California Minus 30 Equals...

Ever since our Tikkun Olam committee hosted a dialogue on "voting your values", I've been thinking a lot about what this means.  This morning, as I skimmed through a ballot guide that can only be described as overwhelming, I felt the weight of this responsibility. Registered voters in California are being asked to jury a mind-boggling breadth of debates, from the minimum wage in San Jose to labeling of genetically-engineered foods.

Generally speaking, this strikes me as a really bad idea.  Why?  Because, for the most part, we don't know what we're talking about.  Columnist Robert J. Elisberg summed it up well when he called the California Proposition system "an ill-thought out disaster":

"However poorly one thinks of politicians, the Proposition System is worse. It starts with the faulty premise that the voting public is going to willingly study a thick guidebook... Instead, with propositions, they turn to watching 30-second TV ads to learn what the laws are about.  Watching 30-second TV ads to learn what a law is about is like reading a fortune cookie and believing that you now understand Eastern Philosophy."

The prop system has also evolved into another stage where wealth inequality plays out.  Four of the eleven initiatives on the 2012 ballot are the pet projects of single uber-rich individuals - and others are being shot down with the help of millions in funding from equally wealthy critics.  The glossy, emotionally-charged fliers that fill our mailboxes leave Californians feeling obligated to exercise the right to vote on these propositions - but eminently unqualified to do so.

Historically, this has made me a sort of conscientious objector when it comes to most ballot props.  I am suspicious of their sponsors - their motives and, even when they mean well, their credentials.  And I am often equally skeptical about my own credentials as arbiter. 

But this year, there's a chink in my armor: Prop 30.  Unlike most propositions, which leave all but the most tenacious fact-finders with little clue about what will really happen if they do or don't pass, the consequences of Prop 30 are pretty clear because of the "trigger cuts" included in the state budget if Prop 30 fails.  According to KQED's non-partisan 2012 California Proposition Guide,

"K-12 schools and community colleges would lose $5.35 billion. The University of California and California State University systems would each lose $250 million. City police departments, CalFire, the park system, flood control programs and others would also lose several million dollars each."

Did you read that?  $5.35 billion.  This from a school system where PTAs already do fundraisers to buy paper for the copy machine, and students get extra credit for bringing boxes of tissues to class.

I think back to the Tikkun Olam dialogue about voting our values.  If there's one value that has been instilled in me as fundamentally Jewish since the day I became a fertilized egg, it's the importance of education.  From the Religious Action Center of Reform Judaism:

"The Jewish commitment to public education dates back to the time of the Torah and Talmud... The Reform Jewish Movement has long stood in strong support of public education recognizing that an educated population is the cornerstone of democracy. The United States' well-being depends on the decisions of its educated, informed citizens...
When we invest in public education, we invest in our children and our nation's future."

If we're voting our values, we must give our public schools the resources they need to fulfill their mission.  Surely, a quarter cent increase in sales tax isn't more than the average Californian can stomach to bet on our future - whether their children attend public schools, or they'll count those students as colleagues some day, or they'll rely on them as neighbors and members of their communities 10 and 20 years from now.  For me, the choice is clear.  But it raises another question: why believe that Prop 30 has the right formula?

Because this proposition represents Governor Jerry Brown's plan, not that of a rogue billionaire.  Because it wouldn't even be on the ballot if California weren't suffering the same legislative gridlock that has crippled Obama's efficacy in his first term.  Because I believe that Jerry Brown is not only smart but also a devoted and experienced public leader who knows what he is doing.  Because government, for all its flaws, can act in the name of shared values in ways that the private sector simply can't.  .

I'm so tired of this election cycle- the inflated outrage around slips of the tongue, the asenine stream of MoveOn Facebook posts, the never-ending pleas for more money to secure Obama's reelection.  (Though honestly, if there were a magic number that would clinch it for him, and I could afford it, I'd write the check tomorrow.)  But weariness aside, I ask you: Please, ffs, vote Yes on 30. 

