If You’re Selling Something, Say So

If You’re Selling Something, Say So

[rant on]

I’m going to gripe about something that’s been bugging me for years. Why now, all of a sudden? my half-dozen readers may ask. Well, mostly because it happened again this morning.

A bit of background first: the phone line I use doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to a dear friend of mine, whom I’ll call Zahava because she has a heart of gold, and is listed under her name. I’m just babysitting it until she and her husband come back to Israel—soon, I hope.

Since I use a phone line that’s not listed under my own name, it is easy to tell the telemarketers apart from those who have actual business with me. Whenever I answer the phone, as soon as I hear the telltale click of a receiver being picked up on the caller’s end and a professional voice, usually female, asking to speak to Zahava Gavrieli [not her real surname either], I can be reasonably sure that it’s a telemarketer. Once the caller gets a second or two into her script and I am satisfied that it’s not a legitimate message for Zahava, I give her my own little spiel: “I don’t donate/make purchases/join organizations over the phone. Good luck, and shalom.”

But it seems that one company’s sales writers are a bit more clever than that. Here’s how the conversation went this morning:

Rahel: Hello?

Telemarketer: Hello, is this Zahava Gavrieli? I’m calling to offer you a free examination of your water to test for metals. Our technicians are in your city today, and these are the times we’re available ...

(I confess I don’t remember the exact wording. But this was different from the usual sales spiel in that it actually sounded like an official call from a utility company, much like the notice from the gas company that I recently received—and promptly obeyed—to have my cooking gas system inspected. Still, one can never be too careful.)

R [suspicious]: Just a moment, please. Are you selling something?

T: No. We’re offering a free examination of your water system. Your water system may contain metals. What time would you like our technicians to come to your home?

R [even more suspicious]: That’s all this is? Just an examination? You’re not a company selling a product?

T: No. We’re just offering to test your water system, and then we will give you a consultation based on the results.

A consultation. Suddenly, dawn broke. I guess two straight days with a temperature had done a bit of a number on my memory, but I suddenly realized that I had gotten this exact same call a year or two ago, and in a flash I knew what was going on.

R: Oh, just a moment, I remember now. You sell water filters, don’t you? You offer to test people’s water and then you sell them water filters based on the results. Right?

T [sounding disappointed]: Yes.

R: Oh, so you are selling a product, then. Well, I don’t buy anything over the telephone. Good luck, and shalom.

I think that being rude to telemarketers is inexcusable, and I’m not at all amused by the supposedly clever but actually mean-spirited remarks some people seem to delight in making to them. After all, telemarketers are people trying to make a living, and based on the little I know of such companies, most of their workers earn low wages for performing a boring, difficult and thankless task, and are there pretty much because they have to be. So why add insult to injury? In my opinion, that’s just cruel.

At the same time, I prefer honesty. If you’re selling something, say so. If you try to hide the fact that you’re selling something until you’re inside my home, performing a test which is really nothing more than a sophisticated sales pitch meant to prove that I need your product (thus casting doubt on the integrity of your water examination even if it happens to be accurate), you will not win my respect nearly as easily as you would if you told me up front that you had a product for sale. I do understand that people need to earn a living, but I don’t look kindly on deception.

On the other hand, it doesn’t matter all that much, because I don’t donate, make purchases or join organizations via telephone. Good luck, and shalom.

[rant off]

This Is Not a Meme (or, What I Found When I Went Outside One Fine Morning)

This Is Not a Meme (or, What I Found When I Went Outside One Fine Morning)

Cat in a plant-box,
How do you do?

Cat in a plant-box—
Can I grow one, too?

Shhh. Her Ladyship is sleeping.

(With a tip of the Mediterranean sun-hat to Elisson)

Oh, My ...

Oh, My ...

They’re sprouting.

Those wonderful, magic seeds I got from Lisaviolet are sprouting.

Beware! Soon they will take over the entire world!

(Oh, dear. I guess humans can be affected by catnip, too. Heh.)

Seriously: I was thinking that when the catnip is big enough, I’ll plant some of it downstairs in our garden in memory of Lair Simon’s Edloe and of Edna, a special feline friend of mine who passed away last week at the age of twenty-two. In the meantime, please, would some kind home gardener out there tell me the best way to grow catnip in a pot?

(After some checking, I’ve decided to learn from this gardener’s tale of woe. It’s hilarious, so make sure you’re not drinking anything when you read it. Keyboards and monitors are expensive.)

Almost All Better

Almost All Better

Thank goodness. But I’m going to wait one more day just to be sure. There’s no sense in risking a relapse, or giving nasties to anyone else.

But I sure wish I could have gone to the Kolech conference. They’re only held once every two years.

Phooey.

Edloe Is Gone

Edloe Is Gone

Laurence Simon’s magnificent cat, Edloe, passed away suddenly last night. A star of the blogosphere is gone.

Good night, sweet Grumpus ...

... and may there always be treats and bellyrubs for you on the other side.

My prayers and good thoughts go out to Lair and his wife, and to Piper, Frisky and Nardo.

Bummer

Bummer

So I got up today, felt fine, normal temperature, figured I’d at least be able to catch the second day of the Kolech conference.

Not.

Temperature’s back up. I feel like the weather report all summer long in Israel: Hot. No change.

When I get over a virus like this, the first thing I do is a load of laundry. All my bed linen, plus anything I wore while I was sick, go straight into the washing machine. I did that this morning, thinking I was done with this bug. And then it came back. Or maybe it never left.

So I guess I get to enjoy the luxury of fresh linen for another day of being sick. How lovely.

Fever is a strange country, and it’s interesting to look out at the world from within its borders. Still, I can’t wait to leave.

I Feel Awful, Oh, So Awful

I Feel Awful, Oh, So Awful

I think something I ate yesterday didn’t like me very much. Or I’ve got a stomach bug. Whatever it is, it’s no fun at all.

What a disappointment. I was supposed to go to the Kolech conference today. I still might, depending on how I feel later in the day. But right now I feel like all I can do is lie in bed and wait for this bug to go away.

Can you catch a virus from your computer? Dumb joke, I know. But I just got my computer back last night and apparently when I sent it in it was full of viruses. So maybe I caught one.

I’m drinking fennel tea in the hope that it will calm things down inside, and I cooked some quinoa in case I feel hungry later.

I’d like to do some work but it’s hard to concentrate. So for now, I think I’ll go back to bed.

On Line Again (Thank Goodness)

On Line Again (Thank Goodness)

Ah, to be back on line! Oh, bliss!

But of course, that means ... back to work.

As luck would have it, when the technician brought back my computer, there was no electricity in my apartment because of a temporary malfunction. So what did I do while waiting for it to be repaired? Instead of cursing Murphy’s law, I dyed two light-weight cotton dresses that I bought a while ago at a store downtown that specializes in the long, flowing dresses and skirts we see so much of in Jerusalem. Both dresses were pretty faded, so I got them at a bargain and figured that I would use them for comfortable home wear during our long, hot summers. But the dye came out so well that I think I can wear them outside now, too.

(Oh, rats. I could have taken before and after pictures. Oh, well. Next time.)

And dyeing a garment is so very easy. I’m too chicken to use my washing machine for it, but the bucket method is a lot of fun. It’s much more hands-on than the washing-machine method—you have to stir the garment in the dye bath for at least twenty minutes straight—but I love that sort of thing.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking: Double, double toil and trouble. Well, you can relax. It was a plastic bucket, even if I was using a thick wooden stick for stirring. And it’s not that much toil, really, and no trouble at all as long as you take your time and follow directions.

