After a whirlwind trip to Tel-Aviv complete with excessive amounts of food, horseradish, and bad television, we're back at Yotvata. Greeting us was what has been our daily grind most recently: working in an onion factory. Mainly, we are stationed at a conveyor belt, separating rocks and rotten onions out, and cutting stems that may still be attached. Our fingers are stained, bruised, sliced open, and smell perpetually like a combination of dirt and onions that have softened underneath desert heat. Factory work begins at seven a.m. and ends at four p.m., and we are provided three breaks with coffee, fresh fruit, and cookies. We do not complain, except secretly to each other in the dead of night. Previously, we had been working in the mango fields, fumigating and preparing the trees for the season. Our first day, our supervisor Etan, an eighteen year-old "shin-shin" (before entering the army, one may choose to do a year of national service, often on a kibbutz, though how 'shin-shin' derives from this we've still yet to find out), informed us that we were not to walk or pee about 10 yards from where we worked, for that area was no longer Israel. Jordan taunted us while we folded and sorted nets which surround the mango trees with its wadis, until the border patrol passed. At times, we'd hear firing. More on all this later. For now, the main purpose of this post- our address and phone number on the kibbutz.
Jaclin M.G.F/Gwendolyn M.A.
c/o Kibbutz Yotvata
D.N. Eilat
88820 Israel
+97286357288 - the phone is shared by volunteers, so arrange a time if possible to call, or ask for one of us if you call without alerting us.
After moving twice and surrendering our blood to Yotvata's factory, we're adjusting.
Thursday, April 5, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Here are some pictures.
After a week here, we have no excuse to not have provided an update. However, for now, this is all our weary, weary, souls can provide. Enjoy vicariously at your leisure.
In chronological order:
Airplane excitement. This is to prove we started loving each other.
Typical building in Tel-Aviv. This combination of decrepit, lush, and sand tones is repeated in countless ways in every part of Israel. This shot is characteristic only of residential neighborhoods in Tel-Aviv city center.
Reinvigorating our spirits and sense of place after waking too late to travel to Haifa, Mira graciously took us to see Israeli dancing. It is a bi-weekly event attended by crowds trailing the typical Popsicle-toting children as well as those well into their middle ages but still fitting well into gaudy sequined t-shits and, at least in one case, booty shorts. Mira explains in broken English her attachment to the event, from which we extracted: community gathering and merriment as a result of constant conflict. You can imagine the significance this hour and a half held.
Later that same day, (which, for the record, was Saturday, March 17) after eating dinner at 2pm as apparently is the Israeli way on the day of rest, we went for a walk. We discussed guns, barley, and tourism while walking through a kibbutz whose fields run up to the Gabay's backyard. What grain is this?
While Jacky stands tall and poised, I crouch and peer and pout, apparently. Go figure.
The next day, we walked for almost twelve hours non-stop around Tel-Aviv. This is Carmel market, where we truly experienced the extent of Israel's bounty. We still had no idea.
Monday, old Jaffa's flea market. Largely Arabic, and again, bounty. Here I wrote with blogging intentions:
'We are surrounded by dust and fragments of ancient capitalist ventures/culture clash, in the way that all flea markets are, complete with intoxicating flashes of light off mottled glass and watch-faces, curves of forgotten stylistic marketing in the arm of a chair, a candelabra, an earring, the wrist of a painted girl, and patches of color telling of glorious times before they were kitsch (or maybe, when they were still kitsch, simply shining). We are drinking the closest approximation to straight brewed coffee offered, identified when we express our longing for a large brewed cup with a vocalization of disgust by Zeev as 'sewage water,' Americanos. This cafe, between two antique store fronts, almost seems itself for sale being layered with fabrics, antique ephemera, and fresh flowers in a way that attracts foreigners as its neighbors' wares, which accounts for us being immediately presented with English menus. I'd like to relay all that we're seeing, all that we're doing, as purely and simply as possible, but then, when blog? I'd also like to keep my enchantment intact.'
