I watched more television in the 8 months I just spent in the states then I have in the last 8 years combined. And still, averaging 2 shows a week, I didn't match the time most American's spend in front of the (now HD) tube.
Today, in Israel, I saw my first episode of Prison Break, and needless to say I was completely lost. What I didn't manage to miss though was the violence and brutality, even after shielding my eyes with the pillow in my lap.
The following scene raised lots of questions for me.
A father whose son is murdered kindly asks the official (who has finished his task) to take a walk so he can retaliate against his sons murderer. The torture consists of the use of a 5 inch medical needle, a car battery, and other devices I probably missed as I turned away.
Later in the show they show the father holding his phone up to the murderer who says, short of breath and clearly dying, "Pam, I'm sorry".
The husband takes the phone and says "Honey, it's all over. It's all over, I love you."
And a look of relief and emotion washes over her face.
***********
The first issue it raised:
1. Violence in the media. TV has reached a whole new level of brutality and graphic-ness in its violent scenes. What was once left to the imagination today literally made my stomach churn. We are slowly being so de-sensitized that the media needs to stay one step ahead displaying more blood, more pain, more suffering for us to see.
I'm not innocent, naive, or squirmish. I can watch doctors cutting open organs on medical shows, but I can't watch violence.
And perhaps its this desensitivity to violence that makes us apathetic, as a culture, as a nation, to genocide, to wars, and fighting...
2. The other issue it brought up was revenge and retaliation. I can't begin to imagine the pain one must feel at losing a child. But I also can't begin to imagine the misguidance one must have in believing that revenge is going to help subside the pain.
Are things really "over"? And can his wife really live with a man who premedidated the brutal torture and murder of his sons murderer?
At times people have claimed temporary insanity in the face of grief, but a clearly planned and orchestrated act of murder sends chills down my spine.
We look at many cultures (among them some of the Muslim cultures) that believe in an eye for an eye, we look at the Bedouins who believe in revenge and honor, and we judge them as being backwards, barbaric, and so on.
Yet we show such things on popular tv as if its ordinary and completely normal. As if acting this way because you've "lost control" is different than if you've "lost control" and it's the norm.
Either way, as trashy as it is, and as much body image and self-esteem issues the new 90210 creates for the younger generation, I prefer that to Prison Break anyday.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
welcome back
Back in the land of holy four days and I find myself wading deep through bureaucratic university muck.
Surprised when the voice on the other end of the phone is so abrasive I interrupt to remind it that I'm not complaining or criticizing, merely looking for help in finding a solution to said obstacle. "oh, god forbid, of course", the voice referring to my insistent reminder that I'm not on the offensive; though on more than one occasion I feel myself teetering over that fine line, ready to unleash the Moroccan temper stored inside me.
And a small voice echoes in my head, "welcome back to Israel".
The truth is that I am well-equipped, I have the elbows, the persistence, and knee-high rubber boots necessary to navigate through this wild terrain. But the reality is that I like my elbows moisturized and foot wear light.
We'll see how long I keep my American manners and temperament before my recently acquired Israeli edges begin to re-emerge.
I may love Israel but there are some things I prefer Americanized.
Surprised when the voice on the other end of the phone is so abrasive I interrupt to remind it that I'm not complaining or criticizing, merely looking for help in finding a solution to said obstacle. "oh, god forbid, of course", the voice referring to my insistent reminder that I'm not on the offensive; though on more than one occasion I feel myself teetering over that fine line, ready to unleash the Moroccan temper stored inside me.
And a small voice echoes in my head, "welcome back to Israel".
The truth is that I am well-equipped, I have the elbows, the persistence, and knee-high rubber boots necessary to navigate through this wild terrain. But the reality is that I like my elbows moisturized and foot wear light.
We'll see how long I keep my American manners and temperament before my recently acquired Israeli edges begin to re-emerge.
I may love Israel but there are some things I prefer Americanized.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
change
I sit here, in Israel, a mere 4 days after voting for Obama in the states. Four days after a black man was elected President of the United States of America. I sit here, and for the first time in my adult life I feel unabashedly proud to be American. Tears stream down my face listening to Will.I.Am's "Yes We Can" video. And I ponder at how never before were my politically inspired tears a result of hope and not despair.
I am moved at the number of things that this election means. I am inspired, hopeful, excited... grappling to find the words to adequately describe the feeling flowing through my veins, the feeling that is so much deeper than what I can describe through my intellect.
I want to write about it now, so that perhaps in fifteen years from now when my children ask me how I felt at this historic moment, I will have the words I wrote to show them.
