Rita, Israel’s reigning diva

The Jewish Journal; May 31, 2007

Click here for original

Only Rita could have pulled it off. Her famous "One" concert was the first time any Israeli recording artist has attempted such an extravagant, multimedia performance. With its crew of 50 tumbling dancers, grandiose costumes, pyrotechnics and video art, the $5 million production looked like it came right off the Las Vegas Strip.

Rita Last summer's show at the Tel Aviv Exhibition Center, which took its inspiration from Céline Dion's year-round Caesar's Palace concert, "A New Day," drew close to 100,000 fans over a period of one month. That's a lot of concertgoers for a country with a population of some 7 million, especially considering the concert was held during the height of the second Lebanon War.

"It was like a miracle," said Rita, who much like Madonna and Cher eschews her last name. "It was a huge success."

The concert proved that after 25 years on the stage, Rita is Israel's most beloved diva. And at 45, the daring performer shows no signs of slowing down.

This month, Rita has something more intimate planned for Angelenos. Only 500 tickets are available for her June 5 performance at the American Jewish University's (formerly the University of Judaism) Gindi Auditorium.

"My desire in bringing Rita to this location, as opposed to a larger venue which we could have easily sold, is to provide people the unique opportunity to experience an intimate evening with one of Israel's best," said Gady Levy, dean and vice president of the AJU's department of continuing education. "What I believe Rita does best is connect with her audience during a show. The close, informal setting will allow her to connect with the audience even more."

The Tehran-born singer, known for her passionate love ballads, already enjoys a built-in Los Angeles fan club. After the Islamic revolution in Iran in the late 1970s, most of her family in Iran split between Israel and Los Angeles, and she maintains close ties with her Los Angeles family, not to be confused with her Jewish fans abroad, who she also terms "family."

Born in 1962, Rita Yahan-Farouz dreamed of performing from the time she was 4, when she sang into a microphone at her uncle's engagement party, while standing on a chair.

"While singing, I remember it very clearly ... very, very, very clearly.... I knew that that's what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I felt like I was home," she said.

Her Zionist father felt it was time to pack their bags in 1970 after Rita's sister came home crying because she refused to recite a Muslim prayer at school. The singer moved to Israel with her family at age 8.

As a teenager in Israel, Rita worked her way through dance school, acting school and voice lessons. The day after performing one of her singles for the Israeli Pre-Eurovision Song Contest, the Persian beauty was mobbed on the bus by new fans.

"It was a Cinderella story," she said. "I didn't know that it became that I could never go on a bus again. I got out after two stations. The entire bus was on me, touching and asking, and I didn't know what happened. It was strange, very strange, very new, very frightening."

But Rita didn't set out to be the Israeli idol she is today.

"You don't think big," she said. "You're innocent. It's not like now that everyone sees all these contests, like 'American Idol.' It's much more something that burns inside of you that you want to sing to people -- you don't think about big success, fame, nothing like that. It's much deeper."

Rita is flattered by her comparison to Canadian American legend Celine Dion, although when asked who her American idols are, she answers with little hesitation: "Beyonce. I don't know whether to kiss or hit her because she's amazing. She's really something. She sings, she dances. I like very much the last record of Christian Aguilera."

She counts Kate Bush and Barbra Streisand among her earlier influences for their multifaceted talents.

Of Dion she said, "I think [she] has a great voice -- a great, great voice -- but I never sat and cried when I heard her." Nevertheless, it's hard to deny the similarities.

As a thespian, Rita has starred in Israel's stage musicals of "My Fair Lady" and "Chicago." Despite the occasional provocative, sexy dress, Rita, a mother of two (Meshi, 15, and Noam, 6) radiates a pure, "put together" image.

Rita married her teenage sweetheart, singer-songwriter Rami Kleinstein, who has written, arranged and produced many of her albums and who has performed at American Jewish University in the past. Their musical marriage is one of the most celebrated and enduring in Israel.

Rita's attempt to break into the international market was cut short, in part, by her commitment to her family. She became pregnant with her second daughter while on tour in Europe promoting her English album, "A Time for Peace," which sold just 20,000 copies.

