An American in Israel

The End of the Road

2011-05-28T08:08:00.000-07:00

Well readers, it's been an unbelievable year filled with life-changing experiences. This week was no exception.

As some of you know, I live on a major road in Jerusalem, Derech Hebron, which leads to, as you may guess, Hebron. Hebron is one of the holiest cities in Israel (along with Jerusalem, of course, and Shechem, where Joseph's tomb is). Over three thousand years ago, Abraham purchased a large piece of land in Hebron to bury his wife, Sarah, who died at the age of 127. This transaction is recorded in the Torah and is one of the first witnessed land purchases in history. Abraham, Sarah, Isaac and Leah are buried in Hebron. Today, Hebron is a largely Arab city (only 20% are Jewish Israelis). In 1929, there was a massacre in Hebron which killed almost 70 Jewish people, and since then, tensions in Hebron have been high. It is a part of the West Bank, technically (it is beyond the security fence) and requires passing several checkpoints to move between Hebron and Jerusalem. We traveled in a bulletproof bus from "our" side of Derech Hebron to the end, where we reached what looked like an abandoned heap of boarded-up shops, desolate roads and army vehicles. This is Hebron. Where the IDF patrols on regular intervals (we saw them marching up the streets as we walked along, from the patriarchs' tombs to one of Hebron's few synagogues, which was originally a Hadassah hospital building), where streets are divided - one side for Jews, another for Arabs, and where peace seems like a very foreign goal. As I walked on the streets, a low wall (approximately reaching my hip, so it went up to everyone else's knee) ran up the middle; barefoot children on the other side waved and held out their hands for money, screaming "Shalom!" I could barely see them over the dividing wall; I wondered if they knew why it's there.

On a lighter note, this week was also the beginning of the 50th Annual Israel Festival, a collection of arts and music performances that go on in Jerusalem for three weeks. On Monday, one of my friends and I were walking downtown, past Ben Yehuda street and toward Safra Square, where we saw a huge stage and endless folding chairs being set up. When we stopped to ask what was going on there, we were told that the Bolshoi Ballet was giving a special performance with the Israel Ballet of Giselle. I almost passed out. We asked if we could get tickets, what time the show started, etc. Naturally, since this is Israel, we got a different answer from every person we asked. Eventually, we got lucky and some poor guy was stuck with three tickets that I'm guessing his girlfriend purchased without his knowledge (he didn't exactly look like the type to be going to a ballet without her - or with her, for that matter) and now, for whatever reason, wasn't there to claim them, so we grabbed them. It was unbelievable. The dancing, the stage, the fact that the Bolshoi prima who looked like she weighs twelve pounds (in her costume) wasn't taken over by the wind while balancing on pointe - it was unreal. Perhaps one of the funniest (and it wasn't meant to be comedic, but it was) parts of this experience was noticing that a Tuborg beer stand was set up along the side of the square, along with a guy selling pretzels and hot dogs. At a ballet?! Only in Israel would ballpark fare be found at a fine arts function. Ha!

I've spent a lot of time this week saying goodbye to places and things. To the Old City and the Kotel, to Emek Refaim, to the Central Bus Station where I go every Thursday and Saturday night in my travels to Tel Aviv, to Aleh and all the girls in the Bogrot class, to ulpan, to falafel, to my teachers. I said goodbye to Tel Aviv and its beaches, to Nahalat Benyamin and the artists there who have come to know my name, to Dizengoff and Rothschild and all the places that have become my stomping grounds. It's hard to say goodbye, to leave places that you love, but knowing that I'll be back makes it slightly easier. This is me saying goodbye to Israel for now, at the end of this adventure, but not forever.

It's strange, this leaving business. It's the end of so many incredible things and experiences and people, but at the same time, knowing that it happened makes me so grateful and happy. As I look back and remember to the beginning, to the Bat Yam apartment I flooded within an hour of being there, to the gan in Arad and all that happened in Rwanda, and now to the beauty of Jerusalem, I realize all that has changed, all that I've learned and become. I won't be speaking Hebrew or fighting my way onto overcrowded buses, exploring and seeing all that I can, but in my return home, things will be new - I have a new appreciation for all the things and people I once took for granted, for the life I once thought was so natural and normal. It is the end of something wonderful, something unforgettable, but it's also the start of something equally great.

I like to think I've come a long way from the first day I went grocery shopping at the Super Douche in Bat Yam and, not knowing how to ask for chicken breasts, grabbed my chest and pointed to the butcher case. There are so many memories I've made here, and I will miss it, cats and grocery trollies and Hebrew-screaming and all. I know I'll be back, though, and when I return, I will have a whole new view of this place I've come to call home. It's never easy to say goodbye, but I know my life and my adventures will go forward, that I will continue to explore and learn all I can, and to find love and passion wherever I go.

Thank you for following me on this journey. It's been a life-changing one that has taught me more than any book I could ever read. I hope you've all learned something, too, and I can't wait to share more with you as the next part of my journey, wherever it may take me, unfolds.

All the love in the world from Israel, one last time,
Elana

We Cry, We Sing, We Dance, We Eat.

2011-05-16T02:48:00.000-07:00

Hello readers! I hope this post finds you all well. It’s difficult to believe, but I have just two full weeks left in my adventure; time has truly flown. Here is an update of the past nearly two weeks. It’s been an eventful time in Israel, a time that has brought tearful remembrance and joyful celebration right up against one another, which makes for an emotional rollercoaster.

Sunday, May 2 was Yom HaShoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day in Israel. Year Course was invited to the national tekkes (ceremony) at Yad Vashem, Israel’s Holocaust museum and the world’s leading Holocaust research center. We arrived by bus and then were shuttled to the museum entrance, where we were met by what appeared to be unending lines of security – metal detectors, questioning, pat-downs. It took over an hour just to enter the building. Guests numbered in the thousands and live translation via headsets was given in four languages (English, Russian, French and Spanish). The ceremony’s featured speakers were President Shimon Peres and Prime Minister Benyamin Netanyahu. Both spoke of the importance of Israel in the world, despite the very real and ever-looming threats posed to it by other nations. Most of all, their messages were clear: the Jewish people survived the atrocities of the Holocaust and then came to Israel to make a new start, to begin a new life in freedom. We cannot lose that vision for whom so many died, we cannot lose our dream of the land in which we began thousands of years ago, and which renewed our hope in our darkest times of struggle Without Israel, we return to being a lost and dispersed people. It is our goal, our aspirations, our essence.

In addition to Peres and Netanyahu, six Holocaust survivors were featured in the memorial ceremony. Each lit a memorial torch, one for every million Jews who perished in the Shoah. Every survivor was accompanied by a friend or family member, and before they lit their respective torch, a short film played on several large screens displayed throughout the courtyard in which the ceremony took place. The films were perhaps the most moving part of the ceremony; every survivor told his or her story of fear, persecution, near-death and eventual survival. They told of watching their brothers, sisters and parents die, of the death marches in winter, of Auschwitz and the tattoos on their arms which became, but did not remain, their identity. Immediately, I was reminded of my time in Poland, of all the horror and hell that I saw. Then it became even more real: here were people describing the places I visited, their time surviving in what is now a historical site. My stomach turned and the tears flowed freely down my face. There was no stopping them.

Exactly one week after Yom HaShoah is Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s national day of remembrance for fallen soldiers and victims of terror. The night before Remembrance Day, thousands gather at several ceremonies around the country. We attended one at Ammunition Hill, a pivotal battle site in the fight for Jerusalem in the 1967 Six Day war. The tekkes was a beautiful one – the Hill was lit in blue and white, Israeli flags hanging from every possible tree and light pole. The ceremony featured the stories of seven lost young people – six of whom were soldiers, and one, a 15-year old girl named Malki, who died in the Sbarro suicide bombing in the 2001 Intifada. Days like these bring the entire nation, and the Jewish world, together. It is a time to mourn losses to remember heroism and greatness, and to be increasingly thankful for being and living in Israel.

The following day, which was actually Yom HaZikaron, a group of Year Coursers went to Har Herzl, Israel’s military cemetery. There were thousands of people there, honoring lost family members and attending ceremonies. On our way there, a siren sounded – it went off at 11 AM, all across Israel – and the entire country stopped. For several minutes, no car moved, no pedestrian walked, no vendor sold anything. We were on a bus on our way to Har Herzl, and happened to be stopped at the Mahane Yehuda shuk. In a millisecond, the market went from its usual bustling craziness to perfect silence and stillness. The bus stopped and everyone riding it stood up. Then, minutes later, just as the alarm had sounded and everything had stopped, just as quickly, the siren ended and the day resumed as normal.

When we arrived at Har Herzl, we were handed water bottles to give to people at the cemetery who, in the unrelenting heat, were spending their day mourning and remembering. A friend and I came across a woman named Leila whose story is actually very unusual. She is a Lebanese Christian and her husband is Jewish (they’re originally from New York). They are visiting Israel for several months; she is a writer and her husband is a photographer. She has been staying in Ramallah, an Arab village in Israel, where her mother’s family now lives, while her husband does his photography work throughout Jerusalem. Something she said that really made an impression on me was that her mother’s family loves living in Israel, but the reason people in Lebanon and in Palestinian territories support terrorist governments is that they promise to provide for people who have nothing; when you are threatened, you want to support those who swear to protect you. In 2006, when Israel fought Lebanon in the Second Lebanon War, Leila’s Lebanese family was cheering as they watched Israel’s planes fly over their country, hoping the metal birds with the blue stars on the side would end their suffering under a tyrannical government. But when, after two weeks, nothing changed, and Hezbollah promised Lebanese civilians protection if they would pledge their support, most, in fear for their lives, believed their “government” would save them. This, of course, did not happen, and since, Leila and her family remain staunch supporters of the peace process. Not only that, but on a day when Israel and Jews the world over mourn their losses, Leila stood next to us, supporting her Jewish friends and neighbors, experiencing what she called a most emotional and moving day.

As the sun sets on Yom HaZikaron, Israel’s biggest party of the year, Yom Haatzmaut, Independence Day, begins. The country is turned into one giant celebration. Everyone dresses up in their finest blue and white apparel, complete, if you’re me and my friends, with blue face paint and, of course, all-important glitter. We made our way to the Mahane Yehuda shuk party, which, twelve hours earlier, had come to a complete stop, but was now alive as ever. Light towers, DJ booths and food stands were set up along the main artery of the shuk, along with, of course, several temporary bars. The scene quickly became craziness – dancing on the shuk stall countertops, thousands of people crowded into the market, all singing and dancing and keeping the bartenders quite busy. A little after midnight, we decided to walk down the hill to Ben Yehuda Street to see the celebration there. I have never seen Ben Yehuda that busy or crowded ever; there was literally no room to move. So, to avoid being crushed by crowd, we escaped to one of Ben Yehuda’s many side sreets, which happens to be home to the best waffles in Israel: Babbette’s. A tiny hole in the wall on a street otherwise cluttered with larger restaurants and shops, it’s easy to miss or walk right past, thinking nothing of it. Well, if you find yourself wandering off the main artery of Ben Yehuda, find Babette’s and order the best waffle you’ll find anywhere. It seats about 10 people comfortably, and of course, the night of Yom Haatzmaut, thirty were cramming inside, pushing their way to the register to order waffles with every dessert topping imaginable. Once I was in a chocolate and sugar coma, I headed home.

The following day is a national day off – businesses close (except for most cafes and restaurants), and everyone spends the day having barbecues (al ha-esh, in Hebrew, which means “on the fire”). I went to Tel Aviv to see Roi and his family and enjoyed a delicious lunch with them. A few too many kebabs and loads of salad and pita later, we wandered into the downtown area (buses run on Yom Haatzmaut). Ibn Gavirol, a major street of Israel’s financial district, was hosting several street barbecues and parties, so we wandered through those, stopping for drinks, snacks and some impromptu dancing. We also saw the air show happening near the port – fighter planes decorated Tel Aviv’s cloudless blue skies, zooming and booming above us. After wandering for quite some time, it began to get dark and I returned to Jerusalem.

On my way into those holy hills, I found myself remembering all that has happened in the past months. I’ve lived in different cities, on different continents, spoken new languages and made new friends. I’ve met new challenges, taken new risks and set new goals. I’ve fallen in love with a culture, a place and people. Loving something or someone makes it even harder to leave, but I know my time here has been special and I wouldn’t give it up for anything. Just as I made a change in coming to Israel nine months ago and began this journey, in two weeks, I will make a change yet again, returning home to the next chapter in my life.

One of the most valuable things I’ve learned this year is to fall in love with as many things as possible. So, I urge you all to fall in love with something or someone special, to find your passion and live it.

All my love, see you soon,
Elana

From Belz to Ben Yehuda, Bagels to Bittersweet Chocolate

2011-04-19T09:34:00.000-07:00

Hello readers and Chag Pesach Sameach (Happy Passover) from Israel! I realize it’s been over a month since my last post, and I apologize. I also realize I promised to work on some posts about Poland, but something I learned in Rwanda has persuaded me otherwise. While I was in Africa, I learned that there are several ways to cope with tragedy, and these options fall into what seem like two major categories: the past and the future. Some people deal with emotional and tragic loss by reflecting on the past, on what once was, but I don’t find that helpful. The people of Rwanda taught me to look forward, to think about the future and all the possibilities that lie ahead. So, for this reason, and many others, I am choosing to focus on all the wonderful experiences I have had since I’ve returned to Israel. Since much has happened, here are my top ten updates from Jerusalem:

1. About three weeks ago, I went on a tiyul (trip) with my Comparative Religions class to the Belz quarter of Jerusalem. Belz was originally a very orthodox community in the Ukraine; it existed there for hundreds of years. However, with World War II came the end of Belz; of the entire community, which was estimated in the thousands, only the Belz rabbi and his brother survived the Holocaust. They arrived in Israel in 1945 and began rebuilding the Belz synagogue, the epicenter of Belz life. Today, the Belz synagogue stands at 14 stories, half of which are underground, and cost $70 million to construct.
The synagogue includes study halls for up to 100 people (men), a tea and coffee room that seats 7,000, a plaza with bleachers to seat 10,000, a mikvah with 25,000 towels and hundreds of showers, and seats in the main sanctuary that sell for up to $1 million. The main sanctuary is for men only; the seats in the main sanctuary must be purchased (seats in the middle and toward the back cost about $5,000). Some seats can be “double purchased,” which means that the man who first purchased the seat is not a Jerusalem resident or doesn’t come to services weekly (there are many members of the Belz community in America and Europe, so they buy seats and only come to the synagogue for the High Holidays and maybe Pesach). These seats can be purchased for a cheaper price by someone who frequents the synagogue, but during the holidays, when the primary owner is attending services, the second owner cannot have the seat. Above the main sanctuary is the women’s area which seats over a thousand women (the main sanctuary seats several thousand men), and above the women’s area is another partition for yeshiva boys and children. With thousands of people in the synagogue at a time, how does anyone hear the rabbi? To maintain quiet, the service leader (the gabbi), uses the “clapper.” Now, this clapper is about as long as I am (five feet), and looks like a giant wooden soup spoon. As a prayer ends, the gabbi raises the clapper and beats it against a special pillow that causes the sound to resonate throughout the synagogue. The gabbi continues to hit the clapper against the pillow until there is silence.
Today, the Belz community numbers about 100,000 followers worldwide; families have many children (a family of a mother, father and eight children is considered small). People travel from all over the world to meet the Belz rabbi and seek his advice; he has two secretaries and a letter-answering service to keep up with responding to everyone who contacts him. To learn more about Belz and the Belz Great Synagogue, visit: http://www.gojerusalem.com/discover/item_10306/The-Belz-Great-Synagogue.

2. The Mahane Yehuda market is slowly becoming my favorite place in Jerusalem. Not far from the city center, the market (shuk), is always bustling with people; don’t even try to walk through there on a Thursday afternoon or Friday morning before Shabbat, you’ll probably get smacked in the head with a crate of challahs or fish being thrown between stalls. Not only is all the produce very cheap and fresh, there’s always something new to find that seems hidden. Last week, I found a handmade pasta stand, which also sells homemade cheeses and sauces. Naturally, I had to buy some (pre-Passover indulgence). There are also some great restaurants and food stands scattered throughout the mess of fruit, vegetable and meat stands – try falafel in a bag (ask for “rak falafel” – only falafel, no pita – in a paper bag) and for four shekels, it’s a great snack, or go to Fish n’ Chips, a very well-hidden takeout place that features ingredients found in the shuk for maximum freshness. It’s fun to walk around, take a taste of whatever is being pushed in your face, and try not to get stepped on – making it out of the shuk unharmed can be a major feat.

3. I am lucky enough to volunteer at probably one the most amazing places in Jerusalem. I work at Aleh, which is a hospital, school and residence for Israeli children with very serious mental and physical disabilities. None of the residents at Aleh are able to walk (they are all in wheelchairs) and very few can communicate at all (none can speak, but a few can make small noises or motions). I work in the Bogrot classroom, the oldest girls at Aleh. These girls – there are seven of them – have been at Aleh the longest and are now in their late twenties or nearly thirty. I arrive in the mornings for breakfast, which is one of my favorite times in the day. I’m learning (slowly) who can eat what – some of the girls can eat mashed up food, some can only have liquid, and a few are on feeding tubes. Every morning, I feed Naama. Naama loves breakfast – she sees me come in with a tray of yogurt, mashed up Israeli salad and cottage cheese and her eyes light up. I sit in front of her chair, fill the spoon and show it to her before bringing it up to her mouth – she likes to see what she’s eating. I know it’s good when she begins to rock back and forth in her chair (I usually have to lock the wheels to ensure her breakfast doesn’t end up in my lap when the “ta’im meod” – very tasty – dance begins), and she leans her head toward me. After breakfast, we sing songs, do art projects and watch movies. It’s impossible to know how much they understand, but I like to think they know I’m there, and that I love the time I spend with all of them. To learn more about Aleh in Israel, visit: http://www.aleh.org/.

4. Last week, my Comparative Religions class went to the Dome of the Rock. Prior to this trip, I hadn’t realized it was open to the public, but apparently, a few years ago, visitors were allowed up to what once was the Temple Mount. However, it is only open to the public one hour a day, and that hour changes without notice (for example, the day we were there, we were supposed to go up at 12:30, but we were then told it wouldn’t open until 1:30). In any event, the Dome of the Rock itself covers a rock which bears significance to both Jews and Muslims. Jews believe that it was from this rock that God created the Earth, and Muslims believe that Muhammad ascended to heaven from this rock at this very location. Until destruction by the Romans in 70 CE, what is now the Dome of the Rock was the Temple Mount; in the far right corner of the Dome compound is what Jews believe was the Holy of Holies. As Jews, we don’t walk on that part of the plaza (in the time of the Temple, only the Cohen Gadol – the High Priest – could enter the Holy of Holies). A common misconception is that the Dome of the Rock is a mosque. Across from the Dome is the Al-Aqsa mosque, the Dome itself is not a place of prayer. In the early 1990s, the Jordanian government undertook the project of recovering the Dome in gold, which cost approximately $8 million. Today, the Dome of the Rock is an area under Muslim control; this area has been the cause of much and ongoing conflict.
After visiting the Dome and Al-Aqsa (we aren’t allowed inside, only on the plaza and surrounding outer areas), we met with Professor Dajani, a former member of Lebanese Fatah until 1975. In the late 70s, Dajani left Lebanon and went to Europe, and then America, where he earned two PhDs and now teaches at a university in Jerusalem. He returned to Israel in the early 90s when his father was sick with cancer and was being treated in an Israeli hospital. Dajani was convinced that the Israeli doctors wouldn’t treat his father the same as they would an Israeli patient, but he was wrong; the doctors did everything they could for his father. Years later, his mother became very sick with asthma and needed emergency medical attention. When Magan David Adom arrived, Dajani was once again skeptical, but the Israeli medical team caring for her treated her and Dajani’s family with respect and kindness; they even brought her to a special army medical center for treatment. Although his mother didn’t survive, Dajani remains thankful to Israel for helping his ill parents. Today, he is the leader of a moderate peace organization and believes in the ongoing peace process between Israelis and Palestinians. To learn more about Dajani’s efforts for peace, visit: http://www.bigdreamsmallhope.com/.

5. Number five is especially important. On Thursday, April 7, Young Judaea and FZY Year Course participated in a five-minute freeze at the Ben Yehuda pedestrian mall in Jerusalem to honor the kidnapped soldier Gilad Shalit. Gilad has been imprisoned by Hamas for nearly five years; we froze for one minute for every year that he’s been missing, for a total of five minutes. Wearing our official YC shirts, we took to Ben Yehuda Street, and after receiving a mass text message, froze for five minutes, in the middle of foot traffic, until receiving the “unfreeze” text. To see the video made that day, go to: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSNHGmFlnCY. Gilad Shalit Lives!

6. I realize I’m jumping horribly out of order, but I must mention my family’s visit to Israel! At the end of March, my parents, brother and Bubbie and Oggy came to Jerusalem to visit me. We went to the shuk, Aleh, the Old City, and Tel Aviv for Shabbat. It was great to see all of them, and I can’t believe the next time we’re all together will be in June when I’m in New Jersey! Hugs and kisses to the Wiser, Stern and Estin families – miss you all!

7. On Tuesday, my Comparative Religions class (it’s a tiyul-based class, so every week, we travel to another part of Jerusalem and the surrounding area) went to Abu Ghosh, a Muslim village about twenty minutes from Jerusalem, and home to the best hummus in Israel. Across from Abu Ghosh is the village of Ein Rafa, where we met the Imam (the leader of the mosque, the Muslim equivalent to a rabbi) and a woman named Yasmin. Yasmin is originally from England and first came to Israel while studying landscape architecture in college; she worked at the Biblical gardens where she met her husband, a Muslim man living in Ein Rafa. Years later, she returned to Israel and converted to Islam, learned Hebrew and Arabic and changed her name from Jessica to Yasmin (her husband wanted her to have an Arab-sounding name so the small Ein Rafa community wouldn’t exclude her as an outsider). She is now a practicing Muslim and has three children. It was interesting to meet her, hear her story and listen to her views on Israel (Abu Ghosh and Ein Rafa remain at peace with the Israeli government).

8. It’s important to have friends in high places, I’m learning. I am now on a first-name basis with the laundry guys down the hill from my apartment – I’m one of their best customers – the people who run the bagel place, Bagel Bites, a few blocks from Ulpan (they also know my order, which is equally frightening), and a few of the vendors at the shuk (the cheese guy, an older man and his very intimidating wife who own a storefront where I get canned tomatoes, olive oil, etc., and of course, a butcher who knows I always order two kilos of chicken). It’s these small relationships that make a place feel like home – that people know me and I know them, and even for a short while, we were a minute part of one another’s lives. This is what makes me feel like I know a place, and what makes me miss it once I’m gone.

9. Roi has been asking me to teach him how to cook. So, in the spirit of Pesach, I asked my mom to send me the recipe for my Aunt Muriel’s famous kosher for Passover mandel bread. Roi and I went to the supermarket (taking your boyfriend to the supermarket in Israel two days before Passover is a notoriously bad idea), bought the necessary baking ingredients (we thought) and began our project. It wasn’t until we had mixed everything together that I realized something wasn’t right; the dough didn’t look as smooth or cake-like as it usually does. So, due to baking emergency, I called my mom and asked her what could have gone wrong. In our haste (and stupidity), Roi and I had used matzah meal instead of matzah cake meal, which is apparently much finer than regular matzah meal and is meant for baking. Well, we were stuck with lumpy mandel bread dough, and since we couldn’t exactly start over, we mixed in the chocolate chips and hoped for the best. Forty-five minutes later, we took them out of the oven, let them cool and tasted our creation. It was delicious! Conclusion? Even in the event of lumpy dough, cook the mandel bread anyway. With enough butter and chocolate, what could actually be so terrible?

10. It’s been an unbelievable month in Jerusalem, and now in Tel Aviv for the seder (there’s only one in Israel), and tomorrow, Eilat for vacation! It’s crazy for me to think that a year ago at this time, I was deferring from UPenn and committing to this life-changing adventure, with some hesitation. Now, the weather is getting warm again – it feels like September in Bat Yam (only with fewer cats) – and I can’t believe this journey has happened and will, in six weeks, come to an end. I’ve learned that some of the best, most memorable things can’t always be planned, but just must unfold by themselves. I’ve never been good at letting life surprise me, but I think I’ve learned, to some degree, to let life happen… and to worry about the lumpy dough only after the food processor can’t fix it.

Thanks for reading, as always. All my love,

Elana

American Returns to Israel (on a more permanent basis)

2011-03-15T09:59:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

I am finally back in Israel for more than a few days at a time, and I can honestly say that I have never been happier to see Jerusalem. After landing at Ben Gurion, the entire plane began clapping and screaming - we had arrived home. Poland was a very difficult, but important experience. I am currently working on blog posts to share with all of you - I will most likely post them next week. It's going to be hard to summarize such an experience in words, especially in blog posts where word counts are limited, but I promise to do my best. Instead of relaying what we did and saw every day, I am going to divide my posts into time periods (Jewish life before the Holocaust, during and after). It will most likely be three or four posts, so please be patient, I'm working on it!

As always, thank you for reading, and I promise more interesting and informative (and content-filled!) posts soon!

Love,

Elana

American Returns to Israel (for now!)

2011-03-05T22:34:00.001-08:00

Hello from Jerusalem! Well, it’s officially real: I am back in Israel, unpacked and living in my new apartment on Derech Hebron. It’s been a surreal few days; orientation, meetings, choosing classes, taking Hebrew placement exams and learning my new neighborhood. We’re about a 15 minute bus ride from the center of Jerusalem (Ben Yehuda Street and King George), which is really nice.

There isn’t much to report from here – we spent last week moving in and getting to know what our final three months of Year Course in Israel will be like. I’ll be volunteering most days of the week at Aleh, which is a day care and hospital for children with special needs. I’m also taking classes (Ulpan, of course) and hopefully, one on comparative religion and the other on Israel advocacy. I’ll find out my actual schedule once I return from Poland.

This brings me to my next adventure: tonight, about 80 members of Year Course (there are over 300 of us, divided into three sections) are leaving for a week in Poland on the Kuma Journey. We will be visiting old Jewish communities, the Warsaw Ghetto, and, of course, the concentration camps. The past few days (I haven’t even been back for a week yet) have been very hectic, so the idea of packing another bag to leave yet again makes me exhausted just thinking about it. I know Poland is going to be an unbelievable trip, very different from the time I had in Rwanda, but in some ways, similar. Both countries experienced some of the worst atrocities the world has ever seen, but recovered very differently. Going to Rwanda, living and working there, was about moving forward and looking to the future; Poland will be about history, looking to the past to try and find some understanding of what once was. It won’t be easy, but it will be challenging in ways that Rwanda wasn’t, it will be emotional and difficult for me, as Rwanda was, at times, but for different reasons. I know Poland will affect me and even change me in new ways, but all this change at once, no matter how important or even how wonderful, is slightly overwhelming.

I won’t have my computer with me in Poland, but I will be keeping a journal, so I will blog about my experiences when I return. I hope all is well with all of you, thanks for reading, as always,

Love,
Elana

Goodbye for now, but not forever

2011-03-01T12:47:00.002-08:00

February 28, 2011

I am currently sitting in the same strangely upholstered, uncomfortable red chair I was in a month ago in the Ethiopian airport. Leaving the village today was awful. I woke up at 5:30, unable to sleep, and was lying awake in bed until my alarm went off, one last time, at 6. When I got out of bed and went outside, I realized it would be the last time I saw the blue mountains across the valley, the dirt roads winding through the village, kids walking toward the dining hall and the school. It was the last morning for a lot of things, a final few hours in a place where I left a piece of my heart.

A bunch of us left the guesthouse for breakfast; I got there early and helped the family serving (bringing food upstairs from the kitchen to the dining hall) put porridge on tables and bread rolls on the counter. Kids began coming in to breakfast; we were standing in the doorway near the dishwashing stations, kids stopping to hug us and say goodbye. We didn’t end up sitting down or eating, we just stood in the entrance to the dining hall, saying goodbye to all the students and long-term volunteers. The worst was seeing the girls from my family. I had started crying about ten minutes into my goodbyes when I saw my student Brigitte, whose English has improved tremendously (as has her math); she threw her arms around me and started crying too, promising me she will keep studying so she can come to America. A short while later, as my breakdown continued, Cadette, Vanessa and Souvenir came in. they saw me immediately and we had a group hug, crying together. My shoulders were soaked, as were theirs, but I didn’t care. Cadette wouldn’t let go; she kept telling me “I will miss you so much. Please do not go. Stay, Elana, please stay.” I told her I wished I could, but I had to leave. If I had the choice, I would definitely stay in the village for a while longer, but I know I have to return to Israel. It was an awful hour; some kids who I’d never met or talked to came up to me, hugged me and said goodbye. Many of them saw me crying and apologized, saying, “I am so sorry you are sad.” I told them not to be sorry, but to remember all the wonderful things we experienced together and to work hard in school. They all promised they would; my family kept leaving their porridge and bread on the table to come up and hug me. When they finally left because they were almost late for school, they turned around and waved, blowing me kisses and screaming, “We love you!” After that, I went down to the kitchen to say goodbye to Hilam and the kitchen staff, and then went back to the guesthouse to finish packing, crying the whole way.

By 10 AM we had loaded the bus (the real bus, not the rickshaw van) with all of our luggage (through the window of the bus, since there was no trunk, so we used the back seats for our bags) and headed toward Kigali. We stopped at an artists’ market there for a while, doing some final shopping for souvenirs and gifts. It was a cute little set of shops and stalls, full of baskets, woodcarvings, fabric bags and decorations. Everyone working there called out, “Sister! Please, sister, come into my shop! Buy something nice!” It was like the Arab shouk in Jerusalem, only much nicer, cleaner and better-smelling.

Once we finished shopping, we drove a short while through Kigali to an Indian restaurant called Khana Kazana, which was both beautiful and delicious. Eating my feelings began with some chicken tikka masala and garlic naan bread (very necessary, given that I had cried so much I had to take my contacts out and wear my glasses). After lunch it was time to go to the airport. All day, I had been wishing we would get on the bus and Ebimak would drive right back to the village, to our guesthouse, our home, and we would go back to our usual life there. But it didn’t happen. We drove to Kigali International Airport, and it all became real. We weren’t going back to the hill full of red tiled roofs and hard-working students, full of love and hope and friendship. We were really leaving.

We checked into our flight and going through security, I kept setting off the metal detector. This resulted in a very thorough “pat-down” by a female security guard (this was quite embarrassing since literally the entire airport watched). I then went to go change money; this was also a major failure because they “ran out” of American dollars and Euros, so we now all have useless (and worthless in Israel) Rwandan francs in our wallets. Fabulous. We said a tearful goodbye to Ariela, our long-term volunteer who worked with us the entire month, promised to be in touch, and attempted to distract ourselves with Duty Free shopping (I did find peanut M&Ms, which was a plus) but it didn’t really work.

Our flight left with very few issues – we had the back of the plane to ourselves, which was nice, and I was so exhausted from waking up early and crying all morning that I fell asleep. Our layover in Addis Ababa allowed for some more Duty Free distractions, dinner, a final group meeting where it all started, on the stupid red chairs and, inevitably, more crying. We are really gone. We are no longer in Rwanda, at the village, with the kids. This chapter of my adventure has ended, only for a new one to begin. I keep telling myself that Jerusalem will be fun, exciting, new and wonderful, which I know it will be, but not waking up in the guesthouse, eating something besides rice and beans, surrounded by more than fourteen people at a time, is going to be incredibly strange.

The next time I update you, I will be in my new apartment in Jerusalem, writing about my first days back in Israel. Believe it or not, soon after that, I’ll be in Poland on the Kuma program with about 80 other Year Course students, learning about the Jewish community that once was, visiting the concentration camps and memorials to remember and honor the victims of the Holocaust. I’m looking forward to the trip, and I will update all of you (those are going to be some very difficult blogs) as my adventure unfolds.

All the best from Ethiopia (well, the Bole airport, at least),
Elana

Goodbye for now, but not forever

2011-03-01T12:47:00.001-08:00

Before, During and After

2011-02-27T13:17:00.001-08:00

February 27, 2011

When you ask a Rwandan about their past, or if they ever offer the information (this has happened to me several times; out of nowhere, kids will start talking about their lives and families before they came to the village) they will refer to a time called “Before.” Before the genocide, before Rwanda became a country torn apart and all but destroyed by violence and misplaced hatred. There was a time before, cluttered by European colonizers and UN attempts at peacekeeping (the UN presence still exists in Rwanda, you see their trucks driving around), and then before turned to “During,” a bloody 100 days that cost almost a million people their lives. Eventually, Rwanda moved to “After,” a time to recover, to rebuild, to regain what they lost. I’ve only seen and lived in Rwanda’s After, and I’ve heard many stories of Before and During, but I know that my life has been so different, and after being here, I know I will continue to change.

Like Rwanda, my life, I now realize, has many Before, During, and Afters. Before I came to Rwanda, I knew the world was a big place, but I never understood just how big, I knew I lived a fortunate and blessed life, but I never knew just how lucky I am. I got caught up in college applications, trivial drama with friends and teammates and I now know I didn’t make enough time for things that simply mattered more. Then a During happened. I left Israel and all the people, places and things I never wanted to give up, to come live in Rwanda for a month. It was during this time that I found new meaning to what is important to me, what it means to appreciate people and things I’ve always taken for granted. I changed. I know I am a different person than I was four weeks ago, and when I return to Israel, I will take the lessons I’ve learned and all the wonderful experiences I’ve had here, and every time I feel overwhelmed by my own silly little life, I will remember my time here. When I take my family and friends for granted, I will think of my time in the village and all the kids who only wanted to know if I have a family and parents where I live, and I will be more appreciative. I don’t know exactly what After will be like, but I know it won’t be easy and I know it will take some adjustment, but I know I will be a richer person, emotionally, mentally and, after weeks at a construction site, physically, for it.

Today I woke up and went to Protestant church services in the dining hall. Church was scheduled to start at 9, which, as I’ve learned, means 9:30 in Rwanda. All the kids (and I) were dressed in our Sunday best. The majority of the service was gospel music, complete with dancing, an African drum and guitar players. Listening (and watching) the kids sing so beautifully and soulfully made me tear up; it wasn’t just a service to celebrate their religion and praise their God, but to celebrate life. They are some of the liveliest, happiest and most unbelievable people I’ve ever met. Despite what they’ve been through, what they survived, what their “Before” was like, their faith never waivered. As Wilton told us weeks ago, surviving the genocide meant God was with you. These kids have never lost their faith; it only got stronger. They believe and love and praise with all their hearts. Sharing that with them this morning was incredible and very emotional. Throughout the service, kids went up to the microphone to give thanks to God. One girl from my house got up and, as the security guard sitting next to me translated, said, “Thank you God for every day I am alive. I have so many questions and problems but you always have the answer. Thank you God for letting me be alive.” This to me is a prime example of Rwanda. Simply being thankful for life, for all that we know or don’t know, and for finding our way when we don’t know where to turn. This is something I know I will take back with me when I leave.

Toward the end, the service leader (there are no pastors in the village, so sometimes, one will come from Rubona or a nearby town, but not this week) invited everyone to stand up and dance in the aisles and in front of the chairs set up on the dining hall balcony. This was my favorite moment, dancing with girls from my house, listening to them sing along and chant to the beat of the drum. Granted, I had no idea what they were saying most of the time (it was all in Kinyarwanda, except for when the guard, dressed in a suit – I didn’t recognize him – translated for me) but it was still beautiful and heartwarming.

After church and lunch (the one thing I will not miss about Rwanda is the constant rice and beans) we had a meeting, our entire group and Ilan, the village director, under the mango tree. This is where our experience here began, and where it’s about to end. Ilan told us how much we’ve impacted the village, not only by building our warehouse, but by interacting with the kids, teaching in the school, learning from them as much or more than we have given. It’s really true: to give is to receive. I came here thinking I would volunteer and work as hard as I could, giving as much of myself as possible, but as it turns out, as much of myself as I’ve given, as much time and French vocabulary and math help and bricks that I’ve taught and carried, I have received that much more. Being here has taught me more about myself and what’s truly important to me than any other experience I’ve ever had, and possibly ever will have. I’ve been given a whole new perspective, a whole new set of eyes through which to see this crazy world, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

As a final surprise, we were given two trees to plant anywhere we wanted in the village, along with a plaque with all of our names and Year Course painted on it. We planted one outside the administration building and the other on the corner across from the mango tree, where everyone walks and passes by at least once a day. This way, every time they pass it, they can think of us and our time here, and, like our tree, the students in the village, and us, can grow from all that we’ve experienced together in the last month.