Just a month or so ago I was wondering at the people who told me that they do not like McCain but that they do not believe Obama, and would therefore be voting McCain. I was astounded that we have reached such a point of dissilussionment that we are willing to safely pick something we know is bad for us, rather than pick something we are afraid may disappoint us. I think that that very disillusionment is testimony to the very place from which our nation rose to elect its first black president.
I had been cruising at 47,000 feet for about 8 hours when the pilot announced that we would be landing in two hours, that breakfast would be served shortly, and that Obama won the election. I let out a small breath of relief and regained my childhood pride, for I didn't doubt he would win. I couldn't imagine our nation continuing down the path it has been on. Yet it wasn't until much later that evening (the 5th), in Israel and alone for the first time in hours, that I turned on the television and watched coverage of the previous day, that I began to comprehend the significance of what had happened, and what it means.
A man who was born into an era in which he did not have the right to vote will soon be sitting in the most powerful seat in the nation, and arguably the world. A country that enacted affirmative action in the last twenty years to right the wrongs done to African Americans has elected an African American to lead them out of the darkness.
This election highlights the road the U.S. has taken from racism to tolerance, and from tolerance to co-existence (for lack of a better word).
I am moved at the number of things that this election means. I am inspired, hopeful, excited... grappling to find the words to adequately describe the feeling flowing through my veins, the feeling that is so much deeper than what I can describe through my intellect.
I want to write about it now, so that perhaps in fifteen years from now when my children ask me how I felt at this historic moment, I will have the words I wrote to show them.
Just a month or so ago I was wondering at the people who told me that they do not like McCain but that they do not believe Obama, and would therefore be voting McCain. I was astounded that we have reached such a point of dissilussionment that we are willing to safely pick something we know is bad for us, rather than pick something we are afraid may disappoint us. I think that that very disillusionment is testimony to the very place from which our nation rose to elect its first black president.
I had been cruising at 47,000 feet for about 8 hours when the pilot announced that we would be landing in two hours, that breakfast would be served shortly, and that Obama won the election. I let out a small breath of relief and regained my childhood pride, for I didn't doubt he would win. I couldn't imagine our nation continuing down the path it has been on. Yet it wasn't until much later that evening (the 5th), in Israel and alone for the first time in hours, that I turned on the television and watched coverage of the previous day, that I began to comprehend the significance of what had happened, and what it means.
A man who was born into an era in which he did not have the right to vote will soon be sitting in the most powerful seat in the nation, and arguably the world. A country that enacted affirmative action in the last twenty years to right the wrongs done to African Americans has elected an African American to lead them out of the darkness.
This election highlights the road the U.S. has taken from racism to tolerance, and from tolerance to co-existence (for lack of a better word).
Saturday, November 01, 2008
hello winter goodbye
Today felt like the first day of spring; blue skies, bright sun warming the still air. Temperatures reached 67 degrees.
Yet tonight the clocks fall back, and my skin, papery dry for the first time this season, tell me that winter has really arrived.
In just two days though, I escape the brutal northeast winter yet again. I spare myself the spider web patterns that fill with droplets of blood, adorning the delicate skin on my hands as the winter gets harsher. And I return to the mild Mediterranean winter I adore where the coolness that escorts the changing of the leaves here in the northeast u.s. is as cold as it gets over there.
It snowed a few days ago, unusually early snow amidst a week of blue skies and warm weather. It didn't stick, if only to fulfill my longing to see the white stuff... it's been four years, and I admit I miss it.
It is hard to imagine the cold to follow once I leave, and it's hard to understand how people inhabit such a brutal place (still considered mild), and so easy to forget what it's like.
Yet tonight the clocks fall back, and my skin, papery dry for the first time this season, tell me that winter has really arrived.
In just two days though, I escape the brutal northeast winter yet again. I spare myself the spider web patterns that fill with droplets of blood, adorning the delicate skin on my hands as the winter gets harsher. And I return to the mild Mediterranean winter I adore where the coolness that escorts the changing of the leaves here in the northeast u.s. is as cold as it gets over there.
It snowed a few days ago, unusually early snow amidst a week of blue skies and warm weather. It didn't stick, if only to fulfill my longing to see the white stuff... it's been four years, and I admit I miss it.
It is hard to imagine the cold to follow once I leave, and it's hard to understand how people inhabit such a brutal place (still considered mild), and so easy to forget what it's like.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
colonialization
National Geographic had a show on last night about prisons, the episode airing was on a maximum security prison in Perth, Australia.
I was struck by the humanity of the prison several times. One scene showed aboriginal inmates barbecuing kangaroo tales (a delicacy) while a woman looking on explained that due to their different culture, language, and lifestyle the prison systems tries to accommodate their aboriginal population as much as they can.
