Category: Arabs

Coming out to a (hot straight) Arab Catholic guy…in Arabic!

Ok so I’m going to make you wait a bit to get to the title story, but we’ll get there soon 🙂  First, I want to tell you about Tarshiha.

I decided to wander around the Arab village of Tarshiha alone.  Having talked to several Jewish Sabras here afterwards, they were a bit surprised- and none of them had done it themselves.  This seemed bizarre to me- Tarshiha, half of the mixed Jewish-Arab municipality of Ma’alot Tarshiha, felt much, much safer than at least half of my hometown of D.C.  And it’s historic and beautiful:

As I like to do, I wandered around with pretty much no agenda other than exploring and meeting cool people.  And speaking a ton of Arabic 🙂  As my new favorite self-made motto goes: “if you’re cool, I’m down”.

Among a bunch of historic homes I noticed a door that said “photography studio”.  I talked to the man inside, a 30 year old man named Eli (short for Elias).  He is indeed a photographer and he invited me into his studio and immediately made me Arab coffee (think shot-sized coffee and much, much stronger).  Because that’s how things work here.

Since I happen to do social media public relations for a living, he asked me some questions about Facebook.  I sat down with him for about an hour and showed him tricks of the trade, because why the hell not?  He’s a good guy.  Plus his Fusha (Modern Standard Arabic, for writing) was a little rusty, so I helped him add a section on his page in Arabic.  Otherwise, he had written his page information, geared towards Arab clientele (weddings, etc.)- in Hebrew!  Somebody go write a PhD thesis about the American Jewish oleh helping an Arab-Israeli write in Arabic because he was publicizing his events to Arabs…in Hebrew.  Unpack that for a lifetime!  So much meaning here 🙂

As we sat and sipped our drinks, car after car of his relatives pulls by the door and everyone greets each other.  A cousin is a famous journalist, an uncle is a (Arab Greek Orthodox Christian) Mizrachi singer who performs for the Iraqi and Kurdish Jews in the neighboring villages (again- PhD thesis material).  I could go on and on, but this town is like a non-stop family reunion.  I feel like it’s My Big Fat Greek Wedding but an entire village.  And I love it.

Before making my way to another part of town, we exchange contact info.  He shows me his newly renovated church around the corner with great pride (even though he identifies as “Secular Orthodox”- a hilarious phrase in a Jewish context).  Then he did something extraordinary.  This man knows I’m an oleh chadash and that I know very few people in Israel.  He points his hand towards the door of the studio and says in Hebrew: “Tireh, bo matay sheba lecha.  Zeh habayit shelcha.”  Come whenever you want.  This is your home.  I came to Israel looking for family, I just didn’t expect it would be a Secular Greek Orthodox Arab man!  But why the hell not?  I can’t think of a more generous way to welcome me to Israel than what he said.  And you better believe I’ll be back- especially for the weddings he photographs!

I continued to wander about the village.  Most people were welcoming- a few stared.  I don’t think many Jews wander the residential neighborhoods of Tarshiha, so I might have looked like a bit of an oddity.  But frankly, I’m proud of myself for trying something new and I met a lot of kind and welcoming people there.  I find it absolutely embarrassing that not a small number of my fellow Jewish Israelis know more about South America, Germany, or India than about their own neighbors.  It’s not only problematic for the future of this country, it’s also a great loss for the people who don’t visit.  I literally stumbled upon an Ottoman mosque and administrative headquarters just when looking for a bathroom.  It’s true that it can be scary or disorienting to get lost in an unfamiliar town, but if you can handle trekking in the Himalayas, you probably have the instincts to manage Tarshiha.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a door and house covered in flowers.  It was gorgeous.  Clearly someone had put great effort into making it pretty.  There was a picture of a woman who had made the Hajj pilgrimage to Mecca and then just tons of funky modern artwork and colors.  As I stood staring, I heard a voice from inside: “tfaddal” – come on in!

Meet Yasmin.  Yasmin is a spunky, artistic Bedouin woman who lives in the village.  As she’s literally doing her laundry in front of me, she brings me water and candies and invites me to sit.  We chat and chat.  She works at a factory with Jews and she frankly liked to speak Hebrew with me while I spoke Arabic with her.  To her, the North is a great place because “Jews and Arabs are brothers”.  She feels they work well together and have good relationships.  Like most Israelis of all stripes, she is very very fond of her hometown.  She has relatives in nearby Arab villages, but she doesn’t even like to visit there because home is where it’s at.  We talk about her mom who made the Hajj pilgrimage.  Yasmin was very proud, but Yasmin herself doesn’t want to do it.  She believes in God but not all the rituals and prayers- like not a small number of Jews.

Making my way down the hill to eat sushi with my kibbutznik friends who were hosting me (because yes, the Arab village has sushi), I couldn’t help but think how hospitable a country this is.  Both Jews and Arabs go out of their way to make you feel at home- with absolutely no expectation of something in return other than kindness and gratitude.  Very, very few Americans would invite a stranger into their home like Yasmin or Eli did- even generous Americans.  There is just a much greater sense of trust here and it’s frankly refreshing.  It even inspires me to be a more generous person.

Across the street from the sushi place, I saw a guy selling nargeelah (hookah).  I popped into his store and good lord if this is not one of the hottest people I’ve ever met, then slap me silly and call me a potato.  His muscles were bulging.  His face was gorgeous.  And he has the friendliest smile to match.  “I’ll have what he’s having.”

Murad is a 20-something Arab Greek Catholic man from a small village up north.  He works in Tarshiha selling supplies for nargeelah at his own shop.  As is the custom here, we talked all about life- where we’re from, our background, our hopes and dreams.  Because in Israel, you don’t wait until five coffee dates to get to know each other.  He told me about his girlfriend- he said he feels no pressure from his family to get married or have children.  That they’re having a good time.  And then it was my turn and I did something pretty brave and I came out to him.  In Arabic.  Alone.  And…it was absolutely fine.  I don’t want to minimize the challenges of homophobia in any community, but since I got a positive vibe from him, I had a good feeling about it.  He was very curious- he asked me how I knew, etc. etc.- the same kinds of questions I get even from liberal Americans.

When I explained that when people are attracted to the same sex, it’s totally natural and that you even find it in other species, he looked fascinated and frankly, just accepted it.  No pushback, no antagonism, just kind of a “hmm never thought about it that way” look.

We exchanged contact info, gave a nice bro hug, and sent each other some pretty big smiles.