From old Jaffa, we spotted a destination (Dad: think 'Ellis the rim man' sign, apologies to all other readers for family secrets), and walked towards it. We found the old port.
Later, we explore a landfill, which empties onto a beach in an Arab neighborhood.
On the bus to Yotvata. We're still getting used to this.
Now, two shots of life(Jacky) on the kibbutz. More to come, with camera batteries.
If animals in a household relay its true nature, this speaks volumes.
Wake at 4.30am, work 5.15-noon, clean house in the afternoon. This above ensues.
Now, dinner. We can promise more frequent updates with a new Internet room key.
Love.
In chronological order:
Airplane excitement. This is to prove we started loving each other.
Typical building in Tel-Aviv. This combination of decrepit, lush, and sand tones is repeated in countless ways in every part of Israel. This shot is characteristic only of residential neighborhoods in Tel-Aviv city center.
Reinvigorating our spirits and sense of place after waking too late to travel to Haifa, Mira graciously took us to see Israeli dancing. It is a bi-weekly event attended by crowds trailing the typical Popsicle-toting children as well as those well into their middle ages but still fitting well into gaudy sequined t-shits and, at least in one case, booty shorts. Mira explains in broken English her attachment to the event, from which we extracted: community gathering and merriment as a result of constant conflict. You can imagine the significance this hour and a half held.
Later that same day, (which, for the record, was Saturday, March 17) after eating dinner at 2pm as apparently is the Israeli way on the day of rest, we went for a walk. We discussed guns, barley, and tourism while walking through a kibbutz whose fields run up to the Gabay's backyard. What grain is this?
While Jacky stands tall and poised, I crouch and peer and pout, apparently. Go figure.
The next day, we walked for almost twelve hours non-stop around Tel-Aviv. This is Carmel market, where we truly experienced the extent of Israel's bounty. We still had no idea.
Monday, old Jaffa's flea market. Largely Arabic, and again, bounty. Here I wrote with blogging intentions:
'We are surrounded by dust and fragments of ancient capitalist ventures/culture clash, in the way that all flea markets are, complete with intoxicating flashes of light off mottled glass and watch-faces, curves of forgotten stylistic marketing in the arm of a chair, a candelabra, an earring, the wrist of a painted girl, and patches of color telling of glorious times before they were kitsch (or maybe, when they were still kitsch, simply shining). We are drinking the closest approximation to straight brewed coffee offered, identified when we express our longing for a large brewed cup with a vocalization of disgust by Zeev as 'sewage water,' Americanos. This cafe, between two antique store fronts, almost seems itself for sale being layered with fabrics, antique ephemera, and fresh flowers in a way that attracts foreigners as its neighbors' wares, which accounts for us being immediately presented with English menus. I'd like to relay all that we're seeing, all that we're doing, as purely and simply as possible, but then, when blog? I'd also like to keep my enchantment intact.'
From old Jaffa, we spotted a destination (Dad: think 'Ellis the rim man' sign, apologies to all other readers for family secrets), and walked towards it. We found the old port.
Later, we explore a landfill, which empties onto a beach in an Arab neighborhood.
On the bus to Yotvata. We're still getting used to this.
Now, two shots of life(Jacky) on the kibbutz. More to come, with camera batteries.
If animals in a household relay its true nature, this speaks volumes.
Wake at 4.30am, work 5.15-noon, clean house in the afternoon. This above ensues.
Now, dinner. We can promise more frequent updates with a new Internet room key.
Love.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
We've been placed.
For the next two-three months Jacky and I live and work on Kibbutz Yotvata, known throughout Israel as the most prosperous traditional kibbutz, meaning they have not voted to privatize. Their wealth and success is due mainly to their dairy farm and production of what guidebooks and our hosts call "the best chocolate milk in the world." Here I remind all and any readers that I am vegan.
In two hours we board a bus to Eliat, which stops in Yotvata. Upon our arrival, we will provide a proper update. Love to all, from the depths of our exhausted yet still fluttering-with-idealistic-hope hearts.
