Nationalism on Their Young Minds

Mommy, I wish I know all the languages. Then I could understand everyone. A brief pause, a puzzled look. And a question: Mommy! am I Israeli or American?

Just when I'm thinking Blondini Boy -- all six years of him -- only has Playmobil and Chaos Faction2 on his mind.

Even now I'm not sure exactly what he was after. Did our recent international influx of family visitors spark geographic, or perhaps linguistic, confusion? Was the very concept of multiple citizenship at odds with his developmental stage and notable tendency toward concrete thinking? Or was I merely underestimating his latent capability for immature existential musings?

I told BBoy he was definitely Israeli, having been born and lived his entire life here in Israel. I emphasized that he was also part American -- and part British, by virtue of his parentage (just to further confuse things), following up with a mandatory footnote, that it is possible to be several things at once, even while you can only live in one place at a time.

He accepted all of that. In other words, I got off easy.

Flash forward, to last Tuesday. J, my work colleague and close friend for over a decade, has rightly insisted that if we don't get ourselves together this week, our breakfast out will have to wait another month until after Ramaddan.

We have a lot to talk about, now that each of us has taken the year off work, to study and recharge....we've missed an awful lot of lunchtime chit-chat. Beyond our common work interests, our kids are of similar ages, and so there are mutual updates and parental wisdom to share, conundrums to analyze and discuss.

I pick up J at her home and forty minutes later we are walking the streets of Jerusalem's historic German Colony heading for my favorite cafe. Once seated, I apologize for having dragged her into such an American venue, but then imagine that for her, being a minority here among the Americans might just be more comfortable.

As always, our conversation tends toward education -- our own studies, the kids' schools -- and our personal and childrearing dilemmas. Her children attend private schools, one secular modeled on the American public school system, the other French Christian with a Muslim majority student body. (Her kids already speak four languages between the two of them).

Together we review pros and cons of separate-sex education, secular education, multi-lingual education, the Education Ministry. Her approach toward nondenominational school prayer comes up, as does my [livid] reaction to my daughter's science teacher's refusal to teach Darwinism because "it conflicts with the Torah" (along with the school principal's support of such behavior on the grounds that "teaching evolution might confuse the girls' spiritual development." (Another time). As always, we found a common interest, and common ground, in every topic.

(For many years J and I worked together in the same department, and from an early stage we began planning our group lesson plans together. I always felt at ease, knowing that her translation of my words would come across exactly as I meant it. If you've ever worked through a translator, you'll understand why this is not something to be taken for granted).

Now here I was, telling J about BBoy's nationality question. Turns out her daughter L, age 8, had recently popped an even bigger one: Mama, do we live in Israel or Palestine?

Hmmm.

J answered in Talmudic style, a question for a question. What do you think? Do we live in Israel or Palestine? L thought about it and answered, Palestine, because everyone here speaks Arabic.

J took a deep breath. Then in a brilliant Uncharted Parenting move, J pulled out a map.

I began to describe, place by place, the areas of Arab settlement, and of Jewish settlement. I explained that there had been one war, and then another, and so things shifted, and that, more recently, the Jewish areas expanded until some of them ran into the Arab ones. I pointed out places that were under Israel's jurisdiction ("Israel"), and places supervised by the PA ("Palestine").

Then she repeated L's own question back at her: Where do you think we live? T concluded that she lives in Israel, but goes to school in Palestine (her school is in East Jerusalem).

Put politics aside, as most eight-year-olds tend to do, and this ends up being a pretty precise answer.

I probably don't need to point out the obvious: J lives in two worlds that don't always fit together. She is proud of her Muslim-Arab heritage, proud her family has lived where it has for over ten generations. Yet she appreciates all the good things her state has to offer -- the opportunities, the education, the freedom. J loves Judaism and completed a bagrut in תנ"ך (Bible) and תושב"ע (the Oral Law) and probably knows more about them than I do. Yet if she's at work during the siren on Yom haZikaron (Memorial Day) she finds a private corner in which to sit, so as not to feel she is betraying one part of herself at the expense of the other.

I don't judge J for all of that. I embrace her for trying to find that ephemeral middle ground between sensitivity and dignity, assimilation and self preservation. (I'm trying to find it too, only this time, for the first time, I'm of the majority). Over the years, our parallel perspectives as minority citizens, searching for the common ground, have blessed our friendship with a mutual understanding neither of us has found too easily elsewhere.

