When I moved to Israel in September of 2007, even after having spent about a year here during college, I couldn't help but feel a certain amount of anxiety. Uprooting your life and leaving everything you've known behind isn't easy, especially for a sentimentalist like me. My medicine against this churning in my heart was writing, and Israeli by Day, American by Night was administered in heavy dosage from Day One.
This blog was the backstop for my life. Everything I went through, all the crazy stuff I saw, was painted in my mind on a canvas of how it would appear encapsulated in a post. My perspective was constantly refracted through the lens of my sole creative endeavor. Not one day passed that I didn't pray for the material to create that one blog that would send me into Internet kingship, the master of Web 2.0. Honestly, this blog was my saving grace. If I didn't have the warm embrace of the orange "Publish Post" button, that feeling of satisfaction, completion, and purity, I might have never accomplished half of what I have.
Two and a half years after its inception, with two hundred and seventy blog posts published, multiple interviews, army spokesman offers, dozens of links from other sites, countless emails, hundreds of article comments, and random Facebook friends I've never met, I feel like I can finally say that I really created something meaningful in my life. I have something that I can, essentially, hold in my hands and say proudly, "I made this!!!" The constant responsibility of creating those posts, trying to make each more interesting than the last, has really paid off. I wouldn't trade my experience for any other, no matter what. Even if the books I want to write never materialize, which are already written in my head anyway, I can confidently look to this collection and feel a modicum of self-regard, pride, and achievement. This blog is my most cherished possession.
"Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality, and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind." Catherine Drinker Bowen
But all that responsibility, all that continual striving for yet another post, yet another batch of positive feedback, which of course is a writer's goal (who isn't looking for praise?), ends up taking its toll. I suppose that I've written a few hundred pages already, a book. The strain and pressures add up. And I'm tired. I have slowly been moving on, naturally, which doesn't make me sad in the least. Yes, my heart is tender over the matter, I'll admit, but I'm happy to write "The End" and package it all up. Time for the next adventure.
The truth is, I was supposed to finish my army service this very month of April, 2010. For many reasons, none of which I want to go into for the hundredth time, I signed up for another six months. In the grand scheme of things, it's really not a big deal. By the end of my service, which will be two years in total (nothing in terms of army services), I hope to feel the same closure on this period of my life as I feel now writing this final blog post. That's been my goal all along: To have a pretty little package of life experiences with four corners and a roof. Something with all the loose ends tied up.
Regrettably, nothing is ever that perfect. This blog, and my army experience, are no different. There are many loose ends. Would you believe me if I told you that I never even wrote about the most harrowing, exciting, and intense times of the army? I never did get around to writing that West Bank arrest operations post. How about having my own personal IED discovered before I was discovered all across the road? Ridiculous patrols with your finger on the trigger, or even the most hilarious adventures at 3:00am deep in the casbah. And Gaza... forget about it. All that stuff was the real army. I wrote the pretty stuff. The real, gross, disgusting, 'I don't want to see this' kind of stuff has conveniently been omitted. I suppose I intend all that for a different audience, or at least in a different medium. This open blog is just not the place.
Despite feeling that there were posts that slipped by, great ones even, I am still comfortable saying adios. I'd like to thank all my fans, the most dedicated and loyal readers whose names always appeared in the comments section. I waited on edge for your feedback. And I'd like to thank all the haters who always made their way to the blog. I knew which posts were my best by how viciously I was attacked.
So how do you do it? What's the very last thing you can say? A meaningful quote? A pompous, prophetic reflection? Something vague and post-moderny? No, no... for the Israeli soldier, there's really only one way to say goodbye, only two words - but two words that say it all.
I, like many people, often have the desire to eliminate the ever-intruding Facebook from my life. My most recent urge to remove myself from the network is really a component of my frustration with technology in the form of smartphones. Specifically, I purchased a cool Nokia phone 3 weeks ago. Last night, however, during a routine update from Nokia, it decided to die and go to Nokia's overcrowded heaven. Just the mess of trying to figure out international warranty between America, Israel, and Nokia Asia has caused me to hate all technological contraptions, from cool phones to useful social networking tools.
Facebook has met my wrath before. In the summer of 2008, "The Great Purge" was executed. In an attempt to trim away the fat, I went through my "friends" list with a hatchet, hacking away all those who I couldn't really identify without looking at their picture, or seeing where they went to high school. "Oh, she graduated three years after me from high school? That would mean that... I have no clue who she is." Hack. Out of my 500 some friends, I think I purged around 100 to 150 people that I truly couldn't remember. Stalin would have been proud, and The Great Purge was successful.
Within days, however, many of those people 're-friended' me. How they figured out that I had pushed them away I do not know. Maybe they really follow my comments, and after they noticed my disappearance they were worried and fretted over my metaphysical Internet existence. I don't know. It was pretty creepy, though. Since then, I have been careful what I say on Facebook. You never know who is stalking.
Well anyway, my extreme frustration with yet another smartphone breaking on me led me to a desire to get back to the basics: email. I can do email. Seriously, I'd prefer snail-mail, since I like to write, but email is also fine. Between Facebook wall posts, comments, status updates, and private messages, I get lost on where to start, on which messages to reply to first, and who said what and when. Email just sticks around until you get to it. Facebook, as I've experienced it in the past year and a half with a 3G high-speed Internet phone, demands my constant attention just to keep up with who said what. So, no more smartphone, no more Facebook relevancy.
That was my logic. So, I went onto Facebook to check to see if there was anything interesting. Nope, just the same old events I can't go to, group invites I don't even read, and status updates about something I don't care about (I realize the irony, if you'd read my current status). I went to send two private messages. "Oops, there was an error sending your message! Try later." Ok, I guess Facebook wants to get cute when their service doesn't even work. I suppose the final straw before wanting to just junk the whole mess was when I went to respond to a wall post, only to find that the sender DEFRIENDED me! Ah, the rejection was too much to bear.