"I think this is a very important decision to make," she said. "I decided that I didn't want to be famous and miserable when I come home alone. That's why I had to decide that my main career will be in one place, so I could build a family with children and a husband."

The test for Tike (restaurant review)

Jerusalem Post, Weekend Magazine; May 24, 2007

Tike, the second Israel branch of an international Turkish chain, is attempting to bring blessing to a high- rent, high-profile locale on Ibn Gvirol. Will it succeed?

When I used to live near Kikar Rabin, I'd pass by Ibn Gvirol between David Hamelekh and Bloch streets almost daily and witness the slow rise and quick fall of any restaurant that dared to open on the same block as the ever-popular, ever-packed Brasserie. Any restaurant which opens up in what is jokingly referred to as the "cursed spot" always runs the risk of constantly being mentioned in the same sentence as its dominating neighbor.

First there was soccer-legend Itzik Zohar's "Oliver K" bistro, which was DOA (Dead On Arrival), lasting only about six months. Then there was the valorous attempt of the seafood restaurant, Frank Fish. It stood empty for much of its year-long career, while Brasserie continued to boast a waiting list at any given hour.

Now Tike (pronounced tea-keh), the second Israel branch of this international Turkish chain, is attempting to bring blessing to this high-rent, high-profile locale. Recently, many restaurants have branches on or branched off from Ibn Gvirol: the Eastern fusion Minna Tomei, the seafood giant Goocha and the nightlife hotspot Silon are just some examples.

Tike, however, is following its own lead.

It has already made its mark in the Fertile Crescent as a gourmet Turkish restaurant offering the best and finest of Turkish cuisine in a modern, Westernized setting. Its 11 branches in Turkey and one in Greece generally serve businesspeople and high society. This made the Herzliya business district the natural location for its first Israel branch, introduced into the country last year.

Tike's Tel Aviv design is definitely inviting. It blends Turkish motifs with New York style and clean lines. The restaurant is split into small enclaves, smoking and non-smoking, which lend themselves to privacy among the diners. Watch the Turkish pitot come out in a hearth in the center of the restaurant.

That Tike offers a new concept for Tel Avivians already gives it an edge over its failed predecessors. The appetizers, presented artistically and professionally, perfectly demonstrate Tike's culinary objective: to concoct authentic Turkish dishes using the finest raw materials.

We started off with the flavorful Lahmacun (NIS 18), a thin pastry topped with tomatoes and herbed lamb, which already hinted at the high standards of preparation of Tike's Turkish chefs.

The creativity and attention to detail was evident in the two stuffed appetizers, Yaprak Dolmasi (stuffed grape leaves) and Cig Kofta ("kibbeh," or stuffed bulgar). The ground lamb of both dishes delicately absorbed the unexpected spices, among them cinnamon, pine nuts and red currants. The Mutebbel (NIS 20), a grilled eggplant dish, is poised to be a favorite among eggplant and yogurt lovers.

The main dishes that arrived at our table, however, didn't live up to the expectations set up by the appetizers. The lamb kebab of the flagship dish, Adane Kebop, was a little on the dry side, and I could not pinpoint any specific feature or flavor that would distinguish it from other kebabs I've tried. The side serving of rice was plain and small, making me wonder if the dish justified its price of NIS 69. The Iskender Kebap, with its leaf cut of "doner" meat, looked promising, but the sauce tasted a bit like tomato paste. Hidden under the thin slivers of meat were bread crumbs, which didn't add much to the dish and actually detracted from its generosity.

Any misgivings about the main dishes, however, were immediately rectified when we took a bit of the mouth-watering helva, a mound of sweet-flavored semolina and cheese over a scoop of vanilla ice cream. Talk about a Turkish delight! The Kunefe was excellent as well.

Spirits are the specialty of the manager and co-owner, Dudi Zats, a former bar manager, and he does an excellent job adapting the popular Turkish anise liquor to create cocktails that blend the old with the new. The Southern Sabres, a blend of South Comfort and the Israeli sabra, and the Kosmo Raki, a Turkish take on the Cosmopolitan, were both superb. By virtue of the cocktails, Tike's bar has the potential to become the center of the restaurant during prime nightlife hours.