Once we finished planting our trees and situating our plaque, I went to my family’s house one last time to help them research prospective names for the family. They were still set on naming it after either King David or John Lennon (two very different yet very important men in history), and when I Googled John Lennon, Assoumpta read the URL address on the top of the screen: “Wawawajohnlennoncom? What is this?” I explained to her it’s the website we were using to research John Lennon. She didn’t quite get it. Later, I also convinced them to research at least two women as well. First, we looked up Golda Meir (they had a lot of trouble saying her name, at first), and they loved learning about her and a little bit of Israel’s history in the 70s. Next, I showed them Rosa Parks. One of the girls said, in shock, “She is black!” I explained to them that yes, she is, and she is a very important woman in history because of it. Then we got into a discussion about civil rights, Rosa Parks’ famous refusal to go to the back of a bus, and the change she made in fighting for equality in America. The girls said they are voting for a name soon, they think either tonight or tomorrow night, and I told them I want someone to tell me what they decide. They all promised to send me a message. Before I left, they insisted we sing Amahoro together; we sang it last night at the Talent Show, and now they keep asking us to sing it for them (I think they’re shocked that a bunch of Muzungus have mastered a chorus of a song entirely in Kinyarwanda). For the second time today, my eyes teared up; we were sitting around the living room of their house, singing Amahoro (Peace) together, and at the end, they all piled on top of me, hugging me. I tried to make them understand that leaving isn’t my choice; it’s not that I want to leave, but I have to. They seemed pretty understanding, until Cadette came over to me, as I was about to walk out the door, and said, “You cannot forget us. You promise?” I looked at her and I said, “Of course I promise. I won’t ever forget you. I can’t.” Satisfied with my response, she hugged me goodbye and said she’d see me at dinner.

We (the Young Judaea volunteers) decided to plan a little surprise for dinner: someone would stand up on their chair and start singing Amahoro, and then the rest of us would follow, two at a time, taking cues from one another. Dinner started at 7, so at 7:30, as planned, Jenna stood up on her chair and began to sing at the top of her voice, and then the rest of us followed, singing along, clapping and carrying on while standing on the dining hall chairs. The kids loved it; some were singing with us (none stood on their chairs, unfortunately). The last time I stood on a chair to sing? I was probably seven or eight years old and reciting the Four Questions during a Passover seder at my grandparents’ house. So it’s been a while. In any event, we finished our rendition of Amahoro and as soon as we sat down, the ASYV soccer team came storming into the dining hall, carrying a huge trophy. Immediately, everyone stood up and started cheering. It was nuts! The guys had won a big game in Rwamagana (a town about 10 minutes from the village) and brought home a great trophy, which they placed on the stage in the dining hall for everyone to admire. Truly, a perfect ending to a great night. Definitely the best dinner I’ve ever had in the village (entertainment-wise, not food-wise. The food was, as always, rice and beans and potatoes. Yum).

After dinner we had our final group meeting, which, tonight, included cleaning the guesthouse, packing our suitcases and talking about transferring to the airport tomorrow. Before we all adjourned to finish organizing our things, we filled a bucket (generally used for showering around here) with water and put in 14 candles, one for each of us. We also passed around note cards and each wrote something we contributed to the village, something we are leaving here, and threw the paper into the water. As we watched the paper open up and the ink dissolve in the water, lit only by the candles floating at the top of the bucket, we talked about our time here, passing around a ball of yarn, unraveling it around our wrists as we shared memories of each other, about new friends, about our impact on one another and on the village. When we were finished, we each had a piece of the string around our wrists; we were all attached in a giant, messy web of red yarn. We cut the yarn and now all have pieces of it in bracelets on our wrists, symbolizing what we’ve shared, that we are now a group of people connected by an unbelievable experience, a life-changing one. We are all changed, in our own ways; it’s safe to say that Africa does something to you. For me, it gave me perspective. It taught me to calm down (ha!) and have a little patience when it’s worth waiting, to take risks and trust in myself. Africa has taught me to appreciate everything that I take for granted, all the people and the things that I was never thankful enough for, until now. So thank you, Africa, most specifically, thank you Rwanda, for teaching me, helping me and changing me. I’ll be back soon enough; this Muzungu isn’t gone forever.

We leave the village tomorrow around 9 AM, check out some craft shops in Kigali, have lunch at an Indian restaurant and then go to the airport. The next time I post, I will be in Israel, back to my “usual” life, but I know that everything I’ve done here, learned here, experienced here, will stay with me, no matter where I am, where I go or what I do, I will always have a piece of my heart at ASYV.

Amahoro from Rwanda, one last time,

Elana

Reach for the stars

2011-02-26T14:04:00.000-08:00

February 26, 2011

Before I start today’s blog, here are a few things that in my exhausted stupor, I forgot to mention earlier:

1. Village Time is done all in Kinyarwanda, with the exception of Ilan’s speech in English and, last night, Anne also presented in English. However, the rest of the hour and a half is complete confusion to me, so I was sitting with some of the housemothers, who were translating for me. One of them translated from Kinyarwanda into French, and then I translated into English. They are such awesome women, and I will never forget them (not to mention their fantastic outfits).

2. During the birthday celebration last night, before the crazy dance party ensued, the people whose birthday it was in the past month or part of the year stood up on the stage in the dining hall and then everyone – I mean everyone, like more than 300 students and volunteers – dashed up to the stage to give them all birthday hugs. I made my way down the line, others doing their best to make a hole for me to sneak my way through while trying not to bump into too many people. I hugged everyone, wishing them a happy birthday and many more. They all thanked me profusely, shaking my hand, hugging me back, and I even got a few pecks on the cheek. Everyone was so excited that we were even there, that we were celebrating their birthdays, that it made me feel as though sometimes, simply being present is the best present of all.

Ok, now I can begin today’s entry:

I woke up this morning, one final time, at 5:30 to run Muchaka Muchaka with my family. There’s something amazing about waking up to blue mountains lit only by a rising sun behind fog and clouds. It’s a gorgeous sight, one I know will never be replicated. I walked to my family’s house and to my surprise, the first person outside the house this morning, waiting for the guards to start our run? Mama Hillary, dressed in one of her finest hand-printed fabric outfits, and her house slippers. I asked her if she was running; she told me of course, she loves Muchaka! I couldn’t contain myself. Eventually, the girls stumbled out of the house and we made our three-line formation to begin the run. Unfortunately, Mama Hillary didn’t actually jog along with us, but she did clap and cheer as we passed. About halfway through, I stopped because my stomach just didn’t feel right. Well, sure enough, I ran right back to the guesthouse and I’m pretty sure last night’s samosas were duking it out in my stomach. This did not end well.

Luckily, I crawled back in bed and woke up feeling much better. I then took up the grim task of packing my suitcase. I know I won’t want to deal with it tomorrow – I want to spend one final day relaxing and spending time with the girls in my family. I am donating my towels and bed linens to the village (volunteers are asked to do this since the village can’t buy hundreds of sets of sheets and hundreds more towels; they just don’t have the funds to spare) so that freed up space for my new African art acquisitions (they all fit, along with my clothes, which was a relief). So now I have a packed suitcase standing in the corner of my room, constantly reminding me that in less than two days we’ll be leaving ASYV to get on a plane and fly back to Israel. It’s not a pleasant reminder, but it’s a dose of reality that I know I needed. A month, I’ve learned is a very short time. In the course of my life, it seems like nothing. But these weeks were something. What I’ve done and experienced and lived in this month will supply memories and lessons for a lifetime; I know I will remember this month forever.

After lunch, I went to visit my family. The girls all came to greet Hannah and me, handing us more cards (one of mine has “Jose” written on the front. This was confusing for a while since I thought it said Jose as in “ho-say,” but it’s from Joselyn and she just ran out of room writing her name on the front of the card. Adorable). For a short while, Cadette showed me pictures of her family, including one of her father that looks like it was taken thirty years ago. She told me it was taken in Israel; he traveled there before the genocide, during which he died. We spent a while talking about America; the girls all want to go to college there. They were asking me how university “happens” (they meant “works”) in America, how they would be able to apply and then go there. I told them they need to work very hard in school now so they can apply and maybe, if they are lucky, got to college in the States. They all promised me they will; they said they want to go to an American university so they can see me and meet my family. I said that this was very thoughtful, but they should want to go to college to get the best education they can, that my family and I would love to see them, but it’s not a reason to go to college in America. They still seem to think it is.

The conversation then turned to after whom they are going to name their house. There’s been buzz around the village about naming houses after Benjamin Franklin; I convinced my girls out of this not only because it’s unoriginal, but also because there are so many other important people in history and they need to do more research. I started naming some of history’s remarkable women (who came to mind immediately): Rosa Parks, Golda Meir, Princess Diana, just to name a few (they had heard of none of these women). The idea of naming their house after a woman inspired them; they had only researched a few people, all of whom happened to be men. I told them that I’ll come back tomorrow with my laptop so we can research more prospective female namesakes together. They all clapped at this, and Mama Hillary opened a box of cookies for us. Then, to show me how prepared they are for school on Monday, they began reciting the French poem I helped them memorize for class, Le Corbeau et the Le Renard. They did very well, given their pronunciation troubles when it comes to “l” and “r,” and they were clearly quite proud of the progress they’d made. Before I left, they all stood up to give me hugs and tell me how much they love me and are going to miss me. I gave them my Facebook contact information so we can keep in touch; they hung the piece of paper I wrote it down on in the living room.

Later in the afternoon brought the dreaded meeting: what we do now that we’re leaving. I know that returning to Israel means going back to some semblance of “real life,” my friends and Roi, classes and volunteering. It feels impossible to give up this new life that I’ve made here with a group that, a month ago, was a bunch of strangers, from all different social circles, and now feels like a family. I’ve spent a month doing what I love to do, helping others, day in and day out, for fifteen or sixteen hours a day, seven days a week, for four weeks. There are so many small things that make this place special, so many people to miss and habits I’ll have to break. I’ll miss the MTN cell phone guy who sells minutes through the fence of the village, the guys with pineapples on bicycles that we can buy for less than 25 cents apiece, the people who make samosas fresh for us when they see us walking through the market, brown paper bags in hand, ready to order a dozen. I’ll miss the Mamas and cooking class, Ciprier and our endless translated conversations, the workers and our English classes together, the school and Aimable and Vincent, and of course, most of all, the kids. Leaving them will be the hardest.

Tonight was our cultural talent show. It was, to say the least, a very Rwandan production. This means it started 45 minutes and ran over an hour late, and featured presentations like traditional African dance, a fashion show of tribal wear, complete with spears and woven baskets, songs and speeches. We performed with the village’s culture club. Our “talent” came in several parts: first, we all did an African “dance” (swaying with strange-looking arm movements, really) while the village culture club sang a traditional song, then we did Ain’t No Mountain all together, followed by the Cupid Shuffle, an American line dance, and we concluded with Amahoro, a Rwandan song that means “Peace.” We got some laughs, lots of dancing and enthusiasm from the crowd, and a very nice round of applause at the end (probably because it was over). Several students performed, including the village’s acclaimed rapper, two of the dance clubs, and Momma Hillary even presented a speech and ended with a song! To finish the show, it’s traditional in Rwandan culture to drink milk, so the village culture club, along with the hospitality club, passed around pitchers of milk and mugs. On the stage (the talent show was held in the village amphitheater) was a traditional African “scene,” complete with a straw mat, woven baskets and small, dome-covered containers filled with milk. Two of the volunteers were invited up to the stage to take part in the scene, only unbeknownst to them, they had to actually drink the milk from the containers. In front of about 400 people. This was, of course, absolutely hysterical.

After the show, a bunch of us brought back the decorations – giant woven baskets (you could put me in one of them), wall hangings, spears and vases – to the dining hall, which is not exactly close to the amphitheater. Doing this walk in the dark carrying a piece of African art the size of me was not exactly easy. On the way from the dining hall to the guesthouse, I looked up and saw the most gorgeous night sky I have ever seen in my life. Amidst complete blackness is an endless patch of stars that seem to shine brighter here than anywhere else. Maybe it’s because of the altitude or the fact that the only light is coming from the stars and not traffic or buildings or streetlamps, but the simple beauty of the sky. They seem close enough to touch, as if I could reach my hand out and pull one down. I continued walking, listening to the birds squawk and the frogs croak, taking in the beauty of this place. It never ceases to amaze me, how unbelievably beautiful Rwanda is; it’s like waking up to a postcard, only it’s real (you realize this when the bugs start eating you).

Tomorrow is our last day in the village, and I know it won’t be an easy one. I’m waking up for church services in the morning, so I need to get some sleep, especially after my talent show efforts followed by schlepping giant baskets across the village. The next time I post from Rwanda, it will probably be my last until Jerusalem, so I’ll do my best to make it a good one.

Lots of love,
Elana

The beginning of the end

2011-02-25T13:10:00.001-08:00

February 25, 2011

Saying goodbye is never easy, especially when it can be said in one of several languages. Today, however, began the long list of goodbyes that, unfortunately, lead to our departure on Monday. This morning I went to teach my final classes in the school – double chemistry. I walked into the classroom and was immediately bombarded with questions, “Teacher, question! Teacher, me! Teacher, please, help me!” Someone then explained to me that they were having an exam today, so they were all very caught up in their final minutes to study. I answered their questions, going around the room to make sure everyone had a chance to ask me at least one, and reminded them that they are all excellent students and should be confident while taking their test. Their teacher, Carissa (a man, who is also called Eugene by some, which is confusing, unless they are two different people and I’m the one who’s confused) had some trouble making copies of the exam, so instead he wrote all of the test questions on the board and had the students copy them down). Once the entire test had been written in chalk and recopied onto notebook paper, I had to leave the room because the kids aren’t allowed to ask me questions during a test. So, I went into the teacher’s lounge where I usually spend my breaks and all of the teacher in there came up to me, telling me how sad they will be when we leave in a few days; Rachel, one of the English teachers who is always wearing at least three inch heels, told me she will be upset not to see my face in school on Monday. I told them all not to worry, that we can keep in touch, so we exchanged email addresses.

At the end of the hour, I went to my usual class, Enrichment Year Class D (I teach chemistry to second year, Senior 4, students) to say goodbye to them. When I walked in, they all started clapping, and we took a class photo, with Aimable, of course. As I stepped into the picture, Emile, who was standing behind me, grabbed my hand and said, “Please, don’t leave. I will be so sad when you go.” Emile usually sits in toward the back of the class, keeps to himself and does extremely well in school. His English is very advanced; more than once, I’ve caught him reading Chekhov in the back corner. We’ve had a few conversations over the past month; he’s very curious about life in America and how it is different from Rwanda (where do you even start when asked that question?) He’s a very intelligent, curious and kindhearted kid, and I’m going to miss him, and the rest of the class, very much. On my way out, Assoumpta stopped me, making sure that I’ll come visit the family over the weekend. I told her a promise is a promise and of course I’ll be there; she said, “Ok, good, because we will miss you. We want to see you. And take more pictures.” They LOVE taking photos, especially being able to see them afterward on digital cameras. I told Assoumpta not to worry, that I’ll be at the house, with my camera, and we can take lots of pictures. As I left, I turned back, and she was smiling, giving me a thumbs-up.

One last time, I trekked back down from the school to the work site. I found the rest of the group cutting up pineapple Ido had bought from a passing bicycle; we got 34 pineapples, so for about 200 francs each, the guy selling them probably went home for the day since his profit from our purchase alone makes for a better business day than most. We all took turns cutting them open, taking off the outside, and saving the tops because tops of pineapples can be planted to grow more fruit, no watering necessary. After opening, coring and chunking 30 of the pineapples into pieces, Ciprier and Eric, the work site managers, gathered all 80 workers (some are building other houses in the village, but we’ve worked with all of them at least once, and they are our English students) and I gave a small speech, in French, on behalf of Social Action Rwanda, and Ciprier translated it into Kinyarwanda. Then, some of the workers wanted to say a few words (in Kinyarwanda, of course) so Ciprier translated into French and I translated to English. It seems like a much more laborious process than it was, but it was crazy hearing all these languages flying around a construction site that smelled of pineapple and cement, all at once. Finally, when the workers and Ido had all finished speaking (Ido joked about none of them taking advantage of our presence to find a Muzungu wife. They found this hysterical, as did we… sort of), the pineapple disappeared in record time (under five minutes, easily). We said goodbye to all of them; many of my and Ilyssa’s English students came up, saying “Teacher, miss you!” and “Thank you, teacher!” I’m going to miss them very much, especially Pelage. Who’s going to hand him bricks? I guess now that the warehouse is essentially done, the point is moot, but not seeing him and the rest of the workers every day for several hours, laughing (usually them laughing at us, but we laugh along anyway) and joking and making the time pass together, is going to be a rough adjustment.

After taking some pictures (including one with Ciprier. He was very excited about this) we washed our hands of pineapple juice and were getting ready to leave for the Rubona market when Ido stopped us. He told us we needed to have a short meeting. Ido began by telling us that the warehouse was built by moving bricks and cement from one place to another, from disorganized piles to neat stacks to the walls that now support a roof and are built on a solid rock foundation. He then said (and this was our surprise) that everyone who comes to the village should know who built it, who moved the bricks and the cement to make it into what it is. So, in front of the warehouse, the path leading to the door, is a cement patch on which we got to write Year Course 2011, put our handprints in the cement (this was a total mess, but lots of fun) and write our initials. There will forever be evidence of the hands that put that building together: our hands. Fourteen sets of hands, all different shapes, sizes and strengths, working together to build something wonderful. What we built doesn’t end with our warehouse; we built relationships, friendships, memories that will never be forgotten. We built a home here, and it’s going to be nearly impossible to leave.

When we had finally finished our handprints and washed off the remaining cement, we walked to the Rubona market. On the way, as usual, we were stopped by children running from their houses and the primary school, screaming, “Good morning, how are you?” It was unusually hot today, so the walk seemed longer than normal, but when we arrived at the market, kids, chasing after us in packs, watching our every move, swarmed us. I went to go look at the printed skirts (they’re in piles on tables made out of tree trunks and spare branches), and I found one! I tried it on over my shorts and the woman told me I could have it for 1000 francs (just under $2). However, it was a little long, so I took it to one of the several women who sit with sewing machines near the fabric stores, and showed her that it was too long. She spoke no English and no French, so lots of miming was involved, but she told me to come back in 15 minutes and it would be done. Well, sure enough, fifteen minutes and 200 francs (34 cents) later, my skirt had been shortened. This is a process that, in America, takes days or weeks and costs way more than 34 cents. I think we have something to learn from the seamstresses of Rubona.

I wandered the market, picking up some fabric (no surprise – it’s cheap and beautiful and packs easily. Triple win) a few mangos to snack on for the next few days, some brochette skewers (last ones for a while) and, for Shabbat, 50 potato and hot pepper samosas for us and the long-term volunteers (Talia and I split the cost of these). We loaded up our brown paper bags (recycled from Nakumatt) and began walking back to the village, stopping along the way for some nun wine. When we got back, I went to braid challah for Shabbat in the kitchen, where Hiram (the head of the kitchen) kept feeding us pineapple and fruit salad. Ido even came to make one with us (he made his challah in the shape of a giant croissant. We were ready to put them in the oven when he realized that there was no egg on top, so he went to go get us an egg and, I have no idea where he found it, a pastry brush). Between the samosas and brochettes, and all the fruit, I felt so full it was borderline nausea.

Later, we went back to pick up the challahs (which turned out delicious) and had kabbalat Shabbat at the guesthouse with all the volunteers. After a short service, we feasted on challah, tomatoes, pineapple (the four remaining after Ido’s morning purchase), bananas and samosas imported to ASYV from the Rubona alleyway samosa guy. After we finished eating, it was time to go to the dining hall for Village Time, the weekly all-village meeting led by clubs and village directors. There is also a weekly village “newscast” done by the ASYV TV club (it really is a cute video). This week, Ilan, the director of the village, after mentioning some world news, talked about saying goodbye to the Young Judaea volunteers. This, for me, made it real. We’re really leaving. In the next two days, we have to pack and leave for Israel. It won’t be easy or fun, but it’s happening, and there is no way around it.

Right after Village Time is always dinner, but Talia planned us a special group dinner – chicken soup! She brought us instant noodles in soup from Israel (she checked through several boxes of food, including one of peanut butter and another of granola bars), which we all had tonight for dinner, just us, at the guesthouse. It was a very nice way to start our last Shabbat together. We finished our group dinner and went back to the dining hall (there was a lot of schlepping involved this evening, but given my samosa and brochette intake, I need all the exercise I can get) for the monthly birthday celebration. Since there are so many kids in the village and some don’t know their birthdays, the last Friday of each month is a village birthday party for anyone born during that month or part of the year. The birthday celebration included cake and roasted nuts (they tasted like peanuts, but weren’t) and performances by several students. At the end, the celebration turned into a dance party on the porch of the dining hall, which is always a blast here because the kids are amazing dancers.

It’s now after 11 and I need to wake up very early tomorrow to run Muchaka Muchaka a final time (and perhaps get it on video… I’m going to need a way to practice my African chanting at home). 5:30 will be here before I know it!

More about my final days here soon, lots of love,

Elana

Gisenyi

2011-02-25T05:03:00.000-08:00

February 23-24, 2011

Hello readers! It’s now a few minutes past 7:00 PM in Rwanda and we just arrived back in the village from Gisenyi, which is on Lake Kivu in the northern province, near the gorillas. Before I give you the details of our adventure, let me share with you a sad piece of news I heard on Wednesday morning:

According to a message one of my roommates received, the Sudanese community in Arad has been deported. The gan has been locked for at least the past week and is apparently shut down; the Sudanese families are, according to this message, gone. Before I become outraged and upset, I tried to determine the extent to which this is true, and I found a Jerusalem Post article that claims that the Sudanese are leaving voluntarily and are looking forward to returning to South Sudan. However, other sources, as the article acknowledges, say that the Israeli government is forcing, or even bribing, the Sudanese community to leave. While the article refutes these claims and insists that this is an ongoing process to return the Sudanese to their homeland, the fact remains that one day the gan was open and the Sudanese community was doing relatively well in Arad, and the next, it was closed and they were gone. The abrupt nature of their departure makes voluntary return to South Sudan questionable. Would the entire Sudanese population really all get up and leave at once? Still, we aren’t sure exactly what did or did not happen, and if any Sudanese families are still living in Arad. Hopefully, they are still there and simply figuring out their status in Israel, or if they did return to Sudan, they did so by choice. To read the JPost article, follow this link: http://www.jpost.com/NationalNews/Article.aspx?id=209450. We are awaiting further information on the status of the Sudanese community in Arad, if anyone even knows where they are or what is actually happening.

In happier news, our trip to Gisenyi was wonderful. We left early Wednesday morning and drove north for several hours in our van (white metal rickshaw, really). Along the way, we stopped for lunch at a Rwandan restaurant and ate a delicious meal. Before getting to the hotel, we drove along the Rwanda/Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) border. The border is actually a stone wall and a small gate guarded by two Rwandan army officers. Due to the ongoing conflict in the DRC, we didn’t cross this “border” but instead drove on to the hotel. We finally arrived at the hotel, the Paradise, which is an adorable collection of wood and grass-thatched huts (furnished huts) connected by winding stone pathways, situated right on the lakefront. Lake Kivu is the only lake in Rwanda open for swimming. No sooner had we arrived and put our things in our guestrooms did the maître d’ come running outside with life vests, and an even skinnier (if this is even possible) Rwandan followed, running behind him, carrying a boat engine on his shoulder. We threw on bathing suits and got into the small wooden boat beached in front of the hotel. The smaller guy, who we later realized would be our captain, attached the motor to the boat and we went across the lake to the hot springs. There, we met the “mayor” of the hot springs, who is nearly 94 years old and has been there for over 60 years. These hot springs are so hot that if you were to drop a potato in one, it would take about twenty minutes to cook through.

After the hot springs, we piled back into the boat and went toward the middle of the lake where there is a small island, owned by the Paradise. We lounged around, soaked up some sun, and eventually got back in the boat to return to the hotel. It’s quite cool to take a boat to your hotel room, I must say. Dinner was awesome; the lake is home to tilapia (there are no other animals in the lake because of volcanic eruptions on the DRC side that make it impossible for anything but fish to survive in the water. This is part of what makes it okay for swimming) so we all had to order that for dinner (there were other options, but I’ve never had fresher fish in my life). Of course, as we were sitting down at our table, two traditional African dancers came running in, dressed as warriors, spears and shields and all. They were accompanied by drummers who chanted along to the beat set by the bells on the dancers’ ankles. Every few minutes, they would pull one of us up to dance with them; I attempted to pick up some of their moves, and I even requested wearing their ankle bells, but neither really happened (the latter was a definite no). Once we finished our tilapia, we had a small surprise activity. We were all given paper and pens and told to write letters to ourselves that we will receive in six months or a year from now. I don’t know exactly where I’ll be, or what I’ll be doing, but I do know that when I receive it, I will think of Rwanda, of the village and the kids, of my trip to see the gorillas, of Gisenyi and Akagera and Murambi and all the places I’ve visited, of my friends here and all the memories we’ve made. I know I will remember all these things, and I will smile.

I woke up this morning, without an alarm, at 7:00 to the sound of screaming. It was coming from the lake, as I would later find out. The fishermen, in their wooden fishing boats, were rowing out onto the lake to begin their workday. It was an awesome sight, if a bit early, but my body has adjusted to waking up at ungodly hours sans alarm. I can’t decide if this is such a good thing…

After a very nice breakfast (omelettes, crepes, fruit salad, toast and jam, and COFFEE!) I spent some time laying out on the lake front, trying to even out the color difference between my arms (they are very dark, I’m beginning to look less like a Muzungu!) and my legs, which don’t see the sun much since I usually wear pants here (women in Rwanda aren’t supposed to show their legs, so we don’t wear shorts around the village or when we’re out). By 11:00, we left the hotel and went to the Gisenyi outdoor market, where, of course, I found some beautiful African fabrics (I got to bargain in French) and hot sauce that is sold in eyedropper containers because you can only use one drop at a time, it’s that spicy. It’s also yellow-orange, which makes me nervous.

Once we finished shopping at the market, and finally persuaded the posse of school children following us that no, they could not get in the van (there’s barely room for us and our stuff) we drove toward Kigali, stopping along the way for pizza. As we were eating our lunch, it began to pour. Our driver, Bosco, explained to me that because of the mountains in that area, clouds are trapped and therefore it rains very hard every day there. At one point, it even began to hail! Rwandan driving is crazy without awful weather, so I truly am impressed by Bosco’s driving skills in the pouring rain, hail, thunder and lightning. Before returning to the village we stopped, one last time, at Nakumatt for any remaining items we may need for the next few days. I’m pretty sure the people who work there know us now, and are probably expecting us to return next week for more snack foods that don’t require refrigeration. Unfortunately, we won’t be back any time soon.

It’s hard to believe that we only have three full days left in the village. Tomorrow is our final morning at the work site and my final morning at the school, so I need to say goodbye to Aimable and Vincent and all of my students. We are also throwing a party for the workers, complete with pineapple. Afterwards is our last trip into Rubona for samosas, brochette skewers, six mangos for 100 francs and of course, passion fruit wine made by nuns. Over the weekend, I promised my girls I’d visit them, which I will, and at some point, unfortunately, I need to start packing my things, fabrics, hand-woven baskets and all, to return to Israel. I won’t get into how much I’m going to miss Rwanda and all that’s here right now, but be prepared, that post is coming soon.

All the best from a slightly tanner me,

Elana

In my heart, next to Jesus

2011-02-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

February 22, 2011

Hello from Rwanda, readers! The last few days have been mostly uneventful; Shabbat is quiet for us, and then Sunday, the village doesn’t have much going on because the kids go to church and spend the day relaxing. Yesterday was another voting day, so the school and the work site were closed for a “vacation." However, we did have Enrichment Programs, which meant a final cooking class with the Mommas. We made crepes that were, of course, full of sugar and absolutely delicious. Luckily, this week, we were without any major lightning storms, so we were able to cook outside.

Today returned to our normal crazy schedule. I was on kitchen duty this morning, so at 8:00, I reported to the dining hall to start chopping, dicing and peeling to help prepare lunch for about 500 people. I cut up tomatoes, hollowed out cucumbers to be diced, peeled sweet potatoes (this lasted about ten minutes before the kitchen staff realized they could do five potatoes in the time it took me to do one, so instead, they switched me to chopping onions). Then I started taking the stems off some very bizarre-looking vegetables (no one in the kitchen knew what they’re called; I asked) and then we started cutting those in half. At the end of the morning, the staff gave me a short tour of what was cooking in the gigantic metal tubs in a room adjacent to where I was cutting and chopping and generally moving at a third of the pace of everyone around me. Most of the tubs contained rice and “sauce,” which is the term for a mix of mystery vegetables, sometimes beans, water and perhaps, if you’re lucky, a tablespoon of tomato paste (one tablespoon for 500 people doesn’t exactly get you far). As we were finishing up (I was working with my friend Jenna), a delivery from the farm drove up the path to the kitchen: pineapples! Unfortunately, the pineapples didn’t make an appearance at lunch (but a small vegetable salad did!) but they did make the kitchen smell amazing.

At 1:00, it was time for my final hour teaching the construction workers English. Tuesdays are generally, for me, long and exhausting days at the work site, but teaching this hour makes my day that much brighter, watching people who, four weeks ago, didn’t speak a word of English, come over to our meeting spot, greet me with a “Hello, teacher. How are you?” and then proceed to tell me, in full sentences, that they like cement and Jesus, can they please have more bricks and a level, and, my personal favorite, they love teacher. It’s amazing to me how far they’ve come in such a short time; this week, they did “head, shoulders, knees and toes” without my or Ilyssa’s help, and did remarkably well (very little eyes, ears, mouth, nose confusion, relatively speaking). We reviewed everything from clothing to colors, “I like” and “Can I have” to “Thank you” and “Please.” At the end of the hour, after having done “jump right, jump left, front and back” with only a few collisions (there were many more last week), everyone came around, shaking our hands, telling us “thank you, teacher” and that they love to learn English. Hearing this, knowing they have started learning something new and now have mastered new skills, makes me realize that my time here has meant so much not only to the students, but to people who never had the opportunity to be students at a place like ASYV. Knowing this, I have no choice but to smile a little wider.

Immediately following English class and lunch was my final Tikkun Olam at Peter’s house. Today was more mud mixing, bringing piles of it from outside the house to the inside to finish the dividing walls, and, of course, playing with Peter’s children (who love to “help” us throw the mud at the wall). At the end of today’s work, Andrew, our group leader, told us that they will always remember us for our work there, and that the group will be sad to continue working at Peter’s house without us. It’s strange to think that in a week from today, I will be moving into my Jerusalem apartment, unpacking the clothes and shoes and everything that I haven’t seen in weeks, everything I’ve been too busy to miss (although my socks are starting to become permanently brown, despite my attempts at washing them repeatedly). While I’m doing all this, Andrew and the Tikkun Olam group will return to Peter’s house, mix more mud and continue slinging at the walls until they are completely improved. Part of me, a big part of me, wishes I could be there; I wish I could stay and return to Peter’s house, to play with his children and throw mud at the holes in the interior walls, I wish I could stay in the village, with my students and Aimable and everyone who has made this place a home for me. I know that these are just wishes, that all good things must end, but I also know when I do say goodbye in less than week, it will be only temporary; I know I will come back to my home in the Rwandan hills.

After Tikkun Olam, I had a brief (and completely strange and disorganized) meeting to discuss the upcoming Talent Show we (Year Course volunteers) are trying to plan for the village. Well, whether or not it a) happens and b) is any sort of success remains to be seen. I will keep you all updated on this as the saga unfolds.

Tonight was, sadly, my final Family Time with my girls in Family 8. Hannah and I got to run the activities tonight, so we brought them candy (they LOVE sweets because they never get them, so they are a major treat), mango-flavored hard candies and chocolate-covered caramels. As they were unwrapping their dessert, I handed out bracelets I brought from Israel. They were red chamsa bracelets, I explained to them that in Judaism, we wear chamsas (the hand of God) for luck, to ward off evil spirits. They loved them, Momma Hillary included, and put them on immediately. After figuring out the clasps on their bracelets, the girls all passed around our journals, signing them and writing us notes, and made us cards from construction paper and crayons. When one girl, Cecille, handed her card to me, she said, “Elana, you know that you are in my heart. You are in my heart next to Jesus.” Having her tell me I am right next to Jesus in her heart is a big deal; all of the kids are very religious and despite the hardships and atrocities they have faced in their lives, their love for Jesus never falters. So, this was a bold statement.

We listened to some music (Michael Jackson and Beyonce, of course) and subsequently had an impromptu dance party. As the music played, I showed the girls (Cadette, in particular, who has been asking for photos of my family since I got here) pictures of me with my parents and of my family. They commented on how nice I looked (in the pictures, I’m wearing makeup and “real” clothes… this must have shocked them). We took a family photo (they had a great time with this, but Momma Hillary didn’t understand the whole flash thing), and after, Momma gave us a speech, in Kinyarwanda, of course, with translation by Francoise and Cadette, telling us how thankful they are for everything we have done, for everything we have taught them and most of all, for the love we have shared. She reminded us that God will bless us, that we should have a safe journey home, and that we must return to Rwanda. When she was finished, she gave me a huge hug and a kiss on my cheek, and I thanked her for everything she does and will continue to do for her girls, who have become my girls, too. The house mothers, Momma Hillary especially, are amazing women. They lost their families and their children in the genocide and now have a second chance at being mothers to children who really need them. Their strength and love and compassion are unending, and therefore, unbelievable.

The girls didn’t like seeing us walk down their stone path at the end of Family Time. They followed us outside, hugging us and begging us to stay. We promised to come back over the weekend when we have some spare time and they aren’t studying. Souvenir followed me, hanging onto me by my shoulders, saying, “You will always be in my heart. I will never forget you.” Hannah and I walked back to the guesthouse, cards and journals full of well-wishes in hand; behind us, the girls lined up on the walkway, waving and screaming our names. I’ll see them again before we leave, but knowing there won’t be another time we sit in a circle, drink tea and listen to Erica (the family counselor) translate for Momma, pray in Kinyarwanda, French, Hebrew and English all at once, answer questions about why I don’t believe in Jesus, make adorable cards, exchange email addresses, open candy and sing along to MJ, I want to cry with them, and all of a sudden, the promises I made all of them that it will be okay, that it’s no use to cry, seem empty. They don’t know it, but they have taught me just as much, if not more, than I have taught them. I have learned, laughed, cried and shared with them, as they have with me. I always asked my parents for a sister, and now, I have sixteen of them. I have sixteen beautiful, smart, brave Rwandan sisters, and they are in my heart just as I’m in theirs, but unlike them, I don’t hold them next to Jesus. They are on a level all by themselves.

Tomorrow is our volunteer “vacation” to Gisenyi, which is about an hour north of the gorillas. Gisenyi is on Lake Kivu, the only lake safe for Muzungus to swim. We are visiting the hot springs (by boat), soaking up some sun (hopefully) and enjoying some meals that do not involve rice or beans (hurrah!) We arrive back on Thursday night, so I will update all of you on the details of our adventure then (or perhaps Friday… it depends how tired I am).

As always, thank you for reading.

Lots of love,
Elana (the Muzungu sister with soft hair)

All the small things

2011-02-19T08:54:00.001-08:00

February 19, 2011

I've been learning to appreciate all the smallest things in life over the past weeks, and they are worth mentioning. Here are some small anecdotes and things that don’t necessitate individual posts, but I think they're important anyway:

1. Stinging Nettles. During the hike to the Umubano gorillas on Friday, one of the things about which we were warned was stinging nettles. Stinging nettles are plants that have small thorns on their stems. If you touch them (or in my case, one swings back and touches you because it was being held back until you crossed its path when naturally, it moves rapidly backward to hit your hand). Coming into contact with stinging nettles is very unpleasant; your skin feels like it’s getting bitten about a hundred times over in the same spot by the most persistent of mosquitoes. Eventually, the red dots and the pain subside, but nonetheless, it was the ONLY downside to the gorilla trek. It also just had to be mentioned.

2. Because I am an idiot, I woke up again at 5:30 this morning to participate in Muchaka Muchaka, the weekly Saturday morning run led by the village athletic coaches and the security guards. The kids run by families, and every family has a meeting point to join their assigned guard and the other families jogging in the same group. My family meets outside their house at 6 to start running a few minutes after. We were running with two other families (the other girls’ family that lives next door to my family and a boys’ family a few houses down). By 6:05, our guard was in the front of our group, chanting and singing in Kinyarwanda (all the kids sang along) to set the pace. One song had a clapping beat, which I was able to participate in, but other than that, I just had to run and try not to get run over. At one point, one of the girls in my house, Francoise, grabbed my hand and Souvenir, another girl in Family 8, grabbed my other hand, and we pulled each other along. After about twenty minutes of this, my whole body started to ache and I wanted to pass out (waking up before 6 AM two days in a row, one to hike up a mountain and the other to go on a run complete with African chanting and singing, was a bad idea). Muchaka Muchaka (which they scream over and over again, “Muchaka muchaka! Brrrrr ahh! Rrrah, rrrah! Muchaka, muchaka!”) was a great time with my girls and an awesome experience.