Settings > Deactivate account
Mark Zuckerberg, an AEPi Jewish fraternity alum, is the founder of Facebook. As you could guess from his name and choice of frats, he is a Jew. Though he is an atheist, he is obviously schooled in Jewish culture. Nothing is more overwhelmingly Jewish, in my experience, than the oft-mentioned "Jewish Guilt." In the Israeli Army, I felt guilt over whether or not to be a combat soldier ("Ben Gurion wanted you to be combat, and the country needs you"). With my cell phone provider I was guilted over my choice of phone ("Why do you want to buy a phone overseas? Don't you like our models?"). But Facebook, and Mark Zuckerberg's scheming ways, top them all. Here's the page that came up when I wanted to remove myself from their service. (Click on it for a close-up).
I don't curse on Israeli by Day, in general. But this one deserves a "holy sh*t." Let's take a closer look and examine. According to Mark Zuckerberg and Facebook, if I disconnect, my "friends will no longer be able to keep in touch with [me]." If you're not on Facebook, that's it! You don't exist! No email, no cell phone, no address - no Facebook, no existence. That's pretty intense.
Not wasting precious time, Facebook throws five friends in my face, and actually include a line saying that they will miss me. Name by name, they say that "Dave will miss you; Stephanie will miss you." Five times they say that. Normally that wouldn't get to me, and I don't know what kind of genius algorithms they are using, but they somehow picked five good friends out of 560 acquaintances to guilt me with. You might be thinking that they simply picked the five that I talk to the most, but that is not hardly the case. I haven't communicated for a long time with a few of those people on Facebook, but I'd be very sad to lose touch with them completely. I fear that would be the case if it weren't for Facebook.
But look closer. Not only did they pick those five good friends, and not only did they include the line that they would miss me, but they included pictures of that friend. Again, take another look. Notice the real guilt trick? All of the pictures are of us together! I'm not even sure what to say, other than that their guilt trip took me a long way. Those pictures happen to all be of very cool experiences in my life. They are meaningful as hell. One is of the Jerusalem Winter Ball in 2009, which I attended during my 10-day vacation from the army for finishing basic training - a great excuse to drink bathtub-quality vodka. Another picture is of my graduation from college, with all of our friends around. Yet another is in the coolest pool ever, in the nicest hotel ever, during one of the greatest weekends I've ever had in Israel. Just look at those pictures: buddies.
I can't delete those guys. Facebook gives me the option right beneath those pictures to message my friends. What do they want you to say? "Hey friend, I'm going off the grid. I won't see any of your pictures, read what you're up to through your status updates, or remember where you work. Talk to you later - not sure how though..." Guilt. How could you remove them from your life? They really drive home the message that Facebook is a necessary part of your life, and with an invaluable smartphone, you're never separated from your friends.
The scary part of it all is that I believe them. How would I ever remember all those acquaintances that I like to keep tabs on? I do like to see what kind of jobs they have. And my real friends, how will I see what they look like if not for the photos they post? And wow, birthdays. Considering I have forgotten my own birthday once, if Facebook didn't alert me to anyone else's it'd be a sealed matter; no happy bday from Danny!
In conclusion, I have lost yet another Nokia phone for no good reason. My days in the army of constant Internet use, an addiction most likely, are therefore temporarily suspended. My Facebook connection is severed. Checking that site once every two weeks is just about worthless. Despite that setback, and my refusal to get another good phone for awhile, I cannot purge Facebook itself. Mark Zuckerberg and his creation have implemented 5,000 years of Jewish history's greatest weapon, and I've fallen prey to it just as if it's one and the same as my grandmother ("Hey, I drove all morning in the rain to buy you two pounds of high-quality deli meat for the weekend, aren't you hungry for a sandwich?").
I guess I'll link to this blog post on my Facebook home page.
(If you don't read the post, at least check out the photo comparison at the bottom. I think it's hilarious)
It's pretty damn hard to believe that it has been exactly one year since I had my 24th birthday in the army. I was drafted four days previous, on the 22nd of October, 2008. Still nervous as hell every morning upon waking up, I kept my mouth shut when my birthday came. No one knew about it, and that was the way I wanted it. Despite that, as I said in that post from a year ago, "It was really tough spending your birthday getting yelled at."
Well, days have changed. I am a fully-rated combat soldier, and yelling is reserved for... nevermind. They still yell at us all the time! Not like in the movies, like basic training in Full Metal Jacket, but it is for when we do something wrong. And that happens all the time.
So, I guess I will also spend my day getting yelled at!
But again, as I said in 2008, "I've always wanted to be a soldier, especially for the only army in the world that I think is 100% imperative for the existence of the state it serves. So, ideologically I didn't need cake or toys or songs." The only thing I'd change about that now is that yeah, I'd like cake. And don't you worry, I will eat some cake!
Seriously though, and I know everyone says this at this age, but I am having a hard time understanding how I'm already 25. I remember quite distinctly being about 17 and thinking long and hard about what Danny Brothers of 2009, a 25-year-old man, would be like. This is the age that definitively signals adulthood. This is the age where your profession becomes your life. Where marriage and children become a reality. Where you become, I don't know... grown-up.
But I don't feel like that! Man, I feel like a kid still. I'm pretty sure I'm 18 and just started college. That ridiculously handsome, athletic, muscular body in the mirror? That's not mine, is it? Those rugged good looks on that wise, mature face? Could it really be? And the prophetic eyes staring back at me; where did they come from?
At 16 I thought about myself at 25 as being everything I wasn't at the time: confident in my beliefs, set in my ways, and self-sure. Some of those are good things, others less so. Regardless, at least those things have come with age. For that I am thankful. I don't think I am quite as emotionally stable and mature as I hoped I would be, but over the past few years I have learned that emotional stability is one of the rarest traits. And considering the challenge I've gone through over the past year, I think I'm doing ok coping with difficulties, and stability in general.
I'll stop rambling now. It's just that this is the one forum where I can tell everyone how weird it is to have arrived. I'm sure my 40-year-old readers are rolling their eyes. I don't care. Keep rolling. It's my blog and I'll express amazement when I want to! Honestly, listen to me, I could go on for hours about all types of things I expected with this age, from my body (I used to be a serious weight lifter, and I always dreamed about the "prime of life" 25-year-old body) to my intelligence to knowledge to career to love life, and so on.
