Arabs – Page 9 – Planting Roots Bearing Fruits

American Nazis, Syrian refugees, and baklava

Today on many levels was just a normal Israeli day. I ran around doing errands, dealing with Israeli bureaucracy, hearing my favorite songs blasted from cars on the streets, and walked down the beach to Yafo.

That is exactly what made today so weird. In America, today was not a normal day. As I could tell from post upon post from my friends in the States, something big was happening. Neo-nazis and the Ku Klux Klan (KKK) held a rally in Charlottesville, VA, a beautiful, musical college town which I have fond memories of. I’ve been there twice, heard great live bluegrass music, and hiked in the nearby mountains.

One of the Nazis literally drove their car over a counter-protestor, killing the woman.

On the one hand, this was shocking. I lived in the U.S. almost my whole life and I’ve never heard of a massive Nazi rally, even in the most conservative parts of the country. Estimates are that 1,000 people came. For something that’s supposed to be fringe, that’s a shockingly large number of people to come to a random town in rural Virginia. For any Israelis shaking their heads saying this is “overblown” (מוגזם), you are naïve and literally know nothing about America other than Britney Spears and Times Square in New York. You complain all the time how Americans are so “polite” and never say what they think. So if that’s true that we keep our opinions to ourselves, then 1,000 Nazis showing up at a public rally (not approved by the police) is a very big deal. Get your heads out of the sand and realize that if this phenomenon grows in the U.S., it’s going to affect Israel and the rest of the world big time.

While this rally was shocking, it was not surprising. I’ve experienced a lot of bigotry in the United States. I went to a sleep away camp in North Carolina for many years and I actually met a camper who told me he was in the KKK youth group. I told him I was Jewish and he said “I don’t mind the Jews as much, I just hate those n*ggers”. While riding the Metro in D.C. I’ve been called a spic. At my progressive liberal arts college, Wash U, my roommates once had to defend me from a fellow student who was homophobic and trying to attack me- in my dorm. At the same school, I wanted to go with another gay guy to a dance and the people there told me “it’d be better if you didn’t, they won’t like it.” At my diverse suburban high school, a girl once told me “you’re cool, you’re not like the other Jews who are all loudmouths and stingy.” I was holding hands with a guy once in the D.C. area and a man followed us yelling “faggot” until we snuck into a restaurant. As recently as a year ago, I was literally thrown out of a taxi cab by an evangelical pastor for being a gay Jew. To this day, I still find it hard to wear the rainbow yarmulke I wore on my head in that car. And that makes me sad.

The examples I gave above- I could give many dozens more. I think every minority in America can.

That’s because Nazism and bigotry are not new to America. There was a pretty strong Nazi Party in America in the lead-up to World War II, to such an extent that many believe it caused Franklin Roosevelt to reject Jewish refugees who were later sent to death camps. Of course the Ku Klux Klan has been murdering minorities for 150 years- African Americans, Jews, Catholics, Latinos, you name it.

My point is this- while in some ways we’re witnessing a new and scary phenomenon, in other ways, it is a revival of long-standing American social movements. What this means is this is not about any one person alone, it is about a movement. You can’t extinguish a movement with an impeachment or an election. You have to solve deep-rooted societal issues (I think many of which are economic and addressed by neither political party) and ultimately extinguish the hatred.

To my friends in the U.S.- my heart is with you. Remember that with all the anger, it can be easy to misdirect it towards people who might otherwise be open to your message. Practice self-care and keep an open heart as you try to build a better society. Focus on what you can control and accept that there are things you can’t.

I found it strange today. I couldn’t figure out why I was so upset. I knew I was upset about what was going on in America- that I was worried for my friends. But things were great here. The sun was shining, I was eating a delicious chicken shnitzel, and I felt safe. Everywhere around me were Jewish songs, Jewish signs, Jewish policemen, Jewish everything. While Nazis marched in America, I couldn’t have felt safer.

I felt all sorts of conflicting feelings. The pride for having predicted this would happen. The relief and happiness that come with having made a good choice to make aliyah to escape these problems. Deep sadness for the state of America. Fear for my friends’ safety and well-being. Anxiety for my non-Jewish friends who can’t make aliyah and hoping they’ll find a sense of security.

Overwhelmed with emotion, the 103 degree heat index, and the LOUDNESS of every Tel Aviv street, I raced towards the beach.

The beach at night is perhaps the only (fairly) quiet place in Tel Aviv. Tel Aviv is a city smaller than D.C but with the energy of three New Yorks. Sometimes, I just want some friggin’ peace and quiet.

I hopped on the phone with my friend Shadi, a Syrian refugee living in Erbil, Kurdistan in Iraq. Shadi is my Arabic conversation partner, even going back to when I lived in the States. Through the organization Natakallam, I pay to practice my Arabic and Shadi earns a living.

Shadi is awesome- he’s Kurdish, so we love talking about our minority experiences. He’s also extremely open to my Judaism and my gay identity. Whenever I’m in need of some positive energy and affirmation, I hop on Skype.

Today, I told Shadi all about what was going on in America. How I felt happy in Israel and how I felt scared for my friends. How I felt guilty for feeling happy with my life here while my friends suffered. I compared notes with how his experience was as a refugee.

And then he opened up. Turns out, Shadi’s mom and dad still live in Qamishli, Syria where he grew up. Four years ago, he fled to Erbil, a Kurdish city in Iraq, both because of the civil war and because his wife has leukemia. Apparently, treatment is much less expensive in Iraq. So as to allow him to focus on helping his wife with chemo, his daughter stayed seven months with his parents in Syria- in the midst of a civil war. Thankfully his daughter is reunited with him and his wife now and he is learning coding so he can be a computer programmer. One day he hopes to return to Syria.

Interestingly, Shadi and I both chose to escape bigotry (there is intense persecution of Kurds in Syria) by going to places where our peoples are the majority. There’s something about living in a place where you’re normal that’s healing and gives you a great sense of security and validation.

I don’t share Shadi’s moving story to try to minimize my own pain or that of my friends in the U.S. Rather, I share it to put things in perspective. Things are bad in America right now. Fortunately not yet to the extent that they are in Syria, which makes me count my blessings and helped calm my anxiety.

Yet things in America will get worse. Several years ago, when I told my friends Donald Trump would become President, they thought I was nuts. Putting aside the question of whether you support him or not, my prediction was correct. All the babbling idiots on CNN and MSNBC and the pompous writers in the Washington Post didn’t see it coming because they live in a bubble.

