Run Maya Run

28 Feb

Tha alarm clock goes off at 4 in the morning.  I climb up the stairs to my daughter’s bedroom.

Maya eats, laughs with her running buddy on board train

Maya eats, laughs with her running buddy on board train

Maya’s already up, still bundled in a bathrobe.  This morning, this sixteen year-old is all business. Her running gear is spread out neatly on the bed: the 2015 Tel Aviv Marathon jersey, running shoes, socks, tights, running bra, hair bands, her assigned official chest number, safety pins. Her twin sister Romy in the next room, who’d written for most of the night on her laptop, comes down to offer support. Pnina makes sandwiches, I fill water bottles.

Minutes later, we all pile into the car to Binyamina, a train depot an hour away.  We meet up with Maya’s running buddy, Rotem.  Dozens of runners of all ages and sizes are on the platform awaiting the train.  There’s a buzz in the air despite the early hour.  In anticipation of Purim, some of the men runners flaunt red Superman capes; women swirl in ballerina tutus.  The train conductors help people onto the approaching train.  Thirty minutes later, we’re disgorged into a mass of runners in Tel Aviv.  And from there, we’re swept up by the crowds leading to the fairgrounds.  Roads are sealed off.  Security is at full force.  In the meantime, Maya continues to load up on carbohydrates, empties a water bottle, chews on fresh dates.

Maya gets ready

Maya gets ready

It’s almost time.  Pnina, Romy and I stand on a bridge overlooking the start-line.  Thousands of runners are antsy to get on with it.  Maya’s one of them.  For months she’s been training like a pro; she’s been watching what she eats.  For months she ran at night around our village; she trained on stationary bikes at the gym.  For months she came in through the house door, checked her vitals on her phone app, promised she’d do better next time.

If you think you know what you’re capable of, you don’t.  Five years ago, in 2010, Maya dreaded going to Track & Field meets in Los Angeles.  She struggled with the 100 and 200 meter dash. But there was someone who believed in her: Diana Nyad.  Diana is the first woman ever to swim from Cuba to Florida.  At the Los Angeles running track she offered words of encouragement to Maya and to those that fell short, always there to push them to do their best — with kindness wrapped with purpose.

2015 Tel Aviv Marathon Start Line

2015 Tel Aviv Marathon Start Line

We all need a pick up now and then.

Maya after the race

Maya after the race

So it’s no small wonder that Maya who was born prematurely at 3 1/2 pounds, who wheezed and coughed as a toddler, could raise her game and set out what she wanted to do.

Two hours and twenty minutes later, Maya completed the half-marathon – 21 kilometers.  We met her at the finish line.  She breezed through streets of Tel Aviv, and came back happy, joyous, giddy.

Romy hugged her sister.  She’s no marathoner.  But don’t ask her to arm-wrestle you.  She’ll press your arm down before you knew what hit you.

On the way back, we dined at a sushi and noodles restaurant to stock up on lost calories.

At home, in bed, I stocked up on memories for years to come.

Way to go, kid.

——————————————————————————————————————

Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=maurice+labi&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3Amaurice+labi

or at BN.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/maurice-labi?store=allproducts&keyword=maurice+labi

 

 

 

 

Your Land is my Land

14 Feb

Imagine yourself waking up one morning and finding yourself in a different country.  You don’t remember packing, you don’t recall crossing a border, and yet, outside, there’s a “foreign” flag rippling in the wind.  You recognize the flag, but it’s not your own.

Avigdor Liberman

Avigdor Liberman

This so-called dream might become a reality for thousands of Israeli-Arabs after the Israeli upcoming general elections only a month away.  I’m speaking of Avigdor Liberman’s initiative, Israel’s foreign minister until not long ago, and his political party “Israel, Our Home.”  His plan is simple and straightforward: Transfer Israeli-Arabs to a future Palestine.  This would solve the Arab problem, create a more homogeneous Jewish state.  He’s speaking of residents who live exclusively in Arab villages, in Israel, along the “stitch-line” of the Israel/West Bank border and some villages further north, on the road leading to Galilee, a place I call home.

Liberman, a staunch right-wing politician, was born in Moldova, one of the Soviet Union’s former republics.  At age 20 he immigrated to Israel.  In time, he joined Netanyahu and moved up the ranks.  Russian Jews, who are generally right-wing and against making concessions to Arabs, further helped Liberman climb the political ladder.