3. After running this morning (three of us went to Muchaka Muchaka, everyone else slept), we left for a hike to the rice paddies. The walk itself was gorgeous; we went through Rubona and down a huge hill into the rice paddies which are divided in half in a giant valley by a tree-lined dirt road. Unfortunately, my legs were in serious pain given my gorilla hiking and my morning run, but otherwise, it was a really nice walk. On our way back, a little girl was walking alongside me and holding my hand on one side, a jerry can on her other. She kept smiling up at me as we walked along the road back toward Rubona, passing small huts and lone goats tied to trees (this is how they are kept from running away). I kept thinking that things like this would never happen in America (or Israel), but in Rwanda, given its friendly and welcoming culture, having a little girl come up and take my hand isn’t out of the ordinary. We walked along for some time, and then I think she realized she had to fill her jerry can and was straying a bit too far from her necessary path, so she waved goodbye and went along her way. This moment stuck with me, for some reason, and I’ve been thinking about all the children in Rwanda, what their families are like, if they have them, where they come from, what their homes are like, if they go to school. Their childhoods are clearly so different than mine was, and I wonder all the time if they realize just how different we are, yet at the same time, in small ways, how similar.

4. On our way back from the rice paddies, we were very hungry, so we stopped at a samosa shop in Rubona (not the one we go to on Fridays. That one, like most shops and stands in Rubona, is only open on market days which are Tuesdays and Fridays). We literally bought the two guys working at the stand out of samosas; they had none left, no more potato mix and, as far as I could tell, no more paper-thin dough wrappers, to make any more. As a group we probably bought somewhere near 40 samosas. In the space of ten minutes. That’s probably not a normal day of business for these guys.

5. It’s not almost 7 PM, I’m exhausted, and I am considering attending church services tomorrow morning, if I’m awake. On Saturday nights, we all sit around and discuss which church service we want to see the next morning (Catholic, Protestant, etc.) This is especially hysterical because we’re all Jewish. Tomorrow, however, there is a soccer tournament happening in the village, so church may either be delayed or not happen since the teams are coming early in the morning so they can play before it gets too hot in the afternoon. I really wanted to attend services, so this would be a major disappointment (luckily, I can still go next week).

5b. One of my roommates just walked in and said, because she is British, "I have wind." I only just figured out what this means. I really think I should get some sleep.

That’s all for now from here. Weekends are very nice and relaxed in the village because there is no school or construction and we have time to catch up on much-needed sleep after a long week of work.

Thanks for reading, as always. Shavua tov (a good week) from the hills,

Elana

Gorilla Tracking

2011-02-18T21:35:00.000-08:00

February 17-18, 2011

Something I’ve learned from my time in Rwanda is that the best stories don’t necessarily have a definitive beginning or end, but rather, they go in a circle, they are continuous. So, that being said, I am going to start what will probably be my longest and most exciting blog post of the month at the end, and by the time it’s over, you’ll have the whole story, and you can decide how to read it:

We arrived back from the northern province to the village and lugged our backpacks (and new purchases) to our guesthouse, where we proceeded to collapse. It’s exhausting, waking up before the sun to track mountain gorillas, and despite fantastic meals and wonderful beds to sleep in, physical exhaustion can triumph, and we didn’t fight it. However, a little over an hour after returning, it was time for the weekly village activity. Every other Friday night, this means a dance party in the dining hall. Of course, I had to go, and a bunch of the other volunteers joined me, despite our inability to form sentences due to being so tired. We walked up to the dining hall and the music was playing, but no one was dancing. And these kids are great dancers. So, we clearly took it upon ourselves to liven things up and get the dance party started. I’m sure the kids had a laugh watching us dance around, but it did the trick; eventually, most of them joined us and we had an amazing time, laughing and dancing. I left early because I’m waking up tomorrow at 5:30 (again, for the second day in a row) to do Muchaka Muchaka! which is the weekly run around the village led by the security guards. On my walk back to the guesthouse, I found myself reflecting on all the unbelievable things that have happened to me in the past three weeks, especially in the last day and a half. Rwanda is so alive and its people have so much joy to share. As the music from the dining hall began to fade in the distance behind me, and the sounds of the frogs and birds who live across from our guesthouse began to overpower the boom of the speaker system, I began to think of how to best relay to all of you one of the most incredible and unforgettable experiences of my lifetime.

I’ve had some crazy adventures while in Rwanda, and in Israel, but none quite like the last 36 hours of my life. Rwanda’s most (and only, really) famous tourist attraction is its mountain gorillas, the only gorillas in the world still living in their natural habitat where humans can visit them. Our adventure began Thursday afternoon when Thousand Hills Expeditions (the travel company who plans trips to the gorilla park; there are only 50 gorilla tracking permits sold a day, so the company buys them in advance for groups like ours) came to the village to pick us up in Land Cruisers. These were very nice, cushioned and well-kept Land Cruisers (they had seatbelts. This is major for any vehicle in Rwanda; most don't) and I was quite excited to spend four hours sitting in one. We left the village after lunch time and drove north. Our driver, Hussein, was awesome. He told us he spent a few years in Israel, so his Hebrew and his English are excellent. Any time we had a question about what we were passing, or if we could possibly stop for bathroom break, Hussein was always able to answer our questions or pull over so we could stretch our legs, run to the bathroom or change money from dollars to francs. As we drove through the hills of Rwanda, children came running up to the car. They don’t usually ask for money (never in the isolated provinces, but in Kigali there are a lot of beggars, many of whom are children), but they just want to see us, to see the Muzungu. Rwandans love seeing Western people in their country. I’m not sure if it’s because of our skin or our language or simply where we come from, but we get a lot of “USA! We love USA” followed by a thumbs-up, or simply waving and screaming “Hello, teacher. Good morning teacher!” (all the kids call us “teacher,” probably because we are Muzungu).

We made a few stops (Nakumatt, naturally, for necessary snack items – I got a diet coke that the woman opened for me to put a straw in and it exploded all over her, me and the entire counter – and some scenic viewpoints to take photos) and passed coffee plantations, corn fields, rice paddies and sugarcane. Everywhere was green, rolling hills, land being farmed (anyone working in the fields either waved or came running to see us pass by in our trucks) and women walking on the sides of the road, babies tied to their backs and baskets balanced on their heads. Eventually, we reached the Gorilla Nest Lodge, where we were greeted with hand towels and ginger tea. The lodge itself was gorgeous; grass-thatched roofs, African art, sprawling landscapes and one of Rwanda’s few (if only) golf courses. We were handed dinner menus after checking in and placed our dinner orders (dinner was a four-course ordeal) and then the concierge asked us when we wanted our dinner. We said whenever it was ready, but they corrected us by asking when we wanted to have our dinner because whenever we wanted it, it would be ready. We decided on 7:30 and therefore had time to put our things in our guesthouses (each room was its own guesthouse, complete with a porch, flowers and plants and a view) and take much needed showers. It started to pour a little while before dinner, so several lodge employees delivered umbrellas to our rooms and told us that there was a surprise performance in the main house. We went to go check it out: a group of traditional African dancers was performing, along with drummers and singers, in the lobby! The staff had set up couches and giant armchairs for us to sit and watch the show. The performers were unbelievable, and at the end, they invited us to dance with them, and they even tried to teach us some steps! Once our dance debut ended, we were all sweating and laughing so hard it was difficult to breathe, and it was time for dinner.

We had a delicious meal and after a short while of hanging out in the main house, it was time for bed. The next morning at 5:30, our wakeup call came in the form of someone knocking on our door (they knock on your door to wake you up instead of calling your room) and saying “Good morning, this is your wake up call. Please get up. Thank you.” Easily the most polite wakeup call ever. We put on our tracking gear (jeans, sneakers, and long sleeve shirts) and headed to breakfast, which was also fantastic (I had coffee – real coffee – for the first time all month, and an omelet. So tasty). By 7 AM, we were back in the Land Cruisers, on our way to Volcanoes National Park in Kinigi. Volcanoes National Park is where the gorilla tracking offices are, so it was there that we met our guide, Oliver, and he told us about the family we would be tracking.

Since there were nine of us, we had to split into two groups (only eight trackers in a group, plus a guide, an armed guard and porters). There are fifteen gorilla families living in the mountains of northern Rwanda, so each group tracks a different family and hikes a different path. In my group, there were four Year Coursers (me and three other girls) and four tourists, all of whom came to Rwanda solely to see the gorillas. Our group, other than us, included a British couple, Ian and Annabelle, a woman named Caroline who is originally from Zimbabwe but now lives in London, and a man named Burkhard from Germany (he’s almost 70 and has been traveling through Africa for the past 3 months. Rwanda is his final destination before returning home). Oliver briefed us about our gorilla family. We tracked the Umubano family. In Kinyarwanda, Umubano means “friendship.” This family has an interesting history, which earned it its name:

Years ago, there was one chief silverback gorilla of the family, and when he died, there was an ongoing power struggle between the two male gorillas next in line to be the leader. They fought for some time and then split up, either realizing that the mountains are big enough for both of them or simply out of frustration. After some time, the two reconciled and they are now one family; the male gorillas share wife gorillas and they all live together with the babies. It is one big family that remains whole due to friendship, to umubano.

After meeting Oliver and learning about the Umubano family, we left tracking headquarters and drove to the mountains where we would begin our hike. This was a crazy drive; the road that leads from the main town (i.e. the two restaurants, one bar and a few homes and shops) to the mountain is not paved, not dirt, but rocks. Huge, bumpy rocks. This made for an adventurous drive, but Hussein, my main man, go us there without a scratch. At the starting point we met up with our group and our porters, who ended up saving my life several times on the hike up and down the mountain. First, we were given walking sticks (mine was about as big as I am) and we walked through daisy fields to the foot of the mountain. Daisies are grown in Rwanda and then dried in the sun because their dried centers are used as a natural insecticide. After weaving our way through the fields of flowers, we reached the foot of the mountain. I made the grave mistake of looking up: all I saw were trees, branches, and a straight incline to the top. Immediately, the porters took out machetes and used a walking stick to clear us a path and make foot stairs in the side of the mountain. The ascent was, to say the least, difficult, but it was short. The porters were jumping (literally jumping… on the side of a mountain) from the front of the group to the back, clearing our path, taking people by the elbows to lift them up and over obstacles like fallen trees and tangled braches. Half an hour later, after the porters had to hoist me up at least three times by my shoulders, we had reached our family. We had to leave most of our things (except cameras and video recorders) with the porters, at least 100 meters from the gorillas; they can’t be around any food or water we were carrying because they would probably smell my protein bar and want it (I would tell them it tastes like sand and not to bother, to stick to their grass and leaves, but chances are good they wouldn’t exactly listen).

We moved slowly and quietly into the trees, and all of a sudden, we heard a tree fall. In it was Mr. Charles, the head of the Umubano family and a silverback, who looks like he weighs about five hundred pounds, loves to eat his tall grasses, and, of course, fart. No, I am not joking, you have not laughed sufficiently until you are within two feet of a farting gorilla (please excuse the bathroom humor, but this is all very true). We tracked Mr. Charles for a while and then moved down the mountain to find a wife gorilla (a Mrs. Gorilla, as I started calling them) and two of the babies. One of them is only six months old, and crawled right in front of my feet! The babies were playing, hanging in the trees, running after one another. I wanted to take one home, they were so adorable, but a) we aren’t allowed to touch the gorillas (the oils on human hands are dangerous to them) and b) I wouldn’t exactly be able to bring him back through customs to Israel, and then to New Jersey, so logistically, it wouldn’t work.

Every group spends an hour with their gorilla family, and I think I took about two hundred pictures and several video clips; watching them in their natural habitat, going about their daily business of eating, playing, sleeping (and in Mr. Charles’ case, farting), was unbelievable. It is recommended to stay at least 7 meters away from the gorillas, but because our family was particularly friendly (hence Umubano) they came quite close to us, and a few times, the guards told us to move back. At one point, there was a baby hanging above my head and ended up breaking the branch on which he was hanging and fell about four feet from me. He then scurried down the mountain, looking for his playmate, and probably his mom, Mrs. Gorilla. They are so much like humans – they have opposable thumbs, which allows them to peel their tall grass (looks like celery) and eat it like string cheese, they communicate with one another (grunting, mostly, and the guards grunt back at them to either attract them or tell them to move further away), they stay in families with organized hierarchy, and many of their mannerisms and behaviors seem human. It was a surreal experience, getting so close to them, no fence or barrier like at a zoo, watching them live their daily lives, interact with one another, and at times, stop and stare at us.

The hike back down was very short because we were tracking the Umubano downhill, so we only had to hike a short ways to the bottom and back through the daisy fields. At the end, we said goodbye to our porters, bought t-shirts (very necessary) and received certificates of finishing our gorilla trek. After snapping a few final photos and thanking Oliver profusely, we piled back into our Land Cruiser with Hussein. Near the National Park offices, we had spotted a craft store, and since we finished our hike early, we asked Hussein if he could take us back there for a short while. He agreed, and so we drove back to the gorilla tracking base and across the parking lot is the artisan shop. Clearly, it is strategically placed; at least fifty tourists and their guides pass through every single day going gorilla tracking, so they always have customers. The store was beautiful, covered in colorful baskets, gorilla and elephant statues and art, African masks and fabrics. The best part, however, was in the back of the store. Behind the shop, the women who make the baskets were sitting and working, their children playing on their laps as they started and finished baskets and placemats. These women are quite famous in Rwanda, and around the world. After the genocide, Rwanda was 70% female, so women took on roles (previously dominated by men) of reviving the government and economy. A small group of women took up basket weaving and created a business; they now export their baskets to Macy’s in America and have an estimate yearly revenue of $1.5 million. Whenever a basket is sold via Macy’s, the Rwandan women make about $9 per basket (it’s sold for almost $50) and in Rwanda, each one costs about $6.50. Meeting these women and watching them work was incredible; I told them I had bought some of their work in America and now I’ve been living in Rwanda for a few weeks and I love what they do. Hussein was translating for me (none spoke French, only Kinyarwanda) and he also told them that we are volunteering in a children’s village in the eastern province. Upon hearing this, their faces lit up; they loved that we weren’t just in Rwanda to buy some baskets and visit the gorillas, but that we are living and working here (and we happened to go on vacation for a day). Having the opportunity to sit and talk to them, and take a few pictures, really made the day even more perfect.

After our short shopping trip, we went back to the lodge. On our way, we passed a Rwandan wedding party! The bride was in the middle of the procession, covered by a colorful umbrella and was, it looked to me, wearing a crown with beads on it. We tried to follow them, but it looked like they were heading to a nearby field for the ceremony, and they were moving a bit more slowly than our car. When we arrived back at the lodge, more towels and tea, and lunch menus, were waiting. Eventually, the second group returned, we took our final luxurious showers, packed our bags and headed to the main house for lunch, which was another three-course extravaganza. We said “Morakoze chane” (thank you very much) to all the hotel staff and packed into the Land Cruisers one last time. On our way back, we stopped at Nakumatt, of course, and arrived in the village before dinner time. Exhausted, sweaty and laden with our newest acquisitions, we made it back to the guesthouse where challah and guacamole (and the rest of our friends) were waiting for us to welcome Shabbat.

If you go back to the beginning of this post, I think you’ll find we’ve come full circle. Gorilla tracking was an incredible experience, one I know I will never forget. I’m learning that the world is a huge and sometimes crazy place, and there is no other place in it quite like Rwanda. Not just for its gorillas, which are amazing and awe-inspiring, but also for its people, like the group of ladies making baskets who have turned themselves into international businesswomen and the children who scream “We love USA!,” for its culture, as I witnessed in watching the wedding procession, for its warmth and kindness and genuine spirit. The gorillas are one more reminder, for me, that Rwanda is full of life and beauty and wonder, full of opportunities and experiences that can’t be found elsewhere.

Believe it or not, this post has taken me quite a while to finish. It’s now 7:30 on Saturday morning and I’ve been awake for two hours. I did Muchaka Muchaka (run run) with my village family and the security guards this morning at 6; the kids all chant, sing and scream in Kinyarwanda as we run, clapping along to the pace (I was able to do this… the singing, not so much) which makes the time pass. We run all through the village, up and down its hills, and finish at the dining hall for breakfast. I cut out before making it up the hill to the school and then back down to the dining hall because I took one look at the incline and my knees pretty much gave out. After hiking yesterday, and hiking again today (we leave for the rice paddies in an hour) my body needs somewhat of a break.

I’m going to go take a short rest and then get ready for the rice paddies – onto the next adventure!

Lots of love and umubano from Rwanda,
Elana

"It should be about love"

2011-02-18T12:19:00.000-08:00

February 17, 2010

For those of you who know, I spent the last day-plus gorilla tracking in the north of Rwanda, which was unbelievable, and that blog is coming. But before I post that, here is a short one about my morning on Thursday before we left for our gorilla adventure:

I work in the school on Thursdays, and I must say, they have been some of my favorite days in the village. My morning begins at 7:30 with IT class (luckily, they are still learning right click, left click, mouse and keyboard, so I can keep up) and then I teach French with Vincent. Well, Vincent was sick on Thursday (and no one told me this until the first ten minutes of class had gone by and I was the only person resembling a teacher in the room) so I took over French Class B. I gave the kids an option, since I am not exactly what you’d call a certified or credible professor of French, they could either learn some French with me for what was left of the class period, or they could use the time to study for their other classes. Shockingly, they chose to learn French with me. I asked them if Vincent had started Le Corbeau et le Renard with them, and I got several blank stares and many heads shaking “no.” So, I wrote the first two lines on the board and they began to recite them; the third and fourth lines followed, and we ended up getting through the first half of the poem. They all volunteered to recite it by themselves; they wanted to show me that in the space of half an hour, they knew the poem “par coeur” (by heart). At the end of the class, a few of the kids asked me for copies of the poem so they could learn the rest of it. I returned with the copies and every kid in the class (keep in mind, only 10 of them asked me for copies, and there are 32 in the class) lunged for a paper; I had to go make more. They all want to have the entire poem memorized so they can recite it for me next week.

I had a break in between French and English, and I was about to begin writing in my journal when Aimable approached me and said we had to go to the kitchen. This confused me, and the thought of hiking back down the hill from the school to the dining hall made my legs burn (because it also meant hiking back up). Aimable, however, seemed to have a plan (and was carrying two very large bowls, which he then handed to me) so I went with him down the hill to the dining hall. We went into the kitchen and Aimable told me he wanted to teach our class vocabulary words about food and utensils today, but instead of simply giving them lists of words, he wanted to make it more interactive and fun by having actual objects to show them. I’m all for props, so I thought this was a great idea. We collected (with the kitchen staff’s help) a bowl, pepper, onion, bread roll, a whisk, a ladle, rice, salt, knife and fork and other necessary items. The two larger bowls Aimable had handed me earlier were for the bread rolls the kitchen makes every day for the teachers; we filled one bowl with the rolls and used the second to cover them. Lucky me, I got to schlep the huge bowl full of bread, and its cover, back up the hill, while Aimable took the small bowl of our props (I didn’t complain; Aimable weighs as much as my right arm, so I wouldn’t expect him to carry the bread. He would probably tip over). As we were trekking back to the school, Aimable was telling me that he thinks teaching is about love: love for his job, love for his students, for volunteers like me who make his job and his day “a bit brighter.” He is clearly so passionate about what he does and about engaging his students; so passionate he is willing to walk all the way to the kitchen to pick up a few veggies and cooking supplies (with me, of course) just to make his class more interesting. He has inspired me so much during my time in the village. His passion and love for his students are contagious; he keeps asking me if I’m going to become a teacher (apparently he thinks I’d be good at it) and I tell him that no, I do not have the kind of patience he has, and therefore any more than a few hours a week (which is what I do now) and I couldn’t handle it. He, however, is truly an unbelievable teacher and person and has made me consider what it means to love what you do.

The kids loved learning their new vocabulary words; they tried to draw everything I picked up from the bowl. They had some issues saying “ladle” since the letter “l” isn’t easy for them, but they did a fantastic job. Aimable promised to make them all dinner after their university entrance exam (which is three years from now) because he is sure they will be “the very best students in all the exam. And then, I cook for you.” He is too much.

After English, it was time for me to pack my bag for gorilla tracking and head north to Kinigi, where the gorillas live. That blog coming ASAP!

More (very) soon,

Elana

Machete Madness

2011-02-16T08:43:00.000-08:00

February 16, 2011

From a moral standpoint, I think walking through the street holding a machete is a bad idea. In Rwanda, given its history, this is an especially bad idea. However, it is exactly what I did today. We reported to the work site at 7:30 this morning and by 8:15, Ciprier, the head construction worker, handed me and two of the other volunteers (there were five girls building today… imagine this picture) machetes the size of my arm. We waited as several of the porters (about twenty of them) gathered near us so we could head toward the gate. Ido, who is an Israeli long-term volunteer and is in charge of all construction projects in the village, told us we would be walking for about fifteen minutes down the road to a local forest where we would be chopping down trees. Just like that, huh? Wrong. First of all, we ended up walking for about an hour, uphill, to a forest that for the last twenty minutes of our trek I was almost positive did not exist. As we walked, children approached us in the street, screaming, surprise surprise, “Muzungu!” Normally, this wouldn’t bother me, but the fact that we were walking through their town carrying giant machetes made me feel more than a little uncomfortable. These were more than gardening tools at one time in Rwanda; they were weapons. They were, and still are, a symbol of destruction. And I was holding one as children no taller than my knees came up to me, clapping and waving and trying their best to stammer out, “Good morning!” Maybe it’s because they’re simply too young to understand that a machete was once more than a gardening tool, but them flocking to me as I held what I always considered a weapon, really bothered me. In present-day Rwanda, machetes being carried down a public road are usually wrapped in banana leaves to signify they are not weapons. Our banana leaves, however, were being used for other purposes (I will explain this soon) so we couldn’t use them to wrap around the blades of our machetes. Instead, we walked (well, hiked, really) up the road, machetes in hand, blades turned away, as children continued to point, scream and huddle around us.

Eventually, we reached the province line of Rubona (yes, we had walked out of the province where the village is located and into the neighboring one) and Ciprier instructed us to turn left. At this point, the forest proprietor (he owns all the land where the trees were that we were chopping down. Apparently, the deal is chop 17 trees, get the 18th free. That’s exactly what we ended up doing) indicated where we should start chopping. We followed Ciprier, machetes in hand, down the side of the cliff. No, I am not joking. Rwanda being the land of a thousand hills is not just to sell postcards; we are up at a very, very high altitude here, and we walked up more hills to get to the forest. Then, we literally tiptoed (I had visions of taking a nosedive off the side of the mountain. That would have been less than fun, I would guess) down the mountain to where large groupings of trees were. We watched the porters chop down the first one, hacking away at the bottom of the tree. Then, they pointed at the branches, and then at us. We were to cut the leaves and branches off the tree so it could be transported back to the village. I have never swung a knife the size of one of my own limbs in my life, but today, that changed. The workers showed us how to angle the machete to the tree in order to get the branches off in the fewest number of strikes. I must say, I got the hang of it eventually, and soon, the guys were asking me to help them carry trees up to the road. This would have worked if they hadn’t all been taller than me and weren’t balancing the trees on their heads. They tied up the banana leaves in knots to make cushions for between the tops of their heads and the trees; I didn’t have such an advantage, and as soon as they put the tree trunk on their heads, I was unable to reach, let alone balance it on my shoulder. So, I made a few attempts, but eventually they realized they should leave branch chopping to me and the tree carrying to them.

By about 10:15, we had chopped our eighteen trees (not forgetting our one free, obviously) and the porters started carrying the trees back, balancing them on their heads as we walked behind them (it was decided that we would be too slow to actually be useful). During the walk back to the village, Ciprier was explaining Rwandan primary school to me, in French. What he told me is that there is “avant-midi” and “après-midi” class; some kids go to school in the mornings, others in the afternoons. The schools are too overcrowded for all of the kids to be in school for a full day. When they aren’t in school, the kids are generally working on their families’ land or farm, or they are walking along the streets, pointing and screaming at passing Muzungu. Ciprier also told me that he lives in the valley into which we were looking while we were chopping wood; it takes him an hour and a half to walk to work every morning (he arrives at the village at 6:30 every day, so he leaves at 5) and he has three small children. Learning about Rwandan life from people who have been living here forever, raising their families and going to work, leading what I consider to be difficult lives, has been a huge part of my experience here. Most of what has changed me most is learning about Rwanda and its history from its people; there is something very genuine about talking to the kids and the workers, having them tell us about their lives and hardships, triumphs and dreams, which makes this experience even more important to me.

We returned to the village and went right to moving bricks and cement. This lasted for about an hour before I felt my arms turn to jelly; I was carrying a jerry can full of cement and I dropped it. I knew it was time to throw in the towel and go to lunch; I couldn’t feel my legs (or anything else).

After lunch (which was SPAGHETTI… Woohoo!!) I had yoga with Senior 4 girls. They would clearly rather talk to each other than stretch, which I was fine with given that I had no control over my limbs and only wanted to crawl into my bed. It’s now about 7 PM and my pillow (and my bottle of Aleve) is looking fantastic; I may have a can of tuna (and perhaps some crackers, if I’m feeling gastronomically adventurous) and then crash.

Lilah tov from Rwanda, too sore to continue typing,
Elana

Caution: Flying Mud

2011-02-15T11:48:00.000-08:00

February 15, 2011

Today was one of those days that doesn’t seem to end until it’s finally dark, you’re about to go to bed and you know nothing else (like mud being thrown at a wall) can get in the way of you and your pillow. My morning began at 8:00 at the work site, where I spent five hours schlepping bricks and cement and then more bricks, and of course, tons more cement, from the front of the warehouse-in-progress to the back, where the workers were all standing on wooden scaffolds (they made the scaffolding themselves out of spare lumber and nails, using machetes) and telling us to pile “more blocks” (they have issues saying “bricks”). Well, this was working fine (it’s entertaining for about the first twenty minutes, and then it gets tedious, and then the sun comes out fully and it’s hot and tedious, all at the same time), and I felt quite like Pelage’s secretary (this was an ongoing joke because clearly, I wasn’t typing anything or answering his phone and saying “Hold, please,” but instead, every time he said “Blocks!” and pointed, or “Cima!” I ran to go get more, lifting it up to him on the scaffold). However, about an hour and a half in, the scaffolding collapsed, with the workers on it, bricks, cement and all. We raced to move the bricks (some were still on the scaffold, which was now more like a lumber ramp) and clear the cement so the guys could recover from their tumble.

We took a short break while the scaffolding was repaired and then returned to our work, making piles of bricks, filling half-jerry cans (they cut the jerry cans in half a while ago to use them as cement transportation devices) with cement and carrying them (shoulders are best for this) around the back of the building. A little while later, I went up to the school because Aimable told me that the kids in English Class D would be performing short plays they prepared to practice their “communicative English.” Well, I hiked from the site to the school and, lo and behold, they had gotten caught up in an activity and the plays wouldn’t be happening for at least another hour. I knew I had to return to construction and I couldn’t exactly wait around in a class I wasn’t meant to be teaching, so I thanked him, apologized to the kids for not being able to stay, and began my descent back to the warehouse.

This afternoon, once construction ended, we taught the workers and farmers English for our weekly hour. We reviewed “head, shoulders, knees and toes,” which went significantly better than last week; instead of simply covering their faces with their hands during the “eyes, ears, mouth, nose” verse, they actually motioned to the correct body parts. We also taught directions (right, left, forward, back) during which we attempted to teach them the Hokey Pokey. This did not go well since, let’s be honest, it’s a ridiculous dance and they really didn’t get the whole “turn yourself around” thing. So, we stuck to directions and “Elana and Ilyssa Say” (once again, we couldn’t do “Simon Says” since the question would inevitably be asked “Who’s Simon and why isn’t he here?”) We also taught them “Can I please have,” which will come in handy when they want more bricks and cement (which is all the time at the work site) and will hopefully prevent them from pointing to what they want and saying “Cima” or “Blocks!” At the end, they all came around, shaking our hands and bowing slightly, saying "Thank you, teacher!" This made my day.

Needless to say, after all this I was completely exhausted. But, every Tuesday at 3 PM is Tikkun Olam, so despite my fatigue (and smelling like cement), we left for Peter’s house down the road from the village. Today, we actually started working on his house, mixing mud (we brought gardening tools from the village and a bunch of the guys used them to loosen a pit of dirt) by mixing dirt in Peter’s yard (well, dirt patch, really) with jerry cans full of water that we brought from ASYV. To mix it well, the guys threw their tools to the side and stood in the mud barefoot, grabbed each others’ shoulders, and jumped in circles (it highly resembled the Horah) until the dirt and water became mud. Then, they began handing us mud piles to bring into the house where people were on makeshift ladders, throwing the mud at the wooden wall frames to create rooms within Peter’s originally one-room hut. They let me give it a shot; take a huge pile of mud, remove a handful and throw with as much force as possible at the wall to fill any visible holes. Yes, there is photographic and video evidence of this. Where else (and when else) would I be throwing mud at a wall to improve a hut in rural Rwanda? One of the best moments was watching Peter’s kids carry as much mud as their little hands could (often balancing it under their chins) and then throw it at the wall (it generally ended up on the floor because they aren’t tall enough to reach parts of the actual wall). Their effort was unbelievable, and adorable.

Another thing to watch out for: flying mud. People on ladders (pieces of wood nailed together into a triangle with a few rungs) were throwing the mud at the cracks between the ceiling and the wall, and inevitably, not all of it would stick, so some fell… on my head. I returned back to the village covered in mud, my hair included. But, one of the biggest surprises of my day came during showering off my mud-covered self; the water got HOT. I haven’t had a hot (or even warm) shower since arriving in Rwanda; we were promised cold showers, when the water is even running. How this happened I have no idea, but it was certainly a high point. Not ten minutes later, however, the power went out in the guesthouse, and as we later found out, in the entire village with the exception of the dining hall. Luckily, the power came back eventually; Peter’s house has no electricity, so losing it for a while means having it in the first place. We are fortunate that this was only temporary.

It’s now almost 10 and I’m so tired I’m falling asleep while typing. My family time got canceled tonight because the girls were in the Science Learning Center for extra study time, so I will have to visit them another day (most are in my classes at school, so I get to see them anyway). Tomorrow we are chopping wood for the construction project – I’m going to learn how to cut down trees… with a machete.

Timber! from Rwanda,

Elana

Maître corbeau, sur un arbre perché, tenait en son bec un fromage…

2011-02-14T11:30:00.000-08:00

February 14, 2011

Hello everyone and happy Valentine’s Day from Africa! Today was yet another full day in the village. Beginning at 7:30, I taught Enrichment Year (equivalent to freshman year in America) math with Francoise for two hours. The class is still working on simplifying complex fractions with square root expressions in the denominator. Unlike last week, Brigitte volunteered to do problems in front of the class, without my help and without hesitation, and got them all right! I didn’t have to translate for her and she was completely confident in front of her peers and Francoise. On her way back to her seat, she came over to the front corner where I sit (so I can see the entire class if someone raises their hand if they need help) and high-fived me.

Next, in English, Aimable kept asking me how long I can stay in Rwanda. As I’ve explained to him several times, I have two more weeks here because we are only in the village for a month. He continues to ask, however, if I can stay longer. He told me, and I quote, “I will be feeling very sad when you leave. Please stay here forever? You are such a good teacher to my students.” I wanted to hug him but since we were in the middle of class and the kids were working on writing exercises that I was supposed to be walking around and correcting, I figured I should wait until another time. He really is an amazing person, and teacher. At the end of class, Aimable, being his usual friendly self, asked me what I thought of the museum in Murambi yesterday. I told him it was difficult to see, but important. His response has stayed with me throughout the day: "It makes you realize you're in Rwanda, doesn't it?" This made me think of what a crazy place this world can be, and made me aware, perhaps for the first time, of where I am and what I'm doing here.

In keeping with the theme of Valentine's Day, one of my students came up to me and asked me what I was doing to celebrate. They all know I have a boyfriend who lives in Israel; I’ve been asked this about thirty separate times by the same group of students. Instead of explaining to them that Israel doesn’t really celebrate Valentine’s Day, I assured them that I would talk to Roi and my Valentine’s Day would not be a total disappointment. However, this student wasn’t taking my answer and instead, he asked me flat out if he could celebrate Valentine’s Day with me. Well, as much as I wanted to say, “Absolutely not” and turn away in embarrassment, I explained to him that I have a boyfriend (yes, still, same as last time he asked) and that he should really celebrate Valentine’s Day with one of his friends in class; there are lots of smart, pretty girls in Enrichment Class D. I don’t know if he liked my response, but he gave me a hug regardless, wished me a happy Valentine’s Day and went along. Crisis averted.

French today was probably the highlight. Vincent is teaching them the very famous French poem by Jean de la Fontaine “Le Corbeau et le Renard” (The Crow and the Fox), which I memorized senior year in AP French and performed with puppets (I was really wishing I had my puppets with me… too bad they would have gotten crushed in my suitcase between my tuna cans and my sneakers). To illustrate the poem – it is very complex and employs very advanced structures – Vincent decided to act it out, crouching down and wagging his hand behind his back to be the fox and then switching to (attempting to) balance on one foot and flap his arms to be the crow. Well, Vincent is not exactly a young man, so balancing on one leg and flapping his arms to be a bird is not the best idea. This was made clear when he fell into the blackboard and nearly took a tumble; luckily, the wall and his arm in mid-flap caught him. He whispered to me, in French, “I am too old for this.” He’s not wrong; clearly, his acting days have come to an end. He told the class that their assignment for the next week is to memorize the poem. At this, they all groaned and began getting rather unruly, which is unusual for them. To show them that it’s not an impossible feat, memorizing this poem, I recited it for them (I’m still surprised I remembered it; I haven’t exactly been practicing the past few months) and they kept asking me how long it took to memorize, is it difficult, etc. I told them that anyone who wants help can come find me after school the next few days and I will work with them on their memorization. I reassured them that they are all very smart, hard-working students and they can certainly do it.

This afternoon was cooking and kitchen class with Momma Florida (Flor-eeda). This week, we made omelettes and home fries; the kids were shocked that a Muzungu could a) chop vegetables and b) actually cook. I showed them that I’m not totally incompetent and I got a round of applause after finishing the potatoes. Usually, we cook outside on the coals, but about twenty minutes into class, the skies turned black and a thunder and lightning storm ruined our al-fresco cooking setup, so we had to move “indoors.” Indoors means under a covered mud shed where there is one light that flickers on and off and beans are all over the floor (it’s where the kitchen staff sifts through beans for lunch and dinner). Cramming twenty people, plus Momma Florida, into this little shed was interesting, but fun. Toward the end of class (which always runs at least half an hour late), Momma Florida, who has only ever spoken French to me, asked me in English, “Where is your camera?” She remembered me taking pictures last week during our meatball class and wanted me to take some of our omelettes. Well, as soon as my camera was out of its case, the kids were all smiling, wanting me to take their picture with our food. It turned into quite the photo shoot. After dividing up and devouring our creations, we helped clean up (despite Momma Florida urging us to put the pots down) and literally ran back to the guesthouse in the pouring rain. Every time lightning strikes here, because we are so high up in the mountains, the entire village lights up. This was scary but convenient for finding where we were walking; none of the paths are well-lit, so walking at night, especially without a flashlight, becomes somewhat dangerous. We booked it from the dining hall to our side of the village (the two buildings couldn’t be further apart, naturally), and I am now recovering from being soaked through my clothes.

In other news, I did my laundry for the first time today. By hand. I have a whole new appreciation for washing machines and dryers. I scrubbed two articles of clothing together, as if I were trying to build a fire (I must have looked ridiculous), just to get them some semblance of clean. Luckily, I saw the lightning and heard the thunder before it reached the side of the village where the guesthouse is located, so I called people still in the guesthouse while I was in the kitchen, asking them to clear my newly cleaned clothes off the lines. Thank goodness for MTN cell phones (sometimes, when they work) and buckets for my clothes. I think I’m going to hang them in my room to dry, and perhaps to redecorate the place, if only temporarily.

Off to our nightly meeting now, and then tomorrow I’m back to schlepping bricks and cement at the work site!

Lots of hugs and kisses from Rwanda,
Elana

Butare and Murambi (and then there was pizza)

2011-02-13T12:59:00.000-08:00

February 13, 2011

Driving in Rwanda is more than somewhat of an adventure. People carry on about Israeli drivers, Boston drivers, New York taxi cab drivers, but really, you haven’t lived (or taken your life in your hands) until you’ve been on a “bus” in Rwanda. First of all, this bus was more like a metal rickshaw with wheels (hubcaps optional) and an engine that sometimes works. But, our driver, Bosco, was very safe and has clearly been driving through the hills of Rwanda for quite a while. After being on the aforementioned bus for more than seven hours today, knees in my nose in the middle of the back seat, Bosco’s defensive driving, and thus arriving back in the village in one piece, was fantastic.

We left this morning around 7:30 to Butare, which is in the southern province of Rwanda. Butare is home to a fantastic craft shop, hotel, two banks and a Rwandan buffet restaurant (yes, we went there for lunch. More on that soon). After driving for over three hours, we stopped at the handicrafts store to buy everything from beads to statues of women carrying baskets on their heads to hand-woven trays and bowls made by Rwandan women (after the genocide, 70% of Rwanda’s population was female, so women took it upon themselves to rehabilitate the country’s economy. Crafts like basket weaving and bracelet making were their methods of choice). The men running the shop were very happy to see fifteen Muzungu shoppers; we were happy to see them too until we realized they had to write up all of our receipts by hand (this took half an hour) and they had no shopping bags large enough for the baskets we all bought. This got interesting once we had to pile back in the bus (van, really) with our purchases on our laps. Once we finished at the craft store we walked down the street (maybe four storefronts) to the Rwandan buffet lunch. What’s funny about this is that it’s nothing like, say, a Las Vegas buffet, where patrons are urged to eat until they can no longer breathe. In Rwanda, everyone is allowed one plate of food (one piece of meat per person. Yes, they pay attention) and it ends there. So really, it’s eat whatever you can fit on your plate and then be done. This ended up being more than enough food (we all felt sick) and I even tried rabbit meat – it tasted like chicken, in all honesty. Very tasty.

