Jerusalem Post, Weekend Magazine; May 17, 2007
Owned by some of Israel's most interesting personalities, goat and sheep farms are becoming increasingly diverse.
The people of Israel have a long history as shepherds. Many of our forefathers, among them Abraham, Moses and David were herders and the nurturing qualities needed for their profession stood them in good stead for leading the burgeoning Jewish nation.
Modern Israelis have continued in their footsteps. But as Israel becomes increasingly sophisticated gastronomically, consumers are favoring goats' and sheep's cheese over cows' milk produce. Unlike their bovine counterparts, most goats and sheep are free to roam and graze; antibiotics aren't - usually - a part of their diet; their cheese and milk contains lower lactose content, and their taste is unmistakably distinct.
As consumers have become more enthused, cheese makers have become more creative, and many new goat farms have opened around the country while others have considerably increased their range.
Shavuot is now on our doorstep and as Israelis prepare to mark the holiday with the traditional dairy foods, an unconventional and patriotic way to celebrate the holiday could be to visit farms and their boutique delicatessens for an authentic dairy experience grounded in the land of milk and honey.
The following is a partial list of select dairy farms in Israel for whom cheese making is its own Torah.
Eretz Zavat Halav U'Dvash, Moshav Nehalim
A favorite among locals and tourists, Eretz Zavat Halav U'Dvash is in Moshav Nehalim near Petah Tikva, about 15 minutes away from the airport. Ahhh... what a great place to land for brunch after a long flight, or on any morning for that matter. A colorful, lush garden adorned with a fish pond opens to an outdoor patio with sheep grazing nearby.
At his cafe, Aharon Markovich, who grew up on the religious-Zionist moshav, explained his decision to raise sheep rather than the more prevalent goats. 'Sheep milk doesn't have the heavy aroma of goat cheese. Cow's milk is flavorless,' says Markovich, quick to bring out a container of fresh sheep's milk to drink.
The taste and texture of the milk was indeed sweet and creamy, and the personable Markovich abides by the adage that rarer is better. Sheep produce about half the amount of milk that goats produce, and the results truly are exquisite.
The Markovich dairy produces 40 different kinds of cheeses: fresh, semi-hard, hard, and ripened, but Markovich gets annoyed when people ask him to categorize his cheeses according to well-known kinds, such as Camembert, Tomme or feta. While he has mostly taught himself traditional techniques, he refuses to bow to European customs, instead seeking to forge his own.
'I wanted to create an Israeli brand of cheese,' he said, hence the name of the dairy, which means 'land flowing with milk and honey.'
Markovich makes original cheeses using unorthodox ingredients: wine, fig leaves, rosemary, bay leaves, to name just a few, and of course, 'lots of love and soul.' At the morning buffet brunch he serves flavored cheese balls, breads, Greek salad, roasted peppers, marinated eggplant and spicy carrots, but the highlight is the opportunity to create a cheese platter from among the dozens of cheeses sold at the deli.
Given its city-edge locale, Eretz Zavat Halav U'Dvash is among the most urban-tinged dairies. Nevertheless, the atmosphere is quaint and relaxing, with Israeli background music mixing with bird chirping. To preserve the quiet, Friday brunch is closed to children under 12, to the dismay of some parents and the relief of others.
For the perfect dairy dessert, stop by next door at Neta's chocolate shop where gracious Neta offers samples of her handmade, uniquely flavored pralines.
Brunch: 9 a.m. to 2 p.m.; Deli: 9 a.m. to 7 p.m. (closed Shabbat and holidays). Kosher certificate. Tel: (03) 033-2979. www.2eat.co.il/eretz.
Zook Farm
Located near the Ela Valley not far from Beit Shemesh, the Zook Farm offers a taste of rustic Israel. Reaching the farm is an experience in and of itself. A kilometer long road leads to the picturesque, delightfully landscaped outdoor seating areas adorned with roses and vines. At the Zook Farm cafe (opened to the public on weekends), cheeses and homemade delicacies are served on red-and-white checkered picnic tablecloths that overlook the barns and bushy hills.
The Zook brothers, Yiftach and Tomer, moshav boys, are now at the helm of a fraternal food dynasty. Their other brother, culinary star Nir Zook, is the namesake of the famous Zook Compound in Jaffa, home to the exclusive Cordelia restaurant. The Zook Compound is the only venue aside from the Zook Farm where Zook cheeses are sold to the public.
A delightful brunch is NIS 100 per person; pricey, but it includes homemade wine and high-grade cheeses made from whole goat's milk: delicate Tzfatit, aged Roquefort and earthy Tomme cheese. Cheeses come with an array of dips and appetizers, including labane, feta cheese spread, eggplant in cream, artichokes, roasted peppers, fennel, ful, humous and tehina. Gingerbread and coffee cookies top it off.
Tel: 054-523-9117/8; Open Fri., Sat., and holidays: 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.; http:// www.mitchatnim.co.il/mem/havat_tzuk/
Goat Path
A new addition to the goat farm landscape of Israel, Goat Path in Tal Shahar was founded about a year ago by the Saban and Einy families, who make a large variety of whole milk goat's cheeses: Gouda, cheddar, Emmental, labane, yogurts and yogurt drinks. A lovely country cafe set up in a wooden cabin opens on weekends. Visitors are welcome to visit the large goat pens and tour the attraction-rich area.
Fri. and holiday eves: 9 a.m. to 2 p.m; Sat. and holidays: 9 a.m.-6 p.m; Sun. to Thurs. (limited menu): 8 a.m. to 3 p.m.; Tel: 052-258-9900; (08) 949-5964.
Kornmehl Farm
Located in the northern Negev, overlooking ancient farm ruins, the Kornmehl Farm was founded in 1997 by husband-and-wife team Anat and Daniel Kornmehl, both graduates of the Agricultural Science department at the Hebrew University. Daniel studied cheesemaking in both France and Israel, and the farm employs the French cheesemaking tradition while preserving the unique flavors of the Israeli desert, where the goats graze.
Cheese varieties include their version of Tomme, Camembert and Brie. Visitors are welcome to watch the afternoon milking at 4:30 and learn about the cheese-making process. Kornmehl cheeses are now sold in gourmet food shops in the center of the country (try Buy the Way in Tzomet Ra'anana).
Cheeses sold daily 10 a.m. to 6 p.m.
Tel: (08) 655-5140, 052-278-8051.
