Independence 2013

Running on fumes, I’m on a bus on the way to Tiberius. A couple of weeks ago I moved to a small apartment in a kibbutz by the Sea of Galilee. Tonight is Israel’s Independence Day 2013 and the sunset is stunning. I mean, stunning. I wish the holidays in this country were national and not religious so busses would run all year long. It’s been nearly seven years since I’ve joined in these celebrations.

All that’s occupying my thoughts tonight is gaining one more working-day this week. Shouldn’t I be celebrating right now? Nice meeting ya’, I’m a wandering emigrant on the galaxy’s free-ways. Exhausted, today was the one day this week that I helped a friend of mine do some hard-core gardening in Tel Aviv; a privilege. Had I stayed to crash instead of taking the bus up north, my entire week’s work-momentum would’ve gone bust. Got a lot of writing to catch up on before the weekend.

In Israel, happiness is mixed with pain; celebration with mourning. Last week was the Holocaust Memorial Day. Last night and today was the Memorial Day for War and Terror Victims. At 9p tonight on the dot, grief turns to ecstasy as Independence Day begins. I saw vendors setting up food-stands in the streets today and realized that Vancouver’s Canucks took over that piece of memory. These days, while people weep the lost and celebrate the living, all I can think of is work and Mad Men.

During Israel’s memorial days there’s a loud horn playing for a minute or two; once in the evening and once again the morning. An entire people stand for a moment of silence to pay respect to the lost. Radio stations play nothing but sad songs and local TV channels broadcast bravery stories that frame the collective melancholy. The people mourn those who have died so we can live here today. Spending a chunk of years on the other half of the planet, has made me wonder. Will commemorating the lost this way ever break the pattern of parents losing their children? Some people would call me a traitor just for this thought.  

If it was me who had died for this land, an eighteen year old boy with an M-16 toy or an unfortunate passerby in a terror-bombed street… if I were the parent of this murdered person… how would I wish to commemorate the lost? Each one of those 23,085 unfortunate souls who have died over this land throughout the past 65 years has a story. Would I be sitting in this bus right now if it wasn’t for them?

The bus is passing by the McDonald’s restaurant where I had my last McDonald’s meal, on January 1^st, 2009. Tonight and tomorrow Israelis are going to BBQ under every tree and in every park, but I won’t be a part of it. Individual independence verses collective independence. What can I do to have found independence back in North America? I stopped eating meat, I lowered the volume of my voice and I stopped living in fear that the person next to me will take over my place unless I hit him first. A Mediterranean pickle.

Night has fallen. Lights of cities and villages are flashing in the distance alongside the country roads outside my bus window. Some Jewish, some Muslim, some Christian and maybe even somewhere out there, a village that is shared by all three. I know Israeli Muslims who feel most grateful for living under a Jewish majority rather than in an Arab country. I know a few who don’t stand up while the memorial horn plays, to protest on an illegitimate occupation. Each person has a story. The night’s lights are surreal. A moment with God no one can fight over. Fireworks are starting to show above some of the villages; let the celebrations begin.

I made it. I’m in the kibbutz now, having dinner, watching Mad Men and suddenly it hits me… I forgot how fatigued I was only a few hours ago. The kibbutz smells like a dairy-farm tonight and people are going berserk underneath my window in the name of patriotism. By midnight it’s becoming quieter. I’m excited for tomorrow, and could really use a foot massage.

Early in the morning, two pigeons on my windowsill are waking me up. The cock is warmly courting, almost attacking. The hen is warmly surrendering, but isn’t giving up. Once she successfully rejects him and he moves to a branch nearby to coo some more, she’s left puzzled, looking at him like, what do you think you’re doing? Get back here! And he does. Dozens of other pigeons are cooing on the windowsills and trees all around.

