Losing their homes - and religion

Jerusalem Post, Metro; April 27, 2007

Click here for original

It can be argued that the evacuation from Gaza hit the younger generation particularly hard, making them particularly susceptible to rebellion against any type of authority, religious included

On his last day in Gush Katif, Assaf Israeli, 25, along with his parents and siblings, managed to stave off the army for hours: They locked the doors and windows of their house, blocked the entrance, spoke passionately with the soldiers - anything to stop the destruction of their home in Netzer Hazani.

'We didn't pack anything,' Israeli recounted during an interview that took place in Nitzan, where many Gush Katif evacuees live in prefabricated homes referred to as 'caravillas.' Israeli himself lives in the nearby caravilla community at Ein Tzurim, but is visiting a friend who is building a one-room house in Nitzan.

A dirt road leads to the construction site, where Israeli sits on a plastic crate under lights powered by a generator, as he relates the loss of his home.

'The soldiers were with us for six hours,' he says. Dark and handsome in his leather jacket, a new earring shining from one ear, Israeli looks nothing like the stereotypical religious settler. 'We didn't let them in,' he continues. 'I made a bonfire to block the entrance. We made it very difficult.

'Fifteen soldiers couldn't take my father out of the house, 30 couldn't, even the lieutenant-colonel couldn't. In the end a rabbi took my father out of the house. I couldn't bear to watch it. The moment the rabbi came, I left. I couldn't stay there anymore.'

At that point, Israeli didn't only leave his home of 25 years, he left Jewish observance completely. On the last day of the disengagement, he made his last stop at the Netzer Hazani synagogue and cried. He hasn't stepped into a synagogue since, not even for his brother's Shabbat hatan [celebration held on the weekend prior to a wedding]. He can't find his tefillin. On the Shabbat immediately following disengagement, he lit a cigarette - an egregious Shabbat violation. He describes 'moments when I'd hear a dvar Torah at the Shabbat table and I'd get up and walk out.'

Israeli grew up in a religious home and recalls how he entered the religious pre-army preparation course with a large knitted kippa and dangling tzitziot. His observance waned in the army, but after service he returned to his religious base. Today, he lives a standard secular lifestyle: He drives on Shabbat, eats non-kosher (except, he says, for mixing meat with dairy, a hard habit to break) and goes to bars and nightclubs on Friday nights.

A self-professed former army loyalist, he refused to fight in last summer's Second Lebanon War. 'Once I would have died for the state. Not anymore.'
Israeli's story reflects the disillusionment with Orthodox Judaism some young Gush Katif evacuees experienced following disengagement. It is one of the side effects of the trauma they experienced when they were uprooted from their homes.

'It's true that there was a religious decline,' says Asher Daninu, 30, a coordinator of youth activities in Nitzan. 'It occurred mostly right after disengagement, but more in the realm of enthusiasm. For many it still exists, but it's starting to improve. They are not as enthusiastic, but it is not a defiant breakdown. There aren't cases in which they became heretics.'

Immediately following the evacuation, he notes, there was a general rejection of rabbinic leadership among young people and a drop in interest in synagogue attendance. 'In the first few months there were those who really had a serious breakdown. They wandered between religious and secular, but most of them came back to themselves.'

T., who has worked as coordinator of youth activities in Gush Katif communities, has observed the opposite - a strengthening of faith among evacuees in their teens and early 20s.

'This is one of the things that surprised me. First, there wasn't a phenomenon of secularization. Second, there wasn't a serious decline in army recruitment. The youth are all showing up for the army, but their motivation to serve as officers is much lower.'

T. attributes this in part to a new skepticism toward man and the man-made, which many evacuees believe have betrayed them: 'In Gush Katif we came to the conclusion that everything depends on God... We trust in God, not in people.'

While he has observed that the general level of religious observance has largely remained intact, young people have undergone hardships and internal revolutions in other areas: the shattering of parental and rabbinic authority; students who once excelled in high school are failing due to interruptions in schooling; and once happy teenagers and 20-somethings bottle a lot of anger inside.

'Their self-image is dwindling,' T. says. He acknowledges a few cases of youths who have left religion or escaped the pain through drug use, but maintains that they are marginal cases. Among some of the newly secular evacuees, disengagement may have simply accelerated a process which began earlier.

'From my perspective, even in Gush Katif, there were those who took the kippa off here and there, and it also happens today. Their number hasn't increased. On the other hand, I see young people about whom I wondered if they would keep their kippot on, even in Gush Katif. Now they are studying in yeshivot and their kippot are planted firmly.'