Jerusalem hills
A fixture in the Israel cheesemaking community with his long, white beard, Shai Seltzer is certainly a candidate for the godfather of modern Israeli goat-cheese making. This Israeli veteran and award-winning cheesemaker has been raising goats for the past 32 years. Following ancient tradition, the gourmet cheeses are aged in a dark cave, and they are sold only on-site at his base in the Sataf nature reserve, only on weekends, 11 a.m. to 4 p.m. Tel: (02) 533-3748.
www.goat-cheese.co.il/
If you're in this region, you can also pop into the Har Haruah goats' cheese farm, just behind Abu Ghosh. Despite the fact that they no longer have a restaurant, Dalia and Haim Himelfarb now package their 'pundak' in a picnic basket filled with a platter of cheeses, salad, olives, bread, and pita. Tel: (02) 534-5660. Thurs: 7 p.m, to 12 midnight; Fri. and holiday eves: 10 a.m. to 4 p.m.; Sat. and holidays: 10 a.m. to 7 p.m.; or by appointment. www.harharuach.com
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Friday, April 27, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, April 13, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Building a matzah pyramid for fun and Pesach
Jewish Journal; April 12, 2007
Click here for original
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.
Click here for original
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
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.
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."
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."
Friday, March 16, 2007
Summing up the party
Jerusalem Post, In Jerusalem; March 16, 2007
Haoman 17 gave Tel Avivians a reason to travel to the Holy City and Jerusalemites to stay put
I remember when I first landed in Jerusalem about seven years ago from Los Angeles to make my life in Israel, I felt like something was missing. Maybe it's because I'm from LA, but I knew it was something glamorous, exciting, beautiful, wild and crazy. The Western Wall could only satisfy me so much.
Then I discovered Haoman 17. My friends told me the nightclub had an international reputation, which was hard for me to believe. How could a Jerusalem nightclub be so famous?
Then, when I first stepped into the club, I understood why. The massive dance floor, the sound system and the music were a step above what I had seen or heard before - and ah, and the people! So beautiful. Clubbing at Haoman was a ritual, an art and a holy endeavor.
Haoman was the only place in Jerusalem where I felt I could let loose on the dance floor, meet guys without too many strings attached, dress to kill and release all the pressures involved in making aliya. It was the secular haven for sassy Jerusalemites. It was a pocket of Tel Aviv in a city considered to be the metropolis's conservative opposite.
Some called it an escape, some a source of inspiration. For me, it was place of discovery - about Israeli society, Israeli people, music, dance and ultimately, myself.
My girlfriends and I would go almost every other week. This was our outlet, were we could feel beautiful, alive, sexy and even a little crazy. At Haoman I felt that anything was possible. Spirituality was found through physicality. In my freedom to dance, I could dream big about life in Israel.
So when I heard the news that Haoman 17 was closing as a nightclub and turning into a megabar, my reactions were of understanding, sadness, nostalgia and also relief.
Haoman 17 Jerusalem began to lose its edge at the start of the second intifada, when weekly terrorist attacks repelled trendy Tel Avivians from their favorite nightclub. Haoman gradually turned into a neighborhood club, and selection became less strict.
Foreign DJs weren't always keen on traveling to war-torn Israel - if the diminishing crowd could even justify their arrival. While the sound, the DJs, the innovative house music, the ever-changing design and the themed parties still made Haoman the most popular and pioneering club in Israel, the 'X factor' was disappearing.
Then, to add to the hard times created by the intifada, the Tax Authority raided the club on New Year's 2002. In a widely publicized scandal, the five original owners were accused of tax evasion, and a lengthy trial, which reached the Supreme Court, undoubtedly zapped some of their energy and concentration. They were convicted in 2005, received heavy fines and were sentenced to various prison terms of 10 to 18 months.
Up until their sentencing, however, the industriousness of the remaining owners did not seem to wane - but maybe misguidedly so. They decided to import the Haoman brand to Haifa and invested about $1 million to create a stunning nightclub in the Hadar region themed after a ship. The club set sail in early 2004 and, despite its beauty and impressiveness, it lasted only about a year and then mysteriously died - in part because of a shooting incident at the entrance.
According to Haifa locals versant in the Haifa nightlife scene, the ambitious club also didn't really attune itself to the mentality and going-out habits of the down-to-earth locals, who demanded less selection snobbery at the door and more affordable drinks and entrance fees.
Snobbery and price, however, didn't seem to bother the Tel Aviv night owls. Haoman 17 Tel Aviv opened in 2004 and quickly wiped out the competition, among them the TLV megaclub. While the Tel Aviv club continues to pack it in weekly and remains the only standing Haoman 17, it has yet to retain the glamour, uniqueness and magical vibe of Haoman 17 Jerusalem's early years.
But now that Haoman Jerusalem is turning into a megabar, and the visionary owner-in-chief, Ruben Lublin, will dedicate himself mostly to the Tel Aviv club, Haoman 17 Tel Aviv is poised to perpetuate Haoman 17's legendary name.
That is, unless the decline in the megaclub trend in Israel - the one that prompted the closing of Haoman Jerusalem - also affects the Tel Aviv branch.
But why mention only the negative? Haoman has its fair share of mighty accomplishments. It put Israel's name in European DJ and nightlife magazines. The club actually gave Tel Avivians a reason to travel to the Holy City and Jerusalemites to stay put. Haoman raised the standards of nightlife in all of Israel, and also that of accompanying industries - music, sound, lighting and fashion.
Haoman 17's farewell party last week was a throwback to the 'good old times.' Tension-building house music, the African-themed design, sex in the air (and possibly in the famous bathrooms), partyers from Tel Aviv and old-time owners and managers all made the farewell party one to remember. Grass (not the drug - the plant) was laid out in the entrance courtyard, which a bunch of partiers spilled onto at around 5 a.m., and the party continued until the afternoon.
It'll be strange for me to pass by Haoman now, and know that it no longer functions as a nightclub. I feel like a part (and party) of my early years in Israel has died. A piece of my influential, young and carefree Israeli experience has been buried.
But maybe that's why I'm relieved too. Haoman will always hold a special place in my heart and in the heart of so many Jerusalemites - for many it's the place where they tested their inhibitions. But now that I'm older and wiser, having settled more into Israel and also more into myself, Haoman is not my future, but my past - and I will look back at Haoman as a playground for my search to dance wildly, only so that I could eventually stand steadily.
Haoman 17 gave Tel Avivians a reason to travel to the Holy City and Jerusalemites to stay put
I remember when I first landed in Jerusalem about seven years ago from Los Angeles to make my life in Israel, I felt like something was missing. Maybe it's because I'm from LA, but I knew it was something glamorous, exciting, beautiful, wild and crazy. The Western Wall could only satisfy me so much.
Then I discovered Haoman 17. My friends told me the nightclub had an international reputation, which was hard for me to believe. How could a Jerusalem nightclub be so famous?
Then, when I first stepped into the club, I understood why. The massive dance floor, the sound system and the music were a step above what I had seen or heard before - and ah, and the people! So beautiful. Clubbing at Haoman was a ritual, an art and a holy endeavor.
Haoman was the only place in Jerusalem where I felt I could let loose on the dance floor, meet guys without too many strings attached, dress to kill and release all the pressures involved in making aliya. It was the secular haven for sassy Jerusalemites. It was a pocket of Tel Aviv in a city considered to be the metropolis's conservative opposite.
Some called it an escape, some a source of inspiration. For me, it was place of discovery - about Israeli society, Israeli people, music, dance and ultimately, myself.