Sometimes even being off-line for a few days can be productive. Instead of two faded dresses—one a slightly faded blue and the other a light green so discolored that I decided I would only wear it at home—I have two lovely new dresses, one a vibrant royal blue and the other a rich dark green. And all it took was a small investment and a little bit of work.

And it was so much fun. I really should do this sort of thing more often.

Computer Problems

Computer Problems

I’ve heard few sounds more chilling than the disembodied voice from the back of my computer that said this morning, clearly and with icy professionalism: “Your hard disk ... may have a problem. Your hard disk ... may have a problem.”

The technician is on his way. I will be computer-less for ... well, I don’t know exactly for how long. Let’s hope it won’t be too long and that the problem isn’t too severe.

Technology is wonderful. When it works, that is.

UPDATE: It’s Sunday, and I’m still computerless. The machine is being worked on in the shop even as we speak.

So, all you computer users, take a lesson from me: update your operating system. Frequently. Keep a close eye on that system tray. Go on the Net and look for updates. Don’t wait for them to come to you. That was my mistake, and wow, do I ever regret it. It turns out that my hard drive was not only very old but also full of viruses. According to my technician, updating my anti-virus program—which I did regularly—was not enough.

And here I thought I was being such a good citizen. Well, I guess I still can be. So, while I’m here: Ad-Aware and Spybot Search and Destroy have new versions out. Actually they’ve been out for some time. If you don’t have them yet, go download ’em. (If you have a previous version of Ad-Aware installed, the program will helpfully uninstall it. Not so for Spybot Search and Destroy, though—you’ll have to uninstall the previous version yourself.)

And learn from my inconvenient and very expensive mistake. Update that operating system.

The Jewish View

The Jewish View

Check out Meryl’s new group blog, The Jewish View.

I’ll be writing there when I have more time.

(Time? What’s that?)

The Road to Disaster

The Road to Disaster

The last time I took the train was just two days ago. Usually I take two trains to my friend’s house and back: one between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv and the other between Tel Aviv and the north. But this time the cab I had called was late and I missed the connection to Jerusalem, so I ended up taking the bus home from Tel Aviv.

I dozed off in my seat only to be awakened by an abrupt swerve. We had almost hit the guardrail. So much for dozing on this trip, I thought. I fought the urge to ask the driver how many hours he had been driving and whether he had had any sleep within the past twenty-four hours.

Since bus and truck drivers in Israel earn very low salaries, many of them moonlight. Of course, the trouble with that is that they go without sleep for long periods of time, putting their passengers’ lives at risk. I still remember how, in 1991, two sisters were killed when the driver of their cab fell asleep at the wheel. The young women were the only children of their parents. Unfortunately, no lessons were learned, or at least not for very long. The problem is still very much with us, as we found out today.

At least seven people were killed and 189 injured this afternoon when a truck crashed into a Haifa–Beersheva train in the northern Negev. The truck driver had been driving for thirty hours, and his company was already under investigation for making its drivers work more than the required limit:

According to ZAKA, the driver of the truck had been working for over 30 hours at the time of the collision. The trucking company which employed him was already under criminal investigation for having its drivers work for 30 to 40 consecutive hours, Channel 1 noted. The investigation was opened some two months ago.

Two months ago?! Why was this company still allowed to put drivers on the road?

I find myself wondering: did the conductor survive? Is he all right? Which conductor was he? (I ride the trains so often that I already know several of the conductors.) Was he the one who, last April, made the first run from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem since the line had been shut down approximately eight years before? (He was the one who opened the doors of the engineering compartment so that the media and interested passengers could watch the maiden voyage from up close.) Or was he the man who joked with me as we pulled into Beit Shemesh? Or the young man, clearly a new immigrant, who had such a masterful touch on the controls that we barely felt the train decelerate as we pulled into the Malha station?

Seven people were killed today in a needless train crash as they went about their business. That’s seven lives gone, seven families grieved beyond bearing, seven futures that no one will ever see or enjoy—and all because the director of a truck company wanted a bit more profit.

Sweet dreams, Mr. General Manager.

Not.

UPDATE: The death toll is now up to eight. Both the truck driver and the train driver were killed.

Recommended Reading

Recommended Reading

For those interested in the topic of women in Judaism, have I got an article for you: “The Silence of Rayna Batya” by Don Seeman (PDF format). It has been around for a while, but it is still excellent. Here is one of my favorite quotes, from the endnote section:

“Our grandmothers were all happy” is a claim which is frequently heard in discussions and arguments about women’s learning in the contemporary Orthodox community. In fact, this is less of a historical claim than a rhetorical device, used to marginalize those contemporary Jews who find current arrangements troubling or painful. Denying historical depth in the dissatisfaction of some Jews is one way of denying the relevance or legitimacy of their dissatisfaction. ... The assumption that problems with accepted Halakhah are fed only by “passing Narishkeit” [foolishness] rather than long-standing frustration frees the Orthodox community from any need to seriously grapple with them.

Now I have to get back to work. Nose, meet grindstone.

It’s going to be this way for a while. Expect light blogging.

UPDATE: Miriam at Bloghead has an excellent post about precedents regarding women in Judaism.

[I]n the High Middle Ages, a time which is generally considered oppressive for women, Jewish women took on a whole range of roles and obligations which today would be unthinkable, including as Sandek in a Brit, Shochetet, mohelet, and in certain small communities, receiving aliyot and reading from the Torah. They also participated in Zimmun, and there is ample evidence of women, mostly from the “upper classes,” wearing a tallit, tzitzit, and (on a more limited basis, apparently) tefillin. ... Those who argue about “women’s traditional roles” should be aware that this phrase covers a much greater range of options than they are imagining, and there is precedence for women doing a great deal more in communal life than they do today, or than any authority in the Orthodox world would dream of allowing them to. ... So again—with a bit of historical background, things are not as black and white as some might make out.

Read the whole thing.

(Cross-posted at The Jewish View)

Waking Up from His Dreams

Waking Up from His Dreams

Treppenwitz has a must-read post about IDF reservist Avi Karouchi, who was killed yesterday in an attack on the Philadelphi Road. Go read it.

Language Barrier

Language Barrier

I bought a digital camera yesterday. It comes with two manuals, one small, one large. You’re supposed to read the small one first. It even says “Read This First.” But in the package I received, the “Read This First” manual was only in Japanese, with no English or Hebrew translation to be found. And I looked, believe me. (As I write I’m thinking: too bad this didn’t happen to Meryl or Lair Simon. They’d have their readers laughing themselves silly by now.)

Well, thank Heaven for the Internet, where I found the document on the manufacturer’s site and printed it out. On the Net it’s a PDF document that can be enlarged on the screen but that requires a magnifying glass to read as hard copy. So I enlarged it on the office copier after work. (Thanks again for your help, Wonderful Co-worker. You know who you are.)