He admits that some high school graduates went to study in yeshiva as one way to dodge the army, which they now look upon with distrust and hurt.

The evacuation may have accelerated the decline in observance of F., 23, from Netzer Hazani. He stopped keeping Shabbat not long after disengagement. 'If it's just because of the evacuation, I can't say, but it could be. You can say that it helped,' says F. He notices that among his peers, aged 22 to 24, religious life is no longer a priority. 'Today, they either don't observe at all, or it has become less important.'

It can be argued that the evacuation hit the younger generation particularly hard, making them particularly susceptible to rebellion against any type of authority, religious included.

'There are more feelings of alienation on the part of the younger people - alienation from their country, their families,' explains Dr. Naomi Baum of the Israel Trauma Center, who worked with guidance counselors and parents of Gush Katif youth. 'They're going through regular teenage stuff, but with all the extras added. This makes things complicated.'

Among the 1,200 Gush Katif high school students, estimates show that some 30 percent are considered to be in a state of psychological distress, while about 150 have exhibited at-risk behavior, including the use of alcohol, violence and vandalism.

'There is a direct correlation between experiencing trauma and risk-taking behavior such as experimenting with drugs, unsafe driving, violence and alcohol,' Baum explains. 'It would not be surprising at all if kids from Gush Katif are exhibiting such behaviors at a higher level. There are a few ways to understand it: If dangerous things are going to happen anyway, let me be the boss, let me control it. Another reason is to relive the dangerous situation, to re-experience it on their own terms. Another reason is: Why bother, why worry if today is so lousy.'

While she has not studied the impact of faith among Gush Katif youth, she notes that lapses in observance may go hand-in-hand with at-risk behavior.

Miriam Shapira, a clinical psychologist and director of Mahut: the Center for Preparation for Community Emergencies of the Samaria Regional Council, has counseled Gush Katif evacuees and notes that any religious upheaval is part of a greater crumbling of all communal, parental and social frameworks.

'The uprooted youth suffer from many things - trauma, mourning over what they lost and problems of adjusting. They have no homes, they don't know where they will live, their parents don't have jobs. We are talking about a continuous breakdown. The changes in faith among the uprooted have less to do with religion - they are trying to survive.'

More notable among the young, she says, are feelings of anger toward the state, a sense of betrayal by its institutions and disillusionment with the army.

In her book Off the Derech, Faranak Margolese studied why Orthodox Jews leave religion. She found that when basic emotional and security needs are not met, difficulties can sometimes arise. 'When such fundamental emotional needs are not met, one's whole focus goes toward fulfilling those needs and religiosity often suffers,' she wrote. 'Even worse, when those needs are sabotaged through something related to a religious or Jewish experience, Judaism itself may be perceived as an obstacle to peace and happiness. Judaism, Jewish life and one's relationship to or even belief in God may then suffer.'

Unlike issues of employment and housing, which can be measured in percentages (although with conflicting figures offered by government officials and the evacuees), matters of faith are personal, between the individual and God. Without interviewing each evacuee, it is almost impossible to achieve any accurate indication.

A recent report published by the Friends of Gush Katif detailing the status of Gush Katif evacuees 20 months since the evacuation reveals that about 37 percent of the evacuees are still unemployed, with many of them not working in their professional fields, and aboutÊ 85% of 1,667 Gush Katif families continue to live in temporary housing sites, with few concrete prospects for permanent housing.

This makes study of the impact of faith upon the youth challenging, particularly when community leaders and the young people offer conflicting impressions.

Rabbi Kobi Bornstein, who taught at the hesder yeshiva in Neveh Dekalim, affirmed a short period of questioning, but not any serious breakdown of faith. 'I think [we all experienced a crisis], not only among youth but with adults. We all had difficult times with difficult emotions, such as anger.

But I don't know if [a crisis of faith] as a phenomenon happened in any serious way, not something that took more than a day or two to pass,' he says.

Yair Shahal, regional coordinator of the Bnei Akiva youth movement's southern region, on the other hand, has encountered several evacuees who are no longer religious.

'Whoever went through a breakdown like this in their formative years, as teenager or youngster, their entire foundations are shaken,' he notes.

Despite observations to the contrary, F. from Netzer Hazani doesn't notice any boost in religious dedication among his peers and comments on the lack of consistency of opinion among leaders. 'Those who became stronger - I don't see it... Everyone sees what he wants to see. You can ignore it, suppress it or deal with it.'