Once we all had the strength to stand up after eating way too much, we wandered to the supermarket to refresh some necessary grocery items for the guesthouse stockpile (crackers, peanut butter, etc.) One of the highlights of the day came after lunch. We drove to one of the lone ice cream shops in Rwanda. Called “Munzozi Nziza” in Kinyarwanda, or “Sweet Dreams,” the shop was started by a women’s cooperative in Butare. These women are an all-female drumming and traditional dance group and they decided to take on a unique project to better their lives and that of their community; as their information sheet says in the shop, to remind the people of Butare how sweet life’s possibilities can be. Since Butare is next to Rwanda’s national university, and therefore hosts many visitors (i.e. Muzungu), they get a lot of business (today was the first day I saw other Westerners in Rwanda). I highly doubt that soft serve chocolate has ever tasted so good. Eventually, we crammed back into the van, Rwandan crafts and groceries in all, and drove to Murambi.

Before the genocide, Murambi was a technical school. In April 1994, the community surrounding the school took refuge there; the mayor of the town encouraged people to flee to the school for safety. The school was, in theory, being guarded by French troops, but in reality, the French were aiding the genocidaires (this only became apparent later). By late April, the Rwandan government and the genocidaires attacked the school, killing over 50,000 of the 55,000 people hiding there. They dug mass graves and left their victims to die. To cover up the graves, the French soldiers built volleyball and basketball courts right over where the people had been buried so no one would ever suspect. Years later, the initial mass grave was unearthed and now, a memorial and museum exists to honor those who died in Murambi.

Unlike the Kigali museum, Murambi is not pictures and videos and beautiful rooms. The technical school has itself been converted into the museum; each of the 24 classrooms of the school now has bodies of those who died there. Before you even see the bodies, you smell them; the entire building reeks of chemicals used to preserve the remains and the inescapable reminder of bones and flesh. Bodies lie on white wooden tables; some are full skeletons, others just heads and small remnants. The worst rooms were those with bodies of children, the smell getting increasingly strong and the wish that it’s all just fake, that nothing you see is real, continues to lurk in the back of your mind. Yet, I knew that everything I saw was in fact a reality, that every bone and every body lying on those tables had a story and a family and a life at one time. It was impossible to take pictures. Not only because I felt disrespectful, but because only seeing it in front of you can make it real. The rooms, the smell, the cold, hard walls and floors; it’s something you don’t believe can or should exist until it’s in front of you.

In order to get back to the main building, we had to walk through a room where the victims’’ clothes and personal affects had been collected. The genocidaires stripped the dead of their clothing and belongings and piled them up separately. After the genocide, survivors came to look for signs of their family and friends by searching through these items. Bosco, who was a member of the RPF and spent a considerable amount of time in Uganda, returned to Murambi to look for his family. He said he was in that room, searching through clothes and shoes. I can’t imagine having to do that.

One of the most difficult parts of the museum for me was during the walk back to the main building, on a gravel path, the grass unkempt and the wind unforgiving, I saw a group of children playing in the field not even twenty yards away. Should they come running toward us, they would see the rooms full of bodies, the mass graves and everything to remind them of their country’s troubled past. They couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, not quite old enough to either know about or understand the genocide, yet they live and play right next to its evidence. Like all other children we see, they pointed and waved, screaming “Muzungu!” Whether or not they realized why we were there and what we were seeing, I don’t know, but their presence reminded me of the strength and rebirth of the Rwandan people. Not once have I seen a Rwandan cry. Bosco didn’t flinch while walking through the memorial; I was very uncomfortable and even more unsure of how to react. How could I become emotional while he stayed so calm? I was so in shock of what I was seeing that I was numb; I couldn’t cry or even speak. Maybe this is how they feel too? Is this how they cope? I don’t think I could ever ask, because I’m not sure how they do it, let alone explain it.

After a short memorial service near the newly built mass graves (to honor the dead; their actual bodies are in the classrooms of the school), we drove to Kigali for dinner. However, before arriving at the restaurant, we made a surprise stop at the Hotel des Milles Collines (Hotel of the Thousand Hills. Rwanda is known as the Land of a Thousand Hills). If you’ve seen the movie Hotel Rwanda (you all should) starring Don Cheadle as hotel manager Paul Rusesabagina, the Milles Collines saved thousands of Tutsi lives during the genocide. Situated right outside Kigali, Rusesabagina used his position as hotel manager, and Hutu, to save his friends, neighbors and strangers by hiding them as hotel guests and workers. He was an ordinary man with no real means or even a plan, but he did what he could. This historic site in Rwanda still functions as a hotel (a beautiful one at that), but seeing its famous sign and pulling into the driveway made me think of all the wonderful and inspiring people who risked their own lives to save others during the genocide. After seeing a place like Murambi, the Milles Collines was a stark contrast; a place of hope, of humanity, of selflessness. While French soldiers played volleyball, allowed the genocidaires to kill innocent people and then flee, the staff of the Milles Collines, armed with nothing but a safe full of francs and a bar full of beer, kept the genocidaires at bay, saving as many as they could. Seeing this difference, all in the space of a few hours, was unreal. To learn more about the movie Hotel Rwanda and Paul Rusesabagina, follow the link: http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2004/12/1209_041209_hotel_rwanda.html.

The final portion of our day, involved, you guessed it, more food. We went to an Italian restaurant in Kigali called Sol e Luna, which was actually incredibly good. We ate a ton of pizza (and brought some home, of course). My only complaint is that we were charged for take away boxes for our pizza, like we are often charged for brown bags at the market. It was either pay the 500 francs (85 cents) or carry our pizza back in our new handcrafted baskets (or put it in our pockets), so really, it was a worthwhile investment, I think. By the time dinner was over, the skies had opened and it was pouring, so the drive back to the village, through Rwanda’s thousand hills and onto the dirt paths leading to ASYV’s front gates, was quite interesting, to say the least. But once again, Bosco saved the day and got us right back to the guesthouse where we started fourteen hours ago. It’s almost 11 PM now and I need to be up for my 7:30 math class tomorrow, so I will leave you with this thought:

Today was a day of remembrance. Remembrance means never forgetting. It means we face atrocities and never allow them to repeat. It means we stand up together and make a difference. It means we ask and answer some of the hardest questions posed to us, but we know by doing so, we are stronger and more moral people. Remembering is our way to honor those who are gone and to prevent others from facing the same fate. We remember because we should, because we must, because we are human. Never again means never forgetting, and never forgetting forces us to remember. Remember and honor those who perished in Rwanda, and in all genocides that have plagued this world, and if we all swear to never forget, we can achieve never again.

From the land of the “milles collines,”

Elana

If my life were a movie... there would be mangos in it

2011-02-12T01:47:00.000-08:00

February 11, 2011

Today was one of those days that should have had a movie director come in every few hours and announce “scene,” slam the clapperboard (the thing that is used to announce “cut” in between scenes of a movie in production… yes, I looked this up) and then frantically run away again. It was hectic, long, tiring, emotional and wonderful, all at once. I think Ebert and Roeper would have given the day excellent reviews.

First, I began at the school at 7:30 for a double chemistry class. Apparently, none of them had done their homework assignment (which is strange for these students; they are so diligent about their work) and their teacher, Eugene, was not happy (obliviously). So, he gave them the first part of the class to complete the assignment, and he told me if they had any questions I could answer them. Well, as it turns out, these kids didn’t do their homework not because they were feeling rebellious, or even forgetful, but because they simply had no idea what to do. I put the question on the board so maybe the entire class could do it together, but they just stared at me, faces blank, waiting for some guidance. They had never learned the topics the homework covered, so of course they couldn’t do it. I explained this to Eugene, so he tried quickly summarizing isotopes, atomic mass and average mass, and, shock of all shocks, every student in the room remained unsure of how to approach this new material. At this point, Eugene asked me if I could explain. Well, I took the chalk and drew an atom. They all could tell me about its protons and neutrons, where the electrons were and how the number of protons and electrons is the same to create a charge of zero on the atom. Then I asked what isotopes were; they were able to explain it somewhat, so I went over the definition I knew (that isotopes are a form of a given element that has more neutrons, but the actual element remains the same because its proton amount does not change). Since they could also tell me that neutrons have considerable mass in an atom, they knew that isotopes have different atomic masses than the initial element due to these additional neutrons. So, this was a considerable start. Then, we approached the problems again: given three isotopes of magnesium, each with a different percent abundance in nature, what is the average atomic mass of magnesium’s isotopes? Once they (with some help) figured out the math and how to take an average of atomic mass given isotope abundance, they got the answer and were ecstatic (both to have figured it out and to finally be finished with the problem, I think).

Chemistry ended around 9:15, and by 10:45, we were all waiting at the front gate of the village to walk to Rubona. Rubona is the very small town just outside ASYV (about a 20 minute walk, 30 if you’re carrying avocados, mangos and yards of African fabrics on your back, but we’ll get to that later). Every Tuesday and Friday, Rubona has (like Nahalat Benyamin in Tel Aviv, only their sole similarity is the timing of the markets. It ends there) On the way there, we passed a seemingly endless line of mud huts, in front of each one, children were screaming and pointing “Muzungu!” and then, on cue, the rest of the house (and the street) would come rushing out to see the parade of white people coming down the road. I really did feel like a circus animal, everyone watching me, clapping and yelling. The Rubona primary school was perhaps the most excited to see us. Children in their school uniforms – blue dresses for the girls and khaki shorts and shirts for the boys, all tattered and full of holes – came running out to the street, screaming “Hello, good morning!” “Muzungu! Muzungu!” When we finally made it to Rubona, every vendor turned their heads and stared at us. We started looking at some fabrics and the woman quickly typed into her cell phone “7000” which meant she wanted 7000 francs for it. We had been warned about Muzungu prices; we were going to be way overcharged for everything. I attempted to bargain with her but she would only settle on 5000. I told her no way, and we kept walking. I found some mangos for 100 francs (6 for 100 is her token deal. This is about 17 cents) and then a bowl full (that’s how they measure) of about 10-12 small tomatoes for the same. Avocados, since they are larger, are three for 100 francs, and I got some of those, too. The market sells incredible fruits and veggies, most notably, pineapple. I wasn’t brave enough to buy one and carry it home in my backpack, but we saw the vendors hacking them into pieces with knives and machetes, preparing them to be sold (it’s about 150 RWF, or 25 cents, for a whole pineapple). Other highlights include women selling salt by the handful (seriously... no containers) using old cans to scoop the grains from their cardboard, makeshift tables into a customer's hands. Also, the line of sewing machines where women sit for hours, having customers bring them fabric so they can make the yardage into clothes while everyone watches.

My favorite part of the market, in addition to bargaining for fabric (I ended up with two huge pieces, each must be a few yards, in different patterns, for 6000 francs total) was buying vegetable samosas and goat skewers (called brochettes). First of all, everywhere we went, we had a group of children (and some adults) following us, eyeing us. One of my friends, Rachel, whispered to me, “I’ve never felt so interesting in my life.” She was right, too; never before had anyone made such a spectacle of me. We walked to the back of the market, past the stands (which are pieces of wood nailed together), beyond the rows of sewing machines where women receive fabrics from market goers and make them into shirts, dresses and head wraps while customers wait (I wanted to see if they would make me something, but I highly doubt they take Muzungu measurements) and through the maze of carpets laid out on the dirt, full of piles of beans and nuts. In a little alleyway between the “barbershop” and (yet another) MTN (Rwanda’s cell phone company) store, there is a group of three guys who make spicy vegetable samosas. It’s literally a shack, covered by a piece of metal, and the alley, at its widest point, fits two people standing side by side. Well, we were lined up, waiting for our samosas, when on the opposite side came an entire group of children, and their parents, watching the Muzungus order potato and hot pepper treats. They stared at us and we were friendly until the language barrier became too complicated, so we started watching the guys making our snack. One has a bowl full of peeled potatoes that he mixes and simultaneously chops smaller with a huge knife, the other chops these tiny yellow peppers that are so spicy my eyes started to water, and a third makes the samosas, dropping them in the oil and then serving them to us in pieces of newspaper (yes, really, recycled newspaper). It's 2 samosas for 100 francs, and let me tell you, it was an incredible deal.

We traipsed back through the market, past the pineapple stands and to the street (well, dirt road, but it’s considered a street by Rubona standards). We crossed and went into Rubona’s lone bar, which has a refrigerator (this is a major attraction in Rwanda) and makes the most delicious brochettes (goat skewers). I don’t know if I was simply desperate for meat (something seriously lacking in my recently adopted diet) or if it was actually that good (probably both) but goat skewers and Coke (in a bottle, of course, that you have to return before leaving) has become the lunch of champions. The bar is next to the fabric stores (they aren’t stands, but actual shops) where I asked for a brown bag (plastic shopping bags are illegal in Rwanda) for my fruit and veggies, since they were floating around in my backpack and I was expecting an avocado explosion disaster before returning to the village. They were nice enough to give me one (none of the stands have bags for what you buy… you carry it on your head in a basket, of course), free of charge, I repacked my bag and we started heading back toward the village.

On our way back, we passed a very small mud hut (small in comparison to the ones around it, which is saying something) that had a very strange, handwritten sign above the door. We stopped and Ariella, who is the ASYV volunteer in charge of our group, told us that this where the volunteers buy wine for Shabbat. So, we had to get some. As it turns out, the hut is a very small store run by Rwandan nuns who make their own wine. The wine comes in plastic bottles with a small gold cap, labeled entirely in French and Kinyarwanda. We tried some later on at Kiddush, and it was actually pretty good (if you like pineapple and passion fruit flavored red wine).

We arrived back in the village, exhausted from schlepping back our purchases and very full from our goat and samosa intake, dropped off our things in the guesthouse and then ran up the hill to the school to meet Wilton, the school principal. Wilton told us his story of survival during the genocide. I recorded what he said so I have his exact words, but here is what I remember offhand:

Long before the genocide, Rwanda was taken over by Belgium. Belgian rule produced the identity cards that labeled people “Hutu” and “Tutsi;” Tutsis were considered wealthier, taller and less “African” looking while the Hutus were the middle class, shorter and darker. For a long time, Tutsis were in power, which angered the Hutu majority, but eventually, the tables turned and the Hutus gained power over their Tutsi counterparts. In the years leading up to the genocide, divisions between Hutus and Tutsis became even clearer and violence was on the rise. Wilton’s father was beaten to death in these years, as Wilton watched. His father had two wives, so Wilton was one of eighteen brothers and sisters. When he knew things in Rwanda were getting bad, and his identity card said Tutsi, he joined the RPF, the Rwandan Patriotic Front, and fled to Uganda (via the Congo, Burundi and Tanzania). He was 19 years old. When he finally returned to Rwanda, he found his home and his family in ruins. His mother, sisters and brothers were proclaimed dead and he was urged not to look for them. He sat in the house where he grew up, gun in hand, ready to end his own life, when he saw a snake in the room. He picked up his gun and shot the snake, using his last bullet and jamming the trigger. Instead of killing himself, he had killed the snake. The shot rang out and police came, taking Wilton to jail. After a short time in Rwandan prison, Wilton found two of his sisters. They all now live in Rwanda.

Today, Wilton told us, his wife, who was brutally beaten and now lives with permanent pain, and he himself, will never forgive the genocidaires (those who perpetrated the genocide). If he sees one in the street, he said (as he did during a visit to Uganda), he will follow them, tell the police and try to have them arrested. The problem, he told us, is that there are so many. So many criminals who have never been and may never be brought to justice. Wilton said he never had time to cry, to mourn his loss and properly recover. He simply picked up and carried on, knowing that such a huge part of his life was lost forever. Now still, he says, he doesn’t believe crying will fix anything for him. He now has two sons and works at the village school, helping children, who, like him, grew up with nothing and now face the aftermath of a horrible tragedy. Wilton’s strength, grace and humility, not to mention his knowledge, are incredible. He, like all other survivors, is truly one of the unsung heroes of Rwanda.

Luckily, both because I was exhausted and an emotional mess, it was time for Shabbat. Shower, retrieve challahs from the kitchen, small Kiddush with our new Rwandan nun wine. It was, thankfully, a calm and relaxing denouement to a crazy day. Life is never dull here, whether I’m running around the Rubona market, teaching atomic mass, figuring out the least-messy way to eat a goat skewer, bargaining for African print fabrics, or sitting and listening to an amazing story of survival and renewal, I am always busy, always learning something new, always finding new ways to appreciate the smallest things in my life.

Thank you for reading. Lots of love, mangos (they were delicious, by the way) and a big Shabbat Shalom from Rwanda,

Elana

Phir Corrins? Well, it's PhiL CoLLins

2011-02-10T09:12:00.000-08:00

February 10, 2011

Thursdays are probably my favorite days in the Village. While it was certainly nice to be out and exploring yesterday, I loved going to the school today and seeing all my students. First, I had English with Aimable, who, as per usual, was skipping, dancing around, screaming “God bless you! Jesus loves you!” every time someone raised their hand with the right answer. After working on pronunciation (he told them he wants all of them to sound like Errana – that would be me – when they “speak the Engrish!”) he instructed me to teach a song. Now, he had asked me this about ten minutes before and I was at a loss. It had to be school-appropriate, easy enough to write out on the blackboard, and have a beat they could follow. I had left my iPod on shuffle last night before falling asleep and apparently I had conked out to “Strangers Like Me” by Phil Collins (yes, I have the Tarzan soundtrack). The chorus is easy enough to master and it’s not too fast, so I wrote it out on the board and they followed my very out of tune singing. However, they loved it. They wrote down all the lyrics I had on the board and asked to learn the rest of the song. The only major problem? They really couldn’t say “Phil Collins” – I think his name has too many l’s in it (since there is no “l” sound in Kinyarwanda this is a big pronunciation problem for them in English).

After English was French with Vincent (who came right on time today – I was shocked!) The kids are working on past and compound tenses, so he handed out a story for them to read and fill in the missing verbs in past tense. Most of them were very stuck when it came to choosing between auxiliary verbs “être” and “avoir.” I gave them the same mnemonic list my high school teachers had us memorize, DR. and MRS. VANDERTRAMP. Each letter stands for a different verb conjugated irregularly in the past with “être;” all others take “avoir.” This made things easier, and then I taught them the French accent “dance” to remember the five accents (aigu, grave, circumflex, trema, cedilla) used in French writing. They all got up and did it with me, and repeated the song all the way from class to the lunch room, complete with the hand motions; Vincent gave me a hug for teaching them this (I had never even seen him smile before today).

At lunch, I was, as always, pulled in twenty different directions, “Sit next to me!” “No sit with me!” I finally found Cadette and sat with her. She remembered to ask me for a photo of my family; I promised her that before I leave I will show her a picture. She’s clearly set on it and doesn’t plan on letting me forget. We were warned by village staff at the beginning of our trip that making promises to these kids are true commitments; they have suffered abandonment and empty dreams their entire lives, so when we say we will be somewhere or do something, we have to be there or do it.

Well, as promised, I went to the mango tree (the center of the village, under which Anne Heyman purchased the land for the village from 96 previous owners in 2007. All roads in the village lead to or from the mango tree) to tutor Brigitte in math. This turned into math translated into French, and then English, also translated into French. Brigitte’s English is quite weak; she’s new to the village and clearly only began learning English when she arrived here. Her French, however, is excellent, so we did complex fractions and decimals in French, followed by translating her English reading (which happened to be Michael Jackson's biography... how do I explain his court appearances?) into French. We made vocabulary lists (in French and English) and decided to meet again next week to work on her written English. Brigitte’s work ethic and persistence are amazing; she really wants to learn and to succeed, and to become a teacher. Before leaving to go back to her house (the sun was setting and it was getting too dark to study) she gave me a huge hug and said, “Thank you for helping to improve my English. You are so nice and I love you!” I almost melted.

It’s a little after 7 PM now and I’m about to indulge in a can of tuna and some crackers for dinner. Tomorrow I teach chemistry in the morning and then we are walking to Rubona, the town just outside the village, to visit the open air fruit and vegetable market, find some goat skewers and perhaps buy some printed fabric to make headbands. More soon!

Love and thanks for reading,
Elana

Akagera

2011-02-09T08:57:00.000-08:00

February 9, 2011

African sunrises are beautiful, but not at 5:30 AM. I don’t find very much beautiful at that hour. But, that’s when I woke up today, and by 6:15, our three Land Cruisers arrived to bring us to Akagera, Rwanda’s national park and safari. The ride there was scenic… and quite bumpy. Rwandans are early risers, so by this hour, many people were walking toward village centers, baskets on their heads, children carrying bags of rice and jerry cans of water on their shoulders (they looked no more than three or four years old), people on bicycles (there is no such thing as a one-person bike in Rwanda. Most are at least two per bicycle, some cram three), walking their bicycles full of goods. No matter how heavy or how tired they were, everyone stopped when our trucks passed, screaming and waving and pointing (of course, a chorus of “Muzungu!” was quick to follow). I could only imagine what they were thinking, watching three SUVs full of white women (with the exception of Matt, the one boy on our trip), wearing bandanas and sneakers, kick up dust and disrupt their day. Once I again, I looked down at my North Face backpack by my feet and at my full water bottle, realizing how lucky I am to be in Rwanda, to have this experience, to have water to drink and snacks in my bag. It may have been too early for me to feel like being awake, but there is no specific time of day to feel thankful. That, I think, should be all day, every day.

By 8:00 we arrived at Akagera. My stomach had been sufficiently bounced around (luckily breakfast was half a protein bar so it was digesting like glue anyway) and I needed a little rest before more off-roading (this madness made our Jeep tours in Israel look very tame). However, no such luck. We piled into the Land Cruisers once again and began the safari – first, the giraffe area. Akagera was once about 2,500 square kilometers, more than double it is now. During the genocide, many of the animals were killed and the reservation was cut more than in half; some land was given to local farmers and other parts were never given any attention. However, it is still beautiful. We saw giraffes, zebras, an elephant, monkeys, hippos and a crocodile; this was a reminder of how alive Rwanda is. Despite facing complete destruction and turmoil less than seventeen years ago, the country and its people are recovering. All over the reservation were signs for “land rehabilitation,” new building and planting projects that will refurbish Akagera. Our guide, Daio (day-yo), explained Akagera’s history to us, and thought our screaming when we hit huge bumps, scraping the bottom of the truck, was hysterical. We also had more than a minor encounter with the tsisi (with a tzadik) flies. They completely took over our car, and we resorted to using Brinley’s flip-flops as fly swatters. Eventually, we defeated them, but it took quite a bit of effort.

The animals were unbelievable and our driver, Suadey (swa-day), was awesome. He made sure we were the first car (also because our guide Daio was riding with us) so everyone else got stuck in our dust (hehe). On the way back to the village we stopped at a gas station/ convenience store to pick up some groceries, and lo and behold, we found Coke. Refrigerated Coke. I’m pretty sure we bought the woman out of cans and bottles of Coca Cola (bottles can’t be taken out of stores in Rwanda because they are recycled and used again). I don’t EVER drink regular Coke, but it was awesome – cold, refreshing and completely necessary. I also tried a Rwandan samosa, which was likely goat meat and veggies (it was certainly meat, I’m just not totally sure from what animal) in spicy dough cooked in oil. It was delicious. Snack of champions after a day safari-ing.

So, I’ve been up for over thirteen hours and it’s not even 7 PM. Yet, I once again find myself in awe of Rwanda. It is a very beautiful country and its people are incredible. Most live in poverty so awful that I cannot even describe; it is something you have to see, but the children run happily in the streets, waving and clapping and so excited to see us. People find such happiness and beauty in their lives, in places like Akagera that are proof of life and health and peace here. I try not to wonder, but when I see people like Suadey and Daio, I can’t help but think where they were sixteen years ago, how they survived and how they recaptured their lives. I know that they don’t think like this, that they focus on their present lives and moving forward, and I know I should do the same. It’s difficult to imagine these people in a time so chaotic and dangerous; to look at them and their country now, you wouldn’t guess that such a disaster had taken place, only that they are striving to make their country better, stronger, healthier and safer. Sometimes I have to stop and appreciate where I am, what I’m doing and just how incredible this opportunity is. I know I don’t say it enough, but thank you to everyone who encouraged me (and allowed me) to make this journey. It’s changing my life one animal, one child screaming “Muzungu” with their nose pressed against the Land Cruiser, one family time, one pineapple and one eye-opening moment at a time.

Thanks (Marakoze, in Kinyarwanda), love and peace from Rwanda,
Elana

"We like Muzungu! We like teacher!"

2011-02-08T12:46:00.000-08:00

February 8, 2011

I am completely exhausted. At 8 AM today, I began working at our construction site. The warehouse looks awesome – we are up to putting in windows already! It’s only been a week and we have made great progress. Today I worked with Pelage (pay-laj), who is 23 and lives in Rubona (when you spend four hours handing bricks and cement to someone, you learn a few things about them). He was trying, quite hopelessly, to teach me Kinyarwanda, and in turn, I was teaching him words in English.

After schlepping bricks and “cima” (see-ma, the Kinyarwanda word for “cement”) for most of the day, we broke up into pairs and divided the workers into groups of about twenty. We spent the next hour teaching them English. My friend Ilyssa and I were teaching together; our group was at the lowest English level (they didn’t know “Hello, my name is” until a few hours ago). We reviewed simple conversation words, and then moved on to colors, body parts, “I like” and making small sentences. Going around in a circle, everyone took turns saying, “I like” something; we had a lot of “I like Jesus,” and one said, “We like Muzungu!” (We like the white people). Ilyssa and I had a good laugh at this, especially when one then added, “I like teacher!” and pointed at us. To practice parts of the body, we taught them “Head, shoulders, knees and toes,” which, by the end of the hour, they almost had perfectly. At first, they were confusing the whole “eyes, ears, mouth and nose” verse, but I think by next week they’ll be able to do it without our help. I did, luckily, get a video of this, but it most likely will not be uploaded until I return to Israel. At the end of our lesson, they all came up to us, shaking our hands and thanking us, telling us that they love English. It was a really amazing time, watching people who didn’t know a word of English take notes on scraps of paper, writing down everything we said, repeat after us, trying their best to master a language completely foreign and very difficult for them.

Every Tuesday afternoon the entire village takes part in Tikkun Olam. At ASYV, this means going into the surrounding communities and volunteering at a local school, an HIV/AIDS clinic and at families’ homes doing what they term “social work.” The philosophy behind this is that the students in the village are very fortunate in comparison to the surrounding area, and part of their ASYV education is learning to give back to a place that has given them so many advantages. I was assigned to social work, which involves visiting local families near the village, assessing what they need and figuring out how to best help them. This was the first week of Tikkun Olam this semester, so we visited Peter, who, at age 75, has seven children and can’t afford to send any of them to school. In Rwanda, school costs about 4,000 francs per child per year (this is $6.75). However, Peter has no job and lives in a simple mud hut (one room, no furniture) with his children who will remain poor and uneducated. Unfortunately, the meeting took place entirely in Kinyarwanda so it was impossible for us to follow, but some students were trying to translate. From what I understand, we are starting by repairing Peter’s house; he has no windows or real doors, so the carpentry club at the village is going to make him some, and then, after next week, we are going to figure out how to raise money to (we hope) send his children to school.

Visiting Peter and his family made me realize for the first time since arriving in Africa just how difficult life can be here. People who live less than a ten minute walk from the village see its red tile roofs and stucco buildings every day, probably wishing they could live in such a beautiful place. We go without running water for a few days and feel miserable; I didn’t see any evidence of running water in Peter’s house. Not today, or ever. We complain about rice and beans for every meal while Peter and his family are lucky if there is enough food for all of them in a given day. The argument can be made that since we are living in such a “westernized” village, we aren’t in “real” Africa. We have electricity, wireless Internet, and on most days, running water. This is not evidence of a third world country; Peter’s lifestyle is. I have never felt such guilt. I take things like water and plumbing and rice and beans for granted; I usually think nothing of them until they are gone and I find myself feeling their absence. Now, I will be much more conscious of everything I eat, the water I drink, the showers I take, the smallest things in my life that make a world of difference. Seeing Peter, and especially his children, who, despite having no toys or place to play, continued to smile (they really liked making faces at me and watching me make them back) and run around in the dirt, oblivious to a world where children their age are privileged and unaware of their own fortunate lives. Do they know that I have lived such a different life? Do they know that when I was six or seven I had Barbie dolls to play with and hot dogs for lunch? Probably not. At this thought, my stomach sinks. I never realized just how lucky I am to live how and where I live, to have a loving family, to expect three meals a day and eat until I’ve had enough. Peter and his children will likely never know such luxuries. And yet, they are happy. Simple, doing without, yet happy. They have no windows, no real doors, no kitchen or bathroom, but they have one another, and to them, that is enough. It’s amazing to see what it really means to survive, to live with the minimum and to learn the difference between what is really necessary to be alive and what we only think we cannot live without. In reality, as I saw today, people live without what I take for granted, what I thought I couldn’t do without, every single day for their lifetime.

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Tonight was my weekly visit to family time. Family 8 is truly an incredible group of girls; on Tuesdays they are supposed to speak only English, so to practice, we played a game of charades. They came up with some really creative and hysterical skits (acting out brushing their teeth with a spare shoe as a toothbrush, for example) and did their best not to revert back to Kinyarwanda (although it’s obviously much easier for them). After exhausting charades, their counselor, Erica, explained to them that in the coming weeks, they will be choosing the name of their house. All first-year (Enrichment Year) houses are first assigned a number, and after 2 months in the village, they research and choose a name. The house must be named after someone no longer alive; the girls have to research this person, why they are important in history, what they contributed to the world and present to the village administration why they believe their house namesake is a good one. Unfortunately, this presentation is happening after we leave, but research and brainstorming is beginning now.

After discussing “business,” as the girls call it, we had time for them to begin their usual Spanish Inquisition. They are all very interested in Valentine’s Day, and since they know I have a boyfriend (that was last week’s discussion) they are set on figuring out how we are going to celebrate Valentine’s Day since I am in Rwanda and Roi is in Israel. I told them not to worry; I will call him and tell him “Happy Valentine’s Day.” This was much easier than explaining that Valentine’s Day does not really exist in Israel; like our previous Jesus discussion, they weren’t likely to understand the whole anti-Valentine’s thing, so I skipped it. Later, one of the girls, Cadette, whose English is excellent, cornered me and asked if I had a picture of my family. I told her yes, I do, but not with me. She asked me why, because she said that if she had a family, she would always have their picture. This got me thinking. I am not thankful enough for my family and I don’t carry their pictures with me. Maybe I should start doing that, to remind myself how lucky I am. I told Cadette I have pictures of my family and I would show them to her before we leave. She accepted this offer, gave me a hug and told me to have “nice dreams.” On my way out, a few of the other girls (Souvenir, Vanessa and Diana, namely) stopped me and said I have nice hair, and they don’t like their hair, they want hair like mine. I told them they have beautiful hair and that my hair isn’t so exciting. They said, “Yes it is! You have nice Muzungu hair!” I had to laugh at this. Muzungu hair? I guess so.

It has truly been a day of reflection, of appreciating everything that I either take for granted or simply overlook. I’d explain this more, but to be frank, we have to wake up well before the sun tomorrow because we are going to the safari in Akagera, so I should probably get some sleep.

More after my next African adventure!

Love,
Elana the Muzungu

African Meatballs

2011-02-07T12:18:00.000-08:00

February 7, 2011

Today was my first full Monday teaching at the village school. My morning opened with two math classes; the teacher, Francoise, is one tough cookie. We’re talking tapping the chalkboard with erasers until she creates a solid layer of white dust on the floor. But her students show her complete respect, and their math skills are, for the most part, excellent. A few, including my new friend Grace, asked me for some extra help with the topic they started this morning: simplifying complex fractions with square roots. Francoise called Grace to the black board to do an example problem in front of the class, and I could see the poor girl was shaking. Not only is she very shy about standing before 30 of her peers, she’s also very nervous about her English. She took the chalk and began to quiver, so I went to stand next to her. I saw her examine the problem quizzically, not sure where to start, so I decided to try speaking to her in French. As soon as I did, her eyes lit up. She smiled at me, and followed as we went step-by-step, sign by sign, numerator, denominator, cross-multiplying and crossing out common terms. Five minutes later, as Francoise watched like a hawk, Grace boxed her answer and gave me a huge hug. Sure enough, her answer was correct. We have set a time to practice her math, and her English, later in the week.

I had a short break and then moved on to English with Aimable. He is truly a character; he literally ran into class today, three minutes late, and commanded (nicely, of course) me to retrieve tape and scissors. He had made his students a “scale” of frequency and quality adverbs (many, always, sometimes, rarely, etc.) and wanted me to hang it up and explain it. I did, and many were confused. So, I said that one side of the room was “never” and the other was “always.” I made up phrases (“I eat rice,” “I like to go to school,” “I do my homework”) and had them move to the side of the room with which they agreed. This finally sent the message home, I think. After, we worked on tenses; Aimable wanted them to match grammar rules he had written on the board with sentence examples. Once again, they looked lost. I split them into groups, with Aimable’s help, and we both went around and explained it to the smaller groups and helped them create examples that fit each rule. At the end, Aimable had them write their examples on the board and asked me to correct their grammar mistakes. Instead, we did it all together and I watched as 32 pairs of eyes followed me across the room as I examined the black board, correcting minor errors and making some suggestions. I think they wrote down every other word I said.

Right after English was French; Vincent, their teacher, came 30 minutes into class time, so Talya (another Young Judaea volunteer) and I began teaching, asking them to talk about “l’avenir” (the future). This forced them to conjugate verbs in the future tenses, and to talk about something they all dream of: becoming doctors, teachers; one girl said she wants to the be Minister of Education of Rwanda because she thinks learning is the most important thing for young people. Eventually, Vincent came to class (he was making photocopies of verb sheets) and thanked us for encouraging his class to speak French.

The highlight of my day came this afternoon during Enrichment Programs (EPs). We were all assigned an EP, and my friend Hannah and I go to Kitchen Skills. Well, this is actually cooking class. We met outside the dining hall, sitting in a circle with a bunch of house mothers and about 20 students. They began the lesson in Kinyarwanda, so we were utterly lost, but luckily, Emme (ay-may) came to sit next to me and he started to translate. When the house mothers heard that I speak French, they switched to explaining what we would be making in French, and I translated for Hannah. We were making a dish called melange (may-lan-jay), essentially African meatballs. One of the mothers told me there are two ways to make it: one with dough, like a dumpling, and the second, the way we made it, is to mix ground meat with peppers, onions, garlic and magi cubes, roll them into balls and cook them in hot oil. Once she was finished explaining, a tray was brought from the kitchen to the outside area where we were all seated; on it was a package of ground meat and all the necessary ingredients. Immediately, I was handed a knife and began chopping peppers and green onion. The kids mixed everything in a huge bowl and soon a huge metal pot with a lid, full of hot coals, was brought to the middle of the circle. A bunch of the guys got used cardboard and began fanning the coals to start a small fire and they put a metal pot on the fire, heating the oil. Everyone else made the meatballs, rolled them in flour, and dropped them in the heating pot. In another sauté pan, someone mixed the remaining onion, water and tomato paste to create a sauce for the meatballs; once they were done cooking, they were transferred to the sauce and then to a plate. Hannah and I were handed forks and told to eat. Honestly, this was one of the most delicious dishes I’ve ever tasted.

As we were eating and talking, one of the house mothers noticed my flip-flops; they have the Star of David on them. She told me, in French, that she recognized the Israeli flag and has one hanging in her house because she loves the people of Israel. She promised she would bring me a Rwandan flag so I can have one in my house and think of Rwanda and its people always. Then, she noticed the rings on my hands and asked if I’m engaged. When I said no, she looked surprised, so I asked why. In Rwanda, women wear engagement rings on their left middle finger and only when they’re married do they wear rings on their ring fingers. I’ve always worn a ring on my left middle finger, so now I understand this question. She told me not to worry, that I’ll be engaged one day. Let’s hope (not that I’m in any rush).

It’s now about 8:00, our running water is back (no Internet, though. We can’t have everything at once) so I showered and now will most likely open up a can of tuna and some saltines for dinner. I have a whole new appreciation for water. It’s unbelievable to appreciate the smallest things once they’re gone.

Bedtime soon – tomorrow I work at our warehouse site beginning at 8 AM until about 2:00 in the afternoon, so I’ll be exhausted. But I love it. I love being here, learning from the kids, living in a way and a place I never thought I’d find myself. Sometimes I wonder if it’s real. Then, I look up at my mosquito net and realize it sure is.

