Patriotism or Justification? (Cherries or Plums?)

Sometimes I ask myself, Am I making the most of my time here? What would the savvy world-traveler do? What would the urban sophisticate do? What would the party girl do? Of course, I always compare myself to these one-dimensional types, especially the types I bear little resemblance to (party girl, for instance). If I was a party girl, I would be out club-hopping tonight, instead of staying in, writing my blog. If I was a foodie, I would be sampling the local delicacies. If I was a surfer, I’d be hitting the waves. If I was a beach babe, I’d be finding sexy new ways to invite skin cancer. But I’m none of those things (what am I exactly? Against type, whatever that type is), so I do none of those things.

Here’s a reality check: I am making the most of my time here, because I’m spending it doing what I find more or less fulfilling. Granted, I also seek comfort and security, so sometimes I’m not as adventurous as my ideal self would be. But generally I feel I’ve tried to explore, tried to push myself. Heck, I’m abroad! A year ago, this would have been in the flightiest, most absurd realms of fantasy. So give yourself a break girl.

Wednesday was a very full day – a very “making the most of my time here” kind of day. I worked from home in the morning, then around noon headed out. I’m slowly orienting myself to the city, each day choosing a new niche to navigate. I also feel very much alive to the city, very present and attentive. This has not always been the case, since in the past I’ve usually relied on my parents or friends to help steer me through major metropolises. This time the onus is on me, and I’m truly enjoying the independence.

Using the Lonely Planet guidebook instead of a GPS (refreshing and also strangely empowering) I found my way down Dizengoff again, taking a right on King George Street to find the Jabotinsky Institute and Irgun Museum. It was an odd mix of patriotism, “video indoctrination,” and genuine history. A guard led me to the basement, where an introduction movie told me about the Irgun and their brave insurgency against the British during World War II. The main floor was a timeline display, while upstairs two more movies attempted to personalize history – but in a very campy, quasi-Disney way. The first was a dramatization of Jewish illegal immigration in the WWII period, complete with intrigue, love interest, and even specks of “sea foam” (misting water) when waves wet the decks of the ship and its human cargo.

I found the whole enterprise a bit disconcerting, not least because of all the narratives left out, the blanket characterization of the Arabs and Brits as enemies, and the disconcerting mix of terrorism and freedom fighting. In today’s world, this equation would be suspect. But in the annals of state history, it seems, the “winners” gloss over their own brutalities, using euphemisms to justify behaviors they decry in others. And it’s certainly not just Israel that displays this double standard. Look at the US! Our modern preeminence and technological prowess somehow justifies the initial subjugation of the “native” populace. I’m not saying that I don’t honor the Jewish experience, that I don’t understand the reason and existence of Israel as a Jewish state. I just think that, in the words of the woman at the Rabin Museum, we must at least acknowledge that our existence came about by negating or marginalizing other existences. Those “other” people must also be written into history. Into state history. Into the official rather than always the unofficial narrative.

After the museum I decided to go to the Carmel Market, kind of mix between an old time shouk and a farmer’s market. After walking through the initial stalls of clothing, knickknacks, cosmetics, and candy, there was row up row of fresh produce, cheese, bread, meat, more fruit, more herbs, piles of gleaning eggplants, cherries, plums….I didn’t buy anything but it was fun to talk through, take pictures, act the total tourist. If I go back I’ll pretend to be a local, but I don’t want this trip to go by without capturing the memories in image and word. That way I can make good on my promise: that Mom is with me on my travels, that I’ve somehow managed to fit her expansive spirit into my pocket and she’s seeing everything I’m seeing, sharing everything. That I actually get to talk to her and be with her, something I haven’t been able to do, not really, not as adult-to-adult, since I was 15. Too much illness and stress and disease. Too many life changes. I wish she could be here with me. Dad too. But that’s my collective soul talking. I have a personal soul too, and I guess this is my chance to know that part of myself better.