The menus of the two Israeli branches are exactly the same, so one test for Tel Aviv's Tike will be location, location, location. Given the prestige of Brasserie among the Tel Aviv branja (in crowd), it's likely that young, stylish locals who dine to see and be seen may yet prefer to spend their money on Tike's neighbor. Those looking for a unique, quieter and more specialized dining experience may opt for this Turkish delight.

Tike could very well be the restaurant to exorcize the Bloch/ Hamelekh curse. If it can't, didn't any one ever think of trying something totally new there - like a clothing store, perhaps?

Tike, Rehov Ibn Gvirol 74, 12 noon to 2 a.m., (03) 696-5315. Not kosher.

Rockets raining on Sderot take physical and mental toll on city

The Jewish Journal; May 24, 2007

Click here for original

It's a smooth car ride to Sderot.

There's very little traffic on this Sunday between Jerusalem and the battered city. Sunflower fields line the road and then the vast prairies of the Negev; it's difficult to fathom that only a few kilometers away rockets are raining.

We stop for gas and notice a blond woman heading out to the highway.

"Want a tremp [ride]?" my friend, the driver, asks.

"Where are you going?" she responds.

"Sderot," he says.

She shakes her head with an "are you crazy?" look. "I just came from there. I'm not going back."

The entrance to Sderot is crowded with policemen. A sign is posted on a car nearby; it reads, in Arabic: "F--- YOU, HAMAS."

We figure a rocket has just landed at the entrance, but it turns out the police were clearing a protest staged by Sderot residents angry at the government's apparent apathy toward their situation, which Israel Defense Minister Amir Peretz defined that day as "special." Special indeed.

A billboard advertising Shabbat candlelighting times greets us as we enter Sderot. Other billboard ads are peeling off, neglected.

Yet Sderot is not a ghost town, despite the thousands of residents who have already fled the city. People are still waiting at bus stops; the supermarket is open, though few cars are on the roads. I even notice a street cleaner. But the town looks tired. If Sderot had a theme, it would be: "What's gonna be with us?"

"There's always fear. It's always tense. You're always stepped on. What can I say, you hope for the best," says David Alon, a resident of Netivot, a town about 10 miles away. He is in Sderot because he works here every day for Hevra Kadisha, the Jewish burial society. He thinks it's only a matter of time until Netivot comes under fire, as well.

As Alon begins to talk about the 2005 disengagement from Gaza as the cause for Sderot's troubles, we hear on loudspeakers: "Red alert! Red alert!"

Alon shudders and darts away. "Get under there," he says, pointing to the corridor of a building.

"Is it safe?" I ask, noticing that we are exposed.

"It's good enough," he replies.

After only a few seconds, I hear that powerful, heart-shattering boom.
Talk about scary.

But there isn't time to be scared. We immediately get in the car and follow the ambulances to get a view of where the missile fell. People are gathered on pavements, looking out from the balconies, even though this isn't new to them. More than 100 missiles have been fired on Sderot in the past week.

We drive a little too fast, and I wonder if I should put on my seatbelt.

"It's not a good idea," says a local woman who has joined us. "We might have to run out for cover."

The ambulances can't seem to find the site, and they circle around the city, which isn't so big, for about 15 minutes, until all the press and emergency forces converge on a school, which is where the missile landed. Luckily, school was out for the day. There is only minor damage and no injuries, we are told.

Next, we visit a family on a small street with pale yellow apartment buildings. One woman looks out from her porch. A sign reads: "FOR SALE."

"Is it because of the situation?" I ask the 60-something woman, a Sderot resident of 31 years.

She says it's not, but I bet she's lying. She doesn't want to broadcast weakness: "If you're afraid, you have to leave all of Israel. We're not afraid. It's our country....We live here. We get used to it."

Across the street, Malka Tzippora, a 51-year-old single mother of four, is anything but used to the situation.

"I'm paranoid because of my children and grandchildren," she says. "When you call your children and they don't answer, you think the worst."