Until I did sushi that night, I had spent my entire day in Arabic other than a few Hebrew words sprinkled in.  For all intents and purposes, I spent my day in the Arab world.  And guess what?  It was pretty cool.  I met a Secular Greek Orthodox man, a Sunni Muslim Bedouin woman, and a (super hot) Arab Greek Catholic guy with eye-popping muscles.  I saw funky murals and artwork alongside ancient architecture.  I even got delicious herbal melon tea at a cute cafe.

This is Arab Israel.  20% of the country.  If you haven’t visited an Arab village- do so.  You don’t really know Israel if you haven’t.  And if the extent of your visit is eating schwarma and going home- then you visited a restaurant, not a culture.  Get off your tuchus, as we say in Yiddish, and try something new.  Friends, food, and fun await you.  Tfaddal- come on in 🙂

The diversity of (non-Jewish) Israel

I just got back from an amazing trip up north.  The North is the most beautiful part of an already stunning country.  It is also the area with the most non-Jews.

When some foreigners think of Israeli non-Jews, perhaps they picture an old Bedouin man with a kufiyyeh sitting in the desert.  While that certainly exists, that hardly scratches the surface of non-Jewish diversity here in Israel.  For my previous post about Jewish diversity here, click here.

In one trip spanning less than a week, I personally met and spoke in Arabic with non-nomadic Bedouins, Greek Catholics, Maronites, Druze, Greek Orthodox, Copts (ok, they were tourists from Georgia, but still!), and Sunni Muslims.  I’ve even met self-identified “secular Druze” and “secular (Greek) Orthodox”.  The latter sounds hilarious in Hebrew because “Ortodoksi Hiloni” sounds like an Orthodox Jew who is secular.  I’m sure someone out there identifies that way, but man it sounds funny in Hebrew 🙂

In Yafo, for instance, on a brief walk around town, I even noticed the Church of Scotland (presumably Presbyterians).  In Jerusalem, I sat and talked with Armenians in a mixture of Hebrew and, believe it or not, Armenian-accented Arabic.  And both men were not big fans of their own church!

I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of Haifa, where there is the Bahai world headquarters as well as the center of Ahmadi Muslims, a small sect persecuted in many predominantly Muslim countries.  This sect has the unique distinction of having translated the Quran into Yiddish in 1987.  I’m sheppin naches that these people like the mamaloshn!

And we haven’t even begun to talk about lifestyles, language, or politics.  In Haifa, there’s an entire young Arab hipster culture.  There are also three different Arab parties in the Knesset (now under one umbrella): one Jewish-Arab communist party, one Arab nationalist party, and one Islamist party.  Just to be clear, if these parties were running against each other in any other Middle Eastern country, they’d be considered intense political and ideological rivals.  Regardless of your views on the parties, the fact that they now comprise a single unit in Israel is quite unique and shouldn’t mislead you into thinking there’s uniform thinking in this sector.  Oh also, 24% of Arab Muslims vote for explicitly Zionist parties.

Sometimes in the West people are tempted to view Middle Easterners, Jewish or Arab, as “stuck in the past”.  That if we’re keeping age-old traditions, we must be divorced from the modern world.  Rather, I’d like to posit that we live in a world where the beautiful heritage that brought us to this day is kept alive precisely by integrating it with the tools of the modern world.  That’s why the pictures below, all of which were taken in centuries-old (sometimes millenia-old) Arab communities, shouldn’t surprise you.  Because you can hold onto tradition and adapt.  My Arab friends aren’t caricatures.  If you really want to embrace all Israelis, including non-Jews, let go of the exoticism and realize that this is also the face of Arab Israel:

In the end, the best thing you can take from visiting non-Jewish communities here (not all non-Jews are Arabic speakers, but we’ll save that for another blog) is that if you try to speak about them as a whole, you’ve already missed the point.  These are extremely diverse communities- religiously, ideologically, and even linguistically (every village and even religious community can have its own dialect).

My best advice?  Pick up an Arabic textbook, find a good teacher (yes I do tutor 😛 ), and get to know your neighbors.  Move beyond the transactional nature of your favorite Arab hummus joint or falafel stand.  If your only source of information about Arab-Israelis is the newspaper, you’ve got a lot to learn.  And so do I, which is why I intend to continue visiting these communities and making friends.

In the end, the only way to really experience another culture is with your own two eyes, your feet planted firmly on the ground, and your mind open as wide as the sky above the Galilee.

Tul Karm in Tel Aviv

This story has a very happy ending, so read till the end.

Until 8pm today, my day sucked.  I went to the dreaded Israeli post office to pick up packages, saw a man screaming at a postal worker so loud he had to be escorted out, got swindled by a cab driver who tried to make me pay 50 shekels cash in addition to my fare, was shown three illegal apartments, and had to listen to a real estate agent bash Orthodox people (I told him I was religious too and I love all communities).  Then, I went to a baklava place where, when I asked the guy behind the counter how he was doing, he said “I don’t like to talk to people, tell me what you want.  This is business, leave me alone.”

So like I said, that really sucked.

Feeling despondent, I headed to the beach in Yafo.  First off, I love nature.  Also, I love Yafo.  And third, I know that no matter how shitty things get here, someone or something always help turn them around.

That’s exactly what happened, in the most unexpected way.

First, I bought tea from an old Bedouin guy sitting on a bench.  Bedouin tea is made with sage and it is delicious.  He invited me to sit and we chatted in Arabic as he went in and out of slumber.  Ibrahim, probably in his 70s, can’t be in the best shape.  After a nice chat (and helping him market his tea), I left him some extra money and continued homeward.

On the way back, I saw a middle aged man and his teenage son.  I recognized them because they had been talking to the Bedouin man.  The older man, Mounir, stalks talking to me in Arabic-accented Hebrew.  I was unsure at first if he was Mizrachi or Arab, but then I asked if he spoke Arabic and suddenly his son Basil joined in.

If this were America, the conversation would’ve probably lasted a minute or two and then ended with a “have a good night”.

But this is not America, so it instead lasted two hours and ended with exchanging phone numbers.

Mounir and his son Basil, 16 years old, work together in shiputzim, “renovations”.  I kept asking where they live and I couldn’t quite understand- something was said about Lod and something about Yafo.  I just basically tossed aside the question and moved on.