But how many must they have to go to such great lengths? For the incarcerated U.S. citizen had nothing to remind him of home. Though (tangent if I may) he noted clearly that he prefers to carry out his life term in Australia (for drug trafficking) rather than do a prisoner exchange and serve his term in a U.S. prison which, he noted, lacks the humanity of the Australian prison system.
But back to the aborigines - Australia incarcerates their aborigines at a higher rate than any other nation* incarcerates their native populations. (Clearly blacks are not native to the U.S. otherwise this statistic may be a little different).
According to Wikipedia (b/c I couldn't remember the stats) aboriginal people currently make up 2.6% of Australia's population, 21% of the prison population, and are 20fold overrepresented in the juvenile corrective service.
Now while some live in cities and are accustomed to the "Australian" lifestyle and laws, clearly a good number of those in prison live in rural communities remote enough that English is never learned.
The absurdity lies in that many of these people are being incarcerated for tribal laws and lifestyle they have lived by for generations.
Now granted I don't support violence, not by westerns or natives, or Bedouins, or anyone else.
What I find absurd is that these people have been living on their land for thousands of years. Along come white people, create a great nation on their land, set up institutions and laws, and then hold the natives accountable for the laws they set up.
Do I think that a tribal leader should be able to deem a crime punishable by stoning? No. But I don't see how it's much different from a judge (or governor), a sort of tribal leader, if you will, deeming a crime punishable by lethal injection. Sure we have laws set up, and we know to abide by them, they create order. But so did natives worldwide before their colonizers came along.
Another example. Native cultures all over use different types of plants, cacti, even bugs as drugs in different cultural and spiritual practices, or simply as part of their lives. We arrest them for it.
Yet we allow the use of nicotine and alcohol, and see it (at least alcohol) as totally normal.
As for alcohol it is addictive, lethal, it changes mood and behavior, and destroys vital organs. Yet we use it ritually in celebrating everything from weddings to happy hour.
So really? What are the differences? And who are we to judge?
I was struck by the humanity of the prison several times. One scene showed aboriginal inmates barbecuing kangaroo tales (a delicacy) while a woman looking on explained that due to their different culture, language, and lifestyle the prison systems tries to accommodate their aboriginal population as much as they can.
But how many must they have to go to such great lengths? For the incarcerated U.S. citizen had nothing to remind him of home. Though (tangent if I may) he noted clearly that he prefers to carry out his life term in Australia (for drug trafficking) rather than do a prisoner exchange and serve his term in a U.S. prison which, he noted, lacks the humanity of the Australian prison system.
But back to the aborigines - Australia incarcerates their aborigines at a higher rate than any other nation* incarcerates their native populations. (Clearly blacks are not native to the U.S. otherwise this statistic may be a little different).
According to Wikipedia (b/c I couldn't remember the stats) aboriginal people currently make up 2.6% of Australia's population, 21% of the prison population, and are 20fold overrepresented in the juvenile corrective service.
Now while some live in cities and are accustomed to the "Australian" lifestyle and laws, clearly a good number of those in prison live in rural communities remote enough that English is never learned.
The absurdity lies in that many of these people are being incarcerated for tribal laws and lifestyle they have lived by for generations.
Now granted I don't support violence, not by westerns or natives, or Bedouins, or anyone else.
What I find absurd is that these people have been living on their land for thousands of years. Along come white people, create a great nation on their land, set up institutions and laws, and then hold the natives accountable for the laws they set up.
Do I think that a tribal leader should be able to deem a crime punishable by stoning? No. But I don't see how it's much different from a judge (or governor), a sort of tribal leader, if you will, deeming a crime punishable by lethal injection. Sure we have laws set up, and we know to abide by them, they create order. But so did natives worldwide before their colonizers came along.
Another example. Native cultures all over use different types of plants, cacti, even bugs as drugs in different cultural and spiritual practices, or simply as part of their lives. We arrest them for it.
Yet we allow the use of nicotine and alcohol, and see it (at least alcohol) as totally normal.
According to the American Heart Association, "Nicotine addiction has historically been one of the hardest addictions to break." The pharmacological and behavioral characteristics that determine tobacco addiction are similar to those that determine addiction to drugs such as heroin and cocaine. (from wikipedia) [3]Not to mention it causes lung cancer as well as other complications.
As for alcohol it is addictive, lethal, it changes mood and behavior, and destroys vital organs. Yet we use it ritually in celebrating everything from weddings to happy hour.
So really? What are the differences? And who are we to judge?
