Whenever my mother is sick, she likes to remind me that it is okay because she never gets sick. My stomach is a clenched fist today and I am reminding myself that I never have stomach problems. I will, however, concede that eating a pint of cottage cheese while hiking in the desert was a bad decision.
The problem is that I am a supermarket romantic. The less familiar the product, the better. By this logic, earlier in the week, I ended up washing down some peanut flavoured cheetos with half a can of baby formula. Obviously, I've had cottage cheese before, and can readily identify it by the pleasant farmhouse on the label. What intrigued me, on this day, were the large olives floating in the sky above the farmhouse. I guess I had imagined it to be like yogurt with fruit at the bottom. As it turns out, it's more like eating soupy, salty, curdled milk in the hot sun. The olives don't really change that.
Nevertheless, without this misguided indulgence I wouldn't have found the perfect intersection of Negev Desert life, the Mitzpe Ramon supermarket. Everyone must eat, and there are very few alternatives for hours in any direction. In the first aisle, a shawled Bedouin woman is examining a bottle of wine. Her yellowed fingernails trace the Hebrew letters like braille, often pausing between each character as if digesting a private meaning. In the deli, a veiled woman absentmindedly plays with the collar of her fur coat. Our eyes meet and I suddenly feel a pang of embarrassment as I smile. All I can see are eyes and hands. It seems silly to smile at a pair of hands, but I know that I shouldn't be looking at her so directly. I shouldn't be trying to find faces behind veils. Turning away, I nearly bump into an orthodox Jewish family as they boorishly discuss different types of frozen pizza. The parents pay me no notice but the children's eyes fall heavily on my bare knees and colourful t-shirt, this time it is their turn to be embarrassed.
There are plenty of secular people here too. Young men are buying beer and there is a punky woman whose bright red jacket perfectly matches her hair. Some soldiers catch my attention because they look like kids with guns. Their baskets are filled with cookies and energy drinks, items that seem more appropriate at summer camp than boot camp. They laugh and push each other. They whisper in each other's ears.
For me, this is the greatest challenge in Israel. Understanding how all these different people fit together (or do not). The orthodox, while friendly enough, can be unyieldingly dogmatic. Their rhetoric is not of unique magnitude or amplitude, but rather it is the same fearful and hateful tone that resonates among so many conservative institutions. It is a madness that we are familiar with in the United States, one derived from reading the same book too many times. The orthodox can be openly hostile toward Arabs, and the Arabs toward them. This is when the children have to get involved. Ironically, the Israeli Defense Force is extraordinarily secular. The people who care the least about religion end up in the middle of all the tension, often protecting people that resent the IDF from people that despise the IDF.
After spending time in the West Bank- talking to Palestinians, settlers, expats working for NGOs, academics, and soldiers- it is abundantly clear that there is no such thing as right or wrong. As an outsider you want to simplify the situation and point to a guilty party. Above, I picked on the orthodox Jews, not to say that they are more culpable than anyone else, but only because I think they share interesting philosophical and social parallels with the very people they so strongly oppose.
This stuff can get pretty heavy around here and it is easy to get lost in your thoughts. At least, however, it is under constant discussion. The situation is on everyone's lips, whether spoken in public or behind closed doors. I hate to paint this with a Disney brush, but it is true that life goes on. On both sides of the green line there is a feeling that the constant tension forces people to live in the moment. It is not an environment that many would choose, but it is their reality and you can see that people try to make the most of it.
While visiting friends near Gaza, one of them said to me "I wish that they would shoot some rockets at us today so I wouldn't have to go to work."
You wouldn't believe what can become normal.
The problem is that I am a supermarket romantic. The less familiar the product, the better. By this logic, earlier in the week, I ended up washing down some peanut flavoured cheetos with half a can of baby formula. Obviously, I've had cottage cheese before, and can readily identify it by the pleasant farmhouse on the label. What intrigued me, on this day, were the large olives floating in the sky above the farmhouse. I guess I had imagined it to be like yogurt with fruit at the bottom. As it turns out, it's more like eating soupy, salty, curdled milk in the hot sun. The olives don't really change that.
Nevertheless, without this misguided indulgence I wouldn't have found the perfect intersection of Negev Desert life, the Mitzpe Ramon supermarket. Everyone must eat, and there are very few alternatives for hours in any direction. In the first aisle, a shawled Bedouin woman is examining a bottle of wine. Her yellowed fingernails trace the Hebrew letters like braille, often pausing between each character as if digesting a private meaning. In the deli, a veiled woman absentmindedly plays with the collar of her fur coat. Our eyes meet and I suddenly feel a pang of embarrassment as I smile. All I can see are eyes and hands. It seems silly to smile at a pair of hands, but I know that I shouldn't be looking at her so directly. I shouldn't be trying to find faces behind veils. Turning away, I nearly bump into an orthodox Jewish family as they boorishly discuss different types of frozen pizza. The parents pay me no notice but the children's eyes fall heavily on my bare knees and colourful t-shirt, this time it is their turn to be embarrassed.
There are plenty of secular people here too. Young men are buying beer and there is a punky woman whose bright red jacket perfectly matches her hair. Some soldiers catch my attention because they look like kids with guns. Their baskets are filled with cookies and energy drinks, items that seem more appropriate at summer camp than boot camp. They laugh and push each other. They whisper in each other's ears.
For me, this is the greatest challenge in Israel. Understanding how all these different people fit together (or do not). The orthodox, while friendly enough, can be unyieldingly dogmatic. Their rhetoric is not of unique magnitude or amplitude, but rather it is the same fearful and hateful tone that resonates among so many conservative institutions. It is a madness that we are familiar with in the United States, one derived from reading the same book too many times. The orthodox can be openly hostile toward Arabs, and the Arabs toward them. This is when the children have to get involved. Ironically, the Israeli Defense Force is extraordinarily secular. The people who care the least about religion end up in the middle of all the tension, often protecting people that resent the IDF from people that despise the IDF.
After spending time in the West Bank- talking to Palestinians, settlers, expats working for NGOs, academics, and soldiers- it is abundantly clear that there is no such thing as right or wrong. As an outsider you want to simplify the situation and point to a guilty party. Above, I picked on the orthodox Jews, not to say that they are more culpable than anyone else, but only because I think they share interesting philosophical and social parallels with the very people they so strongly oppose.
This stuff can get pretty heavy around here and it is easy to get lost in your thoughts. At least, however, it is under constant discussion. The situation is on everyone's lips, whether spoken in public or behind closed doors. I hate to paint this with a Disney brush, but it is true that life goes on. On both sides of the green line there is a feeling that the constant tension forces people to live in the moment. It is not an environment that many would choose, but it is their reality and you can see that people try to make the most of it.
While visiting friends near Gaza, one of them said to me "I wish that they would shoot some rockets at us today so I wouldn't have to go to work."
You wouldn't believe what can become normal.
1 comment:
Hi Dillon, I didn't know you were such a captivating writer of everyday simplicities and atrocities!
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