Facebook and the art of coming out

“I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”

“It’s OK if you’re not.”
“I think I am.  Are you?”

“Yes.”

“OK.  Here goes.”

At which point I pressed “Post”.  And up on my Facebook page appeared a smiling photo of Paula and me, along with the caption, “It’s National Coming Out Day, so… out I come.”

That was one year ago.  70+ “likes” and public affirmations later – mostly from straight people around the periphery of my life – I was euphoric.  I hadn’t expected it.  The chorus of support came from classmates I hadn’t seen in years, former coworkers, parents and teachers from my kids’ school, my old yoga instructor.  I sat and reflected on the fear and dread that had lead up to that moment.  What had scared me so much?

Coming out in your 40s is a strange thing.  It’s often described as a rite of passage.  But by the time I came out, I had been through many such rites.  I was a parent and a professional.  I understood myself pretty well.  I could list many things I liked about myself, but I had a well-reasoned list of dislikes too.  Neither list had anything to do with my sexuality.  I hesitated to come out to the world because I didn’t want to be told I was brave.  I didn’t want to be proud of my sexuality any more than I wanted to be proud of my skin color or my height.  And most of all, I didn’t want the world to start defining me through a filter that is rife with stereotypes.  (For the record: I am terrible at softball, and I don’t really like going to Ikea.)

But these were just rationalizations.  The truth was that I like to be liked, and I was afraid of making people feel uncomfortable.  With that context, taking the leap felt like the only way to act with integrity. 

Although I was already “out” to all of my close friends and family, I’d retained an online identity where I presented myself as a parent, a businesswoman, a cyclist, a wanna-be comedienne – but not as gay.  In the sanitized slice of life known as Facebook, where the skies are always sunny, all of our meals are photogenic, and we’re never awful to our kids, I was in the closet.

Like almost everyone, I make fun of Facebook.  And I’ve unabashedly loved it anyway: targeted ads, navel-gazing, invaded privacy and all.   But I have never appreciated Facebook more than I did on National Coming Out Day 2011.  In one swoop, without having to broker uncomfortable conversations that would have been more about supporting the listener than about supporting me, I came clean.  And I realized that there were a lot of people out there who were just fine with that.

I dream of a day when people scratch their heads and wonder why we used to have Pride celebrations, confused by what could possibly have been shameful about being gay.  Sadly, that day isn’t here yet.  The world is changing, and we’ll get there – but in the meantime, to all who got up the nerve to break the silence on National Coming Out Day last week, yasher koach.  Strength to you.   

Gamification and the plummet of society into a deep, dark chasm

Driving 101 to our office in Redwood Shores, it's hard to miss the giant billboard advertising Bunchball, the "leader in gamification."  Gamification is a buzzword you hear a lot in Silicon Valley these days.  Companies are using game thinking and gaming strategies to engage customers, motivate employees and build brands.  LiveOps, for example, uses badges and leader boards to encourage their virtual call agents to participate in eLearning.  Even Playboy is using gamification to attract a younger demographic.  Companies like Bunchball are making a business out of helping other companies gamify their websites and applications.

 

Venture capitalists and product designers alike are excited about making it all fun and games.  But it's not just the corporate world that is gaga for gamification.  Inevitably, it's flowing into education and other spheres that involve our children.  An increasing number of educators are espousing the benefits of gamification in the classroom.  Parents are turning to Zamzee to motivate their children to get off the couch.  A 2011 study points to the cognitive, emotional and social benefits of gaming.

Gamification sure has some rabid enthusiasts out there.  Gabe Zichermann is one of them.  During the TedxKids@Brussels event in 2011, he described himself to the audience as "in many ways... a parent's sort of dream of how somebody can turn a sedentary lifestyle playing video games into an actual career that pays real money."  He went on to make a case that video games increase fluid intelligence and even suggested that the Flynn effect - the fact that IQ has been rising year over year since the 1990s- is more than just coincidental with the proliferation of increasingly-complex video games.  