Hey, us old people are supposed to ramble, right? And be incoherent? Welcome to senility, I say! I guess I really am the grandpa of the army now.
Here's some photos for comparison to what six years does to a man:
A 19-year-old backpacking young buck, ready to roll
We just got rain gear today. The rainy season starts very soon, and we're expecting a wet winter. Water-proof rain jackets and pants are essential for 8 hour guard shifts outside.
Mine, however, are riddled with cigarette burn holes.
A good friend of mine here in Israel, Paul Gross, is one of the country's rising, brilliant political and social commentators. Why is he so brilliant? Mainly because he featured me in an article for a British Jewish paper he contributes to biweekly. Let's not mention his high-profile speechwriting, Israeli embassy experience, connections, and numerous published articles.
Here is the link to a very fancy web version of the newspaper The Jewish News. If you want to read the bit, flip to page 8. The article is highlighted in yellow. If it doesn't work, I don't know what to tell you... it's really high tech.
Either way, this is like the third article about yours truly in a newspaper. I'm movin' on up!
Israeli By Day has caught the attention of a journalist from one of Israel's leading newspapers, Haaretz (The Land). Raphael Ahren contacted me some time ago about interviewing me for the Anglo File section of the English version of the paper, and I excitedly agreed. It turned out to be more of a struggle than I realized, being interviewed properly and what not, but eventually we wrapped it up.
American blogger shares insider angle on IDF service
By Raphael Ahren
Serving in an elite combat unit makes moments of respite both brief and precious, yet Danny Brothers, an American immigrant, devotes most of his free time to his blog. In "Israeli by Day, American by Night," Brothers writes about throwing grenades and breathing in tear gas as part of his training, but also describes what it's like to celebrate holidays in the army or to miss a commander. Lengthy explanations about the brigade's inner workings take turns with tidbits about "memorable moments," such as the time a commander barked at a soldier: "Tuck in your shirt and straighten your uniform like an officer in the German army!"
Although Brothers, who immigrated at age 24 in September 2007, only had to do six months of compulsory service, he volunteered for a year and half so he could enter the Golani Brigade. He soon came to the conclusion that Anglo servicemen are much less grumpy than their native Israeli counterparts.
"It may sound weird, but I am surprised at how much these kids complain," Brothers told Anglo File about his comrades in the IDF's premier infantry unit. "I thought Israelis were supposed to be tough, that they never showed weakness. Well, all they do is complain. We work hard, don't get me wrong, but not before trudging through some whining and requesting exemptions for this and that. I feel like the Anglos are much more willing to just shut up and moan inside, as I do all the time. You think I like crawling through thorns? No, of course not, but I didn't come 7,000 miles to get out of the army experience. The Anglos are generally the most motivated group, in my estimation."
Comparing draftees with ideologically-driven volunteers may be problematic, but Brothers is used to saying things on his blog exactly the way he sees them, without always analyzing the deeper context. Right after he completed basic training, for example, he wrote: "Do you have any idea how relieved I am to be done with the high-level discipline crap?"
Brothers grew up in rural Virginia. He graduated from William & Mary in 2007 and was on his way to law school when he came to New York for some interviews and sat down for lunch with a friend's father. During their conversation, Brothers revealed that he wasn't sure whether to proceed with his applications or follow his inner voice and move to Israel.
His father's friend made the decision easy: "He's a successful businessman who had made aliyah long before and returned to America," Brothers said, "and he was really pretty dismissive of the entire [idea to skip law school]. His single-mindedness in building a career really put me off. I ended up canceling all of my interviews and made up my mind to make aliyah."
His army experience has also enjoyed some lighter moments. In a recent post, Brothers described how a sergeant "rewarded" his group, which had worked in the kitchen all day, by sticking a chocolate bar between their teeth and commanding them to go into push-up position.
"'LISTEN UP,' the commander [shouted], 'each up and each down is a mouse bite! What does that mean, you ask? Every time I tell you to go down, you go to the lower push-up position and take a tiny, A TINY BITE! UNDERSTOOD?!' 'Yephss, Cophamnder!' we shouted, or rather garbled loudly. 'Down!' Nibble. 'Up!' Nibble. 'Down!' Nibble. 'Up!' Nibble. Fifteen push-ups later I had finished nearly half the bar, hardly able to continue because of the intense laughter none of us could hold back. The sergeant stood up from his seat and walked in front of us, still on the floor with candy in our mouths. 'Enjoying your treat for hard work?' he asked. 'Aphbsoluthly, Szerghent!'"
Currently, fewer than 150 readers surf to israelibyday.com every day, yet Brothers' texts are well prepared and eloquently written. While in the base, he keeps a journal and takes notes. Once he gets to his computer, he expands on them, working hours on each post. "I wanted to write the blog in the first place to show my audience that we have a normal but unique life here," he told Anglo File. "You know when a person is obsessed with something and can't help but singularly talk about that thing? That's me with Israel, so I had to get it out of my system and tell people why I chose to live here instead of the easy luxurious life I had in America."
While the title of Brother's blog indicates that he'd focus on his dual loyalties, most articles deal with day-to-day army life, without dwelling on his special status as a recent immigrant. Yet he's "totally convinced that the commanders treat me better because I'm American," he said. "I don't know if it's because I'm an immigrant, or if it's because I work really hard to make up for my weaknesses" - such as not being fluent in Hebrew and unfamiliar with Israeli culture - "but I think I get better assignments, better guard duty hours, nicer personal treatment and so on." That doesn't mean that they don't believe the IDF is heads and shoulders above the U.S. Army, Brothers added. "I'm not so sure, but I avoid that conversation like the plague."
Last week I informed my loyal readership that I was finally being drafted into my actual unit. For the previous month I had been in an army course for immigrants to acclimate us to the "army mentality," as they put it. I'm pretty sure it's just an excuse for special forces guys to get a month vacation of kicking the crap out of people who speak funny Hebrew. Honestly though, it was a great course, and the physical training has already helped me in my new unit.