J, have a meaningful Ramaddan.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Next up: Natural resource privatization issues, out of the mouths of babes.

Have the Answers, But Not Telling (At Least For Now...)

HH #221 here at Ima on (and off) the Bima.

ProfK brought us a familiar observation here in her comment.  We, too, have gotten some really doozy-questions aimed our way during car rides, or alternatively, on our way out the door towards a car ride.

My favorite?  A couple years ago our Virgin Guinea Pig mysteriously gave birth.  OK, not so mysteriously;  unknown to us, she'd been pregnant when we bought her.  

Turns out, guinea pig gestation is much longer than that of most rodents and lagomorphs. Compare:  hamster gestation is 15 to 18 days, rabbit gestation is about 30 days, while that of the guinea pig can reach 72 days -- that's over two months.   The difference becomes clear when you see how guinea pigs come into the world:   fully formed, fur-covered, open-eyed, and munching on solids within a day.

So when Elder Princeski called me in happy-hysteria, MOMMY, THERE ARE BABIES IN THE GUINEA PIG CAGE!, naturally this became a source of great excitement.  

A few minutes later, it also became a source of great confusion.

Always the Imp (then age 4):  Mommy, how could the guinea pig have babies without an Abba?

Me:  There must have been an Abba with her in the store, before we bought her, but then we brought her home and it took a long time for the babies to come out.

Always:  (Pause for thought).  Mommy, how did the babies get inside the mommy?  

Me: (Wasn't expecting that one yet).  Well... (Stalling for time.  She's only four, I mean, really). 

Always:  Is it true that the doctor puts the baby through the mommy's vulva, into her tummy?  (Yes, she already knew one V-word, way back then.)

Me:  (To self)  Only if the Mommy is married to a doctor.  

(To Always)  Well, it's something like that.  But it's kind of complicated, and you know, we really are supposed to be going out now.

Always (looking me straight in the eye):  It's okay, Mommy.  You don't have to explain everything.  Just tell me the important parts!

Oy vey....

Keep the balance,

ALN

Don't Have the Answers, But Glad You Asked

The Challenge:  Describe your job in one sentence or less.

My Answer:  My job is to listen to kids.

OK, so sometimes "listening" comes in the form of watching them draw, or joining them as they play, or helping them surf the net, or just sitting nearby while they read.  And, of course, the kids I listen to are sick, or are recovering from being sick, or were sick in the past, or are sick again.

Leave out that last part about the sick kids, and replace what's left with the additional cleaning, laundry, dishwashing, fetching & carrying, and we've just described the Second Shift, a.k.a. The Home Front.

I admit it:  Part of me has been waiting for years for my kids to get a little older, so we could start having some real conversations, the ones that extend beyond "Why can't I have a cookie? But why?!?"  It seems that time has arrived, and the questions have been rolling in.

Elder Princeski will be ten soon, and her questions tend to reflect her newly-developing empathy and Theory of Mind.  Always the Imp has just turned six, but her line of questioning (once she gets past all those unreasonable demands resulting from her sugar addiction) has always pushed the envelope, amplifying her imp-like attributes.

Yesterday afternoon I decided it was time to euthanize the poor goldfish who, having displayed multiple signs of illness for nearly half a year (and had long since been placed in isolation from his healthier peers), was now showing acute signs of imminent status change. 

Elder Princeski took an interest and even assisted.  We used an ice-water bath, recommended as the most humane method by Dick Mills in You and Your Aquarium (London: DK), while Always hid herself away until the deed was done.  Later, of course, there were thoughts and reflections on the matter, which surfaced today during Shabbat lunch.

Always the Imp:  Mommy, when you die, I want to keep the whole house for myself.  But I don't need the things inside it, you can give those to somebody else.

Me:  [Which Left Field did that one come out of?  Oh, maybe it was the fish...] Why?  Do you want me to die soon?

Always:  Of course not, but when you do, much later, when I'm already big...

Elder Princeski:  Mommy, I don't want you to die for a long time... but when you do, I'll keep the things inside the house.  I won't need the house itself because I will be married and my husband will buy me a house.

