I feel as though I have lived an entire lifetime in Turkey.

The Clearest Water

So, not knowing quite where I was going, I got on the back of the little motorcycle and held on tight.

After about 15 minutes of driving between orchards and green rolling hills, we meet with a shallow stream full of very tall reeds. The water is brown and silty. We stand on the bridge and watch the fish kiss the surface, snapping flies. There are so many fish the water looks like a pot coming to a slow boil. We watch for a minute. "Come over here," my self-appointed guide says. 

We go around the side of the mountain, where rock is sticking out the side. It looks like raw marble; uncut blocks of centuries-old statues, pillars and royalty's flooring. And feeding into the sluggish stream is a deep pool of still water, literally clearer than glass. I gasp in suprise. It is so beautiful - the magnified rocks on the bottom, and the grains of sand glinting sunlight to the surface, the green of the reeds around the edges tinting the sides. 

"Listen, it's coming out here," my self-appointed guide says. He brings the sound of water to my attention, not torrential but still with some force, coming out of a crack in the marble. 

I'm so drawn to this crystalline pool - I come closer, feeling slightly hypnotized, and kneel to touch the water. I am reminded of Narcissus, if his face were both the sky and the earth at the same time. It seems like my hand doesn't even ripple the surface. When my fingers slip below the surface, I'm astonished - the water coming from underground has no bite of cold like an underground spring should have. It's warmer than the air, as warm as the sun on the marble. Pleasant to the touch... it almost feels like it has a soft texture, like a blanket that's been sitting in the sun. 

I'll never forget that moment.

Andrew observed yesterday outside the Blue Mosque that people create these gorgeous, ornate structures to replicate the beauty of God, and fall far short every time; how many come to these palaces of worship and look blandly at their splendor, half blind to the wonder humans create and completely oblivious to the much greater glory we cannot attain. 

We got back onto the bike and went to the sea. "There are my friends," the guide says, waving at a small boat on the water. We watch them pull up their nets and come back to shore. They had about four different kinds of fish today, plus two cuttlefish and an octopus. We helped them sort through the catch and bought about half - a good 5 kilos - all the favourites of my guide. I learned how to clean and gut them, bread them and fry them. Then a troop of us sat down to eat, ravenously, with our hands - good bread, delicious salad with greens just picked, perfect tomatoes, clean lemon and oil dressing. We ate one entire batch of fishe, cooked the rest, and ate that, too. Fresh out of the Mediterranean. I could try to tell you how delicious it was... but there are no words. I'm sure you expected as much.

Selshuk, you are your own world. I am so grateful to be here.

Afternoon in Tel Aviv

I have nothing profound to tell you, but I want to tell you I'm still here.
I am back in Israel, hopefully briefly on my way to Turkey, but I may come into some difficulties. I miss Egypt. Israel is cleaner, and there is more English, and the buses have a schedule, and the food is served on white plates with heavy silverware. Of course there are some cultural differences to what I'm used to "back home," but in general I understand the mindset, the gestures, the body language, the train of thought. I feel like I know the culture well enough to manipulate it a bit to my desires; I can walk alone in the streets in shorts, or go busking, or sit and read with a coffee, or any number of things I have learned to do in Canada to get by and float easily through life. But there is something missing...

Underwater

Hey there, world. You take some turns I don't expect.