Since I was heading in that direction anyway, I brought the printout to the camera store (the original tiny-print version, not the enlarged one; since they sell photographic equipment, they can jolly well enlarge the thing themselves). I told the guy sitting at the main desk: Look, Mister, you’re selling people this complicated, expensive piece of equipment and its most important manual, which screams “Read Me First” in big, commanding letters, is in Japanese. Just in case you happened to be wondering, we are not in Japan. So what gives? Here’s an English version for you, and here’s a link to the document on the Net. Enlarge it and give it to your customers when they buy this thing. All right, it’s in English, not in Hebrew, but it’s a safe bet that more of your customers speak English than speak Japanese.

Sheesh.

I had wanted to get home right after work, which began this morning at 6 a.m. and ended at 10:30 a.m. I have plenty of work to do at home and I wanted to hurry up and get as much of it done as I could before Shabbat. But just my luck—as I was about to finish my errands and start heading home, I saw a wallet lying on the sidewalk.

Oh, great. Just what I wanted—another errand. And the police’s lost and found office is closed on Fridays, and it’s just too darn hot to walk all the way to the Russian Compound, I griped to myself.

I’d forgotten about the police station in the open-air market. Nice and convenient. So I got to go home. And there was much rejoicing. (And work.)

Oops, there’s the siren. I’m outta here. Shabbat shalom.

Set-up Horror Stories

Set-up Horror Stories

Treppenwitz has an entertaining post today about blind date horror stories and invited his commenters to add their own, so I figured: OK, I’ll take the plunge over here with some of my way-out set-up stories. No blind dates, but close enough, I think.

Some years ago, an acquaintance of mine invited me for a holiday meal at her place, telling me that the reason she was inviting me was that she had a male guest coming over whom she wanted me to meet. So I went, thinking: Why not?

I soon learned why not. The guy showed up an hour late for the meal and wore a dirty shirt. His voice was loud and unmodulated, and by the time the meal was over my ears were ringing. As I was walking out the door, he shouted after me in a voice that could be heard throughout the building, if not the entire neighborhood: “Will you give me your phone number? What’s your phone number?” I think it was the fastest exit of my adult life.

I felt hurt. It was obvious to me that my acquaintance wasn’t thinking of me at all. She was simply trying to find someone, anyone, for her single male friend. I understand she meant well and I tried not to take it personally, but I still couldn’t help wondering what on earth she thought of me that she could think even for a second that this man, who appeared utterly desperate and unable to take care of himself, would be an appropriate match for me.

Then there was the woman who told me she had the “perfect guy” for me. It was obvious that this woman's religious outlook differed from mine considerably, so I asked her to explain why she thought the man she had in mind was the “perfect guy.” She said, “Well, you’re both into spirituality.” (Hmmph.) I asked her to tell the man that I’m a member of two women’s prayer groups. She told me later that this fact had scared him off. “Oh, well, then I guess he wasn’t the ‘perfect guy’ for me,” I told her. (This was the same woman who told me in a soulful voice that she believes that women should be “hidden.” Hmmph. Don’t get me started.)

After that, there was the man who wanted me to meet one of his acquaintances. By this time I had wised up a bit, and I asked him: Can you give me precise reasons why you think that your friend and I are right for each other? He couldn’t come up with any answer other than, “Well, he’s a musician and I think that he needs a bit of grounding.” I wanted to retort: So put a wire around his big toe and sink it a few centimeters. That should do it. Sorry, but with all respect to the views of a contemporary well-known Jerusalem thinker and scholar, I do not believe that a wife’s function is to be a mother to her husband. (I hope I’m not opening up a can of worms with that remark.)

In order to illustrate why this next one was so far out of the ball park: the man in question does not live in Israel and has no intention of doing so, while I have been here for more than a decade and have no intention of leaving. Nevertheless, my acquaintance (not the same one as above) 1) gave the man my phone number without asking me first and 2) physically blocked my way in order to introduce me to him.

She must have thought one of us was really desperate.

The comments of a happily married, down-to-earth friend of mine are refreshing. She promised me that she would never try to set me up with anyone she wouldn’t consider dating herself, and also that she would have far better reasons for setting me up with any single men she knew than simply “Oh, well, he's been single for a long time and so has she, so why not try it?”

I enjoy making connections between people. I’m not referring to matchmaking, but just human connections between people whom I think would share each other’s interests and appreciate each other’s company. As far as I know, I don’t have any marriages to my credit, but I do have a few friendships. And I like to think that if I were to suggest a potential match for someone, I’d be far more careful and sensitive than the examples I’ve given above.

Yom Yerushalayim

Yom Yerushalayim

David at Treppenwitz brings us the original radio broadcast of the liberation of the Old City of Jerusalem on this day in 1967. Listen closely and have your tissues ready. You’re going to need them.

(Bit of trivia: I’ve recorded in Avi Yaffe’s studio, where this recording is archived. Next time I’m there, I should ask what else he’s got.)

Here’s Meryl’s roundup.

Here is a translation of Haim Hefer’s column for this day in 1967: “The Paratroopers Cry.”

For Hebrew speakers, here are the lyrics to the songs associated with the national observances of this time of year: Yom ha-Shoah, Memorial Day, Independence Day and Yom Yerushalayim.

Finally, here is my translation of one of my favorite songs about Jerusalem. (I really hope I’m not breaking any copyright laws here.) The quote mentioned in the refrain is from Isaiah 62:6.

Watchman on the Walls
Lyrics: Dan Almagor
Music: Benny Nagari

I stand upon the wall,
in the rain, alone, the entire Old City
laid out in the palm of my hand and, in love, I gaze at it.
I always come up here just to have a look,
only this time I’m here on duty.

(Refrain:) Yes, who would have dreamed, back in school,
when we learned to recite “Upon your walls, O Jerusalem,
I have posted guards,”
that one day I would be one of them?

I stand upon the wall,
listening to the sounds,
voices from the market and the commotion:
the shouts of peddlers and wagons.
Here’s the call of the muezzin,
the peal of the bell—but I must be alert
for the sound of a grenade.

Yes, who would have dreamed ...

I stand upon the wall,
trembling with cold and looking out. The sun has already set.
Watchman, how goes the night? The full moon’s light
Washes the walls and gates. When will the day come
When we don’t need watchmen anymore?

Yes, who would have dreamed ...

Saturday Night Stuff

Saturday Night Stuff

Ad-Aware has a new version out. Download it here.

A dear friend of mine had her adult bat mitzva this morning at our women’s tefilla group, Shirat Sara. It was lovely, and she read the entire Torah portion beautifully. She also gave an excellent talk on women and tefillin with lots of sources. Kol ha-kavod, ABC, and mazal tov!

Celestial Blue has just about broken even in her fundraising efforts. Buy her beautiful blue Am Yisrael Chai bracelets and send her to the Holy Land! Like I said before, it’s a mitzva, and as we learn in Pirke Avot 4:2, one mitzva leads to another. In this case, once we succeed in helping Celestial Blue reach Livnot U-Lehibanot, she’ll be able to join in the wonderful work they do. So we’re not just benefiting CB; we’re benefiting all the people that Livnot helps ... and we’ll have a share in every positive thing that happens as a result. (And there’s lots of positive stuff that could happen, since trips like this change people’s lives.) Pretty neat, huh? So what are you still doing here? Go buy a bracelet! Buy a bunch and give them as gifts!

Got the early job tomorrow morning—early as in 6 a.m. Time for bed.

It’s A Mitzvah

It’s A Mitzvah

Please help Celestial Blue become my neighbor for a few months. Buy a bracelet and send her to Livnot U-Lehibanot!