(Short discussion on the topic of religious vs civil inheritance laws.)

The conversation then evolved into a series of questions about Grandma (that's my 95-year-old grandmother -- see here), wondering how much longer she would continue to live, and if she wants to live much longer, and whether, were she to become very sick, dependent, and pain-ridden, she would choose to die (from what she has told me in the past, I wouldn't put it past her).   

We did our best to answer all of these clearly and honestly, with equal measures of optimism and realism.

Then there were questions about death itself.  What does it feel like?, and Does it hurt? and Do people know they're dying?   I told them about the reports I had read on near-death experiences, in which people described feelings of well-being, comfort, and being reunited with lost loved ones.  I told them that no one could prove whether these things really happen, but that many people felt and believed that this is what had happened to them.

Throughout this conversation, my internal voice was asking how much of an influence my Day Job was having here on the Home Front.  I think about death a lot, because I encounter death a lot, and so it is on my mind --  sometimes at a frequency that surpasses what I would consider to be a level of healthy denial.  

I try to keep that to myself, at least around the kids, but as they grow older they develop an awareness of what I do for a living;  Elder Princeski has even accompanied me to work events a couple of times. Sometimes they ask questions about work, and while I don't shy away from answering, I try to keep my answers short and to the point.  

The thing is, kids know about death.  They think about death.  They wonder about it, and they have questions.  At a certain point, they lose their dog, or their grandfather, or their neighbor, or their parent, and they learn that death can't be avoided.   

All of this obligates us to invite their questions, listen to their concerns, and share some answers -- gradually, thoughtfully, and straightforwardly.  Which we tried to do this afternoon.

Suppertime brought with it a whole slew of questions, this time about Down Syndrome, its causes and effects.  For another time...

Keep the balance,

ALN

The Price of an Education

This year Elder P began fourth grade in a new school.  While the dress code of her previous school (grades 1-3) permitted girls to attend school wearing trousers, her current school requires skirts. 

Over the summer Elder P received a lovely tunic that reaches mid-thigh, which she always wears with trousers.  I figured it was only a matter of time before she was told not to wear it to school, and I had even warned her, but left it up to her to continue wearing it or not.  

Last Thursday evening, right before bedtime (why do these things always come up right before bedtime?), Elder Princeski mentioned that her teacher had pulled her aside for The Conversation.  The tunic isn't long enough;  you need to wear something longer.  I was surprised it had taken this long.

* * * * *

Flashback.  Earlier in that same evening, Elder P and I are snuggled side-by-side on the sofa, huddling over my MacBook, reading aloud this article from the NY Times.

Afghan Schoolgirls Undeterred by Attack

KANDAHAR, Afghanistan — One morning two months ago, Shamsia Husseini and her sister were walking through the muddy streets to the local girls school when a man pulled alongside them on a motorcycle and posed what seemed like an ordinary question.

“Are you going to school?”

Then the man pulled Shamsia’s burqa from her head and sprayed her face with burning acid...

I first read the whole article to myself, then hesitated.  Should I share this with my daughter? Shamsia is 17 years old, the age of Elder P's Bnei Akiva madricha (youth group counselor).   Other, much younger girls were attacked as well, along with teachers --fourteen women and girls in all.   It's nearly always a dilemma for me;  How do we educate our kids, especially our girls, without tearing down their (mis)perception that the world -- their world -- is a mostly-safe place? 

I decided to begin by showing her the accompanying slide show, which pictures the girls studying, playing and walking around the Mirwais School for Girls.  In the photos, Shamsia's scars are visible but not overwhelming. Then we went over the article, which exudes optimism.  Reporter Dexter Filkins writes that since the attack, all but a few girls have returned to school, that their parents are eager for them to go, and that the girls experience their school as a haven.  I was struck by the way that Shamsia and her family seem acutely aware of what is at stake, for themselves and their society.

“My parents told me to keep coming to school even if I am killed,” said Shamsia, 17, in a moment after class. Shamsia’s mother, like nearly all of the adult women in the area, is unable to read or write. “The people who did this to me don’t want women to be educated. They want us to be stupid things...

“The people who did this,” she said, “do not feel the pain of others.”