Liberman's Elections Campaign: Swap Arab city Um El Fahem for Jewish Settlement Ariel

Liberman’s Elections Campaign: Swap Arab city Um El Fahem for Jewish Settlement Ariel

Why does Liberman bring up this land-swap idea now?

His party has been recently rocked by scandal.  Officials in his party are under investigation, accused of siphoning money, controlling and awarding contracts, receiving bribes.  Although he’s not personally accused, he’s suffered a black eye.  The fallout is evident.  Would-be voters and supporters are abandoning ship. According to latest polls, his current 14 seats in Israel’s parliament, will be reduced to 6 on election day.

So, in pure Putin-fashion, Liberman is getting on his horse and is trotting all over the Israeli map to sell his idea. His campaign to transfer Arabs appears in newspapers and highway billboards. There’s one such billboard at the entrance to my home village in Kfar Tavor.  It reads:

Um El Fahem to Palestine

Ariel to Israel

Bottom Line: Liberman -“Israel, Our Home.”

The message speaks to the conservative base.  At first glance, the message is appealing, even intoxicating.  What’s not to like?  Throw them out.  All of them.  The city Um El Fahem is a buzz-word for Arab trouble-makers, and for good reason.  In the 2000 Arab Intifada, Arab residents blocked Wadi Ara, the highway that goes though their city, essentially cutting off Israel in two.  The burning tires and stone-throwing are long gone, but their bad-ass image remains to this day.  So, it’s no wonder, Liberman wants to get rid of all 50,000 Arabs in the city, send them to Palestine, where they belong.

Jewish city Ariel

Jewish city Ariel

But do they belong in Palestine?

Under the law, they’re Israeli citizens.  Their forefathers had lived on this land long before Israel was established.  In Liberman’s view, Um El Fahem is nothing more than a bargaining chip, to be exchanged for Ariel.

Is that a fair or even exchange?

Ariel is a Jewish settlement in the West Bank, also known as biblical Judea and Samaria.  Any way you call Ariel, it did not exist, at least not in its present form until 1978.  Ariel, now numbering 20,000 Jews, sits in occupied territory.  The town offers enviable municipal services, parks, schools, and even a university.

Arab city Um El Fahem

Arab city Um El Fahem

Liberman wants to eat the blintzes and have them too; he wants both to transfer the Arabs from Israel and keep Jews in occupied territory.  The rules of his games are odd.  He doesn’t ask the Arabs if they want to play; they’re moved off the board game.  He’s decided Jewish Ariel will be included in a Greater Israel.  What if Ariel were to be a Jewish outpost inside Palestine?  Would it not be sinilar to a West Berlin behind Israel’s own wall?  Sensing that his block of seats in parliament will further strengthen a conservative government, he’d already let be known that he will no longer seek the foreign minister position.  Instead, he wants to be minister of defense.

If that were to happen, could the land-swap proposal go beyond elections rhetoric, and really happen?  Smelling something’s in the air, the four or five Israeli-Arab parties, who were always splintered and stepping over each other’s toes, decided to put their differences aside.  They’re going into the elections as one block.  Analysts predict their united party might be the 3rd largest in parliament.  No Jewish party, Left or Right, would do business with them, but that’s beside the point.

Map of Israel showing Ariel and Um El Fahem, the proposed land-swap by Liberman's party

CLICK TO ENLARGE MAP

I don’t like Wadi Ara.  The road leading to the coast goes through the Wadi.  The road is narrow, the traffic lights are slow, the Arab truck drivers zigzag all over the place; it’s a hazard.  But I don’t see myself getting off the road and throwing the first Arab I see over the border.  They, too, when asked, don’t want to leave.  More than 85% want to stay in Israel.  Can you blame them?  They do well financially.  Originally, they used to peddle coal (Fahem, in Arabic) from the forests on the hilltops.  Today, they haul heavy-duty loads on semi-trailers, they work in road construction, manufacturing, auto industry.  They’re not stupid.  They see the turmoil in the West Bank, in Gaza, in Jordan, in Syria.  They’re Israeli and they want to remain Israeli.

They don’t like us, and I don’t love them much, either.  Tough.