So, where am I in the Israeli Army? Where did they place me? Did I get accepted into the unit of my choice?
חטיבת גולני
That's right. I, somehow, got my first choice and got into the Golani Brigade. According to a more than year old article from an Israeli newspaper, Golani is the number one most requested combat unit among new draftees to the Israeli army. In the March of 2007 numbers, 2.7 inductees competed for each available spot in the brigade. I would venture to say based on the buzz around town that those figures have only gone up. It seems that just about everyone who wants to do combat wants to do Golani.
And I got in. Why? Because of my status as an immigrant, in part, but mainly because I volunteered to serve for a longer time. Because of my advanced age (I am a true grandpa for the army) I only had to serve 6 months, but I requested a 1.5 year service. In the interview with the officer who decides your unit he originally tried to place me in a less than desirable brigade, but then I reminded him that I volunteered for more time and could be doing other things.
"If you volunteered for more time, then you'll get Golani," he said with authority and no expression.
That was music to my ears. After being told to wait outside while he checks on some things, and I should give you context and tell you that this was with my entire group from Michve Alon as we waited at the processing base outside of Tel Aviv the night before being shipped to our respective units, he called me back in and looked very serious.
"It's my sorrow to tell you... that you got Golani."
Just one more word about the selection process. Though they really screen people to make sure they are put in the right units, and that the army gets the right person for the right job, it seems they haven't yet perfected the system. I have a friend from Michve Alon who is going to be one hell of a soldier, but he was rejected from Golani. This guy tried out for the paratroopers brigade, a grueling 2-day mental and physical test that I wasn't even about to attempt, and the only reason he failed was because he fell and hurt his knee. He requested Golani, of course, but was told that there were no spots left. It was full, they said.
And yet there is a guy from Michve Alon who was accepted who speaks very little Hebrew and just seems like a nutjob. Let's put it this way: the first week that he got his gun he took the expensive M16 and with two hands lifted it above his head and slammed it down on the pavement, breaking the steel barrel in half; he kicked a pipe in the bathroom repeatedly until it burst, flooding three rooms; he frequently screamed at his commanders, including threatening his female officer that he was going to "f***ing kill you"; he went to jail three times in the course of three months at Michve Alon, a preparation course for the real army; he is currently homeless, literally.
So, the bottom line is not that I am awesome and the army knew it and decided to hook me up, but rather that I got lucky.
Now that all that anxiousness is out of the way I can focus on becoming a real soldier. I know it might be something of a stretch, but getting into this unit has reminded me of getting into a top-tier college. I tried so so so hard for so long to be accepted, and then once I got in I took a step back and thought, "Oh... now I've got a lot of work to do." And again, I've got a lot of work to do.
For now let's sit back and try to imagine this being me:
You think I'm doing some unheard of crazy thing by becoming a citizen of Israel and joining the army here? Think again!
Last week I met a guy in the same course as me who is eerily similar. Here's the breakdown:
He's 24; I'm 24.
He's from Richmond, Virginia; I'm from about 1.5 hours away, and my parents met and spent many many years in Richmond. It's kind of a second home for us.
His name is David; My name is Danny.
He went to a Virginian college; I went to a Virginian college.
He's orthodox; I'm orthodox.
He wants the same brigade as me.
That's all I've got, but I'd say that's pretty close. So, don't think I'm the only crazy one out there! There are an estimated 250,000 Americans living in Israel, so don't worry about me, I'm in good company. And considering I'm from a town of about 2,000 people, I think I meet more Americans here in Israel than I do in America!
My birthday was the 26th of October, and I was inducted into the Israeli Army on the 22nd. That was one hell of a birthday present. I've always wanted to be a soldier, especially for the only army in the world that I think is 100% imperative for the existence of the state it serves. So, ideologically I didn't need cake or toys or songs.
On the other hand, it was really tough spending your birthday getting yelled at.
On the 27th, a day after my birthday, my mem"mem (the commander of half the group of 100 soldiers in my course) pulled me aside and asked me why I didn't tell anyone that it was my birthday.
"Uh, I didn't want to get singled out..."
"Good idea," he said.
They did give me a break, however, and didn't put me on guard duty (shmira) during the middle of the night. On the upper left it says "mazaal tov to Daniel." On the right notice the times you have to do guard duty. The second night I had guard duty at 4:20 am.
The best present in the army is sleep, and I got exactly what I wanted this year!
Let me tell you a few things about myself. For one, I hate carrying things in my pockets. I don't like my pants being weighed down by keys, a wallet, a cellphone, an iPod, etc. Meat often makes me feel nauseous. The spice saffron vividly tastes like soap to me. It's terrible. And finally, germane to this post, when I'm stressed out I don't overeat, overexercise, or run away from the problem. Rather, I get the most insatiable urge to buy things.
I am not a shopaholic, but if I'm nervous and having butterflies in my stomach, I can't get all the fancy gadgets and cool outdoors gear out of my head. Today I almost bought a preposterously overpriced cellphone. I was saved only by the fact that the cell provider wasn't satisfied with having direct access to my bank account - they wanted a credit card. Similarly, I was foaming at the mouth recently over the Nike+ SportBand.
So, as I was walking up the street next to the Mechane Yehuda Shuk (market), a teenage boy pushed by me with a delicious jelly-filled doughnut in his face hole. He was inhaling the powdered sugar covered delicacy. Here's how it went down:
Need. Jelly. Filled. Doughnuts.
Find the pastry shop.
"How many jelly-filled doughnuts can I get for 20 shekels?," I asked the shopkeeper.
"Eight," he figured.
Eight? Hmmmm...
"I'll take eight then."
I walked down the hill towards Jerusalem's biggest park, sat down on a bench next to the Supreme Court, looked out over the sprawling red roofs of the Nachalot neighborhood and the frolicking kids at Sacher Park, pulled a doughnut from the plastic bag that had begun to dig into my fingers from the weight, took one bite... and then I kind of woke up.