Basil is a cute kid.  Every time a Tel Avivi girl would walk by, his eyes would open wide with excitement.  He said he was tired of all the girls in hijabs at his school.  He saw one beautiful woman walking with a man and I joked with him that I would talk to the guy for him.  He laughed and said the guy would beat me up!

I noticed something curious.  The dad loved to talk in Hebrew and the kid would ask him to switch to Arabic.  I asked Basil if he spoke Hebrew and he said no, not really.  If this kid was indeed from Yafo, this is pretty out of the ordinary.  Seeing as how more than half of Yafo is Jewish, even an Arab kid educated in an Arab-language school would probably have some command of Hebrew.

That’s because they’re not from Yafo.  Perhaps sensing that after an hour or so of speaking to each other in Arabic about why I made aliyah, the attack in Vegas, the situation in America, and the beautiful women of Tel Aviv, I was trustworthy and kind, he told me they’re from Tul Karm.  Mounir and Basil have Israeli-government work permits that allow them to leave the West Bank and come to Tel Aviv.  Honestly, I was a bit in shock and for a moment, scared.  I had of course met Israeli Arabs and even Palestinians from East Jerusalem and a guy from Hebron while visiting Yerushalayim.  But never had I met a Palestinian right smack in the middle of Tel Aviv.

As we continued to talk, they told me how impressed they were that an American spoke Arabic and that the dad believes Jews are wise and built a beautiful city in Tel Aviv.  I said thank you and that while some Jews are wise, I’ve met some who are less so and that there are good and bad (and semi-ripe) apples among all peoples.  He agreed with a chuckle as my fear began to fade.

As the night drew to a close and they had to head home, I couldn’t help but think how this never- and I mean never- would have happened if I didn’t speak Arabic.  While the father spoke (some) Hebrew, the kid spoke none (other than an interestingly placed “hevanti” instead of “fahman 3aleyk” when he wanted to say “I understood”).  He didn’t speak much English either.  If the peoples of this region are to ever live in peace, we’re going to have to learn each other’s languages.  It’s a sign of respect and it’s the only way to truly understand each other and open hearts.  What good are propaganda posters and demonstrations if in the end we can’t talk to each other?

As Basil and I exchanged WhatsApp information, Mounir put his hand on my shoulder and said, “inte mitla ibni” – you are like my son.  I have no family in Israel and, as I wrote in a previous blog, the vast majority of my family in America is toxic.  The only family I have here is the one I make.  Who would’ve guessed that that would include Palestinian workers from Tul Karm?

I don’t know if you believe in God, but sometimes I just see signs of the divine in my everyday life.  I can’t think of something more spiritual and special than what Mounir told me.  That’s God’s love.

Walking alongside the sea, the tension of the day disappeared.  My heart lifted towards the sky as I thought about the little miracle happened in the most mundane place in the holiest of lands.  Between the crash of the waves, the sleeping Bedouin, and the lights of Tel Aviv.

Every sector of Israeli society in one day

Today, my day started with terrorism and ending with me and some Mizrachim singing Umm Kulthum.

I’m in the (very stressful) process of finding an apartment in Tel Aviv.  I’ve never had such a difficult time finding a place to live in any other city.  The loosely-regulated rental market here is super competitive with sketchy offers abounding.  I’ll find something, it’s just exhausting.

In need of a break, I did something most Tel Avivim would not do when in need of relaxation, and went to Jerusalem.

Having gotten a bit turned around, instead of taking a bus from the Central Bus Station, I actually ended up taking a bus to Kfar Chabad and then a second bus to Jerusalem.  I could detour here and tell you about the adventures of making a highly-improvised bathroom stop between bus rides, but I’ll save that for one-on-one conversations 😉  Israel constantly challenges your definitions of “gross”.

I hopped on the second bus, which incidentally took us partially through the West Bank/Samaria.

This particular route was gorgeous.  Unlike the main bus lines to Jerusalem, this was totally rural with no traffic whatsoever.  The scenes were idyllic.

I felt a bit nervous going through this area today as there was a terrorist attack this morning.  Three young men – an Ethiopian Jew, one (I believe) Mizrachi Jew, and one Israeli-Arab – were ruthlessly murdered as they did their job providing security for the community of Har Hadar.  Solomon, Yossef, and Or – may their memory be for a blessing.  I’m praying for their families.  And I was so sad this morning I was frankly at a loss for words- and I still am.

I almost didn’t go to Jerusalem, but in the end- fuck terrorism.  There’s only so much you can control in life and after taking reasonable precautions, I just want to live my life.  Just like these young people would’ve liked to.

Incidentally, we passed by a sign to Har Hadar on the way to Jerusalem.  It’s that small of a country.

I get to Jerusalem, a bit frazzled, and hop off the bus.  To my right is a sign with bunch of Hasidic posters, one of which was in Yiddish.  I approached two twenty-something Hasidim and asked in Yiddish for them to explain one of the signs.  Turns out, there is a Yiddish-language theater production being broadcast out of Brooklyn into movie-style screens in Jerusalem and Bnei Brak, which they invited me to.

The two young men were Belz Hasidim and for an hour and a half, we spoke in a mixture of Yiddish, Hebrew, and English.  One, Dovid, was born in London and the other, Yankev, grew up in Montreal, another one of my favorite cities.  Yankev was a bit shy, though we spoke a little French together since he learned some in Montreal (and so did I!).  Dovid was a real shmoozer and a sweet guy.  He told me all about yeshiva and how he lamented the lack of Kosher steak in Jerusalem.  He made a point of telling me he doesn’t go to political demonstrations, which reminded me of how I often felt in America having to show I wasn’t one of “those” people in my minority group.  We talked about our favorite Jewish texts.  They love the halachos of Shabbes and I shared with them my favorite Jewish teaching – which, much to my surprise, they didn’t know.  In fact, they asked me to translate it for them into Yiddish, which remarkably I did!

Before leaving, as some people are wont to do here, Dovid shared with me a little bit of prejudice.  He told me, in light of today’s attack, that Arabs aren’t very bright.  I of course challenged him on this and his response, while bigoted, was quintessentially Jewish and kind of funny: “The Arabs aren’t very good at terrorism.  Jews don’t do terrorist attacks but if we did, we’d be better at it.”  So basically, in a phrase that would make the alt-Right twist and squirm and vomit, he said that Jews would make better terrorists than Arabs.  As the father in My Big Greek Wedding would say “the Greeks invented everything.”  I couldn’t help but chuckle.