Thursday, October 09, 2008
Into the Wild
Watching "Into the Wild" I felt myself longing for that material-less existence, connection with nature, appreciation of life. And I wondered how one can reconcile these desires with the desire, the need, for continuous interpersonal relationships (through family, love, work). Not everyone can just drop everything and live the life Christopher lived for two years, or perhaps they can, but that isn't the life I want, nor do I think that's ultimately the life Christopher wanted, afterall, it was his Great Alaskan Adventures, and adventures are meant to be temporary.
There is something beautiful in experiencing the world alone. Meeting people, overcoming obstacles, fears, loneliness... but in the end the role that it plays in our evolving is what we long to share with those we love.
For who are we if not in relation to others, to 'society'? Even Chris's identity was built upon his disconnect from a society he couldn't embrace, whether intentionally or not. It was his very relationship to society, culture, humanity that made him stand out.
Of course it was more than that. We are all more than that. We are everything with and without our surroundings, and at the same time we are nothing...
How do we live within society without buying into it? How do we take just what we need without forgetting the difference between need and want? How do we keep our lives simple?
And how to we remember to, as Ron put it, forgive and love those dear to us so that the light can shine upon us?
Perhaps it's learning to love and accept those who are around us and that which surrounds us.
Christopher concludes, as he prepares for his imminent death, "HAPPINESS IS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED".
There is something beautiful in experiencing the world alone. Meeting people, overcoming obstacles, fears, loneliness... but in the end the role that it plays in our evolving is what we long to share with those we love.
For who are we if not in relation to others, to 'society'? Even Chris's identity was built upon his disconnect from a society he couldn't embrace, whether intentionally or not. It was his very relationship to society, culture, humanity that made him stand out.
Of course it was more than that. We are all more than that. We are everything with and without our surroundings, and at the same time we are nothing...
How do we live within society without buying into it? How do we take just what we need without forgetting the difference between need and want? How do we keep our lives simple?
And how to we remember to, as Ron put it, forgive and love those dear to us so that the light can shine upon us?
Perhaps it's learning to love and accept those who are around us and that which surrounds us.
Christopher concludes, as he prepares for his imminent death, "HAPPINESS IS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED".
Saturday, September 27, 2008
vintage vs. thrift
Here's a thought that came to me recently. The tv was on in the background and there was some show in which two woman had to buy attire for an evening out - their budget? A thousand dollars - each. (I'll refrain from refering to the absurdity it is in and of itself, and save it for another post).
These two women wandered between boutiques, designer stores, and lastly, vintage shops.
What struck me was that the woman settled on a vintage dress (albeit, a strikingly beautiful and flattering one) for a couple hundred dollars.
Now here's the absurdity, and I apologize in advance if I point to the stupidity of American culture - it's one I call my own.
It amazes me that in our society people will shop vintage but won't be caught dead in a thrift store, used clothing drive, or (gasp) garage sale.
Now before going on a rant at the stupidity of these social norms, I did a little research on what the actual difference between vintage and thrift is. I found that some categorize vintage as being from one era and thrift from another.
My point is that regardless of what you label it, where, who, or when it is from, it's used. And if you think paying hundreds of dollars at a store that calls itself vintage is classier than paying five bucks at a vintage store - here are the main, and most interesting differences I found:
http://vintageclothing.about.com/od/vintagebasics/qt/retailtypes.htm
Now, fyi, an estate sale is essentially a garage sale, held inside a house. It may be of someone deceased, foreclosed, etc.
So while this woman bought this dress at a vintage shop, the shops owner may have saved the dress the fate of sitting in the closet of a thrift-shopper, while he payed for it thrift shop, estate sale, flea market prices.
So the next time you're tempted to pay a hundred bucks for a pair of cool vintage jeans... consider it's origins.
Oh, and another thought - not everything vintage is quality. Some may have designer labels, while other things have no labels. And just as it amazes me that people will shop vintage and not thrift, it amazes me that people will shop vintage, and not Marshall's, TJMaxx, or (insert other).
These two women wandered between boutiques, designer stores, and lastly, vintage shops.
What struck me was that the woman settled on a vintage dress (albeit, a strikingly beautiful and flattering one) for a couple hundred dollars.
Now here's the absurdity, and I apologize in advance if I point to the stupidity of American culture - it's one I call my own.
It amazes me that in our society people will shop vintage but won't be caught dead in a thrift store, used clothing drive, or (gasp) garage sale.
Now before going on a rant at the stupidity of these social norms, I did a little research on what the actual difference between vintage and thrift is. I found that some categorize vintage as being from one era and thrift from another.