After reading the article, Elder P and I reviewed some of the ideas mentioned.  I tried to explain the concept of the Taliban and their agenda.  I was curious what Elder P had absorbed from our reading and accompanying conversation, so I asked what she thought about the article, and why, in her opinion, the girls had been attacked.  

It's sad. They [the Taliban] don't want the girls to lead.  They don't want them to go to school.  They want [the girls] to stay at home and not learn how to be in charge.

Sounds like she got the gist of it.

* * * * *

To the teacher's credit, Elder P was not at all upset about the skirt-length conversation, and she breezily accepted the dress code requirement.  I was relieved that she had been pulled her aside, and not embarrassed in front of her class. During the first parent-teacher conference of the year, this teacher told us that she emphasizes interpersonal relations and positive midot (personality traits) in her teaching, and I felt that her approach toward my daughter only supported this.

I don't wish to exaggerate, or find connections that don't exist;  even so, I couldn't help but feel the irony that evening.  The Taliban know that to control their society, they have to control the women of their society, by limiting how they dress, where they go, and what they learn.  The families there understand and oppose the Taliban's hurtful agenda.  The understand that modesty does not equal ignorance.

My daughter loves to read -- in two languages.  She loves math.  She's learning how to do an internet search, and how to write a book report.  For now, her curriculum and that of the boys in her grade (who learn in separate classrooms within the same school) is pretty much identical.  In a few short years, it won't be.  The boys will continue to study Talmud for several additional hours a week, while the girls will not.  If my daughter does well enough in school, she'll be able to go on to study anything she likes --  medicine, law, teaching, science, computers. Unlike Shamsia.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Be'er Sheva: One Principal Rewriting the Status Quo

(Read this post first if you haven't yet caught my posts about last month's in-service in Be'er Sheva).

We are traveling by air-conditioned bus, having driven Road 60 out of Be'er Sheva and east onto Road 31, north of Be'er Sheva, toward Arad and the Dead Sea.  We have now turned right off the paved main road and I wish we were back on it, since all this bouncing along an exceptionally bumpy dirt road, even at 20 km/h, has made me completely car sick.  As I snap photos out the window, I am trying not to throw up all over the vehicle's well-preserved upholstery.

Welcome to the pezura.  The word pezura -- פזורה -- is Hebrew for dispersion and refers to approximately half a million dunam (equivalent to about 175,00 acres) of unrecognized land, containing 50,000 unlicensed houses, and many, many more people, spread throughout the desert.  Within the Negev there are seven recognized Beduin towns:  Rahat, Tel Sheva, Kseifa, Arara, Segev Shalom, Houra and Laqiyya, and half the southern Beduin population lives within these towns (reference here).  As for the the other half, they live throughout the Dispersion, where there are no electricity lines, no water pipes or central sewage systems, no garbage collection.  With very few exceptions, there are no official schools. 

In the middle of all this brown, dusty emptiness is one exception, a literal oasis of a school. Amal is Arabic for hope, and the Amal School is aptly named.  Kids from kindergarten through high school arrive here every morning by bus, from all over the pezura.  The long, dusty road is literally in the middle of nowhere, and if a child misses the bus, he misses school for the day.  

We are welcomed at the entranceway and led across the school's courtyard --  an expansive pebbled area containing trees and a paved central area -- and into the library, where drinks and cookies have been set out for us.  

The school principal enters and apologizes for not having met us at the gate. He introduces himself as Khalil Elkorm, now in his twelfth year as school principal, and his twentieth in the Israeli Education ministry.*  

His presence fills the room as he launches into an energetic talk about his educational philosophy, the main thrust of which is that schools must find a variety of ways to educate, beyond the traditional frontal teaching style, and that any new educational program, as good as it may sound at first, must be tested and adapted to the needs of the children in system, before it can be thrust upon them.  

Over the years, Khalil has helped to establish after-school enrichment programs, hot meal programs, and an on-site medical clinic so that the parents will be involved in their children's education, without compromising all that has been accomplished by the sectarian and tribal conflicts that would work in opposition to Khalil's educational priorities for his 650 pupils. When asked how he deals with the intergenerational conflict that must arise between these modern-educated children and their conservative parents, Khalil described in further detail how he learned the hard way, that the school must guide the parents, and not the opposite, or change will never happen.