Last week during Holocaust Day, a friend of mine posted a facebook status I’d like to share: “Wouldn’t it be just fun if instead of a sad memorial day for the Holocaust we’d have a joint happy day with Germany? We could perpetuate the positive change that exists now, and not the horrific catastrophe that once was, alongside all the hate and frustration that comes with it…”

Give Peace A Chance

If I’d spell out tales about the hippie festival I participated in over Passover’s weekend it would get tacky. I’m not gonna go romantic about plowed fields washed with fluorescent moon-glow, or describe hundreds of people dancing and sharing stories all night and all day long. It was a freak-show time machine from an era acid was holy water and holy water was wild music, and I Love it. I needed to put aside thoughts of job-hunt and social crudeness, and went all out 150% high on soberness.

Did I find peace in the Northern Negev? No, I didn’t. But neither did I come back into a different time-zone. The ordinary world switched to the summer clock during the days I spent without electricity or running water. There was a hose in the field some 20 mins walk near the festival area, for people to shower together in the open air. Free water, and free Love. This festival was not for everyone, but those it was for could do about anything as long as they didn’t hurt anyone. Giving and Loving and Sharing; sounds venerably naïve, eh? An inch more and I’ll get to the chase.

Following every meal in the Rainbow Gathering, a bunch of wild musicians got up to hop among guests, sing and play the same song over and over again. The chorus went like this: “The more that I give, the more I got to give. It’s the way that I live, it’s what I’m living for.” Dancers and kids joined the musicians with a magic-hat and whoever could, donated some shekels. In a matter of minutes more guests joined the hat-party and celebrations went on for hours every time.

At the end of a three month job-hunt in Tel Aviv (gratefully, during which I did have a gig or two), there was nothing I wished for more than to disappear for a while in an open wilderness. To use the spring’s healing power and Passover’s freedom vibe as leverage. It took me three days to crave the city again; not because I couldn’t handle nature’s quietness, but because wind and fire wouldn’t pay my student loans. Or by local Gypsies: I’m tied by Babylon’s chains.

Some 10 years ago when I rambled Israel with nothing but a Tuba on my back, a sleeping bag and some spaghetti, the Rainbow was a place where old people told me what to do while I was freer than any of them. Today, I’m a part of The Machine, and all the old people are gone. I like those sweet Rainbow rules that keep people from hurting each other. The focus of those who participate today is not strict hippie rules, but caring for and respecting others. In the city, I’ve been missing it a lot lately.

And the theme of this blog – integration in Israel. My good friend from Vancouver used to insist on proofreading my writing every time I had pieces to submit. That’s the way I believe the world should work, he said whenever I wanted to praise him for his unconditional generosity. In Israel I have at least 5 close friends who could proofread my work, but if I ask them for a 20 mins session they stop taking my calls for a week. I can’t blame them; everything seems to be so busy here. It’s a feeling you can only know when you live in a place.

Whenever it comes across that I could use a helping hand here, I see people’s eyes narrow and shrink just a bit into their cavities, and they become defensive. Is it really that hard to give? It doesn’t matter I don’t want anything from them. It doesn’t matter that if they’d lend a hand it would bring them joy and cost nothing. It doesn’t matter that the best way to elevate your own ship is by raising the tide so all ships raise together. In the Rainbow it didn’t matter.

Back when I lived in Los Angeles, things were way different than Vancouver, but also different than Israel too of course. Both in L.A and in Israel I learnt very fast that most people couldn’t care less about you unless it serves their own interests. The difference was that in L.A the first answer was always that it is possible. In Israel the first reaction is usually that it’s not and that it’s hard; difficult is a key word here. What’s wrong with sending people off with a smile on their face?

During my four day long weekend in the desert, giving and sharing was a privilege and a joy. It was the whole point and mindset of this gathering. It could be money for the magic-hat, music to spread with joy, open-hearted stories to share and listen to, or humility, and willingness to help others picking up firewood or working in the kitchen. Honestly, when we face unconditional giving, our hearts open up like care-bears and we start pooping unicorns out of our bellies. It is possible, even if it seems difficult to imagine.

It’s giving that makes the world go round. When I was dropped back off in Tel Aviv, I couldn’t stop smiling. The Rainbow filled me up with pain and hope, which in the city came across as openness and joy. As the song goes, the more that I give the more I got to give. Rainbow is people at their best, said the guy who gave me a ride back from the desert. The Rainbow is volition not a result, I retorted. It’s a losers’ game, he added. We never really win without losing too.