Love from the mountains of ASYV,
Elana

"Meeting you"

2011-02-07T01:19:00.000-08:00

February 6, 2011

Today was one of those days that I found myself missing what’s “mine.” We attempted to have a Sports Day for the kids, but as I’m learning, things in Africa rarely go as planned. We scheduled Sports Day to begin at 3 PM; by around 4, kids began showing up in small groups. Our next move was to divide them into teams; this failed miserably. What ended up happening was pickup basketball and volleyball games, a small group of girls interested in the relay races we had set up (this lasted a grand total of twenty minutes) and many people sitting in the stands cheering for the participants. One of my new friends, Yvette, was very interested in my camera, so I let her take some pictures, both with me and of the other volunteers. She was then shocked to see that we could look at the pictures and she could see herself in them. She remained quite impressed by the notion of a digital camera.

Though Sports Day itself turned into somewhat of a free for all, I did end up having quite a long conversation with one of the pastors who works at the village. He opened by asking me why I don’t play basketball so I can be tall and thin like a Rwandan. I explained to him that I will probably never look quite like a Rwandan, try as I may, and that I was playing in the relays but not in basketball. He understood, and then began asking me about Israel and Hebrew. He’s fascinated by Hebrew and wants to learn it because he wants to be able to read the Old Testament in its original language. I think that is incredible; I explained to him that Hebrew is a difficult language to learn because it has its own alphabet and sounds like almost no other language; he responded by telling me, “That’s okay, I will learn. Maybe you will teach me? Shalom!”

After Sports Day, it was nearly 6 PM and all I wanted was a shower and some clean clothes. Well, no running water. I would have taken a bucket shower, but there was no water in the outside faucet to fill a bucket, so showering in general was out of the question. It was in this moment that I wanted to throw up my hands, scream out of frustration, and simply get back to Israel or America, to running water and “real” food, to everything that I consider comfortable and normal. Not even an hour later, my attitude changed. I went to dinner and sat with a group of girls, most namely, the girl next to me, Rose, who only wanted to practice their French. Now they are learning future tenses with French verbs, so we were practicing “I want to eat,” “I will go to sleep at,” “I want to study.” I also taught them small words like “presque” (nearly or almost). They thought this was fantastic, so they tried using it in every sentence. They also didn’t know the word for “potatoes” in French, which I found odd because they eat them every day, so they really liked learning “pommes de terre.”

Rwandans, like Israelis, love hearing how much people like their country and what we find beautiful about it. So, every day, at least once, I get the question, “Do you like Rwanda? What do you like in Rwanda? What do you like about the village?” I always say I love how friendly people are, how beautiful the hills are, and how much I enjoy learning from everyone in the village. Tonight, when I asked Rose what she likes about the village, she said, “Meeting you.” I nearly melted. Knowing that I’m making a difference, regardless of how small, in someone else’s life, especially in someone like Rose, I know I am in the right place, that I made a good decision in coming here, and that I am appreciated. I find myself missing the smallest things that I never appreciated: running water, eating at restaurants, knowing the lights will turn on when I flip a switch. There is none of that here, no trace of Western civilization or comfort. But I am learning to enjoy this new simplicity and face new challenges: working in the school, building the warehouse, and interacting with new people I would never meet otherwise. This place is incredible; it’s only been a week and already I feel it doing something to me. Changing me. It’s an unbelievable opportunity that’s been given to me, and I plan on making the most of every moment and forcing myself to realize, even in the most difficult times, that I am here for a reason, I am here to make a difference, and I am here to help others achieve what they think they can only dream. These students are so driven and inspire me to appreciate what, in my life, has never been a question but a logical next step (finish high school, get into and attend college, have a career). They push themselves to achieve all of that, to make their dreams come true. Now, I am here to help in any way I can to make sure Yvette can become a doctor or Rose can become a teacher. In the past week, they have shown me that they have the power to do it, and they only want my help and encouragement. As I’ve told them, I am in support of their dreams 150%.

Tomorrow is an early day – I’m at the school, teaching English, Math, French and History all day. When Rose heard this at dinner, she told me she would be studying extra hard tonight so that way she knows everything I ask her in class tomorrow. I told her not to worry, my questions won’t be that tricky. She said she would study anyway. These kids amaze me.

More soon!

Elana

Soretroat

2011-02-07T00:05:00.000-08:00

February 4-5, 2011

Today I woke up and couldn’t swallow. Since it’s Voting Day, most of the nurses are off, but Gertrude, who lives in the Village, came and opened the clinic. She told me I have tonsillitis, which sucks, but I should be better in the next two days. I hate to miss everything that the group gets to do: the first Muchaka Muchaka (the run around the Village in which everyone participates every Saturday morning at 6 AM), challah baking with Talia for Shabbat, and a dance party after dinner on Friday night. I just want to feel better. It’s times like these that make me want to go home, to Israel or to America, to have a normal shower, to sit in an air-conditioned room and relax, to have my own bed and feel comfortable. Unfortunately, none of those are possibilities right now, so I will forever have the memory of braving tonsillitis in northeastern Africa. Isn’t that a story?

Well, as things turn out, the medication Gertrude gave me may or may not have caused an allergic reaction. This afternoon, after taking a few doses, I started to feel worse, so it was decided that I should go to Kigali hospital. To be honest, where I was taken is called King Faisal Hospital Kigali, or, as someone very pointedly let me know, the “Muzungu” hospital. How do people know it’s any good? It has an “s” in the word “hospital.” Most hospitals in Rwanda, and in east Africa, are actually “hopital,” which is the French word for “hospital.” There is no “s” because a circumflex over the “o” replaces it. So, King Faisal HoSpital is really considered top in terms of a medical treatment facility.

We arrived (by “we” I mean me, my madricha Talia, one of the village volunteers Ariella and our driver and Village all-around man, my favorite guy, Alain) at the emergency room. Now, let me try to illustrate this “emergency room” for you. First of all, the hospital, from the outside, looks more like a prison. To enter the emergency room, you have to park by the main entrance and walk through the parking lot, down a hill and over a grassy lawn-looking area. Keep in mind none of this is lit. Luckily I have tonsillitis and not a broken leg because I would not have been able to trek down to the emergency room. Now, this room is literally one room which has about four tattered chairs facing a cashier (where you pay for both your hospital visit and any medication prescribed… but I’ll get to that later) and a “triage” room which is a desk and a few chairs and a scale that looks like it was used in World War II. A nurse came in and filled out some forms (I have never been so happy to speak French in all my life) and then left my “file” on a table somewhere for a doctor to find. About forty-five minutes later, with Alain’s help, I was shown into another room. This one had a desk, two chairs, some cabinets and a computer. The doctor (her first name was Claire. That’s all I caught) sat down, asked me what was wrong, and proceeded to tell me that no, they did not have materials for a strep test. That means they didn’t have swabs, tongue depressors or the kits for rapid strep results. Things went further downhill very quickly from there. After hearing my symptoms and the fact that I’m allergic to penicillin, she typed my symptoms and the word “erythromycin,” which is a broad spectrum antibiotic, into Google. Yes, Google. But wait, it gets better. The first link that her search returns is Wikipedia, so she clicks on that and begins to read about erythromycin. No, I am not joking. The doctor who is supposed to be prescribing me medication is getting her information from Wikipedia. I almost fell on the floor. At this point, several phone calls were made (to my parents, to my doctor at home, etc.) I had no reason to trust this woman who, despite her white coat and official-looking name tag, seemed to have a medical degree, for all I knew, from either Yahoo.com or AskJeeves. The fact that I didn’t take her Wikipedia search as expert medical advice caused Dr. Claire Whatshername to leave the exam room and not return until Alain persuaded her to come back and write me a script. When I looked in my file, I saw that she had written “soretroat” as my illness and that was it. I couldn’t even get an “h”? I knew we were in trouble. Eventually, she returned and then told me that she had six years of medical school and knows what erythromycin is. My question to her was then why she felt the need to Google search it, and why she felt Wikipedia was a credible medical reference. She could not answer either, so instead she wrote me a prescription and ran off to Google for her next patient.

Filling my prescription was, believe it or not, the most pleasant part of this experience, although it did involve quite a bit of walking. First, I went to the hospital pharmacy, where I was told they should have my medication, showed the pharmacist my script, and she told me I had to go back to the cashier next to the triage room and pay for my medication before she would fill it. So, that’s exactly what I did, Alain following me back to the cashier’s table and then returning to the pharmacy. Twenty minutes and about 6000 francs later (about $10 in total, for all my medicine and the doctor’s visit), I had two little baggies of pink pills, one of erythromycin and the other of “Brofen,” which is their prescription Ibuprofen. With my goodie bag in hand and my “receipt” printed from what looked like a typewriter, we hiked back up to the parking lot and left.

On our way back to the Village, we made a few stops. First, we went to a convenience store where I bought tons of water, juice and crackers (my groceries ran up a higher bill than my hospital visit and medicine costs). Next, we picked up Olivier, the village electrician/handyman (he’s fixed our shower at least twice) and then we drove to Alain’s house, which is in Kigali, and his wife prepared us dinner. We also met his son, Dylan, who is not quite a year old, and is very adorable. I wish I were feeling better so I could have eaten more, but what I did eat (rice and vegetable stew and a small piece of fish) was delicious. Alain’s home itself is beautiful, gated from the road and full of leather couches and tiled floors; I felt like I could have been anywhere in the world. Eventually, we said goodbye and thank you to his wife and goodnight to baby Dylan, and returned to the village. Definitely the most eventful day of being sick in my life.

It’s now Sunday, which is always a quiet day in the village because most kids attend church services and spend the day relaxing, catching up on their homework and preparing for another full week of school and activities. I’m definitely feeling better (not 100%, but improvement is all I need) and hopefully by tomorrow, I’ll be ready to teach my first full Monday of classes!

Love from Rwanda (luckily not from King Faisal HoSpital)

Elana

Disclaimer

2011-02-04T06:03:00.001-08:00

DISCLAIMER:

The postings on this site are my own and do not necessarily represent the positions, strategies, or opinions of the Agahozo-Shalom Youth Village.

Bonjour, and God Bless You!

2011-02-03T07:41:00.001-08:00

I really do wish I had a thousand Rwandan franc note for every time I’m asked if I have a boyfriend. Things get really interesting when they ask his name (I say Ro-ee, and they look at me confused). I realize that this comes from a place of genuine curiosity; everyone here approaches me as I walk to and from the dining hall, to and from classes at the school, asking me how I am, how my day is going, how I like Rwanda, and if I have a boyfriend. That was the favorite question from my students today during my first day at the village school.

My morning started around 6 when my alarm sounded and I angrily rolled over. I then realized time was of the essence; I had to be at the school, on the other side of the village (about a fifteen minute walk) by 7 to meet the teachers and find the classrooms where I would be working. My first class was IT with a volunteer named Mike. Some of the kids are extremely proficient with computers; they have email and Facebook accounts, they can navigate programs and they understand how the computer works, for the most part. Others, however, have never seen a mouse or a keyboard. This makes for an interesting class, given the huge mix of level and skill in the same room (there are about 30 students per class).

Next, I had French, which was unbelievable. I taught with Vincent, a Rwandan teacher whose French has almost no African accent (most of the students speak French with heavy accents or with great difficulty, so I had some trouble understanding them). He’s advanced his students quite quickly; they are conjugating verbs, making sentences and speaking relatively well. Today he divided them into groups to have small debates, giving them topics like “do you think men and women are equal” and “should children be punished.” My group was saddled with the question of gender equality, and one boy piped up immediately that women are only in the kitchen and in the home. Every girl sitting in our circle began to verbally attack him (in Kinyarwanda, not in French, so I had no prayer of understanding). He then looked very frightened (girls outnumber boys in the village; 60% of the village kids are female, which mirrors the Rwandan population). As it turns out, he wasn’t sure how to say “before” or “a long time ago,” and then add that women WERE in the kitchen and in the home. When I explained to him how to make his sentence say what he wanted, he rephrased it and everyone clapped. Later, one boy asked me if I came from France, and how I speak English so well. I told him he’s very kind, but no, I’m American and French is not my first language.

This afternoon I taught English with a teacher named Aimable (which means “likeable” in French). He is much more than likeable; I LOVE him. Every time he asks a student a question and they answer, he says something to the effect of “And may God bless you!” “You are an angel. So smart!” “Yes, yes, very good. Now moving on!” He likes to scream and jump around quite a lot, and he is always reminding his students to work on “communicative English! Always communicative English!” Today he gave them all a short passage to read about, conveniently, American culture (very stereotypical things, like eating hamburgers, being rude and blasting loud music. I was then asked if all these things really happen in America, and I told them in all honesty, unfortunately, yes. They were appalled by this. And also that women in America wear shorts. They think that is completely unacceptable). After they completed the passage and asked me how accurate it actually is, the questions then became about me. Where I’m from, what I like to do, if I have a boyfriend (naturally), how to write in Hebrew, what I want to do when I’m older (they were shocked to learn I’m 19… someone guessed I was 25). When I asked them some of the same questions, I learned that many of them want to be doctors and go to university in America. These students have amazing dreams and are very future-minded. Also, now, they want to visit Israel because they want to understand where I’ve been living. When I told them that by the time they come to Israel I will be back in America, they said, “That is okay. We will come to America too! And we can see you!”

My final class of the day was another French lesson, but the teacher never showed. So, one of the other Year Course volunteers (my roommate Talya, actually) and I taught the class. We began with verb charts and conjugations, speaking and creating sentences, and then making vocabulary lists of words they knew in only English or French and then translating them, using them to make up scenarios. I noticed that almost all notebooks were open and pens were scribbling for the entire fifty minutes. They must have written down every other word I said.

With about five minutes left of class, the lights went out and it began to pour rain. Everyone scrambled out of class and ran down the hill towards the dining hall, where (shock) rice and beans were waiting. Today we were also having pineapple, which is grown in the village and is some of the most delicious fruit I’ve ever tasted. I have now had the afternoon, since about 3:00, to myself. Luckily, our running water came back so I was able to take a (very cold) shower and now I am updating all of you.

Tomorrow is Voting Day, so there is no school (I will be teaching Chemistry on Friday mornings) but we will continue work on the storage facility. According to one of the volunteers, Voting Day in Rwanda is held in town centers where the candidates stand in a central location and those who want to vote for them stand behind them. Since most of Rwanda cannot read or write, no one would be able to fill out a ballot, so instead, this system is used. I really wish I could go into a local village and watch!

I need a nap, some water and soon, dinner. More tomorrow!

Love,
Elana

Muraho, Mazungu... too many "mems"

2011-02-02T09:26:00.000-08:00

Yet again I find myself exhausted, physically and mentally, from another incredible day in the Village. Today was our first day doing our service project. We are building a huge storage unit so that the smaller houses currently acting as storage units can be converted into vocational schools for the kids to be trained in marketable skills. When we arrived at the site this morning, we met the construction workers who had started digging the foundation. In order to better the larger community surrounding the village, ASYV hires hundreds of local laborers to do construction, work in the kitchen, etc. We are building with about 20 of these workers who earn, as Ido, the volunteer in charge of construction, told us, about 1000 Rwandan francs a day. This is roughly $1.50.

We started working around 8:30, moving giant rocks from piles to the perimeter of the maze of pits dug to create a foundation, mixing cement by hand (there are no cement mixers in Africa), walking with several-gallon jerry cans to different water taps throughout the village, trying to fill them and bring them back, on our shoulders, to mix with the dry cement powder and dirt. By 9:15, I needed some shade and some water. This happened every half hour or so: work in the sun, feel lightheaded, have a back ache, take a short break, and get up and keep going. We had half an hour (from 11 to 11:30) to walk back to our guesthouse, fill up water bottles, grab a quick cracker or spoonful of peanut butter, and then return to the building site. Never once did I see any of the workers take a break. They never stopped for water, for shade or even for a breath. They remained hunched over their rocks and cement, digging furiously and shoveling impossibly heavy dirt piles into wheelbarrows. They are truly some of the hardest-working people I’ve ever seen; most wake up at four o’clock in the morning to walk to the Village (it can take up to three hours to walk here, for some) and begin working immediately. Only a few speak English, but the head worker, Ciprier (Seep-ree-ay), speaks French, so I can talk to him and translate for the group. He, too, told me to slow down while speaking to him in French. Oops.

About midway through the day, a group of schoolgirls from a nearby town came wandering down the road that leads to the village. Where we’re building the storage unit is next to the fence that separates the village from the town, so anyone walking on the street can see us working. Well, once they saw us, the “mazungu” (white person), they all stopped and began to wave. They looked about 8 or 10, and I then noticed that the ties on the sides of their school dresses, instead of being tied behind them, were tied to each other, so they were walking in a line and no one would get lost. When one shifted, they all did. They remained by the fence for what seemed like half an hour, watching us work, waving and asking us our names. This then became a community gathering; tons of people came to the fence, reaching for our hands. However, when we tried to take pictures with them, they turned and ran away; they don’t like cameras. So, lesson learned.

After six hours of hard, manual labor, the foundation is essentially finished. Where there were ditches and dirt piles this morning there are now cement and rock patterns filling the holes, ready to support walls and eventually, a roof. Our goal is to complete the structure by the end of the month.

This afternoon, I went to my first Enrichment Program, yoga. Unfortunately, it began to rain about twenty minutes into yoga class, so we packed up our mats and went inside. Now it’s nearly dinnertime; tomorrow is an early day. I start teaching at 7 AM, and the school is up a huge hill (the highest in the village). Wish me luck on my first day!

Love,
Elana

Here are some new words I’ve learned in Kinyarwanda:

Muraho – hello
Marakuze – thank you
Vuba Vuba - fast
Bahura Bahura – slow

What’s knickers in Kinyarwanda?

2011-02-01T13:16:00.000-08:00

February 1, 2011

Today was an unbelievable day. We woke up at 6 (this was unpleasant, to say the least) and attended breakfast with the entire village. Breakfast, you should understand, is a piece of bread and “porridge.” This, I’m afraid, will soon need to be supplemented by my peanut butter and protein bar collection. At breakfast I sat with a group of girls who asked me a question I’ve gotten a number of times in the last two days: “Do you have parents?” This is often accompanied by “Do you live with your family?” “Where does your family live?” “Do you have siblings?” Answering these questions in this environment is tricky. If I were to ask them in return, I would already know the answers. They’re here because they have no parents, and their siblings and extended family members are limited at best. Every day we have a kevana (Hebrew for “theme”), and today’s was remembrance. As you continue reading you’ll find why this was particularly appropriate, but hearing these questions reminds me to appreciate having an entire family only a phone call or Skype chat away. This is not the norm in the village, or in Rwanda, and I know I take it for granted.

After breakfast we boarded the world’s smallest and ricketiest van to Kigali. Today was Heroes’ Day in Rwanda, so most places are closed, but they opened the Kigali Memorial Center specially for us. The memorial is split into three parts: the first and largest in underground and tells the history of Rwanda before, during and after the 1994 genocide. The second part is upstairs and devoted to child victims; this was probably the most difficult part for me. The third part of the memorial is devoted to other genocides and mass killings in history, most namely, the Holocaust, Bosnia and Cambodia. Outside the main building is a mass grave, which includes multiple parts, where nearly 300,000 victims of the genocide are buried. Here we held a small memorial service for the victims of the genocide, some of the most heroic Rwandans in the country’s history, and we said mourner’s kaddish; no one properly mourned these fallen innocent lives, so we took the time to honor and remember them.

Once we concluded our trip to the Kigali Memorial, we went into the center of the city to go food shopping. First, please know that the current exchange rate from US dollars to Rwandan francs is $1 for 592 francs. So, this makes things like grocery shopping interesting. Unfortunately, last night one of my roommates discovered she forgot to pack her bag with her underwear in it. While this seemed disastrous at the time of discovery, we then realized it provided us an opportunity to purchase Rwandan underwear. But not underwear, knickers. She’s British, so she refers to underwear as “knickers.” This got extremely complicated when explaining to the woman who worked at the food store that she wanted “knickers.” Luckily, we found some, and suffice it to say that they are not exactly God’s gift to fashion, but they will certainly do the job. After this minor debacle, we purchased more tuna fish (I had to explain this in French, and was told to slow down. Never before have I been told I was speaking French too quickly. I was flattered) some crackers, hand soap and candy and chocolate for our families to which we were assigned. Piling back into the van (the engine had to be restarted by hand) with all of our purchases was a bit difficult, but we managed. Also, Brinley and I managed to rack up a 76,000 franc bill at the store. We then realized this is about $60 per person for a month’s worth of food, water and gifts. Wow.

We returned to ASYV for lunch and then went to watch the boys’ soccer (excuse me, “football”) and basketball teams play another school about an hour away from the village. Our guys were amazing; we cheered quite loudly and tried to teach some of the other sideline fans to scream “Defense! Defense!” Needless to say, this took quite a bit of coaching, but they’ll get the hang of it.

I then returned to the guest house with high hopes of taking a much needed shower. As I’m learning, such dreams are hopeless. There is currently no running water in the village. No toilets flush, no sinks, no nothing. So, we retrieve water from an outside faucet in huge plastic bins and use empty bottles and cups to “bucket shower.” Since I showered yesterday, and the water is now so limited (the water from the outside faucets is actually rain water collected in gigantic structures near each house) I used some wipes and Purell, and that is as good as it’s getting for today.

Seven o’clock was dinner, at which I received some of the same questions in terms of my family, who I live with, if I have siblings. Then the girls, Jaclyn and Asha in particular, started asking me about life in America. What kind of music I like (when I said Michael Jackson the entire table started screaming and clapping and of course, we burst into a small rendition of “Thriller”) if I have a boyfriend, how Rwanda and Israel compare. Their curiosity is truly insatiable; they want to know as much about the world outside of Rwanda as possible, and their questions are genuine.

This theme of questions brings me to the best part of my day which was family time. The kids in the village are split into families, by gender (16 boys or 16 girls per family) and by class (classes are done by the year in which the kids entered the village, not by age. So, kids who are 20 years old and kids who are 17 can be in the same class. Classes are Enrichment Year, Senior 4, Senior 5 and Senior 6. As of now, the first 3 years are full and by next year, the village will have all 4 classes and will be operating at capacity). I was assigned to Family 8 (since they are in Enrichment Year, they are newest to the village and must research and choose a name for their family. This will probably be done in the next few months). Family 8 also includes a volunteer from Kansas named Michelle, a counselor/therapist named Erica, who is Rwandan and translates for us, and a house mother who everyone calls Momma (house mothers are women from neighboring provinces who lost their families in the genocide). The girls went around telling us their names, what they like to study, what music they like and most importantly, their favorite food. Then the Spanish Inquisition began. They only wanted to know about life in America, about our families (we are assigned to village families in groups of 2, so I’m with my friend Hannah), and if we like chocolate. When they heard I speak French, they all erupted at once, asking me questions in French, telling me to answer in French… they were quickly instructed to revert back to English. The most difficult question we got was if we believe in Jesus. We attempted to explain that we’re Jewish, and we know Jesus existed in history, but we don’t believe in him as a religious figure. They didn’t quite grasp this. “Why don’t you love Jesus?” “Jews… like Jesus, no?” “Jesus is God, yes?” We then tried to explain there are many religions in the world, and not all of them believe in Jesus. They didn’t quite understand this (which they should, more or less, since about 5% of the kids in the village are Muslim), so we changed the subject. We had brought them chocolate and candy, and upon seeing our gifts, their eyes lit up and they began clapping and singing “We are so happy to see you! We are so happy to see you!” At this point, they brought out trays of pineapple, which they only wanted us to finish (I think there were about four or five sliced pineapples… I had two slices and it was more than enough). The girl sitting next to me, who was translating from Kinyarwanda to English, named Yvette, said, “You are a great human. Your heart, it must be so big. I am so happy to meet you.” Between my overwhelming fatigue and all of the emotions in the room, it was all I could do not to throw my arms around her and cry. She asked me, like everyone else, if I have sisters. When I said no, she said, “Now, you have us. You have sisters.”

I am now sitting in the front of our guest house, facing the mountains of Rubona. It’s completely pitch-black here; we walk around at night with flashlights, while everyone else walks around in the dark with no problem (we look like idiots and can be spotted from nearly any point in the village). Next to me, my roommate is explaining her new underwear purchases to her “Mum” on the phone, and I find myself completely in awe. I am in Africa. In east Africa. In Rwanda. In one of the most incredible places with some of the friendliest, most welcoming people I’ve ever met in my life. Granted, the food leaves much to be desired and the bugs may make me crazy, we have no water as of now (which is a problem given the current state of our toilet) and I’m so tired I can barely type, but I know the next weeks will change my life. In the best way possible.

Thank you for reading, as always. More soon!

Love,
Elana

American in Africa!

2011-01-31T13:41:00.000-08:00

Hi readers! My African adventure is underway! However, here is a small disclaimer from me to you:

Due to spotty (and very slow) Internet access, my blog posts will not always be updated as often as I’d like or even the day I write them. I will be dating all posts so you know when they were originally meant to be posted. Also, pictures will be uploaded to Facebook and to the blog page, but probably not until I have returned to Israel, because the Internet in the Village simply cannot upload large images. Thank you so much for your patience – I promise to keep all of you as updated as possible!

Here’s my first actual post:

January 30-31, 2011

It’s hard to believe that 24 hours ago I was asleep on my top bunk in Arad, waiting for my alarm to go off so I could take a shower, do one last load of laundry and get on the bus to Ben Gurion Airport. Now, I’m awaiting our connecting flight from Addis Ababa, Ethiopia to Kigali, Rwanda. To say that I’m nervous would be an understatement; leaving my friends, and Israel, for a month seems scary. While it is only four weeks, and I know time will pass quickly with our nonstop schedule (6 AM to 10 PM every day, seven days a week!) the prospect of the unknown, and of such huge change, is frightening. I know I’m going to love the Village, Rwanda and its people, but adjusting to a new environment is never easy. Luckily, I am surrounded by friends who are all in the same position: none of us know what to expect.

The flight to Ethiopia was actually great. Turbulent and announced in Swahili, but great. We arrived around 5:30AM Ethiopia time (after leaving Tel Aviv around 12:30) and have spent the last hours sleeping on ridiculously upholstered chairs (they look like they belong in a movie theater that could have been on the set of Aladdin), having some breakfast (once again, like an idiot, I said “Toda” to the waiter who brought me my coffee, and then proceeded to take out shekels to pay.) I now need to get used to speaking English, using American dollars, and soon, Rwandan francs. We boarded the flight from Addis Ababa to Kigali (we thought), and then it was announced that we would be stopping in Nairobi, Kenya, which added about 2 hours to the trip. After our little pit stop in Kenya, we arrived in Kigali, made it through passport control, and claimed our bags. So really, in the last 24 hours, I’ve been in four countries and two time zones. I didn’t think of this until much later; the rest of my day, as you’ll soon read, was quite packed, and I was already exhausted.

We boarded a van sent from the Village; our driver, Ebimak, was awesome; and went to Ndoli’s convenience store and change place. We exchanged money, purchased Rwandan cell phones and SIM cards and headed to the Village. Arriving at the Village was unbelievable. The red dirt road winding up the mountainside which leads to the front gate of ASYV is surrounded by incredible views of the mountains and green valleys below; when the view becomes slightly blocked by red tiled roofs and green and brown buildings, we had reached the entrance to the Village.

Upon our arrival, we moved into our guest house and toured the Village. It is truly an amazing place. Not only do the kids spend hours in school, learning history, English, French, chemistry, math, they also take part in endless enrichment programs (yoga, music, technology…) and they work on the Village farm, which spans over 70 acres and includes vegetable and fruit patches (some of the most DELICIOUS pineapple in the world comes from Rwanda – we tried some), a chicken coop with about a thousand chickens and several cows. The Village is very much about sustainability; becoming independently funded to feed, clothe and provide for every student (which will eventually be 500 at a time). The farm is an avenue they are exploring to achieve this sustainability (exporting pineapple and fruit, selling eggs, etc.)

After completing our tour (which involved a minor thunderstorm, but the rain felt nice since none of us had showered) and meeting the director of the Village, an Israeli man named Ilan, we got ready for dinner. I decided to take a shower. This is much more involved than you would think. First of all, running water in the Village comes and goes, so what is done in Rwanda, and in the Village, is called “bucket showering.” To do this, you turn on the water (which is about a trickle) and place a bucket over the drain so the water collects in it. This way, should the water turn off mid-shower and you still have shampoo in your hair, you dump the bucket over yourself and you’re essentially clean. Luckily, the water didn’t shut off, so I was able to avoid the bucket madness. Also, since my hair is relatively short, washing it is easy even in showers with negative water pressure. Unfortunately, my roommates cannot say the same.

This brings me to my next topic: I am living with four other girls, one of whom is Brinley, and the other three are British (Tanya, Talia and Lucy). Even in the past few hours, I’ve picked up some fantastic new terms. The word of today is “mare,” as in short for a “nightmare.” An example would be: “Lucy is having a bit of a mare in the shower since she cannot wash her hair.” Unfortunately, this was a true scenario. I’m hoping that each day I can learn a new term and share it with you.

We had dinner with the entire Village; I sat with a group of girls who only wanted to know what I thought about all the “black peoples” in Africa, as if I had never seen anyone of color before in my life. They wanted to know if I was scared of them; they thought this question was hysterical. I, on the other hand, had no idea how to respond. Of course I wasn’t scared! Do I explain to them that I went to school with people of all races and ethnicities? I chuckled along and luckily, they moved on to asking me about what I like to study in school, if I have a boyfriend (when I said “yes” they all responded “ooooh!”), where I’m going to college. They are incredibly forward-thinking young women, and I am so excited to get to know them over the coming weeks.

I need to be up VERY early tomorrow, so that’s all for now. Wish me luck on the newest chapter of my year! More soon!

Lots of love from the Eastern Province of Rwanda,
Elana

New Pictures!

2011-01-26T06:11:00.000-08:00

An amazing Sudanese dinner with Ring Deng and family.

The gan: before and after!

"Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive that is youer than you." - Dr. Seuss

2011-01-26T06:09:00.000-08:00

The last few days of my time in Arad have been some of the most unbelievable in my life. Let me tell you why this is anything but hyperbole:

At the beginning of the week, I returned to Home Center (they now know me by name there… they call me “American”) to buy colored paints, brushes and, as we would later learn, extremely awful-smelling yet necessary paint remover. Many thanks to Bubbie and Oggy for their generosity in donating these materials to the gan; we completely revamped the outside walls! When we arrived in Arad, and started volunteering at the gan, these walls looked like they were about to collapse and would have been better built out of Legos and Elmer’s glue. Well, seven weeks, three buckets of spackle, fifteen liters of white paint, four cans of colored paints, six paint rollers and three sets of brushes later, the gan looks like a new place. I smell like paint thinner and I’m pretty sure I’ve had paint in my hair for at least two consecutive days, but I can honestly say that I don’t care. There is an incredible sense of accomplishment when such projects are seen through; accomplishment, and now, somewhat of an emptiness. We worked for seemingly endless weeks and hours, doing everything we possibly could to make the gan a more beautiful place, and now that our work (and our time here) is done, I’m not sure what I’m going to do on Sunday when I don’t get up and run across town to play with the kiddies and sweep dust piles away from drying paint. Actually, that’s a lie. I’ll be packing. Oy.

Not only were the past days incredible because of our work, we were also invited for dinner last night by one of the fathers (Ring Deng) whose three children (Yosef, Aboulati, and Akot) are at the gan. Yesterday afternoon, we gathered at the gan and went home with his wife (I carried the baby, Akot, who is about seven months old now and chewing on everything he can, my hair included). In addition to making us the most delicious Sudanese feast (two types of chicken, plates of rice and salad, vegetables, and a heart-shaped cake!) she refused to allow us to help in the kitchen because it would simply be “not African” to allow guests to help with a meal. As we were sitting down to dinner, there was a knock at the door, and to our surprise, Aboba joined us! We were all screaming, so excited (and shocked) that she was there, having dinner with us and Ring Deng’s family. Perhaps my favorite part of the night was hearing their story; before arriving in Israel, Ring and his family spent five years in Egypt, where he owned a bakery and where their oldest child, Yosef, was born, and have been in Israel for three years. However, in six months, they will return to South Sudan permanently; Ring Deng has sisters and more family still in Sudan, as does his wife. The entire night left me in awe: people who have struggled so much and who have so little opened their home and their hearts to us and were some of the most generous and welcoming hosts I’ve ever had the opportunity to meet.

In keeping with the theme of selflessness, today was our last day at the gan, and after all these weeks, I finally realized what an unbelievable person Aboba is. She spends her days caring for children, none of whom are her own, feeding them, soothing them, drying their tears. She puts their needs before her own, always. Aboba is a true example of endless compassion, of sacrifice and love and kindheartedness. Of course, when necessary, she disciplines them and puts them in their place, but she is, most of all, an incredible woman and mother figure to children who would otherwise spend their days parentless and unoccupied.

To celebrate our time at the gan and to thank Aboba for everything she does, we threw the kids a mesiba (a party), in true American style, complete with pizza, music and dancing! The kids, to say the least, were quite overwhelmed. The idea of eating pizza from the “pointy end” first was quite foreign, as was eating your pizza and then drinking your Coke (they were all dipping the pizza in the Coke and thought it was culinary genius).

We also made a food basket for Aboba, filled with bags of rice and pasta, cakes and crackers, juice and other goodies we know she would never buy for herself. Upon receiving it, she sang at the top of her voice in Dinka, danced and held up the card we made for her, so excited she could barely contain herself. Though the language barrier always made things difficult, it was clear that Aboba appreciated our gift and was sad to see us leave; I’ve learned that thankfulness (and happiness) are universal and are understood in any language. When I gave her a hug goodbye, I saw her eyes tear (as did mine) and the kids wrapped themselves around my legs, one last time, as I struggled to get out the door. The rickety front door slammed behind me a final time, and I heard the lock latch to prevent any potential escapees from fleeing. Waiting outside was the “gan cart,” a shopping cart I had “rescued” from Home Center that we used to schlep paint and supplies from the mall to the gan (it’s a very hilly walk), but this time, it was filled with empty paint cans, fraying brushes and trash bags stuffed with paper towels and other evidence of our project. I’ll miss that shopping cart; it served us well in its time, but I’m pretty sure the weight of the paint, Aboba’s gift and other necessities we piled into it forced it into gan cart retirement.

On one side of the gan’s new and improved yard, we painted the Dr. Seuss quote: “Today you are you, that is truer than true. There is no one alive that is youer than you.” I think that this group of girls who changed the gan, and the lives of the people in it, is truly unique. We worked through miscommunications (in English, Hebrew, Dinka and Arabic. Yes, all at once), juice spill disasters, relentlessly screaming, crying children and reaching our wits’ end only to find that loving those children was inevitable. We fell in love with a single room and the woman who lives there, with the people and a place so foreign at the beginning it was scary, only to have it become a place filled with laughter and warmth, where we could walk around with no shoes on (plus, the kids loved “hiding” our shoes at the end of the day, when they knew it was time for us to leave, so we would stay for another ten minutes pretending to be utterly confused as to where our shoes had disappeared) and hands full of paint. It was a place to feel at home, to feel a part of something much larger and more important than ourselves. We made a change in the gan, and I can say with little doubt that the gan changed all of us.

Saying goodbye is never easy, but knowing my time here was well-spent, and that (hopefully) Aboba will always remember the six American girls who painted the walls and played with the children, I leave with a feeling of accomplishment. While that accomplishment is certainly accompanied by that same emptiness, I know that the void will soon be filled by a new adventure and new challenges awaiting me in Rwanda.

As always, thank you for reading. I promise to post pictures soon, in between packing for Rwanda and picking the paint out of my hair.

Love always,
Elana

American in Israel gets FAMOUS!

2011-01-18T23:10:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone! I've recently discovered that portions of my blog have been published on the Young Judaea Year Course Website! To view one of my blogs on the YC page, follow the link:

Different Perspectives:
http://www.yearcourse.org/2010-2011/arad/different-perspectives/

Garfield and Guns

2011-01-12T04:32:00.000-08:00

Hello readers! It has officially been three blog-less weeks, and I realize that is unacceptable. So, here is an update:

I arrived back to Arad ten days ago and needless to say, America was weird. Everything was in English, everyone spoke English; I even tried to say “todah” a few times and people were very confused. It was wonderful to see family and friends, but everything that once felt “normal” and that once felt “mine” seemed very foreign.

Despite the jetlag, returning to Israel was wonderful. I came back with a second suitcase, filled with (thanks to my grandparents, Poppy and Grandma, and Aunt Amy) stuffed animals for the children at the gan. I opened the bag, emptied its contents onto the floor and I honestly thought their eyes were going to pop out of their heads with excitement. Immediately, several kids sprang for a Garfield doll, which became “chatool sheli” (my cat). However, there were a few too many “shelis” and only one chatool. So, Garfield had to take a little chofesh (a break) so the arguing, screaming and crying over him could subside. Unfortunately, attention turned immediately to a giant stuffed money whose mouth makes a “squeak” sound when pressed. This did not bode well for the monkey, or for us. Like Garfield, the monkey was also forced into “chofesh;” he is now tied around one of the gan ceiling supports, out of the reach of tiny hands to avoid any and all bickering, pulling and spitting (the competition for this monkey was major).