My girlfriends and I would go almost every other week. This was our outlet, were we could feel beautiful, alive, sexy and even a little crazy. At Haoman I felt that anything was possible. Spirituality was found through physicality. In my freedom to dance, I could dream big about life in Israel.
So when I heard the news that Haoman 17 was closing as a nightclub and turning into a megabar, my reactions were of understanding, sadness, nostalgia and also relief.
Haoman 17 Jerusalem began to lose its edge at the start of the second intifada, when weekly terrorist attacks repelled trendy Tel Avivians from their favorite nightclub. Haoman gradually turned into a neighborhood club, and selection became less strict.
Foreign DJs weren't always keen on traveling to war-torn Israel - if the diminishing crowd could even justify their arrival. While the sound, the DJs, the innovative house music, the ever-changing design and the themed parties still made Haoman the most popular and pioneering club in Israel, the 'X factor' was disappearing.
Then, to add to the hard times created by the intifada, the Tax Authority raided the club on New Year's 2002. In a widely publicized scandal, the five original owners were accused of tax evasion, and a lengthy trial, which reached the Supreme Court, undoubtedly zapped some of their energy and concentration. They were convicted in 2005, received heavy fines and were sentenced to various prison terms of 10 to 18 months.
Up until their sentencing, however, the industriousness of the remaining owners did not seem to wane - but maybe misguidedly so. They decided to import the Haoman brand to Haifa and invested about $1 million to create a stunning nightclub in the Hadar region themed after a ship. The club set sail in early 2004 and, despite its beauty and impressiveness, it lasted only about a year and then mysteriously died - in part because of a shooting incident at the entrance.
According to Haifa locals versant in the Haifa nightlife scene, the ambitious club also didn't really attune itself to the mentality and going-out habits of the down-to-earth locals, who demanded less selection snobbery at the door and more affordable drinks and entrance fees.
Snobbery and price, however, didn't seem to bother the Tel Aviv night owls. Haoman 17 Tel Aviv opened in 2004 and quickly wiped out the competition, among them the TLV megaclub. While the Tel Aviv club continues to pack it in weekly and remains the only standing Haoman 17, it has yet to retain the glamour, uniqueness and magical vibe of Haoman 17 Jerusalem's early years.
But now that Haoman Jerusalem is turning into a megabar, and the visionary owner-in-chief, Ruben Lublin, will dedicate himself mostly to the Tel Aviv club, Haoman 17 Tel Aviv is poised to perpetuate Haoman 17's legendary name.
That is, unless the decline in the megaclub trend in Israel - the one that prompted the closing of Haoman Jerusalem - also affects the Tel Aviv branch.
But why mention only the negative? Haoman has its fair share of mighty accomplishments. It put Israel's name in European DJ and nightlife magazines. The club actually gave Tel Avivians a reason to travel to the Holy City and Jerusalemites to stay put. Haoman raised the standards of nightlife in all of Israel, and also that of accompanying industries - music, sound, lighting and fashion.
Haoman 17's farewell party last week was a throwback to the 'good old times.' Tension-building house music, the African-themed design, sex in the air (and possibly in the famous bathrooms), partyers from Tel Aviv and old-time owners and managers all made the farewell party one to remember. Grass (not the drug - the plant) was laid out in the entrance courtyard, which a bunch of partiers spilled onto at around 5 a.m., and the party continued until the afternoon.
It'll be strange for me to pass by Haoman now, and know that it no longer functions as a nightclub. I feel like a part (and party) of my early years in Israel has died. A piece of my influential, young and carefree Israeli experience has been buried.
But maybe that's why I'm relieved too. Haoman will always hold a special place in my heart and in the heart of so many Jerusalemites - for many it's the place where they tested their inhibitions. But now that I'm older and wiser, having settled more into Israel and also more into myself, Haoman is not my future, but my past - and I will look back at Haoman as a playground for my search to dance wildly, only so that I could eventually stand steadily.
Friday, March 9, 2007
A taste of the beer capital (bar review)
Jerusalem Post, Billbard; March 9, 2007
Jerusalem hosts the third pub in the ambitious Dublin chain
In a country where pubs have a shelf-life of about two years, entrepreneurs need a lot of guts to sign a 14-year lease. But when Gily Zabary and his partner Zion Lahav opened their third Dublin outlet - in the center of Jerusalem - they didn't intend to build a mere Irish pub, but an institution.
'There are pubs in Ireland that date back 800 years,' Zabary explains. He fell in love with Irish pubs during his travels to Dublin, the home of Guinness. 'I was amazed to see that people aged 40 and 50 hung out with 20- and 30-year-olds. What unites them is the beer.'
Surprisingly, Zabary doesn't have any Irish roots, and looks more Sephardic than European. Born to a Yemenite father and a German mother, he brought the warmth of the East and the exactness of the German Ashkenazim to his establishments.
Before building the first Dublin pub in his native Rehovot five years ago, Zabary worked for several months as a bartender in Ireland - a self-imposed internship. A second Dublin pub made its home in Herzliya two years ago, and Jerusalem became the next logical location. The capital, Zabary says, is the third-largest market for draft beer in Israel, behind Rehovot and Haifa.
It should be clear to anyone who walks into Dublin that the pub wasn't built as a passing fancy; a million-dollar investment made sure of that. Dublin's over-done design - high Gothic ceilings, thick wooden furniture, authentic Irish chandeliers and ornate stained glass - is more reminiscent of a flamboyant Disneyland ride than a cozy Irish pub. Sitting areas are divided into two categories: the knights' table for groups and 'snugs' for intimate encounters. No two dining areas are the same, so visitors can experience the pub differently every time.
Dublin is the kind of place where middle-aged couples can munch on finger food and throw back whiskey shots alongside 22-year-old guys mustering the courage required to approach a girl. To appeal to older crowds and reduce the smoky, 'pick-up' bar feel, the owners have invested NIS 400,000 in a smoke ventilation system, so bargoers don't leave for home with the scent of cigarette ashes on their clothes.
That Dublin has chosen to plaster ads on Egged buses demonstrates its broad market: everyone is invited - rich, poor, young and old. The only thing in which Dublin customers cannot be pedestrian is their taste in beer. Carlsberg and Heineken aren't considered respectable options at Dublin.
Beer consumption is a culture in Ireland, Zabary explains, with the many Irishmen drinking 15 pints a day. To boost the beer culture in Israel, Zabary focused on beer variety and professional preparation and presentation.
Beer kegs aren't located under the bar, as in most Israeli drinking establishments, but in a special refrigerated 'beer cellar' built to European standards. The beer reaches the taps through an elaborate system of underground pipes. The custom-made beer glasses are washed in a separate dishwasher to make sure they don't get contaminated with oil, milk or eggs, which can ruin the flavor and texture.
Dublin serves 18 kinds of beer on tap, some of them fruit-flavored. During off-hours, bartenders may offer samples in miniature two-inch mugs.