In two hours we board a bus to Eliat, which stops in Yotvata. Upon our arrival, we will provide a proper update. Love to all, from the depths of our exhausted yet still fluttering-with-idealistic-hope hearts.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Israel's Beverly Hills, produce, and "airplane food sucks."
As Jacky and I digest our day, washing down Mira's abundant cooking with American television and discussions of superficial observations- all those pin-prick details of culture that accumulate, eventually, into conveyable summaries, we've decided to compose a list. This is what we're picking off trees and sidewalks, shoving into our pockets and storing next to our passports, this is the awe, shock underscored by a knowledge of our lack of knowledge, foreigness, and yet simultaneous feeling of being in The Right Place. I speak for us both, I believe, when I say that we can only begin at the beginning, the overwhelming rush of emotion and "Did you see...?!?!" which overtakes any traveler with the plane's landing.
Without further ado:
1. Flora: orange trees lining parkinglots, kumquats littering sidewalks, wildflowers blanketing empty lots, snap dragons and trees in full bloom with blood-colored blossoms and petals like minature knives pulled fresh from a wound, and, subsequently, the smell of the air.
2. Fauna: women with "asses only rivaled in size by the hair on their head" (Jacky speaks what I attempt to do more poeticly, but honesty is the only thing capable of approaching this type of beauty), stares from all directions thrown not only from shelter car-windows provide like us safely voyeuristic Americans are accustomed to, "Arabs cleaning street corners" (Jacky, again, more appropriately phrasing the situation).
Other things:
The backdrop for the aforementioned is streets filled as equally with expected Americanization/Westernization as crowds, literally crowds, of able-bodied youth decked in Army green and Uzis, "gold-earrings and all the affectations of teenagers put into a uniformed situation," or, the army before they can even develop a sense of self. I'm aware that there is more than a measure of unfairness to that, but in this first post if all were to be qualified, first layers of complexity to be addressed, its length and emotional depth with exhaust both writers and audience. Zeev tells us that Israel's best commodity is the brain, and that the army now has the ability to pick and choose their ranks with a growing national population, meaning it's become a class issue: the wealthier and less problematic students are those chosen, or at least that is the case 81% of the time. Also, visiting here does not mean learning Hebrew, which means the process of acculturation needs redefining, in the best possible way - that said, Jacky would like to inform her parents that Schecter wasn't entirely a waste, as Hebrew is returning to her (albeit in bursts and baby steps, but enough to help me, the half-shiksa, who mumbles Shalom, toda, boker tov, etc. with a tongue thick and weighted with awareness of an accent, though I'll get over it being surrounded by confidence carried in hair-tosses, body language, and those epic stares, which all contribute to a general air to most Israelis I've met which can only be approximated by the French 'bien sur').
Most importantly, understand that this is not a war zone.
Gwen-o is in the bathroom and so I type freely! Gwen pees a lot, I read every sign I see just to make sure I know the alphabet. We drove through Ra'anana and I wanted to cry but only as a way of paying tribute. Being here feels incredibly right and comforting. The sidewalks are dirty and everyone smokes cigarettes, indoors, while holding their lattes. It's hard to get plain coffee here. The tomatos are bright red and taste delicious. I'm happy to be here. Gwen is happy to be here. She's drinking mineral water. Tap water is not encouraged "though with what justification, we still don't know. Just Adi's sneers." -G.M. Aha-bah.
Ok now Gwen wants to type. I'm done. -JMGF peas and love "shanti shanti"
Last details, my Feelings:
This must be what getting spoon fed life is like because we're provided for with gusto and hands waving off my thanks into "we're family"s, and the desert is BLOOMING. There is little observable poverty and homelessness in a way that we're used to, so, I'm pining after a visit to the territories. You know me, parents, wanting more, wanting honesty, begging for death, really! That is a joke, but not my hesitancy with spending a day in Israel at the mall. It was an experience, and I learned plenty from price-tags, gestures, popular lipstick colors and unfiltered mannerisms, and the fact that I was approached by shopkeepers in Hebrew (apparently, I blend well). This is just to say, there's so much left to learn, and that knowledge, desire, and certainty is worth living for. If living means staying away from the territories, it may be a fair trade.