As for concerns that video games make our kids hyper or inattentive, Gabe puts this out there: "Is it that our children have ADD, or is our world just too freakin' slow for our children to appreciate?"  He flips to a slide showing an older gentleman in a chair.  "Sitting down on a Sunday afternoon to read a good book with a cup of tea... like, I just have to say, I don't think that today's kids are ever going to do that."

Sorry, Gabe, but you lost me at “Hello".  

I'm honestly trying to remain open-minded about all this.  I do think that game thinking is being applied in some innovative and promising ways.  But frankly, I'm turned off - and kind of scared.  Are we grooming a generation of impatient, reward-driven future adults?  They may be better multitaskers, maybe even multitaskers with higher IQs - but I'm not convinced that's what the world needs most right now.  Does IQ cure apathy, ennui, isolation and self-absorption-- or might it actually feed them?  And multitasking: isn't there a downside when nothing gets our full attention anymore - even our children? 

If kids are growing up in a world where gamification is so pervasive, where everything from their education to their in-vehicle driving experience is being formulated as a series of blinking, animated challenges, targets and trophies, I worry that their brains are  being wired to respond only when a certain kind of stimulus is presented.  Are we doing them a favor by making life imitate games?

Intelligence isn't much use if our kids grow up too impatient or distracted to apply it in more than 30-second bursts.  More to the point: it's not all about being smart.  How do video games do at developing empathy or initiative?  Will our kids have the patience to stick with a struggling business?  What teaches them that even when life isn’t fun, you don’t walk away from it?  How will this generation cope with chronically-ill family members, babies who keep you up crying all night?  What does gamification do to our sense of community, our interpersonal relationships, and our spirituality?  Can video games teach resolve, integrity, loyalty, tenacity – when there is no explicit reward at the end of the tunnel?  Will our kids be able to read how someone is feeling by looking at their eyes?  How do games teach us to cope with death?  

I can envision the defenses some would formulate to these questions.  But I think the answer is simple: they can't.  Games are definitely fun.  They definitely have their value as learning tools.  My kids really enjoy them.  But I limit them for a reason, and I worry about the pundits out there who wave away my concerns (and my passionate love of reading.)

The other night, before school was back in session, I was lying in bed with my older daughter. She was worrying about how hard it is for her to pay attention in class, and she wanted to do well in fifth grade.  She thought something was wrong with her. “I have to tell you a secret,” I whispered.  “Everybody has trouble paying attention in class.  It’s the human condition.”  ADD and ADHD are biochemical disorders.  But not everyone who struggles to pay attention has a biochemical disorder. 

The way I see it, there are are two ways to deal with our collective attention deficit.  One is to pare out the parts of life that are not exciting because they don’t offer instant gratification or stimulation.  We can gamify our life – through product marketing, employee motivation, and even education techniques that offer explicit challenges, points and rewards.  We can put our kids in front of the screen and let them play.  We can, as Gabe Zichermann has, take the stance that life is just too slow, and that technology has the power to change that. 

Or we can take the position that patience is (still) a virtue.  That grit and perseverance build leaders, and that the world needs thoughtful, committed leaders now more than ever.  That the brain is a muscle that can be conditioned to pay attention, given the right calisthenics.  That good things come to those who wait - and that while we need to tackle the world's problems with a sense of urgency, it's going to take time, diplomacy, creativity, and the willingness to try and try again, even when it is utterly unexciting to do so and there are no points involved.  That there is value in muscling through boredom, and that some of the most vital creativity comes when the mind is still.

I know which way I lean.

iPhone Shabbat Mode

As a Reform Jew, I lead a largely secular life.  Most of my friends aren't Jewish. My daily schedule is governed more by school hours and work demands than it is by rituals of worship.  And the synagogue plays only a peripheral role in my life; I feel little attachment to either the community or to the congregational leadership.  (The main draw: it's very close to our house.)

Nonetheless, I have been wondering how to make Shabbat a presence in my week, in a way that honors the spirit of the commandment but also works for my family and for my life.  To date, I have been largely unsuccessful in this mission.  I have given it plenty of lip service and little effort.