'The phrase 'beer is too bitter for me' no longer applies in Israel,' says Zabary. 'Israelis used to say that because they didn't know anything else.'
Dublin, Shamai 4, (02) 622-3612, Hours: daily from 5 p.m. - 3 a.m., Friday until 5 a.m. Musical line-up: Sunday: Eighties' Israeli music; Monday: Israeli and cover bands; Tuesday: Irish bands; Weekends: DJ Freestyle
Jerusalem hosts the third pub in the ambitious Dublin chain
In a country where pubs have a shelf-life of about two years, entrepreneurs need a lot of guts to sign a 14-year lease. But when Gily Zabary and his partner Zion Lahav opened their third Dublin outlet - in the center of Jerusalem - they didn't intend to build a mere Irish pub, but an institution.
'There are pubs in Ireland that date back 800 years,' Zabary explains. He fell in love with Irish pubs during his travels to Dublin, the home of Guinness. 'I was amazed to see that people aged 40 and 50 hung out with 20- and 30-year-olds. What unites them is the beer.'
Surprisingly, Zabary doesn't have any Irish roots, and looks more Sephardic than European. Born to a Yemenite father and a German mother, he brought the warmth of the East and the exactness of the German Ashkenazim to his establishments.
Before building the first Dublin pub in his native Rehovot five years ago, Zabary worked for several months as a bartender in Ireland - a self-imposed internship. A second Dublin pub made its home in Herzliya two years ago, and Jerusalem became the next logical location. The capital, Zabary says, is the third-largest market for draft beer in Israel, behind Rehovot and Haifa.
It should be clear to anyone who walks into Dublin that the pub wasn't built as a passing fancy; a million-dollar investment made sure of that. Dublin's over-done design - high Gothic ceilings, thick wooden furniture, authentic Irish chandeliers and ornate stained glass - is more reminiscent of a flamboyant Disneyland ride than a cozy Irish pub. Sitting areas are divided into two categories: the knights' table for groups and 'snugs' for intimate encounters. No two dining areas are the same, so visitors can experience the pub differently every time.
Dublin is the kind of place where middle-aged couples can munch on finger food and throw back whiskey shots alongside 22-year-old guys mustering the courage required to approach a girl. To appeal to older crowds and reduce the smoky, 'pick-up' bar feel, the owners have invested NIS 400,000 in a smoke ventilation system, so bargoers don't leave for home with the scent of cigarette ashes on their clothes.
That Dublin has chosen to plaster ads on Egged buses demonstrates its broad market: everyone is invited - rich, poor, young and old. The only thing in which Dublin customers cannot be pedestrian is their taste in beer. Carlsberg and Heineken aren't considered respectable options at Dublin.
Beer consumption is a culture in Ireland, Zabary explains, with the many Irishmen drinking 15 pints a day. To boost the beer culture in Israel, Zabary focused on beer variety and professional preparation and presentation.
Beer kegs aren't located under the bar, as in most Israeli drinking establishments, but in a special refrigerated 'beer cellar' built to European standards. The beer reaches the taps through an elaborate system of underground pipes. The custom-made beer glasses are washed in a separate dishwasher to make sure they don't get contaminated with oil, milk or eggs, which can ruin the flavor and texture.
Dublin serves 18 kinds of beer on tap, some of them fruit-flavored. During off-hours, bartenders may offer samples in miniature two-inch mugs.
'The phrase 'beer is too bitter for me' no longer applies in Israel,' says Zabary. 'Israelis used to say that because they didn't know anything else.'
Dublin, Shamai 4, (02) 622-3612, Hours: daily from 5 p.m. - 3 a.m., Friday until 5 a.m. Musical line-up: Sunday: Eighties' Israeli music; Monday: Israeli and cover bands; Tuesday: Irish bands; Weekends: DJ Freestyle
Beyond belief
Jerusalem Post, In Jerusalem; March 9, 2007
Click here for original
For many disillusioned haredim leaving their close-knit community is like moving to a foreign country.
'Who wants to make kiddush?' a long-haired man asks at the Friday night table, holding a kiddush cup.
There seem to be no takers, so he begins himself to say the blessing but stops somewhere in the middle when he realizes no one is really paying attention. 'Yalla!' he says, dismissively, cutting the kiddush short while everyone proceeds to eat the three-course, buffet-style Shabbat meal.
Once skipping kiddush would have been a sacrilege for almost everyone around the table. These days, making the choice is its own blessing. The men and women sitting at the table are all former haredim who broke out of their dogmatic, strict confines, on pain of excommunication, poverty and loneliness, to live in a world in which they can choose how to live.
For some, this kind of gathering is the closest they get to feeling like part of a family, says Rina Ofir, director of Hillel, a non-profit organization that helps former haredim adjust to mainstream, pluralistic Israeli life. 'They don't really have the chance to go to home on Friday nights.'
Most haredi defectors are immediately ejected from their homes once they appear at the family doorstep without peyot (sidelocks) or, in the case of women, without a modest skirt.
Two years ago, Hillel made communal Friday night dinners a tradition, alternating weekly between its Tel Aviv and Jerusalem branches. 'It's important for them to be together, for the food as well - for some of them it's their only real meal because they eat here and there and don't really have money,' explains Ofir.
Leaving haredi communities to join mainstream Israeli society is for many like moving to a foreign country. It entails learning a new language (particularly English, but in some cases also spoken Hebrew), internalizing modern codes of dress and behavior, creating a social framework and securing housing and employment.
Some haredi communities can be likened to Yiddish-speaking Eastern European shtetls - minus the cold weather and with modern appliances. 'Yotzim define themselves as new immigrants,' says Ofir, referring to haredi defectors who are commonly called yotzim b'she'ela ('going out to question,' a pun on hozrim b'teshuva, the Hebrew term for those returning to religion).
Despite these difficulties, the number of newly secular is apparently increasing, judging from last year's hike in inquiries to Hillel's open line. The proliferation of the Internet has made access to secular worldviews more readily available to haredim via their computers or cellphones. Many yotzim and prospective yotzim congregate digitally on the popular chat forum 'yotzim b'she'ela' on the Tapuz Web site portal. This is one reason, says Ofir, why some haredi community leaders are beginning to outlaw Internet use.
'It's important for us to state that we are not missionaries,' she clarifies. 'We work with those who choose to leave the haredi community. We have no interest in drawing them out.' Nor does Hillel seek to engage former haredim in religious debate. Instead, the organization refers them to libraries and the Internet to find answers to theological questions.
Da'at Emet was founded in 1998 by Yaron Yadan to provide such answers. The organization, dedicated to disseminating a scientific, humanistic interpretation of Judaism, initially went to haredi yeshivot and handed out pamphlets divulging ideas that countered haredi faith-based beliefs, such as those dealing with the divinity of the Torah and the veracity of the Talmud.
'We try to teach the haredi public that they live by an unethical, mistaken and inequitable system,' says Yadan, who fears that haredi influence and growth is undermining the state's democratic character. 'We try to explain to them that the secular world is more beautiful - it is filled with creativity, ethics and spirituality.'