Liberman is playing with fire.  The game can be played two-ways. In Galilee, Arabs are the majority.  As a Jew, I’m a minority in Galilee.  Who’s to stop Arabs in Galilee from wanting to establish their own “nation” here.  As is it, the Jewish-Israeli authorities, police, social workers, and such hardly set foot in Arab villages.  Arabs run their own show.  Worse yet, Arabs in mixed cities (Jews and Arabs) such as Haifa, Jaffa, Acco, Lod, Ramla, Nazareth – they may claim their own “autonomy.”  Before long, Israel will turn into Swiss cantons.  Only instead of dipping their bread into fondue, Jews and Arabs should first smell the hummus.

This is a centuries-old conflict.  It cannot be solved unilaterally.  Liberman’s idea is sexy and populist.  But it’s a non-starter, a dead-end, a dangerous political game.  No one’s going anywhere. Jews and Arabs are here for the long haul.

Deal with it, Liberman.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=maurice+labi&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3Amaurice+labi

or at BN.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/maurice-labi?store=allproducts&keyword=maurice+labi

 

 

 

 

Why Live in Israel?

31 Jan

Several days ago an Israeli military helicopter fired missiles onto Syrian territory.  Six Hezbollah militants and an Iranian accomplice were killed.  Within hours of the strike, North Galilee and the Golan Heights were on lockdown.  The area near the border was off-limits in anticipation of a Hezbollah attack.  It didn’t take long.  Earlier this week, Hezbollah fired anti-tank missiles into Galilee.  Two Israeli soldiers on patrol near the border were killed instantly.

Hezbollah leader killed by Israel

Hezbollah leader killed by Israel

The score?

Israel 1 – Hezbollah 1

Hezbollah retaliates - kills 2 Israeli soldiers

Hezbollah retaliates – kills 2 Israeli soldiers

Back to business as usual.  The Israeli army spokesman called for Israelis to return to “normal life.” The next day, schools re-opened, the ski summit at Mount Hermon was re-opened for business. Yet, tourists and vacationers, aware of the ongoing risk, chose to stay home.  Hotel cancellations were near 100%.  The snow pack on Mount Hermon was without skiers.  Except one family.

French Jews arriving in Israel

French Jews arriving in Israel

The television reporter caught up with the woman and her young children.  Immediately he noticed her accent.  “Where are you from?”

The woman behind sunglasses and a winter scarf said: “We’re originally from France.  We came to Israel three years ago.”  After being probed by the reporter, she continues: “You see what’s happening to Jews in France, no?  I’m here for three years.  I came to Hermon to show support.  In Israel, we have an army to protect us.  In France, we don’t.”  She’s speaking for other French Jews in France who are expected to come to Israel in greater numbers this year.

Sudanese Refugees seeking home in Israel

Sudanese Refugees seeking home in Israel

But what about non-Jews.  Why do they want to live here?  A Sudanese refugee was recently interviewed.  He’s one of 50,000 Africans who regard South Tel Aviv as their home.  The African man shows the reporter his scortched hands.  He trekked through Sudan, and Egypt. Then he crossed into the Sinai desert.  There he and others were captured by Bedouin bandits.  His only chance at freedom was if his family back home paid the ransom.  During his captivity, they tortured him, burned the paws of his hands.  He escaped, was picked up by soldiers on the Israeli side of the border and was put on a bus.  Days later, he walked aimlessly the streets of South Tel Aviv, eventually taken in by a homeless shelter.  In time, he recovered.  He now lives in Israel.  “Will you go home?” he’s asked. His reply:  “Israel is my home.”

Filipina Caregiver wins Israel's X-Factor Music Competition

Filipina Caregiver wins Israel’s X-Factor Music Competition

The Israeli elderly are looked after by caregivers from the Philippines.  The word got out that the pay in Israel is about $1200/month.  In the Philippines, young, unskilled men and women earn $100/month.  It’s no wonder that Filipinos and Filipinas are coming to Israel by the thousands.  Here, they have their own food markets, online presence, local newspaper, and even the annual Ms. Filipina Beauty Pageant.  Employment contractors in Manilla and in Israel exploit this labor market.  They charge them $8000 for the privilege of working in Israel, all paid in advance, in cash.  Once in Israel, it takes them years to repay their debt.  They visit their children back home once every two or three years, and keep in touch by Skype.  They endure long hours, take their old clients to the clinic, push their wheelchairs to the park; they learn Hebrew; they watch Israeli forces and terrorist groups clash on TV; they dig their chopsticks into their rice.  They continue to live in Israel until their clients no longer live.