Details are at the above link to her blog, along with a sweet picture of her modeling the bracelet.

C’mon, folks, let’s help the lady out here. It’s a mitzvah.

Checking In

Checking In

I got a pleasant surprise when I went to the bank this week to deposit my paycheck.

For years, until just a few days ago, the procedure was simple but time-consuming: you had to fill out a bank envelope with the details of your bank account, the details of the check you were depositing, and so on.

On this particular morning, I went to the small table where the envelopes were kept and discovered that there were none. When I turned to look for help, a friendly bank employee greeted me with a smile. “Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes, please,” I said. “I need to deposit a check and there aren’t any envelopes left. Please, would you get some?”

“Oh, we aren’t using the envelopes anymore,” she said with a grin. “Now we’re using this.”

And she taught me how to use it, right then and there.

It’s surprisingly easy. You insert your bank card in the slot below, wait for the machine to read it and spit it back out, and then you insert your endorsed check into the slot above. The machine shows you an image of the check you have just deposited, asking if you want to deposit it into your own account or another one. You press the screen for yes or no, verify that the check is going where you want it to go and you’re done.

Wow.

The only problem I can think of is that there may be lines on occasion. But since the procedure is so quick and easy, they should go fairly quickly ... I hope.

(Cross-posted on Israelity)

A Bit of Compassion

A Bit of Compassion

In the recent tradition of Treppenwitz and Blog d’Elisson, I’m writing a bathroom-related post.

No, don’t run away! It’s clean, nothing gross, I promise.

I stopped into my favorite bookstore on the way to work this morning. The bookstore’s manager happens to be my former landlady, a nice if rather exacting woman. Sometimes we greet each other, but mostly I don’t see her because she’s at work while I’m up to my eyebrows in a book.

I was leafing through a book of cross-stitch patterns, considering whether it was too seasonal for me to use, when I suddenly realized I had to go. Now.

Now, I know that in a situation like that, one should ask permission first. But in this situation “now” meant right now, this very instant, and I had to make a split-second decision between a small breach of manners and ... um ... a much larger one. It was pretty much a no-brainer.

A few moments later, when I had some time to think, I realized that I had probably let myself in for some trouble, and I thought of what I would do if I were the store manager. Either I would know the person who was using the bathroom or I wouldn’t, and I figured that in either case I would let it go by. After all, if the person were someone I already knew as a customer, I wouldn’t want to lose his or her business. And if the person were someone I didn’t know at all, someone who came in off the street, well, it’s not nice but what can you do? Done is done, and bit of judicious ignoring, interpreted as kindness, might even win me a customer.

Be that as it may, Store Manager/Former Landlady was right there waiting for me when I came out, and proceeded to scold me in her precise and clipped manner.

I’ve seen some native-born Israelis respond with stunning bravado in situations like that. It can be as clear as a sunrise in June that they are in the wrong, but when scolded they turn right around and act as though they are the injured party. Wrong? Me? Not at all. You, on the other hand ... (It’s called hutzpah, and it’s one of our largest national products.)

Me, I’m a wimpy, law-abiding freier of a Yank, and I don’t do that sort of thing well at all. So I didn’t even bother trying.

Instead I said meekly: I’m sorry, but this was an emergency.

Store Manager/Former Landlady replied, archly: But you’re supposed to ask permission first.

Believe me, I said, there was no time.

Well, since I know you ... Store Manager/Former Landlady grudgingly began.

At this point I thought to myself: All right, then—just what, exactly, would you do if you didn’t know me? Have the police haul me in for using the bathroom in your store without permission? Take me to court? Calculate the cost of the flush and add it to my bill the next time I buy a book?

But aloud I only said: I’ve been coming to this store for years, and I’ve never done this before.

She had no answer to that.

Some people could really do with a bit of compassion.

Framed!

Framed!

Meet Pinocchio. She’s female, actually, and lives in and around a frame store at a shopping center near where I work. Here she’s lying on top of a bunch of posters outside the shop.

Beautiful, isn’t she? She’s even got her own fan club. I had to wait on line to pet her, but eventually I got my chance:

It was worth the wait.

(Catch the 63rd edition of the Carnival of the Cats at Enrevanche this week.)

Nardo’s Israeli Cousin

Nardo’s Israeli Cousin

Since I found Gracie’s Israeli cousin a little while ago, I’ve been on the lookout for more relatives. Last Shabbat I found Nardo’s Israeli cousin. Here he is, saying hello.

We warmed up to each other right away.

He even gave me a bellyrub.

(The Carnival of the Cats is up at Ripe Bananas this week.)

Rough Day

Rough Day

Laurence Simon of IFOC had a rough day yesterday. Fortunately all ended well and the principal damage was to Lair’s shirt collar, but the question remains: will Lair ever be able to eat Chinese food again?

Quite a bit of overkill, if you ask me. These days it’s easy enough for law-enforcement agencies to check a person’s identity before knocking him to the ground, handcuffing him and hauling him into the back seat of a police car. So here’s another question from this neck of the woods: will the ATF personnel apologize and replace the shirt they damaged as they threatened and detained an innocent man?

Wednesday Cat Blogging

Wednesday Cat Blogging

Here are some of the neighborhood cats frolicking in and around the trees nearby. The kitties are not stuck; they use these trees as bridges and playgrounds.

Of course, my catblogging wouldn’t be complete without a visit to Her Ladyship. Note the suspicious look as she deigns to accept a skritch.

The Day in Pictures

The Day in Pictures

Even though Independence Day has come and gone, homes and cars are still sporting Israeli flags. I admit to a pet peeve: today the available flags are all made from synthetic fabric, while I’d prefer a natural-fabric flag with the Star of David stitched on. It’s rare to find such flags these days, but today I found a beautiful, well-crafted one decorating an entrance gate right in my neighborhood. It’s made of good-quality, heavy cotton with Stars of David stitched on either side. With workmanship like that, I wouldn’t be surprised if it were an heirloom with a fascinating history.

I guess they don’t make them like that anymore, so if I want one, I’ll just have to make it myself one day. Another project for the list, right up there with learning how to quilt so that I can replace the cover of my old lambswool comforter.

Here’s another thing I love about Jerusalem. There are fruit trees everywhere. In some neighborhoods I’ve even seen them growing out of the walls of houses. Once I gazed (all right, I admit it: stared) at a bunch of fruit trees near an apartment building for so long that one of the residents opened a window above and called down to me, asking if I wanted some of the fruit. I didn’t. I just wanted to look at it on the tree. I grew up in a cold climate where one rarely saw fruit on trees except for apples in autumn, and even now the sight of fruit on trees can still stop me in my tracks, open-mouthed.

Here are grapes, just starting out. Awesome, no?

Israel Cat Outrage

Israel Cat Outrage

I just received the following e-mail from the Cat Welfare Society of Israel, and it made me want to cry. My first thought was: Such things should never happen here. Of course, such things should never happen anywhere, but I guess we expect more of our own countries. Jewish law expressly prohibits cruelty to animals. Is this how we are supposed to be a light to the world?!

A Nightmarish Hell at the Cat Welfare Society of Israel’s Cat Sanctuary in Hadera

May 19, 2005—A continuous wave of break-ins and vandalism reached new heights last night with the lighting of a deadly fire in the orchards surrounding the sanctuary.

This grim event is in addition to the thefts of food and equipment we have been experiencing over the past week.