Last Friday, I decided to try something that would truly make Shabbat feel different: I left my iPhone at home.

It sounds insignificant, but my phone has become somewhat of an external organ.  And I know I'm not alone in this phenomenon.  You see it everywhere.  I was standing on the Caltrain platform not too long ago, marveling at how no one was looking at each other; everyone was absorbed in their own little palm-sized rectangle, drawn away from the physical world like Frodo with the Ring.  There has been plenty of publicity around fatalities related to texting while driving, but it doesn't stop there. Even pedestrian injuries and deaths related to texting are on the rise.  It's distracted living that's really disturbing.

So, when I left Friday night to meet the kids for sushi- a ritual that truthfully is much more core to our Shabbat observance than lighting candles - I left the phone plugged in to the charger, sitting on the kitchen counter.  I didn't unplug it until Saturday night.  I allowed myself to answer it, and to check it if there was a message waiting - but for 24 magical hours, it was simply a telephone, tethered to my house just like the one we had as a kid.  All it was missing was the rotary dial.

The contrast from daily life was remarkable.  Without the distraction of the phone/camera/watch/Gameboy/map/notepad/computer in my purse, I felt liberated in a way that I had not anticipated.  As I navigated Milpitas without a map, Trader Joe's without a list (and no way to get one via text), and photo ops without a camera, I felt something in me relax. I was unencumbered.  In one small way, I had released myself into the moment.  Maybe all that information at my fingertips wasn't so critical.

At one point in the afternoon, I realized that I had nothing that actually needed doing right away.  Rebecca was at a birthday party, Leah was off learning to ride a bike with her dad, and I sat there on the couch, wondering what to do with myself.  Words with Friends was off-limits.  I couldn't watch the world go by on Facebook.  I had already gotten in a workout.  So I picked up a book - a huge novel that I have been working through since June - and read.  Novel, indeed.

On the Union of Reform Judaism's website, there is an excerpt from a speech by Rabbi Eric Yoffie at the 69th General Assembly, back in 2007.  He speaks about the Reform movement's struggle to define a Shabbat ritual that works for its members, and yet a growing openness to Shabbat observance, "even among those who never attend services."  He continues:

Why is this happening?

Because we now understand that Shabbat was always central to Reform Judaism. Because we know, in our hearts, that in the absence of Shabbat, Judaism withers. And most important of all, because Reform Jews need Shabbat.

In our 24/7 culture, the boundary between work time and leisure time has been swept away, and the results are devastating. Do we really want to live in a world where we make love in half the time and cook every meal in the microwave? When work expands to fill all our evenings and weekends, everything suffers, including our health. Families take the worst hit. The average parent spends twice as long dealing with email as playing with his children.

For our stressed-out, sleep-deprived families, the Torah’s mandate to rest is relevant and sensible... We are asked to put aside those Blackberries and stop gathering information, just as the ancient Israelites stopped gathering wood. We are asked to stop running around long enough to see what God is doing.

And this most of all: On Shabbat, whether in synagogue or at home, we are asked to give our kids, our spouse, and our friends the undivided attention they did not receive the rest of the week. On Shabbat we speak to our children of their hopes and dreams. We show them that we value them for who they are and not for the grades they get or the prizes they win. During the week we pursue our goals; on Shabbat we learn simply to be.

For me, the simple act of abandoning my phone was a small step towards learning to be (or re-learning it.)  It removed a notable stress from Shabbat.  I'm going to try this out for a while to see where it goes.  And I'm inspired to find other small changes; if this one was sitting right under my nose, what else could be?

Burning down the house

A few weeks before the kids and I left for Israel, I got a text from Paula at work.  “My building is on fire,” it read. 

“Really?” I responded, half-listening to the meeting I was in.  I was picturing someone with a few black slices of toast in their kitchen, maybe a cluster of residents outside, hands clamped over their ears while firemen made a compulsory parade through the building. 