Last Thursday, we went on a group siyur (trip) to a local army base. This particular training base is for combat soldiers; they are some of the hardest working and most rigorously trained soldiers in the IDF. We had a complete tour of the base, and to finish the day, we got to shoot M-16s! One of the buildings on the base is a room that looks very much like a movie theater; huge screens along one wall, and a projector at the back with someone controlling it from a small room connected to the larger one. Well, this is not a place to watch Titanic, although I’m sure the picture quality would be excellent. Instead, a combat scene is simulated on the screen; different locations and enemy fire are projected, and I had to point and shoot the gun (it doesn’t shoot live rounds, but instead, small laser beams) at the targets on the screen. The soldiers instructing us kept screaming to change our positions as we shot: stand up, down on the ground, sit, reload! It was insanity. However, I must say, my aim was pretty decent. Another conclusion? Don’t wear rings on your trigger finger. It’s very, very painful.

Me, shooting my "M-Shesh Esreh" (M-16) at the base.

This week has been yet another of GCL (Gan, cook, laundry; slightly similar to the TV show the Jersey Shore’s abbreviation GTL, which stands for gym, tan, laundry. At least the laundry part is the same…)

The countdown has begun to my departure for Rwanda. Takeoff is in 18 days.

That’s all from here! More soon!
Love,

Elana

Hello from America!

2010-12-23T08:23:00.001-08:00

Hello readers! Believe it or not, I am back on the “other side” of the Atlantic (for now, anyway) while I am on break. I know I haven’t written in a while (sorry about that) but not for lack of time, but because there is simply less to report. One of the hardest adjustments I’ve had to make since moving to Arad is learning how to have downtime. It was never something I had (or knew how to enjoy/appreciate) in high school; it was always school, studying, extracurricular commitments, hours of dance, more studying, some sleep, and repeat. Now, however, I find myself with odd amounts of time to myself. Unfortunately, it’s never a consecutive chunk of time to, for example, make it worthwhile to travel to Be’er Sheba (it’s about 45 minutes on a bus from Arad) or go anywhere except the Laundromat (I try to go at least once every 10 days or so. It’s a good activity), Mega Bool (again, this is not an everyday thing… unfortunately) or visit other apartments (they’re all ten to fifteen minute walks from each other. This gets old fast). That being said, we’ve learned to be creative. Here’s a list of fun(ish) things to do in Arad if you need a quick activity to occupy two hours or less:

1. Go for a walk in the “center” of town. Sit near the construction site (yes, there’s only one) near Bank Hapoalim, around the corner from the bus station (three benches) and the Laundromat, and watch the “mayors” convene for what can only be important deliberations (I try to overhear, but most conversations are in Arabic. I like to sit and watch groups of Bedouin men stroll through the center, donning their head coverings and floor-length garb even on the warmest days. They clearly run the place). While you’re there, stop by and have a falafel or kebab sandwich in the restaurant (it’s a hole in the wall. That’s what makes it delicious) near the change store and across from the (well, once of several) spice market. One of my friends volunteers there; she chops vegetables for Israeli salad and potatoes to make fries. I try to visit her (and have lunch, naturally) every once in a while.

2. Go to Mega Bool (they will pick you up if you call in advance) and try to find the best deals on meat, chicken and fresh vegetables (all Bool deals are done by the kilo. Know what you’re buying and exactly how much of it. You will be shocked).

3. With your new purchases, make dinner for friends. We try to have themed nights (Italian night, Mexican… takeout…) Make sure your guests bring something, too! Need ideas? Try quesadillas and guacamole:

Elana’s Quick Quesdadillas:
Ingredients:
Flour tortillas (two per quesadilla, one for the “bottom” and one for the “top”)
2-3 large onions, chopped
2 red peppers, chopped
Jalapenos (you decide how hot you want your dinner to be)
Shredded cheddar cheese
Oil
Salt, pepper to taste
Two cloves garlic, minced

Procedure: In a frying pan, heat oil over medium heat. Saute onions until translucent, add garlic. Salt and pepper to taste. Remove onions and place to the side. Saute red peppers; once they become soft, add peppers to onions and set aside. Re-oil the pan and place a tortilla on the bottom. Add cheese (enough to cover the tortilla), pepper/onion mixture, and jalapenos (at your discretion). Place another tortilla on top. As the cheese begins to melt, flip the quesadilla so it cooks evenly on both sides. Once both top and bottom are golden-brown and the cheese has melted, remove from the pan. To keep the first quesadillas warm while you cook the others, turn the oven on low heat and keep the quesadillas in the oven to stay hot. Once all are finished, cut into triangles (like a pizza) and serve hot, with salsa and guacamole for dipping.

Yummy Guacamole:
Ingredients:
6 avocadoes, soft and ripe
1 red onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
Juice of a lime
1 tomato, chopped
Salt and pepper to taste
Tabasco (optional, but delicious)

Procedure: Halve the avocadoes, remove pits (reserve at least 2 pits, throw the rest away) and remove skin. In a large mixing bowl, mash avocado and add chopped onion and garlic. Mix well, but avoid making the avocado too mushy; keep it slightly “chunky” for texture (you don’t want baby food). Add the juice of a lime, salt and pepper. If you wish, add a little Tabasco for an extra “kick.” Place chopped tomatoes on top. To keep the avocado from oxidizing quickly in the refrigerator (unless you’re eating it immediately) place the two reserved avocado pits in the guacamole and refrigerate until you’re ready to eat!

4. Make hot chocolate from scratch. This is a good activity for several reasons: a) it’s something to do that takes longer than simply spooning mix into a mug and boiling water, b) it tastes delicious and c) Tim Tam Slams will follow (see previous post).

Sandstorm-Proof Hot Chocolate:
Ingredients:
Milk (3-4 cups, based on how many you’re serving)
Boiling water
Chocolate ice cream (gelato works well, too)
2 teaspoons Instant coffee
1 teaspoon Cinnamon
2 tablespoons Sugar
Marshmallows (if you’re feeling adventurous/childish/in need of more sugar)

Procedure: In a large pot, warm milk over medium heat. When milk begins to bubble slightly, stir in chocolate ice cream (2-3 cups, based on how chocolatey you want your hot chocolate. Or just use the entire tub if it’s one of those days). When ice cream has melted, add coffee mix, cinnamon and sugar. Add 2-3 cups boiling water to the mixture. Serve in mugs and top with marshmallows. Also, have Tim Tams at the ready. Enjoy!

5. Insulate your apartment to protect against 30 mile/hour winds, sand and dirt that will inevitably end up in your bedroom. What’s best for this? Duct tape and a bath towel. Yes, we did it, and yes, it worked. Pictures to follow.

6. If you need a weekday activity between the hours of 9am and 3pm, come to the gan and help us sand/spackle. We need all the help we can get (although the walls are looking SO much better!) Or, you can play with the kids. They’re adorable!

7. Go to the mall and walk around for a little while. Once you’re there, go to Super Pharm and purchase a hot water bottle. Before going to bed, boil some water and pour it into the hot water bottle. Place it at the end of your bed, near your feet. Enjoy the best night of sleep ever.

8. Go to Muza. The food is great, the bar is fun, and the waiters/waitresses are all very nice and speak excellent English. If you’re a soccer fan (after living in Israel for a certain amount of time, you become one) then this is an especially cool place to watch a game in the company of other fanatics.

9. Have game night! Playing cards, Rummikub, and backgammon (called Shesh Besh in Israel) can be very amusing for quite some time. Serve snacks and you become a very popular apartment.

10. Blog, send email, download new music and movies you haven’t had a chance to see, and otherwise make good use of wireless Internet. It is truly a blessing.

Arad isn’t necessarily boring; it’s just not Tel Aviv, which has been a major change. I’m taking it as an opportunity to make my own fun, to spend lots of time at the gan, and to learn a new side of Israel I wouldn’t otherwise see. And the craziest part? I have less than a month to live there once vacation is over, because before I can say “Mega Bool,” I’ll be boarding a plane headed to Africa. Oy va voy!

Happy New Year (from America!)
Elana

The Tim Tam Slam

2010-12-08T13:50:00.001-08:00

Hello readers! I hope you enjoyed my pictures from the gan (there are more on Facebook!). It's about 2pm here in Arad and after a long morning hike (essentially right behind my apartment) and a leisurely lunch, I'm getting ready to leave for the weekend to Tel Aviv, but before I do, I just wanted to share some of yesterday's events with you:

For the first time in a long while, I beat my alarm at its own game. It was 7:30 and I had another half hour to sleep before I needed to get ready for volunteering, but I was so excited to arrive at the gan that I tossed and turned aimlessly. Finally, by 8:45 I was out of my apartment, on to Ben Yair street and headed through the markets, past the coin laundromat and into the set of buildings next to the playground where the gan is situated. Upon opening the door, I was greeted by a dozen smiling faces and running noses, all of which came at me at once, begging, arms outstretched to be picked up or put on my back. After putting my jacket on top of the refrigerator (only the children's coats and shoes go inside the fridge; there isn't enough room for our things) I began endless games of "airplane" and "ring around the rosy." Meanwhile, two of the other volunteers were outside, beginning our spackling project on the walls of the gan's backyard. Eventually, we switched jobs (Tuta was not happy about this. She continued screaming "Lana" from the gan's single window, looking for me as I sanded and spackled away outside. Eventually, she must have gotten tired because she realized I was no longer in the room and couldn't come back inside for a while, so she relented). I must say, spackling entire walls is not easy. Especially when the guy at Home Center tells you that one 15 kilogram bucket of spackle is enough; he clearly had no idea the kind of walls we were repairing. So, a few of us returned to Home Center for two more buckets and sandpaper (he was shocked to see us. I was not happy to see him), and by the end of the day, had spackled over every crack and uneven corner on all three walls. Currently, they are drying and we will start sanding and painting next week!

After finishing work at the gan, I decided to make dinner for my roommates and some friends. A go to choice? Chicken cacciatore. It's relatively healthy, everyone eats it, and it can be made in a single aluminum tin which I later throw away for an easy cleanup. Dinner was, if I may say, a success (we were so full it was painful) and later, for dessert, I made hot chocolate and one of my friends taught me the "Tim Tam Slam." Now, let me explain. Tim Tams (no, not Tam Tams. Those are gross Passover matzah crackers) are a type of chocolate cookie, indigenous to Israel, made with three layers of chocolate and a chocolate coating. To achieve a Tim Tam Slam, here is what must happen:

1. Obtain Tim Tam cookies. You will need at least a box of them.
2. Make hot chocolate or another hot beverage of your choice (but really, while you're going a little chocolate insane, hot chocolate is the most logical decision)
3. Bite one corner of the Tim Tam, and then bite the corner diagonally opposite it.
4. Submerge the cookie in your beverage enough to be able to put the top of the cookie in your mouth while it is still in your drink.
5. As if the cookie were a straw, "drink" your hot chocolate (or tea or coffee... I won't judge) through the cookie until you feel it start to soften in your mouth. At this point, put the entire cookie (which is now hot, so be careful) in your mouth, chew, and find a napkin nearby. You'll need it. Tim Tam Slams are messy snacks.
6. Repeat until you have a) gone into sugar shock, b) feel sick, or c) run out of Tim Tam Slams (but the last is really never a problem... the markets stay open pretty late)

While making a complete fool of myself attempting (and achieving) Tim Tam Slams, I realized that I would never be partaking in such craziness or find myself in such circumstances anywhere else. I would never be in an apartment in the middle of the Israeli desert with five of my friends, who are from all across the United States, drinking homemade hot chocolate and turning cookies into mush. I would never find myself so exhausted from volunteering at a Sudanese preschool (where else would I even find one to work in?) that all I want to do is sleep, even though I decide to make dinner and stay up much too late playing Rummikub. Although I sometimes (yes, even after all these months) find myself waking up and thinking, "Is this real? Am I actually living here?" I'm still amazed by simply being in such an incredible country with wonderful friends and new adventures. I think that all the craziness is what keeps it interesting, what keeps me guessing, and what continues to make me think, "Wow. I'm actually doing this. And I wouldn't give it up for anything."

I hope all is well - more next week! Shabbat Shalom (almost) from Israel!

Love always,
Elana

Pictures from the Gan

2010-12-08T07:24:00.000-08:00

Ilyssa with the kiddies

Tuta having some juice on my lap. She calls me "Lana." Close enough.

From left: Me, Brinley and Ilyssa, the master spacklers.

We love the gan!

La!

2010-12-07T12:02:00.000-08:00

Today was my first day of volunteering in Arad. I work at the pre-school ("gan" in Hebrew) for children of Sudanese refugees. Arad has a growing Sudanese population; the Israeli government has offered refuge for people fleeing the Sudan, particularly the Darfur region, due to the ongoing genocide. The gan itself is essentially a single room: four bare walls, one small couch, two cots and a rug on a linoleum floor. There is a simple kitchen: microwave, sink, and, to my surprise, two refrigerators. The refrigerators shocked me most; the children and the woman who runs the daycare are not Jewish, so having two fridges (one for meat and one for dairy) seemed strange. In my first ten minutes there, I discovered that the second refrigerator functions as shelves for shoes (the kids run around in socks or barefoot), jackets and a very small collection of coloring supplies. Watching them trot to the second refrigerator and stuff their fraying coats and tiny Crocs inside was heartbreaking.

Children in the gan range in age from 6 months to about 5 or 6 years old. They all speak Arabic (as does Aboba, the woman who runs the gan, which is also her home) and two or three of them speak elementary Hebrew (about as much as I do). They love to color, but then crayons end up in their mouths or up their noses, and the few dolls and toys they do have can become the sources of arguments, hitting, crying and overall frustration. Luckily, there is a television in the gan; from 9am to 3pm, endless cartoons in Arabic entertain children who aren't otherwise occupied (they would rather make a jungle gym out of me or the other volunteers, run around in the park, or try to bite my painted fingernails which apparently look like candy). I must say, watching Spongebob in Arabic is an experience; Squidward's accent is about as convincing as mine.

Since most of the children only speak and understand Arabic, I decided to learn some basic words ("Nam" means Yes, "La" is No, "Salaam," like "Shalom" in Hebrew, means Hello). I really do wish I had a shekel for every time I had to say "La" today. I guess pulling my hair and untying (and then trying to eat) my shoelaces are appealing activities. My response? La!

Despite the craziness and being completely physically and emotionally draining, the children are absolutely adorable. They only want to be picked up, held and loved. Most are content to sit in my lap simply because it means they aren't sitting by themselves. Their favorite part of the day? Yogurt! Aboba hands each of us a yogurt or pudding container and a spoon, and the children come running at us, mouths open. The smart ones make rounds: they get a spoonful from one of us (everything in the gan is communal: yogurt, utensils, juice cups, etc) and then come running to someone else. This continues until the containers have been wiped clean of any and all remaining yogurt. Then, of course, cleaning up twelve faces full of sticky pudding (none of whom actually want to be cleaned) is a challenge. It's in these moments that I'm glad the gan is essentially confined to a single room; they can't go very far.

In addition to playing with the children all day, we are also responsible for spackling and repainting the backyard of the gan. It's three walls, which currently sport chipping paint and cracked concrete, a mess of dirty lawn furniture and a clothesline for Aboba's laundry. After purchasing more spackle and building materials (at Home Center, of course!) we are ready to begin our gan improvement project. I love the smell of primer in the morning (especially when it's cold enough outside for a winter coat, gloves and a scarf... in ISRAEL!)

Tomorrow is another long, tiring day with the kiddies! That's all for now - more soon!

Love and La!
Elana

Hello from Arad!

2010-12-04T14:19:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone and welcome to part two of my adventure! Sorry it's taken me so long to update all of you, but this is why:

Last Monday, we spent an overnight in a Bedouin guest tent near Arad. While the hospitality was fun (great food and lots of games of Banana Grams) there are two words to best describe my Bedouin tent experience: dust and camels. The first was responsible for me looking like Pig Pen from Charlie Brown, the second was good for two things: me smelling like, well, a camel, and later, me having to wipe myself down with Purell because the camel behind the one I was riding decided I looked like a Kleenex and sneezed all over my leg. As they say in Israel, labriut gamal (labriut is like "bless you" and gamal is a camel). I must say, riding a camel is significantly more difficult and less glamorous than it looks (if it even looks that fabulous in the first place...) Despite being VERY high above the ground, you feel every lump, bump and rock on the trail (I can't say road... it wasn't a road) and then the camel generally decides to spit, sneeze or display other bodily functions while you are on board. Ew. Furthermore, their teeth are abominable. A dental hygienist's right arm would probably fall off after doing one camel's lowers. Yes, they are that awful.

After a morning of camel riding, we hiked an "easy" trail (the Israeli idea of easy hiking and my idea of easy hiking are clearly two very different ideas) in the Negev. From the top, it's easy to see a long stretch of paved, black road roaming through endless mountains made entirely of reddish brown rock and sand. It could be something out of Aladdin if it weren't for something so modern (the tar road and the caravan of tour buses riding along it) right in the middle of an otherwise empty desert. I found myself thinking, "There is no way I can live here." As it turns out, I was wrong... keep reading!

Then came the worst part: saying goodbye to our tsofim and my friends headed to kibbutz. People who choose to spend our semester in Arad on kibbutz don't leave the kibbutz and don't see the rest of us until we move to Jerusalem in the spring. Being without them has been strange, to say the least, but I'm sure they are loving their new surroundings.

Speaking of new surroundings... I am now a resident of Arad! On Wednesday, we were given time to go apartment shopping. After buying some home essentials (yes, a trip to Home Center - I'm so excited there's one in Arad! - was necessary) I ventured, with one of my new roommates, to the Mega Bool. Mega Bool is where God would shop for groceries. Here's what's incredible about the Megal Bool: it's not actually in Arad, so the store sends a shuttle to your apartment to pick you up (free of charge), waits for you to shop, and then takes you and your purchases back to your front door (and, in our case, they send up a Mega Bool guy to the 7th floor with four crates of groceries). That, and the store itself is gorgeous; it completely puts the Douche to shame. I will not miss having my legs rammed into by dual shopping carts a la Super Douche. I am now beginning to remember that food shopping should be a pain-free experience (not that Shop Rite in New Jersey is such an example of civilized grocery shopping).

Another remarkable thing about the Mega, and Arad in general: everyone here is so NICE. Coming from Bat Yam, where I had to race taxi cabs to the crosswalk, hoping the driver would let me get across the street in one piece (and then would scream at me while I had the green light to walk), this is a very bizarre yet welcome change. In Bat Yam and Tel Aviv, "nice" is simply not done. Angry, frustrated, rushed and inconsiderate? Everyone seems very well-versed in those. But here, things are different. My neighbors don't scream at me, they talk and joke and ask us where we're from and why we're here (and when we tell them, they don't proceed to say, "Why? This place is awful!") One of my favorite members of my new neighborhood? A guy who looks about 90 and wears a sailing hat everywhere. I've been here for nearly a week and I have yet to see him without it. I'd love to know where he keeps his boat (or where he thinks his boat is); the closest body of water to Arad is the Dead Sea and I highly doubt that its sailing conditions are any good. Another one of my neighbors, Yaakov, heard my friends and me speaking English while walking home. He stopped us and asked where we are from, and when he heard New Jersey, he told us that he is originally from Elizabeth but he moved to Arad 23 years ago (he's about 80). He then proceeded to ask us who we know who lives in Elizabeth and he tried to figure out if the names were familiar. In Bat Yam, I can almost promise you this would never happen.

It's certainly been a dramatic change (it feels like I left New York City for Montana), exchanging the city for the desert and kitties for camels, but it will start to feel like home eventually. I've been making lots of latkes, hiking Shvil Yisrael (the Israel Trail - it goes through the all of Israel and takes almost 2 years to hike in its entirety. A portion of the trail is right behind my apartment, in the hills of the desert) and meeting (and adjusting to) members of my new community. It hasn't been easy, but I know it will be fun, and by the time I've embraced Arad as my home, just as in Bat Yam, it will be time to leave again. Funny how that works, isn't it?

Happy Hanukkah from the Land of Miracles!

Lots of love,
Elana

Goodbye, BY

2010-11-28T02:12:00.001-08:00

Once again, I find myself apologizing for lack of blog posts. Well, I've been a LITTLE busy. Here's what's been up:

Last week was my birthday (yay for 19!) and my parents came to visit me. We hut up the Douche (yes, they both made it out in one piece, but I had to teach them the "Slicha and push" technique in order to spend less than two hours in the produce section) and of course, Home Center, where all home goods and needs are met, just in no particular order or organization. They came with me to volunteering to meet my kids, and since it was my final day at Ben Gurion school, my students made me goodbye cards and wouldn't let me get out the door. They don't understand why I need to move (quite honestly, neither do I, other than it's what I'm scheduled to do) and only want to know if I'm coming back. I told them I would do my best to visit.

After visiting the school where I work, the college where I take classes and showing them around Tel Aviv and the most exciting parts of Bat Yam, my parents helped me prepare a Thanksgiving meal for me and my friends! My dad chopped vegetables and my mom sauteed (she also cleaned the place from floor to ceiling). A trip to the Douche returned 7 kilos of "hodo" (turkey) but not in the form of whole, bones and skin bird; turkey breast only. Cooking it became interesting, but not nearly as much of an adventure as the pumpkin pie. My mom and I found what we thought resembled pie crust in the frozen pastry section of the supermarket, lined a pie tin and made a pumpkin pie. After sticking it in the oven for about 20 minutes, we checked on it, and my mom, with a petrified look on her face, said, "Elana, I don't really think we got pie crust. This is, um, puffing. Pies shouldn't puff." Indeed, we hadn't bought pie crust. We got puff pastry dough. Ooops. Nonetheless, the pie was saved, and after some time playing with the oven temperature and moving the pie around, it didn't end up being a complete disaster.

On Friday night, our tsofim threw us prom, Israeli style, in Tel Aviv. Beforehand, I invited a bunch of my friends for "pre-prom" leftovers (those 7 kilos of turkey might have been overkill). Prom was, to say the least, eventful. An open bar, thirsty American teenagers who still haven't learned their limits and a reason to celebrate combined in what can only be described as mayhem. Naturally, around 3am, it seemed like a good idea to go to Benedict's for breakfast. Yum.

So now, it's my last full day in Bat Yam. I'm sitting among suitcases and bare walls, an empty refrigerator and cleaned-out closets. The apartment is nearly restored to the state in which we found it. A little while ago I returned from picking up my laundry one last time. Generally, I'd try to flag down a cab to take me from the one side of the city where the laundry place is back to my apartment. However, today, I decided to walk, laundry bag in hand. As I trekked back through the city to Katzenelson street, I found myself noticing all the little things that make Bat Yam special to me. The kitty count reaching 20 before turning a corner (that is, 20 cats on one block. No repeats) Women walking to the Douche with their wheeling grocery bags (really, it's plaid and otherwise unfortunately patterned luggage with a handle and oversized wheels for easy navigation to and from the market). Children running through the street, screaming, dodging cars that are exceeding speed limits by about 50 kilometers. I also noticed that I barely broke a sweat, unlike three months ago when simply breathing made me start schvitzing like a farm animal. I walked past the mall, home of the Douche and schwarma stand, up Yoseftal street that runs all the way to the beach, where we spent our first weekends when it wasn't too cold to sit out in a bathing suit. I listened to the bickering and shouting around me, shocked at how much I understood. I saw the cat lady feeding stale bread to the neighborhood kitties behind the library. And then, as I reached my front steps, I glanced at the Super Katzenelson, where I've had to run for emergency milk, extra cheese, a piece of fruit, or an ice cream pick-me-up more times than I can count. It was then that my eyes started to well and I realized that I really am leaving this place. This place that has become my home. I know that Arad will be new and challenging, but I don't feel quite ready to pack up and go. Just as I've learned the bus system, the short cuts and all the ins and outs of Bat Yam and Tel Aviv, I'm reloading my suitcases (they're heavier now) and heading south. There is no way for me to know exactly what awaits, but I know there won't be a Douche, a Super Katzenelson, a finicky oven or the students of Ben Gurion School in Arad. I may find their equivalents, but I know it won't be the same. It feels like only yesterday I was moving in, flooding the apartment due to lack of shower plumbing, and getting lost everywhere I went. Time has flown by. I know that these three months are unique and special in and of themselves, and I know I will never forget the people, the places and the crazy memories I've made here.

Thank you, Bat Yam, for teaching me so much about Israel and about myself. I know I'll be back. And next time, I'm bringing a meat thermometer. You can't find those here.

More from Arad in a few days,

Elana

Gin, Tea and Hummus

2010-11-09T07:08:00.000-08:00

Hello everyone! I hope this post finds you well. There isn't much groundbreaking news to report from Bat Yam, but here is an anecdote from yesterday's adventures that I particularly like:

After classes yesterday, a large group of us traveled to Old Yafo (Jaffa) to visit the Etzel museum, which is dedicated to the history of the Irgun, one of Israel's first underground fighting brigades before the birth of the state and the IDF. Our guide, Yosef, was a member of the Irgun. Interestingly, Yosef (he introduced himself as Yoske) was first a member of the British army during British Mandate, and joined the Irgun simultaneously (so really, he was working for both sides at the same time). He was not even 15 years old when he first began serving (he told us he forged the date on his birth certificate so he could enlist at a young age). When he had been with the Irgun for some time, he was given a special mission by Menachim Begin (a leader of the Irgun): on Christmas, they were going to steal all guns and ammunition from a nearby British army base. Since Yoske had been a member of the British army, his English accent was perfect and he already had an official British army uniform. So, on Christmas Eve, Yoske and several other Irgun members soaked themselves in gin, to give the British officers the impression they were drunk, and offered drinks to their British "comrades" as well. Yoske told us a local doctor had told him it would take about half an hour (assuming the British drank all the gin they were given) for them to become tired and fall asleep. During this time, the Irgun fighters who were drinking with the British officers weren't actually downing gin: they were drinking tea. Same color, no adverse affects, no drunkenness. Genius plan.

Two and a half hours later (so much for what that doctor had said), the British had all gone home for Christmas or were asleep from the alcohol. Yoske and his Irgun buddies, running out of tea, loaded trucks with ammunition and drove off the base. However, during their escape, shots were fired and Irgun members were wounded. Yoske made it out alive, and with a whole new artillery.

In June 1948, Yoske was aboard the Altalena, an Irgun ship loaded with fighters and military supplies. David Ben Gurion ordered Menachim Begin, Irgun leader and passenger on the ship heading for Tel Aviv, to hand over the weapons and military supplies on the Altalena to the Israeli government; now that Israel had become a state, it should have only one army. When Begin refused, Ben Gurion ordered the Altalena to be shelled. This is the only time in Israel's (rather short) history that its leader ordered a direct attack on his own people. Several Irgun members were killed. Yoske and his wife (both were aboard the ship) found a lifeboat and saved five other people. One of the people on the lifeboat was a man from Cuba, who, once reaching the shore, went to a local hotel and refused to return to Israel (understandably, he was very upset by the Israeli government's actions). In 2007, he finally came back to Israel, where his daughter now lives, to find Yoske and properly thank him for saving his life. To learn more about the Altalena affair, please visit: http://www.etzel.org.il/english/ac20.htm

Once our museum tour was over, a group of my friends and I decided to venture into Yafo for dinner. One of the most famous and (delicious) restaurants in Yafo is Aboulafiya, which features classic Middle Eastern dishes (best kababs in a fifty mile radius). Everything you order comes with a selection of fifteen salads (cauliflower, corn, tomato, tahina... each one is better than the next) and laffa bread for dipping. Not to mention all the hummus you could ever want or need (it's all very overwhelming, let me tell you). We ate way too much and rolled ourselves onto a bus home.

I know this is somewhat short, but I wanted to share some recent highlights with you.

Thanks for reading - I need to go check on my brisket now.

Love,
Elana

We made history... and then there was Halloween...

2010-11-04T11:52:00.000-07:00

This past Thursday, all of Year Course participated in the first ever Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Israel! Held in Jerusalem, this historic event drew thousands of participants. After receiving official t-shirts, I was handed a Hadassah flag to carry throughout the race - the flag was about as big as I am. Why they picked one of the shortest members of Year Course to carry the Hadassah flag is beyond me, but I was excited nevertheless (I tried not to hit too many people in my path, but eventually people realized they should avoid the short girl with the huge flag). At the start line, Senator Joe Lieberman spoke, and jokingly commented that he loves Hadassah so much, he married it (his wife is Hadassah Lieberman. Hahaha) and then, Nancy G. Brinker followed him. Nancy Brinker is the founder of Susan G. Komen for the Cure; nearly 30 years ago, she promised her dying sister, Susan G. Komen, to bring an end to breast cancer. Today, the Susan G. Komen Foundation is the largest non-profit organization donating to breast cancer research (over $1.5 billion to date!) It was an incredible event, and I felt so fortunate to be a part of it.

As I mentioned in a previous post, we simply could not let Halloween pass us by, despite the fact that we're in Israel and no one here knows or understands what Halloween is, let alone celebrates it. However, as Americans in Israel, we took it upon ourselves to dress up and take Tel Aviv by storm. Well, my roommate and I dressed up as Tom Cruise from Risky Business; big white Oxford shirts, guy's briefs, high socks and, of course, sunglasses. After several hours at a downtown club (the local club-goers thought we were quite the sight. Over 200 American teenagers dressed up ridiculously in public. It was like a zoo) we decided it would be a good idea to go to the local 24-hour breakfast place (yes, they serve bacon). So, we sat, in costume, in a restaurant, and ordered omelettes, pancakes, french toast and the like. Don't worry, we tipped our waiter really, really well.

The following day was Yitzhak Rabin's memorial in Rabin Square (Kikar Rabin), where he was assassinated fifteen years ago. The service drew an unbelievable crowd; it was impossible to move. Members of all political parties, speakers including Shimon Peres and Rabin's grandson, and musical performances made the night very special. While standing in the audience, I saw a group of security guards coming through, the crowd parting for them (the sunglasses at night, black suits and earpieces gave them away). Who was in between the cloud of broad- shouldered intimidators? Isaac "Bougie" Herzog, Minister of Social Affairs. He stopped for a minute, introduced himself and shook my hand! I don't think his security details were too fond of the pause in proceeding through the crowd, but it was nice to meet him (for 12 seconds).

It's been yet another long several days of school and volunteering; one of the scariest moments of my week? A woman in the Super Douche had an argument with one of the cashiers and proceeded to raise a full soda bottle over her head and attempt to swing at the cashier and grocery bagger. Luckily, security was called before it escalated (and before any soda bottle to head contact was made). It was one of those "oy vey" scenarios. I paid for my chicken and aluminum foil and got out as fast as possible.

That's all for now - I should start preparing for my Shabbat dinner tomorrow night; I'm cooking!

Shabbat Shalom from Israel, and lots of love,
Elana

VERY IMPORTANT: SOCIAL ACTION RWANDA NEEDS YOUR HELP!

2010-11-01T12:51:00.000-07:00

Dear Readers,

As some of you may know, I am spending the month of February in Rwanda with the Social Action Rwanda track of Year Course. I will be living and working in the Agahozo Shalom Youth Village, located outside of the capital city of Kigali. Agahozo Shalom (ASYV) was established after the Rwandan genocide to aid in the country’s overwhelming epidemic of orphaned and homeless children. In 1994, Rwanda underwent one of the most horrific genocides the world has seen. Nearly one million lives were lost, and over 2.8 million children became orphans as a result of the violence; this number is one of the highest orphan rates in the world. A project of the American Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, Agohozo Shalom opened in December 2008 in the Eastern Province of Rwanda; it now provides a safe, nurturing and educational community for up to 500 Rwandan teenagers at a time.

Before I leave for Rwanda, the group of Year Course volunteers with whom I will travel, live and work must raise at least $5,000 for the Village. The money we raise could be put toward a new building project, buying textbooks or the Village’s sustainable agriculture program. Although $5,000 is our goal, I hope to surpass it with your help.

To make a donation and learn more about the village, please visit: http://www.agahozo-shalom.org/donate.html.

THIS IS VERY IMPORTANT: You must indicate that the donation is in "support of" Young Judaea Year Course Social Action Rwanda (SAR); otherwise, we will not be credited for the donation and it will not be put toward our goal of $5,000. Also, please include YOUR name so we can thank you all for your generous support when our project is done.

Thank you all for your support, and, as always, thanks for reading.

Love,
Elana

You know you're living in Bat Yam when...

2010-10-27T12:06:00.000-07:00

Hello readers! It's about 9 PM here in Israel; I've just gotten back from my Business Ethics class, and before I resume Hebrew flashcards and preparations for tomorrow (we're going to Jerusalem for the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer walk) I wanted to update all of you (see, I'm trying to be better about this!)

Monday of this week was completely hectic. After turning in my Zionism paper and having a morning of classes, we all boarded buses for Jerusalem. Our first stop was the AACI (Association of Americans and Canadians in Israel) memorial service for fallen members of the IDF and victims of terror who were originally American or Canadian citizens. After this year's ceremony, the memorial wall dedicated by AACI just outside of Jerusalem now lists over 300 names, a staggering number. As Americans living in Israel, this was both depressing and humbling. So many people have moved themselves, their families and their lives to Israel, risking everything, and some have clearly made the ultimate sacrifice.

Once the ceremony was over, we took a trip to Mini Israel, which is, exactly as it's named, a smaller scale version of all major sites, cities and attractions in Israel. Being as tall as the Azrieli Tower (the second tallest building in Israel, tallest in Tel Aviv) was quite cool (in real life, Azrieli is almost 50 stories. I barely clear 5 feet). The main event, however, came after Mini Israel: all of Year Course (about 340 students, plus staff) attended the Masa opening event in Jerusalem, featuring a concert by Idan Raichel. First, let me explain Masa. Masa is an organization which promotes and gives funding to study abroad and exchange programs in Israel for high school and college-age students. Not only does Masa partner with Year Course, but they aid similar programs as well. They hosted the event (about 4,000 people were in attendance) and the featured guest was Idan Raichel, the musical genius behind the Idan Raichel Project. Idan Raichel's music is influenced by the global community; his band members (there are 10) are each from a different part of the world; they perform music in many languages and take musical inspiration from a variety of styles and cultures. His concert was awesome, and so are his dreadlocks. To find out more about Idan Raichel and his music, visit: .

Tuesday was an early morning of volunteering. It's been about a month, and some of my students, despite their efforts, continue to try to teach me profanity in Hebrew, thinking I won't know the difference. Unfortunately for them, I am becoming less of a "stupid American," and I recognize their shenanigans. Two of them (who shall remain nameless) think it's hysterical to teach me a sentence with curse words, tell me it means "You have nice eyes" or "I like your shirt" and then they instruct me to say it to their teacher, knowing full well it has nothing to do with pretty eyes or an outfit choice. I, however, do not fall for their tricks; generally, one of their classmates begins to giggle immediately, which is a tip-off, or someone (usually Bar or Sapir, my buddies) tells me not to repeat whatever the little clowns have "taught" me. Always good for a laugh, though. Crazy kids.

Tuesday afternoon was an adventure to Tel Aviv; we've realized that we have about a month left in Bat Yam, which means a month to visit Tel Aviv whenever we choose, a month to explore, a month to enjoy the city and beaches around us before we move to the desert. Because we cannot completely disregard being American (it's one of those things we just can't shake, unlike our initial jetlag and, after some Ulpan classes, the language barrier) we have decided to celebrate Halloween while in Israel. So, my roommate and I got costumes, had some delicious dinner and, like true pioneers, took a new bus route home (125 instead of 18...). A very successful evening, I must say.

The best part about my day today was the evening class from which I just returned. It's called Jewish Business Ethics and is taught by my Zionism teacher, Benjy. Every week, our topic changes; all are related to issues in business and global economies, and what Jewish law has to say about these modern issues. Tonight, our topic was advertising, its positive affects on consumers and ramifications of "false advertising." Interestingly, the Talmud and Halacha (Jewish law) have very specific prohibitions against misleading people when it comes to making a purchase or a decision. The example is given: A storeowner should never sprinkle expensive, delicious-smelling wine throughout his shop if the wine in the store is not of the same caliber as the wine he uses to lure in customers. His customers then believe that the wine they purchase will smell just as delicious as his shop, but when they open it, realize their wine is nothing like the product that urged them to make their purchase. The lesson here, therefore, is that advertising falsely and similar methods of simply "making a sale" or "doing business" are prohibited by Halacha. According to Jewish law, consumers have recourse if they are not satisfied with their product after buying it based on certain information (i.e. an advertisement). So, where does that leave us as consumers, as businessmen and women, and for me, as a Jewish person? I will tell you one thing: the advertisements on the sides of buses and all over billboards for chocolate in this country are very hard to ignore. They're everywhere. And I can tell you from some experience that they are not misleading (so, ads for chocolate are okay by the Halacha. That figures).