A couple of nights ago, burglars set free residing dogs to roam the areas designated only to cats (and cat-friendly dogs). This resulted in some serious injuries to a number of cats and in some cases, in their deaths.

Last night, following the extinguishing of the fire, the gruesome sight of scorched bodies of cats and piles of dog bones (the cause of their deaths is still unclear) was revealed. At this time, a great number of cats are still missing, their fate unknown.

So, how can you help?

Even though the Hadera police have begun an investigation into this crime, there is a serious and immediate dread of the real possibility of more harm coming to the poor, frightened creatures who survived this horrible ordeal.

We are turning to you in desperation! Please help us protect them! We really do need all the assistance we can get.

We are in desperate need of dependable volunteers to help patrol the area of the sanctuary and help us find the cats who have disappeared or are hiding and frozen with fear.

We are in desperate need of money to assist in the rehabilitation of the sanctuary.

We are in desperate need of donations of hidden cameras/surveillance equipment, etc.

Above all, we need your help in distributing this letter to the greatest number of people possible who, in turn, may be able to help us make this nightmare go away!

Contact the Cat Welfare Society of Israel at the link above (or the one at the sidebar) to find out more about how to help.

Sunday Night Kittyolatry

Sunday Night Kittyolatry

The steady, blue gaze of Her Ladyship from the garden fence.

This week’s Carnival of the Cats is at IFOC. Check in for loads of wholesome kitty goodness!

Ice Cream? No, Thanks

Ice Cream? No, Thanks

One recent summer I had a conversation with a devout woman who made it clear from the outset that she felt strongly that I must adopt her faith, the sooner the better, for the good of my immortal soul.

What bothered me the most about our little chat was not her attempt to convert me. I’ve been dealing with that sort of thing for years, and if anything, I’m stronger in my faith than I was back when the first attempts were made. It was that even as she explained to me why her religion is the only true one and I must join it, right away if possible, she was careful to tell me that she wasn’t trying to convert me.

But that’s exactly what you’re trying to do, I told her.

Oh, no, she said. Not at all. I’m just trying to tell you that I found something wonderful and that it would be lovely if you tried it. Just like if I had some ice cream that was absolutely delicious. I’d be selfish if I kept it to myself, right? If I have this wonderful ice cream, shouldn’t I share it?

That analogy doesn’t work so well for me, I told her, because we’re not dealing with ice cream. Ice cream is something we can take or leave. We’re dealing with the most deeply-rooted beliefs of the soul. And all the pretty, seemingly open-minded things you are telling me now cannot hide or contradict the fact that your faith teaches, and you believe, that no matter what kind of person I am, no matter what good deeds I may do in my life, as long as I do not accept your faith, God will send me to Hell when I die.

She had no answer to that.

Then there was the young man in the Arab market who tried to get me to join his religion. I wanted to buy a silk scarf, but he was concerned with the salvation of my soul.

But where do you think you will go when you die? he asked me worriedly when I told him that I had no intention of changing my religion.

Wherever God sends me, I told him. He was pretty quiet after that, and I was able to buy my silk scarf.

That’s why I found this article in the Jerusalem Post so refreshing:

I have lived in Israel for 20 years. No one has suggested I need to convert to Judaism. No one has implied I don’t belong, never mind that I look like a caricature of a goya, bland as Velveeta cheese in coloring and features. Now and then, though, I “pass”—and I have to say it pleases me. I'm not here to teach. I'm here to learn.

I can’t speak for other denominations, but the essence of my own is humility, tolerance and the constant, almost impossible striving to save our own souls. We are taught to listen, learn and shut up, until such time arrives that we are so perfect we can be examples and help others. I'm so distant from that goal, I should be mute for at least another couple of millennia.

Keeping my mouth shut and listening, I have learned so much here. Besides, who the hell am I to preach to you? Your ancestors were devotedly following your spiritually and intellectually rich religion while mine were having hoedowns around trees, sacrificing infants, slavering over stones and whatever else pagans in Europe and North America were into.

I love Israel. Not just for its past, because Jesus walked here and so many places are sacred to me. Not for the future, because the ingathering of the Jews is supposed to herald His return. I love this country for what it is, here and now. In all its exasperating, in-your-face, multicolored and deafening pageantry. Even when it drives me bonkers, it makes me grin. It’s a 24/7 circus, a delight to the mind and senses.

So never fear. You won't find me on your doorstep, peddling papers, inquiring about your acquaintance with that first-century superstar, or bouncing around bellowing “Hallelujah!” on street corners.

It isn’t a matter of just not being my style. It isn’t my religion, any more than it is yours.

Spring Has Arrived

Spring Has Arrived

Persephone emerges from the underworld, heralding the arrival of spring ...

Well, all right, it’s not Persephone, and it’s not the underworld. It’s the Ein Kobe spring at Begin Park on Independence Day, with me coming out of the underground cave where the water is.

It’s still spring, though.

(Photo credits: my dear friend ABC.)

Sunday Evening Catblogging

Sunday Evening Catblogging

The Duchess weighs her options: Should I stay or should I go?

The Duchess’s nemesis, Her Ladyship, was out in the garden, so in the end the Duchess decided to stay indoors.

(This week’s Carnival of the Cats is up, a bit early, at Aptenobytes. That’ll teach me to leave my catblogging for the last minute!)

A Question of Priorities

A Question of Priorities

Chief Rabbi Shlomo Amar will not be indicted for the kidnapping and abuse of a young man who became involved with his daughter over the Internet.

Last Friday’s edition of the Hebrew-language tabloid Ma’ariv carried an article in which the Chief Rabbi vehemently denied that his home has a connection to the Internet. He was also careful to say that his daughter has never had her own cellphone and that he did not allow his children to watch even those movies that are permitted in haredi society. Some people may even say I exaggerate a bit regarding that, he said.

(I would supply a link, but I can’t find the article in the online edition of Ma’ariv. In any case, the article was in Hebrew; Ma’ariv no longer has an online English edition.)

How strange, and how sad. The Chief Rabbi of Israel is accused of complicity in an incident of shocking abuse, and he feels he must assert that his home is “pure” and that his daughter is kept under strict (and, for that society, appropriate) restrictions.

I guess it’s a question of priorities.

According to Ma’ariv, members of the haredi community say that since both of these young people are spoiled for shiddukhim (arranged matches) now that they have been talked about in public—even though they did nothing wrong—the best solution would be for them to marry.

That would be nice, but I’m not holding my breath. I wonder how long it will be before we hear that either member of the couple has been sent out of the country, or married off.

UPDATE: Here’s what Naomi Ragen has to say. Good stuff, as usual.

A House Divided (or, What Would Henrietta Say?)

A House Divided (or, What Would Henrietta Say?)

I have no problem with the concept of a mehitzah (plural: mehitzot), the divider between men and women in Orthodox Jewish synagogues. I enjoy davening among women and I like the privacy the mehitza gives me. Many women dislike the very concept of the mehitza and refuse to worship in any synagogue that contains one, but that attitude is too general for me. Like I often say, it’s not the what, it’s the how. In this case, I prefer to distinguish between the concept of the mehitza in general and the structure and placement of individual mehitzot in particular.