These days, Da'at Emet reaches haredi communities here and abroad through lectures, workshops and its Web site, which features a range of articles written from an academic, humanistic perspective that expose inconsistencies, scientific errors and ethically problematic passages in the Bible and Talmud.
Da'at Emet is the fruit of Yadan's intellectual journey - he went from being secular to haredi, before becoming secular again. Having grown up in a non-religious household, he began to study at a Jerusalem yeshiva at age 17 to satisfy his search for meaning and purpose. 'I was (and still am) very knowledgeable in Jewish texts - the entire bookshelf,' he says.
While serving as head of a yeshiva for three years, Yadan began to critically examine biblical and talmudic texts. 'I found errors in zoology, medicine, astronomy, cosmology, anatomy and other fields, and I noticed that in Jewish religious texts morality is based not on ethics, but on mitzvot [commandments] founded upon halachic [religious law] errors. As a believer whose whole life was bound to the idea that God wrote the Torah, it eventually became clear to me there was no divine connection to the Torah.'
Finally, when he was convinced that his life was based on lies, Yadan broke the news to his wife. Unable to stand the idea that their seven children would continue to live and study an irrational belief system, he worked for three years to guide his wife toward his new truth. 'I succeeded. I don't know how. One night she turned on the lights on Shabbat, and that was that.'
Yadan has since divorced and remarried, and is currently completing his BA in Jewish thought. Judging from inquiries from haredim, he confirms that the phenomenon is growing.
'Today, unlike the time when Da'at Emet was founded, there is no haredi household that doesn't know someone who left the fold. It used to be that if a haredi family had a son or daughter who [became secular], other children in the family would not be considered for arranged marriages.'
These days, says Yadan, defection is more commonplace and no longer scars the reputation of other siblings.
His transition into the secular world may have been easier than that of other yotzim because of his secular roots, but with seven children to support and no profession, Yadan faced enormous financial hardship. Sometimes he advises haredim with many children not to leave.
'If you have no profession and even if your wife agrees with you, live a double life,' he tells them. 'Try at least to send your kids to schools that offer general education.'
While previous generations of yotzim laid the groundwork for others to follow, Yadan thinks the process remains a difficult one, as one former Jerusalem hassid attests.
'AT FIRST your life is hell. On one hand you're not familiar with secular culture, while on the other, you want to be a part of it,' says S., 23, who shaved off his beard and peyot only a few months ago. 'I never thought I'd do it. It takes courage to leave everything and go into a world you don't know.'
S. doesn't describe the process of leaving as the result of an intellectual journey or sudden revelation. He simply never felt like he fitted in. 'I lived a regular haredi life - I wasn't such a rebel - but I reached a situation where I couldn't stand living that way anymore. I never got along with my immediate family. We had no emotional connection. We had different mentalities. I was more drawn to a life of freedom, nature.'
A year ago, he divorced his wife from an arranged marriage that was a mismatch from the start. 'They married me to someone, it didn't work and I got divorced,' he says, simply.
Several months later he took off with his savings, and lived out of a suitcase in the center of the country until he eventually settled in a Tel Aviv apartment subsidized by Hillel. He found a job at a food stand but speaks with bitterness of his early work experience. 'They take advantage of you. At first you're very timid.' S. doesn't expect to secure a better-paying job without an academic qualification, as is common among yotzim.
'Those who study in yeshiva don't really know anything,' Ofir explains. 'They know Talmud very well, but don't know English or math.' To achieve a BA, the average male yotzeh must learn English from scratch, complete matriculation exams (a process that can take up to two years) and attend college for approximately four years. Some opt for army service, which further stretches the time until they graduate from college.
'If someone becomes more religious, they get help, education, housing, food,' relates S. 'Hessed [charity] is an integral part of haredi life, and many charity organizations provide food and services for needy haredim. You don't have that for people who become secular. Secular people live their lives. As a yotzeh, you're on your own. It's like you're thrown to the winds.'
To fill that void, Hillel models itself after charity organizations. Unlike some religious outreach organizations that receive government funding, Hillel subsists on private donations, mostly from abroad. The funds are channeled primarily for its members' education. The staff consists entirely of volunteers, except for one part-time position. Each Hillel member is assigned an individual tutor on secular living, and at both the Tel Aviv and Jerusalem branches, a library and racks of secular clothing are at the members' disposal.
Last weekend, Hillel organized a Purim retreat with workshops on employees' rights, dating and love and sex. In a world of arranged marriages, yotzim do not acquire basic dating skills.
'A lot of women at Hillel complain that the yotzim are very rude in their advances, because they have no idea how to approach a woman,' says P., a former haredi woman. 'Women have their own difficulties approaching men in the outer world because the codes are so different. The rules of the game in the secular world are much more varied. In the religious world it's very black and white - it's clear what you're supposed to do at every stage in the courtship.'
Ironically, female yotzot from certain haredi communities leave their world better equipped to adjust. Haredi women are often expected to support the family while husbands learn in yeshiva, and study math, English and science in high school. However, far fewer women than men leave haredi communities, in part because their lives are situated around the home and they are usually married off at a younger age. They also have a lot more at stake, including losing the amenities that go with an arranged marriage and often being stigmatized as 'whores,' who should be distanced from their community at all costs.
But R., a member of Hillel, points out that even a girls' education is usually not enough. 'When you grow up you don't have television or radio, and don't hear English songs - you just see and read Hebrew.'
Upon breaking away from her community, R. traveled to India where she had to converse in English for the first time. 'I didn't know how to say 'restaurant,' 'hotel,' 'waiter' - nothing. I felt so stupid.'
Racheli Granot, who left her home in Bnei Brak as a teen, describes herself as having adopted provocative dress and vulgar speech in her early rebellious years. 'As a girl who grew up in the hassidic world, when I went out to the free world I was very 'anti.' I rebelled against values, parents, family, myself and friends. I lost control. I wanted to swallow the world in one go.'
At 18 she joined Hillel, which guided her toward a healthier framework of work and study. 'They hammered into my skull that there are no short cuts in life, that I must study to bridge the big gap in my education, to aim high and try to be something in life,' she says.
WHILE YOTZIM often consider their entry into mainstream society a type of rebirth, replete with a new slew of opportunities for intellectual growth and freedom, the process of fully integrating may take many years for some. There is a common debate among Hillel members as to when a yotzeh stops being a yotzeh.
'You can't say I feel better,' says S., whose natural early-20s uncertainty is exacerbated by his limited childhood experiences. 'When you don't know yourself, your way around, you can't feel better. But I try to deal with what I have, to make the most of it.'
Meir Tahover, 25, believes that his process of adjustment took only several months because he began to scientifically research the non-haredi world as a teen, when he already began to doubt his hassidic lifestyle, asking questions like: 'It didn't make sense that God would create a person so that he'll suffer - why create fruit only to forbid it?'