“Let me clarify,” she continued.  “It was my place.  Well, next door, which burned my place.”

Burned?

There followed a string of photos, in case I was still envisioning a wisp of smoke coming out of the toaster oven.  The space where the bathroom used to be was a charred hole.  There was daylight coming through the neighbor’s unit into the master bedroom closet.  All of Paula's clothes, the dresser, and everything else that had been in the closet were jumbled on the bed, soaking wet, thrown aside as the firefighters tried to get at the flames inside the wall between her unit and the one next door.   The smoke was so dense it burned their eyes.  The place was trashed.  

Apparently, a plumbing contractor had been soldering pipes, and some embers left inside the wall caught the insulation on fire.  It was a stroke of luck that Paula had been working at home that day and called 911 before the entire building burned to the ground.

She and her daughter were allowed in only to get the bare necessities.  The bathroom was off limits.  They took their laptops, a bag of clothes, Taylor's two goldfish, and Leafy, a stuffed kitten that I had given Paula when she was in the hospital.  Pretty much everything else stayed, marinating in the thick chemical smoke that lingered long after the firemen left.

It's more than two months later, and all of their salvageable belongings are stacked in my garage.  The smell of smoke in the wood furniture and upholstery is still powerful.  Their unit was declared uninhabitable, and they were essentially evicted mid-lease with no compensation other than their security deposit refund and a small moving allowance. The landlord says it's the contractor's fault.  The contractor says it was the subcontractor's fault.  The subcontractor is denying responsibility under some sort of exemption or another.  Round and round they go.

Of course, we were all grateful that no one (not even the fish) was hurt in the fire.  It could have been a lot worse.  But it's hard to say "Dayenu" and really mean it when your life gets turned on its head.  You really don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.  It helped that we had room here to make for a comfortable landing, but it's not the same as having your own place.  (Paula and I had decided a while back that we preferred to maintain separate households for now, largely for the kids' sake- but also because we both appreciate our own space.)  The crappy water pressure in the shower, the colicky baby who cried all night downstairs- all the nuisances of an older building faded into the background.  Imperfect as it was, it was home.  And while there weren't any Picassos that got left in the trash heap, it was hard to let go of all the things they had to abandon.   

"I kept telling myself that whatever was gone was just stuff," Paula says.  "But that was the hardest part.  Letting go."  

What really struck me, as an observer, was how - ostensibly in the name of fairness- the system has been cleansed of all compassion.  Paula and her daughter were shell-shocked by the loss or destruction of almost all their possessions.  They lost their home.  It was an emotionally wrenching experience to literally watch their life go up in flames.  And yet, because they didn't have renters' insurance, they're left to fight for compensation - even when the damage was the result of clear negligence.   

I understand the reasons why you can't just march into your landlord's office and demand a check, the same way I understand why I have to take my shoes off every time I go through airport security.  There are people out there with bad intentions.  And over time, the laws and protocols that govern our lives have evolved to block and tackle the evildoers.  It's just heartbreaking that this is the way it has to be.  There are people in the world like Paula, who is pretty much the human equivalent of The Giving Tree, and who wouldn't dream of taking advantage of the system.  The woman gives $20 bills to panhandlers at stoplights and brings cans of tuna to stray cats.  But in the wake of a fire, her character gets no credit.

They say that community emerges in the wake of tragedy, and so it is.  A small circle of our friends took up a collection to help Paula and her daughter replace some of the basics - toiletries, clothes to wear to work.  It was unsolicited and therefore so much more striking in its generosity.  One friend's 9-year-old daughter handed Paula an envelope containing $7.  When her mother told her about the fire, she had run downstairs and emptied her piggy bank.  Paula keeps the envelope (and its contents) in a safe place.  The things left behind in the apartment will fade into distant memory, but the kindness of those who reached out their hands will leave more permanent marks.