Following our talk Khalil brings us to the kindergarten area, fenced off from the rest to give these youngest pupils a chance to have their own safe space before moving up to first grade.

Unlike the camera-savvy grade-school children who have already mobbed us, begging to be photographed, these little ones are still shy and wary of visitors, but after a few minutes their smiles break through and they are happy to have us watch them solve problems in small groups.

Back in the courtyard, Khalil explains that it is election day in the local towns.  In honor of this event, a group of older girls are conducting mock elections, standing in two straight lines as they wait to cast their vote the ballot box.

I'm pretty impressed by their ability to stand there patiently, and wonder how much of it has to do with the teachers observing along the sidelines, or whether, as girls, they have just gotten used to being told to wait their turn.  I think about the ramifications of what they are doing.  How many of these girls will actually get to vote in an election in their lifetimes? They face so many hurdles:  As women in a men-dominated society, and as an under-recognized minority living in unrecognized areas. 

Khalil is clearly very proud of his school and its accomplishments, and for him this means rejecting his society's status quo.  "His" girls are already voting, even if their votes will not influence this year's election.  

Keep the balance,

ALN

_____

*  Khalil gave me his full permission to be featured here.

Be'er Sheva, in Retrospect

It's been awhile.... all good things:  Family wedding coming up, work presentation last Sunday, and other details I won't bore you with.

If you're a regular reader here (kudos to you!) you're aware of my in-service training last month at Beit Yatziv, a continuing education center for teachers, located within a historical neighborhood of the southern desert city of Be'er Sheva.  It was my intention to blog live from down there, but they kept us so busy (classes from 8 am to 10 pm), with some rest and lots of food in between) that I couldn't keep up.  It was also very clear at the time that those moments between classes, lectures and workshops were digestion time for the brain.  The few posts I did managed from there are available here, here and here.

Meanwhile (yesterday afternoon, in fact) we met to kick off this year's series of bimonthly workshops on multiculturalism in the work place.  I and several others were pleased to learn that the emphasis of our discussions will not be limited to Jewish-Arab -- and other religion- and race- considered -- relations, but will also focus on organizational issues and the discrepancies between the hospital/medical organizational culture and our own educational culture within it.

Not all of the staff participants of the bimonthly meetings were present at Beit Yatziv, and the opposite, but as we begin this new series of meetings, the experience in Be'er Sheva remains at the forefront of my mind, with the field trip to the surrounding Beduin areas at the locus of that experience.

I'll begin with where we did not go.  We did not enter any private homes or tents.  With the exception of school children, we did not meet "ordinary" Beduins.  We met some of the exceptions;  the role models, the risk takers, the mould breakers.  All of them are well known in their respective communities, respected by some and resented by others, for daring to go against the grain and change the status quo.  In the next few days I'll introduce you to them, one at a time.  Stay posted.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Occupation As Balance

(No, not that kind of occupation.  I truly, honestly do not know how to address that topic in this forum, or with which vocabulary, and so I leave it aside).

Why I don't call my good friends more often than I do?  This evening I picked up the phone and dialed my friend N, and rediscovered how fantastic, how comforting it is to have those conversations and compare the day-to-day... The freshly-discovered gutter leak in the newly-purchased house;  the parallel laments over negligent school systems long-overdue for an over-haul;  our mutual agreement that the Obamas' extended family support system will only benefit them as a young, busy, professional couple preparing for the next busy stage in their lives... and on and on.

The conversation reaches that inevitable topic:  work, motherhood, how to do it all and keep the guilt minimal, the multi-tasking maximal, and everything in between relaxed and stable enough to keep everyones' lives together and whole and enjoyable.  

N works a much longer day than I do and gives her husband A a lot of credit for his super-husband abilities, especially in recent years, but reminds me of what it takes to reach household stability.   Sometimes one of them is down, sometimes the other.  But they know to take it in turns.  Both she and A cannot both let themselves feel drained.  

Or, as N put it, If that space is occupied in the house, then I know I can't be there... That is, she understands she has to stay upbeat and hold on to the energy level until A can get it back again, and then she can let her end drop a bit and let him pick up the slack.  

