv.
But I awoke with no patience-- for anyone.
I got angry at the self-righteous families in Black, ultra-Religious Jews with their holier-than-thou apartness and the damned elevators set by Shabbat setting to stop at every floor (Divine Control?). I remembered how angry I was at a certain rabbi from New York (definitely not our lovely and endlessly compassionate one from San Francisco) who had kept me out of the talk by Yarom Ezrachi for being five minutes late, minutes I had spent keeping up good relations with two Support-Israel-100%ers in our congregation who were not going to the talk. She held her foot against the door so I couldn't get in. That day I held my peace.
But today when she spoke endlessly through our nap time after a group lunch, and when she announced that anybody who was late would not be allowed to hear the woman who is Palestinian coordinator for Jerusalem Open House, I had had it. I angrily arrived early, and when this rabbi (whose name I can't be sure of since she never introduced herself during the whole week she joined up with our congregation) walked in one minute late yes I did delight in magnanimously informing her that that I would NOT ask her to leave. This was too bad for the Israeli executive board members of JOH, for whom she is apparently a major funder, and each one of which she interrupted, told where to move their chair, or interpreted what they really meant for us, after asking that nobody but they speak. You know the type?
She even interrupted Ken, probably the only Catholic on the tour, when he asked the Palestinian coordinator a question, pre-correcting what she assumed was his preconception about her religion. I guess she felt the woman could not speak for herself. Ken quietly and expertly asked her not to interrupt him when it was his turn-- and later pointed out something to me that I had not noticed: Israelis, including impassioned ones, always let others speak without talking over them, and never ever interrupt.
Late that night I also yelled at two Mizrachi mafiosi types who run the door at Jerusalem's only gay bar, when they wouldn't give me a free look-see if our friends were there on our last night, though we had patronized their joint every night we'd been in town. An equal opportunity angry guy, that was me.
You might say that is a pity that I spent my last day in the Holy Land angry, but I say I was finally right there, just like everyone else. I had spent two weeks in the country making every effort to see everyone's side, to bring my little piece of peace and understanding to a place I love. I smiled when a Bedouin horse-riding teen in Petra had challenged me to a fight, and when he asked why none of the Israeli tourists were willing to fight him I'd merely answered that it wouldn't be friendly (though secretly I was tempted to jump on his horse with him). Or when a young man in the Muslim Quarter of the Walled City in Jerusalem tore a piece of his cigarette package cellophane off with his mouth and sent it toward my face, I only blew back. But now enough was ENOUGH already.
Anyway, the spiritual approach based on detached transcendence is a Buddhist one. Our Semitic process involves a surety that one is disliked and disrespected, contentiousness to the point of being obnoxious, then deep hurt followed by forgiveness, tears, and potentially understanding, even hugs among estranged members of the family. So after a very bad day, yet another war or an occupation, there's still a chance for redemption, reconciliation, a return to everyday business, and who knows maybe peace.
Post script
On our first day back, we sleep a lot, then go to the movies. Not "The Twin Towers" or "Guantanamo," please. Just escapism, something we missed on this ultra-relaxed vacation. We agree on "The Devil Wears Prada" and the now not-so new "Pirates of the Caribbean" -- although we know, we know it is supposed to be lousy. But a super-bitch in high fashion-- even if not explicitly Jewish-- and a whole assortment of mixed Pirate/Shellfish creatures led by octopus-faced Davy Jones-- most definitely un-kosher-- are just what we need. And as if that is not enough, after Ken goes home to finalize his blog, I go on to the Castro Theater for a four-hour 70 mm screening of David Lean's sun-'n-sand epic "Lawrence of Arabia." I can identify completely, I am right back in Aqaba, back in the Negev and the Sinai deserts, so heroic that my eyes are blue and my hair blond, the two Bedouin boys I find and then lose hurt far more than my torture by the Turkish bey, and my love of Omar Sharif will survive "Funny Girl" to be consummated in his last film, "Monsieur Ibrahim." from 2004.
As if this were not enough, on the midnight bus ride home, the bearded and skull-capped driver apologizes for almost missing me at the Castro bus stop. He says he has never seen his route so empty, he doesn't know where everyone is. I tell him I don't either, I just got back in town. He asks from where. "Israel, Palestine and Jordan." Not a beat missed, he answers, "I just got back from Egypt and Saudi Arabia. It was 136 degrees, so hot." Within minutes he is complaining that the whole situation there is getting worse because everyone is turning it into Holy War, which nobody needs. "Enough already!" I mention the film I just saw, which he has at home, also, "Monsieur Ibrahim." Do I know Sharif is an Egyption Jew, converted in order to marry a Muslim woman? He just has time to recommend another film by Omar ("Once Yousef!"), tells me its name in Arabic which translates to "Beginning and End" and refers me to a store nearby where I can rent it, before dropping me dead-tired but fully alive on my corner of 30th and Mission Streets, San Francisco, home again.
We returned from a lovely Erev Shabbat on our own in Tel Aviv, swimming in the warm Mediterranean and at sunset enjoying the sight of secular Israelis (led by a blonde with huge boobs) line dancing at a hotspot near the beach's outdoor showers, then hanging with the Arab boys AND Jew boys at a late night foam party. The day began with a warm and sweet visit to my cousin near Tel Aviv and her husband who has advancing Parksinsons, plus his Pilipina caretaker, in the morning. And it ended with a 4 am taxi ride--Ken had asked me not to bring up politics with the Palestinian Israeli driver , but the guy started the conversation and kept it up for the whole 45-minute ride, going on about how frustrated he was with the stupid Hezbollah for attacking his country, and that everything could still be OK if and when the occupation of the West Bank ended and Iran and Syria and Al Qaeda and everyone else would not be able to use Palestine as their playing card. We got scant sleep, but loved the relative freedom of Tel Aviv.
