Ktstat B'Bayit B'Yerushalyim

Today I felt uncharacteristically “b’bayit” (at home) in Jerusalem. I woke up with the sun streaming in through the (still curtainless) windows. I made myself a cup of tea (with the huge bag of loose leaf black tea I bought at the shuk for 3.5 shekels, approx. $1) and enjoyed the New York Times (thank you Colin Powell for endorsing Obama.)

I spent the morning researching hotels in Paris, for the trip to France that my mom and I will be taking in December, and being stumped by Spider Solitaire. Max called from work, nervous that the busses would stop running earlier than usual, due to Simchat Torah. So I begrudgingly changed out of my pajamas and headed into town to figure out the bus schedule for the day.

I walked through the shuk toward Yaffo St. where I knew I would find a bus. Sure enough, the 20 came whizzing down the street toward the crowd of grocery carrying Israelis. Now, here’s something you must understand. Israeli bus drivers are not patient people. They will often close the door right in your face if they decide you are just too slow. Sometimes they close the door right on you if you’re fast enough to get on the bus but just can’t seem to wiggle past the elderly Jewish woman with the cane. So I knew that asking the bus driver about the schedule was all about timing. I couldn’t get on too early or I’d hold up the people behind me (and get yelled at) but if I lingered too long in the doorway the bus driver would close the door behind me and take me to wherever it is the 20 goes.

As I was calculating this, a man, who was frantically trying to catch the 20, dropped all of his grocery bags on the sidewalk. (See? This is what happens when you live in constant fear of getting smashed in the doorway of a bus.) I helped him pick up his can of olives and orange flavored beverage, and, while he and an Israeli lady with impressively frizzy hair attempted to retrieve a wine bottle from under the bus, I saw my chance.

Me: Slicha … yeshli she’ala. (Excuse me … I have a question.)
Bus driver stared at me with an annoyed expression.
Me: Ad aza sha’ah ha-autobusim nosim hayom? (Until what hour do the busses ride today?)
(Now here was the real test. It’s one thing for me to actually know enough Hebrew to communicate something. It’s another for the Israeli to understand me.)
Bus driver: Shalosh b’revah (3:15 pm)
Me: Todah.

It worked! The achievement isn’t so much that I knew the Hebrew. (2 months in the country I’d better know some.) But I didn’t have to sit on a bench preparing the sentence and practicing it over and over again in my head. That is the real success.

Having spoken only to the answering machine at Ulpan Milah and received several autoreply “I am out of the office until after the holidays” emails earlier that morning, I began to suspect that today was not a day I was going to get anything done. So I walked back through the shuk toward Carmei Ha’ir, thinking that, perhaps, soup kitchens keep slightly longer hours than the rest of the city. The door was open, so I nervously walked inside.

Man: Shalom?
Me: Shalom.
Man: Ken? (Yes?)
Me: Ummm … slicha, ani medeberet Ivrit ktsat aval ani rotzah lehitnadev hayom im atem tzrichim. (Ummm ... sorry, I only speak a little Hebrew but I want to volunteer today if you need.)

I won’t bore you with a long transliterated conversation, but the man was extremely excited about my wanting to volunteer. He told me there wasn’t anything to do today but that I could come back on Wednesday.

Just as I was leaving, Isra called to invite Max and I to a Simchat Torah potluck at her apartment, so I went to the shuk to pick up some eggs for the quiche she requested that I bring. I ran into a few girls I know who invited me to a party and wished me “chag sameach” (happy holiday) and then I ran into Esther Brownstein, head of the Israeli staff at Ramah Darom. She helped me locate the Israeli equivalent of sour cream and took my phone number. “We’ll do Shabbos dinner,” she said. I bought peppers and onions from my favorite grapefruit man (he sells more than grapefruits, obviously) and a bar of dark chocolate.

Back at home, I made my quiche, played with FatCat (my landlord’s cat whose real name I don’t know), and took a nap.

At 6:30, Max and I made the 35 minute walk to Emek Refaim where Isra lives. Isra hasn’t found a permanent living situation, but she is currently subleasing a very cute apartment that is, for all intents and purposes, in a bakery. At least, it’s in the same alleyway as a bakery.

Dinner at Isra’s was wonderful! Isra invited Kate as well, who brought her Israeli housemate. And Isra’s Israeli cousin and dog Sawyer completed the group. Isra made salmon, which was a nice treat, because I’m too afraid to buy the fish from the shuk (where they cut the head off right in front of you and the live fish are flopping around in the back.) Kate’s housemate’s sweet potato pancakes, my quiche, and a big salad (and lots of wine) complemented the fish nicely, as did the challah and heart shaped cookies from Isra’s bakery neighbors.

One of the main topics at dinner was Rabbis for Human Rights, who organize volunteers to help Palestinians harvest olives in places where they often feel threatened by Israeli settlers. There were two talking points for our criticism of this endeavor. One, they don’t really “organize” volunteers, because that would imply at least a minimum standard of organized infrastructure. It’s all very haphazard. They send out a panicky email that gets forwarded around. “There are people who are afraid to pick without us. This is an issue of human rights.” You call to sign up but they really give you any details. And each person’s story contains some element of “I didn’t really know where I was going” or “why I was going” or “what I was supposed to do once I got there.”

I’m still pretty vague on the details. As far as I understand, there are Palestinians whose livelihood depends on the harvest of these olives. They legally own these olive orchards and have the Israeli government’s permission to harvest them (at least in most cases.) They often request the permission of the Israeli government or third-party human rights organizations to protect them from Israeli settlers who throw rocks and provoke violence. The Palestinians are certainly not blameless. They too instigate violence, but they are the powerless force in this situation. The government, the military, the system of law – it’s not theirs.

This was the second talking point of the evening. Recently, a group similar to Rabbis for Human Rights made the news because 2 journalists and one female volunteer were injured in a fight between Palestinian olive harvesters and settlers. The AP version of the story says that an investigation is being launched, but the story that ran in Ha’aretz (one of Israeli’s English language newspapers) did not. This is a regular occurrence during olive season, and, as far as I can tell, the settlers go completely unpunished for their actions.

http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5gtrn3kQw1hdbLltl0FVz9tvR5s7AD93TEK9O0

I think the severity of the problem created by Israeli settlers is very much under the radar of Jewish (and non-Jewish) Americans. It certainly was for me, until I stood on the top of a mountain and looked down at a settlement’s construction site in the middle of rolling hills in the West Bank. Several entries should, and probably will, be devoted to this issue. But for now, know that I think Israeli settlers are doing the biggest disservice possible to Israel. If there is any hope for a two-state solution and peace in this area of the world, the Israeli government has to stop sitting idly by while Israeli settlers build huge neighborhoods on top of Palestinian soil. In many cases, the goal of the Israeli settlers is to build enough settlements to drive a wedge through Palestinian land, making impossible a contiguous Palestinian state – and any hope for peace.