Now they ponder how the courts or the elections or this and that will help. It won’t. Time to accept reality- American democracy is unraveling. Either it will be stitched back together by an engaged and powerful citizen movement. Or it will die.

To my American friends- I’m praying for you. Even as I write this. I love you and I want you to be safe. You have to decide how to move forward. Want to stay and fight for a better America? Absolutely your right and your choice and I applaud you. Want to get the hell out and build a life elsewhere like I did? I totally support you. Just understand what’s going on so you can make an informed decision. I think there is a substantial possibility that the U.S. is headed for a civil war or intense civil strife. I hope to G-d almighty I’m wrong, but just be prepared that this is a real possibility and plan accordingly. If there’s any way I can help, in particular for those considering aliyah, I’m here.

To my Israeli friends- wake up and smell the coffee. I’ve talked to several sabras (native-born Israelis) today and nobody seemed to get why this was a big deal. Even on the website of Yediot Achronot there was no mention on the front page, although there was an article about a woman who became a Jewish food guru. What happens in America affects us- our foreign aid, our diplomatic support, aliyah (I’d bet there was a spike in applications today), etc. An America where Nazis are gaining power is bad for Israel and bad for American Jews. Start paying attention and realize that listening to Rihanna and having a cousin in L.A. doesn’t mean you understand America. Read JTA, Huffington Post, even the radical left-wing Socialist Worker and the right-wing Washington Times. You could even go further off the deep end and look for extreme right-wing blogs, but I won’t recommend that on my blog 🙂 The point is be informed because this affects our friends, ourselves, and the world. I’m always happy to suggest resources or chat.

After my conversation with Shadi I made my way to Yafo, enjoying the summer breeze as it hit my face. I made my way to my favorite baklava spot, hung out with my friend Sager who works there, and bit into a delicious slice of heaven. I could’ve sat for two hours telling him all about America, but I just relaxed and soaked in the fun. The tension in my body faded and I felt safe.

Something I hope my friends in America will feel soon too.

Hebrew, Yiddish, and Arabic in “occupied” Akko?

Thursday I had a fun, frustrating, and complex experience in Akko.

Akko is a 4000+ year old city continuously inhabited since the Bronze Age. It has been home to Canaanites, Phoenicians, Jews, Greeks, Byzantines, Arabs (Christian and Muslim), Crusaders, Ottomans, Brits, and most recently, Israelis of all stripes. It also has a Druze and Baha’i population, being home to the resting place of the founder of the Baha’i religion. So basically it’s diverse and historic as f*ck.

My initial intent was to write about my experience on a boat. I was exploring the historic city and noticed something curious- almost everywhere around me, people were either Arab or ultra-Orthodox (Haredi). From now on, I’ll use the term Haredi since that’s preferred by people in that community.

It was interesting to see women in hijabs flowing by men in black hats. Very Jerusalem-esque, but at least in this part of town, absent any other secular or traditional Jewish communities that you’d find in the capital.

Honestly, I didn’t feel particularly uncomfortable. You might expect a gay Reform Jew to head for the hills at this point, but frankly I found it more interesting than threatening.

Then, I found a boat. It was a 10 shekel ($3) boat tour. The boat was being driven by an Arab man and was blaring Hasidic pop music (which I happen to like). On board were two Haredi families…and me! The scenery was exquisite. Here are some pictures from the ride:

I started talking with Haredi family #1 in Hebrew. They were super sweet and congratulated me on my aliyah. They live in Bnei Brak, a Haredi city right next to Tel Aviv. When I said I lived in Tel Aviv, they said “oh we’re neighbors!”. They also helped me find a legit Ashkenazi restaurant in their city so I can get my fill of the foods I grew up on. He even said I could just come to their house some time for a home cooked meal! Falafel is great, but I miss my whitefish salad and kugel.

Then I overheard Haredi family #2 but they weren’t speaking Hebrew- their girls were laughing and taking selfies…in Yiddish! Whoa!! This got me very excited! I started talking to them in Yiddish and it turns out they’re Vizhnitzer Hasidim from Borough Park in Brooklyn and were in town for a wedding.

They were polite but a little less warm than the other family. I think it’s because they thought I might be ex-Hasidic (seeing as so few non-Hasidic American Jews speak Yiddish anymore). The father kept asking me for my Hasidic lineage, to which I kept replying that I don’t have any (that I know of). At first, I was kind of annoyed for having to repeat this over and over again. Then, I realized he was playing the timeless game of Jewish geography. Turns out, he knows some Adlers and was trying to see if we were related.

Before I got off the boat, I made some chit chat with the Arab driver in Arabic. But he was too busy taking pictures of the other boats (should you be doing while driving?) for anything too in-depth. But a friendly guy.

So there I was, on a boat, speaking Hebrew, Arabic, and Yiddish. The progressive gay Jew hanging out with Haredim and Arabs. While to a number of secular Israelis and even some Modern Orthodox Jews, a city teeming with Arabs and Haredim is their worst nightmare for Israel’s demographic future, I actually found the experience fascinating and rather benign. I’m not saying there aren’t legitimate concerns for Israel’s future, but in the end we’re all people. Among groups that, at least if all you do is read The New York Times, you’d think would be ripping each other’s throats out, there was a pretty basic coexistence that was refreshing.

Then, I made the mistake of the internet. On my way home from Akko (Israel has a pretty clean, efficient, and cheap inter-city train system, something America might get around to one day), I opened Youtube to find dabke music from Akko. Dabke is an Arab folk dance found in Lebanese, Syrian, Palestinian, and Jordanian culture. It sometimes has nationalist overtones. Overall, it is fun.

There are videos of dabke in Akko on Youtube, but several of them had (in my opinion) inflammatory titles like “Dabke in occupied Palestinian Akko”. There was even a video from neighboring Haifa, which has a recorded Jewish history going back to 200 C.E., about 450 years before Arabs conquered the area. The Haifa video was entitled “Palestinian dabke in ‘Haifa’ in the heart of Israel”. I’m not sure exactly why Haifa was in quotes, but if the angry back and forth in the comments section was an indication, the title was meant to be provocative. Side note: never read the comments section of anything ever.