She apologizes for not offering me any coffee or refreshments, but her house, she says, is in disarray. She's in no mood to clean. Bags with food are on the kitchen counter, dishes are dirty, her 5-year-old grandson keeps nagging her to watch television with him, his shows -- something happy -- but she tells him to go sit down on the sofas.

"You don't have patience for your kids," she explains. "You're short with them because of the anger, pressure. You don't mean it, but it comes from fear."

Her son, who was injured fighting in Lebanon in the 1990s, is sending his family off to England to his wife's family. Moroccan-born Tzippora herself dreams of returning to France, where she lived for 10 years, before moving to Israel.

"They treated me well," she says. "The education for my children was better.

People are polite; they care for each other."

She's angry at the Israeli government for "tying the army's hands," adding: "It hurts that you fight for the country, and they throw you to the dogs." Of Israel's leaders, she says: "A man with a potbelly that always expands can't see under it."

Gabriel Attias, 42, a resident of Sderot, is handicapped from two car accidents. He couldn't help but express his anger to a group of journalists who gathered to watch the installation of a LifeShield bomb shelter (see related story on Page 14) next to a children's nursery. He aimed particular barbs at Peretz, a former mayor of Sderot. "He does nothing."

"What should he do?" someone asks.

"Go into Gaza and bomb them!" Attias responds.

Then he lashes out at the journalists: "And I'm angry at you. You don't go to the sick people at home. You just come and go where you want and look for some noise." Realizing I'm no angel, I offer to visit his wheelchair-bound, sick mother, but she was recently taken to a nursing home in Ashkelon. "When, when, when will there be quiet?" he shouts.

He wants me to tell the world: "We are suffering. Families are destroyed, children are destroyed, homes are destroyed and [Prime Minister Ehud] Olmert and Peretz don't do anything. All the money donated to the municipalities, we don't see a cent of it."

A 27-year-old onlooker is more forgiving of the government's seeming inaction, at least in regard to military activity. He doesn't think there is any quick-fix solution, and he's patient, describing his decision to stay in Sderot as a "gamble with fate."

"Gaza is the densest place in the world. You can't just do what you did in Operation Defensive Shield," he says. "You'll take a lot of IDF fatalities."

A 5-year-old girl sits on the lawn with a teddy bear outside her apartment, whose windows had been damaged not long ago by shrapnel from a missile strike across the street. She seems to be the calmest of the people I've spoken with, whether from childish naiveté or repressed uncertainty.

"When there are Qassam rockets, we hide here," she says matter-of-factly but sweetly, pointing to her ground-floor apartment. "We don't have shelters."
"Are you afraid?" I ask.

"We're afraid of the boom," she replies.

By the late afternoon, we've been here for about three hours; as we get ready to leave Sderot, we stop by a local falafel stand empty of customers. They are still functioning, but "business is terrible. People are afraid to go out. We make less of everything," reports Eliran, an 18-year-old worker there. The falafel was still good, though -- fresh.

On our way out, we notice smoke billowing in the skies. Was it a rocket? No, tires have been set aflame by local shopkeepers, one way of protesting their "special situation."

Back in Jerusalem, that boom still rings in my ears. As much as the echo of the man's booming cry: "When? When? When will there be quiet?"

Israeli 'Idol' worshipers

Jerusalem Post, Daily; May 22, 2007

Tonight Blake and Jordin will fight for the 'American Idol' singing crown. But the show's many Israeli fans will have to wait to see the results

As millions of Americans sit on the edge of their sofas tonight to find out whether Jordin Sparks or Blake Lewis will be crowned the next 'American Idol,' many Israelis will have to hold off a few more days.

This year, for the first time in the show's six year run, American Idol was bought for prime time Israeli television. The finale will be broadcast on Channel 3, commercial free and with subtitles, on Friday night, and repeated on Saturday night so Idol-loving Shabbat observers need not feel left out.

'The show receives very high ratings on both screenings,' said Hila Shafir, spokesperson for HOT. Channel 3 is also carried by YES, Israel's satellite network. 'American Idol is extremely popular around the world, and also in Israel, so we wanted to bring the program to the Israeli people.'