My point is that regardless of what you label it, where, who, or when it is from, it's used. And if you think paying hundreds of dollars at a store that calls itself vintage is classier than paying five bucks at a vintage store - here are the main, and most interesting differences I found:
http://vintageclothing.about.com/od/vintagebasics/qt/retailtypes.htm
Used, second hand, or vintage; they are all different terms for the same thing, and there are several types of retail entities that sell them. Privately owned vintage shops or boutiques, thrift or charity stores, and consignment are the major places to buy vintage, but there are a few differences between them.
Vintage Shop
A vintage shop/boutique is a privately owned store in which all of the items for sale were purchased by the store and are being resold at some sort of premium. The store can get their merchandise from any number of sources, but the most common source is a rag house through which they can purchase large bails of clothing. Other sources of stock include swap meets, vintage fairs, and individual hunting at estate sales or flea markets.
Thrift Store
Thrift and charity stores sell used clothes that were donated by individuals. Depending on the individual store, profits from the sales that go directly to charity vary, but all sales contribute in some way monetarily to the charity who owns the thrift.
Now, fyi, an estate sale is essentially a garage sale, held inside a house. It may be of someone deceased, foreclosed, etc.
So while this woman bought this dress at a vintage shop, the shops owner may have saved the dress the fate of sitting in the closet of a thrift-shopper, while he payed for it thrift shop, estate sale, flea market prices.
So the next time you're tempted to pay a hundred bucks for a pair of cool vintage jeans... consider it's origins.
Oh, and another thought - not everything vintage is quality. Some may have designer labels, while other things have no labels. And just as it amazes me that people will shop vintage and not thrift, it amazes me that people will shop vintage, and not Marshall's, TJMaxx, or (insert other).
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
a day in Israel - the day of the return of 2 soldiers
I found myself in a car on the way to Sderot choking back tears.
We had just passed a car adorned with red and white ribbons, and I thought of a young couple and their excitement today as they prepared for the celebration that would legally and formally join them for the rest of their lives. But it wasn't the thought of a wedding that eventually poured the tears down my face. It was each event, each moment, and each person today that put me face to face with the reality we live in. All this as the sun reached it's peak a few minutes before noon.
Sitting in the car on the way to the most rocketed city in Israel I was inundated by my cousins kitchy choice of music.
My cousin and my aunt had just picked me up in Beer Sheva on their way back from the hospital. My aunt has cancer. The doctor called her this morning after her tests yesterday to say she needed to come in immediately to be hospitalized. They ended up treating her and sending her home, to return for hospitalization tomorrow. This is her reality.
Back in the apartment I had just come from a 17 month old toddled around chasing balls, squirting water from his mouth, and chewing on toys... discovering everything around him. Meanwhile his grandmother and I watched the news as Israel traded 199 bodies and 5 terrorists for the two soldiers (Udi and Eldad) captured 2 years and four days ago.
As I meditated this morning I pictured the soldiers walking (healthy, injured, shocked, happy... but walking) out of the International Red Cross car and onto Israeli soil. I shed tears to find they returned in two big black boxes. And I shed tears thinking of my friend at Udi's house crying with Udi's family, friends, and widow at their broken hope and their new reality.
At the same time in Lebanon a national holiday was called to celebrate the return of five prisoners and 199 bodies - in exchange for 2 dead bodies.
A baby, a wedding, cancer, politics, war, death... it hit me and I realized how each of us is living such a unique reality within what we share around us. And I wondered whether acknowledging the different things we endure, understanding our differences, while we seem so similar, could help bring us together.
We had just passed a car adorned with red and white ribbons, and I thought of a young couple and their excitement today as they prepared for the celebration that would legally and formally join them for the rest of their lives. But it wasn't the thought of a wedding that eventually poured the tears down my face. It was each event, each moment, and each person today that put me face to face with the reality we live in. All this as the sun reached it's peak a few minutes before noon.
Sitting in the car on the way to the most rocketed city in Israel I was inundated by my cousins kitchy choice of music.
My cousin and my aunt had just picked me up in Beer Sheva on their way back from the hospital. My aunt has cancer. The doctor called her this morning after her tests yesterday to say she needed to come in immediately to be hospitalized. They ended up treating her and sending her home, to return for hospitalization tomorrow. This is her reality.
Back in the apartment I had just come from a 17 month old toddled around chasing balls, squirting water from his mouth, and chewing on toys... discovering everything around him. Meanwhile his grandmother and I watched the news as Israel traded 199 bodies and 5 terrorists for the two soldiers (Udi and Eldad) captured 2 years and four days ago.
As I meditated this morning I pictured the soldiers walking (healthy, injured, shocked, happy... but walking) out of the International Red Cross car and onto Israeli soil. I shed tears to find they returned in two big black boxes. And I shed tears thinking of my friend at Udi's house crying with Udi's family, friends, and widow at their broken hope and their new reality.