What’s the fascination with this war-torn narrow strip of Land of Israel that attracts from the world over?

My two adult daughters remained in America.  My wife and younger twin daughters returned to Israel 3 1/2 years ago after having lived in California for over 30 years.  Is it really the Promised Land?

I doubt it.  Look up any “Best Places to Live” surveys and Israel is nowhere on the list.  War looms ever more frequently.  Corruption is rampant.  Politicians are guilty of taking bribes, police chiefs are accused of rape.  Arabs and Jews are at each other’s throats.  The cost-of-living has gone mad.  Etiquette, manners, empathy, respect are out the window.  Cynicism is at an all-time high.

So why am I here, still?  Why am I living in Galilee Hills and not returning to Hollywood Hills?

I wish the answer were than simple.  Call it habit, call it unwilling to pack up all over again, call it watching my daughters becoming “happy” Israelis despite their complaints, call it caring about what happens to this country despite feeling powerless, call it feeling the pulse of life here, call it seeing it all from the inside, call it what many Sudanese, Russian, French, Filipinos are feeling – it’s home.

For now.

—————————————————————————————————————

Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=maurice+labi&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3Amaurice+labi

or at BN.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/maurice-labi?store=allproducts&keyword=maurice+labi

 

 

 

 

 

Guns N’ Roses (and Pencils)

10 Jan

At what price freedom?  Is the sword mightier than the pen?

This week 10 journalists and cartoonists at a French satirical magazine were gunned downed by Islamist terrorists.  A second terror attack at a Paris Jewish market left more dead.  People around the world are rallying in solidarity with the victims and their families.  Soon, the all-too-familiar sight of lighting candles and laying roses on fresh graves will be with us.

France's September 11

France’s September 11

Could it be that we’re weak and afraid to speak out?  We’d rather have cartoonists and controversial writers do the fighting (and the thinking) for us.  We cheer them on from the sidelines.  We hide behind our national flag.  When attacked, we show our disgust, we support our president, primed minister, and the armed forces.

Soldiers, police, we plead.  Restore our calm.  Go out there and kick butt.

The rift between the West and Islam cannot be over exaggerated. We don’t understand Islam. Islam hates the West.  Let’s face it, assemble ten terrorists in a room, nine will be Muslim.

Could it be that Muslims don’t have a sense of humor?

In Galilee, I come across Muslims daily.  I see them where I teach English in college, and I see them as a student at Haifa University. Muslims laugh, just like the rest of us.  But they don’t laugh at Muhammad.terror

And here lies the difference.  In the West, we make fun of anyone alive, maybe risk being sued.  In the West, we can ridicule the dead (Elvis, Nixon) with impunity. Why? Because they’re dead.  They can’t come after us.

Christians make fun of Jesus, Jews make fun of Moses and get to see the light of day. But not in Islam.  Muhammad lives forever.  They don’t get the joke.

Satirists the world over are very clever.  They poke fun at government, at the Establishment. They make us think.  They hope to bring change with pens and pencils.  They criticize the government, and yet, when these French cartoonists and satirists were threatened months before, it was the government and police that stepped in to protect them.  It’s democracy and liberty at its best.

So, what’s next?  Lock up 6 million Muslims in France?  Put up barricades, fences, and armored cars around their neighborhoods?

I think not.

Yes, the majority of terrorists are Muslim.  But Europe had its own crop of terrorists who were not Muslim:  The German Baader Meinhof, the Italian Red Brigades.  They too killed and bombed. Most Muslims in France and the rest of Europe want to go about their lives, earn a decent paycheck, send their kids to school.  But they can’t shake off the stigma and the label that haunts them: Muslim = terrorist.

What are they to do?

First, they should walk out into the streets, by the thousands, by the millions and declare:

“We are French.  We are with France.”

Anything less is cowardly.  To keep silent in their homes is equal to being partners in crime.  They should demand of their mosque leaders to quit fanning the flames of hatred.  Now, the proof is in the doing, not talking.