But for some Israelis, it took too long for Israel's cable networks to get with the program, so to speak, and they began to watch it on Star World, an Asian channel, carried this year only by HOT. Star World has hosted the show since season three (Fantasia Barrino's year) and broadcasts it with a day's delay.

Hanna Kaypuya, the founder of the American Idol internet forum on Tapuz, a popular Israeli internet portal, first discovered the show on Star World and has been hooked ever since. She started the forum 'because there wasn't anyone in Israel to talk about it with.' Kaypuya has noticed a hike in interest in the forum this year, and some 200 registered members now share predictions, compare favorites and post links

Anat Tamir, 28, a human resource professional who lives in Tel Aviv, had been a lone fan of the show for three years, but now she regularly discusses the outcomes with friends. 'I feel less special now. I liked to be the only one who watched it.'

If the Tapuz forum can be a fair touchstone of Israeli taste, then Melinda Doolittle was the clear Israeli favorite. 'The final three were all favorites in the forum,' Kaypuya says, adding that they also liked the quirky Sanjaya Malakar, who is now a household name for his widely-publicized, unexpected staying power, and his unusual hairdos.

Of Doolittle's elimination, Kaypuya says that 'most people were shocked and upset. Surprisingly, some were shocked yet satisfied. One person blamed Simon [Cowell], because Simon said he wanted Melinda in the finale, and America loves to annoy Simon - look what they did with Sanjaya.' The beloved Malakar was panned for his lack of singing ability by Cowell, but fans kept him on the show for weeks on end.

IN ADDITION to Web forums, Erev Tov with Guy Pines, Israel's leading television entertainment show, sums up Idol events every week, contributing to the show's popularity. Israel Zohar, a senior correspondent for Pines, attributes the popularity of American Idol in Israel in part to Israelis' love for singing competitions.

'[American Idol] is good television. From the auditions, which are funnily edited, through the elimination stages through the finals. The songs are good, and of course, there's Simon Cowell, one of the funniest and most sarcastic guys around. Every time I cover the show, I use at least one of his quotes.'

Israel's version of American Idol, 'Kochav Nolad,' ('A Star is Born'), kicked off its fifth season this past Friday. Like American Idol, the show is a leading platform for breakthrough stars, like Ninet Tayeb, Shiri Maimon, and Harel Skaat, who all enjoy prolific careers in entertainment thanks to the program.

Kaypuya prefers American Idol over Kochav Nolad for its professionalism; its emphasis on voice quality rather than looks; and Simon, whose bluntness is unmatched among the Kochav Nolad judges.

Tamir agrees. '[Kochav Nolad] messes with your mind. They think it's not nice to eliminate people, so they bring them back. Beside I like Simon. He's amazing.'

DeDe Komisar, a grant writer and stage actress who made aliya to Jerusalem in September, actually discovered the show in Israel, not in America. She felt 'peer pressure' to watch it while rehearsing for a play in Jerusalem. Her fellow cast members, all American, kept talking about the show during rehearsals.

'I guess in the US there's so much other stuff on TV, and I had an aversion to mainstream, American pop stuff. I was only into indie stuff, but here it was - a way to connect to America, and American Idol is beyond huge.'

Komisar doesn't define herself as 'obsessed,' but admits that she has visited American Idol blogs and particularly likes the 'Vote for the Worst' website. For Passover her parents gave her, as an afikoman gift, the DVD of the 'Best and Worst of American Idol.'

But now that Melinda, her favorite, has been voted off, the show has lost its enchantment. 'I'm so pissed that Melinda got sent home! She could mop the floor with the other two! I'm disillusioned with the show and it's lost the magic for me at this point.'

Greener pasteurs

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

Losing their homes - and religion

Jerusalem Post, Metro; April 27, 2007

Click here for original

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pub crawl through Haifa (listing)

Jerusalem Post, Billboard; April 13, 2007

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Building a matzah pyramid for fun and Pesach

Jewish Journal; April 12, 2007

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.

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.