I headed towards the Old City as two Arab women stopped me.  They asked me in Arabic for directions (how cool is that??) – and surprisingly, thanks to my Arabic and the glory of modern transit apps, I helped them find their way!  In fact, I was headed in the same direction.

We hopped on the train and I froze.  I had walked with them 10 minutes speaking in Arabic but when I got on the train, I was scared to keep talking.  I looked around, and thinking about today’s terrorist attack, I was worried how people might react.  There are legitimate reasons I felt that way, as you can read about here.

As I got off the train, I walked towards the Old City.  I saw an Arab man selling sunglasses.  I approached him and I said I didn’t need any glasses, but I told him he was making me happy so I wanted to give him a gift and handed him some money.  He invited me to sit with him.  We spoke in Arabic (I felt more comfortable out in the open air instead of cramped public transit where, frankly, attacks are more likely so I can understand people’s fear).  Turns out he’s from Hebron in the West Bank/Samaria.  He comes to work in Jerusalem each day.  He doesn’t know any English, so I taught him some English words to help with his marketing.  The poor guy is 60, 70 years old with 10 kids and a two-hour commute each way.  I can’t imagine what today’s terror attack is going to do to his livelihood as transit will slow and work permits may be frozen.  I suppose the terrorist wasn’t thinking of his fellow Palestinians who need to make a living when he shot three people.

The man gave me a big smile and a warm handshake as I headed off to meet my friend Sarah, a Modern Orthodox/Traditional Jew from America.  We ate Kosher pizza and then wandered through the Armenian Quarter, where I had never been.  I love Armenians.  When I was in high school, a friend gave me an Armenian CD which I still have on my computer.  Armenians are so, so similar to Jews.  They are a Diaspora community that survived a genocide and manages to preserve their language and religion.  And they’re pretty cute!

We talked with several Armenian men about their visits to the homeland, their life in Jerusalem, the Armenian Church (they had strong opinions- and not positive ones!), and the Armenian-language schools down the street.  I even got to hear their Armenian-accented Arabic!  One man votes Meretz and his wife votes Likud.  I went to an Armenian restaurant and got a fascinating dessert made out of crushed grapes and walnuts with a string inside.  And, because this is how I roll, I got info on some Armenian tutors- because at some point, that would be fun.

On my bus back to Tel Aviv, I befriended a handsome American tourist named Nicolai.  Non-Jewish and from Wisconsin, we talked the entire hour-long trip about Israel, Judaism, America, Bernie Sanders (we’re fans), and so much more.  A truly open-minded fellow- which is not something to take for granted.  Too many people arrive to Israel with preconceived notions of what it is and isn’t.  He was pretty much an open book.

His phone didn’t have internet, so I walked him 20 minutes to his bus stop and got him on his way home.  Because that’s what we do in Israel- we go out of our way to help others.  I find the generosity that surrounds me here encourages me to be even kinder to people.

I hopped in a monit sherut cab and headed home.  What a day!  Hasidim, Modern Orthodox, Arab-Israelis, Palestinians, tourists, Reform Jews (that’s me!).  What else was missing?

As our Russian driver helped us wind through (largely) secular Tel Aviv, two Mizrachi guys up front started singing.  Koby Peretz, Sarit Hadad, Shimon Buskila- you name it.  Then, to their surprise, I made a request.

“Inta omri,” I said.

Pleasantly surprised that an Ashkenazi would request an Egyptian classic, they started to sing.  And to their delight- I joined in.

On a day when a deranged man tried to break the place I call home, I started the day with his hatred and I ended it by singing with Jews in Arabic.

And in-between, I hung out with every sector of Israeli society.

Want to write public policy papers about how to solve the Middle East conflict?  Go for it- maybe they could help.  Honestly, I don’t know.

What I do know is I probably won’t have time for your conference.  Because I’m going to be speaking Yiddish with Hasidim, training a Palestinian in marketing, and singing Mizrachi music in a cab.  I’ll be getting to know my neighbors.  Just like Solomon, Yossef, and Or would’ve wanted.

A 2:00 am Arabic lesson

I spent all day looking at (five) apartments and was exhausted!  I treated myself to a stroll along the beach until I found myself in Yafo, my favorite place to get away.

I grabbed a delicious melon ice cream, served in a frozen melon, and grabbed a seat outside.  Nearby there was a young Arab kid named Muhammad.  We struck up a conversation in a mix of Hebrew and Arabic and I asked if I could sit with him.

Muhammad is a 25 year old tow-truck driver from Kfar Qasem, incidentally the village where my friend Sara is from from a previous story I shared on my blog.  Much like my beloved Daliat Al Karmel and Yafo itself, certain towns seem to find their way into my heart over and over again.  American Jews would call that bashert.

He’s a sweet kid- he speaks fluent Hebrew and Arabic…and Turkish!  He’s gone on a half dozen trips to Turkey and is going for a month again this year.  He was even recommending resorts and cities for me to visit there.  He learned his Turkish from soap operas.  It’s nice to know that both Jews and Arabs do that here (so many Jews here speak Spanish thanks to telenovelas).

Because this is Israel, things quickly got personal.  Nice to know that intense sharing about deeply held opinions when you first meet someone isn’t just a Jewish trait here!  Muhammad says that when he first talks to Jewish customers over the phone, they are so relieved that their car will get off the road and back to safety that they offer to make him tea and invite him over.  Then, when he arrives to help them and they see his face, the conversation freezes and he feels they are afraid of him “cutting off their heads”.

I told him I thought that was sad, and then his response was even sadder: “I’ve gotten used to it, it’s always been that way.”  You know there’s some real toxicity to heal from here when a young man like this feels resigned to the mutual distrust that exists between so many Jews and Arabs here.

At this point he leans over to pull up something on Youtube.

While he’s pulling up the video, his friend Mamdooh tells me about his family.  His family arrived from Libya during a war with Italy and lives in Ramle.  Yes, re-read that sentence about 10 times.  His Muslim Arab family arrived to present-day Israel 100 yeras ago from Libya.  I was baffled.  I had heard some about Arab labor migrations from neighboring countries to Ottoman (and Mandatory) Palestine, but never had I heard of his family’s 6,000 person Libyan clan in Ramle.  Apparently, his family and a neighboring family (keep in mind “family” means thousands of people) engaged in a several year blood feud resulting in 40+ deaths in the 1990s.  He said a sheikh intervened to end it, but even to this day it’d be too difficult to try to marry the other family.  I told him that sounded sad and he agreed with a gentle nod of the head.