Someone once said to me that I just needed to learn to trust the water. He was right. I don't know what it was that convinced me to take the scuba course. When I arrived in Dahab, I had no idea it was so well known for diving. I didn't even know diving was something you can't do without getting certification. And when I agreed to do the course, I didn't think much; just that maybe it would be interesting. I think I wanted to see how I would react.
Going under the first time is as awkward as everyone says it is. Also the second and the third. But once your body adjusts a bit more, and realizes you aren't drowning nor inhaling water, that the breaths you're taking of "artificial" air are actually sufficient if you learn to breathe it in deep enough... then there's a moment of calm once in a while. Where I find myself suspended between solid and liquid, knees resting gently on the sandy bottom while the instructor is doing an exercise with the other student, and I look around and see a fish next to me, and the sea-grass gently waving, and realize that I am doing something I never in my wildest dreams thought I would be doing... and not only that, but it feels okay.
And that's when it started to be really fun. Sometimes I would catch myself distracted by something, like a snail or the feeling of weightlessness, and realize objectively what I was doing (what, I'm underwater? Oh, right) and I'd start to laugh. Not a good idea, opening your mouth underwater. Especially a place as salty as the Red Sea. I had to learn how to laugh without breaking getting water in my mouth and coughing into the respirator.
Then, after being (pardon the pun) immersed in diving for two weeks, I accept an invitation to take very different plunge, no less life changing than the first - getting on a 12 hour bus ride and landing myself in a small town near Cairo, to stay with a new friend's family for a few days. I have so many impressions of Egypt and this culture and this wonderful loving home, but I'll have to save them for later, after I've digested a little. I am learning so much about what life is like here. My basic Arabic is coming along, I'm hoping it continues. I have to wear a headscarf and certain kinds of clothing when I'm out of the house, but I'm amazed at how quickly it's something you can get a little used to. I admit to feeling a lot safer with the scarf done in a Muslim style; unless someone looks closely at me and notices my lipring, there is literally nothing to distinguish me from the other people on the street any longer, so I blend in a lot more (at least until someone tries to speak to me, but I'm never alone without an Egyptian, so I seem to get along alright). Taking the ten minutes to get the scarf right before I go out has started to feel reassuring, even if it pinches a little around the chin.
So, here I am, making small cultural faux pas like cutting the lettuce too small or saying the wrong greeting, among dirt roads and donkeys and tuk-tuks and a lot of really beautiful dresses. And I'm loving every minute of it.
Hamd'allah, this is amazing. Too, too short.

Day in transit

The ferry ride - after persistent demands of what-is-in-that-case, now I have about 80 fans, all crowding around me, videoing me on their cell phones, clapping, laughing. Finally I have met a woman in this place where women are kept so far away; a big, loud, charismatic grandmother in beautiful draping clothing and headscarf. She kissed me on the cheeks, pulled on my shirt and sweater, tugged my jewelery, poked at my lipring, talking to me in an entertaining steady stream of Arabic the whole time. She taught me how to ululate - you know that sound, shrill and like a slow rolling of "rrr", but with a soft tone? - side to side with the toungue, not up and down like I had guessed. She clapped and ululated while I sang, then after the yelling and applause, took me by the hand and led me around the ferry, trying to help me with my entry stamp to Egypt (which I already had, but it was a nice gesture). Welcome!
Egypt on a Friday afternoon - The sun is warm, the sand is dry, the mountains are quiet and sharp. In the bus depot, the huge machines lie sleeping. A driver prays on carpet. Few people work on Fridays. I have three hours until the bus to Dahab stops in. I look up to cross the street. A car passes once in a while. I squint from the glare, skip across the pavement, feel the heat change over the black tar. The large open air cafe has only a handful of people, speaking quietly or watching TV in different corners. The worker has been frying onions, there is basil growing in planters. I have never been hungrier. I walk back to my pack sitting at my table. I breathe in the stillness and the warm afternoon sun.

Purim and Petra

PURIM IN ISRAEL WAS AMAZING.

For those who don't know about Purim, you might want to look it up before you read this, because I don't have time to explain anything about it except that you are actually supposed to party.

Took the bus to Jerusalem, where Purim comes one day late, a technicality no one seems to be able to explain the cause of. Finally in a warmer environment, Tzefat was actually pretty chilly. Booked into a hostel, went to see Yonah, hadn't seen her in years. Then bought some facepaint and turned myself into... something. For lack of a costume. 

We found our way to the old city of Jerusalem, looking for the ominous-sounding King David's Tomb, in the City of David. We got there just in time to look around and paint a few more faces before the Magillah reading. What an experience... wandering around a maze of arches and candles, orthodox men yelling and booing while they read the Purim story, echoes and shadows and stars from the patios. 

More people filter in, some of the costumes are really entertaining. There is a lot more room for creative costumes when the theme isn't overshadowed by the "dark spirit" theme of Hallowe'en. And then the live band starts, reggae and funk and wine and beer out under the stars in the entrance of this old sacred space. All in the name of Hashem. Beautiful.

It was a bit of a drag, I admit it, when they put up a screen at the back and suggested the women go dance there, but I got over it when they only asked once with a smile and I realized most of the people there didn't care and wouldn't expect me to. At least those women who would rather observe their religion that way had the chance to do so. I think we all still had a great time. 

