Don't Worry, The Blogosphere Is Behind You

RivkA's death has really driven home a point. Yes, the blogosphere really is a community. Of friends, compatriots, supporters, rivals, and everything in between.

On Friday at her shiva -- how odd, and empty, to be in RivkA's home, without her there! -- this topic came up in discussion with her mother and father. Like my own parents, they could not understand at first what would possess a person to write (and especially in RivkA's case, so openly and personally) to a vitual audience, "somewhere out there." After a time, they came to appreciate the regular updates, her shared thoughts, and especially, her very real blogosphere friends.

In RivkA's case, she was a source of information and inspiration to many, many people. Her writing brought people together. As I told her mother on Friday, whenever I read RivkA's blog, I felt the acute presence of others reading alongside me, a tangible community of supporters and friends.

This afternoon I had one of those -- dare I say it -- "Israeli" experiences... and there was Treppenwitz, right there behind me. You can read his whole piece here (recommended), but meanwhile, here's the the part that hit home:

Sadly, when faced with an immigrant making a formal complaint about a perceived insult (even when the insult can't possibly be open to perception and/or interpretation), the default response of many people in this country is, "You must not have understood...", or "That was not my intention...".

This is doubly frustrating for a non-native Hebrew speaker because even in cases where the insult is so glaring as to be beyond misinterpretation, the immigrant is often expected to feign difficulty with the language in order to allow the insulter to climb down from their tree and save face.

Ahh, so true, I nodded as I read along. And so sad, so frustrating. We've all felt this at some point, but for me today's experience took the cake. For the first time in a long time, I felt a tinge of regret for having moved here.

Here I was, standing in front (underneath, really -- it was cranked up on the repair lift) of my decade-old Beloved Renault, the recent victim of an unfortunate but -- thank God -- harmless accident,* with the insurance assessor trying to convince me that he had not listed the obvious damage to the ABS on the insurance claim because I hadn't initially reported it (I had) and maybe I hadn't understood him properly.

Oh uh, Mister Assessor. Now you've done it. Deep breath, short pause. Think of Treppenwitz, and Rev Up Your Engines.

I let the assessor have it. With a capital IT: Don't you dare pull that one. I understood you perfectly. And you know it.

He yelled, I countered (two rounds). He relented. I got the repair approved.

Thank you, David Bogner, for reminding me that I do understand. Perfectly.

Keep the balance,

ALN

* Wouldn't ya know it? Two days prior to the accident, I'd signed on a trade-in deal to have someone pay me to take the Beloved Renault off my hands. Murphy's Law, still valid. Or maybe just Freud. Oy.

Scales are Tipped Down, Way Down, by the PA

Since beginning pediatric hospital work over a decade ago, I've shown a tendency to divide circumstances -- that is, reasons for hospitalization -- into two artificially neat categories:  Man-made, and G-d-made.  

Examples of the former include falls from upper-story windows, hot-water burns, and car "accidents."  The latter run a spectrum, from "less serious," (i.e. dangerous but curable) illnesses like RSV, Hanoch-Schlein and cellulitis, to acutely life-threatening maladies like Crohn's, SCID, CF, and acute myeloid leukemia.  

Believe it or not, in many ways I had a much harder time in Pediatric Surgical, working with kids injured as a result of the "man-made" stuff.  Why?  I was constantly troubled by the thought that most of the injuries there were preventable;  Falls resulting from unsupervised climbs along an unfenced roof edge or an unbarred third-story window.  Shabbat kettle burns?  See Prof K's posts, here and here, for more on that.  (Yes, I've referenced these before, and I'll probably keep doing it until the problem is no more).  Car-related injuries?   I won't start ranting here about street safety or seat belt use, but please pretend I did.

As for the G-d-made part -- we can't prevent that stuff.  It's just not our jurisdiction.  We can only try to cure it.  And if we cannot cure a child's illness, we can still try to help that child find comfort and meaning until the end.

But now we are stuck in a new situation, where life-threatening, G-d-made circumstances have been further complicated by man-made decisions.

I am, of course, referring to the February 1, 2009 decision of the Palestinian Authority to cease nearly all payments to Israeli hospitals, thereby cutting off hundreds of Palestinian children (and adults) with life-threatening illnesses from the medical care they need. 