At the same time in Lebanon a national holiday was called to celebrate the return of five prisoners and 199 bodies - in exchange for 2 dead bodies.
A baby, a wedding, cancer, politics, war, death... it hit me and I realized how each of us is living such a unique reality within what we share around us. And I wondered whether acknowledging the different things we endure, understanding our differences, while we seem so similar, could help bring us together.
Monday, June 16, 2008
the media
I hate to get political, especially about a place that is so political, and complicated. But I figure it's my blog. And it's my place. And well, here goes...
The BBC has been my homepage for about 6 years. Not because I particularly like it, but because it provides me with better coverage on issues around the world than any local news source (in Israel or the States).
Two things I dislike about the BBC.
One: they generally ask readers opinions on trivial stories, instead of important ones.
Two: they are overtly biased in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
Several days ago the frontpage headlined a story about the blasting of a home in Gaza which killed a Hamas militant or leader, along with his family, and a baby. While Israel generally takes responsibility for such actions, it has denied involvement in the incident. Hamas retaliated by firing rockets into Israel.
Two days later in the Middle East section was the following update: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7452540.stm Hamas militants, in preparation for an armed operation, were responsible for the blast which they blamed and retaliated against Israel for.
If the first story was important enough to make the front page, shouldn't the correction, or follow up? Afterall, the Austrian cellar incest case made the front page, as did EVERY subsequent story. In case we didn't know the family was upset, or the father would be incarcerated...
In college I majored in Human Rights and protested in Quebec, D.C., and Miami. At some point I began to feel that the activist moment was hypocritical and the media was unreliable.
New students interested in coming to protests would admit knowing little about the issues. They were told to come along and learn on the way. I felt if you were going to a protest you better know why you're there.
Around the same time I realized that the independent media was no less biased than the CNN, BBC, or NYTimes they criticized. If I wanted to learn about an issue I'd have to read it all and piece it together myself.
So see, I understand the reality of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Israel isn't something I learned to point to on a map in late 2000 on the way to a protest after the second intafada began. I had been educated from a left wing perspective on the conflict my whole life. And now I live in Israel.
It's my own experience with Israel that has made me question every other protest slogan. Every other story around the world. How much is missing from what we hear?
I've changed a lot since my college days... I still believe in equality, justice, and human rights. But I also believe in rallying and working for peace, tolerance, and understanding, instead of protesting and yelling against war.
The BBC has been my homepage for about 6 years. Not because I particularly like it, but because it provides me with better coverage on issues around the world than any local news source (in Israel or the States).
Two things I dislike about the BBC.
One: they generally ask readers opinions on trivial stories, instead of important ones.
Two: they are overtly biased in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
Several days ago the frontpage headlined a story about the blasting of a home in Gaza which killed a Hamas militant or leader, along with his family, and a baby. While Israel generally takes responsibility for such actions, it has denied involvement in the incident. Hamas retaliated by firing rockets into Israel.
Two days later in the Middle East section was the following update: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/7452540.stm Hamas militants, in preparation for an armed operation, were responsible for the blast which they blamed and retaliated against Israel for.
If the first story was important enough to make the front page, shouldn't the correction, or follow up? Afterall, the Austrian cellar incest case made the front page, as did EVERY subsequent story. In case we didn't know the family was upset, or the father would be incarcerated...
In college I majored in Human Rights and protested in Quebec, D.C., and Miami. At some point I began to feel that the activist moment was hypocritical and the media was unreliable.
New students interested in coming to protests would admit knowing little about the issues. They were told to come along and learn on the way. I felt if you were going to a protest you better know why you're there.
Around the same time I realized that the independent media was no less biased than the CNN, BBC, or NYTimes they criticized. If I wanted to learn about an issue I'd have to read it all and piece it together myself.
So see, I understand the reality of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. Israel isn't something I learned to point to on a map in late 2000 on the way to a protest after the second intafada began. I had been educated from a left wing perspective on the conflict my whole life. And now I live in Israel.
It's my own experience with Israel that has made me question every other protest slogan. Every other story around the world. How much is missing from what we hear?
I've changed a lot since my college days... I still believe in equality, justice, and human rights. But I also believe in rallying and working for peace, tolerance, and understanding, instead of protesting and yelling against war.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
in white or color
I've been doing a lot of photo editing lately. Not the type involving chemicals, red lights, and glow in the dark timers... the type I used to enter 12 hour meditative trances doing in college, the type I really love. But rather the type I used to shun, the type that involves a chair, a mouse, and my laptop; movement of the wrist, and rubbing of the eyes.