I came out of my daze. I thought, "Oh, that's tasty, but why do I have so many?" I finished the midday snack, licked my fingers, and then tried to figure out what the hell I was going to do with seven more jelly-filled doughnuts.
I have six more jelly-filled doughnuts left in my refrigerator. As I said, I don't really overeat when I'm stressed out. I bought the doughnuts not because I wanted to eat them, but rather because I wanted the positive association of making a new, stupid purchase. I wanted to distract myself from the churning anxiety in my chest. I wanted to forget my worries for just long enough to stuff my face.
Unfortunately, I didn't quite have the appetite. I'm just ready to get the show on the road, and there's no cellphone or doughnut that is going to mitigate that.
I was sitting at my table tonight, dilligently working on twenty pages of transcripts for my job, when there was a knock at the door. Unfortunately, our landlord hasn't installed the gate to our entrance that he said he would get around to, oh I don't know... ten months ago! So, the guy comes to our door, knocks, and I answer it. I have no idea who he is, and I figured that maybe he was here to see the apartment. I'm not renewing my lease, so there have been viewers once already, and considering that my landlord gave me ten minutes before the last viewers came, I thought he just failed to tell me at all.
I opened the door, thinking he was here to see the apartment. "Hi," I said. I waited for him to say something. He looked past me, around the place...
"Um," I stammered, quickly realizing with embarrassment that I actually understood zero words that he said. "Sorry, but my Hebrew is pretty terrible. What are you saying," I choked out in Hebrew.
Switching to English, "Oh..." He looked just as uncomfortable as me.
"Yes?," I asked.
"So you don't read the newspaper in Hebrew?"
The look of confusion on his face before he asked the most obvious question of his life was priceless. Absolutely priceless. It more than made up for my lack of understanding, which I don't even feel bad about because he threw some insanely fast 'Brew in my direction.
Honestly, if I can't even understand your introduction to selling me a newspaper, how am I supposed to read the paper in Hebrew?! Classic Israeli Moment brought to you by Stupid Immigrants Don't Know Nothin'.
September 4th, today as of this writing, is the one year anniversary of my move to Israel. It seems like yesterday that I moved here, and strangely enough the past six months went faster than the first six months. What's even stranger is that I came to Israel when I was 22, and very soon I will be 24. So, it feels like two years have passed!
One whole year has passed, so where do I stand? Let's see... Not much money in the bank (read none). I don't have a girlfriend. My Hebrew is mediocre at best. I'm kinda in shape, but unfortunately I can't afford a gym membership. I'm going into the army in less than two months and I haven't even finished the paperwork. My diet sucks. One of my running shoes has a hole in the air pocket. And... yeah, that's probably enough kvetching.
BUT! But, to balance out the less than perfect elements of "real life," there are tons of great aspects to my life. I have many interesting friends from all over the world. I live in the most spiritually enriched city in the world. I'm a citizen of the two greatest countries and nations of the world. When I do splurge for something other than pasta and rice, I absolutely love the food in Israel - Middle Eastern fare. Whenever I have free time I go on the coolest little trips around ancient, ancient sites. And, most importantly, I'm exceeding in a long held ideology.
Since that last post was so serious, I figured I'd balance it all out with a solid post about the stupidest, and yet one of my favorite shows in the world. Though I'll sit around and watch the History Channel all day, I've also found myself watching a certain fluff American show pretty regularly. I was overjoyed to flip through the channels a few nights ago and come across the Israeli version of this show.
Beauty and the Geek is a dumb, dumb show about a bunch of really smart guys being paired up with some really good looking but typically less intelligent girls. Essentially, the girls are to teach the guys how to function properly around girls, and the guys are supposed to teach the girls how to keep the blonde hair dye from poisoning their brains. So, why do I like it? I dunno. It comes on, and I just keep watching...
Finally, I get to practice my Hebrew and drool at the same time. Did I mention that I'm 23?
For those of you who didn’t know, I was just in America for a few weeks. I think it’s something of a ritual for western immigrants to take a trip back to their home country just shy of their one-year anniversary in Israel. Being without my family over here isn’t the easiest thing, so it was nice to get the crew back together again, no matter how cliché my trip was. I went back, however, with a wary spirit.
In 2006, I spent about eight months in Israel studying in Tel Aviv University and a yeshiva in Jerusalem. By the end of that time, the final month and a half or so, I was more than ready to return to Virginia and all the luxuries of living under the roof of even a relatively poor doctor. I was just about sick and tired of tiled floors and stone walls - bring on the carpet and drywall!
Typical Israeli tiled floor. We keep the dog bowls around as an excuse for the smell
Before I moved here last year I was a little worried that I would have that same yearning for the luxuries I grew up with. Don’t get the wrong idea: Israel is a first-world country with all the luxuries of America. The problem isn’t what’s available in Israel. The problem is what I can afford, of course. So, knowing that I would be stuck with grimy tile and peeling plaster, and that it affected me in the past, I wasn’t confident that I could put those trivialities aside and embrace the true reasons I moved to this land.
Hesitatingly entering my eighth month, the point of my longest stretch in Israel, I was relieved to find that my fears were unfounded. I found that I didn’t care that my apartment smells like a wet dog (thanks to a wet dog that lived in our apartment for about two months more than half a year ago). I didn’t care that I literally cannot turn around in my shower without holding on to the wall to keep me from tripping and falling. I just don’t care that I sleep on a leftover mattress that looks like it was left out in a monsoon twenty years ago.
Despite not being bothered by my lack of creature comforts, I’m not too proud to admit that I have felt some degree of jealousy over the lives of certain friends of mine in America. Coming out of university I had a couple options. One, get a real job. Two, do something out of the ordinary. The out of the ordinary category included teaching English in China, getting a lifeguarding job in the Caribbean, traveling out West, and of course moving to Israel.
