Observations from Israel
It's tough to break away from The Situation when you're in Israel. The Situation is what Israelis call their, well, situation. It is the shape of fluid things.
The Situation is in part like the weather—something you can talk much of but do little about; it shifts a lot, and often quickly, and often for the worse; people seem to enjoy complaining about it; when it's good, people know it can't last.
The Situation is also in part your favorite sports team. When you ask, "what's the situation?" you're asking, "what's the score? Are we winning?" with the implicit assumption that your team is—or will be soon—trailing and running out of time.
Sometimes your team does win, and there's euphoria and the sense that the winning will last forever. When it loses again, you are always torn between blaming the ref, the other team's dirty play, or despairing of yourself, wishing your team would be as well-managed and coached and financed as the other teams.
The Situation is also in part a diagnostic process, like a post-physical conference with your physician, if you're middle-aged. There's always some half justified reason for worry; always a need for some obnoxious lifestyle change and a futile plan for minimizing—but not eliminating—pain. The news is always not-quite-good, even when it is not catastrophic. And everyone knows one of these days it's going to be catastrophic, even if no one says so.
I could talk about The Situation all day. But by the end of the day The Situation might have changed. As of now, though, The Situation is not good. The weather forecast is bad; our team is in a slump; results from the latest physical aren't pretty either—the heart races in sudden bouts of panic; memory lapses and mood swings abound; and the bad knees? That's not getting better. Ever.
Israel, a traumatized nation, feels threatened, and so it hunkers down, scowls, and exposes its teeth, like a cornered street dog. Right now it feels that the whole world is ganging up on it unjustly; that the world is hypocritical and worse, anti Semitic—which is of course what Israel has suspected all along, a suspicion that has historically guided the very actions that have in part led to the world's resentment of it. It's classic self-fulfilling prophecy. And they know all about the prophecy business here.
There's also a feeling here these days that the bonds are fraying on the inside. What keeps this troubled tribe together is no longer apparent. Large chunks of the Israeli public do not see the government as theirs. Do not sing the anthem or waive the flag. Do not see those around them as real Israelis, or real Jews, or even real people. Very little seems to bind the different constituencies that make up the Israeli body politic.
Still, inside The Situation, life goes on. This in fact is a characteristic aspect of Israeli life, the ability to go on despite the grim toils of The Situation. As I travel around, trying to keep my mind off The Situation, I pay attention instead to some striking cultural elements.
Honking your car horn, for example, is not only acceptable, but expected, even necessary. Other drivers will routinely cut into your lane assuming that when they get too close, you'll honk. If you don't, they may run right into you, claiming, with some justification, that it was your fault.
Mall security these days looks like a tired relic. Israel's enemies have figured out recently that flotilla-style political warfare is more effective than suicide bombing in the battle that really matters—the one for global legitimacy. So the malls are safe. And the bored security guard will all but waive you past before even eyeing you fully.
At the restaurant, no one will refill your water glass. No one will even ask you if you'd like a refill. No one will approach. It doesn't matter how long you sit, or how prominently your empty water glass is placed at the edge of the table. If you want something, you have to ask for—better yet, demand—it directly.
The food is better here and so is the coffee. There are many possible explanations—the weather, the local fresh ingredients, the regional influences on cuisine, the fertile mix of cultures and tastes—but I see a different one. It involves The Situation. On one level, gathering establishments reflect it. Every coffee place feels like an argument, in which the Jews, being Jews, disagree; and so they create a plethora of unique places, each convinced it is the only right one.
On another level, coffee houses in Israel appear to be conceptualized in the mind of their owners and patrons alike as places of refuge from The Situation. You see little in the way of TV's. You see little in the way of the corporate handbook. Israeli places of gather have more of the oasis feel. Informal, quirky, cozy, idiosyncratic sensibilities rule.
And your coffee will always be served in a mug, no Styrofoam here; and they like to make shapes in the cappuccino foam. Mostly hearts, but you can get the ying-yang circle, a baby, or a leaf, which makes your heart sing.