Immediately after the evacuation, P., 21, began to rebel against Orthodox practice. A self-proclaimed 'religious girl, a product of ulpana' prior to disengagement, P. smoked a cigarette on Shabbat one month after.

'I felt very disappointed. I really believed God wouldn't do this, then He did. I felt very angry - at the state, at everything, at God. If God is all good and all powerful, yet could do something like this and hurt us in such a way, then I don't have a conscience anymore.'

P. is not completely at peace with the path she has chosen. 'Sometimes I think that the way I tried to deal with the evacuation isn't so right. After the evacuation, I didn't go and ask rabbis. I also could have spoken to rabbis to find strength to help me understand why it happened to us and to strengthen me. I decided to escape and break with everything.'

She justifies her actions by explaining that in her anger, it was very difficult for her to seek clarifications, to listen to rebuke or to feel guilt. 'Every time I get on a bus on Shabbat and get these bouts of conscience and ask myself, 'Why are you doing this?' I answer: God hurt me much more.'

S., a 20-year-old Gush Katif evacuee, also adopted a more secular mind-set, explaining: 'Our whole life in Gush Katif revolved around religion and God. Everything we did was connected to God - from waking up in the morning to getting on the bus without fear of Arabs or mortar shells. We trusted in God that everything would be okay. And it was. We survived there in a way you can't explain except as divine providence.'

S., an active anti-disengagement protester and dedicated religious Zionist prior to disengagement, has since relaxed her observance. She abandoned traditional prayer, didn't always eat kosher, adopted less modest clothing and behavior, and started smoking.

She continues to observe Shabbat, but with less devotion. 'I lived only for myself. I thought only about myself - not God or anything else.'

Pangs of guilt plagued her as she veered off the religious path, and she tried to seek answers to guide her back toward religion. 'One time I went to speak with a rabbi about my loss of faith because I wanted to return, to get answers. The only thing he said to me was that if I didn't have faith now, I didn't have faith back then. That made me more annoyed and more anti-religion and anti-God.'

This incident only exacerbated her disillusionment with rabbis, a disillusionment common even among those who maintained their level of religious observance. S. has biting criticism for the rabbinic leadership of the anti-disengagement struggle, explaining that rabbis hardly gave consistent opinions regarding how to battle disengagement (to follow orders or not) or regarding the future of Gush Katif (would it or wouldn't it happen).

Shahal affirms that young evacuees no longer view rabbis with the same awe and respect. The rabbinic leadership, he explains, was a dominant force in the struggle against evacuation, and the bond between the young people and the community rabbis was strong. 'Once the results of the struggle were apparent and the bottom line was that the communities were gone, some said the struggle was good, some said it was a failure. It created confusion. I think this was a defining moment... There are those who say, if a leader failed, reject the leader.'

But he doesn't think community rabbis offered any definite predictions about the fate of the evacuees. 'They were very careful in this matter. Very few rabbis guaranteed that it would not happen. They said they would do their best. They gave hope, but I never heard them make promises.'

But for S., the rabbinic handling of the aftermath of disengagement was just as riddled with failure as its handling of the struggle. 'After the expulsion, we didn't hear anything from them. They didn't ask what was happening with us, the youth. They didn't write letters. They simply disappeared... When I tried to ask people and rabbis why they suddenly disappeared, and the rabbis didn't answer, I gathered from people that they themselves were confused.'

While T. says that the community heard lectures and sermons and held discussions on the theological issues raised by disengagement, Shahal doesn't think there was any organized effort to prevent a religious decline. But, he says, 'there was a process even before the explusion to continue a strong spiritual world.'

About a month after disengagement, I came across a pamphlet at the Ein Tzurim guest house, which temporarily housed evacuees. It was written by haredi kabbalist Ya'acov Edes and entitled: 'A Letter to Questioners Among the Evacuees of Gush Katif.' Edes was unavailable for comment, but he must have anticipated a crisis of faith among evacuees.

Written in simple Hebrew, the 30-page pamphlet attempts to respond to questions evacuees might harbor, like: How can we continue to fulfill God's will after dedicating our lives to serving Him in Gush Katif? How can we worship according to Halacha when we don't have the physical and communal infrastructure to do so? Where did our prayers go?