  

Let's not turn this situation into another political discussion.  Because for me, and so many others, this is not a theoretical situation involving some unnamed, unknown enemy.  This is a new reality, where over fifty children, all of which I know personally on one level or another -- some for several years now -- have been given a death sentence by way of a governmental policy of collective medical neglect.

When I let myself think about it, or when circumstances force me to think about this new reality, sadness creeps in and hits me, literally, in the face.  Our department is half empty, which for us staff members could be viewed as a glass half-full, since we've been working at a slower pace these past few weeks and can take a few minutes to breathe now and then.

But then someone like A -- a beautiful, bright and sensitive teenage girl whom we have been treating for a leukemia for the past four months -- suddenly shows up in our department with a nearly lethal systemic infection because she no longer had a commitment from the PA to pay for her treatments.

What about all the others?  Some of them are in touch with us by phone, while others have been so difficult to contact, it's as if they have disappeared into thin air.   All are pleading desperately, crying at the desks of the PA bureaucrats who have the power to make a life-changing decision but choose not to.  These officials have claimed they will sponsor parallel treatment in an Egyptian, Jordanian, or even Europe -- anywhere but Israel -- but with very few exceptions, we've yet to encounter evidence that our patients are receiving any treatment whatsoever.   

Every once in awhile a rumor flits through the department -- that so-and-so has died of a deadly infection in some PA hospital somewhere.  So far these rumors have proven false, but it's only a matter of time before they are not.  Chemotherapy protocols are measured in days and hours.  A lost week is an acute risk;  a lost month, or even a fever, is a death sentence.  

If we could treat for free, we would.  But we can't, because the funding would come out of our department budget, such that within a month even one patient's treatment would empty the coffers and shut down the department.  A few of our staff have even dug into their pockets so that certain individual patients could have this one medical test or that course of life-saving antibiotics.  A few miniscule drops into a very deep bucket.

This past Monday we were all relieved to learn that A's family managed to confirm her East Jerusalem resident status, allowing us to continue the treatment that will, most likely, save her life.  This morning, the Palestinian Authority's Committee of Medical Exceptions purportedly met to review the list of children requesting funding in to continue treatment in Israeli hospitals for long-term, life-threatening illnesses.  

I can only hope that tomorrow morning, all of our lost patients will be knocking down our doors, PA funding commitments in hand.

Keep the balance,

ALN

____

While this situation has affected patients in hospitals throughout the country, for whatever reason most of the (limited) PR refers to Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem.  See the NY Times piece here, and the JTA piece here.

The Many Ways It Touches Us

In Israel, six degrees of separation is going way overboard.  One or two usually suffices.  

I'm relieved that -- for now -- my family and I have remained one or two degrees of separation from unending worry and shocking tragedy.  But within two degrees of separation, there are far too many examples. Here are a few:

I.

One co-worker, H, had just returned from a family holiday in Eilat over Chanukah, only to hear that the first missile to reach a house beyond Sderot crashed into her sister-in-law's apartment, injuring their teenage daughter.  A week afterwards the girl was out of the ICU and -- thank G-d -- on her way to physical recovery.  Her emotional recovery will take much longer.  Two weeks later, H receives word that another relative, a nephew, has been injured and evacuated.   One of her own children is serving, and she knows what could be.  She tries not to think about it.

II.

A classmate leans over toward my computer last week in the middle of class.  She has left her kids with their regular "babysitters," their grandparents -- her own parents -- in Be'er Sheva. They watched the missile fall into the kindergarten across the street, felt the BOOM rock their apartment.  Now they're afraid to leave the house, but this evening they've decided to spend a few minutes in the mall down the street, just for some air and a change of surroundings.  Now my classmate has her mobile phone in hand;  she insists on checking the internet news every few minutes.  Just in case.

III.

My cousin sends an email explaining that while her son, recently drafted, is still in training and therefore will not be going into Gaza, he is often sent to the border to provide security and support to the soldiers.  One of his closest friends lies in the ICU, critically injured after fighting in Gaza.  His friends are filled with worry and guilt that they cannot be by his side.