It has been a time of tremendous adjustment as we have become (at least for now) a household of five, and there hasn't been much time to write as we all adjust to the new cadence of life.  But if I've taken anything away from this experience, it's a renewed sense of how important it is for all of us as individuals to care for each other.  Shit happens, and it happens when you least expect it.  There but for the grace...

I'm renewing my commitment to live compassionately and with a generous spirit.  And I'm looking around at all I have- in my physical, emotional and spiritual life - with tremendous appreciation.

An Unforgettable Shabbat

The girls and I are back from our two weeks in Israel.  I spent most of those two weeks at the office, relishing my limited time to work face-to-face with a team that I am mostly relegated to engaging over Skype and email.  There is no substitute for time spent in the same room.  Anyone who has worked with a team overseas will relate to the precious value of eye contact... even when those eyes are bleary with jetlag.

Meanwhile, my mother was busy orchestrating a kid-centric itinerary that only a Virgo could pull off.  You have to understand that my mother is not your average grandma.  At 65, she owns multiple businesses, was serving on four different boards at last count, and has more stamps in her passport from 2012 than most people will accrue in a lifetime.  She has been coming to Israel since she was a teenager.  She carries an iPhone, a Kindle, and a laptop.  She can sniff a trail to the closest source of espresso from anywhere on earth.  For 43 years, she has been making me look like a total slacker (something most would say is not easy to do).

So the kids had an incredible trip.  They boogie boarded and made castles in the sand, dug up bones and pottery shards at the Archaeological Seminars Institute in Beit Guvrin, pet kangaroos at Gan Garoo, took a drive-through safari among lions and hippos at the Ramat Gan zoo, shopped at the bustling open-air Carmel Market, wandered among the ruins of Caesarea, and had ice cream an average of twice a day.  (Their favorite: Anita Gelato on Shabazi in Neve Tzedek.)  In short, they experienced Israel as kids.  I was able to join them for a remarkable evening at the Children's Museum in Holon, where Rebecca and I participated in the Dialogue in the Dark while Leah and Grandma went paddleboating.  Suffice to say that it is revealing to experience the world without sight for 75 minutes, even if it is in the safest and most guided way.  (I almost said it was eye-opening...but caught myself.) 

In the middle of the trip, all of us took off for a three-day weekend.  We left Thursday night for Jerusalem, then drove out to the desert Saturday morning and spent the weekend at the Ein Gedi hotel.  We took the cable car up to the ancient remains of Herod's temples at Masada, slathered mud on each other at the Dead Sea, and swam under the waterfalls of the Ein Gedi Nature Reserve, with ibex staring at us from their posts along the cliffs.  It was hot enough to make you wonder why anyone ever decided the area was fit for human habitation - but despite a lot of dramatic groaning as we wove in and out of the maze of structures atop Masada, the collective experience was unforgettable and wonderful.

For me, the highlight of the trip came just before we headed for the desert.  We had dragged the kids unwillingly through the old city of Jerusalem on Friday, where they were unmoved by the remarkable history around them and spent most of the time complaining of boredom and blistering heat.  (But even they were swept into a moment of reverence at the Western Wall, where Rebecca added her prayer to the millions already lodged in the cracks.) We retreated to the air conditioning and stunning sculpture garden of the Israel Museum before relenting and hitting the pool in the middle of the afternoon.

That evening, we drove to a suburb of Jerusalem to join my mother's friend Dalia Landau for Shabbat dinner.  I was unprepared for what an exceptional evening this would be.  Dalia has a remarkable story, one that is only remarkable because of who she is.  It is documented in Sandy Tolan's The Lemon Tree: An Arab, A Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East.  The Levantine Cultural Center's site includes this brief:

The protagonists are Bashir Khairi and Dalia Eshkenazi {Landau}, each embodying the hopes, dreams and disappointments of the Palestinian and Israeli people. Tolan recounts how the Khairi family was forced, in July 1948, to flee to Ramallah, because the fighting in al-Ramla endangered Ahmad and Zakia Khairi and their children. They expected to stay only a few days until things quieted down, before returning to the beautiful home Ahmad had built in al-Ramla in 1936. Meanwhile, Bulgarian immigrants Moshe and Solia Eshkenazi arrived as refugees off the coast of the newly-forming state of Israel, their nine-month-old daughter Dalia in tow. They were instructed to walk through al-Ramla, which had been freshly cleared of its Arab inhabitants, and choose a place to live. They came upon the seemingly abandoned Khairi home and settled there. 