I didn't leave until after 3 am. Walking through Jerusalem, the streets are packed, the costumes vary in creativity but the antics are pretty entertaining. Justin and I stop for a hamburger at a fancy restaurant. After extreme cardio for about 6 hours straight, believe me, that was the best burger I've ever eaten, I swear.  Back at the hostel at 4:30.

And up at 6. Sun miraculously bright out the window. Somehow I don't feel tired - adrenaline, I guess. Pack up as fast as I can, rouse Dillon off the bottom bunk, and we're walking briskly through the bleary folks who still haven't gone to bed on our way to the bus. We make it on the bus with literally 60 seconds to spare; it starts driving away as we put our bags at our seats. 

Eilat is scorching. We cross the border into Jordan on foot and after a few hours, arrive into town where we realize it's Friday, Muslim day of rest, and the buses to Wadi Musa aren't running. We sit at the empty bus shelter, taking it all in. Someone asks if I can play a song. What else should I do? I open up the case, play some bluegrass, a crowd starts to gather, some people are clapping and drumming on the hardcase. 

And then a man with really good English asks us where we were trying to get to. Wadi Musa, Petra. "I'm on my way there, I live there". Of course. So, what else should we do? We talk about it for a minute, get in his car and go. You get a feeling for people so quickly. Ali is an amazing host, wonderful person, caring and gentle. We stayed on his balcony (literally) for two nights. The kindess he showed us is, apparently, normal bedouin hospitality, this catch phrase thrown around out here. And at this point, after experiencing similar generosity from about a dozen others out here in three days, I believe that it's probably common - but still, Ali has a caring side to him that is rare to find in anyone, and I feel so blessed to have found it. Bacha slacha... sieze the luck!

Tourist culture. Tourism destroys old cultures and firmly upholds the awkward imitation of the culture that replaces it. Petra and Wadi Musa are incredible places to be. And I feel this overwhelming sense of privilege as I look around me. Here I am, funny looking white chick in man's clothes, being yelled at by men and chased by children with postcards and totally ignored by any women who aren't trying to sell me something... the women I see, anyway, and that's not many. Usually they seem to be kept at home. And this is a really strange line to walk - making friends with some of the locals, the overly hospitable and generally carefree young men wandering around, seeing if you will buy something or sleep with them often, yes, but also genuinely welcoming ones who have all their needs met and just want to hang out and drink a cup of tea or smoke shisha, because that's just what you do with strangers. And those ones are the ones that are fun, when you get to hang out with them all day and see the immense desert from all of their favourite corners (if you can manage to scramble up the cliffsides behind them, that is. I feel so out of shape compared to them). But being this half-man, half-woman creature... does uncovered hair or bare ankles mean I have no values? Are you allowed to shake hands? Share tea? Dance? And these young men, growing up around tourists but still very engrained in their culture and life, used to the sight of white folks in white folk's clothes, introduced to some of the western ideas but not immersed in them, craving a woman who is more relaxed or allowed to go out with them and drink a beer or read intellectual books, but they are only restricted to the bedouin women taking care of their nieces and nephews, stuck in the house and quiet. I can imagine those young men feeling trapped by it... they all say they have had foreign girlfriends, but once those girls leave to continue their travels, the boys are left behind, too attached to their idyllic way of life in nature with no want for housing or food to give it up for the chance of a mate. This coming generation... it will see some changes, I'm sure. It's fascinating... cultures everywhere changing so quickly.

Story written line by line on the bus, ~Feb 18-19

Once upon a time, a special child was hungry. 

So the special child went for a walk.

As he approached the pond, he raised his hand up high. 

But the water didn't move and he was pissed. 

Luckily, the boy did not believe in miracles, because if he tried to part the water...

He knew all the fish would die.

But his heart was set on it. 

So, with jaw set and shirt tucked tight, he grabbed a firm hold on his determination. 

And he set off, manhood intact and proud, towards his next adventure: in the belly of the beast!

He had only to retrieve something lost, again something sacred, before he could return again to his beloved family. 

But his beloved family was what was lost, and so needed to be sought. 

Unfortunately, their souls had been captured in seven bronzed objects distributed across the continent.

He faced a decision: recover his ancestor's souls and resurrect the family... or eat chocolate cake?

Pulling a warm, moist slice of cake from his pocket, he paused briefly and decided he would not give up on his kin - and he will also eat the cake.