I then read an article that said an Arab man in Akko claimed Jews were pushing his people out so they would go live in Europe instead of Akko. He said Jews were given preference for new housing. The first sentence seems specious because if Jews are trying to push Arabs out of Akko, they’re not doing a very good job because there are a lot of Arabs everywhere. Unlike in everywhere else I’ve seen in Israel, I even saw signs with Arabic on top and Hebrew on the bottom. That being said, it’s true that during Israel’s War of Independence, many Arab communities including Akko were displaced- sometimes voluntarily and sometimes under pressure from Israeli troops. It’s also true that there has been discriminatory housing policy, so even if this man was exaggerating, there may be truth to what he is saying.

Then, for things to get more depressing, apparently there used to be a larger Jewish population in Old Akko, going back a long time. However, due to demographic changes they moved to other parts of the city. Then, apparently the Islamic Movement, an Islamist organization, removed the signs to historic synagogues and replaced them with quotes from the Quran. If this is true, this is truly depressing.

I began to feel deflated. Was the coexistence I was seeing everywhere just a facade? Do Israeli Arabs really just see me as an occupier like the videos on Youtube indicated? Do they know nothing about Jewish history in this land (or elsewhere)? Were Jews really pushing Arabs out of Akko or discriminating against Arabs in housing?

These are all complex questions that deserve sophisticated and well-researched answers. I don’t have the expertise at this moment to answer them all right now. I do believe people are entitled to different narratives so long as they respect each other and empathize.

What I can say is this: Arab identity in Israel is diverse. Half of Arab citizens of Israel recognize the right to a Jewish state. Half don’t. 26% identify as Palestinian, 36% percent as Palestinians in Israel, and the plurality (37%) as Israeli-Arabs. Another survey found 64% believe Israel is a good place to live and 43% favor their Israeli-Arab identity over a Palestinian one. Perhaps surprising to the Western ear is that 24% of Arab Muslims in Israel vote for Zionist parties.

Do some of those numbers sound contradictory or confusing? Welcome to the complexity that is Arab-Israeli identity. There are anti-Semites, there are Islamists, there are people who volunteer to serve in Israel’s military, there are Zionists, there are secularists, there are communists, there are feminists, there are nationalists, there are pragmatists. And some people fit into multiple categories.

So in the end, is the coexistence I saw on that boat a facade? Are my conversations with Arab-Israelis merely window dressing to deeper prejudices?

Sure, I think that there are some prejudices here that are merely beneath the surface. When you read about Arabs throwing rocks at Jewish worshipers in Jerusalem or that between 32-48% of Jewish citizens would favor expelling or “encouraging emigration” of their Arab neighbors, you know there is prejudice here.

Was that Haredi man who invited me to his house really just a bigot against secular or Reform Jews? Was the Yiddish-speaking family that joked around with the Arab driver just faking it? Are my secular friends reading this blog rolling their eyes and thanking God they weren’t on that boat with me?

Perhaps- we’ll never know. But rather than stew in cynicism, I’d like to enjoy the moment I had in Akko. A moment where people pretty much got along. A gay Reform Jew, two Haredi families, and an Arab boat driver. Hebrew, Yiddish, and Arabic in Akko.

Anti-Semites who visit Israel

Tonight, I went to an English-Hebrew practice group. Not because I particularly need to practice my Hebrew, since I’m surrounded by it all day and I speak it at every opportunity. But because I wanted to make friends.

There was an interesting cast of characters, including a guy who claimed for 20 minutes he was a porn producer, only to say later he was not. I spoke some Hebrew, others spoke English, all was fine.

Then I met an exceedingly handsome French guy whose Hebrew accent was to die for. Even after he revealed he had a girlfriend, I couldn’t stop looking at his beautiful skin and face and smile. Oulala!

Let’s call him Pierre. Pierre has a very cushy job at a pharmaceutical company who has asked him to work in Israel for four months before moving him to London. Not a bad life. Pierre is actually not Jewish! This surprised me, because actually there are a ton of French Jews here, many of whom are escaping rabid anti-Semitism in France. He asked some thoughtful questions about Israeli politics, religious identity, and had an impressive command of Hebrew for someone who’s been here for a few weeks.

I decided he might make a good friend, so we walked for a while together after the event. Sadly, it didn’t take long for the garbage to come out. Perhaps feeling liberated from being away from a larger group, he started to tell me all. about. the. settlements. Please don’t get me wrong- talking about the Jewish presence in the West Bank is a very legitimate political issue and one that is far more complex than the Western media makes it out to be. I can understand why there are people critical of the settlements (their word) and- just as critically- I can understand why Jews choose to make their home in Judea and Samaria (their words). There are genuine concerns about human rights violations and there are very real religious and historical reasons why Jews want to live in these places. I’ll save the political debate for a future blog- the point is I try to have empathy towards different types of people.

Pierre was not so interested in empathy, but more in lecturing me. The truth is I found it shocking, but not too shocking. I’ve had many non-Jews, especially those visiting Israel, jump into long-winded speeches about their political beliefs. Before really even knowing much about me or frankly, Israel. Unfortunately, so many people around the world view this place solely through the prism of news articles and not through their own personal experiences and relationships here- both with Israelis (Jewish and Arab) and Palestinians.

I often feel like the world expects Israelis and Palestinians to entertain them, like a circus. One person dies here (doesn’t matter the religion or nationality), and the BBC cameras race to the scene. It’s front page news.

Yet when a black kid is shot on the streets of D.C. or when hundreds of thousands of Syrians are butchered or when Tibetans are colonized by the Chinese government, the world barely blinks. The conflicts go on, untended and unresolved.

It’s not that I’m arguing we shouldn’t pay attention to what happens here- we should. It’s just that the amount of attention that the world puts on this tiny little place is absolutely out of proportion and exacerbates the problem rather than solving it.

In the end, non-Jews who visit here from Western countries should treat this place with respect- including the Jews who live here. If you want to understand why Jews return to their homeland, you need to learn something about Jewish history. Plenty of American Christians know what Chanukah is (vaguely), but most couldn’t tell you about the pogroms that brought my ancestors to the U.S. Or Martin Luther’s antisemitism. Or the laws that prohibited Jews from owning land in Europe. Or forced conversions of Jews to Islam in Iran. Or the myriad blood libels, burnings, discriminatory clothing, or expulsions you can read about here. And before my American friends chime in with “oh well this is foreign to the U.S.”, you can read this.