With gratitude and affection,
love and community supported peas,
gwen.
p.s. Jacky assures her parents that she is not going to the territories.
p.p.s. Gwen assures her parents that she is not going to the territories.
We are happy to be alive.
Without further ado:
1. Flora: orange trees lining parkinglots, kumquats littering sidewalks, wildflowers blanketing empty lots, snap dragons and trees in full bloom with blood-colored blossoms and petals like minature knives pulled fresh from a wound, and, subsequently, the smell of the air.
2. Fauna: women with "asses only rivaled in size by the hair on their head" (Jacky speaks what I attempt to do more poeticly, but honesty is the only thing capable of approaching this type of beauty), stares from all directions thrown not only from shelter car-windows provide like us safely voyeuristic Americans are accustomed to, "Arabs cleaning street corners" (Jacky, again, more appropriately phrasing the situation).
Other things:
The backdrop for the aforementioned is streets filled as equally with expected Americanization/Westernization as crowds, literally crowds, of able-bodied youth decked in Army green and Uzis, "gold-earrings and all the affectations of teenagers put into a uniformed situation," or, the army before they can even develop a sense of self. I'm aware that there is more than a measure of unfairness to that, but in this first post if all were to be qualified, first layers of complexity to be addressed, its length and emotional depth with exhaust both writers and audience. Zeev tells us that Israel's best commodity is the brain, and that the army now has the ability to pick and choose their ranks with a growing national population, meaning it's become a class issue: the wealthier and less problematic students are those chosen, or at least that is the case 81% of the time. Also, visiting here does not mean learning Hebrew, which means the process of acculturation needs redefining, in the best possible way - that said, Jacky would like to inform her parents that Schecter wasn't entirely a waste, as Hebrew is returning to her (albeit in bursts and baby steps, but enough to help me, the half-shiksa, who mumbles Shalom, toda, boker tov, etc. with a tongue thick and weighted with awareness of an accent, though I'll get over it being surrounded by confidence carried in hair-tosses, body language, and those epic stares, which all contribute to a general air to most Israelis I've met which can only be approximated by the French 'bien sur').
Most importantly, understand that this is not a war zone.
Gwen-o is in the bathroom and so I type freely! Gwen pees a lot, I read every sign I see just to make sure I know the alphabet. We drove through Ra'anana and I wanted to cry but only as a way of paying tribute. Being here feels incredibly right and comforting. The sidewalks are dirty and everyone smokes cigarettes, indoors, while holding their lattes. It's hard to get plain coffee here. The tomatos are bright red and taste delicious. I'm happy to be here. Gwen is happy to be here. She's drinking mineral water. Tap water is not encouraged "though with what justification, we still don't know. Just Adi's sneers." -G.M. Aha-bah.
Ok now Gwen wants to type. I'm done. -JMGF peas and love "shanti shanti"
Last details, my Feelings:
This must be what getting spoon fed life is like because we're provided for with gusto and hands waving off my thanks into "we're family"s, and the desert is BLOOMING. There is little observable poverty and homelessness in a way that we're used to, so, I'm pining after a visit to the territories. You know me, parents, wanting more, wanting honesty, begging for death, really! That is a joke, but not my hesitancy with spending a day in Israel at the mall. It was an experience, and I learned plenty from price-tags, gestures, popular lipstick colors and unfiltered mannerisms, and the fact that I was approached by shopkeepers in Hebrew (apparently, I blend well). This is just to say, there's so much left to learn, and that knowledge, desire, and certainty is worth living for. If living means staying away from the territories, it may be a fair trade.
With gratitude and affection,
love and community supported peas,
gwen.
p.s. Jacky assures her parents that she is not going to the territories.
p.p.s. Gwen assures her parents that she is not going to the territories.
We are happy to be alive.
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