Finished thusly, a sweet taste on his lips and crumbs in his pocket, he reached for the telephone.

As his hand moved forward, time seemed to freeze and as the receiver reached his face, all events leading up to this moment spun out of the continuum and slammed him up against the glass of yesterday morning.

"Oh shit, it's Groundhog Day again," he grumbled as he picked himself off the glass for yet another day in purgatory.  

He groped for the alarm, catching a ray of light in his eye before putting on his boots. 

He tied the laces tight, ran out the door and started running, leaping hedges and crowing like a raven guarding a nest. 

Deeper into the forest he ran until a foot shot out of the darkness and the taste of dirt found his mouth. 

"This is not the culinary feast that Birthright promised me!" he said as he spit the dirt out. 

By: Justin Shenk, Sabrina Beram, Sherri Cohen, Tzomi Burkhart

Banishing the virus

Woah. Lying sick in bed, and suddenly people start pouring into the room, clapping their hands and singing in three part harmony, kepas on and peyas swinging, skirts spinning, dancing around my cot, grinning and laughing. Chassidim celebrate sickness like nobody's business!

Rain From Underground

The sun came out just now. I'm in Zfat, high in the mountains; it's damp and the rain yesterday was heavy and sticky.
Yesterday I was in a series of caves and tunnels dug out in limestone underneath a 2000 year old village called Ruma. At that time, jews typically dug giant cisterns and collected rain water to get by. But after a few hundred years, when the Romans showed up, skilled architects connected those cisterns with a series of tunnels and filled the giant caverns with what they dug out, both to level the underground terrain and leave no trace of their burrowing. Whenever there was a ceremony or celebration of any kind, it was hidden underground. And when the Romans came to eradicate the village, the jews moved underground, sometimes for days, but often weeks or months at a time.
We crawled through these tiny tunnels and came to a room near the one cistern they hadn't filled, only accessible from the interior - they kept it open to provide for the village while they were in hiding. The sounds of our voices, our breath, our backs scraping against the walls, the click of a flashlight, all echoed distantly in the 30 foot deep cavern nearby.  We sat in this tiny circular room and listened to stories. About how they lived, how the caves were carved, what it was like for our tour guide when he discovered the cave and crawled in for the first time, having no idea what he had really found.
He told us the story, written in the Talmud, of two pregnant women who had gone into premature labour at the same time from the stress of hearing the Romans walking above ground. How they delivered the babies, before they were ready, before their cervixes could properly dilate, before the babies had naturally turned, in complete silence; without betraying the rest of the village in hiding by crying out in pain. The actual story in the Talmud doesn't describe their labour, but the problem the mothers encountered later, when they were not positive which baby was which after being delivered in such a confusing way. Which means, if they all had lived to tell of the small problem, they survived along with their town, in silence, delivering their children, in silence; silent for weeks in the caves. All of this in complete darkness, where it would be easy to mix up two newborns from two exhausted mothers delivering their children prematurely and without a sound. In a total absence of light.
And with this, we took a breath and turned off our flashlights. What incredible freedom and privilege we have, to choose to turn off a flashlight! We breathed slowly, we didn't move. I realized my eyes were shut. And when I opened them... nothing changed. Not even a hint of light, anywhere. And suddenly I felt as if the walls of the room were no longer there. This room could be any shape or size, and until I touched the wall I almost didn't believe it was still so close. But my companions? Sitting there with me in this tiny room made of dirt? Unless they made a noise, I didn't know where they were sitting. But they weren't like the walls that disappeared. I could still feel them around me, without hearing or touching them. I could feel them, so strongly it was almost as if I could see them. It was then Michael started to sing - and it was then we all sung together, and our voices filled up the room and the tunnels and the cistern and even the soil above us, if anyone was above ground to hear it. Like a rain from underground, soaking everything. The cave absorbed our voices into the earth.
I want to sing a prayer for every person or child who has ever gone through crisis alone. In the caves, they could not cry, or sing, or keep candles lit, or even fully stand up. But they were together, at least.
We are so lucky to be allowed to sing in these places.