Though I am very happy with my post-college choice, sometimes when I hear what kind of salary and benefits kids in my own major and milieu are receiving, well…I have my doubts. With that shadow of a doubt in the back of my head, I went to America expecting to be overwhelmed with the lavishness of the world’s richest country. A year abroad as a poor man should do that. Just compare my bathroom at my parent’s house versus the bathroom at my apartment.
My Virginia bathroom
The bathroom I can afford in Israel... yes, it's pink
Instead, I had an unexpected realization while in Virginia's lap of luxury. Believe it or not, I was getting out of my mom’s car and walking into Wal-Mart when I was overcome with a feeling of uneasiness. Here I was, driving like it was no big deal, being surrounded by people greeting me and randomly talking to me, going into a store to purchase multiple items – all of which are activities that worry the hell out of me in Israel. In America I am so used to and comfortable with life that nothing really gets to me. Nothing, as I see it, has challenged me on a daily basis.
But in Israel, oh man, in Israel everything is a challenge! All my friends are getting their licenses - not me! Driving in Hebrew? I can barely walk in Hebrew. Random people starting conversations with me? Yeah, I can do it, but it isn’t mindless chatter for me over here. And buying necessities? Even that makes my palms sweat.
So, my realization was not that I wanted to do something ‘out of the ordinary’ with my life. Rather, I wanted a challenge that was out of the ordinary. Going to law school or getting a corporate job would absolutely be a real challenge – but in no way are those pursuits extraordinary. Not that there is anything wrong with either of those paths, in fact I will probably be on one of those eventually, but I just wanted something more exciting for now.
I felt that America’s comforts were just too comfortable for an ideological and inspired 23-year-old. I didn’t like how easy it was for me to just live my days. I didn’t like how cheap electronics were, how carefree we used water and electricity, how big our house was, how constantly climate controlled my bedroom was. Again, there’s nothing wrong with living the high life; I just want to live the most basic, most challenging life I can right now.
I can’t tell you the satisfaction I feel here when I struggle to pay rent, barely scrape enough together for a decent meal, and finally find a little extra to buy a beer at a pub with my friends. The satisfaction and pleasure of struggling to do all those things, but knowing at the end of the month that you’re living in your own apartment with your own stuff and your own food, all without any help from anyone else, it’s overwhelming. In America I have too many resources to fall back on, too many jobs are open to me there that aren’t open to me here (mainly because of my level of Hebrew), and too many family members looking out for me.
Here, I am all alone – and that is the greatest struggle an ideological youth can hope for. If I succeed here, I can succeed anywhere, in any pursuit. This is my challenge. This is my struggle. This is my life, and I only have one chance to feel extraordinary.
However, I wouldn’t mind having carpet, which unfortunately just about nobody has in this country. That and gallon jugs of milk… that’s another post.
In an ongoing quest to really figure out my readership, I frequently check the keywords that people use to get to my site through a search engine. I've posted before some of the strange things that have brought people to israelibyday.com, but this one takes the cake (Israeli girls feet??). Unless this is some big misunderstanding, I think I might have to take this whole thing in a different direction...
Living in a city has its major benefits. One of those benefits is that there always seems to be something going on. Whether there is a play, symphony, festival, interpretive dance performance, or parade (i.e. - the Gay Pride Parade last week here in Jerusalem), there is something for everyone.
So, when my friend invited me to a jazz concert I jumped at the chance. However, not even ten minutes in to the first act did my fantastic imagination put me in hysterics. Here is this band, a really great Israeli jazz group, with a real live jazz flutist - and I was laughing so hard I was crying. A jazz flute!
Anyone of the fifteen to twenty-five-year-old range instantly would think of "Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy," but only I would find myself transformed to that hilarious scene. It was as if Will Ferrell was on-stage, sucking a martini through the flute and proceeding to create a flute blow torch, and not some serious musician trying to make a name for himself.
I'm sorry, I just couldn't help it! Here's the clip from the movie. I apologize for the quiet sound, but it was the only one I could find on YouTube. If you don't laugh, you just don't get it...
This envelope and her insignia mean many different things to various people; people inside and outside of Israel alike. This is the envelope that my tzav giyus came in, my I.D.F. induction notice. That sword and olive branch symbolize hope, peace, and security for a weathered people. The words Tzava Ha'Hagana L'Yisrael, Army For The Defense Of Israel, speak righteousness in my ears. I came to Israel to join this society, this culture of defense, these people that must serve together or face sure extermination. I came to place the seal of the Israeli Defense Force on my chest, no matter what anyone thinks of me or my decision. To think, all of this symbolism on a simple envelope!
But, as I have learned over the past few years living off and on in Israel, how different are our dreams from our experiences, how trying is the daily life in pursuit of a goal, how unideal our idealism can be! I dream of the day when I will stand tall and proud in this country, this unceasingly difficult to navigate country, unafraid of failure, defeat, and the dissolution of what I have set my sights on with the greatest of determination. I am lucky enough that my dream in life is so easily definable, a dream that I know I can achieve, but in no way does that mean that the gods have decided to take it easy on me.
The expectation that dreams will come easy is the fault of idealists with their heads in the clouds and their feet on the mountains. I can't tell you how many times I've heard from adults that "You're idealistic because you're young. That will pass when you see the real world." I disagree, of course. Idealism is not bound by time. Idealism isn't killed by the presence of reality. Rather, it is crystallized as strictly a dream by the very lack of reality. Our ideals and idealism and ideologies need not be attenuated for even a single day.
As a matter of fact, many grown adults, the greatest men and women of our history books, went to their graves with their undying passion decreased not a notch from its initial conception. Would Theodore Herzl, John Adams, Eliezer Ben-Yehuda, Susan B. Anthony, or Ben Franklin be the recognizable names that they are today if they subscribed to a defeatist attitude? No, of course not. Idealism doesn't die with time and reality. It dies with a failure to cope with the day to day struggle of living for a cause. If a dream is true and righteous, and the dreamer is conscious of his struggle's implications, even the greatest obstacles can be taken on with an indescribably joy - a reassurance in knowing that each assault on the realization of this dream is a sign that it is something worth fighting for. The greatest goal is always the most contested.