It's not always going to happen.  Within our own four walls, I know there's no guarantee that the two of us aren't going to hit some kind of simultaneous slump;  it just might happen, and it sometimes does.  We both get tired, cranky, past our peak.  Then maybe it's time, as it was last night, to just go upstairs and hang the laundry together, instead of trying to figure out whose turn it is.

Occupation as balance?  Maybe, if we can just hang on and take it in turns.  Hang in there, N.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Live: Parlor Meeting with a Candidate for Head of Our Regional Council

Here's democracy in action.  

I'm sitting in my neighbor's living room, and about 30 additional neighbors have joined us here to meet with Moshe Dadon, a candidate for our local Regional Council (mo'etza).  Unlike the major cities, where voting took place a few weeks ago, our area goes to the polls in January to choose its new Regional Council members.

Moshe grew up in the area (Moshav Luzit) and has served as the Regional Council secretary for the past four years, so he knows the system from the inside.  He described growing up among the chicken coops, and seeing the agriculture lifestyle fall by the wayside as the years went by. The area's needs now are completely different; he noted that much of the moshav property formerly used for agriculture is now factories.

Moshe describes himself as "very green - not in terms of money, but the environment" (It wasn't clear what he means by this, as some of his later statements indicated that he has a poor understanding of certain environmental issues).  He understands that many people are flocking to the moshav expansions for the quality of life, and are not agriculturally minded. He realizes that municipality taxes have been rising, but are not nearly at Jerusalem levels, and that all the local illegal building is only hurting all the citizens because they cannot benefit from improvements if local tax money is not being put back into the system.  

Moshe pledges the following:

1.  Taxes collected locally, stay local.  All tax monies collected for the moshav expansions (of which there are many) will go directly back into moshav coffers.

2.  Sliding scale taxation.  Everyone should pay arnona, including residential buildings, local businesses, quarries and other industrial properties, according to their ability.  Anyone who qualified for a discount will receive one accordingly.  The Arab sector, which has been neglected until now, will also receive the amount entitled by law.  

3.  Financial independence.  The general dependence on the system for financial support is unjustified and has to be changed.  Every community can then become independent and make its own decisions according to its needs.

4.  Infrastructure.  By law, 5% of tax money collected by the Regional Council is designated for internal development;  that means 12 million shekels has to be distributed every year to the local municipal governments, for use as they see fit.

5.  Primary Education.   The local educational system should be run locally, by a professional with a doctorate in education.  Most of the local population is religious, and any new local school would have to be religious and include all the children in the surrounding local moshavim.   Until now, our religious school system has not provided a good education, period, and many families send their kids to a different school district.  

6.  Secondary Education.  High schools in the area have been closing, but the local population is growing and we'll need to develop a series of local high schools here in the area. Competition is good for education, as it is for everything else.  By law, only the head of the Regional Council is entitled to choose where kids go to school.  At this time we have 4000 high school students, and the system doesn't have room for new students, even if it were a good system and people were willing to send their kids.

7.  Transportation to School.  For now, funding from other budgets, such as the building budget, to fund school buses for local kids.  There is no governmentally funded option for transportation for high school-age pupils.   Children need to go to good schools, locally, such that there won't be a need for transportation.  School buses are a temporary measure until we have good schools in the area.  Pupils can't succeed if they spend hours on buses, and there's no equal opportunities for all citizens until we have quality local schools for everyone.  We don't have time to wait.

When it was pointed out that building all these schools will take time, he didn't have a clear answer, except to improve the existing schools.  One neighbor offered a temporary solution of not having kids for the next few years, which got a few laughs but underlined the seriousness of the issue.  Moshe grew up in the system, continued to be involved in the local education system after his high school graduation, and sends his kids to the local schools, so he is aware, from the inside, of just how bad it is.

When asked about the decision making powers of the local municipality versus the Council regarding expansion issues, he spoke in favor of allowing the municipal council to receive tax monies and make most local decisions.  Regarding division of properties, especially public and moshav properties, he cited a local example of a town within the region that wanted to build a swimming pool with public develop monies, and the Regional Council refused to grant permission.   

A participant described one local conflict regarding the use and upkeep of moshav property, an issue which has put residents of our Moshav extension at odds with the decision-makers of the moshav's municipal council, with no legal redress... As this neighborbor pointed out, this type of conflict usually stays on a minor and limited level, but the same problems tend to repeat themselves, and our current expansion has only brought the issue to the fore.  Moshe did not provide a clear answer regarding this issue.