From 19, this self-professed former model yeshiva student began to investigate other streams of Judaism, including religious Zionism, until he came to the conclusion at 23 that 'religion is not for me.' When his parents understood that he had abandoned religion completely, they threw him out of the house. At that point, Tahover became a member of Hillel, which assisted him in putting a roof over his head and funding studies toward his matriculation exam. He currently works in a stationary store and defines his goal simply: 'To build a new life. To make a better future for my children.'
With the passage of time his parents have softened toward him. Tahover recently attended his sister's wedding, where his father shook his hand for the first time in two years. He participates regularly in the popular Tapuz chat forum, responding to concerns raised by potential yotzim.
'One type is very intellectual and asks the right questions,' he says of the yotzim he has encountered. This group, he says, is a minority because a healthy sense of reason and inquiry is stifled at an early age. 'The second type, of which there are more, consists of those who don't have it good in the haredi community and seek a change.'
Faranak Margolese, author of the book Off the Derech, which examines why Jews leave Orthodoxy, cites a common thread in the motivations of haredim who leave. 'It seems the pressure to be religious in one particular way is often too stifling. The road becomes too narrow to walk, and the inability to legitimately move to another brand of observance leaves too few options for those who don't fit the mold,' she notes.
Ofir notices that most Hillel members abandon any belief in God or religious observance - at least in the early stages of rebellion. This trend could be stemmed, says Margolese, if haredi communities would change their attitudes toward other Jewish streams. 'A fair number of those in the haredi world who go off might have stayed at least somewhat observant if other communities or observant options were considered legitimate to their own world,' she says.
Considering the independent spirit, intellectual curiosity and mental fortitude required to leave their communities, yotzim who succeed in providing for their basic needs - whether through organizations like Hillel or on their own - often become productive, even overachieving members of society, notes Ofir. Hillel members have graduated from top Israeli universities and several have become army officers.
Perhaps the most telltale incident of the yotzim's assimilation into secular society occurred after Friday dinner, when they gathered to watch the popular television parody show Eretz Nehederet. They sat on sofas, laughing at all the jokes poked at politicians and celebrities.
As one member put it: 'The television show has nothing to do with being yotzim. Two million people watch it.'
In their jeans and T-shirts, they looked like the average Israeli who grew up on television, but their laughter may have been a little louder.
(BOX) They're in the army now
In haredi communities, the IDF is a symbol of the secular Jewish state that they reject outright. In principle, yeshiva students are exempt from military service and the government considers yeshiva study as national service. Haredi men who do not study in yeshiva, however, are required by law to enlist but are often encouraged by rabbis and community leaders to deliberately fail recruitment exams.
'One reason haredim don't want yeshiva students to go to the army is very simple,' says T., 19, a Hillel member in his second year of army service. 'As soon as they're exposed to the secular world, they see a new way and there's more chance of them leaving the haredi way of life.'
Prior to his break from his Sephardi haredi community, T. lied to the army about the state of his psychological health in order to secure an exemption. After much hesitation, he eventually decided to fulfill his army service. He worked to nullify his self-imposed exemption, but given his fake psychological profile, was placed in a unit for ex-cons and at-risk youth.
Despite this setback he successfully passed an officers' training course and now works in his field of choice, computers, although army bureaucracy still prevents him from upgrading his profile.
'We sometimes get in the picture to help them gain better positions,' says Hillel director Rina Ofir. 'The army isn't attentive enough and doesn't listen to us enough, and so we always have problems with the army.'
A Hillel liaison takes up cases like T's, and also assists in shortening service for those who are not prepared to serve the standard three years.
'Generally, we are supportive of their serving in the army,' says Ofir. 'But not everyone can do it. They have been educated since childhood against the army, and it's not easy for them.'
Such was the case with M., a handsome teen with gelled hair who left his hassidic Mea She'arim community at 16. 'At first I didn't want to be recruited because I heard bad stories about the army,' he explains in Hebrew, which he says he didn't learn properly until age 13.
M. met with an army psychologist to veto his exemption, and now serves as a driver with the status of a lone soldier.
Serving in the army, he says, has improved his self-image. Upon first leaving home, he would hang out with a ruffian crowd in Jerusalem streets before finding shelter at a youth hostel through a local organization assisting victims of family violence.
'I see all types of people in the army,' he says. 'It's very interesting. At first I thought I couldn't be in a structured environment. I was a problematic kid. Now I see from the army that I can be in a structured environment.'
His military service, however, has tarnished the image of his family. 'My 18-year-old brother is having trouble finding a shiduch [arranged marriage] because his brother is a soldier. They don't understand that we are protecting them.'
One of the greatest obstacles for ex-haredi soldiers is the loneliness. 'When I joined up, everyone came with their parents and I came by myself,' recalls M. 'I almost wanted to cry.'
Understanding this, Hillel representatives attend army ceremonies with the members and send them care packages every month. Volunteer families work with Hillel to 'adopt' soldiers - to give them a place to spend the weekend for a good meal, laundry and other amenities regular soldiers usually enjoy at their parents' house.
Despite the obstacles, T. is grateful for this opportunity. 'Thanks to the army I got a chance to understand secular society. I can still see the differences between them and me. They'll talk about cartoons they watched as a kid, and I don't.'
He also notices another, unlikely difference. 'Today I love the army - probably more than the others. I think I'm moved more than any other soldier when I hear Hatikva played every Thursday.'
Click here for original
For many disillusioned haredim leaving their close-knit community is like moving to a foreign country.
'Who wants to make kiddush?' a long-haired man asks at the Friday night table, holding a kiddush cup.
There seem to be no takers, so he begins himself to say the blessing but stops somewhere in the middle when he realizes no one is really paying attention. 'Yalla!' he says, dismissively, cutting the kiddush short while everyone proceeds to eat the three-course, buffet-style Shabbat meal.
Once skipping kiddush would have been a sacrilege for almost everyone around the table. These days, making the choice is its own blessing. The men and women sitting at the table are all former haredim who broke out of their dogmatic, strict confines, on pain of excommunication, poverty and loneliness, to live in a world in which they can choose how to live.
For some, this kind of gathering is the closest they get to feeling like part of a family, says Rina Ofir, director of Hillel, a non-profit organization that helps former haredim adjust to mainstream, pluralistic Israeli life. 'They don't really have the chance to go to home on Friday nights.'
Most haredi defectors are immediately ejected from their homes once they appear at the family doorstep without peyot (sidelocks) or, in the case of women, without a modest skirt.
Two years ago, Hillel made communal Friday night dinners a tradition, alternating weekly between its Tel Aviv and Jerusalem branches. 'It's important for them to be together, for the food as well - for some of them it's their only real meal because they eat here and there and don't really have money,' explains Ofir.
Leaving haredi communities to join mainstream Israeli society is for many like moving to a foreign country. It entails learning a new language (particularly English, but in some cases also spoken Hebrew), internalizing modern codes of dress and behavior, creating a social framework and securing housing and employment.