My point is this- before you rush to judge another culture (because yes, Jews are both a culture/people and a religion), learn something about it and show some humility. When I met Pierre, I didn’t rush to ask him to condemn France’s myriad expulsions and massacres of Jews over the course of 2,000 years. Nor did I ask him to condemn the extensive French collaboration with Adolf Hitler (as an aside, I had a highly educated French teacher who thought the first time French people did something antisemitic was the Holocaust).

Why? Because I don’t even know him! If I met a Chinese person, would I launch into a tirade about Tibet? Is that socially acceptable? Is that kind?

No. Because everyone is a human being first and foremost. If you really want to get to know Israel, you have to get to know Israelis. Just like anywhere else on the planet. You have to accept that things aren’t always black and white and that there are reasons why things are the way they are- even if you don’t always agree. Empathy isn’t about morally approving of everything another person or another culture does- it’s simply understanding where it comes from and acknowledging that all behavior is caused.

There’s a reason why if I hear a Jewish Israeli criticizing settlements it bothers me less than if a French Christian does it. There are historical reasons for that. Jews have had to band together over the course of two millennia to survive oppression without a state. Now that we have a state, we still find our situation fragile as we’ve endured war after war for our existence. This is a place with eons of trauma that we’re trying to heal from- even as we try to make peace with our neighbors, who have their own issues they’re sorting out.

Let’s say you have a zany uncle. You laugh about your uncle with your mom, with your cousin, even with your aunt. But the second some random person at a gas station laughs at him, your back straightens and you’re ready to defend him. Because you’re family.

For Jews and especially for Israelis, we are a family. If I’m gay and I use the word queer, it feels safe. If a straight person uses it, I start to worry that it might be an insult. I think the same concept applies.

You don’t have to dance around things all the time- let’s talk. But you do have to be sensitive to my people’s historical experience if you want to talk with me. Try to understand where we’re coming from. The fact that you have a Jewish friend and like challah does not mean you understand my history and my identity. I’d in particular recommend the book “A Short History of The Jewish People” as a great place to start learning.

A while after my conversation with Pierre, I looked at his Facebook profile. Hoping to find some sign of nuance or interest in Judaism that would abate my anger, I instead found a homophobic quote, a picture of Hitler, and an article posted that mocked Jews who were concerned about antisemitism. I blocked him.

All goes to show that yes, you can ask good questions about Israeli identity, you can speak some Hebrew, you can be intellectually curious about Judaism, and even visit Israel. And be an anti-Semite.

One Night in Jerusalem

Tonight in Jerusalem was the most jam-packed, exciting night I’ve had in Israel.

It all started with an act of startling generosity. I was checking out some artists’ studios in Jerusalem and found this particularly beautiful one. I talked with the artist about her work- including this amazing painting where at first you don’t notice there are people built into the painting and then as soon as she pointed them out, it became obvious. She said she was inspired by the Exodus from Egypt. When I told her I was an oleh chadash (new immigrant), she congratulated me and told me “you’ve already made your Exodus”, perhaps the nicest thing anyone has said to me about my aliyah. She told me she made aliyah from Russia when she was six years old and I felt an instant bond.

We talked about art- I told her I was a poet and a singer and we connected on Facebook so she can see my work. She asked if I drew and I said I have done a little bit but nothing serious because I hadn’t been taught the techniques. She said one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. She said when you’re looking for an art teacher, don’t look for technique. Look for someone who can help you deliver a child. That sounds strange in English but beautiful in Hebrew. “Leyaled” in Hebrew means “to midwife”. Her point was that the person who teaches you art is supposed to help bring something out that already lies within you and needs to be discovered and nourished. To help you give birth to a new sense of creativity. I love it!

On my way out, she gave me a free handmade notebook she had created so I could write my poetry. I made a new friend in the course of 20 minutes in a way that could take literally years in the U.S. If you’re reading this Dina, thanks for making my night great 🙂

Then, I asked for directions to the central bus station, but I noticed there were lots of police cars. I asked the security woman what was going on and she said there was a concert. I asked who and she said “Shlomi Shabat“, one of my all-time favorite Mizrachi singers. I bought a ticket immediately and headed to the concert with a new sense of energy and excitement. Also, the concert was held in a stadium inside a 2,000 year old pool called Breychat Hasultan (The Sultan’s Pool). So it pretty much doesn’t get any better than that.

Except it does. On the way to the concert, you have to walk downhill. On the way, I discovered there was some sort of international festival going on. There were vendors from all over the world- just off the top of my head, I saw artisans from Panama, Uzbekistan, Zimbabwe, Mexico, the Czech Republic, and so much more. I made a special point of stopping at the Spanish-speaking countries’ booths because I miss speaking Spanish and Latin culture.

I spent a good 15 minutes speaking with a Chilean woman who was really amazed at the cohesiveness of Israeli society. This is interesting because a lot of Israelis feel we have a very divided society. She pointed out that a lot of countries in Latin America feel unstable and on the brink of civil war. She talked about Venezuela and how she feared the country would descend into further chaos (a conflict Americans know little about even though it’s in their own hemisphere). That she felt there wasn’t any glue that bound that society together. It’s an interesting thought- that for all the conflict here, there is most definitely a strong social connection here that keeps things together despite the tensions. I think the United States would benefit from such a glue right now, because I had the distinct feeling when I lived there that there wasn’t really anything that united us. There are sociological reasons for it, but I hope that Americans can learn something from Israel which is that a sense of social solidarity- even with people you don’t always agree with- can help you overcome difficult moments in history.

Then, I headed to the concert. It was amazing! Thousands of people singing and cheering. Israeli flags waving. Song after song that I’ve sung- some of which I remember listening to on a CD in my living room as a 13-year-old- 18 years ago! Some Israelis like to hate on Mizrachi music. I can understand that everyone has different tastes, but for me it is literally the best music on the planet. It’s danceable, it’s full of religious imagery, it’s fun, it’s upbeat, and it’s full of emotion. Here’s a song I like by the artist I saw tonight to give you an idea of what it sounds like.

After the concert, I grabbed a cab to the Central Bus Station. The driver was Arab, so I spoke to him in Arabic, which made him very happy. Ahmed and I talked about dialect differences between Yafo and Jerusalem, his relationship with Jews (pleasant but not very deep because their neighborhoods are so separate in the city), and the importance of language in building relationships (he decided to learn Hebrew to learn about his neighbors). We talked about how crappy politicians are and that the real key to building peace is what we were doing- talking to each other. I tried to give him a tip but he wouldn’t let me. A truly kind and open-minded person.