It's been over six months since I left India. And though I posted over a thousand pictures to share with family and friends, I never did anything else with them. Never cleaned them up, sorted through them...
And these past few days I've been inspired to continue, and not by the end product - I don't yet know what it'll be - but by the images and how they touch me. The moments I've captured. And I've realized it's time to start sharing. My work will never speak to anyone if I keep it hidden.
During this blurry-eye inducing endeavour I noticed something interesting. The color white is practically non-existent in nature. Just about the only time a non-synthetic white appears in my photographs is when I've overexposed the sky and it emits a blinding white light - a technical error. Yet I look around and I'm surrounded by white. My computer screen, the Poland Springs bottle cap, the coiled "creative" adapter, the paycheck I have yet to cash, the tissue poking out from the box, the Dr. Fischer moisturizer tube, the plastic bag in my trash... it's everywhere.
We seem to bleach everything to get this "pure" color. Our bread, our rice, our paper... We seem to use white as a base on which to splash color, we seem to think it's about the only suitable "color" to put others on. Yet in nature the abundance of colors create a visual harmony. The blue sky, the green plants, the brown earth, fruits, vegetables, flowers, animals... color is everywhere. And where we do find a shade of white - in seashells, mushrooms, animals (doves, swans, lambs, etc) - it's so spectacular - so different - that we awe at it.
Monday, June 02, 2008
a transferred obsession
Growing up I never distinguished between the United States and Israel. Anyone who grew up in a multi-cultural multi-lingual home may understand this feeling.
It was only at 22, upon emigrating to my birthplace that I began to understand the significant separators between the two countries. An 11 hour plane ride, an ocean, Africa, language, climate, diet, religion, fashion, attitude, and lifestyle. Israels culture, I realized, was very much her own.
As a child visiting Israel I thought my native country was obsessed with my home country. From the American flag murals on bomb shelter walls (post gulf war), to Bart Simpson purim costumes, Madonna, Michael Jackson, MTV invasion, and 90210 reruns, obsession was a fair assesment in the early 90's.
Today Israeli's have taken notes and moved beyond to create their own equivalents of MTV, 90210, and even American Idol . Israeli technology, fashion, and media have grown into their own, and in instances surpassed their model's.
I spent Friday night in the city (Manhattan for those of you outside the radius) and began to feel as if Israel's days of obsessing over America were gone only to be replaced by America's obsession with Israel.
During dinner Israel came up and I gave a five minute shpeil on my jumbled thoughts and feelings on the place I love. Little did I realize the topic would haunt me the rest of the evening. Dinner was following by a night at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. The MC was going through the borough's and states getting shout outs from the audience and when she hit the international map I looked over at H sitting on the floor, and acknowledged I should probably keep my mouth shut. My eyes returned to the MC to notice the spunky young black woman had chosen a kaffiyah with which to accessorize her outfit for the evening. And the feature (the poet of the night)? A young Muslim woman sporting the traditional head covering and long sleeves. The first words of her first poem? Free Free Palestine. I shrunk into my seat and braced myself for the emotion I thought bound to follow. Lucky for me, the young poet was so nervous (she claimed) that she was loud, obnoxious, and annoying between her pieces and the power of her words lost much of the desired effect should have, would have, could have had (on me at least).
Several other poets threw in the word Palestine for good measure and effect, and a young black nurse who performed a piece of lost love refered to the unique left to right reading of Hebrew.
We stepped out into the cool Manhattan night, the show continuing without us (it was half past 12 and H was getting up early in the morning). As we wandered through the city we stopped at a convenience store and as I turned from the cashier to the exit I noticed Israel on the front page of a paper. It wasn't anything big, significant, or exciting...
Which brings me back to Madonna. Whether it's the stars looking towards Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism, the Christians in awe of Israel and the bible, the liberals crying for Palestine, the yuppies and the hippies lounging at hookah bars* or falafel stands, or the politicians "seeking a partner for peace" in the middle east, or most currently Adam Sandler playing an Israeli in Hollywood's "The Zohan" (which is bound to irritate me... it seems like the states gives Israel as much thought today as Israel gave America post "Desert-Storm". Coming to the states didn't detach me from the little bustling country I've come to call home (also).
*I realize hookah's aren't uniquely Israeli...but what is an Israeli?
It was only at 22, upon emigrating to my birthplace that I began to understand the significant separators between the two countries. An 11 hour plane ride, an ocean, Africa, language, climate, diet, religion, fashion, attitude, and lifestyle. Israels culture, I realized, was very much her own.