Upon showing S. the pamphlet during our interview, she said: 'At least someone tried.' When asked why community leaders offer conflicting opinions regarding the breakdown of faith, she says that those who went off the religious path wouldn't confide in the communal leadership, and certainly not in the rabbinate. While she doesn't think religious rebellion was widespread, she noticed a decline, varying in length and intensity, among her peers. In addition, she explains that the community already feels so humiliated that exposing a breakdown of faith is like 'airing dirty laundry.'

But for some Gush Katif evacuees, the religious fallout was followed by a religious renewal. While they may have experienced a temporary period of serious questioning and leniency in observance, they returned to the faith they knew and lived while in Gush Katif, some with more intensity.

Rina, 24, from Gadid, didn't step into a synagogue for six months after the disengagement. 'After the evacuation I didn't pray; I had nothing to talk about with God. Less than a year after, I felt alone without a god; I began to pray again and to believe. Now I'm more religious.'

Embracing God anew and observing mitzvot now helps her cope with and accept her losses. 'Rationally, you can't understand the evacuation. There is no sense in a state that could do this. So there has to be a greater source that was responsible for this,' she says.

Racheli Yechieli, 19, from Katif, became more steeped in her religious Zionism following disengagement. While she experienced an initial period of questioning, she ultimately found answers to satisfy her: 'My faith in God and the Torah is not something that could change in a second, even after such difficulty. It made me ask questions anew. After the expulsion, the opposite happened: my faith grew. It made me realize that I could want something, but it's not up to me. In the end, God wants what is good.'

Currently, she lives in a largely secular town in the north of the country, and views her new, religiously-grounded mission in sharing her values with mainstream, secular Israelis. As part of her national service, she worked with the youth of Gush Katif and has noticed that, all in all, most of them have recovered from any religious fallout.

'It was hard,' she says, 'a time of breakdown, which obviously leads to new things. They were great kids. We fought for our land and homes. We didn't get what we wanted. So we asked questions, and sometimes they were difficult questions. In the beginning, they may have lost faith, but most of them returned to their base.'
F. also foresees his ultimate return to religion: 'You feel like you got a slap from above and the foundations were disrupted. After that you rebuild. I believe that at some point, people will return when this period is over.'

Since seeking counseling with a psychologist, P. has begun to work through her pain and anger, but she is still not completely comforted. 'As time passes, like after someone dies, you heal with time. It's different here. After a year-and-a-half you'd think you are still trying to build yourself again. 'And although she now calls herself secular, she's far from being an atheist. 'Someone who grows up with my kind of education and roots can't ignore it, just as a Jew or Israeli who leaves Israel can't disconnect from his roots so easily. I'm very happy that I merited this education, the way I was raised. It's not that I have heretical thoughts and question God and [the divine origins] of the Torah.'

Nevertheless, she doesn't see herself returning so quickly. 'I'm in a cycle that is very hard to break. The secular life is very tempting and rich,' she says.
Rina, despite her return to whole-hearted observance, continues to harbor a touch of resentment. 'I didn't forgive [God] all the way. He has to compensate me somehow in the next few years,' she summarizes.

Pub crawl through Haifa (listing)

Jerusalem Post, Billboard; April 13, 2007

As the saying goes, Haifa works, Jerusalem prays, and Tel Aviv parties. But even people who work need to party - maybe even more so.

Haifa locals might groan that nightlife there consists of just a few landmark establishments, and while it's true that the selection is sparse compared to Tel Aviv's, Haifa offers a bit of everything: mega clubs, live music bars, dance bars, resto-bars and pubs.

Usually, Haifa joints aren't built as passing trends. They must provide a solid night on the town for a steady clientele, consisting largely of students and hi-tech professionals who wouldn't waste their hard-earned money on a dingy watering hole or fly-by-night fad.

So when Haifa's famous Bahai Gardens light up, so do the following joints:

Barbarossa is considered the most 'in' resto-bar in Haifa, where locals go to see and be seen. On weekends there is hardly room to move among the pretty-ish, 25+ crowd. Decorated in heavy wood, Barbarossa has the aura of a Crusade cellar - a tribute, perhaps, to Emperor Barbarossa of Germany, who led a Crusade through there in the 12th century. Opens 6:30 p.m., Pika 4. (04) 811-4010.

Beer House As should be obvious from the name, this place specializes in suds, serving 120 brands as well as beer-battered dishes. It's near the hotels in the Carmel area and is a natural choice for tourists - especially Europeans. Opens 7 p.m., HaNassi 116. (052) 501-8889.