France should do its share, too.  France can borrow a page from America’s imperfect past regarding blacks.  America in its violent past did finally relent, it did include blacks in public restrooms, in restaurants, in schools, in churches, in jobs, in government.french bread

France, it’s your turn.  Bring Muslims into the fold. Make Muslims feel proud to be French.  In time, ten, twenty, fifty years from now, France could look back on this bloody week and say it was a turning point in its history.

In a brighter future, Muslim men will be seen wearing a French beret.  Muslim women will model French perfume. They will ride their bicycles not with a Kalashnikov, but with a French baguette in hand.

Now, that would be funny.

 

 

Twilight Zone in Tel Aviv

27 Dec
Tchernichovsky Street, No. 4

Tchernichovsky Street, No. 4

The drive down Tchernichovsky Street did not seem unusual at first.  The street is narrow and congested much like many streets in Tel Aviv.  Unable to find a parking spot, I leave the keys in the ignition, tell my wife to move the car if a cop shows up, and then walk the rest of the way to my destination: building no. 4.  It was at that moment that I felt as if someone had hit me over the head with a hammer.  I stare at the two-story building, trying to figure out why it appears familiar.  Then I notice several eateries, restaurants, a coffee shop on the ground level.  I proceed robotically to the one clothing store, recalling the instructions of the on-line hotel reservations.

Inside the store, young women are trying out winter coats.  The woman proprietor approaches me.

Tchermichovsky Neighborhood stores

Tchermichovsky Neighborhood stores

“You’re Nelly?” I say, in English.

“Oh, you’re here about the apartment?” she replies in English.  “I’m not Nelly, but I will take care of you.  My husband will show you upstairs in a minute.”

I nod and run to the car, my mind racing in all directions. What is it about the place? Minutes later, my wife and my twin daughters carry our bags to the clothing store.  Nelly’s husband appears.  “Come, it’s this way,” he says, and points the way to a reinforced glass door.  He leads the way up the stairs.  We follow. Going up the steps I feel as if I am part of Hitchcock’s ‘Vertigo’ film, the narrow steps twisting in the well.  I remember going up these same steps before.  But when?

The man stands before the door, keys an entry code.  The door

My old office turned into a kitchen

My old office turned into a kitchen

cracks open.  We go in, put our bags down.  The man says, “The apartment is equipped with a kitchen, dishes, silverware…” I hear all he says and I hear nothing.  “You are staying here for two nights, yes?”  I nod.  He continues, “We have more blankets in the closet.  You want something more, you come downstairs to the shop, yes?”

Once he leaves, I rush to the flimsy mustard-colored curtains on the large windows.  I pull them to the side abruptly.  And what appears in front of me is the year 1977…

I’m standing in the very place I had worked at almost 40 years ago.

Of the hundreds of apartments and hotel rooms in Tel Aviv, I landed on this one.  I must have talked a mile a minute to my wife, unable to contain myself.  “Don’t you get it?” I tell her.  I point to the floor tiles, to the bare walls.  “This apartment was once the office of Kopel Tours.”

Kopel Tours offering taxi service to Gaza in 1956

Kopel Tours offering taxi service to Gaza in 1956

Fresh out of the University of Tel Aviv in 1977, I interviewed with Kopel Tours.  It was one of the largest tour operators in Israel.  Kopel booked airline tickets and vacation packages by the thousands.  During the mid-1950s they started taxi service from Tel Aviv to the Gaza Strip, at a time when Gaza was not controlled by Egypt.

I return to the large windows.  I worked in this very spot for about a year.  My role was to handle incoming tourism from the United States, predominantly rich Jews from New York.

A blast to the past, to 1977

A blast to the past, to 1977

Back then, first thing in the morning, I checked the Telex.  It was like working in a War Room.  I fed the hole-punched yellow tape through the machine and within seconds the overseas message materialized on paper.  Most messages went something like this:  “Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg, Brooklyn, reserve a private guide with American car, 2 nights in Tel Aviv, 5 star hotel, followed by 4 nights in Jerusalem at the King David Hotel, plus 2 nights in Galilee at a Kibbutz Guest House.  Quote and confirm.”  I immediately went to work, calling hotels, airlines, and car rental companies. By the end of the day I confirmed all by Telex to Kopel headquarters in New York.  There were times I greeted the American guests at Tel Aviv airport, escorted them to hotels, to functions about town.