Before getting on the bus to Tel Aviv, I heard loud music. Sure enough, behind me were a bunch of Breslover Hasidim dancing to techno music about their patron rabbi, Nachman of Uman. I started filming them and then just joined in. Because life is fun if you jump in!

I then headed to the bus. Now this part sucked at first. The ticket people oversold the bus- and this ride is over an hour long- so some people were standing or sitting in the aisle. I was one of those unlucky people. The bus was bumpy and it felt really unsafe. Frankly, it was the most unsafe I’ve felt in Israel. Which is interesting consider how the news media obsessively cover the Israeli-Palestinian conflict when really bad drivers are a way bigger threat to security.

Things in Israel often rapidly shift from amazing to awful and back to amazing again. My evening had been going great and then BOOM this was my plummet downwards. Once I got tired of my head banging against the seats as I sat, I stood up and started talking to the people in front of me. I chatted with one woman who, when I told her I was an oleh, told me her niece just moved here from New York. She said she is a soccer player and doesn’t know anyone here. Turns out she lives around the corner from me and I offered to show her around. A new potential friend. The woman also told me I had great Hebrew, which helped lift my spirits. Meanwhile, the young woman next to her was worried about missing her train back to Haifa at 1am, so the woman I was speaking with simply offered her a place to stay. They literally just met on the bus.

And just like that, my spirits began to lift as we approached the bus station. Any time I feel down in Israel (which, to be honest, happens almost every day at some point), I remember that things here turn on a dime. And that if I’m feeling sad or angry, things will turn for the better quickly and suddenly. And it works. It really happens.

This is a place with some serious sense of social solidarity, generosity, and kindness. Not words you’d typically associate with the Middle East, but they are absolutely true so please stop reading the New York Times and just come and experience it yourself.

A free notebook. A Mizrachi concert. Chileans. An Arab cab driver learning Hebrew. Dancing Hasidim. And new friends on a bumpy bus.

One night in Jerusalem.

Free baklava as the police sirens wail

Today, I had a stressful day.

I lost my debit card in the Golan Heights, my phone’s data plan stopped working, and I had a long bureaucratic meeting at the Ministry of Absorption. And that was all before noon.

It ended up working out, but I just felt exhausted and stressed. So, as has become my custom, I went for a walk by the beach. I called my friend Jack in Minnesota to wish him a happy birthday and made my way down the boardwalk to Yafo.

I miss Yafo. I’ve since moved to a new apartment in another part of town, but I used to live right by this beautiful 10,000 year old city. Every time I went, I just felt the stress lifted off my shoulders as I stared at the Mediterranean, listened to the waves, and talked with the people.

After eating some delicious schwarma, I headed to the Abouelafia bakery, site of my first in-depth Arabic conversation in Israel which you can read about here. I was in desperate need of a good talk with my friend Adnan but instead I found his much younger coworker Sager who I had met with him.

When I first met Sager a few weeks ago, he was quiet. I tried to engage, but Adnan and I did most of the talking and Sager looked uninterested.

When I came back this time, from the second our eyes met, Sager looked excited to see me.

He invited me in and we got to talking.

Over the past week, there has been rioting in Yafo. There have been Arabs protesting against the police, sometimes violently. I honestly don’t know all the details because I hate listening to the news.

Sager didn’t wait one moment to tell me his opinion. He is an Arab Muslim. He is from East Jerusalem. And in his experience, the police do ethnically profile here and it is quite unpleasant. At the same time, he is furious with the protestors, who are burning things and causing problems. He feels that they are unnecessarily damaging relations between Arabs and Jews, who he views as brothers. In addition, he is concerned for the livelihood of the bakery’s owners and his own job. If Jews and tourists are afraid to visit Yafo, then there won’t be any business. This pain will also hurt the dozens of Arab businesses in the area.

We talked about our shared hatred for extremism on all sides. How the rest of the world likes to obsess over every last problem between Israel and the Palestinians but the world is silent when hundreds of thousands of Syrians are butchered. I shared with him an Arabic poem I wrote in the Golan overlooking the Syrian border, which he loved. In his words, the Golan Heights it the most beautiful place on the planet and I think I agree with him.

We talked about what it’s like to be a minority. Most Jewish Israelis don’t know what it is to be a minority as a Jew. Part of that is a good thing- it’s a product of Zionism and it’s part of the blessing of having one small place on this planet where we are normal. Part of it is problematic- I think some folks here have lost sight of the Jewish experience and the sensitivity we’ve often had for other minorities. My minority identity, which was undoubtedly a burden in the U.S., is to my advantage here. I can enjoy all the blessings of a validated identity while showing empathy and kindness to the minorities I share this country with.

In between us singing Nancy Ajram and dancing dabke together (yes, this actually happened), Sager thanked me for speaking Arabic with him. Our whole conversation was in Arabic and while, like in any second language you speak, there were times I didn’t remember this or that word, we got our points across. My speaking Arabic has made living in Israel a much, much richer experience and frankly I think every Israeli should speak it. A fifth of the population already speaks it as a native language, not to mention our millions of Palestinian, Egyptian, Jordanian, Syrian, and Lebanese neighbors. You don’t have to speak it perfectly to speak it well- give it a shot. When you speak to someone in their language, their heart opens up. You will do more for peace by getting to know your neighbors than any lobbying effort or protest.

Finally, as we wrapped up, I wanted to head home and get some rest after a long day. I kept trying to pay, but he was attending to other customers. I was getting a little annoyed but he’s a good guy so I waited.

Then the sirens came. Firetrucks and police cars drove by, racing down the street and wailing. Sager told me they were dealing with the protestors again. Our hearts sunk for a moment.

Honestly, I felt pretty safe. In fact, I felt safer than in most areas of D.C. where I am originally from. Yeah I might choose to read the news a bit more, but also I might not. There’s some sense of tranquility with just being able to live in the moment and trust your instincts.

My instincts said that Sager was a good guy. I tried to pay for the baklava but he just nodded his head and told me to take it for free. We smiled at each other, gave each other a bro-ish high five, and I grabbed a cab home (better not to mess with buses when there’s rioting).

That’s Israel for you. Intercultural dialogue. Baklava. Racial profiling. Rioting. Sirens. Kindness. Brotherhood.

You can have your quiet suburb of Kansas City. I’ll take a place where a piece of baklava means so much more than Baskin Robbins.