The Situation is in part like the weather—something you can talk much of but do little about; it shifts a lot, and often quickly, and often for the worse; people seem to enjoy complaining about it; when it's good, people know it can't last.
The Situation is also in part your favorite sports team. When you ask, "what's the situation?" you're asking, "what's the score? Are we winning?" with the implicit assumption that your team is—or will be soon—trailing and running out of time.
Sometimes your team does win, and there's euphoria and the sense that the winning will last forever. When it loses again, you are always torn between blaming the ref, the other team's dirty play, or despairing of yourself, wishing your team would be as well-managed and coached and financed as the other teams.
The Situation is also in part a diagnostic process, like a post-physical conference with your physician, if you're middle-aged. There's always some half justified reason for worry; always a need for some obnoxious lifestyle change and a futile plan for minimizing—but not eliminating—pain. The news is always not-quite-good, even when it is not catastrophic. And everyone knows one of these days it's going to be catastrophic, even if no one says so.
I could talk about The Situation all day. But by the end of the day The Situation might have changed. As of now, though, The Situation is not good. The weather forecast is bad; our team is in a slump; results from the latest physical aren't pretty either—the heart races in sudden bouts of panic; memory lapses and mood swings abound; and the bad knees? That's not getting better. Ever.
Israel, a traumatized nation, feels threatened, and so it hunkers down, scowls, and exposes its teeth, like a cornered street dog. Right now it feels that the whole world is ganging up on it unjustly; that the world is hypocritical and worse, anti Semitic—which is of course what Israel has suspected all along, a suspicion that has historically guided the very actions that have in part led to the world's resentment of it. It's classic self-fulfilling prophecy. And they know all about the prophecy business here.
There's also a feeling here these days that the bonds are fraying on the inside. What keeps this troubled tribe together is no longer apparent. Large chunks of the Israeli public do not see the government as theirs. Do not sing the anthem or waive the flag. Do not see those around them as real Israelis, or real Jews, or even real people. Very little seems to bind the different constituencies that make up the Israeli body politic.
Still, inside The Situation, life goes on. This in fact is a characteristic aspect of Israeli life, the ability to go on despite the grim toils of The Situation. As I travel around, trying to keep my mind off The Situation, I pay attention instead to some striking cultural elements.
Honking your car horn, for example, is not only acceptable, but expected, even necessary. Other drivers will routinely cut into your lane assuming that when they get too close, you'll honk. If you don't, they may run right into you, claiming, with some justification, that it was your fault.
Mall security these days looks like a tired relic. Israel's enemies have figured out recently that flotilla-style political warfare is more effective than suicide bombing in the battle that really matters—the one for global legitimacy. So the malls are safe. And the bored security guard will all but waive you past before even eyeing you fully.
At the restaurant, no one will refill your water glass. No one will even ask you if you'd like a refill. No one will approach. It doesn't matter how long you sit, or how prominently your empty water glass is placed at the edge of the table. If you want something, you have to ask for—better yet, demand—it directly.
The food is better here and so is the coffee. There are many possible explanations—the weather, the local fresh ingredients, the regional influences on cuisine, the fertile mix of cultures and tastes—but I see a different one. It involves The Situation. On one level, gathering establishments reflect it. Every coffee place feels like an argument, in which the Jews, being Jews, disagree; and so they create a plethora of unique places, each convinced it is the only right one.
On another level, coffee houses in Israel appear to be conceptualized in the mind of their owners and patrons alike as places of refuge from The Situation. You see little in the way of TV's. You see little in the way of the corporate handbook. Israeli places of gather have more of the oasis feel. Informal, quirky, cozy, idiosyncratic sensibilities rule.
And your coffee will always be served in a mug, no Styrofoam here; and they like to make shapes in the cappuccino foam. Mostly hearts, but you can get the ying-yang circle, a baby, or a leaf, which makes your heart sing.
posted by Noam Shpancer at 2:56 PM
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