On Sunday, Nir invited me to the Gina Gallery of International Naïve Art for an event sponsored by KolDor. I had never heard of either Naïve art or KolDor, so before I went I attempted a very cursory self-education. KorDor, according to its website, “which translates both as ‘Voice of the Generation’ and ‘Every Generation’ – aims to strengthen global Jewish Peoplehood by connecting diverse Jewish leaders and activists from around the world in order to enhance their capacity to act for the Jewish People individually and collectively – be it in Tel Aviv, San Francisco or Buenos Aires.” Basically, it’s a Jewish social/activist network. The Gina Gallery’s website was also extremely helpful is explicating the Naïve genre:
“Naïve art is characterized by a refreshing innocence and the charming use of bright colors, child-like perspective and idiosyncratic scale. It portrays simple, easily-understandable and often idealized scenes of everyday life. The naïve artist - often self-taught - treats us to a uniquely literal, yet extremely personal and coherent, vision of what the world was, is or should be.”
The gallery and the event – a networking session and roundtable discussion on “Philanthropy in the Jewish World” – were thus unrelated to each other except for the fact that the gallery owner, Dan Chill, seemed a successful Jewish businessman with one foot in for-profit, one in philanthropy.
Sadly the event was under-attended, but after a very informative introduction to Naïve art by Mr. Chill and a tour of the gallery, Tova Serkin of the organization JGooders and Karin Dimant of Brandality Inc. led a wide-ranging discussion on the meaning of philanthropy, giving time versus giving money, the personal value of volunteering, the challenges facing the Israeli non-profit sector, the Israeli attitude toward philanthropy and social activism, etc. I offered a comment about the Jewish notion of “tikkun olam,” or the idea of repairing the world through social action. It is one of the traditional categories of tzedakah (righteousness and justice). I believe that the most meaningful social action – and one of the most powerful ways of reorienting the Jewish world toward a new sense of global community – is to marry these traditional concepts to new ways and means.
I’ve pretty much realized now that my optimal function for Nir is as a research assistant –and I’m not at all displeased with the work or its place in my growing portfolio. In a past entry I wrote about the various people we are thinking of nominating as the first Israeli Ashoka fellows. I’m focused now on writing their profiles, doing background research, reference checks, and compiling as much information as possible on their person, idea, methodology, strategy, short-, medium-, and long-term plans.
In addition to my work, I’m still exploring the city and – especially now given that we have less than three weeks left – visiting some other students’ internships. Today (Wednesday), I took the bus to the Tel Aviv University campus to see Sharona and get a little tour of the Moshe Dayan Center for Middle Eastern and African Studies where she too is a research assistant. I met a couple of her colleagues and two of the other interns there. She told me about her days – again, similar to mine, spent reading, researching and writing. We then walked through the Nahum Goldman Museum of the Jewish Diaspora, which is probably one of the best-designed Israeli museums I’ve seen. It was very compelling, especially the memorial room. There, in a little niche, was a book I’d very much like to spend more time with called something like the “Scrolls of Fire.” It was 52 psalm-like poems accompanied by modern artwork, each one representing a struggle, catastrophe, or challenge to the Jewish community since the destruction of the First Temple in 586 BCE.
We wandered, talked, trying to grope from various angles our feelings about Israel, Judaism, the politics of language, rhetoric, religion, history...
Then, from the deep shadows of the museum, we walked out into the ever-illuminated, ever-humid and ever-confounding landscape, so dirty and beautiful and righteous and unjust. (Apologies for the brief poetics, but the land really does inspire it at times.)
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Where Did All the Good Arabs Go?
I spent Sunday early afternoon at the Haganah Museum, near Independence Hall on Rothschild Blvd. It seems that nearly every museum in Tel Aviv, except for the art museums of course, has a military/War of Independence theme. Comparing the Haganah Museum with the Jabotinsky Institute, the two could seamlessly blend together in my mind. Both used a mixture of video, photography, historical artifacts, and “staged displays” (i.e. trying to set the mood with set pieces, dummies, etc.). Both had a rather somber interior color palette, very military in steel grays, dark greens, browns, blacks. The lighting too contributed to the solemn tone, with well-lit sections interspersed with greater swaths of shadow.