Bombs during dinner

This weekend, I went to one of the most beautiful places on the planet, the Golan Heights. Please don’t bother reading the Wikipedia article, it’s a bunch of political nonsense and needs to be edited.

In short, the Golan Heights is the northernmost part of Israel. Once it was a part of Syria, but after Syria invaded Israel in 1967 and lost the war, Israel pushed back the Syrian soldiers and gained the Golan. The Golan is important strategically because it is high ground and for the first two decades of Israeli history, the Syrian Army used that advantage to pummel Israeli villages below in the Galilee.

Now, the Golan is home to both Jews and Arabs, with a slight Jewish majority. Arab communities include Druze, Muslims, and Alawites. The Arabs often identify as Syrian, although a number of them have adopted Israeli citizenship. It’s a very rural area and extremely green and beautiful. It’s kind of reminiscent of a Middle Eastern Vermont or Switzerland. Before I get into my story, here are some pictures to give you an idea (I visited the picturesque Galilee along the way so I’ll throw in a few from there too):

Friday afternoon, my friends and I went for a hike in the Galilee. A park ranger told my friend Jordan to get out of the creek and then told me I was wondering too far away. As with almost all tense situations in Israel, the awkwardness immediately dissipated when I started to talk to the guy. Turns out Muhammad is a Muslim Arab from the Golan, meaning his roots are in Syria. I spoke with him in Arabic and he started to open up to me. Turns out, Arabs in the Golan are afforded the very unique opportunity to go to college in Syria (this is astonishing because Syria and Israel are technically in a state of war and Syria doesn’t even recognize Israel. But as with all things in the Middle East, you find loopholes). He studied medicine in Damascus for a year, but then had to flee because of the civil war. He decided he didn’t like medicine (despite his parents’ wishes that he become a doctor- does this sound similar, Jewish friends?) and became a park ranger and enjoys being in the peace of the outdoors. He definitely had some delusional ideas about how great life is in Syria for its meager remaining Jewish community (after all, there is a reason almost all of them have left). That being said, he was also clearly a very open-minded and tolerant person open to people of all backgrounds. He is a person forging his own path (pun intended), something I can identify with.

After our hike, we went to a kibbutz to spend the night. To say this place was magical is an understatement. It’s the most romantic, scenic, and peaceful place I’ve ever been. And I’ve been to the Alps. It is a rural, progressive Jewish lifestyle, something that is almost non-existent in the United States. Not only is most of rural America conservative (whereas kibbutzim have socialist origins and still lean left), but also Jews as a minority need to be around lots of other Jews in order to make for a rich communal life. This partially explains the high concentration of Jews in New York, Boston, DC, Chicago, Miami, LA, San Francisco, Atlanta, etc. The same could be said for gay people, which is a big reason why I, as a gay Jew, have stuck to major urban areas in the U.S.

This is not the case in Israel. You can enjoy a progressive rural lifestyle and feel at home. No rednecks here 🙂

I have a deep love for nature and tranquility so I found the experience awe-inspiring and thoroughly relaxing. I wandered around the kibbutz and nearby and just felt at peace. I have a strong inclination to raise my family in a place like this in the future- somewhere safe, Jewish, open-minded, and surrounded by God’s beautiful plants and animals.

After singing “Lecha dodi” by a lake as the sun set over the mountains much like the first kabbalists in Tsfat, I came back to the house for Shabbat dinner. As we laughed and relaxed around the table, we heard a boom. And then another boom. And many more. We realized that those were bombs being dropped in Syria’s civil war. The border is just a few kilometers away. It was a somber reminder of the violence raging oh so close by. It’s one thing to hear about the civil war and quite another to simply hear it. I prayed to God for the safety of my brothers and sisters just across the border.

We then had a lovely dinner and I wandered around alone afterwards exploring the kibbutz, praying, dancing, just unwinding. I looked up at the moon and talked out loud to God. “God, thank you for this beautiful Kibbutz. God thank you for Shabbat and for the beauty of nature. God thank you for the opportunity to visit the Golan Heights. God, thank you for the gift of being an Israeli. For the gift of living in this place, for bringing me here. Where despite the news and despite the booms off in the distance, I feel safer than I ever have in my life. Help me to grow stronger and heal and to make your name great. To strengthen your people and to bring peace. Amen.”

I went inside, talked to a really hot Lebanese guy Ameer on Tinder across the (other) border, and got the best night’s sleep I’ve had in Israel yet.

That’s life in Israel- radically accepting that there are some things you can’t change (war and borders), and then thoroughly enjoying all the amazing things in front of you (trees, lakes, mountains, Judaism, good food, friends, and more). Never taking life for granted and, while things can be sad or scary, rather than being paralyzed, just enjoying the hell out of the blessings you’ve got.

It was a little scary and sad to hear those booms in the distance. At the same time, I can honestly say that I actually felt safer at this kibbutz than in America. Here, I feel my identity is validated, that I’m a part of a big national family, and that I’m enjoying life to the fullest. It’s worth the risks because life here is so much better for me.

And who knows, one day maybe Ameer and I will be able to cross the border and pick up where we left off last night 😉

Alabaman Arabs and the Western Wall

Yes, that is what happened to me today.

Today, I took my first trip outside of Tel Aviv since making aliyah and went to Jerusalem. I decided to go to the Kotel, known in English as the “Western Wall” or the “Wailing Wall”. It’s the last remaining wall of the Second Temple built in Jerusalem for the purposes of Jewish worship. Basically, it’s the most sacred site on the planet for Jews.

It’s been at least 12 years since I was at the Wall and I was very excited to go back. My anticipation was building as I made my way through the markets of the Old City. This was the place my ancestors came from, the site that informs all Jewish spirituality. Even today’s Jewish rituals and prayers are modeled after the Temple rituals. The cruelty of the Roman Empire that destroyed the Temple couldn’t defeat our faith.

As I thought these powerful thoughts and felt these deep emotions, I came upon a sign that said “Alabama, the heart of Dixie”. I had to re-read the sign a good two or three times before I realized yes, I was staring at a trilingual sign that said “Alabama” in English, Hebrew, and Arabic. I felt like I was in some dystopian novel. On what planet is there a University of Alabama store in the middle of the holiest city on earth?