Now that my adventure in Bat Yam is two-thirds over, I have made a list of things that are unique to and great about living here. As I compiled this list, I found myself thinking, "No wonder Bat Yam has such a bad reputation." But in reality, it's been an amazing first two months, and I wouldn't have wanted to spend them any other place:

1. You see more cats than people. If I could somehow calculate the ratio of cats to people in Bat Yam, I think the kitties would win. They are everywhere. In the street. On my front steps. Behind the market. They're smart though; when they see me coming, they steer clear.
2. Your boyfriend thinks pepperspray constitutes a gift. A few weeks ago, my roommate's boyfriend gave her pepperspray after visiting our apartment for dinner. His best friend is my boyfriend, and after hearing that my roommate received pepperspray, he thought I would need some, too. After much convincing, I told him no, pepperspray was not necessary. I never walk alone at night and I know my way around. Like any city, you just need to keep your wits about you. At first, I'll be honest, walking around Bat Yam scared the living daylight out of me, but now, it's become my neighborhood and I feel comfortable going from place to place, pepperspray-free.
3. You can walk to the beach with your eyes closed (since you now know the bus system and the fact that certain lines stop running after certain hours. This only took three weeks to figure out) The beach is a 25 minute walk from my apartment, down one major road, that dead-ends at the ocean. Generally, a bus line runs straight to the beach, but the stops change, and after 9 PM, the route changes completely. Learning this was not as straightforward as it sounds, more like trial and error for a few weeks.
4. You are a Super Douche connoisseur. I have become a Super Douche maniac. I can drive my shopping cart, be on my cell phone and order chicken breast all at once like a champion. Screaming out "Slicha!" (Excuse me!) has become automatic; I'm not even afraid of bumping into people anymore because clearly, that is how the Douche is navigated: by shopping cart assault and screaming. Really, it's an acquired talent, but once you've got it down, anything is possible.
5. You have a small Russian vocabulary without even trying to learn Russian. Everything in Bat Yam is labeled in Russian (usually instead of translation from Hebrew to English, it's Hebrew to Russian. Or there's no Hebrew at all). The kids at school speak Russian to one another occasionally, and I'm starting to pick up a few words (Hello, Goodbye, Yes and No). The best place to learn some great Russian words? Super Douche. See #4 above.
6. You walk outside your apartment in mid-October and immediately begin to sweat. Granted, Israel is hot. It's the desert. But 98 degrees in October? I think that's a bit excessive. I'd really like to start wearing jeans and long-sleeve shirts, but that will not happen in the foreseeable future.
7. The woman at the post office hates you for no reason other than the fact your mother sends packages often. I am beginning to believe that the Israeli post system is worse than that in America. Arriving at the post office with a package slip usually means you will get yelled at for "being here AGAIN?!" and of course, for not understanding the mix of Russian and Hebrew the woman behind the counter is speaking. Getting the correct package and escaping unharmed is a major victory.
8. Toothpaste is a free giveaway at Super Pharm. Super Pharm is the CVS of Israel; it's everywhere and they sell everything from shampoo to paper towels. The other day, I went in to replace my shampoo and conditioner. At home, my shampoo has some clever name with "No frizz" in the title. Well, as I looked for it in Super Pharm, I saw the tall orange bottle and written on the front "Infrizzable Woman." Clearly, I thought that was hysterical (translations on labels are generally funny) so now, I am the Infrizzable Woman (I bought a few bottles) along with some conditioner, soap and other necessities. Well, as it turns out, spending 200 shekels or more at Super Pharm gets you a free gift! I was picturing a pack of Must gum or something. But no. Toothpaste. Colgate toothpaste. When the woman at the cash register saw my face, she said "Doesn't sell very much. We give away as present." Toothpaste is not a big item around here - so it becomes a gift. Priceless.
9. A bus door has closed on your face at least twice, leaving you stranded on the sidewalk as you watch your friends go to Tel Aviv without you. Bus drivers in Israel are a particularly scary breed. They do not wait for you to be fully on the bus before shutting the bus doors and driving away. This sometimes results in leaving people behind, caught limbs and profanity. Or all of the above. However, now that my Hebrew is improving, I can tell the driver to wait, please. This is not always successful, but the rate of bus doors closing in our faces and driving off has sharply declined since our arrival.
10. Despite all the problems and setbacks, strange neighbors and the relentless heat, you don't want to live anywhere else. I really do love living in Bat Yam. It's going to be sad to leave in a month, but I know my time here has given me some of the best (and funniest) experiences!

Finally, time to breathe (and blog!)

2010-10-23T13:39:00.000-07:00

Once again, I find myself apologizing for my lack of recent entries. It's been way too long! Here's the (not so) latest, but of course, the greatest, from Israel:

Last weekend, as I mentioned at the end of my last post, my entire Year Course section went to Haifa in the North. On Thursday, we drove to a Druze village and visited the shouk; the Druze are a minority in Israel, but serve in the military. Their religion, however, is a mystery; only a select few elders in the Druze community know and understand the inner workings of their beliefs, and cannot share their knowledge with others. After the Druze village (which resulted in some of the most delicious schwarma I have ever eaten) we drove to the top of Mt. Carmel, the highest elevation in Israel. Mt. Carmel used to have a waterfall flowing down one side, and now that the falls have dried, where the water used to be is a rocky trail called a "wadi." We started at the top of the mountain, climbed down the wadi (about three hours downhill) and then, in order to get back to meet our buses, we had to climb up a second mountain (it was straight up) and then back down the side of the second mountain. In the ancient world, it was the Carmel that kept invaders from entering Palestine from the North, which I now completely understand. No army (or person) could endure that schlep with horses, weapons, and God only knows what else. I barely made it to the end with my Northface backpack and water. However, I must admit a feeling of accomplishment when I reached the end of the trail (four hours later). That, and being completely sore from head to toe. Not to mention the dirt in which I was covered.

We spent the night in Haifa, and waking up the next morning was a challenge to say the least. My legs were throbbing, and I was sore in places in my arms and shoulders I didn't know I had muscles that could even feel sore. Once everyone was awake, packed, and had swallowed a sufficient amount of ibuprofen, we visited the Rothschild Gardens. Baron de Rothschild was a very wealthy guy; he gave very generously to building Israel's first settler communities. The most noteworthy part about the Rothschild Gardens is the "Blind Garden," which features plants with distinctive smells for those visitors who cannot see. We walked through the Blind Garden with our eyes closed, trying to identify the herbs and flowers planted there by scent alone. Some were easy to identify, but others were quite challenging!

After Rothschild, we went to Zikhron Yaakov, a small community outside of Haifa known for its pedestrian mall (yet, amazingly, people drive there anyway. Crazy Israeli drivers.) We visited the Ahronson House, where a spy ring operated in the early 1900s, passing intelligence about Egypt to the British. Later, we found a small cafe to enjoy lunch before returning to Bat Yam.

Once the week began again, time flew (as it tends to around here). The days truly get away from me; whether it be volunteering at Ben Gurion School (where I now have several fifth graders thinking I know Eminem because I'm American) or spending hours working on my midterm assessments for school (a research paper for Zionism and a project for Business Ethics) I always tell myself to blog, to catch up on silly things like my TV shows I download from iTunes, to email my family and friends. Let me take this time to apologize for not always getting around to it! I promise, I do think about all of you and miss you very much...

This week was especially busy because on Tuesday, all of Israel held memorial services for Yithak Rabin, who was assassinated in November of 1995. Every city holds a memorial, and I was asked to give a speech (there is always one presentation in English, and I was the speaker this year for Bat Yam) on behalf of Young Judaea at Bat Yam's service this year. The theme on which I was asked to speak was change: the meaning of change, the power of change, the methods in which we effect change. The original text of my speech is printed below (some of it was translated into Hebrew, and parts were taken out for the sake of time). It was truly an honor to present alongside the mayor of Bat Yam and a former Knesset member who was a friend of Rabin.

Thursday of this week was also a special day because a group of us took part in a tiyul (a trip) to Dialog in the Dark, Israel's blind museum. The museum was created for sighted people to experience the difficulties with which the blind community lives. Upon entering the museum, I held my hand to my nose and couldn't make out the outline of my fingers. It is truly blackness; my eyes never adjusted to the dark and I continued to stumble around, trip and call out to my friends. All of the guides in the museum are blind or visually impaired. The experience's affect on me was twofold: first, it forced my other senses to be heightened, especially hearing and touch. Secondly, I left with a new appreciation for my sense of sight. Over Shabbat, I found myself admiring the gorgeous moon and stars over Tel Aviv, taking in even small details like watching the traffic lights change and knowing what number bus to take. It's really true that you don't know what you've got till it's gone; after two hours without my sight, I want to take extra time to appreciate everything I am fortunate enough to see.

Tomorrow is yet another week; this coming Friday marks two months of me being in Israel! How crazy is that?! I'm looking forward to (finally) turning in my assignments, teaching on Tuesday (I'm hoping that Bar and Sapir did their homework correctly so I can give them stickers. It's amazing what some colorful, sticky-back pictures can do, incentive-wise) and an Idan Raichel concert Monday night (all of Year Course - 300 people - will be in attendance) and the Susan G. Komen walk for breast cancer awareness on Thursday (it's an all-day event in Jerusalem).

That's been the week(s) past, and a look forward. I hope my update finds you all well, and enjoying the beginnings of cold weather (I'm jealous. It's still 98 degrees here. In October).

I will post pictures soon (when I have both time and adequate internet connection).

Love always,
Elana

The Power of Change – Yitzhak Rabin Memorial
Bat Yam, 2010

Hello, my name is Elana Stern, and I am representing Young Judaea Year Course.

I like to think we made an active change in ourselves by deciding to spend nine months in Israel. Change is a frightening thing, both in theory and in practice. Making the decision to change is only half the battle; effecting that change and handling its potential setbacks and consequences is another challenge entirely. Instead of going directly (and predictably) from high school to college, we decided to take a risk, to make a change in the course of our lives. We have elected to jump over new hurdles, to explore the uncharted, to experience the road less traveled. In doing so, we effect change within ourselves and among those around us. Every day, we volunteer in the community of Bat Yam, aiming to improve the lives of others. We attend classes, we get involved in issues about which we care, we are handed opportunities that we can take or turn away. Our time here, and the decisions we make, have the power to effect change. Change is not often drastic, and it is not always welcome, but it is the only constant we experience.

Yitzhak Rabin was a man, and a leader, who understood the importance and the prominence of change. Long time politician, Knesset member and two-time Prime Minister of Israel until his untimely death in November of 1995, Rabin embodied the power of an individual’s potential to effect change for a better world. Faced with such problems as rehabilitating the IDF, socioeconomic issues and lack of public confidence in the Israeli government, Rabin’s political career was marked by achievements in diplomacy and his utmost involvement in engineering peace. In December 1994, Rabin was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, and in his acceptance speech, he noted:

“ I stand here mainly for the generations to come, so that we may all be deemed worthy of the medal which you have bestowed on me and my colleagues today.
I stand here as the emissary today -- if they will allow me -- of our neighbors who were our enemies. I stand here as the emissary of the soaring hopes of a people which has endured the worst that history has to offer and nevertheless made its mark -- not just on the chronicles of the Jewish people but on all mankind.”

His message is not revolutionary, it is not altogether new or groundbreaking, but it is, at its core, a plea for change. Rabin wanted peace, a peace that would take hold and eventually become permanent. He wanted a change for the future of Israel, and for the future of the world. He recognized the differences between his neighbors and his enemies, and sought to resolve them, to break the vicious circle of inconclusive politics and violence. He saw the possibility for change, for improvement, and committed his life to achieving goals driven by change he would never live to see.

Rabin, I believe it is safe to say, would not wait on the world to change. He would drive the change himself, speak out, loudly and fervently, on behalf of whatever the cause or purpose. Change is not simply making the decision to do something differently; it is actualizing our choices, it is taking active steps toward an end result, it is finding new answers to old questions. Change requires us to take risks, to stand at the forefront, and often, the desire for change necessitates defending our own beliefs in the face of adversity and stagnation. Change is progressive. Change is scary. Change is what we make it.

If you search for “change” in a thesaurus, you will find over one hundred different entries. Change can be a verb, a noun, or an adjective; defined as innovation, as something done differently, or smaller currency in exchange for that which is larger. Change is something we do, it is something we see, and something we experience. For Rabin, it meant new and improved politics, a dedication to achieving peace and lifetime spent, quite simply, doing things differently. For us, it means taking advantage of every new opportunity we are given. It means volunteering in new places and meeting new people. It means devoting ourselves to a cause, to a purpose, and watching our aspirations for change become realities. Change does not happen, it is made, change is not a possibility, it is a fact, and change will not always be easy or pleasant, but it will always be necessary. When we simplify it from complex ideas to everyday human action, change is the impact we have on ourselves and those around us; it is the differences we make in the world, no matter how small, which amassed among us, create a world better than the one with which we started.

Going Postal

2010-10-11T12:50:00.000-07:00

Hello readers and welcome to week 7 of my adventure! Here's what's been happening since my last post:

On Thursday, my entire section of Year Course (there are about 100 of us) participated in Sports Day. Everyone who wanted to play soccer, volleyball or basketball signed up for their respective choice and was assigned to a team. To make the competition official, we all got t-shirts in a color specific to our team (mine was red). However, instead of printing "Section 2 Sports Day" on the back of the shirt, I now own a piece of clothing with "Section 2 Ball Tournament" written across my shoulders. In very large letters. Something was clearly lost in translation when making up the shirts, but regardless, we could have made laughing about "Ball Tournament" an activity in and of itself.

After Sports Day came to a close (my team, unfortunately, did not win in the end. Bummer) it was time for my second meeting with the Social Action Rwanda track. Before we leave for Rwanda at the end of January, we have several meetings and orientations to prepare for our trip. This past week, a survivor of the genocide, Martin, came to share his story with us. He moved to Israel 3 years ago, with his wife, and is now a student at Tel Aviv University where he studies, of all subjects, conflict resolution. During the genocide, his family, who he told us is Hutu, helped protect their Tutsi friends and neighbors, hiding them from persecution. Unfortunately, not all of those they protected survived. His family, however, which includes seven brothers and sisters and his parents, are all still living in Rwanda; the likelihood of entire families surviving was slim to none, so his story is truly remarkable. What was most interesting was his mention of the division between Hutus and Tutsis. He said his family is "considered" Hutu; when he was growing up, no one knew who belonged to what group. It wasn't until the government forced everyone to carry identification cards that the two ethnic groups became so defined; thus began the genocide. At the end of his story, Martin told us plans to return to Rwanda in November to see his family and their village.

Friday began a weekend of girls-only shabbat; it started off with a rain storm! On the bus to Tel Aviv, torrential downpour stopped traffic, pedestrians were caught completely off guard, and Allenby and King George Streets began to flood. It was truly a sight! After puddle-jumping our way off the bus, we explored the food stands at Dizengoff Center, where, every Friday, the spiraling hallways of the shopping mall are lined with cuisine from every corner of the earth. For lunch, we had bowls of Indian food (curried chicken, rice, and vegetables) and for dinner, we went to the homemade pasta stand for several types of penne, ravioli, gnocchi and sauces. We did, however, spend some time debating among the Chinese food, sushi rolls, Middle Eastern specialities and, of course, crepes. Very serious consideration and deliberation took place.

Saturday was spent at the beach; it's finally cooling down here (i.e. rain in October) so by late afternoon, it was time to pack up our towels and begin getting ready for the Israel vs. Croatia soccer game. Brinley, our friend Kayleigh and I bought face paint (and glitter, naturally) at Dizengoff (after deciding what food to buy, since that always takes precedence) to show our Israel team spirit! Too bad no amount of face paint or glitter in the world could help this team. First of all, it was a 9 PM start, and we didn't arrive at the Ramat Gan stadium until almost 8:45. At this point, every drunken soccer fan in the country (i.e the majority of the population) had already entered the stadium, painted their chest and was screaming for a hot dog, a goal, or more beer. It really did all sound the same from me. Now, let me explain something. The stadium seats approximately 80,000 people. They had clearly oversold tickets, because not only was there nowhere to sit, there was barely room to stand. Or breathe. This made going to Livingston Bagel Deli on a Sunday morning seem like a calm, civilized experience (for those of you who have never been to Livingston Bagel on a Sunday morning, just imagine a zoo of people, fighting over baked goods, complaining that their order is wrong, that they've been waiting for three hours, etc. etc. Now put all of that into Hebrew, magnify by about thirty decibels, and add cigarette smoke. You then begin to approach this stadium on a Saturday night). In any case, once the game started, we decided, in the true spirit of attending a sporting event, to check out the concession stand. Bad, bad idea. They were making Hebrew National hot dogs as fast as they could (not fast enough) and literally throwing cups of Coke and bags of sunflower seeds everywhere. Mind you, the concept of waiting in lines and being patient is completely foreign in Israel, so Brinley and I (both of us are barely 5 feet, and clearly American) managed to escape the throngs of people, I believe, by the threat of having blue face paint smeared all over their white soccer jerseys should they smack into us. We escaped with hot dogs (and even some mustard!) a bag of sunflower seeds and a Coke between the two of us.

The game, unfortunately, was uneventful for the most part. Croatia scored twice in the first half (I'm pretty sure the entire country of Croatia was at the game. They fit into one section, and looked like one large, confused picnic blanket. Their team is red and white checkered print shirts, so put them all together and they begin to resemble barbecue decor). Israel didn't make an attempt at a comeback until after halftime, with about five minutes left. I guess their coach threatened them with no falafel or some such punishment, because they were making a serious effort. In their defense, the refereeing was clearly stacked against them; I'm not exactly a soccer buff, but I know unfair calls when I see them. Eyal Whathisname did not deserve a yellow card. The guy from Croatia tripped over his own two left feet. To make things interesting, a very drunk, frustrated fan jumped onto the field with about two minutes left and began running across. It took four security guards to stop him, tackle him and escort him off the field. When that is a high point of a game, you're in trouble. It ended 2-1, but I got an Israel scarf (it's actually quite cool. It's reversible) and Brinley bought an Israeli flag to hang in our room. So really, it was an excellent evening.

Sunday was supposed to be a relaxing day. I had received an email from a member of the Year Course staff telling me I had a package slip in the office and that I should pick it up sometime Sunday so I could go to the post office. I figured I could get some sleep, get my package slip and wander to the post office later in the day. Too bad I got a phone call around 7 AM. An angry Israeli voice greeted me on the other end: "This is Elana Stern? Your package, it is in the office of your Year Course. Don't come to post office for it." What a wake up call. I didn't even get a "boker tov." I swear, for an intelligent and modern country, their postal service is awful. But, I guess if that's my biggest complaint, things are going well overall. Better than well. Things are great. Fabulous, even. Just not the post office. They're less than fabulous.

That's the latest and greatest from here. It's another full week of volunteering, classes and all-around shenanigans. Thursday we're taking a group trip up North to Haifa - I'm so excited! I will do my best to update you all again between now and when we leave.

All my love,
Elana

PS: If Gad ever shows up to fix our router, I might be able to upload pictures!

Oh, to the left!

2010-10-05T14:25:00.000-07:00

First, let me start by apologizing for my lack of recent entries. It's been way too long since my last post, but let me explain why:

On Friday morning, the tsofim (Israeli scouts) took a group of us to the Kinneret for a tiyul (a trip). We arrived midday on Friday, set up our "camp site" (no tents, dirt and sleeping bags only) and swam in the Kinneret (Sea of Galilee). Later, we had a barbecue and, naturally, a dance party (no camping trip is complete without the right amount of techno and obnoxious autotune). After roughing it for a night we traveled to our water hike! In some parts, the water was ankle-deep, in others, it hit my shoulders, but throughout, it was very rocky and slippery. I emerged muddy, tired and black and blue (unfortunately, there is no photographic evidence of this because I didn't want to risk ruining my camera. The trek was dangerous enough without begin responsible for any form of technology). Since you are all familiar, I'm sure, with my deep love for nature and the great outdoors (bahaha) you can imagine my attitude toward my post-camping, post-hike state: I needed a shower. Badly.

We returned to Bat Yam on Saturday night; I smelled like what I'm sure is a cross between unclean feet and horse manure (it was that bad, let me tell you). On Sunday, after a brief meeting to discuss my volunteering program, I went to Tel Aviv to take another dance class; this time, I tried jazz. I hopped into a cab, and, just my luck, I got the most talkative driver in Israel. He wanted to know if I liked the music he was playing. Where I was from. Why was I staying in Bat Yam? (An excellent question, I might add. I get that quite a lot). Eventually, the Spanish Inquisition ended, he dropped me off, and asked what time I needed to be picked up later that night. I told him I didn't. I could not have handled another half hour of that for the life of me.

I arrived in plenty of time, found a spot to stretch before class began, and waited for the teacher to take command of the class with what is usually a high-pitched "Yala!" ("Let's go!") As soon as Roy (I was expecting Roy to be 6 foot and dark and handsome. This Roy is a girl, she is maybe 5'2'' and not more than 100 pounds) started barking at us, I stood up and moved toward the front of the class. "Smoll!" she screamed. "Yes, I'm short," I thought to myself, "I'll move up more so the taller, lankier girls (i.e. everyone in the room) can have more space." As it turns out, she wasn't yelling at me to move up because I'm a dwarf. "Smoll" means "left." She wanted me to move over. Ooops. But, now I understand "smoll" and "yemeen" (right). So, later in the class, when she began ordering "Veh, step, smoll, yemeen, smoll, veh turn veh jump veh yemeen!" I understood. I was very proud of myself for figuring that much out and keeping up in the class when the music stopped and Roy came up to me and motioned for me to repeat a piece of the combination we had just learned. I really thought I was in trouble. Then she started explaining something in rapid fire Hebrew and asked me if I could please... All I could think to myself was "No, I cannot because I only understood that last part because my Hebrew is about as good as your Swahili, so I have no idea what you want me to do." Well, I smiled, said "Slicha" (which means "excuse me," or "sorry." Always a good word to throw in when things get awkward. Which for me is all the time) and explained, in English, that I'm from America, I'm living here for a while, I've been dancing for my whole life and wanted to continue while in Israel. Everyone in the class found this intriguing; they wanted to know if I've been to New York, if I know Beyonce, if I understood a word that had been said during the past hour. My answers went something like: Yes, I love New York, it's 30 minutes from my house, but no, I don't know Beyonce, and no, I don't understand anything you've said in the last hour, but I'm glad I fooled you all! As it turned out, Roy wanted me to demonstrate a piece of the choreography we had learned, which flattered me, and she was more impressed when she found out that my Hebrew is so limited. After telling me she wants to see me next week in her class, she ordered me to get my leg higher. Too bad it was at my face already. Her response? "It can always go higher!" How Israeli are we? Answer: very.

Monday was a full day of classes; I'm learning prepositions and verbs. Watch out, world, Elana can make Hebrew sentences! Today (Tuesday) I began full-time volunteering at the Ben Gurion school. For the first hour, I work in a sixth grade English class of 25 students. Of the 25, maybe 10 actually sat for the entire class doing their assigned worksheets and exercises; the rest ran around outside, screamed at one another, and wreaked general havoc. It was madness. One of the particularly engaged students, Daria, held a complete conversation with me in English; she wanted to know where I'm from, what America is like, and if I know Justin Bieber. I told her not personally, but I know of him. The fact that she laughed led me to believe that her English is nearly fluent; she later told me that her parents enrolled her in an after school program to supplement her English skills, and they practice with her at home. Unfortunately, many students do not share her enthusiasm. For example, her classmate Mordecai told me he never needs to learn English because everyone he knows speaks Hebrew. I asked him, "What about me? How can we talk and be friends if you don't help me with my Hebrew and I don't help you with English?" At this, he opened his notebook and began his grammar exercises. It was a small victory, granted, but one more sixth grader practicing his sentence formation instead of raising hell in the schoolyard.

After a short break, we went into a fifth grade class (except there were 35 of them; the extra 10 does make a huge difference) to do more of the same: encourage an unruly group of ten and eleven year-olds to open their workbooks instead of run around outside. Upon introducing myself, a group of girls, Bar, Sapir and Maziel, surrounded me, asking for help with their worksheets and their overwhelming vocabulary lists. I sat them each down, and began explaining the exercises in the simplest terms I could; they corrected my Hebrew mistakes and I made sure to make little notes in colored marker where their English grammar was incorrect. At the end of the day, Bar pulled out a sticker book from her backpack and peeled off the biggest heart-shaped one she could find. "For you," she told me, "for teaching me all the best English!" She hugged me and ran down the hallway. As I was leaving, she and her friends came to find me and practiced, as I had taught them, "See you soon!" The sticker Bar gave me is currently on my water bottle; I'm hoping to have a complete heart and rainbow collection papering my Nalgene by the time I finish teaching at their school.

That's been the last week (almost) and now I'm looking forward to the Israel vs. Croatia soccer game on Saturday night (a bunch of us decided to go!). I am that desperate to watch professional sports. But, in any case, it should be a great time; I just need to learn how to say "run faster," "score a goal," and "trip him" in Hebrew. Shouldn't take long.

Love from the Holy Land,
Elana

Sorry, I don't have a screwdriver

2010-09-30T06:11:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: This post was meant to be published Thursday, September 30, but due to unreliable internet connection (problem detailed below) and my recent encounters with nature, now is the best I could do:

Hello everyone! I hope all is well. Today is the end of Sukkot, and tomorrow is Simchat Torah; most of Israel is currently closing down for the holiday, which is the perfect reason for me to update all of you! I realize that my last post was on Sunday, so here is what has happened since:

On Monday, my roomies went to Latet early in the morning, so I was left in (what I though was) an empty apartment for the majority of the day. When I finally stumbled out of bed around 10, I groggily walked to the kitchen to make some breakfast and coffee. Before I crossed from the hallway where my bedroom is to the kitchen entry way, I was greeted "Eh, hello, eh." I literally jumped out of my skin. There was a man sitting on our couch, laptop open on the coffee table, waving at me and grinning. I had no idea where he had come from or what he was doing there. All I could think was, "Thank God I'm wearing actual pajamas right now." He continued: "I am eh, very sorry! I am here from, eh, how you say? Computer company! Yes, I am here to fix internet for you!" He kept apologizing that he didn't mean to scare me, and explained that he had been knocking on our door for about 10 minutes before using a key that maintenance had given him in case no one was home. Well, I had been home, but I was sleeping like a rock, and the air conditioning unit above my bed makes it impossible to hear anything happening in other rooms of the apartment. Anyway, he introduced himself as Gad (of course, I though to myself, Oh, nice to finally meet you, I've been waiting almost 19 years. You're tall and Israeli and you fix internet connections. Just as I pictured you) and after screaming into his phone for a while, told me he had to find his friend Moshe to fix the "eh, the eh, how you say? Router! Yes, the eh router!" I was getting ready to leave to drop off laundry and go about my day, so I offered him something to eat or drink (which he declined) and told him I would be back in a few hours. He replied: "Eh, I'm leaving also! I eh, go with you!" I thought, "Oh, where exactly are we going?" but then he clarified by telling me he would be back later in the day to fix the, eh, how you say? Router.

I returned to the apartment, Windexed every surface and mopped the floors, and was about to begin a blog entry when Gad knocked on the door. He came in, asking for a screwdriver. Do I LOOK like I have a screwdriver? Let me just pull one out of my purse. I'm sorry, I left my toolbox at home along with my wrench and bolt cutters. I told him, sadly, no, I did not have a screwdriver, only duct tape, aluminum foil and some Prigat mango juice. He did not understand my humor, so I dropped it, he called Moshe screaming again, and told me the router could not be fixed until another time, when he can, eh, use a, eh screwdriver to make it how you say? Work. So that was inconclusive. But I met Gad (teehee) and am now strongly considering investing in some tools to keep around the house.

In any event, Monday afternoon was beautification, Tel Aviv style! My roommate and I found a salon off Sheinkin Street, where we indulged in manicures, pedicures and the like. It was quite necessary (the woman who, unfortunately, got stuck doing my pedicure, wore a mask while fixing my feet. I knew they were bad, but apparently, even I underestimated the state of my heels. All better now!

After getting back from Tel Aviv, my friends and I decided to check out the Bat Yam Biennale. The Biennale (which literally means "biannual" in Italian) happens every two years and is a celebration of urban growth, improvement and art. Every time the festival happens, new projects are begun, like refurbishing parks, creating new recreation centers, or coming up with new ways for Bat Yam to be a more ecologically friendly city. The idea of biennale was originally a European one; the Paris Biennale is famously associated with art expositions that last for a few days and then are taken down. What's great about the Bat Yam Biennale festival is that the projects started during Biennale remain ongoing and live to see completion; they are not taken down after a few days. The festival itself was three days, on the beach (which messed up all bus routes quite well, so I spent a considerable amount of time finding my way from a collection of bizarre side streets back to the tayelet - the boardwalk along the beach) and so much fun!

On Tuesday morning, I got up early and spent the morning working at a local school (on my street, actually!) for children with special needs. The children at this school spend a full day there - from 8 AM to 6 PM or later, ranging in age from 6 to 20. In the spirit of the holidays, we did Sukkot-themed activities with them, including making fruit salad "eem dvash" (with honey), dancing to Israeli music (they were very enthusiastic about this) and making arts and crafts, including flower hats. At the end, a bunch of the kids stood up and thanked us in Hebrew, explaining how much fun they had, and they hoped we would come back. I certainly hope to volunteer there again!

Tuesday afternoon was a trip back to Cinema City to see (finally) Eat, Pray, Love, which was amazing, and made me thank myself for calming down my schwarma habit - Julia Roberts' character ends up needing larger pants due to too much Italian pastry and pizza. That cannot be me (just replace the Italian food with laffa and ice cream, and it could potentially be a problem).

That's the most exciting news from here - I am leaving on Friday morning for a tiyul (a trip) with our tsofim (scouts) to the Kinneret. We are going to the beach, camping out, and going on a water hike on Saturday morning! I can't wait!

More soon - and more pictures, when the internet cooperates and ehh, how you say? Works.

Lots of love,
Elana

Pictures (of normal size, I hope)

2010-09-27T03:44:00.000-07:00

The view of Jerusalem from the top of the youth hostel.

Me, with the "bead guy" in the shouk.

Pictured above: the Ben Gurion School, where I'll be volunteering. The kids put on a show about the three major holidays (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot), and we were invited to watch!

Saturday Night in the Big City

2010-09-26T15:09:00.000-07:00

If you are considering going to see a movie on a Saturday night in this country, don't. Never, under any circumstances, should you act on that idea. Bake a cake. Go to the beach. Knit a sweater (that's too hot to wear in Israel) but do not, ever, go see a movie on a Saturday night. Let me tell you why. Almost everything closes Friday in the late afternoon for Shabbat, remains closed all day Saturday, and reopens Saturday night. Cinema City is no exception to this rule. Everybody and their Uncle Ofer goes to Cinema City on Saturday night to see a movie. Well, I didn't know this, and neither did my roommate. So, like idiots (dumb Americans), we went to try and see Eat, Pray, Love last night. Major mistake. We got to the complex, and not only was it swarming with people, the line for movie tickets bent around at least twenty deep. It was madness. I was pushed and shoved in every direction, by people twice my size and four times my age (lines are not really an Israeli thing. Neither is patience. Hmm) When I finally got to the front of the line, I was informed that the 9 PM show had sold out (thank you, Shabbat, and thank you, lack of Fandango. You really don't appreciate the small stuff till it's gone. Or till it's all in Hebrew) and we could only see the midnight movie. I had to wake up early for volunteering, so midnight was not happening. In any case, we went to our favorite Thai restaurant for dinner and the manager gave us dessert on the house (apple pie with vanilla ice cream, naturally. Between the English menus and simply by being ourselves, we radiate American-ness, so why shouldn't our dessert be American, too? Go figure). We are hoping to see the movie later this week, but it won't be on a Saturday. You could not get me to Cinema City with a ten foot pole on a Saturday. No thank you.

This morning I woke up extra early to spend the day volunteering at one of Israel's largest aid facilities, Latet. Latet is an incredibly large warehouse that operates as a human needs food pantry. Donations are shipped and delivered to the warehouse (it's about 45 minutes away from Bat Yam) in boxes of assorted canned goods and non-perishable foods. Volunteers (i.e. us) then unpack all the donations, sort them, and repack them in official Latet boxes (organized by food type, number, and weight) to be given to those in need. We were told to meet at a central point in Bat Yam, bring snacks and water, and prepare for a long day. That was it. No other specifications. Upon arriving, the guy running the warehouse saw our shoes and shook his head disapprovingly. We were wearing sandals. Everyone in Israel wears sandals. You wear sneakers for one of two reasons: 1) you're exercising, or 2) you're a tourist. We weren't doing the first and we're trying to avoid the second, so flip flops have become a permanent outfit staple of mine. However, we couldn't wear sandals to work in the warehouse, but we had schlepped to the food bank, ready to volunteer, so we had to figure something out. Luckily, there is a large sporting goods store a few blocks from Latet, so our group leader Eyal took us to purchase some shoes, on Year Course's dime, not our own. The store window is papered with recognizable name brands: Converse, Adidas, Nike. Unfortunately, none of these were in the cards for us. Eyal made a point of telling the woman behind the counter we needed cheap, closed-toe shoes. Sure enough, she came up with a solution: water shoes. Yes, water shoes. Ugly, hot, blue water shoes that run in odd European sizes and cost 50 shekel a pair, less if you buy in bulk (which we did). So, I spent today packing and unpacking canned goods, oil, and rice in blue water shoes two sizes too big for my feet. I understood why they were so cheap when I took them off on the bus ride home: my feet had turned blue. From the shoes. Oh, excellent. But apart from the shoes (which we were laughing about after an hour) volunteering at Latet was awesome. It was hot, sweaty and tiring, but awesome. I think I packed six hundred or so bags of rice, hundreds of bottles of oil, and tons of salt, flour and canned goods. We were working with a group of Israeli soldiers who have recently started their army training and need to fulfill community service requirements, so they got a kick out of us trying to read the Hebrew labels on everything (when they stopped laughing, they helped us). It was a fantastic experience - I'll post pictures when I can!

After Latet, I ventured to Super Douche (oy) to purchase enough chicken to feed forty hungry girls. One of the girls' apartments hosted a pot luck dinner tonight, and every apartment had to bring a dish. We were in charge of chicken because my cacciatore was, apparently, a success. So, three kilos of chicken (almost seven pounds), seven large onions, garlic, oregano, two cartons of mushrooms and two cans of tomatoes later, we had cacciatore. Two aluminum tins of it. And there were barely leftovers. Only once the first batch was gone did I realize I forgot the olives. Sorry, Mom. Not only did each apartment have to cook, we all had to dress up in a theme. Since we knew it would be a night of walking all around Bat Yam, carrying chicken cacciatore through town (that's something they don't see very often - mobile chicken cacciatore. Or cacciatore in general), we opted for comfort: we were a slumber party and all showed up dressed in our pajamas! One apartment dressed up as ninjas, the hosting apartment got creative with their plastic Super Douche bags and were "super douches" and another group came as superheroes. It was quite the party.

That's been the last 36 hours, but to backtrack a little further, I finally went to dance class this past Saturday! I joined a studio in Tel Aviv called Studio B (it's the Israel equivalent to Broadway Dance or Steps... major New York studios) and with my membership, I can take any advanced class I want! On Saturday, I woke up early and went to advanced ballet. I later learned that one of the girls in the class had spent the summer in New York at Juilliard. She was the best one there. But all told, I felt pretty comfortable with the level, the teacher and the other dancers there. Granted, it was all in Hebrew (but all ballet terminology is in French, so I understood 80% of what happened) but I held my own. Luckily, I can count to eight in Hebrew (dancers only need to know how to count to eight. Not even ten, just eight) and although I was the youngest one in the class, I was certainly not the least trained. No dance teacher of mine has ever, until now, said "Shabbat Shalom," instructed me to tuck in my "toussik" (butt) or told me not to flex my foot by screaming "lo chazarah!" ("flex" in Hebrew, from what I gathered, is "chazarah," like "chazarai," or "clutter"). When we began combinations across the floor, I understood we were beginning at the corner when I heard "pinot," as in the song about Haman's three-cornered hat we sing on Purim (shalosh pinot = three corners). Thank you, Hebrew school. Who ever thought a song about Haman's silly hat would make me look like less of an idiot in ballet class? Not me, that's for sure.

Those are all the most interesting tidbits for now. My friends and I went to the American bar, Mike's Place, to watch the Giants lose, so that was a disappointment, and now the only thing left to do is get some sleep. I think that's my next logical move: pajamas. But not to eat dinner (I could not eat another thing if you asked me to), to finally go to bed.

Good night from Bat Yam, more soon,

Elana xoxox

Love You from Jeru!

2010-09-24T15:54:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone! I hope this post finds you well. I got home from Jerusalem yesterday, and it was another amazing trip to the Old City. My roomie and I left Wednesday morning, early (we got up at 7 AM to catch a bus... but not before we had coffee and breakfast, of course) and got in to Jerusalem for the Bezalel Art Festival. The Festival was situated on several small side streets and parks, which made for a very cute backdrop to the many stations filled with handmade goods. After much exploration, we hit Ben Yehudah for lunch at Moshiko for some of the BEST shwarma in Israel, and ate it in a sukkah! What's really cool about Sukkot in Israel is that not only do families build their sukkahs, but restaurants and even some shops build them as well, and invite their customers in for a meal, shopping, etc. Walking on Ben Yehudah, which, for those of you who have experienced it, is already craziness, only becomes more difficult when you are not only dodging people, but sukkahs! Luckily, there was no falling schach (the branches on top of the sukkah, which are pretty heavy) and I think all sukkah-related injuries were avoided. Phew.