Mr. Kopel, a Polish immigrant, spent most days in New York.  He dropped by my Tel Aviv office a couple of times. He was a big man, wore drab, gray suits two-sizes too large, just in case he decided to grow into them.  My immediate boss was Mr. Pavel, the Sales Manager for North America.

Heading to the beach to clear my head

Heading to the beach to clear my head

Pavel was handsome, a jet-setter of the 1970s.  When in the office, he used to throw his Texan boots on his desk, hold the phone to his ear, talking long-distance to America, in English with an Israeli accent marinated in Czech.  He travelled to the Bible Belt, called on churches in Atlanta and Houston, told evangelists about Nazareth and Bethlehem, signed them up on the dotted line.

I drink water from the kitchen faucet, still dazed from my travel inside the Time Machine.  The smell of falafel and Hanukkah jelly donuts wafts through the open windows.  The one thing that doesn’t change is change.

“Come on,” I tell my wife and daughters.  “Let me show you around the neighborhood, the beach.  Let’s jump to 1977.”

 

————————————————————————————————————–

Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=maurice+labi&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3Amaurice+labi

or at BN.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/maurice-labi?store=allproducts&keyword=maurice+labi

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Bus with a View

14 Dec

I’ve recently started taking classes at Haifa University.  In the beginning I endured the 80 mile (120 km) roundtrip drive, twice a week, back and forth, back and forth.  I even put up with the endless search for parking.  But after the first month, it got old; it also made my car old.  And at $7.00 per gallon, it made my pocket poor.

Golani Junction

Golani Junction

So I explored public transportation, instead.  Kfar Tavor, my hometown in Galilee, is the Capital of No Where.  It’s close to only one thing — itself.  Which means you have to get creative to get around.  At first, I tried the obvious–Egged Bus Lines.

Egged brings back childhood memories to all Israelis.  The buses have been crisscrossing Israel for decades.  They’re part of the culture, like the American Greyhound buses, only better.

The trip to Haifa involved taking 3 buses, each way.  I tried it for a week.  I gave up.  Getting off the buses, my body continued to twitch and jerk.  In time, I got to know every station, every turn, every bump in the road, even recognized the drivers behind their Ray-Ban sun-glasses.

So I gave up on the Jews and joined the Arabs.

Not entirely.

On board an Arab bus

On board an Arab bus

It turns out more than half the student body at Haifa university is Arab.  The University draws Arab students from all over Galilee, and beyond.  On campus I hear more Arabic than I do Hebrew; my university desk mates answer to Mohamed and Aziza more often than they do to Moshe and Dina; I see more women’s faces covered and less legs uncovered.

Talk about making an adjustment.

The privately owned Arab bus line makes its rounds through Arab villages only.  I wait for it at Golani Junction, a ten minute ride from my house.

The bus arrives.

I climb up the steps and hand the driver my bus pass.  “Good morning,” I greet him in Hebrew. He returns the greeting in Hebrew.  It’s a sign of co-existence, but we don’t admit to it.  The bus lurches forward.  I walk down the aisle to find a good seat in the back.  I’m the only Jewish passenger on board.  Men and women students, all Arab, are either dozing off, or they work their cell phones.

Arab WOmen in Tur'an Village waiting for a store to open

Arab WOmen in Tur’an Village waiting for a store to open

The first stop is in the village of Tur’an.  I’ve driven past it many times, but never went in.  I have no business going there.  But that day, the bus leads me deep inside the Arab village.  There’s a rock quarry at the rear of the village.  It looks like someone had punched a giant hole in the hillside, scarring it forever. Next, the bus goes past an automobile junkyard.  Dozens of trucks of every type, flatbed, concrete mixers, are parked in open spaces, waiting for an order to haul dirt, rocks.  The homes are mostly two to three stories high; they house the extended families of the Arabs.  The homes are covered in marble tile, overly ornate.  No dogs anywhere.  Rows of olive trees sprout between houses.  Grocery stores, computer repair shops– the signs are mostly in Arabic.

The bus stops.  More students board.  It gets back on the road to another village. On the radio, Arabic music is playing.  The strumming of the oud strings fill the bus.  I get into the groove.  I would have preferred songs by Arik Einstein, Eric Clapton, or The Doors, but it is what it is.  I lean my head on the glass and look onto the open highway.  The one hour and fifteen minute ride ends at the top of Mount Carmel.