As we munched on loads of malabi (which they of course gave me for free), Muhammad came back to show me the Youtube video.  It was an Arabic-subtitled Hebrew video (kind of like an Arab MEMRI) of a Haredi classroom talking about the Temple Mount.  Honestly, I couldn’t hear the video that well, but it was clear that racist things were being said about Arabs.  I told him that that video sounded offensive and that it’s also important not to judge entire groups of people based on one video.  I even had the chance to teach him about Reform Judaism.  I reminded him that there are closed-minded and open-minded people in every community.

“Like you” he said as I mouthed the words “open-minded”.

My heart swelled.  I’ve had a lot of powerful moments here in Israel.  Tonight may take the cake with this one comment.  I saw that I had made a difference in this one man’s life and it made me feel hopeful- and proud.

The conversation turned back to fun things- because in Israel, life fluctuates rapidly between the bitter and the sweetest of the sweet.  Muhammad showed me Youtube videos of techno dabke music from Nablus.  In a sentence that would suffice for a linguistic anthropology thesis, he said: “shoof al-dabke min Shchem”.  Look at the dabke from Shchem.  Which is to say, in an Arabic-language sentence, he used the Hebrew word for a Palestinian city in the West Bank/Samaria.

Before I headed home at 2am, Muhammad invited me to visit him in Kfar Qasem and we exchanged numbers.  He said he hangs out with his friends in Yafo pretty much every night- and told me to come back.

Some of you might know I speak eight languages fluently.  I speak a few more to varying degrees.  Throughout my life, there have been people telling me what I should do with them.  That I should work for the CIA or the FBI.  That I should be a translator.  That I should do this or that.

Guess what?  While you’re pondering what you think I should be doing with my life, I’m using my languages to enrich mine – and others’.  What do I do with my languages?  I do what I did tonight.  I make friends, I explore the world, I learn from others, I change minds.

Want to wring your hands about what I should do?  I’ll be too busy to notice.  I’ll be hanging out in downtown Yafo, as the lights go dim, eating malabi, and laughing with friends as the Arabic blends into Hebrew back into Arabic.  And the sun rises on another life-changing day in the land I call home.

My Druze, Muslim, Orthodox, Reform Rosh Hashanah

Tonight, Rosh Hashanah ended.  As a Reform Jew, I observe one day of the holiday, which you can read about here.  I had amazing meals with friends, went to services for a taste of home, was greeted everywhere with Shanah Tovah, and even ate sushi 😉

This evening, I decided to go Israeli dancing.  Anyone who’s known me for a while knows that I love Israeli dancing- it’s one of the first things I did in Israel.

I go to this marathon event (it goes till 6am!) and there are hundreds- I mean hundreds- of people.  All ages, all attires (I even saw a bustier), and tons of enthusiasm.  There’s even a guy I know from dancing in DC.  Because, Jews 🙂  The music was booming- there was even a live band to accompany the music!  They had a screen that showed a picture of each singer, the name of the song, and a running clock of how long the marathon had gone on!  I recognized so many of the songs I danced to at home- it was fantastic.

During couples dancing (which I tend to avoid unless I’m with a friend- some of the middle aged women can get frisky!), I stepped aside to rest.  I saw this cute guy so I started talking to him.  I wished him “chag sameach”, a happy holiday.  He said “what holiday?”  I said “oh are you not Jewish?”  And turns out, he wasn’t.  He was just working the event.  In fact, he’s an Arab Muslim from Nazareth named Muhammad Abbas.  Poor guy’s name is so, so close to the name of the leader of the Palestinian Authority that pretty much nobody, Arab or Jewish, really likes.

He’s a student at Tel Aviv University studying English literature.  He only listens to American music and he loves dark, intense American novels.  We talked in Hebrew and Arabic about American film and literature (I recommended he watch Office Space for a clever satirical movie), and he stepped outside to work.

Then it hit me- I owed him an apology.  Growing up as 2% of the American population, I was constantly barraged with “Merry Christmas” for a two month period every year.  I don’t begrudge anyone saying Merry Christmas- I just don’t want it said to me because it’s not my holiday.  I stepped outside and I apologized to him for assuming he was Jewish.  He took it totally in stride and laughed it off.  We also both knew that this year, the Muslim New Year falls on the same day, so I ended up being right in wishing him a Happy New Year 🙂 .  In the end, I do feel like I owed him an apology because I made an assumption about him and it wasn’t the way I like to treat people (or be treated).  Just goes to show that you can’t assume a cute Semitic-looking boy here is Jewish!

At this point, a man selling food in Hebrew with an Arab accent starts talking to me saying not to worry about my holiday faux pas.  That we’re all people and it’s good to wish each other blessings.  This man, Ramzi, is from the magical place called Daliat Al Karmel.  This place entrances me.  If you’ve followed my blog, you know that in the course of 2 months in Israel, I’ve been there twice.  That it has a special magic- the people, the trees, the view- that I have seen in few places in the world.  And this man, just for this event, happened to be selling Druze pita in Tel Aviv!  He lives up North!

We switch over to Arabic (and back and forth to Hebrew and English) as we talk about life and his village.  He invited me to come visit him.  You ready for a real twist?  He owns a Matah – an orchard.  My Hebrew name, which I chose when making aliyah and is extremely unique, is also Matah מטע.  He invited me to come up whenever I want and we’re going to hang out on his orchard.

As if my night couldn’t get any more fabulous or diverse, on my way home I see an Orthodox family by an ambulance.  In America, you’d pretty much say a prayer for them in your head and move on- not wanting to invade their space.  Since this is Israel, I did the exact opposite.  I walked over and asked if I could help.  One woman said she couldn’t ask because I was Jewish (Orthodox Jews believe that it is not permissible to make another Jew work on a holiday).  The other woman, perhaps in an act of pragmatism, simply told me they needed a cab, so I ordered it.  I’ve spent enough time in pluralistic Jewish circles to know that even if Orthodox Jews can’t ask me to do something on Rosh Hashanah, if I just do it, it’s acceptable.

I ordered a cab but just in time, another one came by and they got in.  Luckily it was nothing life-threatening, but it looked like their little girl had a wound on her head.  I hope she’s feeling better.

As I walked away, I wished them a Shanah Tovah.  I knew they were celebrating my holiday 🙂 .  They shouted back with a smile “ktivah vechatimah tovah” – may God write you a good year in the Book of Life.