IV.

My friend and neighbor S. commutes to Be'er Sheva every morning.  She relates the time when she was mentally preparing herself;  She rolls down her car window and turns up the radio, should there be a warning siren during her drive.  No sooner is the window open and

 rrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrr.

She stops the car, lies down alongside it, hands over her head and neck.  She explains to me that the missile shrapnel flies up to a height of 30 cm, so lying down flat is pretty good protection. She notes that our bomb shelter room ("Mamad," ממ"ד), like theirs, is on the North side of the house, so it will provide pretty good protection should the missiles start raining down on us. Meanwhile, she watches missiles falling over Be'er Sheva from her tenth-story office window, keeps her purse accessible under her chair, and cuts off telephone calls to run to the shelter when the siren wails.  I express amazement that she is still willing to come to work every day.  It's not the same as living there, she reminds me.  I come home to quiet every night.  It's not like my kids are sleeping all together with us in the shelter and we're waking up several times a night to throw them down onto the rug.*

V.

Another coworker, N, is safe (for now).   Her family is not.   She lives in Jerusalem.  Her brothers and sister and their children live in Gaza, along the coast.   Her phone is on all the time.  Her family has no electricity.  No heat.  They don't go out, to work or school.  Their only source of information is a small, battery-powered radio, which tells them whether the most recent bombings and incursions are anywhere near their home.  Every time N talks to her brother, she tells me, she makes sure to say a real good-bye.  She is afraid it will be the last time. 

VI.

A senior staff member is as close to beside herself as I've ever seen her.  Her son is being drafted tomorrow.  He will not be in Gaza, but her thoughts are there.  She doesn't spend too much time watching all those films showing soldiers and bombings and house raids, but she cannot stop thinking about it.   We can only imagine what's going on there, she tell me, emotion filling her voice.  Our army has killed 600 of them.  Six hundred.  I can't get my mind around it. Women, children.  Families.  Here I am, safe in my home, enjoying my every day activities, while over there... Nothing good ever comes when we fight.  Their next generation will only learn more hate.

* * * * *

A friend's husband, a security expert, is in the reserves along the Gazan border and comes home every night at two in the morning.  A psychologist colleague has been called up to counsel traumatized soldiers.  An oncology patient from Gaza in the hospital for treatments, worried about his father and siblings while facing a completely different threat to his own life.  Countless colleagues have children in the army.  They jump whenever their phones ring, half-apologizing for their edginess.  We give them knowing looks and continue our day.

  * * * * *

This war -- like all wars here -- has been full of the kind of wrenching decisions, moral dilemmas, and wide-scale destruction that hurt to contemplate.  Eight years of missiles onto our compatriots in Sderot?  Too much.  The killing of children forced to be human shields? Disgusting.  Our soldiers running from house to mosque, flying overhead, facing split-second, life-threatening decisions?  Painful.   I want it to stop, want a modicum of quiet, and safety, and security, and reason, to reign.  But it doesn't.

For now I have avoided the more graphic media, the photos and films.  I read some Hebrew-language articles, and tune in to some of the American media.  Knowing what is going on, on both sides, is terrible.  Often I find it hard enough walking through those hospital doors every day, and I'm not looking for more questions no one can answer.  I understand why we had to go in there and try to put an end to it.  But I worry, because I know that all that violence and destruction will not stop the hate, and hate keeps Hamas going, and going. 

I go to bed every night to the slightly-faint echo of bombs, and wake up in the morning, in the dark, again to the sound of bombs.  I try to fit my mind around the simultaneous feelings of relief and sorrow that follow those sounds.

I think Shoilem Aleichem (via Joseph Stein's screenplay) put it best in our favorite classic, Fiddler on the Roof:

Townsperson: Why should I break my head about the outside world?  Let the outside world break its own head....

Tevye: He is right...

Perchik: Nonsense. You can't close your eyes to what's happening in the world.

Tevye: He's right.

Rabbi's pupil: He's right, and he's right.  They can't both be right!

Tevye:  (Pause). You know, you are also right.

Only, this is no outside world.  Not even close to six degrees' worth.  This is here, and this is us.

Keep the balance, and keep safe.

ALN

Customer's Rights...

