Asiatown Goes To Israel: Bullet-Proof Vest Optional
by Asiatown
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Our foreign correspondent Asiatown, who previously examined stereotypes, explores them further in his Fatherland: Israel.
We were standing in my landlord's office on 5th Avenue in New York City, inspecting the blue bullet-proof vest he uses when on a mission to obtain rent payments from more recalcitrant tenants. He held it to my chest, declared it to be just my size and insisted that I take it on my journey. I declined the offer.
More astute readers may have already guessed that my destination was Israel. I was going there on a trip funded by Birthright; a group of philanthropists who make it their business to send Jews, who have never been and who are between the ages of 18 and 26 – a category which handily included me - on a ten-day exploration trip to Israel. We gathered at JFK airport. I was wearing two spring jackets to guard against the cold and as a compromise, against the soon-to-be desert heat.
We landed in Jerusalem and after a welcome were shuttled off, in a heavily-guarded tourist bus, to the northern Israeli town of Tzafat. Oh yeah - I forgot to mention the guns. Coming from New York, the ample display of firepower was not my cup of java but if you're from NASCAR country, you'd be in kosher hog heaven. Said guns, which I did not inspect closely enough to decipher their make and model, were wielded by fresh-faced and smiling not-yet twenty-somethings.
Almost all Israelis join the Army when they graduate from secondary school except for the super-religious (Haredi) community and Arab Israelis. The former because they do not biblically accept the right of Israel to exist (but are more than happy to take handouts from the Israeli government) and the latter because many Arab Israelis have friends and relatives in Arab countries and it is thought to be unfair to make them fight against their brethren.
The armed kids were very nice and started Hebrew lessons on the bus in earnest. The idea behind Israel's creation is the notion that Jews - possibly the most hated people in human history - would have a home for themselves, and so the "when are you moving here?" chorus began fervently within moments of landing. It is a nice - and for most Jews, pretty damn unique - experience to actually be wanted. A second aspect of the program was a determined, if somewhat heavy-handed attempt to steer the participants towards living more religiously. This was not my cup of tea at all - and not just because of the philosophical debate I had (and lost) on the issues of pork chops and pornography. (I was for 'em.)
Before the Germans - and their many European collaborators - started their quest for new and biologically unique sources of soap and candle wax, my grandmother - the descendent, respectively, of a line of rabbis and the owner of a kosher butcher shop - was a devout Orthodox Jew. In some ways she remains so. After Communism bit the big one, she wasted no time in sending her grandson a set of illustrated bibles which he never read. I respect - even admire - her religiosity even after everything, but do not share it. Every religious exploration begins and ends with the numbers on her arm - I refuse to believe that a good and decent God would have allowed them.
The program went swimmingly - I learned to climb up mountains, but never did manage to get back down from the damned things by myself. (It is always at the top of a mountain that I remember how much I hate heights.) We shared very close quarters and returned from physical outings gloriously filthy, a combination that made it seem like we were begging for bacteria. I made some good friends and some excellent enemies, before most of them boarded on the return flight. I stuck around for a bit - as I had some relatives to find.
Although it's been fifty-eight years since their separation, my grandmother remembered that after they got through the camps, her sisters took the offer of the Allied forces and moved to what was then called Palestine. One of them became (or returned to being) religious, knocked out ten kids or so, and moved to the Tel Aviv suburb of Bnei Brak. She was as deaf as a cannon and I was worn out religion-wise and thus headed to another T.A. suburb, Ran'anna to visit my newly discovered uncle, Tommy. He was a practical lad. Israelis generally look at Americans as being rather stupid but also quite wealthy, a combination which results in the emotional dilemma of being nice to someone you look upon with contempt. Tommy, whose line of work I never did manage to deduce, solved this by getting down to business. If memory serves, he has invented some do-hickey (I am rather techie) which he wanted me to shill to Americans. When I showed a lack of enthusiasm, our familial bonding session petered out. Tommy's girlfriend, a reasonably attractive if utterly terrifying middle-aged woman from Borat's own backyard, refused to speak to me except for the time when she gave me the brochures from her shop. She ran a clothing store for religious women and was of the opinion that I could introduce Amish and Mennonite women in East Tennessee to her product line. Strike two for the family business.
In between I learned to surf and play pool, courtesy of my cousins who took a refreshingly non-material interest in me. I also attended a funeral.
One of the soldiers who guarded our bus was a descendant of Rabbis whose dream was to get into urban planning once his Army service ended. I stayed at his Tel Aviv apartment - him having left for the Negev desert that morning -when my slumber was interrupted by a fellow with a strong Israeli accent who informed me that the man was dead. I sat up, shook off the bed sheet and looked at him. He turned on the radio that issued a Hebrew broadcast which, according to him, confirmed that the man had died in an accidental shooting while hiking in the Negev desert. It seemed that one of his fellow soldiers had gotten drunk and opened fire in the course of an argument.
Jewish funerals are speedy affairs - the burial was the next day. A heart-rending service followed as the wails from his family carried over the hills. I left two days later.
This was about three years ago. In those three years I taught law to students twice my age in New York, avoided prostitutes and visa leeches in China, learned some Taekwondo in Korea, got started on my M.Ed., and now wound up with a cushy college job some one-hundred miles northeast of Bratislava, Slovakia, where, I was recently informed, my grandmother's cousins live. I'm set to meet up with them next weekend.
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Asiatown blogs out of asiatown77.blogspot.com and teaches at a college in north-central Slovakia. As always, he welcomes thoughts, comments, marriage proposals and Paypal contributions at huefl@yahoo.com. If you are related to Asiatown, don't be shy in letting him know - everyone else seems to be.
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