On my way home, I realized just what an amazing holiday I had had.  In the course of one day, I went from Reform services to Israeli dancing to hanging out with a Muslim friend to talking with Druze and helping Orthodox Jews.

This is my country.  Where every fiber of my being is filled with meaning.  I couldn’t be prouder to start a new life and a new year in Israel.  My diverse, caring, and wonder-filled home.

Shanah tovah from the place where miracles aren’t on 34th street- they’re on every corner.

Arab by association

Today, I went to a settlement.  Ariel is a beautiful city of 20,000 a little over an hour by bus from Tel Aviv.  It’s located beyond the Green Line in Samaria (Hebrew: Shomron).  This area is called Shomron because that’s the name of the ancient Jewish capital of the Northern Kingdom of Israel that was in this vicinity.  To most Israelis, this is Israel (larger settlements like this tend to be part of the national consensus).  To international organizations, this area is often known as the West Bank.  And to most Palestinians, it’s part of Palestine.

This is not a typical tourist spot for Reform Jews or part of the Gay Pride Circuit, so I had never been here before (as a queer Reform Jew).  I’m a curious guy and open to new things, so I hopped on a bus.

The most interesting thing about Ariel is that it’s not interesting.  I don’t say that to be mean- there are actually some attractions in the area like stalactite caves and an archeological site of a 3,000 year old Jewish city.  Unfortunately, because this is a small town, none of that was open or easy to get to.

What I mean is that it’s very normal.  I think the image me (and many progressive Jews and non-Jews) have in our mind of a settlement is an Orthodox family of 16 living in a trailer on a hilltop beating up Arabs.  Just to be clear- there’s nothing wrong with an Orthodox family of 16, it’s just that I think many people think about settlements as a caricature, not realizing their diversity.

Ariel is possibly the most (Jewishly) integrated city I’ve been in in Israel.  There are loads of secular people, there are Russians, there are Ashkenazim, there are Mizrachim (blasting some cool Mizrachi music I stopped and listened to).  There’s a Kosher Mexican restaurant and a non-Kosher restaurant with Thai food.  There are men in yarmulkes and women in tattered jeans with purple hair.  There are judo lessons and piano concerts and even a mall.  There are Palestinian workers and there are Arab-Israeli students at the local university.

It’s also beautiful:

The truth is, in a lot of ways, Ariel is like any other city.  I think it’d behoove people of all backgrounds, particularly from the progressive world I come from, to understand there are many reasons people might live in a settlement.  For some people, it’s just about affordability.  Other people might like the view.  And for some people, it’s a religious statement.  For religious Jews, this is the land God promised us.  And the West Bank/Shomron was an integral part of Jewish history for thousands of years and is still home to many sacred sites.  I’m not interested in the politics, I just want people to understand that if you can’t put yourself in the shoes of a religious Jew who wants to live in the land of their ancestors, you’re not going to do a great job of figuring out how we can all live together.  Empathy is about understanding where other people come from even if you disagree.  People are complex and come in all shades of good and bad- including settlers.

As I prepared to catch my bus back to Tel Aviv (the West Bank is really, really close- you can see Tel Aviv from Ariel), I started to well up.  I wasn’t sure why at first, but I figured it out.  I snuck over to some bushes and just started balling.  As much as I liked exploring Ariel today, I just couldn’t help but think about the Palestinian villages I could see on the hilltops.  What was life like there?  First-hand- I don’t really know.  If we were elsewhere in Israel, I could just hop on a bus and go find out.  But reality here is a bit starker.  Due to the complicated situation (on both sides), I can’t just hop on a bus and visit a Palestinian village.  I’m not even sure if/where it’s legal to do so.  Or safe.  The situation made me so sad and the tears came down.  I hate seeing the world broken.

I told myself that whenever I’m feeling despondent here, something magical happens to lift my spirits.  And I was right.  As I was waiting for the bus, I saw a familiar face.  Sarah is a Muslim Arab-Israeli I met through a Hebrew-Arabic practice group in Tel Aviv.  What are the odds that my first time visiting a settlement I bump into an Arab friend when I’ve only been here for two months?  There are coincidences and then there’s bashert.

We hopped on the bus and I asked if I could sit next to her (important detail).  We got to talking about Arabic dialects in Israel (I’m trying to figure out which ones to study- I already speak Syrian which is intelligible but want to get more local too).  We spoke in a mixture of Hebrew and Arabic.  She told me about her work at Ariel University (that’s right- she works at a college in a settlement) and her work with promoting Hebrew language studies for Arabs in her town of Kafr Qasim.

Then we pulled up to a checkpoint.  I’m glad there’s security to make sure everyone is safe.  That being said, something fishy happened.  Two guards came on board and walked around, but the only person they asked for ID from was the Muslim Arab woman in a hijab next to me- my friend Sarah.  There wasn’t even the illusion of not profiling her.  Then they looked at me sitting next to her: “Are you with her?”  My answer (as I sat there fairly scared shitless): “We’re friends”.  At that point, the guards requested my ID.  After some skeptical glances, they gave us our IDs back and left the bus.

I asked Sarah if they always asked her for her ID.  She said yes.  She also said that if I hadn’t been sitting next to her, they wouldn’t have asked for mine either.  I said that I knew.  It was kind of a scary experience for me, and I’m sure it’s upsetting for Sarah too even if she has resigned herself to it.  Sarah is a full Israeli citizen born and raised.  I’m not sure why a terrorist would be dumb enough to put on a hijab, but I’ll take at face value that anyone could be a threat and the guards have a stressful job.  That being said, check everyone’s ID, keep people safer, and stop being racist.  It’s a win-win.

I have to say I’m proud of myself.  When I was asked if I was with Sarah, the easy way out would’ve been to say that I don’t know her or barely know her.  But the words that came out of my mouth, under pressure, were “we’re friends”.  If that makes me an Arab by association, so be it.  I’m a human being and damn proud of it.

Sarah got off the bus and I headed back to Tel Aviv.  I couldn’t help but thinking about what an overwhelming day I had.  Full of meaning and also a lot to process.  How I try to find humanity in every community- settlers, Arab-Israelis, Palestinians- everyone.  And how that can be really hard.

Israel is a verb.  It means “wrestles with God”.  It would’ve been easier for me to sit static on the beach today (and frankly I might need that after this trip).  But instead, I moved, I wrestled.  I went by myself to a place where most people I know have never stepped foot.  It was interesting, it was hard, it was brave.  I’m proud of myself.