Kaddush for Alice Lucille

My beloved great grandmother, who has taught me so much and shown me who I am

Who has acted as a bridge to the present and to the heritage I carry

Lucille, elegant and dignified even up until the end

One hundred and three years of a joyful life

Twenty five of which I give thanks to have been a part of

Only twenty five years to laugh on your lap

To play with your beautiful glass trinkets and learn the meaning of being careful

To sit quietly on your back porch and listen to the birds

To eat chocolates with you

To smell the flowers  

To take me to feed the ducks at Lake Merrit

To listen to your stories, new every time, to see the light in your eyes and your passions never forgotten

To eat yogurt out of the container with, giggling in the kitchen

To argue over who won’t do the dishes

To play hours of Canasta and Pinochle, I’m still waiting for you to teach me bridge

To go to the thrift store, to hear about your shoes

To hold hands at Fenton’s

To bring you a bouquet every time I visit

To pick imaginary flowers with you in your hospital bed, you could still see it was Baby’s Breath

I will never be tired of changing your light bulbs and watering your plants when you aren’t looking

I will never be tired of hearing your stories

I will never be tired of your calm house

And I tell you one last time, I was never bored, how could I be with so much life around me?

I have cherished every moment of these past twenty five years

And I swear to you

And I promise you

Every moment I live, no matter what joy or pain I will encounter

A small piece of my life will always be beautiful and perfect, because it is devoted to

The twenty five years I have had with you.

The last time I saw you, I thanked you for everything you have done for me. And you looked at me with a sudden seriousness, and you told me we were just the same. And I thank you for these words, too. I am honoured and grateful to be your great granddaughter. My GG. 

I wish I had something more profound or interesting to tell you. I love it here, I really do. Experiencing open hospitality from everyone. Everyone's door is open, and they want you to eat their food!

I don't feel judged or like I am expected to do or be anything; I feel I'm welcome and encouraged to be myself.

Spending Shabbat with my new friend Maya's family. About to meet her grandfather, who speaks only yiddish. To Zfat tonight for a "spiritual retreat" and community volunteering. Feeling in love with humanity. Feeling strong in my previous beliefs and convictions, but not needing to prove anything. Planning a trip into the Negev desert to work on an orchard, then to the West Bank to learn about the other side of this strange relationship with colonization and displacement.

I am realizing how easy it is to practice Judaism from a secular and inclusive standpoint.

Love you all.


"All our dreams and ambitions involve us dying at some point. But it's weird because our fantasies are supposed to be ambitions. No matter what you want in life, house, money, love,  you're still going to die at some point, and our dreams should include that." -Justin

Finally, I figured out how to change the blog settings so it's not writing everything (in English characters) from right to left. Here's a hand-written entry from:

Feb 12, 2012
At the Laundromat in NY

Things to do today: wash sleeping bag, sew Quebec patch on backpack, finish writing and sending postcards.

Observation: Traveling by plane makes me feel very vulnerable, mostly because I have nlittel or no ability to feed myself well. First, they take away any fruit or vegetables you may have. Now left with only processed foods, there are no grocery stores accessible from anywhere near any airport. Any nearby hotels or airport food courts, the food is all white breads, pork, high fructose corn syrup etc. I feel a bit like a fast food hostage.

Notice posted on a fence next to someone's house: DO NOT THROW GRABBAGE HERE

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Now, in terms of this trip here in Israel, I have to tell you, it is by far better than anything I ever could have imagined - mostly, I suspect, due to INCREDIBLE LUCK regarding the people I am sharing this tour with and the tour guides involved. I am on Bus 40; and by contrast, Bus 41 - taking (more or less) the same stops, seeing the same sights etc. is full of a lot more drama, unhappiness, sheer stupidity and other things I was expecting to experience and thus far have been totally spared these inconveniences.

I feel overwhelmed with gratitude several times a day. Also, squishy lovey feelings towards this fantastic group of peers I'm happily stuck with for 10 intense days.




More eventually, after the trip is over and I have more free time to use computers. So, so tired.


-Tzomi

NOOO!!! I LOST MY FAVOURITE HAT!! the one that's ten years old and my good friend gave it to me and i wore it almost every single day all summer and it was falling apart but it still worked and i need a hat in israel and it's gone!? now??? 12 hours before i fly out??? and they're gonna make me buy a new hat there if i don't show up with one? for the love of god cancel the trip, that hat is like a security blanket!

T-4 days

Set to arrive in Tel Aviv Monday, Feb 13 2012, at 5:15AM. 


Better start packing.