But I awoke with no patience-- for anyone.
I got angry at the self-righteous families in Black, ultra-Religious Jews with their holier-than-thou apartness and the damned elevators set by Shabbat setting to stop at every floor (Divine Control?). I remembered how angry I was at a certain rabbi from New York (definitely not our lovely and endlessly compassionate one from San Francisco) who had kept me out of the talk by Yarom Ezrachi for being five minutes late, minutes I had spent keeping up good relations with two Support-Israel-100%ers in our congregation who were not going to the talk. She held her foot against the door so I couldn't get in. That day I held my peace.
But today when she spoke endlessly through our nap time after a group lunch, and when she announced that anybody who was late would not be allowed to hear the woman who is Palestinian coordinator for Jerusalem Open House, I had had it. I angrily arrived early, and when this rabbi (whose name I can't be sure of since she never introduced herself during the whole week she joined up with our congregation) walked in one minute late yes I did delight in magnanimously informing her that that I would NOT ask her to leave. This was too bad for the Israeli executive board members of JOH, for whom she is apparently a major funder, and each one of which she interrupted, told where to move their chair, or interpreted what they really meant for us, after asking that nobody but they speak. You know the type?
She even interrupted Ken, probably the only Catholic on the tour, when he asked the Palestinian coordinator a question, pre-correcting what she assumed was his preconception about her religion. I guess she felt the woman could not speak for herself. Ken quietly and expertly asked her not to interrupt him when it was his turn-- and later pointed out something to me that I had not noticed: Israelis, including impassioned ones, always let others speak without talking over them, and never ever interrupt.
Late that night I also yelled at two Mizrachi mafiosi types who run the door at Jerusalem's only gay bar, when they wouldn't give me a free look-see if our friends were there on our last night, though we had patronized their joint every night we'd been in town. An equal opportunity angry guy, that was me.
You might say that is a pity that I spent my last day in the Holy Land angry, but I say I was finally right there, just like everyone else. I had spent two weeks in the country making every effort to see everyone's side, to bring my little piece of peace and understanding to a place I love. I smiled when a Bedouin horse-riding teen in Petra had challenged me to a fight, and when he asked why none of the Israeli tourists were willing to fight him I'd merely answered that it wouldn't be friendly (though secretly I was tempted to jump on his horse with him). Or when a young man in the Muslim Quarter of the Walled City in Jerusalem tore a piece of his cigarette package cellophane off with his mouth and sent it toward my face, I only blew back. But now enough was ENOUGH already.
Anyway, the spiritual approach based on detached transcendence is a Buddhist one. Our Semitic process involves a surety that one is disliked and disrespected, contentiousness to the point of being obnoxious, then deep hurt followed by forgiveness, tears, and potentially understanding, even hugs among estranged members of the family. So after a very bad day, yet another war or an occupation, there's still a chance for redemption, reconciliation, a return to everyday business, and who knows maybe peace.
Post script
On our first day back, we sleep a lot, then go to the movies. Not "The Twin Towers" or "Guantanamo," please. Just escapism, something we missed on this ultra-relaxed vacation. We agree on "The Devil Wears Prada" and the now not-so new "Pirates of the Caribbean" -- although we know, we know it is supposed to be lousy. But a super-bitch in high fashion-- even if not explicitly Jewish-- and a whole assortment of mixed Pirate/Shellfish creatures led by octopus-faced Davy Jones-- most definitely un-kosher-- are just what we need. And as if that is not enough, after Ken goes home to finalize his blog, I go on to the Castro Theater for a four-hour 70 mm screening of David Lean's sun-'n-sand epic "Lawrence of Arabia." I can identify completely, I am right back in Aqaba, back in the Negev and the Sinai deserts, so heroic that my eyes are blue and my hair blond, the two Bedouin boys I find and then lose hurt far more than my torture by the Turkish bey, and my love of Omar Sharif will survive "Funny Girl" to be consummated in his last film, "Monsieur Ibrahim." from 2004.
As if this were not enough, on the midnight bus ride home, the bearded and skull-capped driver apologizes for almost missing me at the Castro bus stop. He says he has never seen his route so empty, he doesn't know where everyone is. I tell him I don't either, I just got back in town. He asks from where. "Israel, Palestine and Jordan." Not a beat missed, he answers, "I just got back from Egypt and Saudi Arabia. It was 136 degrees, so hot." Within minutes he is complaining that the whole situation there is getting worse because everyone is turning it into Holy War, which nobody needs. "Enough already!" I mention the film I just saw, which he has at home, also, "Monsieur Ibrahim." Do I know Sharif is an Egyption Jew, converted in order to marry a Muslim woman? He just has time to recommend another film by Omar ("Once Yousef!"), tells me its name in Arabic which translates to "Beginning and End" and refers me to a store nearby where I can rent it, before dropping me dead-tired but fully alive on my corner of 30th and Mission Streets, San Francisco, home again.
posted by Ken | 5:04 PM
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