Mehitzot carry messages, intentional or not. (Actually, I believe that most of the messages are intentional.) A mehitza that runs down the center aisle of a synagogue calls out an unqualified welcome to everybody, men and women alike, while still maintaining the required separation during prayer. It shows that the people in charge took the women’s feelings into account from the beginning and regard women as part of the worship community. A mehitza that places women at the back of a synagogue may still be friendly, but in my opinion its welcome is a bit less enthusiastic. Balconies? I suppose that’s a matter of the building’s age. At one time balconies were common, but they are too physically cut off from the main worship space for my comfort. Also, such distance seems inappropriate and anachronistic today, when high-level Jewish education for women is blossoming. For me, a balcony built in a contemporary synagogue tells me that I am not a member of the family but rather a guest who is expected to keep her distance and know her place.

Long ago I was in a synagogue that had a balcony with floor-to-ceiling white sheets at the front. Since I was unable to see or hear anything in the main section, I quietly left. On the way out it occurred to me that a sign reading “Women Need Not Attend” would have been much less expensive and a good deal more honest.

What made me decide to write a post about mehitzot? A few weeks ago I went to Hadassah Ein Kerem Hospital for a checkup. On the way out, I decided to check out the synagogue. It was a simple affair as such things go: one large room with chairs and an Ark containing the Torah scrolls at the front. The women’s section was the last row of chairs, separated from the rest of the room by a heavy wooden screen.

In the spirit of teacher and rabbinical pleader Rivka Lubitch’s project of photographing synagogues from their respective women’s sections in order to give viewers an idea of what women see (or, more often, don’t see) from there, I took several photographs of the synagogue from various angles. Here is what most of the synagogue looks like.

This is what the women’s section (or, more accurately, the women’s row) looks like from the outside.

The photograph below was taken from inside the women’s row, facing the synagogue entrance. (The young man in the photograph stood there for quite some time while I waited for him to move so I could take the picture. In the end I gave up waiting and took it anyway.)

Finally, here is the view of the synagogue from inside the women’s row, at eye level, standing.

I suppose I should be grateful that at least there is space for women to pray here. The synagogue in the Jerusalem Central Bus Station has no women’s section at all, and the bus station’s rabbi sees no problem with that. Still, I can’t help wondering what Henrietta Szold, the founder of Hadassah, would say if she were to see this arrangement. (When Szold’s mother died, she insisted on reciting the kaddish for her, refusing the offer of a male friend of the family to perform the mitzvah instead.)

I also wonder what some of the women donors of Hadassah would say if they knew.

A final note: when my women’s prayer group, Shirat Sara, celebrates a bat mitzvah, the bat mitzvah girl’s male relatives sit behind a mehitzah in order to watch her read Torah and give a talk on the particular week’s Torah portion. It often happens that the men approach us afterward to say: Now we know what being behind the mehitzah feels like for you.

There’s no teacher like experience.

Remembrance Day

Remembrance Day

Today Israel commemorates the fallen of its wars.

Israeli television is broadcasting programs in the spirit of the day, and all Israeli radio stations are playing songs appropriate to the day.

For me, one song stands out in particular: “Ballad of a Medic” (lyrics: Dan Almagor; music: Effi Netzer). Recorded here by Yehoram Gaon, this song was written for a song festival (and was thus controversial at the time). I still get chills whenever I hear it. The song tells the story of a medic who rescues a wounded soldier in the heat of battle but does not survive to be rescued himself.

Here are the lyrics in Hebrew. And here is a moving English translation.

Take This, PETA

Take This, PETA

I have a confession to make. About twenty years ago, I used to like PETA. Although I did not agree with all their premises, I thought they were doing good work, and I particularly liked their list of cosmetics companies that do and do not test their products on animals.

Then I found out about PETA’s despicable “Holocaust on Your Plate” campaign, and about their lies regarding shehitah (kosher slaughter). Meryl thought up a perfect rejoinder which caught on throughout the blogosphere: International Eat an Animal for PETA Day. Well, IEAPD has come and gone, but now it seems that PETA has issued an “apology” for its campaign. Israel Insider has the text.

It doesn’t look too promising. I’m looking forward to Meryl’s analysis. In the meantime, the following is for PETA.

This is one of my favorite shops in town. It is owned by a hard-working woman who probably does more good deeds than anyone will ever know about.

This picture was taken on a Friday, when the shop owner sets out her array of meat pastries in honor of Shabbat.

Here is the shop’s grill, filled with chickens ...

... and here is the finished product.

Finally, here is a photograph of a fearsome carnivore. To make matters worse, she’s a hunter. In fact, in this very photograph she is probably dreaming of her next kill.

Sweet dreams, Your Ladyship.

Take that, PETA.

UPDATE: David over at Treppenwitz has a more in-depth look at the issue. (By the way, I may not talk much about it, but I’m also very fond of dogs. I grew up with one and loved him very much, and I owe the fact that I’m not terrified of dogs today to his love and patience with me over many years. Check out David’s pooch pics here, along with an exquisite pic of Yonah, his youngest. The expression on his face is absolutely priceless.)

Gracie’s Israeli Cousin

Gracie’s Israeli Cousin

Why, Gracie! I never knew that you had a relative living in Israel! I met him a few days ago as I was leaving work. What a hunk! Good looks sure do run in your family.

Shalom, gorgeous. Wanna make friends?

Is that a question mark in your tail or are you still deciding whether I’m friend or foe?

Wise kitty. It’s always good to look both ways when you’re smaller than the other pedestrians.

Have I got skritches for you! Maybe you’ll take some to Gracie and Tig the next time you visit?

Oh, do you have to go? You’re right, it is getting late. Le-hitra’ot, motek.

(That’s Hebrew for “See you later, sweetie.”)

(The May 8th edition of the Carnival of the Cats will be hosted by Ferdinand of The Conservative Cat.)

Yom ha-Shoah Links

Yom ha-Shoah Links

Meryl links to survivor stories. And Brian Blum writes about Korczak’s Jerusalem.

Menorah of Courage: A Post for Yom ha-Shoah (Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Remembrance Day)

Menorah of Courage: A Post for Yom ha-Shoah (Holocaust Martyrs’ and Heroes’ Remembrance Day)

This [God’s promise to Abraham in Genesis 15:13] is what has stood by our ancestors and ourselves. For not just one alone has risen against us to destroy us, but in every generation they rise against us to destroy us; and the Holy One, blessed be He, saves us from their hand.

(from the Passover Haggadah)

There is a famous photograph of a Hanukkah menorah in a window opposite the town hall of Kiel in Germany. The year is 1933, and the building that the menorah faces is decorated with a Nazi flag. The photograph always makes me think of David and Goliath, except that here, David did not dispatch the enemy with one blow. Instead, it was Goliath who attacked—with unparalleled cruelty and viciousness—and David who survived, after bleeding almost to death.

I saw the photograph for the first time in A Different Light, a book about Hanukkah. Soon after I received the book from one of the authors in exchange for a copy of my CD, I read it from beginning to end and discovered the photograph, which made a strong impression on me.

Several months after I received the book, I spent Shabbat with friends of mine in a town near Jerusalem. At lunch, a woman at the table asked: “Has anyone ever seen the menorah at the home of the M. family? It appears in a famous photograph”—and she proceeded to describe the very same picture I had seen in the book. I couldn’t believe my ears. The M. family lived on the same street where I was staying, only a few houses away from my friends’ home.

After Shabbat I went to the M. family’s home and asked to see the menorah. The family graciously allowed me to look at it, touch it and hold it, and they told me its story.