Tur'an Village Rock Quarry

Tur’an Village Rock Quarry

A bus for Arabs, a bus for Jews.  A village for Jews, a village for Arabs.  We travel in parallel universes.

It’s the final stop. We all get off; students scatter in all directions of the campus.  I go through a security check at the main entrance, from there I head to class.  I take a seat next to an Arab student.  “Good morning,” I say, in English.  “Good morning,” he replies, in English.

If life were only this simple in the Holy Land.

—————————————————————————–

 

 

Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=maurice+labi&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3Amaurice+labi

or at BN.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/maurice-labi?store=allproducts&keyword=maurice+labi

 

To Chase Down a Turkey in Galilee

27 Nov

Israelis are in love with all-things American.  Most things.  They speak of Black Friday as if it’s an Israeli event.  Television, radio and print are full with Black Friday sales.  But ask Israelis about Thanksgiving Holiday and most will tell you that it involves a turkey.  Here in Israel, the turkey is called an “Indian chicken” – referring to the first immigrants to the New Land and mistaking the American continent for India.

So, to better educate our Israeli friends in our village, we’re about to host the third annual Thanksgiving Dinner at our house.  Twenty people are invited.  But before we can carve the bird, and serve the pumpkin, corn bread, and apple cobbler, we must first find a turkey.

Israelis are mad about chicken.  Go into any home and you can hear the oil splatter in the pan. Everyone’s frying chicken breast, the breaded Schnitzel.  And here’s the paradox: Israel is a major producer and exporter of turkey; Israelis consume twice as much turkey as Americans, three times as Europeans, and yet, there isn’t one turkey on display at the supermarket.

Where did the turkeys fly to?turkey bird

They end up being cut-up into small pieces, grilled as Shawarma meat in countless restaurants and roadside eateries throughout Israel.

But what if you want a whole turkey for Thanksgiving?

That requires work and patience.  And planning ahead.  My wife Pnina has been calling around butchers for the last two weeks.  The phone call goes something like this:

Ring.  Ring.  Ring.

“HALO!”

“Hello, my name’s Pnina and I’d like to order a turkey (Indian Chicken).”

“What?”

“A turkey.”

“We don’t have any.  You have to order one.”

“That’s why I called.  I want to order one.”

“Wait.”

A LONG HOLD

“HALO.”

“Yes?”

“The turkeys are sick.”

“What?”

“There’s a disease with turkeys.  We will not get one until next week.”

“But I want a healthy one.”

“Call next week, shalom.”shawarma

And so began a round of phone calls to supermarkets and butchers.  They promised a bird, and 20 drumsticks (Israelis like dark meat) by this week.

Finally, I got the call.  I was happier than getting a call from a Hollywood agent.  We got in the car and raced to the market.  The butcher in the meat department knew nothing of the order.

Pnina said, ” I spoke to Yakov.  He kept one for me.”

“Turkey?  I don’t know how to ring it up.  Do you know the code?”

Pnina says, “No, but Yakov said it’s 30 shekels per kilo.”

“Come with me,” the butcher says.turkey 1

And together they go into a giant walk-in refrigerator in the back of the store.  Cardboard boxes with meats are piled high.  At last, Pnina identifies her name marked on a box.  in it, sits a turkey.

Pnina wheels the turkey in the shopping cart to the cash register, careful not stab people with the bird’s long neck that’s hanging out.  Being a kosher bird, it’s not fully plucked; there’s a plume of feathers that Pnina will have to pull out with tweezers.

The bird’s in our house, safe and sound, and will soon turn brown.  Guests will be arriving; they’ll dive into mixed drinks, nibble on corn bread, tear into drumsticks.  We’ll tell them about pilgrims and Indians.

Next year we’re serving shawarma and diet Coke.

——————————————————————————————————————

Maurice Labi is an Israeli-American who lived in Los Angeles for many years. In 2011 He returned to Northern Israel (Galilee) with his wife and twin teenage daughters. He is of two lands, of two cultures and he blogs about his experiences in Israel, particularly from Galilee where Jews and Arabs dwelled for centuries.

He has also written three novels: “Jupiter’s Stone,” “Into the Night,” and “American Moth” — available at Amazon.com

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=maurice+labi&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3Amaurice+labi

or at BN.com

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/maurice-labi?store=allproducts&keyword=maurice+labi

 

 

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