Isn't this heartwarming...

HOT Cable Systems Media Ltd. (TASE: HOT) was recently handed a court order to pay NIS 2,750 to a customer for the financial damage caused him when their technician failed to turn up....

The "Technicians Law" was recently enacted under which customers who wait longer than two hours for a technician are entitled to receive NIS 300 compensation from the company without any need to prove damage and NIS 600 for waiting more than three hours after the appointed time.

Read the rest here at Globes Online.  For those of us who've been waiting for the asimon* to drop over here in the Middle East, it's finally happening.  Spread the word.

Keep the balance,

ALN

* An asimon is (or rather, was) a token used in public phones.  It was about the size of a nickel, with a hole in the middle and a groove running through the center.  The Hebrew phrase nafal li ha-asimon -- נפל לי האסימון -- is the equivalent of "the penny dropped," i.e. I finally figured it out.  We still say it, despite the fact that these coins have long been replaced by plastic cards, which hardly anyone uses these days anyway, considering the national average of  +/-1.5 cellphones per person here in Israel.

Don't Panic! HH # 190 Is Here

The U.S. elections are over, and it's time to calm down and get to work.  Take the time to enjoy HH #190, available right here at Jewlicious.

(And for those of you in Israel, remember to vote in the municipal elections tomorrow.  Finding a balanced candidate will be tough, but we can try).

Keep the balance,

ALN

What We're Used To

What began as a comments on Conversation in Klal's recent Seminary post (read her post first to understand the context of mine) has morphed into its own entity.

My year in seminary, here in Israel, was one of the most meaningful and impacting in my life, both in terms of learning, and being in Israel. During that year, I learned more about Jewish thought and practice than all years prior or thereafter. I spent time with incredible teachers, who opened their homes to us throughout the year. My hesed (community service) project was working with kids in the hospital, which eventually led me to... a career working with kids in the hospital. I grew up in a nonreligious home and attended public school, so I had quite a lot of catching up to do in terms of Jewish learning, but by age 18 I was mature enough to make up quite a bit of it in only one short but intensive year. (I wanted to stay on for a second year, but that's another story...) My Rabbanit helped prepare me for the year by tutoring me in some pre-catch up catch up, and my parents generously funded a summer in ulpan to help me improve my Hebrew. (Ulpan was an intensive experience in an of itself, but that is yet another story, for another time,. In retrospect, the time and money investment proved invaluable later, when I returned to Israel to stay). Yes, that year was expensive (seminary cost less then, but still). I am thankful that my parents could afford it, and that they chose to support my wishes to attend seminary in Israel. I am fully aware that these days, this type of expense does not fit into many family budgets.

But allow me to look at the economic issue another way (and like Prof K, I'll probably get some flak for this too, and so be it). You might say my parents had more money to spend on one year of seminary because they didn't "waste" money all those years paying outrageously extravagant day school tuition, when there was an excellent public school freely available two blocks away. Back then, my family didn't have a choice -- unlike today, there were no Jewish private school options anywhere near my home town -- but if we're talking about educational luxuries, why stop at seminary? Some (I among them) would argue that Jewish day schools, with their ridiculous high prices, should not automatically be considered a necessity these days, but rather, a luxury. I would guess that the cost of a semi-private tutor for Jewish studies, split among the families even a small group of kids, has got to be significantly less than day school tuition.  

I know most religious Jewish people outside of Israel view Jewish day school as a given, and that no parent in his right mind would dare send his kids to public school. But those of us who didn't have the option as kids, don't necessarily view it as a necessity now, either.  Would religious families who chose to send their kids to local public schools, despite the availability of a local Jewish school, be shunned by the community? My guess is, yes, they would.

I see the irony in the idea that my own kids are growing up in a completely different situation, where public school IS Jewish school and costs under $1000/year (including books). Despite the many advantages, I'm not completely comfortable with the state education system having such a dominant role in the formulation of my children's religious beliefs. But -- you guessed it -- that's another story.

Maybe it all comes down to what we're used to...