The menorah had belonged to the town rabbi, a direct ancestor of the M. family. At approximately the time the photograph was taken, the rabbi denounced the Nazis from his pulpit. Understanding the danger he was in, his congregants begged him to get out of Germany, and although he resisted at first, in the end they persuaded him. He immigrated to pre-state Palestine together with his family, who brought the menorah with them.

When I got home later that night, I e-mailed the author of the book. “You’ll never believe what I just saw and held,” I wrote. The author put me in touch with an archivist at the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC, and in turn I put her in touch with the M. family. The story of the menorah and the rabbi who defied the Nazis from his windowsill and from his pulpit is now properly archived in the museum.

Recently the M. family was blessed with a grandchild. As he grows up, he will learn the story of his courageous ancestor and the menorah he brought from darkness to light.

* * * * *

P.S. Here’s an appropriate site for today: the Reunion page at the Yiddish Radio Project. Siegbert Freiberg was separated from his father during the Holocaust. Both father and son miraculously survived and were reunited on the radio program Reunion on July 6, 1947.

Make sure to click on the link at the bottom of the page, “Other Radio Broadcasts about the Holocaust.” And be warned: some of the material makes for difficult listening.

Natan Sharansky: Why I Am Quitting Your Government

Natan Sharansky: Why I Am Quitting Your Government

Natan Sharansky resigned from the cabinet yesterday. The Jerusalem Post has printed his resignation letter.

As you know, I have opposed the disengagement plan from the beginning on the grounds that I believe any concessions in the peace process must be linked to democratic reforms within Palestinian society. Not only does the disengagement plan ignore such reforms, it will in fact weaken the prospects for building a free Palestinian society and at the same time strengthen the forces of terror.

Will our departure from Gaza encourage building a society where freedom of speech is protected, where independent courts protect individual rights, and where free markets enable Palestinians to build an independent economic life beyond government control? Will our departure from Gaza end incitement in the Palestinian media or hate-filled indoctrination in Palestinian schools? Will our departure from Gaza result in the dismantling of terror groups or the dismantling of the refugee camps in which four generations of Palestinians have lived in miserable conditions?

Clearly, the answer to all these questions is no.

The guiding principle behind the disengagement plan is based on the illusion that by leaving Gaza we will leave the problems of Gaza behind us. As the mantra goes, “We will be here, and they will be there.” Once again, we are repeating the mistakes of the past by not understanding that the key to building a stable and lasting peace with our Palestinian neighbors lies in encouraging and supporting their efforts to build a democratic society. Obviously, these changes will surely take time, but Israel is not even linking its departure from Gaza to the initiation of the first steps in this direction.

In my view, the disengagement plan is a tragic mistake that will exacerbate the conflict with the Palestinians, increase terrorism and dim the prospects of forging a genuine peace. Yet what turns this tragic mistake into a missed opportunity of historic proportions is the fact that as a result of changes in the Palestinian leadership and the firm conviction of the leader of the free world that democracy is essential to stability and peace—a conviction that is guiding America’s actions in other places around the world—an unprecedented window of opportunity has opened.

The news of Sharansky’s resignation has saddened many people, myself included. I also can’t help thinking how much better off the country would be if only all our Knesset members had this much integrity.

When Along Came a Camera ...

When Along Came a Camera ...

While I was out walking yesterday evening, I passed by something that looked like a clump of nondescript vegetation hanging from a tree branch. Something about it caught my attention, and on closer inspection it turned out to be the nest of a Palestine Sunbird, with the female bird perched just outside the entrance. I tried to photograph it but the bird flew away, and in any case there wasn’t enough light.

This morning I passed by the nest again. The female was inside this time. Only her head was visible as she scanned the area, alert for intruders.

My camera is a simple one that’s part of a cellphone. It has no flash or zoom. But I really wanted this picture, so I approached as quietly as I could, my hand raised to take the picture. Unfortunately, the female noticed me and took off, chirping in distress as she went.

Here’s a picture of the nest, sans bird.

Meanwhile, the female perched on a nearby branch, chirping and calling. Feeling a bit like Miss Muffet’s spider, I took her picture quickly and left so that she could get back to her nest.

Oh, well. Better luck next time.

All Right, Who Turned Back the Clock?

All Right, Who Turned Back the Clock?

It’s overcast and raining outside, which is not the usual weather pattern for Israel in May. By now we’re supposed to be starting the long, hot, dry season, but outside it looks like someone turned the clock back to March.

Not that I’m complaining, mind you. The thing I miss most about the US is rain in summertime.

But this is just strange.

What I Did for My Birthday

What I Did for My Birthday

As my half-dozen readers may have gathered from a recent post, I just had a birthday—a rather significant one, in fact. I confess it: I flipped a digit. Yes, I know that’s a pretty serious thing do to, so I promise to wait ten years before doing it again.

So what did I do to celebrate? A few things.

There’s a wonderful all-you-can-eat meat restaurant downtown called Vaqueiro. It’s a combination South American/South African place. For a fixed price, the smiling, friendly waiters bring out samples of ten different kinds of meat (five if you’re there for lunch), and once you’re done sampling, they’ll bring you as much as you want of whichever kind you request. Once you’re on their database, they’ll send you an invitation for a free dinner on your birthday (and a free bottle of wine on your anniversary).

My friend and I went there a few days before Pessah and had a wonderful time. We were pretty full even before the end, though, and at one point we started laughing when the food just never seemed to end. “What—they’re bringing us more?” we asked each other in disbelief. We could hardly move by the time we left. Moderation? Not that evening!

Another friend took me to Mini-Israel. It was terrific—the models of various buildings throughout the country are exquisite and all the miniature plants are real. There’s even a plant nursery near the entrance where you can buy the same kinds of plants used in the park. (At the Mini-Israel website, click on the link in the upper left corner for the English-language version, and click on the icon of the speaker in the upper right corner to turn off the music.)

We continued my birthday romp with a trip to the new exhibit at David’s Citadel, “Train Tracks to Jerusalem.” It’s a history of the train to Jerusalem from Ottoman times to the present, and highly recommended. (Mind the gap!)

By the way, there are model trains all over Mini-Israel—quite literally—so the train-loving part of me was well nourished. I’m still planning a trip to the Railway Museum in Haifa, though.

(Cross-posted at Israelity)

Saturday Night Catblogging

Saturday Night Catblogging

Her Ladyship must have been muscling in on the Dowager Duchess again:

The Duchess is the kitty on the right, wearing the blue collar.

And here’s Her Ladyship in a less-than-dignified pose—or maybe she’s imitating us humans.

(By the way, Her Ladyship is not asking for a bellyrub when she does that. Trust me on this.)

Check out the Carnival of the Cats at Running Scared this week.

Houston, We Have a Purr (or: What, Me Envy?)

Houston, We Have a Purr (or: What, Me Envy?)

My poetry-writing buddy from Atlanta, Elisson, went on a pilgrimage to Houston this past week, where he met Lair Simon and his four beautiful, noble and charming cats.

Upon his return, Pilgrim Elisson graciously remembered me as follows:

[Rahel, I know this is gonna make you eat your heart out, but I gave them all extra skritches for you.]