Once we exhausted King George, Ben Yehudah, and the art festival, we decided to head back into the Old City to check into our hostel. The Citadel Youth Hostel is built into the walls of the Old City, behind the Jaffa Gate. The rooms and hallways were once all part of an elaborate tunnel system; now they house travelers like us. The room had one large bed (we shared it), a closet full of blankets (none of which are necessary in September in Jerusalem... it's not that cold yet) a sink, and a broken bedside fan. Bathrooms and showers are all community property. I stuck to washing my face and wore my flip flops everywhere (you taught me well, Mom). At all hours of the night, we heard church bells from the Christian quarter, screaming from the Arab shouk below, and of course, tourists trying to find their way in a variety of languages along the alleyway over which our lone window looked. To say it was an interrupted night of sleep would be inaccurate. More like a series of naps, each with a stranger wakeup call. And then around 5 AM, the imam started at the Dome of the Rock. While it certainly wasn't the most restful night, it wins in most multi-cultural and definitely most adventure-filled.

After finally surrendering to the children playing in the street (quite loudly) and the church bell/imam symphony, we wandered into the shouk for breakfast of bagelach (oval-shaped bread with sesame seeds - absolutely delicious) and freshly squeezed pomegranate juice. The biggest question was if we wanted sweet juice or tart; we learned that overripe pomegranates yield sweeter juice, while fresh ones are more sour. We opted for sweet. Total? 15 shekels for two juices and the bread. Deal of the century.

Once breakfast was over, we walked to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, where it is believed that Jesus was resurrected. We walked around, climbing the impossibly narrow and steep stairs to get an overhead view of the people surrounding the Stone of Unction (where Jesus was, it is believed, prepared for burial), placing their valuables on the marble stone and blessing them. When we realized that every tour group in Israel was coming into the Church, we decided it would be an opportune time to leave, so we walked to a local park, outside of the Old City, for a Sukkot nap. Eventually, we went out for a late lunch (at the Focaccia Bar, highly recommended. It's non-kosher, so they serve shrimp and are open on all holidays and Shabbat. Score) and then walked back into the shouk (with our bargaining hats on) for some shopping. We visited my favorite bead store, and of course, found some incredible necklaces made from Bedouin beads, and stopped at the spice market for some dried fruit and almonds. If you're in the market for frankincense and myrrh, go visit this guy in the shouk - he has it. He didn't want us taking any pictures in his shop, and I'm pretty sure it's because frankincense and myrrh shouldn't be available for purchase (I mean, that stuff shows up in Shakespeare's plays, and look what happens to Romeo and Juliet after visiting the apothecary. Not a good scene). But, after making our way (quite successfully) through the market, tasting new juices (all of which we watched them squeeze for us, to order) and dodging the flailing lulavs (one of the four species, a frond of a date plant, which represents the human spine, along with the etrog, which looks like a lemon, and represents the heart), we picked up our bags from the hostel and began the journey back to Bat Yam.

Now, I need to explain something. Time in Israel works very differently from time in the United States. If you are told something will take ten minutes, expect it to take twenty. If someone tells you they will be at your house by 5 PM, they'll be there by 5:30 if you're lucky. We got to the Jerusalem Central Bus Station, and it was closed. It was supposed to reopen at 6:00 because buses began running around then. 6:05. 6:10. Around 6:15, they finally opened the doors and we made it through the elaborate metal detectors and security. We were trying to catch a 6:20 bus back to Tel Aviv. How we made it, I will never know, but we did. We changed buses in Tel Aviv and were en route to Bat Yam when we both realized we were starving. Our late treif lunch had been several hours ago, it was nearing 9 PM, and we needed food. Pizza. We needed pizza. Luckily, after some serious Google Blackberry searches, we came across Casa Del Papa Pizza, on Ben Gurion Street in Bat Yam. They delivered half an hour later (give or take ten minutes). I highly doubt dough with cheese and vegetables had ever tasted so delicious.

Today was Friday, so the markets off of Sheinkin Street in Tel Aviv were open. We got a late start, visited Super Katzenelson for a few essentials (I hadn't been there in over three days. The woman who owns the place was probably getting nervous) and then made our way to Sheinkin. We explored downtown Tel Aviv (the Sheinkin area is like the SoHo of Israel) and I came across pre-peeled garlic for the first time since moving here, (I was very excited, and of course, had to buy some). Later, we were lucky enough to be invited to our madricha's home for Shabbat dinner (our madricha, Ariel, is like our counselor/ supervisor while we're in Israel). We ate way too much, played a few too many rounds of cards, and here I am, updating you on the latest and greatest. It's been an eventful few days. Tomorrow is my first day as a Studio B dance student (I joined the studio as a visiting dancer, so every month I need to renew my membership) and I'm going to take a few classes. Wahoo!! I have missed dance SO much.

Class is early, and I don't want my new Israeli dance teachers thinking I have two left feet, so that's all for now. Pictures soon, I promise (they're off my camera, they just need to be put online!)

Lots of love,
Elana xox

Up and Down, Side to Side

2010-09-21T13:32:00.000-07:00

Here are the top five events since Yom Kippur:

1. Classes and volunteering resumed for a total of three days. They are now on hold until October 3 due to Sukkot. One more holiday and I think I will have a total of 30 minutes of volunteer time while living in Bat Yam. However, today my group had our meeting at a local elementary school where we will be teaching English to fifth and sixth grade students. We met with the principal and the English teacher; what I find crazy is that the students, and we, are instructed to call the teachers by their first names. No "Mrs" or "Ms," but "Carmella" and "Larissa" and "Tzippi." Something tells me if I ever tried that in school, things would not turn out well. After our meeting (they were quite impressed by our Powerpoint presentation; I mean, the background on the slides DID match the theme of our lesson plans, so I'm pretty sure that sealed the deal) we were invited to stay for a "ceremony" about the three holidays (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur and Sukkot). This was not a normal assembly. Every student, at one point, either sang a song, did a dance with his or her grade, performed a memorized poem or skit, or did a combination of several. It was adorable, and quite impressive. The principal introduced us at the beginning of the meeting (pre-song and dance festivities) and a hundred wide eyes turned around to see the six American girls sitting at the back; you would have thought we were the lions at the zoo - the most awesome of attractions. Too bad we were a combination of tired, sweaty, unkempt and once again, sweaty. I think they were all slightly disappointed. In any case, we start working in classrooms at the beginning of next month; there are about 24 kids per class, so we will be sufficiently outnumbered. It will certainly be a challenge!

2. My apartment has acquired a shower curtain. The shower no longer closely resembles Noah's ark. I will not miss the flash flood of water that was always on the floor of the bathroom; the days of risking breaking my neck simply by stepping out of the tub have ended. I am not sad about this.

3. Our oven no longer works. It seems as though while Ofer and Omer (I am going to assume the maintenance guys who came to install our shower curtain were named Ofer and Omer. This is generally a safe bet) were putting up our shower curtain, they managed to leave us with only one working outlet in the kitchen (there are at least six outlets in the kitchen) and a defunct oven. How this occurred, I could not tell you. Granted, our apartment is not a big place, but there is no way installing a shower curtain should ever tango with oven function. Anyway, good luck making dinner sans oven. I did it, but it was not simple. I decided (before realizing our oven was useless) to make teriyaki salmon for the four of us for dinner. Well, after a solid hour of marinating the fish and sauteing some onions, I went to turn on the broiler. No luck. I thought it was the outlet. So, one of my roommates helped me move the oven (it's free-standing, so we were able to wiggle it away from the wall) into, of all places, the living room, where there are several outlets. After moving it across the apartment and plugging it in, only to realize that the oven itself was broken, I had some choice words. But I was also intent on having salmon for dinner. We returned the oven to its rightful spot, and I plugged in our burner (it's really a hotplate with two coils that can be moved based on available space and working outlets. Thank God our burner isn't on our oven, because then we'd have had sashimi). I ended up cooking and reheating the salmon, the onions, and made some chicken in case the salmon tasted like feet (it could have been a disaster) on the single burner, some rice, and of course, Israeli salad, and we had a delicious meal! When the going gets tough, the tough use their wimpy hot plates! In retrospect, we could have built a fire outside. But I'm pretty sure the Russian lady who lives downstairs would not have liked that.

4. Finally, Israeli dance class happened! The teacher's name is Marvin, he's a classically trained dancer from the States who made Aliyah several years ago. In an hour's time, we learned three Israeli dances (one line dance, and two that are done in a circle). How to differentiate the steps? In the line dance, there is a lot of vertical (up and down) motion, while in the circle, you move from side to side. Do not get me started on the whole direction-switching fandango. Some people are just not meant to dance in close proximity to others. Ever. But no one got (too) hurt and it ended up being a great time. If you're ever given the opportunity to learn Israeli dance, try it! But make sure to bring lots of water and, depending upon who your dance partner(s) are, a helmet.

5. I am going back to Jerusalem tomorrow with my roommate to explore an art festival happening in honor of Sukkot. The festival is all day tomorrow; we are spending the night in the Old City at a youth hostel and will return Thursday night, when the buses begin running again. I'm sure the next few days will be yet another adventure! Wish me luck!

I PROMISE to post pictures when I return from Jerusalem!

Thanks for reading, lots of love,

Elana xoxox

Yom Kippur in Yerushalayim!

2010-09-18T16:32:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone and Shana Tova! The past week has been completely overwhelming. I had a full four days of classes and volunteering- planning meetings, completing lengthy homework assignments and already studying for quizzes! For Yom Kippur, two of my friends and I journeyed to Jerusalem (approximately two hours on two different buses). After checking in to our hotel, we ate WAY too much pre- Kol Nidre and then walked to the American synagogue.

What's interesting about the American synagogue is that it's actually called Moreshet Yisrael ("moreshet" means "settlements," and is therefore interpreted as "Israel Settlements" for people who had originally come from Western countries to Israel and needed a synagogue). The building where the synagogue now sits was originally a church, and several decades ago, was transformed into a synagogue by a group of rabbis. Before services on Friday night, we met a woman (she looked about 95 years old) whose husband was one of the rabbis who founded the synagogue. She told us that she comes to shul because it reminds her of him. There was a unanimous "awww" from the three of us. Then there was the usher, Jane. I was told by Arlene, one of the synagogue office managers, who had helped me secure tickets for Yom Kippur services days before, to find Jane the usher and give her the money for our tickets. I had pictured Jane as a middle-aged woman who would have been able to walk up and down the aisles of the sanctuary with ease. But no. I think Jane and Teddy Herzl were pen pals. She is one of the most adorable, lively women I have ever had the chance to meet, hobbling around the synagogue, greeting everyone, and telling me in particular (during mincha services this afternoon, no less) that she would give me a "nosh," if she could ("Sorry, honey, still no snacks for a little while!" So cute).

We made it through Kol Nidre and then began wandering through Jerusalem. The craziest part of spending Yom Kippur in Jerusalem is that the entire city shuts down. The only cars on the street are the MADA vehicles (Magen David Adom, the EMTs of Israel) and pedestrians (my friends and I included) walk through the middle of the roads. At one point, we decided to lay down on Hesod Street (one of the major roads of Jerusalem) and watched the traffic lights blink yellow and the stars come out. We even saw Jupiter! At no other time (and probably no other place in the world) could three teenage girls safely lie down in the middle of a normally busy street, silly from sleep depravation and needing a distraction from quick on-set thirst. We later found Gilad Shalit's family who keep a tent on one of Jerusalem's side streets, surrounded by posters and flags from innumerable countries signed by supporters. His family sits under an enlarged picture of him, with what looks like a scoreboard, but the numbers displayed do not denote the score of a soccer game, but his days in captivity. Thus far, it has been over four years.

After falling asleep quite early, we woke up, threw on new white shirts and plain skirts (everyone wears white on Yom Kippur, especially in Jerusalem, to symbolize a clean slate for the upcoming year) to walk to the Kotel. On Yom Kippur, no one showers or washes, puts on makeup or perfume, or indulges in luxuries like leather goods and technology. We left our cell phones and cameras in the hotel room, skipped usual makeup and beauty routines, and began walking. It was about a thirty minute walk from the hotel to the Wall, through the Old City and the shouk (which was open, despite the holiday). Our trip through the market made me think - we passed fellow Kotel-goers, decked out in white and carrying tallit (prayer shawls), Greek Orthodox in long black robes, who walked in groups toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, store owners screaming at one another in rapid Arabic - Jerusalem is home for so many religions, for so many practices and traditions. If what I experienced in the shouk, however brief, could be real all the time, peacefully coexisting isn't impossible. Just loud.

When we finally arrived at the Wall, I was shocked to see how empty the women's side was. For those of you who are familiar with the Kotel, it is divided rather unevenly, favoring the men by granting them nearly twice the space women have. However, on the day of Yom Kippur, when one would expect it to be exceedingly crowded, we found it quiet. My roommate and I walked directly up the to the Wall, no pushing or "slicha"-ing ("slicha" means "excuse me" in Hebrew) required. After spending some time at the Kotel, we "(literally) ran into some friends who stayed at a youth hostel (on the roof of it, to be totally honest) in the Old City. We climbed the nearly endless, winding stairs to where they had spent the night, and could see all of Jerusalem, into the desert and beyond the city, from the hostel's roof.

Eventually, we began walking back toward the hotel and the American synagogue; I attended evening and Neilah services, we heard the shofar blast (at approximately 6:35, but who was counting?) and broke the fast with way too much babkah and tuna fish at the hotel. On the bus ride back to Bat Yam, I found myself thinking about the rabbi's sermon the night before. Rabbi Frank had discussed the decisions we make as Jews. He mentioned a Jewish football coach (who is a friend of his, apparently) who, some years, must decide between coaching a game and attending Kol Nidre. The choice itself does not make him more or less Jewish, or even a good or bad Jew, but sticking to the decision and living with its consequences are the true measures of character in this situation. Deciding to fast is a great first step, but maintaining the fast and what it represents is what makes Yom Kippur a truly Jewish experience. In one of my new classes, Business Ethics and Judaism (the irony does not escape me) my teacher told us about his first encounter with true poverty. He was approached by a man in the street who wanted one of the sandwiches my teacher had been holding. After sparing a sandwich, my teacher watched as the beggar broke the sandwich in half, pocketing the piece he would save for his next meal. That is yachatz (breaking bread - this is why we break the middle matzah on Passover, to remind ourselves of true poverty and hardship, not just for the Afikomen). Making the decision to give this man a sandwich was one thing, but then having to understand his situation by watching him break the food in half and save it for God only knows when is something else entirely. Deciding to help someone is wonderful, but deciding to understand them and their perils, and acting on those convictions? That takes much more.

I decided to spend a year in Israel, but actually coming here and having the experiences I am fortunate enough to have required so much more. I realized, on this rather long bus ride to Bat Yam, that making decisions is a somewhat passive activity - it is acting on these decisions, acting to make them real and of course, getting the most out of what we do.

This year, I have decided to make an impact on the Bat Yam community. I have decided to learn Hebrew. I have decided to make new friends, to travel around Israel, to live in Africa for a month, to feel comfortable in new cultures and new situations. Deciding all of these things was easy. Doing them, living them, and appreciating them? That all sounds much more difficult.

More when I've had some sleep!

Layla tov,
Elana

The Chess Game

2010-09-14T12:38:00.000-07:00

Walking back to my apartment from the shouk (open air market in Tel Aviv) today, I passed two older men sitting at a table in the local park, playing what seemed to be a very intense game of chess. I overheard them arguing in Hebrew, back and forth at an unbelievably rapid pace, motioning violently to the board. However, they did, I noticed, take a second to stop and tip their fishing hats my way, muttering "shalom" and continuing their debate. This scene, however short and perhaps insignificant at the time, caused me to realize how quickly time passes. I was rushing home to make a quick dinner and get to a night class on time, but these two elderly men, both of whom clearly had much invested in their game but know nothing about me, took the time to greet me as I scurried along the tree-lined path toward the main road.

I spent today, after a volunteering meeting in the morning, at the Shouk Hacarmel on Nachalat Benyamin street in Tel Aviv. This particular market is only open on Tuesdays and Fridays, and features jewelry and handmade goods by Israeli artists. My friends and I, completely overwhelmed, walked for hours along the winding side streets, stopping to examine necklaces and earrings and artwork. I wanted to miss nothing; rushing around could only lead to neglected tables of goodies, and that would be tragic. I slowly realized, between oohing and ahhing at every vendor's table, that Israel hasn't always been like this. In fact, it hasn't always been, period. When the two men playing chess in the park were my age, I doubt Israel had become a country yet (judging by the looks of them, I doubt World War II had even started). They didn't have the opportunity to study at an ulpan here, to volunteer in local neighborhoods, to shop at the weekly shouk. They didn't take their lives into their hands by getting into taxi cabs driven by road-raging Israelis, spend the High Holy Days in Jerusalem or buy chicken at Super Douche. I know they couldn't blog about any of it, either. I am blessed and challenged with all of these experiences, and I know that time will pass faster than I can sing the Alef Bet, but I also know that I plan to take advantage of every moment, of every opportunity to meet new people and try new things. And next time, I will introduce myself to the men in the park playing chess.

Speaking of trying new things... yesterday, a friend and I ventured to find a salon in Bat Yam. First of all, let me explain something. Very few people here speak English. That is not true for all of Israel, but in this neighborhood, English is considered a third (or nonexistent) language. In most places, street signs are listed in Hebrew and translated into English and Arabic. Here, signs, advertisements, and labels are in Hebrew and translated to Russian. English (angleet, in Hebrew) is a rarity. Anyway, we found a local salon (in the Bat Yam mall, of course!) which offers all necessary beautification services. Their English is okay (kacha kacha), my manicure was decent, and the prices are more than reasonable. Ella, who works at the salon and was unlucky enough to get saddled with me yesterday, knows few English words, but has promised me to help improve my Hebrew if I help her with her English. I told her that as long as she continues to help me look kept, I will teach her all English she wants to learn.

As of now, I believe to have mentioned the latest highlights. I made some spaghetti bolognese for dinner (complete with garlic bread), and am about to finish studying for my Hebrew progress assessment tomorrow morning! Wish me luck!

More later, with pictures!
Elana xo

Dirty, Sexy Laundry... and a Garlic Press

2010-09-12T04:22:00.000-07:00

Hello from Bat Yam, readers! Israel fell back an hour last night, so gaining an hour of sleep was awesome! I woke up this morning and my roommate and I went to Super Douche to restock our cabinets and fridge after the holiday. We discovered, I believe, the ultimate time to conquer Super Douche - 8:30 AM on a Sunday when most people are at work. We loaded up on juice, milk, cans of tomatoes and olives, and eggs. Two hundred shekels later (about $50... for fifteen bags of groceries. I love Israel) we began walking back to the apartment, which is not even three blocks away. However, we were so laden down with bags, and concentrating on keeping the eggs intact, we were moving at a sluggish pace. Finally, once at the traffic corner to cross back to Katzenelson street, we (stupidly) allowed a wave of relief to wash over us... only to realize that one of the bags had broken and a can of diced tomatoes was rolling into oncoming traffic. Unsure of what to do, we looked at each other, and then at the cars coming toward us. Luckily, traffic was light enough so I could climb to the other side of the sidewalk, stretch out my leg and roll the can toward us with my foot (thank God for all those years of dance). We repacked our groceries and got home as fast as possible.

In case our morning adventure wasn't exciting enough, I realized that my clothing supply was dwindling, and my laundry pile had grown exponentially. It was time, unfortunately, to do laundry. Unfortunately for us, this required quite a shlep from our apartment to the nearest laundromat. That's the other issue: there is not a "real" laundromat nearby, and by "real" I mean loading coins into machines and waiting for your clothes to stop spinning. Instead, we drop off our laundry and go back to pick it up in two days. Not a bad deal, since it requires little effort on our part, with the exception of the shlepping to and from. So, I packed all my dirty clothes and towels into my obnoxiously pink (complete with a gigantic white peace sign) laundry bag, and we began the trek to the laundromat. To say we got a few odd looks would be an understatement. Four American girls, sweating and complaining (in English) and looking lost with fifty pounds of laundry (each) - we were not exactly discreet. Upon arriving at the correct store front (this took a while because we were told to go to the corner of Eli Cohen and Razi'El, but there is more than one Eli Cohen street. Couldn't they have been slightly more creative?), we were greeted with a cloud of cigarette smoke, dropped our laundry bags (literally) and were told to write our names on slips of paper, which were promptly stapled to our respective bags. Apparently, our laundry will be weighed and we will be charged by the kilo. I can almost guarantee that this will be anything but a cheap expenditure. On the other hand, clean clothes are priceless...

After dropping off our laundry, we explored the small strip of shops surrounding the laundromat, and lo and behold, we stumbled upon a home improvement store! And they spoke English! Until a few hours ago, we were in desperate need of a can opener (good luck having pickles with your Israeli salad when you can't open the pickle can), but we found one! Not only a can opener, I am now free of garlic chopping tediousness because we purchased a garlic press (wahoo!) and, to truly complete the houseware trifecta, we found a lemon juicer! I cannot tell you how excited this all made me. And, our total came to 50 shekels. I could not get a garlic press, let alone can opener and lemon juicer, for $10 at home. To say our excursion was a success would be like saying Michael Phelps can kind of swim. Complete understatement.

Tonight we're hitting Sheinkin Street (downtown Tel Aviv) to shop, have dinner, and visit Dragon Tattoo, where I plan on having the Sistine Chapel ceiling, in its entirety, tattooed on my back (JUST KIDDING! Calm down, Mom). But we are going there... for piercings, NOT ink!

More pictures and updates soon.

Lots of love,
Elana

The (rather humid) winds of change

2010-09-10T12:11:00.000-07:00

As Rosh Hashanah comes to a close and Israel prepares for Yom Kippur, I find myself somewhat conflicted. The best way to settle internal conflict? Have shrimp for lunch.

I was fortunate enough to spend an amazing Rosh Hashanah with my family friend Michal her children, Ronny and Gil, and their extended family. My friends and I were welcomed with open arms and delicious food; to say I was full would be the understatement of the century. Luckily, we were spared the fish heads - it is customary in Israel to serve fish heads at Rosh Hashanah dinner to represent beginning the year at the "head" and not the "tail" - but enjoyed gefilte fish and even tried some chopped chicken liver, filled our plates with Israeli salad and pot roast, potatoes of every kind and chicken with apples. It was an incredible meal and I am so thankful to have spent the holiday with such warm, welcoming people!

I would be lying, however, if I didn't recognize the details that make Rosh Hashanah at home in New Jersey so special to me and my family. Ever since I was young, I truly believed that my grandfather's "medicine" was J&B scotch. I was (and I hope still am) in charge of pouring him a "dose" on the rocks, with water and lemon. I'm sure someone administered his necessary dosage this year, but it wasn't me. I missed making gefilte fish with my mom and Bubbie, correcting the pieces that turn out too large and of course, taste testing every batch (and then proceeding to argue about whether or not we should add salt). I missed running from the kitchen to the dining room table, shuttling food to mouths that are certainly not hungry, since the soup and fish have kept everyone chewing. It's the small stuff like this that makes me realize the changes I am facing and, in turn, the challenges of living in a foreign place. Things are certainly not the same, but different isn't bad... just... different.

Since we have several days off for the holiday and then shabbat, we elected to spend Thursday night in Tel Aviv. We explored new spots, including Mike's Place, which is famous for catering to Americans. The wait staff speaks perfect English, the menus are in English, the live music is all recognizable and bands sing American songs, and (this is the best part) they serve bacon! No, I did not indulge (bacon at 1 AM isn't always the smartest idea) but in case I ever need a quick fix, I know where to go.

In keeping with this theme of treif, today I visited one of my closest friends and favorite people, Dafna, with whom I stayed while in Israel several summers ago. We had big plans to venture into Tel Aviv, but due to the holiday, everything was closed. Instead, Dafna took me to the new Cinema City in Rishon LeZion, the largest movie theater complex in the Middle East. It boasts 26 movie theaters, endless shops, restaurants and bars. After watching Inception with Hebrew subtitles (imagining Leonardo DiCaprio speaking Hebrew makes him infinitely hotter than his Titanic days... even if he has aged a bit since) we checked out the mall's Giraffe restaurant. The Asian fusion menu listed sushi and noodles, meat and fish, and most notably... shrimp! Squid ink pasta with seafood has yet to taste so good.

So, Rosh Hashanah was both traditional and new (traditional in the form of dinner and family gatherings, new in the form of treif for lunch), but altogether, amazing. While it's true that I currently have a laundry pile that rivals Everest (yes Mom, it all fit into my laundry bag, it's not on my floor), a grocery list that needs attention, and Hebrew pronunciations to practice (and perfect, I hope), I know it's the beginning of a new year filled with positive change and new opportunities. I know I will get lost, make mistakes and miss what I know to be the safe, secluded bubble of home, but I also know that in a few weeks, I will be a laundromat professional, a Level 1 Hebrew-speaking student, and I might even get to have more than a three-word conversation with the lady who owns Super Katzenelson across the street. And as soon as all that happens, you'll be some of the first to know!

Hugs and kisses,
Elana xox

Shana Tova!

2010-09-08T01:36:00.000-07:00

went to the bus stop on time, as directed, and waited. Got a mango juice from the corner store, and waited. Sat on the park bench and practiced my new Hebrew to myself, schizophrenic as that is, and waited. About a half hour later, someone showed up only to tell me that since I was the only one at that particular time interested in seeing the gym and possibly joining, we weren't going to make the trip. Disappointed, I started walking back toward my apartment. However, a few moments later, inspiration hit - I'm going to cook dinner, I thought! We had chicken at home, and all I needed was some limes, tortilla wraps and veggies, and voila, chicken fajitas! Instead of shlepping back to Super Douche (we had been there once already earlier in the day, and I try to limit myself to once-daily visits) I decided to explore the local storefronts. Not far from our apartment is the local bank, connected to a produce store, several Russian specialty food marts, a sidewalk array of dusty pots and pans and aluminum trays (all very cheap, and of course, cash only) and a lone falafel place (everything 5 shekel!).

I searched for limes, but they are hard to find here. There is a very unique, if somewhat strange hybrid fruit of a clementine and a lime. They're green but shaped like small oranges and smell of citrus. I almost invested in a bag-full when I realized I would not have lime chicken, I would have limentine chicken. Not the desired outcome whatsoever. Figuring that I had to settle for lemony chicken, I walked back toward home, stopping into the small market across the street from my apartment just to see if limes were even a possibility, let alone available for purchase. Owned by an older woman (I think she's from Ethiopia, but between my Hebrew and her English, we haven't gotten that far yet), the market is called "Super Katzenelson" - screw you, Super Douche! Katzenelson is the name of our street, and as far as I can tell, this little store is the only semblance of civilization on the block; the rest are apartment buildings with fading paint and dogs that I swear want to maul me. Anyway, I walk into the modest produce section of Super Katzenelson, and lo and behold, limes! I bought about ten of them, hugged the woman behind the counter, wishing everyone in the store a Shana Tova, and skipped back across the street to make dinner.

It was, overall, a successful night of eating, exploring and, well, adventures (for lack of a better word). In the short time I've been here, I've learned that responsibility is key, communication is essential, and that looking out for one another is imperative. I hope this new year is about friendship and opportunities based on all the above, and, of course, lots of laughter. Having the ability to laugh at some crazy situation improves everything. Plus, doctors think that laughing more makes you live longer, and I don't normally like (or listen to) doctors. But that piece of advice, I might just take that one.

Happy New Year, readers! Love (and limes) from Bat Yam,

Elana

He is Who and Who is He and He is She and She is He and I'm... Confused

2010-09-06T04:18:00.000-07:00

It's been eight days of walking everywhere, sweating my ass off, and drinking my weight in water, so I haven't really missed the gym, but my brain has missed its exercise! Luckily, today was my first day of ulpan (Hebrew and Zionism classes). At 9 AM, I started with Zionism, taught by Benjy, an English professor (not teaching English, he actually IS English. His accent is fabulous). We discussed the importance of Israel, a brief history of Zionism, and were only interrupted once by raucous local students who share the building with us. The aforementioned student (if you can call him that) opened our closed door (it had been closed for a reason), ran in, and began screaming in Hebrew. Apparently, Benjy gave it right back to him, pointing to the hallway from which this unwelcome intruder had arrived, and after a rapid fire exchange, the student retreated toward the door. Unfortunately, his idiot friends locked him in by sliding a bench against the door and refused to return the furniture to its rightful place. The entire situation was mayhem; not to mention, it had fire hazard written all over it. After about five minutes and some persuasion, the hell-raisers allowed their comrade back outside, and class resumed. There is certainly never a lack of excitement. I only wish I had had Hebrew class first, so maybe I could have understood some of (what I'm sure was) this guy's most eloquent language choices. However, I highly doubt his vocabulary words are taught on the first day of ulpan. Or ever.

After a twenty minute break for lunch (we discovered a schnitzel and hot dog stand right around the corner from the ulpan building. The man behind the counter calls me "Los Angeles." Too bad I'm from New Jersey. This disparity might sway my allegiances permanently to the schwarma place in the mall. At least they know the difference; they call me "Jersey") I entered Level 1 Hebrew. My teacher is Tzippi. She is from Holon. I am pretty positive she taught Ben Gurion. But make no mistakes, Tzippi does not mess around. We started with vowels and personal pronouns, script writing and introductions (in Hebrew, of course!). As it turns out, Hebrew pronouns make those in English look simple, and English grammar is not generally easy. For example, assuming I want to talk about a guy named Joe. I would say "who," the pronoun for "he." If I'm talking about my roommate Talya, I would say "he." So, 'he' is 'who' and 'who' is 'he' and 'she' is 'he' and 'he' is 'she.' Got it? I think I might - I did that sans notebook! Cab drivers and store owners of Israel watch out - Elana is learning Hebrew!

In other news, our apartment is now quite cozy. With the help of the Golf home store (in the mall, above Super Douche and adjacent to our go-to bakery stand) we invested in a Pyrex (very necessary), plush blankets, bath mats and extra pillows. We don't quite rival the Ritz Carlton, but I think we're getting close. Last night, in celebration of our new furnishings, I made chicken cacciatore with pasta for dinner. One of my roommates made Israeli salad (an unlikely combo, I know, but given our current location, much more appropriate than normal, boring American salad!) and we also made some garlic bread. After the crazies with whom I live finished taking pictures of our food (I won't lie, I took one too) we devoured it. Delicious, if I do say so myself.

Gotta run - an hour until an activity led by the tsofim at the ulpan, and I smell like a nasty combination of hummus and public transportation.

More later from a less schvitzy me!

xoxox,
Elana

End of Week One!

2010-09-05T04:24:00.000-07:00

Shalom readers! Sunday begins the work week in Israel, so today is our final day of orientation before starting classes tomorrow. This morning was slightly overwhelming; we broke into groups for our Bat Yam community service initiatives. As of now, I will be working in an elementary school twice a week, teaching English. I can't wait! Afterward, we had a laffa break (laffa is now synonymous with lunch) and stopped at the Super Douche (where else?) to pick up some last minute groceries in order to cook dinner tonight. Since I decided to make chicken cacciatore for my apartment, we naturally needed some chicken breast.

To say there was a loss in communication would be an understatement. After waiting on line for what seemed like twenty minutes, it became my turn, and I asked for chicken breast. "You want WHAT?" The butcher was not amused, to say the least. He then handed me an entire chicken, bones and skin included. I shook my head, knowing that I had to get creative. In order to communicate more effectively, I pointed to the chicken, and then at my chest. The woman next to me waiting for her giblets or whatever found this hysterical. It was, I must say, a scene. "Oh! Schnitzel!" As it turns out, chicken breast, raw, fried, cacciatoried, or whatever, is called schnitzel. I walked out with my four schnitzels (schnitzelim?), boneless and skinless, and, I must say, I felt quite accomplished.

We're headed back for a final round of orientation and then it's into the kitchen for dinner preparation!

More later,
Elana xoxox

Shabbat No. 1 - Israel Style

2010-09-03T06:02:00.000-07:00

Shabbat Shalom from Israel! Today was a free day to sleep in and prepare for our first shabbat here. Although I had the option to sleep until 5 PM, I decided to wake up at a decent hour and go buy the necessary items for shabbat cooking. Here is a word of advice for those of you brave enough to attempt an Israeli super market - don't. But I'm getting ahead of myself. The super market to which I refer is actually called, I kid you not, Super Douche (pronounced in Hebrew soo-pare doosh). Yes, this is the store's formal name which appears on all shopping bags (we are collecting Super Douche bags - HA). No one in Israel finds this name funny, and they fail to understand why WE think it's funny. It is because we are Americans. Therefore, it is only one more reason for them to point at us, laugh, and make judgmental comments. I think the hilarity has already worn off, to be honest. Anyway, do not attempt the market on a Friday. Not at 9 AM, not at 4 PM, not ever on Friday. Why? Let me tell you why.

Walking into the store on a Friday around 11 AM is somewhat like entering a circus that is midway through and all the clowns and elephants and fire-eating folk are running around in their respective circles, except you fall into none of the aforementioned categories and are therefore dreadfully lost. Not only are you dreadfully lost, you are in serious and grave danger. Replace the clowns and elephants and fire-eating folk with angry Hebrew-spewing women with five children in tow, elderly Russian couples arguing over the necessity of a fifth bag of potatoes (the wife, as I have noticed, always wins this one. That fifth bag of potatoes ends up in the cart), and, my personal favorite, double-wide shopping carts. There must have been dozens of shoppers wielding not one, but two, extremely large and heavily loaded carts. Keep in mind, the wheels on these carts have the turning radius of a Barbie convertible (if you're lucky) and two of them only doubles the odds of an accident, fatality, or worse (worse than fatality is the inevitable boxing-in of the unsuspecting American by dual shopping carts, and with no escape, being forced to listen to the nonstop Hebrew screaming that ensues). In summary, I did not make many friends at the market, which is fine, because I found all essential items to make our side dish for the community shabbat dinner (we were in charge of potatoes). I then stood in line to pay for my six grocery items for 34 minutes. Yes, I timed it. Israel, unlike New Jersey Shop Rite, does not believe in express checkout lanes. Whether you have six items or sixty seven, are about to spend a thousand shekels or ten, you wait in one of twenty lines regardless. Finally, a woman saw me, pitied me, and let me go in front of her DWSC (double wide shopping carts). I paid and left, only to realize I had forgotten, in the hysteria, to buy baking soda for our apartment refrigerator. I guarantee the eventual purchase of that damn baking soda, but there is no way that transaction will take place on a Friday.

To reward myself for my patience and bravery, I walked upstairs (the market is actually in the local shopping mall) to the schwarma stand. For those that don't know, schwarma is one of two things: first, it is meat roasted on a spit for hours, then sliced thin and made into a sandwich (usually in pita bread) with hummus, Israeli salad, french fries and spicy sauce; and second, it is my favorite food. I have discovered, however, a new way to eat schwarma. It is called laffa. Laffa is an Israeli burrito, but because it's been made for thousands of years, and invented by Israel, it becomes, automatically, better, more correct and simply tastier than a burrito (this is not a personal reflection, just the local attitude). Anyway, ordering schwarma on laffa makes you sound infinitely more Israeli. However, in my Nike workout shorts and Rainbow flip flops, I was not fooling anyone. The guy behind the counter asked "What do you want and where in America you from?" I ordered my schwarma and told him I'm from New Jersey. He then, of all questions, asked the following: "Do you know Jerusalem pizza? I used to work there. Me and my brother," pointing to the younger looking version of himself at the other end of the counter, "we come back here after some time. Is nice, New Jersey, but Israel, much more nicer." I couldn't believe my ears. I had traveled thousands of miles to meet someone who worked at a pizza restaurant ten minutes from my house?! What are the odds?

The remainder of the day was somewhat unremarkable. We made the potatoes without setting off any fire alarms or smoke detectors, they were the first dish to go at dinner, and then spent the remainder of the night on the beach in Bat Yam, absorbing Israeli culture at its finest (or something like that).

So, in summary, avoid Super Douches on Fridays, but do buy the laffa and ask exactly via which US locations its handler is coming from, and, when all else fails, hit the beach and avoid trouble. It sounds much less difficult than it actually is. Especially because telling a cab driver I would like a napkin does not get me back to my apartment.

Much love and pictures soon!
Elana

Welcome!

2010-09-03T01:07:00.000-07:00

Hello everyone! I have embarked on a nine-month journey to Israel and Rwanda! It's been almost a week, and already, I've had my fair share of excitement. Within two hours of moving into my apartment outside of Tel Aviv, the entire place was blooded with bath water! Not the best way to begin a new chapter, but I can think of worse. It's been many days of orientation, what to do and what not to do (mostly what not to do) and how to survive as a "stupid" American in Israel.

In 9 months, I don't want to be an American in Israel. I want to be yet another girl who can pass for a local member of the Israeli community, who can speak the language without hesitation, and who can hold her own in a bargaining battle at the market (the last one is somewhat of a hybrid of the first two). I'm hoping that by the time I return home to begin college, I have become nearly fluent in Hebrew, I've made some incredible friends, and had some unforgettable experiences.

As soon as I have the pictures and anecdotes to share (not to mention the Internet access) I will post them here. I hope you enjoy!!

Love from Israel,
Elana