Keep the balance,

ALN

The Legacy We Could Have Gained

I have to agree with David Bogner here at Treppenwitz.   We all know there were some - a very few -  that were misguided enough to support the assassination.  But shame on those self-appointed Leftist "leadership" (capital L), whose character assassinations demonstrate that they would rather be staunchly Left, than right.  

Like so many others, I remember being shocked and saddened on that Saturday night in November, and in the days that followed when I stood in line, along with people of all ages, religious and political beliefs, to pay our last respects at the Knesset.   

The mourning of an assassinated prime minister should never have become a political event.  It is a national event, a national loss, a national disgrace.  In the shadow of Rabin's assassination, our country's "leaders" did nothing to encourage a feeling of unity, and by now I fear we have gotten used to this national bifurcation as the status quo, even -- especially? -- on national days of mourning.

Not nearly enough balance here.

ALN

Border Issues

I don't blog politics.  Why is that?  Maybe because there's no trace of balance in politics, making it a lost cause from the start, as far as this blogger is concerned.  I also prefer not to compare apples and oranges, but in this case I'm living, or have lived, close enough to each of these situations to feel the relevancy.

I am referring to state borders and the fences that demarcate them.   This piece appeared in last Tuesday's NY Times, with an accompanying slide show. I found interesting the photo below, showing the simple barbed wire that later progressed into a taller, chained-linked fence, and which is now on its way to being a double fence separated by a no-man's land. 

Pat Nixon, the former first lady, at a dedication of Border Field State Park in 1971. "I hate to see a fence anywhere," she said. 

I know next to nothing about the former First Lady's politics or belief system, but I believe that she did hate to see a fence, probably because it reminds her of the suffering that has always accompanied the building of border fences -- the splitting up of families, suffering of children, economic upheaval, sickness, and loss of hope for the future.   

Seeing the fence would put her human, emotional side at odds with her intellectual understanding of the need for such a fence, and the ramifications of not having one. Forty years ago, the U.S. could only begin to imagine the effects of a mass illegal Central American immigration on the state and national economy, health care and education systems, water needs, and many, many other sectors of society.

So by now you've probably figured out the other border that comes to mind what else I'm thinking about... the wall (alternately referred to as a fence, since in places it does alternate between the two) marking the boundary between pre- and post-1967 Israel, and clearly visible from our house.  

(This view is actually from our neighbors' back garden, since it's clearer than the one from our balcony).

I remember the days before the wall was completed... the multiple car and animal thefts, the helicopter searches for potential terrorists in the valley below our moshav,* the afternoon shut-down of the mall in the city a few kilometers away due to terror warnings (apparently the bombers reached the mall, realized something was amiss, and were caught by the border patrol as they tried to cross back over the border).  Make no mistake:  I am happy the wall is there, because I know that without it, our lives were directly threatened.

I'm aware, as Mrs. Nixon was, that we pay a human price every time we demarcate a boundary and reinforce a border, and also that we pay a different price, both human and economic, every time we don't.  For years we have continued to live for years with a boundary situation that does not fit into a neat category, about which we as a nation have not reached a consensus, and concerning which most of the world feels an obligation to judge us, time and again, despite a naive and simplistic analysis of a very complex situation. And if that weren't enough, we are being "led" by politicians who cannot seem to get their personal or national priorities straight on the most basic of levels.

When I first read the NY Times article, I felt a moment of, Ah!  Take that, California, before you continue to condemn us for protecting our country and its citizens.  

No, this is far from a new issue.  California, and the entire U.S., have been dealing with immigration issues for years, long before President Bush, and long, long before 9/11.  Despite the numerous differences, do we have something to learn from U.S. policy?  Perhaps, but -- bottom line -- most of their considerations are still economic ones.  As much as economics has a direct effect on people's lives, for the most part in the U.S. it isn't considered to be an issue of national survival.  (Well, maybe these days it is...)

As for our multiple difficulties over here, I'm trying to keep a long-term perspective;  after all, with 158 years of statehood under their belts, even California is still trying to figure things out.  

I'm not sure if we should find that scary or reassuring.

.שבת שלום

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

* In case you're wondering, our moshav was incorporated by Jews of North African descent in 1964 who chose to come to Israel but wanted little to do with the state's policy of dumping them upon their arrival in what was then the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night).