With all that high and mighty contemplation on dreams and goals and passions, those cliche words that I can't help but use, I think it's finally time that I get to the point of this post. Men and women like Herzl and Anthony and King faced real difficulties in the pursuit of their dreams: poverty, public indignation, death threats, insurmountable odds in the practical application of establishing a new country or changing thousands of years of discrimination. Those are enviable challenges to add to one's resume when accomplishing a goal. The names that exist in our text books knew real stumbling blocks.
So, what's the hardest part of my personal journey? What causes me to lose sleep at night? What takes my hope and determination and twists it into a little ball of doubt and hesitation? I wish I could say that the public wouldn't understand my beliefs, that I would be a person beyond my time, but I am just one of thousands joining this army. I wish I could say that I face poverty, but the truth is that I will be paid for my service to this country, a luxury many idealists traditionally can't rely on. No, and I hesitate to be so honest, but the greatest obstacle to me attaining my dream, the element of this pursuit that distresses me the most, is sheer embarrassment!
Have you watched the movie Full Metal Jacket recently? If not, here's a clip of the beginning of that film. If you have bad-language sensitive ears, I highly recommend just taking my word for it that boot camp commanders are not nice people.
Now, the Israeli army is so wildly different from the American army that you can hardly compare the two outside of the use of guns and tanks and war jets, but I just can't help but see myself as one of those idiots being yelled at! I can't help but imagine that I'm going to be the idiot that smiles during all this! I can't help but imagine that anything like this will happen at all! And to think it will all be happening around me in a language that often flies over my head...
The truth is that I am not afraid of the traditional possibilities that are inherent in joining an army. Because I see this army as a great miracle, that there is a Jewish fighting force wearing the Star of David after 2,000 years, that we are a real army with a record of unfathomable accomplishments, because this army is itself an ideological dream, I am proud to be a part of her in any capacity possible. The gift that I, of all the generations that have lived before me, have the chance to actively defend the Jewish people from savage enemies - It would be a sin to say no. My idealism easily conquers the fear of fighting.
All that pride and idealism was washed away in an instant, however, when I started talking to a very attractive and very uninterested female soldier in the army recruitment office a couple weeks ago. I had to go in to give them a copy of my diploma (which is in Latin, by the way, so I wonder what kind of looks that thing prompted) and sign some request forms. Going upstairs to hand over the diploma and give them some more information, I spoke Hebrew the entire time without any difficulty. The girls in that part of the office didn't seem to have a problem with my Hebrew, and I didn't have a problem understanding theirs. Fifteen minutes later I felt pretty damn good about myself and my journey.
And then I had to talk with Little Miss I Hate My Job. I was shepherded into a closet, a room with two desks and about two feet by two feet of free space for me to stand in. I figured I would jump right in with the 'Brew.
"...שלום אני רוצה לבקש"
Simple Hebrew, simple request forms, but she looked at me like I was speaking Greek. Now, why was it that the girls upstairs treated me like someone who does speak Hebrew, and this girl was looking at me like I had a third eyeball? Needless to say, her immediate switch into English killed my spirit.
Eventually we got to the part of the request forms where I had to give reasons why I wanted to move up my induction date to the army. All in English, of course, I explained that I am going to be older than the other guys by about five years, so I want to just get in there and get the waiting over with. As she was writing all of this in Hebrew, I mumbled "אני ישן".
Stupid, stupid mistake. "You are what?," she asked. After a second of looking at me, she began laughing the heartiest laugh I've heard in years.
"Yashan?! Did you just say that?! Yashan!" She couldn't get enough. She looked over at the other girl in the office, who was leaning halfway off her chair trying to figure out what was so funny, and began speaking Hebrew that I unfortunately understood quite well.
"He said 'ani yashan!' Oh, he's going to have fun in the army! What an idiot!"
Here I was, standing in the middle of this tiny little office with my backpack on, looking around, totally realizing my mistake in using the word for old that is the opposite of new, not young, and just having to shrug off two cute girls' laughter at my expense. And then they turned to their commanding officer who was sitting in the adjacent office and filled her in. Some guys who were there doing paperwork looked at me and shook their heads in disdain. I was the butt of the joke.
After the laughter died out, my considerate and compassionate Israeli sister looked up at me and said in English, "Your Hebrew make me laugh today. Thank you." Unable to resist, I leaned forward, placed my hands on her desk, and said "Your English make me laugh today too."
I guess you have to keep a sense of humor when it comes to these things, but think about my position! Here I am, joining a far-away army, and I am barely proficient in the language. Israel's army was founded on the backs of immigrants, and it continues to be the only sure way to integrate foreigners into the society, but that doesn't mean it's easy to be the guy who is only 50% sure of what's going on, to be 30% sure of what to say, and 5% sure on how to say it.
You want to know what I'm worried about when it comes to my time in the army? I'm not afraid of bombs, bullets, or bad guys. I'm afraid of being yelled at in Hebrew and having exactly zero idea what was just said to me. I'm afraid of being told "Don't let any cars in," and instead hearing "Let all the cars in." I'm afraid of having to get on the radio and call in a question to HQ. I'm afraid of messing up the language.
But as I said before, if dreams were easy, they wouldn't be dreams. If I spoke fluent Hebrew, I would be like any other Israeli. The army wouldn't be a dream, but rather a requirement or responsibility. If you ask the average Israeli if they were in the army, they'll say quite matter-of-factly, "Yes. Why?"
If you ask me in a couple years if I served in the army, I think you'll get quite a different response. You see, the obstacles to our goals that seem so Herculean at the time, those very obstacles become part and parcel of the goal itself. Not only are your obstacles unavoidable, they will come to define your path, and even give greater purpose to it.
And if you find yourself laughed at, like I was, remember this quote by Viktor Frankl: "The attempt to develop a sense of humor and to see things in a humorous light is some kind of a trick learned while mastering the art of living."