Al-Ramla before the conflictTwenty years later, Bashir Khairi and two of his cousins knock on the door of Bashir’s former home, and meet Dalia Eshkenazi. Thus begins a life-long relationship, filled with curiosity, affection and ambivalence, for Bashir and Dalia each embrace their right to the land that has been the source of dispute since 1948.






Dalia later went on to establish Open House, a community center dedicated to fostering better relations between Israeli Arabs and Jews.  It is housed in her and the Khairi's shared former home.

In the course of our evening, Dalia treated us to a ceremonious, uplifting and reverent welcoming of the Shabbat bride, replete with song, colorful stories from the bible that held the children captive (including an explanation of the double portion of challah traditionally served on Shabbat), ritual hand-washing, and candle-lighting.  It was impossible not to feel the beauty of Shabbat, to want it as part of our lives, as re-gifted to us that night by Dalia.

Joining us as her guests were two American teachers visiting Israel on a research grant.  One of them teaches The Lemon Tree in his Middle East Studies class.  Over dinner, the two teachers, who had met earlier that day with several leaders of the Palestinian community, expressed optimism for a one-state solution and the economic benefits it would bring.  For the next hour, Dalia led us through a narrow passageway into her experience of Israel - a complex, emotional, difficult story that left us all silent in renewed awareness of our own ignorance.  In her mind, there is no single-state solution that would be accepted by the majority of Israelis because it would, flatly, mean the end of a Jewish state - an affirmative action that has meant refuge for so many persecuted communities.  There are deeply-rooted histories of pain and suffering on both sides of the fence, and there is no simple way to heal them.  And there are acts of terror being committed in both Arab and Jewish communities.  The latter was hard to swallow.  It is much easier to sit on this side of the pond and believe that the Jewish people are uniformly noble, making their lives into blessings and living out the values of gratitude and Tikkun Olam. But to do so would be foolish and ignorant.

I came away from that evening aware that spending time in the startup nation of Tel Aviv, with its global cuisine, stunning shoreline and world-class gay pride parade, is like visiting San Francisco and claiming that you've seen the United States.  In the past year, I've spent six weeks in Israel.  With the exception of a stop to have my girls photographed on a camel, and a quick lemonade fix in the Arab Quarter, I have had no interactions with an Arab Israeli.  Conversations with my colleagues center more on the threat of Jewish extremism within Israel, and the threat of the Arab world beyond its borders.  There is so much I have yet to understand, and so much that I never will.

In January 1988, during the early days of the first Palestinian intifada, Dalia (who was in a maternity hospital awaiting the birth of her son) learned that Bashir was facing deportation by the Israeli authorities.  With no other way to contact him, she wrote an open letter that was published in the Jerusalem Post and brought international attention to her story.  I hope you'll read the full Letter to a Deportee.  In it, she describes the complicated origin of their friendship, denounces his deportation as a counterproductive violation of civil rights, and makes an open plea to him as a leader in his community:

It is a natural reaction to hate those who have made us suffer. It is also a natural reaction to inflict pain because one has suffered pain, and to justify it ideologically. In this small land, both our peoples are stuck in a fateful embrace. I believe that our finding each other here is potentially for the greater unfolding of life. In order to fulfill this potential, we all need to become more fully human, which to me, means activating our capacity to understand the suffering of others through our own, and to transform pain into healing...

It seems to me, Bashir, that you will now have a new opportunity to assume a leadership role. By its intention to deport you, Israel is actually empowering you. I appeal to you to demonstrate the kind of leadership that uses nonviolent means of struggle for your rights;a leadership based on education for the recognition of your enemy and his relative justice.