Update: (Less) Absurdity in Equal Measures

Apparently I'm not one of those who can keep a blog up-to-date while getting a home up-to-date for the hagim.  לא נורא - lo nora, as they say -- no harm done.  Sometimes keeping the balance means dropping one side for awhile when the other side gets too heavy.

Speaking of balance, I am happy to update this post with some excellent news. Last month, the Minhal MiKarka'ay Yisrael (Israel Land Administration) reconsidered its original decision, according to which moshavim and kibbutzim would have been charged for using their land to install solar collectors, and will now allow them to place solar collector panels on up to ten percent of their property, without paying charges or penalties.  According to one of our local community publications,

... During its last meeting, the Administration board decided that there is an urgent need to encourage the establishment of alternative enterprises to produce electricity and renewable energy.  The board backed its decision by citing the rising price of fuel and electricity, and the growing awareness of the need to preserve the environment.

I see this as an important and encouraging step forward, on two fronts:  The decision itself shows foresight and stays in step with recent national developments encouraging the development of alternative energy sources, a process we, as a country, cannot afford to hinder in any way.  This link, in Hebrew, outlines the historic June 2008 decision to allow private individuals to sell electricity back to the grid.  A synopsis in English is available here, c/o Good News from Israel.

More importantly, by reversing its original, flawed decision, the Minhal is demonstrating flexibility in its willingness to support the ability of the kibbutzim and moshavim to continue to use their primary resource, land, for the good of the entire country.  

Historically, decisions akin to this one meant that to encourage agricultural production for the whole of the nation, the kibbutzim were granted large portions of a limited resource, water, at a reduced price.  As a result they were able to feed the country, as well as providing top-notch produce for export, but over the years many of them became sloppy in their water usage and wasted an embarrassing amount of it.

As I see it, the Minhal's decision now provides a correction of past wastefulness, as it allows the kibbutzim and moshavim to take full advantage of a natural resource, solar energy, that doesn't seem to be running out any time soon.  No oil, not nearly enough rain, but sun?  It's the one thing we've got plenty of...

מועדים לשמחה -- Have a wonderful Sukkot.

Keep the balance,

ALN

A Beautiful Collection

Just jumped over to Me-ander's beautiful photo carnival.  Highly recommended - she's got some real gems up there.

גמר חתימה טובה

ALN

Speaking of Jet Lag, Part 2

We don't actually have to go anywhere to develop a national jet lag.

In the midst of cajoling our memories to backtrack and retrack our conversation, my friend S. and I found ourselves sharing a mutual sympathy for the unwanted exhaustion following that wacky tradition known as returning to Standard Time, aka Greenwich Mean +2.

(As for Daylight Saving Time -- or Daylight Shifting Time, depending on whom you ask -- we have Benjamin Franklin to thank for that.  Ben, maybe you should've stuck to writing the Almanac, dating French women and flying kites in the rain).

It never made much sense to me.  After all, if there's such a discrepancy in daylight hours between the winter and summer seasons, wouldn't it be more logical to even things out over the course of the year by extending daylight waking hours during the winter, and curtailing them over the summer?

This year's confusion started on the Sunday morning between Rosh haShana and Yom Kippur, which is when we Israelis switch back the clocks in a superfluous attempt to convince ourselves that the Yom Kippur fast is in fact shorter than it actually is.  I was unaware that my handheld digital devices knew enough to reset their own chronometers, which is why, when I got out of bed in the morning, I mistakenly assumed I had an hour and five minutes to get Elder Princeski and myself ready and out the door, instead of the five minutes actually allotted.  To her credit, she made the school bus on time.

I know there are benefits to Standard Time.  By half past five in the afternoon my kids are already clamoring for their supper, convinced that night is upon us and I have neglected to notice.  

But just try convincing my brain that this time shift thing is a good idea.  I wake up at five anyway, and start to doze by ten.  Jet lag, I say.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Absurdity in Equal Measures

By now it's common knowledge.  When a newer oleh (immigrant to Israel) has had an especially trying experience in some government office, or been yelled at on the street for some previously-unremarkable social infraction, or suffering from sweaty hair and overheated body syndrome, we all know what happens next.  The new oleh comes home fuming and ranting.

