During the last two years I’ve spent in the Holy Land, I’ve made little commentary in this blog about life in this country, preferring instead to focus inwardly. It seems appropriate, however, to share my perspective once in a while, especially during times like this, when Israel and Palestine are under the international spotlight.
Day-to-day, nothing much changes in Haifa, where I reside. There are some protests and some unrest. Last week a town 20 miles north of here was hit by rockets coming from Lebanon, recalling memories of the war in 2006, when that was the daily routine in Haifa as well. Alarms would go off every 15-30 minutes, giving residents 60 seconds to retreat to an underground bomb shelter before the Katyusha rockets landed, causing limited but potentially fatal damage. It seems unlikely that more fire will be coming from the north, however, since no one claimed responsibility for last week’s launch, and the main activity is happening in the Gaza strip, further south. The armed conflict happening there is, of course, tragic, no matter how you look at it, and anyone would hope for its immediate cessation.
Haifa happens to be the location of the world center of the Baha’i Faith, where I am volunteering as a sound technician for a 2.5 year term. The Baha’i World Center was established on Mount Carmel long before the formation of the State of Israel, as a result of Baha’u'llah’s banishment to the prison-city of Akka, arriving in 1868. Due to years of negotiations and careful maintenance of diplomatic relations, the government has graciously allowed the Baha’is to stay, to upkeep our Holy Places and Shrines, and our administrative center and site of pilgrimage, since we cause no trouble and have proved we have no intention of teaching our religion to the residents of a Jewish State.
Thus is my understanding of my position here, and while I live a relatively normal life amongst my Baha’i co-workers and peers, there are a number of practical barriers which prevent me from knowing much about my neighbors. Since travel here is somewhat restricted, I have even less of a chance to know any Palestinians, although I often encounter Israeli Arabs (usually Christians), facing language barriers, among others. Lacking the proper circumstances to warm up to many of my Hebrew- and Arabic-speaking neighbors, I tend to shy away and observe their rough exteriors from a corner in the distance.
What I do know is that military service is compulsory for both men (2.5 years) and women (1.5 years), generating a stream of youth constantly seen in the streets and public transport, in uniform and with rifles. I imagine that most adults I see must have undergone rigorous military training at some point, and have perhaps served in a post somewhere. I thus imagine myself constantly surrounded by soldiers, ex-soldiers, and eternal soldiers.
Last weekend I had a surprising experience that dissolved many of my own stereotypes, and would perhaps counteract the image of Israelis that one might acquire from media portrayals these days.
I frequent a nearby gym, where I went for an early work-out session the other day. I must have become dehydrated because I felt some nausea, and decided to go to the bathroom to avoid any embarrassing display of my breakfast on the gym floor. The bathroom was two floors up, and the elevator was not working that day. As I walked up the stairwell, I started feeling dizzier and dizzier, until I decided to sit, partially lying against the wall, until the blood flowed to my head again. At this point a young woman who was heading down to the gym still drinking a cup of coffee, stopped in front of me and asked calmly, “Kol beseder?” (Everything ok?)
I wove my hand around signaling “more-or-less”, and said “I’m a bit dizzy,” hoping she spoke English. Without a moment’s hesitation, she held out her cup and said, “Take some coffee, it will help.” I tried to resist, “Oh… are you sure?” (meaning: ‘Are you sure coffee will help at this moment?’). She was so matter-of-fact – “Yes, I’m sure” – that I had to take a sip. Before I was done she continued down the steps, and I tried to extend the cup back to her. “Keep the rest. It will help,” she said, emotionless and without pleasantries, and was gone. She had only drunk half of her mocha latte.
At that point I felt both appreciative and struck by the bizarreness of the occurrence. “Won’t coffee dehydrate me even more?” I kept thinking. But as I took a few sips, it actually did help to restore my alertness. I was about to continue up the steps when the young woman came back, offering me a small square wrapped in aluminum: “Take a little bit of chocolate.” She smiled slightly and dashed away again, barely giving me time to say thank you.
Upstairs, the men’s bathroom was noisy and crowded, and I felt the need to lie down again, so I sat outside in the hallway. One older lady walked by – I had seen her in the gym earlier. She glanced down a couple of times, and I felt that perhaps I was being a disturbance, a delinquent sprawling obstacle in her path, but instead she asked (in Hebrew) “Can I help you?” I started standing up, somewhat apologetic, claiming my dizziness was almost gone, but she said “No, stay. Take your time.” Her blue eyes offered a gentle warmth I had not received in a while. “That was a good idea, to lie down. If you are down already you can’t fall.” She offered me some of her bottled water but I insisted that I was about to go to the water fountain, thanking her for the kind offer. “Take your time,” she waved me back down to sit, “I won’t disturb you. I wish you all the best.”
More than their willingness to help, I was struck by both women’s demeanor and choice of words. To me, Israelis almost seem to precede every statement with an unspoken “of course”. “[Of course] the taxi ride will cost 45 shekels.” “[Of course] the train station is just around the corner”.”[Of course] your sandwich will take 10 minutes.” “[Of course] I will give you my coffee.” “[Of course] I wish you all the best.”