As I got off the bus, I thanked the driver in Hebrew, assuming he was Jewish.  He responded back “ma3 asalaameh” – that’s Arabic for goodbye.  He winked at me and I smiled back.  Guardian angels come in all shapes and sizes 🙂 .

 

Hitchhiking on a Druze golf cart

Tonight was rough.  I had an amazing Shabbat which included hosting American students, Reform services, Libyan food, the beach, and an Israeli techno party.  After all that, I headed to the America Restaurant on Ibn Gvirol only to find all sorts of Trump-themed and racist paraphernalia.  It was an unwelcome surprise for someone who came here to get away from that.  I felt angry and typecast.  The only good part was my excellent company and the mac n cheese.  I headed home feeling deflated and wondering why I was here.  It’s hard to be a Jew in America and it’s hard to be American in Israel.

After blowing off some steam, I decided to write about my trip to Daliat Al Karmel and Haifa.  Because there, I felt the inspiration that can happen in Israel.

Let’s start in Daliat Al Karmel.  A beautiful Druze village, I loved exploring every nook and cranny.  I had heard there was a monastery nearby, so I made my way by foot.  Each person I asked for directions told me it was 5 minutes away.  I asked four people the same question, so needless to say it was more than 5 minutes away.  After 30-40 minutes in the heat, I saw a golf cart heading towards me.  I asked the man and his son in Arabic for a lift- and so I hitchhiked with the Druze family to the monastery.

This place is gorgeous.  On top of the roof, you can see all of Israel’s North.  It looks like this:

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I felt at peace.  Tel Aviv is a disgusting dirty city.  It’s a fun place.  It’s filled with youth and queer people and the beach and a million and a half cultures.  But it’s gross.  And loud.  The North is peaceful.  It is where I go to meditate and connect with God.

Realizing I was far away from the village bus and in need of a way home, I talked to the Druze guy who worked at the front desk.  Since this is Israel, there is ALWAYS a solution.  A priest from the monastery was headed back to Haifa, where I was staying.

I ran after his car and hopped in.  The generous and kind Italian priest drove me the entire 45 minute ride.  He spoke decent Spanish and I speak Spanish so we talked that way- in “Itañol” as he called it 🙂 .  He works for a Roman Catholic church in Haifa that cooperates with Greek Catholics and Maronites- both of whom are also in communion with Rome.  He loves life in Israel and wants to stay.  He even did an ulpan- although he was frustrated that the teacher only explained things in Russian!  25% of Haifa is Russian so it makes sense.  Kind of funny that the words he learned in ulpan were zdrastvootie and pazhalsta haha.

I then went out in Haifa to check out the nightlife.  I connected with some Americans teaching English in Haifa, which was great.  It’s nice to get a dose of the motherland once in a while 🙂  I was then headed home when I heard Arabic music blasting from a sushi bar.  I immediately went inside and found an entirely Arab sushi restaurant singing and dancing.  I joined in, started clapping and dancing.  It is hands down the most fun I’ve had since arriving in Israel.  And there’s wasn’t a Jew in sight.  Because it would probably never occur to a Sabra to step foot in this place.  I’m pretty fearless and open-minded, so I said what the hell.

The next thing I know, the music stopped and the bartender starts belting out some amazing Arabic tunes.  And he. is. GOOD.  Everyone starts swinging and swaying and banging on the bar.

It’s 3:30am and I head home.  I can’t help but think now how my Americanness helped make these moments possible.  My multilingual interactions.  My trust of Druze and Arabs.  My appreciation for all religious traditions.

Because my American identity isn’t a metaphor.  And it’s not a Britney Spears concert or a goofy picture of Donald Trump or a selfie in Times Square.

It’s my appreciation for diversity.  My willingness to listen.  My open-mindedness and my love for my neighbors- Muslim, Christian, Jewish, Hindu, Buddhist, you name it.

When I made aliyah, some Sabras told me not to hang out too much with other Americans.  Not to be too diasporic.

Bullshit.  My American identity makes me a better Israeli.  Quite a number of Jews here speak better German than Arabic and know more about Berlin than Kafr Qasem.

I intend to be part of the solution here as an American-Israeli.  Instead of throwing shade, hop on the golf cart with me.  We’ll climb atop a monastery in the middle of nowhere.  We’ll stare out at the North and realize that anything is possible if you just let yourself dream.  The American-Israeli dream.

How an Arab saved my Shabbat

Shabbat shalom!  I don’t typically blog on Shabbat.  I usually go to shul, have a meal, and chill with friends.  But tonight, I had a very unique night.

First, I started off at Reform services.  They were musical and fun.  They start at 6 so that ended pretty early, leaving me with an empty evening alone.

To avoid feeling lonely (aliyah is hard and this has been a hard week), I did something I don’t typically do on Shabbat which was to go to a movie!  It was my first time in a movie theater in Israel, so I said a Shehecheyanu and watched Logan Lucky, a film starring Channing Tatum (mmmm!) about some rednecks in West Virginia robbing a Nascar race.  Dudn’t get more ‘Murrican than that!  Honestly, I probably wouldn’t have seen it in the U.S. (although, Channing Tatum), but here it felt perfect.  I laughed at all sorts of things the audience didn’t get and I relished hearing some southern accents, which you don’t hear much around here.

After I left the theater, my friend invited me to Arisa, a gay Mizrachi music dance party.  I love Mizrachi music (it’s my favorite music in the world) and have been aching for months to go to this event.  My friend was running later than me, so I showed up alone.  The security guard patted me down and then asked me to empty my pockets.  I’ve been to a lot of clubs around the world and I appreciate the need for security, especially in Israel, so I did as I was told.

He then noticed my circular pill case.  Without my permission, he tried to open it.  He was opening it the wrong way so that all the pills would fall out if he succeeded.  I told him to stop and that I would open it for him.  Again, I was already feeling really uncomfortable with this invasiveness, but I understand the need to avoid drugs getting into the club.  I explained to him what the medications were for and the names of the prescriptions.  There is also some writing on the pills, as is typical for prescription medication.  At this point, the guard and his colleague, without my permission, start thumbing through my medications and grabbing the actual pills.  I told them to stop but they ignored me.  Meanwhile, I was having to explain my medical issues in front of other patrons who were waiting behind me.  A female guard even told me that I couldn’t enter the club with my pills.  Eventually they let me in, but I was so angry, embarrassed, and humiliated that I just left.  This is a disgraceful way to treat a customer and to handle someone’s medical needs.  If you can’t distinguish a prescription from ecstasy, you probably shouldn’t work club security.  I plan on contacting them through their Facebook page because I was so insulted.  I won’t complain if you join me 🙂 .