Unfortunately, my computer has stopped working. It's not even turning on, and the last time I tried I swore I smelled something burning. So, the posts might be highly erratic, if with any consistency at all. Unfortunately, I have about 100,000 things to write. What a bummer! In Hebrew we would say many things, but I'd say ezeh basa! Essentially, this sucks.
I recommend signing up for my Email Service, whereby anytime I post an entry you would get that entry sent to your email address as a regular email. You wouldn't get any other emails, no spam whatsoever, and it's free and easy to setup. Otherwise keep checking in randomly!
I apologize to my faithful readers, and I hope to post soon!
Isn't that just beautiful? Most people don't seem to realize that Israel is on the Mediterranean, and being that the Mediterranean bears ethereal magnificence, Israel is graced with some of the most breathtaking beaches around. Yes, yes, the Caribbean and Thailand are great, but if you walk three minutes from an Israeli Mediterranean beach, well, you're walking on some Biblical site, in some Biblical town, by some Biblical characters and their homes.
What you're looking at in the picture is a view from a balcony overlooking some of the beaches in Netanya. Netanya is slightly north of Tel Aviv, obviously on the coast, and it's well known for having the Ikea store. That and the best coastline in Israel, at least according to me. Not only do kids surf there, but it's also a hot destination for riding horses on the sand. Considering its physical qualities, the foreigners have moved in en-masse.
Land values in Israel are on the rise, astronomically, in no small part due to the rise in foreign-owned property. Rich Americans, Canadians, Brits, and French are notorious for buying up apartments, old Turkish houses, and land in areas like Baka and Katamon in Jerusalem (the German Colony). These neighborhoods are literally the Little Americas of Israel. You can walk down the street in Katamon and hear Hebrew, but if you walk by a school in the morning, I can guarantee you you'll hear a mother or father talking to a kid or two in English. If you get on the number 18 bus on Emek Refaim and don't hear some English, you might want to make sure you didn't have a concussion and wandered somewhere else.
Those communities in Jerusalem are so Americanized, or owned by non-native Israelis, because they are gorgeous locations. Emek Refaim and the surrounding Baka/Katamon neighborhoods were expensive areas in the time of the Turks, and they haven't ceased to be the most desirous since. An example? When the German Templars (a Christian sect that owned this area) were evicted after WW2 by the British because of their support of Nazi Germany, where do you think the British officers lived? Yup, they squatted on the houses in Baka, Katamon, and on Emek Refaim. How nice are they? You can't buy a place for less than a million, and that's probably a junky attic.
I went to Netanya for the first weekend of Passover (Pesach). I have a good friend whose step-father is a Brit, and besides owning a nice apartment in, you guessed it, Katamon, they have a place in a community in Netanya actually not known as Little America, but rather as Little England. On the way to synagogue one morning, I ran into a random British guy, and he asked me where I was going to daven.
I told him "Young Israel," the synagogue that my host goes to. The guy looked at me, chuckled, and like a good Brit he came back with some biting wit. "Yeah, more like Old England." The synagogue is populated by a bunch of old guys. I guess it takes a lifetime of income to afford one of these places.
It seems strange to me that there are definitively American places, and as if there is any need to further subcategorize Western, non-native Israeli areas, there's also those definitively British and French spots as well. That's one aspect to the whole 'Israel as the center of Judaism,' where Jews from all over the world come here to live or play. You don't think of this country as being large and diverse enough to merit definitively foreign clusters, but humans are humans, and we tend to group ourselves as we find most comfortable.
That being said, most of that "foreign" business is American. In Jerusalem, in general, if you see an Indo-European text on a sign, it's probably in English. However, if you are walking on Rechov Nice (a street) in Netanya, those signs are going to be in French. At first I unwittingly laughed at the stupid Israelis, putting "cacher" instead of "kosher" on a restaurant ad. Use a spell check! But, remember the street name, Danny! It's not Nice as in "nice to meet you," but rather Nice, the French Riviera resort city. At least in Jerusalem they name the streets in Hebrew! Usually.
We had our Pessach seder at my friend's step-father's apartment, which is right on the beach, and has a view of the ocean. I've been here before, and I was anxiously awaiting going back to see that terrific seascape again. I was unaware, however, at how many people were going to be there. After I found out that about 16 bodies were going to be staying at the apartment, eight of which were girls under the age of seven, I got a little nervous. Then my friend, her brother, and her sister and I went over to their friend's apartment. This family happens to be doing Passover in Italy, if you get where I'm going with this. I've known all these people for a while now, but I guess I'm always a little taken aback when I see their places.
Let's just say I'm constantly plagued by the worst of the deadly sins.
This article that was on the Jerusalem Post website a few days ago is actually an answer to a question that I've had for a few years now. Considering that I am working with great effort on learning the Hebrew language, sometimes I look at its non-Indo European character set and I think, "Is this gobbly gook to anyone else?" I mean, do Israelis look at Hebrew text and see it like I see English -- as plain as my image in a mirror, as distinct as red and blue and green, as natural as the glare of a summer sun?
Apparently not!
Hebrew University did a study whereby they found that slightly jumbled words are more recognizable in English, and other Indo-European languages, than they are in Hebrew. For instance, "tutrle" and "mcie" are easier for English speakers to reorganize, instantly, into turtle and mice than their Hebrew equivalents would be.
This is because Hebrew is a root-based language. The Hebrew root is essentially a string of a few letters which have a definitive meaning, but can be used in tons of different forms (from verbs to nouns to adjectives) to carry on the meaning in a different context. You can't change them up.
In English, however, we would just have a totally different word with no connection between them. The best way to characterize the difference between Hebrew and English is that whereby English has thousands of more, distinct words, Hebrew is based more on context, structure, and these precious roots. Distinct words versus distinct word forms.
The roots can make for some really cool trivia. L'hosif, Yosef, tosefet - never mind.
Anyway, this makes me feel great! I kept wondering why my very smart teacher couldn't recognize a word in my homework because two letters were backwards. So those native Hebrew speakers actually don't have that instinctive recognition of Hebrew either! There's hope yet.
(If anyone wants to hear more about how AWESOME Hebrew is, comment on this post).