Some haredi communities can be likened to Yiddish-speaking Eastern European shtetls - minus the cold weather and with modern appliances. 'Yotzim define themselves as new immigrants,' says Ofir, referring to haredi defectors who are commonly called yotzim b'she'ela ('going out to question,' a pun on hozrim b'teshuva, the Hebrew term for those returning to religion).
Despite these difficulties, the number of newly secular is apparently increasing, judging from last year's hike in inquiries to Hillel's open line. The proliferation of the Internet has made access to secular worldviews more readily available to haredim via their computers or cellphones. Many yotzim and prospective yotzim congregate digitally on the popular chat forum 'yotzim b'she'ela' on the Tapuz Web site portal. This is one reason, says Ofir, why some haredi community leaders are beginning to outlaw Internet use.
'It's important for us to state that we are not missionaries,' she clarifies. 'We work with those who choose to leave the haredi community. We have no interest in drawing them out.' Nor does Hillel seek to engage former haredim in religious debate. Instead, the organization refers them to libraries and the Internet to find answers to theological questions.
Da'at Emet was founded in 1998 by Yaron Yadan to provide such answers. The organization, dedicated to disseminating a scientific, humanistic interpretation of Judaism, initially went to haredi yeshivot and handed out pamphlets divulging ideas that countered haredi faith-based beliefs, such as those dealing with the divinity of the Torah and the veracity of the Talmud.
'We try to teach the haredi public that they live by an unethical, mistaken and inequitable system,' says Yadan, who fears that haredi influence and growth is undermining the state's democratic character. 'We try to explain to them that the secular world is more beautiful - it is filled with creativity, ethics and spirituality.'
These days, Da'at Emet reaches haredi communities here and abroad through lectures, workshops and its Web site, which features a range of articles written from an academic, humanistic perspective that expose inconsistencies, scientific errors and ethically problematic passages in the Bible and Talmud.
Da'at Emet is the fruit of Yadan's intellectual journey - he went from being secular to haredi, before becoming secular again. Having grown up in a non-religious household, he began to study at a Jerusalem yeshiva at age 17 to satisfy his search for meaning and purpose. 'I was (and still am) very knowledgeable in Jewish texts - the entire bookshelf,' he says.
While serving as head of a yeshiva for three years, Yadan began to critically examine biblical and talmudic texts. 'I found errors in zoology, medicine, astronomy, cosmology, anatomy and other fields, and I noticed that in Jewish religious texts morality is based not on ethics, but on mitzvot [commandments] founded upon halachic [religious law] errors. As a believer whose whole life was bound to the idea that God wrote the Torah, it eventually became clear to me there was no divine connection to the Torah.'
Finally, when he was convinced that his life was based on lies, Yadan broke the news to his wife. Unable to stand the idea that their seven children would continue to live and study an irrational belief system, he worked for three years to guide his wife toward his new truth. 'I succeeded. I don't know how. One night she turned on the lights on Shabbat, and that was that.'
Yadan has since divorced and remarried, and is currently completing his BA in Jewish thought. Judging from inquiries from haredim, he confirms that the phenomenon is growing.
'Today, unlike the time when Da'at Emet was founded, there is no haredi household that doesn't know someone who left the fold. It used to be that if a haredi family had a son or daughter who [became secular], other children in the family would not be considered for arranged marriages.'
These days, says Yadan, defection is more commonplace and no longer scars the reputation of other siblings.
His transition into the secular world may have been easier than that of other yotzim because of his secular roots, but with seven children to support and no profession, Yadan faced enormous financial hardship. Sometimes he advises haredim with many children not to leave.
'If you have no profession and even if your wife agrees with you, live a double life,' he tells them. 'Try at least to send your kids to schools that offer general education.'
While previous generations of yotzim laid the groundwork for others to follow, Yadan thinks the process remains a difficult one, as one former Jerusalem hassid attests.
'AT FIRST your life is hell. On one hand you're not familiar with secular culture, while on the other, you want to be a part of it,' says S., 23, who shaved off his beard and peyot only a few months ago. 'I never thought I'd do it. It takes courage to leave everything and go into a world you don't know.'
S. doesn't describe the process of leaving as the result of an intellectual journey or sudden revelation. He simply never felt like he fitted in. 'I lived a regular haredi life - I wasn't such a rebel - but I reached a situation where I couldn't stand living that way anymore. I never got along with my immediate family. We had no emotional connection. We had different mentalities. I was more drawn to a life of freedom, nature.'
A year ago, he divorced his wife from an arranged marriage that was a mismatch from the start. 'They married me to someone, it didn't work and I got divorced,' he says, simply.
Several months later he took off with his savings, and lived out of a suitcase in the center of the country until he eventually settled in a Tel Aviv apartment subsidized by Hillel. He found a job at a food stand but speaks with bitterness of his early work experience. 'They take advantage of you. At first you're very timid.' S. doesn't expect to secure a better-paying job without an academic qualification, as is common among yotzim.
'Those who study in yeshiva don't really know anything,' Ofir explains. 'They know Talmud very well, but don't know English or math.' To achieve a BA, the average male yotzeh must learn English from scratch, complete matriculation exams (a process that can take up to two years) and attend college for approximately four years. Some opt for army service, which further stretches the time until they graduate from college.
'If someone becomes more religious, they get help, education, housing, food,' relates S. 'Hessed [charity] is an integral part of haredi life, and many charity organizations provide food and services for needy haredim. You don't have that for people who become secular. Secular people live their lives. As a yotzeh, you're on your own. It's like you're thrown to the winds.'
To fill that void, Hillel models itself after charity organizations. Unlike some religious outreach organizations that receive government funding, Hillel subsists on private donations, mostly from abroad. The funds are channeled primarily for its members' education. The staff consists entirely of volunteers, except for one part-time position. Each Hillel member is assigned an individual tutor on secular living, and at both the Tel Aviv and Jerusalem branches, a library and racks of secular clothing are at the members' disposal.
Last weekend, Hillel organized a Purim retreat with workshops on employees' rights, dating and love and sex. In a world of arranged marriages, yotzim do not acquire basic dating skills.
'A lot of women at Hillel complain that the yotzim are very rude in their advances, because they have no idea how to approach a woman,' says P., a former haredi woman. 'Women have their own difficulties approaching men in the outer world because the codes are so different. The rules of the game in the secular world are much more varied. In the religious world it's very black and white - it's clear what you're supposed to do at every stage in the courtship.'
Ironically, female yotzot from certain haredi communities leave their world better equipped to adjust. Haredi women are often expected to support the family while husbands learn in yeshiva, and study math, English and science in high school. However, far fewer women than men leave haredi communities, in part because their lives are situated around the home and they are usually married off at a younger age. They also have a lot more at stake, including losing the amenities that go with an arranged marriage and often being stigmatized as 'whores,' who should be distanced from their community at all costs.