Brown A branch of the Tel Aviv resto-bar, Brown in Haifa resembles an English-style pub, evoking warmth due to its color scheme, which is, naturally, wooden brown. The bar is separated into a lounge area with booths and a large, square Cheers-style bar for a diverse, easygoing crowd. Opens 9 p.m. Moriah 131. (04) 811-2391, (052) 224-9095.

Carmela Jazz and Wine Bar Newly opened by the owners of Brown, by day Carmela acts as a resto-bar with a fusion menu and invested bar. Towards evening, the jazz picks up and eventually turns into funk, rock, and groove with touches of jazz. Open 6 pm. Moriah 12. (077) 336-1616.

City Hall Considered a Haifa institution, as befits its name, City Hall is a live music and dance club which celebrated its heyday in the 80s and 90s. The top floor is outfitted with state-of-the-art sound, lighting and props to host quality rock performances such as Aviv Gefen, Monica Sex and foreign rock bands like Faith No More and Rage Against the Machine. Downstairs, DJs spin synth-pop, Goth, drum n'bass and reggae. Opens midnight on Thursdays (ages 18+) and Fridays (ages 18-25). Shabbatai Levi 7. (04) 862-7523.

Frangelico A sushi bar with friendly service despite its aura of exclusivity. A long bar lit by sexy spot lighting allows for plentiful pick-up for the 25-35 year-old crowd. The sushi, prepared by Japanese chefs, is so popular that they opened a little chain at the Haifa Grand Canyon mall. Sunday-Monday: opens 5 p.m.; Friday, Saturday: opens 12 p.m., Moriah 132. (04) 824-8839.

Horva This veteran dance bar is comprised of three halls, one each for mainstream, trance and Israeli music on Thursdays (students) and mainstream, hip-hop and Israeli music on Fridays (soldiers). Opens midnight, HaNamal street 10. (052) 388-8188.

Geah The third branch of the mega-bar chain (the others being in Tel Aviv and Eilat), Geah means 'asylum' in Hebrew, and rightly so. The vibe can get crazy around the massive rectangular bars in a gargantuan hangar space. The colors of the design and clientele tend to be on the dark-side. Opens midnight on Thursdays (hip-hop/Israeli) and Fridays (gay-friendly night, NY house); HaNamal 16; (050) 700-8020.

Gobi Gobi looks like a dingy everyman's dance bar, playing mainstream pop, dance and hip-hop. The decor is minimal, with walls painted black, but maybe Gobi doesn't need to invest much in design; large windows show off a beautiful, panoramic view of the Haifa port and beach. Opens midnight on Tuesdays (electro), Fridays (23+), and Saturdays (students), Yefe Nof 115. (054) 812-4801.

Irish House The pub is certainly not as invested as the more authentic Irish pubs in the center of Israel, like Dubin, Molly Bloom's and Murphy's. The lighting is a little too bright and the decor (consisting of flags, mugs and chandeliers) is haphazardly Irish, but for Haifa it does the trick. Opens 8 p.m., Yefe Nof 120. (054) 559-0615.

Levinsky Over six years old, Levinsky is a large resto-bar designed in classic red and black leather. It opens as a restaurant in the afternoon and turns into a standard, mellow pick-up bar at night with relatively spacious lounge areas. Opens 12 p.m., Moriah 133. (04) 825-8294; (052) 431-2314.

Luna is a mega-club that has made its home in an impressive, preserved Ottoman bath house which emerged unscathed from a Katushya hit last summer. Nowadays, antiquity mixes with raunchy modernity as Luna bathes its dancers in updated club music through a powerful sound system under high ceilings. Opens 10 p.m. on Thursdays (NY house, trance, and Israeli/rock) and Fridays (NY house, hip hop, and Israeli rock). Al Pasha 5; (04) 862-6264

Maidler's Bar You can usually find Maidler - a gruff, buff, bald Israeli - sitting in his bar on any given night. An animated picture of him is part of the establishment's logo, but don't let his serious, unfriendly expression turn you off. When the big games are on, Maidler's turn into one of the most happening, friendly sports bars in the city. Opens 6 p.m., Moriah Blvd 126. (04) 824-8754.

Morrison Named after Jim Morrison, whose large picture looms over bargoers, Morrison is (appropriately) a loud, popular - and squishy -mega rock bar which occasionally hosts young rock bands and Israeli artists. Reservations recommended, or first come, first stool. Opens 8 p.m., Yef Nof 115. (04) 838-3828, (054) 740-0501.