Feeling blue, I headed to Yafo, perhaps my favorite part of Tel Aviv.  My friend got tired so we didn’t end up meeting up.  I was just exhausted.  After a long week, the last thing I needed was some random guy grabbing my very personal medications.

I headed to my favorite baklava shop to see my friend Seger, an Arab from East Jerusalem.  He’s a wonderful, fun-loving guy in his early 20s.  And when I entered the shop, by coincidence, he was blasting Mizrachi music- the same music I was supposed to hear at Arisa.  He gave me free knafeh and we talked in Arabic and caught up.  He showed me his favorite Arab singers and I taught him some English.  I even came out to him and his immediate reaction was to show me on Facebook his gay Arab friend.  I had been nervous about coming out to him, but not a split second passed before I felt comfortable again.  It’s good to feel like you can be your full self.

The night was coming to an end as he closed up shop.  As this is Israel, things went from sour to sweet.  And not just because of the heavily discounted baklava he gave me.

Seger put on Sarit Hadad, whose first CD was my first CD when I was 13, and blasted the music.  We started to dance.  Then, people walking by start dancing.  And before you know it, I’m having my own gay Mizrachi dance party.

I gave Seger a hug and we wished each other Shabbat Shalom.  I told him my night really sucked before I walked into his store and that he made me feel happy.  Since we’re now Facebook friends, he might even be reading this blog.  Thanks man 🙂

Would it have been fun to dance in a room of 500 beautiful Israeli men singing to my favorite Mizrachi songs?  I think so.  And maybe I will find out one day if I’m treated with dignity there.

In the meantime, screw Arisa.  I don’t need to pay 120 shekels to have a gay Mizrachi dance party on Shabbat.  I just need to hang out with an Arab friend at a baklava shop.

You know you’re in Israel when an Arab saves your Shabbat.  Eid Mubarak indeed.

Kosher Curry in Ramle

This morning, I felt like crap.  Making aliyah is hard.  I’m far away from my friends and my D.C. Jewish community.  I’m alone.  I’m adapting to a new culture and country.

To shake off the blues, I decided to go on a tiyyul (trip) to Ramle (which can also be spelled Ramla).  A small and fairly poor town, it’s not usually on Israeli or foreign tourist maps.  I went several hours without seeing a single tourist.  And that’s exactly what I needed- somewhere a little quieter and off the beaten path to unwind from the hectic and exciting energy that is Tel Aviv.

First off, Ramle reminds me of the D.C. suburbs where I grew up.  It’s quiet, has about 70,000 residents (almost identical to where I lived before Israel), it’s calm, and it’s diverse.  Much like Montgomery County where I’m from, there are mosques, synagogues, and lots of churches.  I kind of miss seeing churches sometimes.  Ramle is a “mixed city”, meaning there are significant Jewish and Arab populations (and even Karaites!).

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I started my adventure at what American Jews might call a “tchotchke store”- odds and ends.  What immediately caught my eye were tons of cheap CD’s- of music I adore.  For 10 NIS a piece ($2.80), I bought Jewish music from Iraq, Tunisia, and Morocco.  As I paid for my CD’s, I noticed all sorts of amulets knows as hamsas.  Some were in Hebrew, obviously for Jews.  Yet I noticed some in Arabic.  I asked the store owners, who themselves were Russian Jews, whether the Arabic hamsas were for Arabs or Mizrachi Jews or both.  They gave the most beautiful answer: “they’re for everyone.  Jews, Muslims, and Christians all need protection from the evil eye.”

I then made my way to an Indian restaurant owned by Indian Jews.  It’s vegetarian and closed on Shabbat, which makes it Kosher in my book, but I’m not sure if it has a teudat kashrut.  I badly miss the ethnic cuisines of America- especially Thai (no, the Thai food in Tel Aviv is not that great), Chinese (cheap, delicious Chinese food of Rockville Pike), and Indian.  As soon as I entered the place, I knew I had made the right decision.  The smells wafted over me as I began to smile.  I sat down by myself and ordered pakora, palak paneer, and naan.  The waiter’s Hebrew wasn’t strong so I spoke to him in English.

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At this point, a woman came over to me and asked if I was American.  Turns out, not only is she American too, she’s a half-Persian half-Indian Jew from…Bethesda, Maryland!  Exactly where I lived before making aliyah!  And she knows one of my rabbis from D.C.  The odds of this happening are infinitesimally small.  She’s a tourist, I don’t even live in Ramle.  There are 6 million American Jews and over 326 million Americans spread across 50 states.  What are the odds!  Reminds me of that famous Hebrew school song “Wherever You Go, There’s Always Someone Jewish“.  It’s cool to be part of an international 3,000 year old club.

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After this amazing coincidence, I walked through a bustling marketplace, where unlike in Jerusalem or Tel Aviv there are no tourist traps.  Just lots of grapes and candy and tomatoes.  I stumbled upon a Turkish synagogue and then a Tunisian one.  Without asking permission (because that’s how we do in Israel), I just walked in and talked to the janitor who is also a congregant.  His name is Zion and he grew up in the synagogue.  He made aliyah from Tunisia at age 5.  He showed me an original Torah scroll, hundreds of years old, brought from Tunisia.  He also handed me a book which had all the traditional Tunisian Jewish piyyutim (liturgical poems).  Everything in the synagogue was handcrafted and beautiful, including the stained glass.  I told him maybe I’d come pray with them some day.  What a treat.

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As I walked by a Crusader monastery, I heard a car blasting Middle Eastern music.  I thought it was Arabic music, since the town is 20% Arab.  But as I listened more closely, I realized it was Mizrachi music, the music of Middle Eastern Jews.  That’s Ramle for you- a town where you don’t know exactly whose culture the music belongs to.  Where ethnic boundaries are blurred and mixed.  Where Russians sell Arabic amulets, where Tunisian Jews pray next to Turkish Jews, where mosques and churches dot the landscape next to synagogues.  Where Indian Jews prepare American olim kosher curry.

Some people might say there’s not a lot to see in Ramle.  To which I’d say I suppose it depends on what you want to see.

As my bus headed back, all I know is my eyes gazed more towards the fields around the town than towards the skyscrapers awaiting me on the coast.