But R., a member of Hillel, points out that even a girls' education is usually not enough. 'When you grow up you don't have television or radio, and don't hear English songs - you just see and read Hebrew.'
Upon breaking away from her community, R. traveled to India where she had to converse in English for the first time. 'I didn't know how to say 'restaurant,' 'hotel,' 'waiter' - nothing. I felt so stupid.'
Racheli Granot, who left her home in Bnei Brak as a teen, describes herself as having adopted provocative dress and vulgar speech in her early rebellious years. 'As a girl who grew up in the hassidic world, when I went out to the free world I was very 'anti.' I rebelled against values, parents, family, myself and friends. I lost control. I wanted to swallow the world in one go.'
At 18 she joined Hillel, which guided her toward a healthier framework of work and study. 'They hammered into my skull that there are no short cuts in life, that I must study to bridge the big gap in my education, to aim high and try to be something in life,' she says.
WHILE YOTZIM often consider their entry into mainstream society a type of rebirth, replete with a new slew of opportunities for intellectual growth and freedom, the process of fully integrating may take many years for some. There is a common debate among Hillel members as to when a yotzeh stops being a yotzeh.
'You can't say I feel better,' says S., whose natural early-20s uncertainty is exacerbated by his limited childhood experiences. 'When you don't know yourself, your way around, you can't feel better. But I try to deal with what I have, to make the most of it.'
Meir Tahover, 25, believes that his process of adjustment took only several months because he began to scientifically research the non-haredi world as a teen, when he already began to doubt his hassidic lifestyle, asking questions like: 'It didn't make sense that God would create a person so that he'll suffer - why create fruit only to forbid it?'
From 19, this self-professed former model yeshiva student began to investigate other streams of Judaism, including religious Zionism, until he came to the conclusion at 23 that 'religion is not for me.' When his parents understood that he had abandoned religion completely, they threw him out of the house. At that point, Tahover became a member of Hillel, which assisted him in putting a roof over his head and funding studies toward his matriculation exam. He currently works in a stationary store and defines his goal simply: 'To build a new life. To make a better future for my children.'
With the passage of time his parents have softened toward him. Tahover recently attended his sister's wedding, where his father shook his hand for the first time in two years. He participates regularly in the popular Tapuz chat forum, responding to concerns raised by potential yotzim.
'One type is very intellectual and asks the right questions,' he says of the yotzim he has encountered. This group, he says, is a minority because a healthy sense of reason and inquiry is stifled at an early age. 'The second type, of which there are more, consists of those who don't have it good in the haredi community and seek a change.'
Faranak Margolese, author of the book Off the Derech, which examines why Jews leave Orthodoxy, cites a common thread in the motivations of haredim who leave. 'It seems the pressure to be religious in one particular way is often too stifling. The road becomes too narrow to walk, and the inability to legitimately move to another brand of observance leaves too few options for those who don't fit the mold,' she notes.
Ofir notices that most Hillel members abandon any belief in God or religious observance - at least in the early stages of rebellion. This trend could be stemmed, says Margolese, if haredi communities would change their attitudes toward other Jewish streams. 'A fair number of those in the haredi world who go off might have stayed at least somewhat observant if other communities or observant options were considered legitimate to their own world,' she says.
Considering the independent spirit, intellectual curiosity and mental fortitude required to leave their communities, yotzim who succeed in providing for their basic needs - whether through organizations like Hillel or on their own - often become productive, even overachieving members of society, notes Ofir. Hillel members have graduated from top Israeli universities and several have become army officers.
Perhaps the most telltale incident of the yotzim's assimilation into secular society occurred after Friday dinner, when they gathered to watch the popular television parody show Eretz Nehederet. They sat on sofas, laughing at all the jokes poked at politicians and celebrities.
As one member put it: 'The television show has nothing to do with being yotzim. Two million people watch it.'
In their jeans and T-shirts, they looked like the average Israeli who grew up on television, but their laughter may have been a little louder.
(BOX) They're in the army now
In haredi communities, the IDF is a symbol of the secular Jewish state that they reject outright. In principle, yeshiva students are exempt from military service and the government considers yeshiva study as national service. Haredi men who do not study in yeshiva, however, are required by law to enlist but are often encouraged by rabbis and community leaders to deliberately fail recruitment exams.
'One reason haredim don't want yeshiva students to go to the army is very simple,' says T., 19, a Hillel member in his second year of army service. 'As soon as they're exposed to the secular world, they see a new way and there's more chance of them leaving the haredi way of life.'
Prior to his break from his Sephardi haredi community, T. lied to the army about the state of his psychological health in order to secure an exemption. After much hesitation, he eventually decided to fulfill his army service. He worked to nullify his self-imposed exemption, but given his fake psychological profile, was placed in a unit for ex-cons and at-risk youth.
Despite this setback he successfully passed an officers' training course and now works in his field of choice, computers, although army bureaucracy still prevents him from upgrading his profile.
'We sometimes get in the picture to help them gain better positions,' says Hillel director Rina Ofir. 'The army isn't attentive enough and doesn't listen to us enough, and so we always have problems with the army.'
A Hillel liaison takes up cases like T's, and also assists in shortening service for those who are not prepared to serve the standard three years.
'Generally, we are supportive of their serving in the army,' says Ofir. 'But not everyone can do it. They have been educated since childhood against the army, and it's not easy for them.'
Such was the case with M., a handsome teen with gelled hair who left his hassidic Mea She'arim community at 16. 'At first I didn't want to be recruited because I heard bad stories about the army,' he explains in Hebrew, which he says he didn't learn properly until age 13.
M. met with an army psychologist to veto his exemption, and now serves as a driver with the status of a lone soldier.
Serving in the army, he says, has improved his self-image. Upon first leaving home, he would hang out with a ruffian crowd in Jerusalem streets before finding shelter at a youth hostel through a local organization assisting victims of family violence.
'I see all types of people in the army,' he says. 'It's very interesting. At first I thought I couldn't be in a structured environment. I was a problematic kid. Now I see from the army that I can be in a structured environment.'
His military service, however, has tarnished the image of his family. 'My 18-year-old brother is having trouble finding a shiduch [arranged marriage] because his brother is a soldier. They don't understand that we are protecting them.'
One of the greatest obstacles for ex-haredi soldiers is the loneliness. 'When I joined up, everyone came with their parents and I came by myself,' recalls M. 'I almost wanted to cry.'
Understanding this, Hillel representatives attend army ceremonies with the members and send them care packages every month. Volunteer families work with Hillel to 'adopt' soldiers - to give them a place to spend the weekend for a good meal, laundry and other amenities regular soldiers usually enjoy at their parents' house.
Despite the obstacles, T. is grateful for this opportunity. 'Thanks to the army I got a chance to understand secular society. I can still see the differences between them and me. They'll talk about cartoons they watched as a kid, and I don't.'
He also notices another, unlikely difference. 'Today I love the army - probably more than the others. I think I'm moved more than any other soldier when I hear Hatikva played every Thursday.'
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