As a child visiting Israel I thought my native country was obsessed with my home country. From the American flag murals on bomb shelter walls (post gulf war), to Bart Simpson purim costumes, Madonna, Michael Jackson, MTV invasion, and 90210 reruns, obsession was a fair assesment in the early 90's.
Today Israeli's have taken notes and moved beyond to create their own equivalents of MTV, 90210, and even American Idol . Israeli technology, fashion, and media have grown into their own, and in instances surpassed their model's.
I spent Friday night in the city (Manhattan for those of you outside the radius) and began to feel as if Israel's days of obsessing over America were gone only to be replaced by America's obsession with Israel.
During dinner Israel came up and I gave a five minute shpeil on my jumbled thoughts and feelings on the place I love. Little did I realize the topic would haunt me the rest of the evening. Dinner was following by a night at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe. The MC was going through the borough's and states getting shout outs from the audience and when she hit the international map I looked over at H sitting on the floor, and acknowledged I should probably keep my mouth shut. My eyes returned to the MC to notice the spunky young black woman had chosen a kaffiyah with which to accessorize her outfit for the evening. And the feature (the poet of the night)? A young Muslim woman sporting the traditional head covering and long sleeves. The first words of her first poem? Free Free Palestine. I shrunk into my seat and braced myself for the emotion I thought bound to follow. Lucky for me, the young poet was so nervous (she claimed) that she was loud, obnoxious, and annoying between her pieces and the power of her words lost much of the desired effect should have, would have, could have had (on me at least).
Several other poets threw in the word Palestine for good measure and effect, and a young black nurse who performed a piece of lost love refered to the unique left to right reading of Hebrew.
We stepped out into the cool Manhattan night, the show continuing without us (it was half past 12 and H was getting up early in the morning). As we wandered through the city we stopped at a convenience store and as I turned from the cashier to the exit I noticed Israel on the front page of a paper. It wasn't anything big, significant, or exciting...
Which brings me back to Madonna. Whether it's the stars looking towards Kabbalah and Jewish mysticism, the Christians in awe of Israel and the bible, the liberals crying for Palestine, the yuppies and the hippies lounging at hookah bars* or falafel stands, or the politicians "seeking a partner for peace" in the middle east, or most currently Adam Sandler playing an Israeli in Hollywood's "The Zohan" (which is bound to irritate me... it seems like the states gives Israel as much thought today as Israel gave America post "Desert-Storm". Coming to the states didn't detach me from the little bustling country I've come to call home (also).
*I realize hookah's aren't uniquely Israeli...but what is an Israeli?
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
in the name of what?
I received a powerpoint presentations entitled "Even Islam can't be that bad!". It told the tale of an eight year old boy caught stealing bread in a market in Iran. As a punishment, in the name of Islam, he was going to get his arm crushed under the wheels of a jeep. The next three slides supposedly show this happening. You may ask whether it was real. I ask whether it matters.
I just cannot begin to understand the good in forwarding, or even receiving such an email. What's the point? To make us feel like Islam is horrible, evil, corrupt? We get it. Whoever is going to buy it, is sold; the rest are a harder sell than 3 slides on a powerpoint. Is the point to make us feel more hate, animosity, fear? I think there's plenty going around.
"Even Islam can't be that bad!" Why? Because we are surprised that people who blow people up in the name of Islam could crush a child's arm?
But no, I don't think Islam is that bad. I think that the things that radicals do in the name of Islam are that bad. There is a difference, and the civilized, educated, Muslim world is trying to rewrite Islam to save their religion from the downfall inevitable in the hands of freely-interpreting extremists.
Who likes extremists anywhere? Look at what the extreme religious right did to Rabin in the name of Judaism. Look at the remnants of the caste system created in the name of Hinduism. Look at what whites have done to blacks... in the name of what? What Hitlers posse did to Jews (and gypsy's and blacks and handicaps and homosexuals). What men have done to women. What heterosexuals have done to homosexuals. What the pilgrims did to the Native Americans. All in the name of what? I'm not comparing the wrongs of "religious" actions. There's nothing to compare. When one suffers loss he grieves regardless of how many more someone else has lost. He grieves just the same.
So when have those of us who like freedom and equality ever liked the actions of a hater? Does bad become worse if done in the name of Islam rather than in the name of race?
I'm not Muslim...I'm Jewish. And I had the opportunity to meet and truly love Muslims and Christians while in India who were from India, Iran, Lebanon, Jordan, Morocco, Dubai, the UAE, Saudi Arabia. The thing is, that hatred incites hatred and love incites love.
Let's keep hating one another, let's fight hate with hate, and see where it takes us. What other options could we possibly have?
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