Regarding the protection of nature conservancies, Moshe supports expanding into parts of those ares for the benefit of the local populations.  He cited the building of a new school as one example.

Moshe has pledged to bring educated, reliable and honest workers into the Regional Council, and here he was asked regarding the type of people he would, indeed, bring with him.  (It has been said that our local government has become bulky and corrupt over the years, and I can testify to the number and quality of shiny cars in the parking lot).  

Moshe responded by pointing out that there is one person in the regional government overseeing all 180 local kindergartens in the region, with a similar situation for the primary schools...  "No one person is a workhorse."  A neighbor responded with cynicism, that the only department in the council that returns phone calls is the Collection Department.  Generally, those present at the meeting did not express satisfaction with the so-called reforms he claims to have made until now.

Moshe referred to a total rearrangement of the governing system, especially the educational system, and that in his view this includes, among other things, encouraging older workers to retire, and having others transfer to departments where they are needed.  "If one doctor is no good, do you blame all the doctors?"

He continued to refer to poor air quality, although he offered no clear solutions.  Prior to this, he claimed not to understand the connection between electricity and the quality of the environment.   Regarding a specific road in the area which has been declared unsafe and whose legal status has remained unclear for years (the road remains open but the police sometimes distributes tickets to those who travel on it), he offered no clear answer, except to point out that the Regional Council has been trying to resolve the issue.

Moshe's closing statement (summary):  We have the opportunity to develop the area, to give everyone an opportunity and quality of life.  The problem is not as other candidates will tell you, that this or that individual bureaucrat is responsible.  The money is the issue.  If we want to develop the area, our money has to go to the right places;  quality education for everyone, and local development.

* * * * *

On Wednesday, another candidate will be coming to impress us.... stay tuned.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Live from Be'er Sheva 2 - Nationality and Identity

Our first session this afternoon focused on a historical look at the concept of nationality (לאום) and religion, and how there tendency in Israel to confuse the two.  Since this was a short introduction to a very broad concept, I'll try to get back to it in a later post.

We just finished a workshop run by two group leaders from the Merchavim Institute, an organization I was not familiar with until today.  They have developed a model for shared citizenship which I plan to peruse soon.

In our group of 25 women from different cultures, working in two hospital schools here in Israel, we met in groups of two, and later four, to share personal answers to focus questions such as,

As a child, what did you want to be "when you grow up?"

What family customs do you remember growing up, that are important for you to continue observing even now?

Which women in your life have inspired your identity as a woman today?

What are some the traditional ways a woman in your culture prepares for her wedding?

The conversations that arose brought forth some fascinating interchanges, and in the group discussion afterwards we came to the conclusion that as women, we had a unique ability to identify with one another and find similarities while simultaneously making note of the differences.  We reviewed the idea that each of us comes with our own home-grown assumptions that we take for granted as the way to do things, and only when we meet someone with a different approach, can we begin to examine our own from a more removed perspective.

Toward the end of our recap, one of the group leaders posed a question:  Did you hear about anyone's family traditions that you wish you could adopt (or adapt) for your own?  

I was pretty surprised by some of the answers.  A couple of the Muslim participants said that they really liked the idea of Shabbat dinner, and that they wished they had a weekly event that would bring their families together for a meal.

Later in the afternoon we started out with a game, where we had to make our way down a path, occasionally collecting chocolate and drafting laws that would affect the entire group.  Some of us were given a head start.

The group dynamic waffled from excitement to wavering enthusiasm, as we all waited for certain groups to effect laws that might benefit all of us, or only the "majority."  There were other blatant discrepancies in the rights of various group members.  See the die?  It only goes up to three.  Note that two of its sides are completely blacked out, meaning that a third of the time, certain players weren't allowed to advance at all.

The day has completely tired me out, so for now you'll have to come up with your own societal metaphor for what took place here.  More tomorrow...

Keep the balance,

ALN

Live from Be'er Sheva

Be'er Sheva is a large-ish city at the Northern edge of the Negev, home to a population of 200,000 from a wide variety of cultures, from Iraqi and Russian immigrants to Beduins who have lived here and the surrounding desert for generations.  Among its many landmarks are the Ben Gurion University, known for its scientific research, a large art museum, and several additional educational sites, spread out over the city's approximately 23,00 acres.