In [insert name of Old Country here] we know better; or 

No one ever treated me like that in [the Old Country]; or

I can't believe this country!  They are so [fill in the blank: old fashioned /stupid / obnoxious / rude].

After being here for awhile, we become so much smarter.  We learn to accept that:

a.)  Hey, a lot of things are different here.  They just are.  (We even learn to like it).

b.)  There exists Absurdity in Equal Measures, all over the world.  Even in the Old Country.

Let's begin by directing our attention to a local dilemma.  Apparently, the Minhal MiKarka'ay Yisrael (Israel Land Administration) is on the brink of bringing a "deviant usage charge" upon those living in kibbutzim and moshavim, who are so bold as to have installed a solar energy collector on the roof (I'm still searching for an English-language reference;  meanwhile, check here for a Hebrew one).  That, by the way, includes almost everyone in Israel who lives in a house. Never mind that solar power is the new black, and that the government will soon offer financial incentives to those who sell their solar-acquired electricity back to the grid. Never mind that there is a government initiative in the works, to cover local bodies of water with solar panels.  Hey, Minhal, you gonna charge us for that, too?

So here we sit, facing a energy crisis of unknown proportions while immersed in the muck of our own bureaucratic wackiness.  Yet we in Israel would be wise to follow the tragi-comedy playing itself out in Southern California over the issue of artificial lawns. According to the L.A. Times, it seems that Jean Orban of Garden Grove, CA, thought she was doing the smart and responsible thing by replacing her thirsty lawn with artificial turf.

Alas, Garden Grove doesn’t share Orban’s affection for her fake lawn. As she soon discovered, the city bans artificial turf. Although the city has yet to take any action against her, others who installed the lawns said they were warned that they will be fined.

And that regulation puts the city at odds with the Orange County Municipal Water District, which offers rebates to those who install faux grass.

So instead of receiving her expected rebate, Ms. Orban was refused the money and found herself at odds with a 1992 city law "banning simulated greenery."  At first glance, this looks like a no-brainer:  

Less grass = less water usage = benefits for the individual and the world.  

Apparently it's not so cut-and-dry (no pun intended).  The LA Times article was followed by a myriad of letters, op-ed pieces and, of course, blog posts, expounding the many reasons why artificial turf is no instant ecological freebie.  Patt Morrison's column, excerpted below, is among my favorites:

Cities are already miserable hot spots. Every inch that we pave over, even with plastic grass, creates a patch of unnatural heat. The virtue of a grass lawn -- however thirsty -- is that it is a living system that helps the land keep its cool. It also allows what rain we do get to make its way into the soil, and the water table, not into the storm drains... when the air temperature hits 80 degrees, it can be 160 or 170 degrees on the turf. Even when it's only 50 degrees out, direct sun can heat fake grass to 150 degrees. Sounds like you might as well tell your kids to go outside and play on a griddle.

This heat trap effect, she goes on to explain, might end up costing you more energy and money in increased A/C demands on your now-overheating house.  And then there's that awkward question of what to do in ten or twenty years when the lawn needs replacing and becomes just another (exceptionally large) piece of plastic weighing down the landfill.

Balancing out this opinion is that of a home-improvement blog by Kathy Price-Robinson, who writes,

...on the plus side, the material is made from recycled plastic and held in place by recycled tire "crumbs." A two-stroke engine, the kind in lawn mowers, creates significantly more pollution than a car (since there is no catalytic converter), so with synthetic turf, that carbon load is eliminated.

You're not alone if you now have no idea which side to take in the artificial turf wars.  In the same light, I would like to remain open-minded and assume that our Minhal is not just in it for the money... but sometimes, I fear, an absurdity is just an absurdity.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Missed Connection, Reconnection

We got back to Israel safely, bodies exhausted, luggage intact.  I only wish I could say the same for my head, but the J-L word has been rearing it's ugly head.  I've now tried the stay-up-really-late-method, the take-a-nap method, the don't-take-a-nap method, the no-caffeine, no-alcohol diet, the caffeine -and-alcohol diet... it all sort of comes down to "Damn!  Here I am, awake  between 2 and 5 a.m. yet again."*  Last night, Shabbat, was the worst,  -- all the lights were out (no reading) and using the computer was out of the question (no blogging... all those posts, composed in my head, the permanently lost in memory wasteland / oblivion).  Sometimes I envy those locals (read:  EU members) whose flight back to The Old Country costs them only six hours of their lives, plus waiting time, and possibly a couple of time zones.   I know, I know, it could be worse;  Australians must envy everyone.