Building a matzah pyramid for fun and Pesach

Jewish Journal; April 12, 2007

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By the sixth day of Passover, some devoted matzah eaters might look at the bread of affliction as just that -- an affliction of their taste buds and digestion.

Members of the Moveable Minyan, a Westside lay-led, egalitarian congregation, freed themselves from enslavement to matzah on Sunday by answering the seder's "fifth" question: What can you do with matzah aside from eating it?

Their idea: Build a matzah pyramid.

"People at the seder say matzah tastes like cardboard anyway," said Edmon Rodman, the pyramid visionary and head taskmaster. "Here's an appropriate way to see if it acts like cardboard."

Rodman, a developer of children's toys and pop-up books, put together a method to transform matzahs into building materials. (He figures the patent is probably worth about "three jars of gefilte fish.") An M-shaped steel clip ("M" for matzah) fastens two matzah pieces at the top edges so they form stackable triangular blocks that can be layered atop one another, like a house of cards.

The idea for the edible pyramid, which is likely the first of its kind, dawned on him while his mind wandered during a seder last year. A search revealed no previous attempts to build a matzah pyramid.

It's highly questionable whether or not Jews actually built the Egyptian pyramids, but Rodman sees the construction as fulfilling the mitzvah of retelling the Exodus.

"You say at the seder you're supposed to be b'nai chorin [free men]. Here you have an activity to do it," he said.

About a dozen Moveable Minyan members exerted their flour power at the parking lot of the Jewish Institute of Education on Third Street, home of the Minyan, to put Rodman's engineering plan to the test. They encountered a few structural difficulties, which Rodman attributes to "matzah irregularities." Next time they might consider using charoset as an extra sealant.

The pyramid design called for eight tiers using 100 standard pieces of matzah, with eight triangular blocks on the bottom, seven above it, then six, and so on. After about an hour of trial and error, during which the second layer of matzahs kept falling down like dominoes, the congregants readjusted the plan to create a pyramid standing 4-feet high that consisted of seven layers of 80 matzahs.

Moveable Minyan member Herb Hecht, an electrical engineer, happened to be on hand to offer advice: "You first have to maintain balance between the two uprights and the clip and, of course, to prevent outward forces from pushing the matzah in. This is the same principle that goes into the construction of European cathedrals."

The debate arose as to whether or not the pyramid violated the prohibition of ba'al tashchit, or wasting food. Someone suggested the matzah debris be donated to the homeless, to which Minyan member Pini Herman offered, "They'd use it for shelter."

Someone suggested eating the pyramid layer by layer. For Rodman, the educational and artistic value of the pyramid justifies a few discarded matzahs.

When the pyramid was finished, Rodman simply flicked the bottom layer until it all came tumbling down.

So what happened to the matzah?

"Some people ate some of the matzah, they threw broken pieces away, and people took the rest home," Rodman said.

Out of Africa (restaurant review)

Jerusalem Post, Weekend Magazine; April 12, 2007

Habash, the new ethiopian Kosher restaurant, offers bewilderment for the taste buds and a not-so-small dose of culture shock.

With an interior designed to look like a village hut - yet decorated with LCD monitors ! -, Habash seeks to make Ethiopian cuisine and culture accessible to both tourists and sabras. The result is a blend of raucous ethnic celebration and - how should I say this? - unpredictable food.

Opened a couple of months ago by Emanuel Hadana, Habash gets its name from the Hebrew form of Abyssinia, the old name for Ethiopia and parts of modern-day Eritrea.
Hadana, a lawyer by profession, looks at his restaurant not so much as a business, but as a way to showcase his community.

Though his heart is definitely in the right place, Hadana's lack of experience in the food industry can be felt in Habash's patchy, haphazard service. Then again, someone in a generous mood might think that it all adds to the charm of the place - as if the diner were joining an Ethiopian family for a home-cooked meal.

I, however, was very hungry.

I began my meal with a yellowish liquor called teaj. Made from the extract of the indigenous Ethiopian gesho leaf, teaj has a coarse texture but a gentle honey-wine flavor. It went down smoothly - which is more than I can say for the next dish: the injera bread. This pancake-like bread made from teff flour should come with a label that reads, "Warning! This tastes like sour sponge."