Sure enough, it was an entire store dedicated to the University of Alabama owned by Arabs. I met the kids running the store, who were sweet. I spoke with them in Arabic and it turns out one of the kids’ dads studied at University of Alabama and became a huge fan. I asked who exactly comes to their store, given the small number of Alabamans in Jerusalem, and they said lots of people came by. I have to give them props for marketing because it obviously drew me in!

They had mugs and signs that said “Roll Tide” in Hebrew and Arabic. For especially my Israeli friends who don’t understand this, watch this video. Alabaman fans are particularly fanatical (about their team) and unabashedly southern, so even as an American it was a total curiosity to see a Palestinian store dedicated to probably the most Republican place in the country.

And there it was. I had a great conversation with the kids and their uncle- they’re very funny and friendly. And then I walked to the Western Wall.

When I got to the wall, I tried praying once and it was pretty good but didn’t feel super powerful. It ended up being a warm up.

I chatted with some German tourists and then went back for round two. I grabbed a tallit from some Chabad guys (I was smart enough to tell them from the get-go that I didn’t want to lay tefillin, but of course they tried anyways, and of course I said “no thank you” and did what I wanted).

I then headed back to myself and enshrouded myself in the tallit, giving me a sense of privacy and direct connection to God and my inner spirit. It was like my own personal synagogue. I now started to open up. I noticed a kid next to me. He was probably in high school. I had talked to his group earlier- they were Reform students from the U.K., from the same Jewish movement I belong to. It felt powerful for us to pray next to each other given the Israeli government’s recent rejection of Reform prayer spaces at the Western Wall.

After a few moments, he stood there by myself and just started crying. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. And one of the most sincere.

As I peered through the hole in my tallit at him and heard him wailing, I started to well up with emotion and sob. I thought of all my ancestors who walked this land. That their hands built this Temple and this very city. That it’s because of the sacrifices of millions upon millions of Jews who were butchered mercilessly for over 2,000 years by Babylonians and Greeks and Romans and Catholics and Klansmen and Spaniards and Portuguese and Germans and Poles and Russians and Protestants and Arabs and Muslims and on and on and on. They laid down their lives for me. Most of them could only dream and pray for the day when they would be able to return to our homeland and pray at our holiest site. And I carry their prayers in my heart.

When I decided to make aliyah, some of my friends asked me questions like “do you know anyone there?” and “have you ever been there?”. Yes I do and yes I have. If you’re a very active Jew, you almost certainly know people in Israel and you’ve visited. Totally innocent questions, but ones you might typically ask someone moving somewhere far and exotic like Vietnam or Zimbabwe.

Israel may be Zimbabwe for you, but it is not for me. Even though before making aliyah I had only been here twice, it is not a strange and foreign place. While there are for sure cultural differences that I continue to learn about, this is not a colony. This is not a destination. This is not a stint abroad.

This is my homeland. It is the source of my religious beliefs and my cultural heritage. It is my people whose traditions gave rise to both Christianity and Islam many generations later. Its stones cry out with the tears and laughter of my forefathers and foremothers.

It is a place that belongs to me as a right that my people have fought long and hard for. The right to pray at our ancient holy sites free of violence or discrimination. As recently as 1967, I could not have prayed at the Western Wall because Jordanian troops wouldn’t allow it.

The point is this: I am a Zionist because I believe I am not “moving to a new place” but rather because I am returning to the place I come from. A place that has room for me to pray in peace at the Western Wall, for my Christians friends to visit the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and for my Muslim friends to pray at the Al-Aqsa mosque. And even to own an Alabaman t-shirt shop.

Amen.

Eating baklava with a Palestinian

This is going to be really hard to summarize in a blog, but I’m going to give it a go.

Tonight, I had baklava with a Palestinian.

On an evening stroll in Yafo, I stopped by the Abouelafia bakery. It’s a renowned Middle Eastern bakery that attracts people of all faiths and backgrounds. As I like to do, I started speaking Arabic with a middle-aged gentleman working there named Adnan.

Since we’re in the Middle East, instead of exchanging pleasantries and saying “nice to meet you”, I invited him to sat down with me and we talked for about two hours. Also important to add that this conversation was fueled by lots of baklava and knafeh. And it was delicious.

First things first- Adnan is a cool guy. He helped me hand-pick the best baklava (there were easily two dozen kinds). He put on Nancy Ajram for me. He told me I spoke great Arabic. He’s even letting me come back and pay him tomorrow since I didn’t realize they were cash only. Because that’s how we do here.

We talked about everything. Bibi (we both don’t like him). Abu Mazen (we both don’t like him). Hamas (we both don’t like them). And politicians in general (we both don’t really like them).

We also talked about the shared history of Arabs and Jews, as carriers of two of the world’s oldest civilizations. Our shared linguistic heritage (Hebrew and Arabic are both Semitic languages). Our love of learning.

I told him how half of the students in my college Arabic class were Jewish and that many spoke Hebrew, so when the Moroccan professor started speaking on the first day, many Jews were laughing and nodding along with him. And the non-Jewish students were totally confused. Because Jews and Arabs have a shared cultural heritage.

Then we delved deeper into politics. First, he said that he has no problem with Jews. Jews and Arabs are regular people who just want to eat, sleep, drink, educate their children, and live a happy life. He said his family’s neighbors back in 1948 (before Israel’s independence) were Jewish. His family is from East Jerusalem.

East Jerusalem. We could unpack that phrase for literally eons and still be talking. So let’s sum it up- in 1948, Israel’s Arab neighbors invaded the nascent country. Israel won its independence and the parts of the U.N. mandate that were supposed to be a new Arab country were annexed by Egypt (the Gaza Strip) and Jordan (the West Bank). Jerusalem was divided, with the western part in Israeli hands and eastern part in Jordanian hands. In 1967, when Israel’s neighbors again tried to invade, they were rebuffed, and Israel won Gaza and the West Bank, including East Jerusalem, home to many Jewish, Muslim, and Christian holy sites.

While Israel never formally annexed the West Bank and Gaza Strip, it did so with East Jerusalem. The political reasons are complex, but part of the rationale was that Jerusalem was Israel’s (now unified) capital and home to the holiest site in Judaism- the Temple Mount. Under Jordanian rule, Jewish holy sites were neglected or destroyed and Israelis weren’t allowed to visit them.

The point of this isn’t to rehash history or to debate politics. It’s to say that since Adnan is from East Jerusalem, he is different from other Arab citizens of Israel. Arab-Israelis who live in pre-1967 Israel are full voting citizens and variously identify as Arab-Israelis, Arabs, Israelis, Palestinians, or Palestinian-Israelis. More often than not in public discourse, they are referred to as Arab-Israelis, though people’s personal identifications may vary.