(A recent conversation companion suggested that the lengthy travel time might serve a higher purpose, giving our minds and bodies time to readjust to the new environment.  I'm not sure what that means, since I'm assuming that if not for the jet-lag, my adjustment time would near zero, even accounting for other adaptations). 

Straight off the plane, the white light is blinding.  The abrupt weather transformation -- from California balmy to Middle East heat bake -- shocks my system with an immediate, unforgiving reminder that the sun is stronger here.  Like the emotional charge of everyday interactions, this heat is a force to be reckoned with, a consistent reminder to budget your energy and appreciate the basics:  Clean water, the roof over your head, a cool evening breeze.  

For the first few days following our return our house always seems so small and dusty, but that's only because, in comparison, my parents' house is enormous and several thousand miles from the Sahara.  After a few days our house goes back to looking its normal self (reasonably large and dusty).  

We visit the Old Country every two or three years, and each time it feels more like a foreign country.   Yes, my English is still fluent (though some would claim otherwise), and I remembered to say Have a nice day and Nice to meet you like I really mean it.  But the differences inevitably reared their heads. I could still think in inches, but no longer in pounds.  In the supermarket, the endless selection of every category of product was truly overwhelming.   Parking lots became their own sprawling world, filled with superfluous SUV's, and the twelve-lane freeway where I'd learned to drive as a teenager had somehow transformed itself into a massive, threatening behemoth.

I came to Israel as a college student, unattached and uncommitted to any particular person, child, job or goal beyond trying to find a place to live, finish my degree, learn Hebrew.  Within a year or two those goals expanded to include finding a beit knesset, acquiring job skills, searching for a spouse... and then, building a home, having children, developing a career and joining a community.  Every one of these steps furthered my integration into this life and this society, even as it increased the barrier -- without my noticing -- between this life and my old life.   On this trip, I began to understand that while I grew up in California, I actually became an adult in Israel.  Marriage, motherhood, career, community -- all of these seminal moments happened in Israel, which means that my integration of these experiences also happened in Israel.  

By living so far away, I am also keenly aware of what I am missing, and causing others to miss.  My grandmother finally has three great-grandchildren -- who might as well be a million miles away.  Was this trip our last chance to see her?  I really, really hope not.  My Mom savors every long-distance telephone call, but nothing compares to helping her grandchildren practice their swimming in the neighborhood pool.  I can't remember a visit when my Dad hasn't "threatened" to kidnap one of the kids, so he won't have to wait another two years to see her.  

My good friend Q asked, as she always does when I return, Do you ever feel the urge to stay there?   No, I don't, even though coming home means coming back to the regular routine.  Gearing the kids up for a new school year.  A less-than enthusiastic return to the stresses of work.  Grocery shopping and carpool schedules.  Trips to the doctor, the dentist, the veterinarian.  Household repairs and reorganizations.  A fish tank in need of scrubbing and disinfecting.  A pile of laundry that dares to reach the ceiling after three days.  Dust.  Everywhere.  I know all too well that for me, "California" now means "vacation."  Were to we live there, I would still have all of the above and more, that is, all the ingredients of a regular life.  

But just in case I'd ever forget where home is, my kids wouldn't hesitate to remind me.  From the moment we left Israel, they struggled with the separation from their friends.  For four weeks they begged me to find them someone to play with;  even our three-year-old exchanged email photos to his nursery school girlfriend.  Driving home from the airport, the kids were barely out of the car and they were already asking, pleading to call their friends, invite them over, visit their houses.  Seeing my neighbors on Friday evening felt like a real home-coming, my neighbors sitting in the Beit Knesset, welcoming Shabbat, while the little kids ran around in the park.  They all looked so beautiful.

I love coming home. 

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

* Note the time-stamp.  And yes, that's Israel time.