"Be brave," the waitress said, when she noticed my bewilderment. At first, I thought the bread - or whatever was in it - was spoiled, but no, my waitress assured me that her mother's injera tastes the same way. It's just that injera is not supposed to be eaten alone, but together with the main course.

So I ordered the combination plate, an array of hearty dips and stews served in small bowls and, as per tradition, was instructed to pour the contents onto the bread. I felt like an artist squeezing paint on to a palette.

And just when I recovered from the shock of the sour bread - bam! - the yesega key wot, a peppery beef dish, seared my tongue. Luckily, there was still some teaj leftover.

As I proceeded, I discovered that not all the well-spiced dishes jolted the taste buds. Using both my fork and my fingers - incorrectly, I'm sure - I try the gomen wot. The dish of steamed vegetables tinged with olive oil acted like a balm for my shocked Mediterranean palette.

Next came the kik alicha, a lentil dish which tastes like Indian cuisine.
But in the end, none of the little dishes satisfied me as a meal, so I focused more on the experience of being at Habash - and that it was.

Before dessert arrived, an Ethiopian bassist, piper, and drummer took the stage and performed reggae-like songs. The band was quickly joined by a beautiful dancing duo, and Habash turned rather festive as a group of college-age American tourists tried to copy the traditional movements.

No doubt, that night was a memorable Israel experience for them.

When dessert arrived, I breathed a sigh of relief. That's because the traditional Ethiopian dessert, angocha, tastes like sweet halla roll. Finally, normal flour!
I ordered a coffee, but eventually lost all hope of it ever being delivered to the table. Where did they bring the coffee beans from? Ethiopia?

As I packed up to leave, I noticed that the majority of customers were Ethiopian. One group of friends, apparently celebrating a birthday, took their seats and a woman pulled out a supermarket-bought chocolate cake from a plastic bag. Enough said.

Habash, Allenby 2, (Herbert Samuel Blvd). Around NIS 70 for a meal. (077-210-0181). Kosher.

Engaging with the disengaged (movie review)

Jerusalem Post, Daily; April 11, 2007

A documentary that showcases the experience of evacuated Gush Katif settlers premieres in Los Angeles to skeptical local reviews

The full-feature documentary, Withdrawal from Gaza, is a straightforward, moving narrative of the unilateral Israeli disengagement from the Gaza Strip in August 2005. The film is resourcefully shot, edited, and marketed, but lacks a glaringly original angle, except for one: In an industry known for its antipathy towards Israel's presence in the West Bank and Gaza, Withdrawal from Gaza goes against the general pro-Palestinian line and offers a sympathetic portrait of the Gush Katif settlers.

After a showing at the Laemmle movie theater in Encino, California, where the film made its theatrical premiere on March 23, the film's co-director and executive producer Joel Blasberg told The Jerusalem Post that he didn't intend the film to serve as hasbara (public relations) for the Gush Katif settlers' plight.
'I don't think it's particularly pro-settler, it portrays what happened there,' he said.

Blasberg is a long-time Hollywood writer and producer for television and film, but this is his first documentary. He traveled to Israel months before the disengagement to chronicle this pivotal event in Jewish history. A self-proclaimed 'very pro-Israel Zionist' who served in the Israeli army in the early '70s, Blasberg geared the documentary as 'a portrayal that was favorable to Israel because I thought most films wouldn't be.'

He expected the largely liberal media and film industry to hone in on settlers as 'wide-eyed fanatics,' as did one foreign TV documentary which followed a particularly hawkish Gush Katif resident. Withdrawal From Gaza interviews relatable, down-to-earth Gush Katif residents, including an injured Israeli war veteran, a doctor, a zookeeper, a widow, and a farmer, who describe at eye-level their reasons for settling in Gush Katif, their love for the region, their tragedies, and their fears, hopes and faith.

Blasberg is not surprised that his humane portraits elicited some criticism from local critics, such as the Los Angeles Times reviewer who lamented the omission of 'any serious criticism of the settlers, whether from the Jewish left or any Palestinian point of view' and the LA Weekly reviewer who described the film as 'carefully skewed toward likable, reasonable evacuees littered with shots of weeping soldiers who find their mission unbearable.'

'If you show a film showing the Palestinian side,' says Blasberg of such comments, 'you wouldn't find a newspaper in American calling it pro-Palestinian propaganda. They'll say it's a film about Palestinian suffering.'