I appeal to both Palestinians and Israelis to understand that the use of force will not resolve this conflict on its fundamental level. This is the kind of war that no one can win, and either both peoples will achieve liberation or neither will.

Our childhood memories, yours and mine, are intertwined in a tragic way. If we can not find means to transform that tragedy into a shared blessing, our clinging to the past will destroy our future. We will then rob another generation of a joy-filled childhood and turn them into martyrs for an unholy cause. I pray that with your cooperation and God's help, our children will delight in the beauty and bounties of this holy land.

Allah ma'ak - May God be with you.

And also with you, Dalia.  May your radiance inspire us all.

Tel Aviv: the Sequel

We arrived Tel Aviv 3:30 AM on Saturday, after what you might call a Swiss sandwich: two red-eyes with a thin slice of Zurich in the middle.  “We” in this case are the girls, myself, and my mom, who joined us at the Zurich airport.  I was very proud of myself for actually getting the girls to leave the airport, take a train into Zurich, and walk down to the lake – no small feat given that Rebecca has 17 new Kindle books on the iPad, and Leah was perfectly content to go around the airport putting stickers on other people’s hand luggage for six hours.  Neither of them particularly wanted an excursion, but I won, and they earned the stamps in their passports. 

It is a core part of my travel ritual to leave something important on the airplane, usually a coat, but this time I disembarked in Israel with all of our possessions.  To make up for it, I forgot the car seat at baggage claim and didn’t realize it until we were in line for a taxi.  This may not seem like such a big deal if the word “airport” brings to mind a place like SFO , but just try getting back into baggage claim after passing through customs in Tel Aviv.  It would take a diplomatic escort, a solid foundation in black ops, and the ability to dig a tunnel without anybody noticing.  So we convinced ourselves that Leah would be OK for the 20-minute ride to Tel Aviv and got in a cab.  She was fine. We’re still trying to retrieve the car seat.  It’s Tuesday.

Other than that, it’s been a great trip so far.  We’re all struggling with the jetlag – it’s hard to convince a four-year-old that you should try to go to sleep, even if you don’t feel sleepy – and by the time I’ve cajoled her into bed at 2 AM, my own body clock is not so cooperative.  But the apartment rental is working out great, the kids love the beach, and they’ve started to explore beyond Tel Aviv with my mother (who, while perhaps out of practice with things like forcing a trip to the bathroom before you are nowhere near one, seems to be enjoying this).  Yesterday, the girls were tearing around the hippodrome at Caesarea, pretending to be horses in an ancient chariot race; today, they’re doing the Dig for a Day program at the Beit Guvrin Archaeological Seminars Institute.  Everyone who has done this program tells me that it’s an experience they will never forget.  They’re having fun, and I’m trying to retain my position that just being here is an adventure.  Coming home to them at the end of the workday is admittedly more exhausting than flopping down with room service, but the ache of maternal separation that I usually feel when I’m overseas, waking up every day just after their bedtime, is blessedly absent.  

I wasn’t sure I’d be able to fit in running, but I made it out yesterday morning, petting cats and gazing out at paddleboarders along the way to Old Jaffa.  At the top of the hill, I stood on the Wishing Bridge.  According to the sign (and Wikitravel), legend holds that if you grasp the statue of your zodiac sign, face the sea, and make a wish, it will come true.  It sounds like a legend that the Ministry of Tourism conjured up, but who am I to pass up an opportunity to pause connect with what I wish for?  I cycled through all the usual suspects, recalling the scene in Groundhog Day where Andie MacDowell says “I always drink to world peace” – but I decided to wish for my kids to have a good time on this trip.  I care about this more than whether they learn anything, deepen their appreciation for other cultures, or eat something other than toast in the next two weeks.  It’s somewhat related to world peace, as there is a tiny voice in the back of my head reminding me that I’m in a volatile part of the world – but mostly, I just want them to look back on this trip and say, “That was fun.”  

So far, it seems as if my wish could come true.