Now why on earth would I be jealous? Just because Elisson got to be in the same city, nay, on the same continent as all four of Lair Simon’s wonderful, gorgeous kittycats? Just because he got to pet the colorful Piper, copper-striped polydactyl Nardo, fluffy Frisky and cavekitty Edloe with his own hands? Just because he got to meet Lair in person?

Jealous? Me? Nah. I’m an adult, you see. Mature. I even have proof: tonight, according to the Hebrew calendar, I flip a significant digit. (According to the Gregorian calendar, I flipped it last week.) So—what, me envy?

::sniffle::

Oh, all right, then. Maybe just a little.

Keeping My Hand In

Keeping My Hand In

When I woke up this morning, my left hand hurt. A lot.

Well, actually it was the wrist. Specifically, the left side of the wrist. After a day of this, I’ve figured out even more specifically that whatever’s hurting in there is connected to my little finger. I can still do most things without pain, but try to use that little finger and ... well, best cover your ears.

I’ve got to wonder how it happened. My hand was fine when I went to sleep last night, and it’s not like I was out digging ditches while I slept or something. (At least, I don’t think I was. ...)

So typing is not a lot of fun today. Life says: tough luck. I had to go to work this morning, and my job means quite a bit of typing. Ouch.

A dear friend who knows quite a bit about sports injuries told me I must RICE. That’s an acronym that means: rest, ice, compress and elevate above the shoulder as much as possible. (She recommended aspirin too, for its anti-inflammatory effect.) So I’m typing with a bandaged wrist packed in ice. I guess there’s a first for everything.

Like I said: ouch.

Around and About

Around and About

RIP, Ezer Weizman: The Jerusalem Post remembers former President Ezer Weizman, who passed away last Saturday night at the age of eighty.

Remembering the Rachels: Tom Gross’s answer to the recently produced play in Britain glorifying ISM terror-enabler Rachel Corrie: The Forgotten Rachels.

My Name Is Rachel Thaler is not the title of a play likely to be produced anytime soon in London. Thaler, aged 16, was blown up at a pizzeria in an Israeli shopping mall. She died after an 11-day struggle for life following the February 16, 2002 attack when a suicide bomber approached a crowd of teenagers and blew himself up.

She was a British citizen, born in London, where her grandparents still live. Yet I doubt that anyone at London’s Royal Court Theatre, or most people in the British media, have heard of her. “Not a single British journalist has ever interviewed me or mentioned her death,” her mother, Ginette, told me last week.

Thaler’s parents donated her organs for transplant (helping to save the life of a young Russian man), and grieved quietly. After the accidental killing of Rachel Corrie, by contrast, her parents embarked on a major publicity campaign. They traveled to Ramallah to accept a plaque from Yasser Arafat on behalf of their daughter. They circulated her emails and diary entries to a world media eager to publicize them.

Among those who published extracts from them in 2003 was the influential British leftist daily The Guardian. This in turn inspired a new play, My Name Is Rachel Corrie, which opened this month at the Royal Court Theatre, one of London most prestigious venues. (The New York Times recently described it as “the most important theatre in Europe.”)

A nation unlike all others: Yehuda Avner on the idea of Israel as a nation among other nations:

To begin with, our profoundest oddity is our identity. Many gentiles—and many Jews for that matter—have only the slightest comprehension of what a Jew is. At the salons and receptions where Israeli diplomats move, one might encounter people bemused over why our envoys display as much concern for the welfare of the local Jewish community as they do for their own countrymen. It is not uncommon, for example, to be collared by some vaguely inebriated individual and asked, “Now, tell me, what exactly are you Jews—are you a nation, or a religion, or what?”

The answer—both—is baffling. For, in modern society Jews are unique in personifying a nation-faith personality, a seamless blend of peoplehood and religion born out of the two seminal events that forged our identity: the Exodus from Egypt, when we entered history as a people, and the concomitant giving of the Torah at Sinai, when we entered history as a nation-faith.

Whether one is a believer or a skeptic, this subtle individuality is indivisible. A Jew cannot be one without the other, though many throughout the centuries have tried. A Jew remains forever a synergy of Exodus and Sinai.

Read the whole thing. Hag sameah (happy holiday)!

Stalking the Wild Siamese

Stalking the Wild Siamese

This is one of my friend’s two Siamese cats. She is fifteen years old. I call her the Dowager Duchess. (The light is strong in this picture because the Duchess enjoys lying down under an incandescent lamp for warmth.)

Hold your mouse over the photographs for additional text. (I learned this trick from Meryl.)

This is the Duchess’s housemate, Her Ladyship. She’s about six and very jealous of any attention the Duchess receives.

Here they are together. (I apologize for the smaller photograph; I unwittingly changed the size settings on my cellphone before I took it.) Notice that Her Ladyship is stalking the Duchess, who was in that spot first.

The same thing happens at home. “I believe this was my spot,” says Her Ladyship. “Youth hath its privileges, Duchess. Now move.”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said: Move!”

The Duchess doesn’t have the patience for these power games. She just wants some peace and quiet, and if she has to give a little ground in order to get them, she will.

Her Ladyship has a weak spot, though. Like all cats, she enjoys getting into a sheltered spot and peeking out at the world from there. In this case, her sheltered spot happens to be underneath my skirt.

My legs ache, Your Ladyship. May I stand up now?

Back inside, the Dowager Duchess is finally free to rest undisturbed.

Skritch early and often. Shabbat shalom!

In Every Generation

In Every Generation

Jerusalem Post columnist Barbara Sofer on Intifada-denial:

Intifada-denial is a dangerous error. Even for Israelis who enthusiastically supported Oslo and Camp David, four years of violence has forced a reckoning with reality. The pointless murder and savage mutilation of civilians, coupled with the images of celebratory joy by Palestinians as buses were torn to pieces and the Twin Towers crumbled had to be an awakening. Anyone who is concerned about peace in the Middle East would be nuts not to factor in this hatred.

Would that we could turn the clock back to 2000. Let’s imagine what would have happened if the Palestinian people had invested their considerably energy, not in violence but in restructuring the PA by accepting Ehud Barak’s plan at Camp David.

A nascent Palestinian state could have been celebrating its fifth anniversary. Young leadership could have reformed the corrupt mechanisms of government instead of devising plans for recruiting and dispatching teenagers as human bombs. The techies who design tunnels and bomb factories could have been turning out air-conditioners and gas cooking grills, building houses, improving their highway system and designing computer programs.

The billions of euros poured in by the Europeans would have supported these projects, as well as constructing bright new schools, hospitals equipped to treat cancer and prevalent genetic diseases.

But, of course, this is more than a question of wasted opportunities. So many are dead, so many have lifelong disabilities. As a society we have become terror survivors. The term “terror survivor” was actually coined in this “intifada” by a Jerusalem woman named Shoshana Gottleib. She was shot in the spine on the way home from work. Because she’d been bending over to put orange peels in a plastic bag on the floor, she wasn’t killed. The terrorist who shot her for pay later complained that he didn’t get his money because she’d survived.

...

We’re in the midst of preparing for Pessah, the national holiday in which it’s our obligation to pass on to our children the message of the joyous, divine moment of liberation from slavery. I know it kind of throws a damper on the party, but we’re also obliged to remember that in every generation someone tries to destroy us.

Imagine reading those lines of the Haggada at the Pessah Seder at Shoshana Gottleib’s home. The intifada was, indeed, another of these malevolent but futile attempts to destroy us. Would that it weren’t so.

Read it all.