While Blasberg claims the film is apolitical, a disengagement documentary can't help but be politically-charged. Classic right-wing arguments are sprinkled throughout the film through settler cautions and through an interview with former chief of General Staff Lt.-Gen. (res.) Moshe 'Boogie' Ya'alon, who asks: 'How did we get to this point that it's legitimate to evacuate Jews and not legitimate to evacuate Arabs?'

The only real, token leftist voice is that of the military governor of Gaza from 1979-81, who calls the settlers 'colonialists' and says 'we need to look upon this evacuation not with tears - only with joy. Israel will revert back to being a rational Zionist country and will cease being messianic.'

Another interview with an evacuating soldier who remains steadfast in his mission gives the film an aura of balance, although Blasberg could have probably maximized the political power and passion of the film had he abandoned this seemingly begrudged effort at impartiality. But in that case, it's likely the film would have been labeled 'propaganda' and unworthy of the critical attention and media coverage it has received.

The film premiered at the Israeli Film Festival in Los Angeles, with April screenings to follow at the Beverly Hills Film Festival, Santa Cruz Film Festival and Lenore Marwin Jewish Film Festival in Detroit, where it will receive the award for best directors.

Tel Aviv school teaches singles how to date

Israel 21C and Jerusalem Post, Daily; April 11, 2007

Click here for original

Michal's story of dating frustration is undoubtedly common among singles in Israel.

"I'd often go out on dates and meet guys, hoping to create a relationship. I'm good-looking, smart, fun, communicative, but I'd end up alone," the 44-year old divorcee explained. "Then I noticed something in the system that didn't work. I wasn't doing something right."

The practitioner of Chinese medicine decided that she needed a little education in dating. This led her to Date School, the only psychotherapy-based dating program in Israel - and perhaps the world - which teaches people how to be more effective, self-aware, and informed daters.

Date School was developed by the Sexuality Center in Tel Aviv - a psychosexological clinic that treats couples and individuals with difficulties developing and maintaining healthy sexual relationships. The set of weekly workshops is conducted by center director Dr. Ilan Biran and cognitive-behavioral therapist Vered Merzer-Sapir, and it combines discussions and exercises that implement the center's cognitive-behavioral approach.

The 10-week pilot course opened last month to nine participants, who, throughout the course, are each assigned 'professional daters' - psychotherapists who simulate dates with the participants so that they can determine and study behaviors and actions that may contribute to their dating failure.

"There are many attempts to teach people how to date," Biran told ISRAEL21c from the couch-lined room where the workshops are held. "These efforts fail because... what works for one may not work for another."

Biran explained that the workshops teach that dating is an art, which first and foremost involves identifying the good in oneself and knowing how to market those assets.

"This can only be done with individual treatment. Second, there is no effective learning without practice and feedback, which is achieved best by dating a 'professional dater.'"

Prospective participants consist of professional, educated and intelligent singles who encounter problems in dating due to social anxiety, past experience, or plain bad luck.

Michal, the only female workshop participant, pinpoints her failures in part to her approach: she would always judge men based on superficial qualities, particularly appearance.

"I'm gaining the ability to get to know the soul of a man who can be a person of great quality, but who I wouldn't normally choose because he's bald, has a big nose, or a pot belly," she told ISRAEL21c.

She also discovered that, in part because of her free-flowing personality, she opens up excessively on the first date, often intimidating men with an overflow of information. "I've learned to limit myself on the first meeting, and open myself more at later dates."

Biran and Merzer-Sapir don't think there are any magic formulas or tips they can offer frustrated daters, but they point to common pitfalls and misconceptions.

"Many people, especially those who come to us, have a big dream about what they seek to find in a date," explains Biran. "Mainly, they come with the vision that they will find the love of their life. On the first date, he is already asking if this person will be the mother of his children. Even trying to do that will necessarily harm your behavior and/or your decision making...Concomitant with that is a lot of pressure to find happiness and love without compromising. I think it's a problem that only gets worse - they are in stress when they go out on dates to find their love, and it doesn't work."

Irena Netanel, a psychotherapist and one of the workshop's professional daters, slams another myth: "Many dates fail because they decide right away that it doesn't work because there is no chemistry."

A date, the professionals emphasize, is about getting to know another person - and oneself.

Michal has recently begun dating someone she met online whom she would have normally rejected prior to attending the workshop.

"When you give a chance and don't disqualify a guy who isn't so good looking, but who...is funny, smart, fun to be with and makes you feel good - then, you see something else, the other side of the soul. You can fall in love with a person like that."