I am here along with some of my colleagues for a three-day in-service training ("hishtalmut") in multicultural studies at Beit Yatziv, the Education Ministry's center for continuing studies in the humanities.  Our program includes about 10 hours a day of lectures, discussions and workshops, with lots of food in between.

Oops, time to get back to class.  More later.... stay posted.

Keep the balance,

ALN

Gender Imbalance: The Examples Are on the Wall

Elder Princeski and I sat down yesterday afternoon to do her halacha (Jewish Law) homework. She has a textbook/workbook which she's not allowed to write in, so that the school can get several years' use out of it, so she writes her answers in a notebook.  

I do not like this workbook.  Apparently, it was designed exclusively for boys.  It contains little evidence that females even exist, and what scant evidence there is, is not encouraging. By this I mean that the book has almost no mention of girls, with the following seven notable exceptions (and yes, I went through the entire book):  

1.  A girl's name is cited in a question asking whether women are exempt from ritual handwashing.

2.  A woman's name is mentioned in connection with preparations for her wedding.

3.  A boy's mother is mentioned as taking care of him when he is ill.

4.  One exercise cites an unnamed female teacher posing a question to her [male] pupils.  

5.  A question cites a girl as having cooked on chag (a holiday), and her two brothers arguing whether her actions were permissible or not.

6.  Another exercise in the same chapter presents an example of a woman operating a washing machine to launder baby clothes during chol hamoed, and a man chastising her for doing so.

7.  Finally, in the chapter discussing the laws of gossip, girls' names suddenly appear in one-third of the exercise questions.  (I smudged out the author's name here, since I have no desire to besmirch him;  I do not blame him for the book's bias, since I"m assuming it's consist with the attitudes and outlook of his community.   I do hold the school responsible for using such a book.  Of course it goes without saying that only boys are pictured on the front cover).

I AM DISGUSTED.

My daughter probably would never have noticed the absence of girls in most of the questions, nor the skewed examples that do mention girls.  But I noticed right away, and it hurts.  Whether the intent of the publishers is to suggest that the information in the book is mostly irrelevant to girls -- except when cooking, cleaning and gossip is concerned -- or to keep lascivious thoughts far away from the minds of nine-year-old boys, is anyone's guess. 

I wonder why my daughter's school has chosen such a textbook.  What kind of educational institution sends such a message to its pupils, male or female?  Meanwhile, I've come up with these horrendous visions of what would be an American public-school equivalent:  Math textbooks written only for boys?  Science textbooks with no mention of natural history? Civics books that only cite white people?  

The problem is not limited to textbooks.  I remember walking into Elder P's classroom during the first asifat horim (aka, Back-to-School Night, in American parlance).  Her fourth grade class consists of 33 girls and one female teacher.  All the pictures on the boards around the walls featured.... yup, that's right.  Only boys.  And men (all with long beards, of course).  I could barely restrain myself from addressing the teacher about this, but I didn't feel it appropriate to start off the year with criticism, especially since the teacher had clearly made an effort to decorate the walls.   But it irked me:   A classroom full of girls whose very essence is blatantly absent from their daily surroundings. 

As the evening went on, I debated trying to improve the situation via other means, like volunteering to help the teacher with future classroom decorations.  But I hesitated yet again, not wanting to offend her by suggesting that her own efforts were inadequate.  By now I feel that enough time has passed, and I can offer my creative services without causing offense.

I do not want to raise my daughters with the burden of a heavy, Seventies-feminism, seek-out-the-unfairness approach.  At the same time, I cannot justify a book like this, which presents a consistent bias in its blatantly unbalanced examples.  It's hard enough to raise children to respect themselves and others.  Why does the religious school system insist on making it that much harder for us?

For now, Elder P and I have found a small solution to the workbook problem.  When writing out her exercise answers, I encouraged her to respond creatively regarding some of the names mentioned.  Thus Meir has become Meira, David is now Davida, and Yossi, Yosefa. By the time we get to the later laundry, cooking and gossip examples, I hope I'll have come up with additional creative methods of dealing with them.

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