Folks from East Jerusalem, however, are largely permanent residents, which entitles them to many government services including healthcare. They are eligible to apply for citizenship if they renounce foreign citizenships, which is a complicated issue involving national identity and bureaucratic red tape.

Going back to the story, Adnan tells me that even though he had Israeli citizenship, since he spent seven years abroad working in Romania (which, incidentally, is where some of my family lived before immigrating to America), when he tried to return to Israel, they told him he had lost his citizenship. Even though he was born in Jerusalem and his family has lived there for who knows how many generations.

Eventually he got Romanian citizenship, came back, and then through a process of waiting for three years in Israel without being able to travel abroad, he became a citizen again.

I’ve tried to avoid writing about the Israeli-Arab conflict on this blog because I’m sick and tired of people thinking that’s the only thing that’s going on in this region. There’s a lot of life and beauty here and I can’t think of a single friend who visited China showing concern over the plight of Tibetans (which they should- they’re being violently oppressed by the Chinese government). The point is I want my journey to be about so much more than that- and I’m tired of the media turning both Israelis and Palestinians into monkeys for the world to watch while other countries deteriorate without notice.

And the conflict is here. You can’t totally avoid it, no matter what you do. It landed on my lap because I talked to a guy at a bakery for goodness sakes.

I’ve spoken to many Arab-Israelis in Yafo and had a great time. Things aren’t always great for them either, but they’re pretty good. I spent 30 minutes the other day in a McDonald’s talking to an Arab-Israeli girl who’s going to an Anime convention in Ramat Gan and speaks perfect Arabic, Hebrew, and English (in addition to the Japanese she’s learning). If she lives abroad in Japan, she won’t lose her citizenship, thank God.

But Adnan is not an Arab-Israeli. He’s a Palestinian (in his own words). He’s a Palestinian with Israeli residency, caught between a right-wing Israeli government and the absolute insanity that is Palestinian politics. He lives in a place claimed by two peoples and on some level, isn’t allowed to really fully be a part of either.

I am proud to have made aliyah. Aliyah in Hebrew means “rising up”. It is not just immigration. It is a process by which a Jew returns to the Holy Land to live with his or her people. It is an adventure and a blessing. I am grateful to the Israeli people and the Israeli government for giving me the opportunity of a lifetime.

Adnan’s a great guy and also has some problematic and contradictory thinking. He doesn’t like Zionists and likes Jews (a whole lot of us are Zionists especially here). He said that Arabs have always treated Jews well historically and that hasn’t always been true. When he went to get his citizenship back, he ridiculed the Ethiopian-Israeli at the embassy saying she didn’t look like she was from Israel.

The point is not to make Adnan out to be some idealized perfect person or some terrible anti-Semitic monster. He’s a complicated person with a good heart. The point of aliyah is to rise up. I have a right to be here. Jews have a right to be here and to protect ourselves from harm. And Arabs – Palestinians – have a right to be here too.

I will use my aliyah to lift myself and my people up. And I will use it to lift up Palestinians like Adnan who lose their citizenship when moving abroad while I gain mine for moving here.

If my government can support me in building a new life here, surely it can let Adnan keep his dignity. Those are my Jewish values.

A hopeful story from the Middle East

In case you haven’t been reading the news (don’t worry if that’s the case- I don’t read it either), the Middle East is heating up this summer, and I’m not just talking about the day it was 103 degrees on the heat index last week.

There are tensions on the Syria-Israel border (in addition to the whole civil war there). There are also tensions on the Temple Mount in Jerusalem- the place where the Jewish temples of old stood and where the Al-Aqsa Mosque currently stands atop the Western Wall. If you don’t know what those are- don’t worry. The point is they’re all Jewish and Islamic holy sites. Two Israeli Druze policemen were killed by Palestinian terrorists on the Temple Mount and other Palestinian terrorists murdered a family having Shabbat dinner in the West Bank. Meanwhile, Palestinians are protesting the addition of metal detectors on the site of the first terrorist attack. I honestly haven’t read enough to know the details, but needless to say, there are probably provocative politicians on all sides who’d like to take advantage of this moment to escalate things.

So the only thing that really matters from that whole paragraph for the purpose of this blog is: shit is intense here. I am living in a powder keg. A powder keg I love and is full of beauty. And also lots of problems. Good thing I found a new friend in my building today who was hula hooping outside at 3 in the afternoon to hip hop music, because I gladly joined him for a little break from the heaviness.

In the midst of this chaos, there is also hope and it’s the kind of good stuff you will never, and I repeat never, see in any newspaper- not in Israel and most certainly not abroad. The thing you have to experience here.

The other day, I had a cab driver named Samir. Samir is a clearly Arab name so as I like to do, I spoke with him in Arabic. Turns out he’s Bedouin and from Haifa, which is quite interesting because most Bedouin live in the Negev Desert down south, a testament to their nomadic desert roots. Turns out, he’s married to a Kavkazi Jewish woman who converted to Islam in order for them to be married. In Israel, all marriage is through religious channels, so if you want an interfaith marriage, you have to go to Cyprus to get a civil marriage and come back. We’ll save more details for a future blog. He and his wife are raising their kids Muslim but they speak Hebrew at home and are sending their kids to a Jewish school (they could have opted for an Arabic-language school instead). In addition, the kids are currently quadrilingual and are in elementary school. They speak Hebrew, Arabic, Kavkazi (a Jewish language related to Persian), and Azerbaijani. They will also learn English in school, making them quintilingual by middle school.

We talked about the immense cultural and religious diversity his children will experience. He said he wants them to know about Judaism and Islam and other cultures and religions. I told him how in the U.S., people of all different backgrounds study, play, and grow up together. It was an amazing, complex, and beautiful bit of gray space in a land where all too often things seem black and white.

I’d like to encourage you to spend a little less time on NewYorkTimes.com or Haaretz and a little more time getting to know real people. People in your neighborhood, people around the world. If you have the chance to come here (or already live here), let’s explore together. If you’re in another city, get to know your neighbors. It is good to be well-read and it is also not the only way to be well-informed. Step outside your comfort zone, embrace your humanity, and we’ll see our way out of this crisis. Or at least get a well-deserved break in an oasis of peace. One conversation at a time.

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