There was also a general feeling of hagiography, with these early military figures, units, and operations holding a hallowed place in Israel’s mythos. At the Haganah Museum, for example, not only is the former house of Eliyahu Golomb – one of its founders and first leader – incorporated into the physical body of the museum, but there is also a separate room (“shrine”) commemorating his contributions to the Israeli state. With its huge portrait of Golomb dominating the room as you enter, I had the feeling of meeting the Wizard of Oz!
I have no problem with the creation and perpetuation of a national narrative – it’s a necessary part of state-building, a kind of socio-political “glue.” But what strikes me is how simplistic and even paternalistic these narratives are. As much as they are meant to educate and inspire, they only succeed in flattening a country’s people into paper-doll caricatures – and how much more so its (perceived) enemies!
Being immersed in Israel’s national narrative has given me a glimpse at what US patriotism was probably like until the 1950s or so (and strands of it remain unchanged today). The story is so bland, so one-dimensional. There are the glorious “founding fathers” (Washington or Ben Gurion, Jefferson or Menachem Begin). There are the “bad guys (be they Indians, Arabs, or Brits). There are the brave citizens fighting the bad guys. And then there is the eventual, hard-won but never-really-doubted dénouement – the good guys triumph over the bad. Here, for instance, is a quote from one of the exhibits at the Haganah Museum:
“From July 1948 onward, the [Haganah was] continuously victorious over the enemy until the end of the war.”
The Enemy. To whom does this refer? All the Arabs of Palestine? What a terrible, dehumanizing way to refer to an entire people. Even if these people are your opponents, to brand them “the enemy” without qualification is really beyond the pale.
In Israel, what I’ve been struck by most is the militaristic nature of the national narrative, the centrality of the army to the national myth – even to the exclusion of other contributors like scientists, musicians and entrepreneurs. Those people and arenas are celebrated, of course, but not nearly as much as the military. To be fair, Israel does owe much of its existence and continued strength to the military, but there is such little – public at least – self-critique. Should I be surprised? Is there that much public self-criticism in America? In Washington DC, the best analogue to Tel Aviv, there are hundreds of national monuments and memorials to brave resistance fighters and national heroes. There is one Native American Museum. There is one official African American Museum. Interestingly, being in Israel and finding fault with the dominant Israeli narrative has made me much more self-critical of America’s and my own.
But back to Israel.
If Israel’s narrative/identity is dominated by the military, and the Palestinian narrative/identity is dominated by the 1948 Nakbah – where does this leave the two societies with respect to a cessation of hostilities? How can the conflict end when both nations define themselves by it? Israelis, of course, would argue that for them this is simply not the case. Look at the cities, the businesses, the schools and government and infrastructure they’ve built in only 60 years! And that’s true. But if you think about it, what was “Israeli” before 1948 and the “War of Independence”? And what was “Palestinian” before 1948 and the Nakbah? There were Palestinian Jews and Palestinian Arabs. Not Israelis and Palestinians. That distinction and the crystallization of two peoples came as a consequence of that pivotal year.
...
If I hadn’t spent so much time talking about the museum, I might have had a chance to tell you about Sunday afternoon/evening. I attended a very interesting event with Nir for my internship, all about Israeli philanthropy and social entrepreneurship. But that will have to wait for next entry I guess.
There was also a general feeling of hagiography, with these early military figures, units, and operations holding a hallowed place in Israel’s mythos. At the Haganah Museum, for example, not only is the former house of Eliyahu Golomb – one of its founders and first leader – incorporated into the physical body of the museum, but there is also a separate room (“shrine”) commemorating his contributions to the Israeli state. With its huge portrait of Golomb dominating the room as you enter, I had the feeling of meeting the Wizard of Oz!
I have no problem with the creation and perpetuation of a national narrative – it’s a necessary part of state-building, a kind of socio-political “glue.” But what strikes me is how simplistic and even paternalistic these narratives are. As much as they are meant to educate and inspire, they only succeed in flattening a country’s people into paper-doll caricatures – and how much more so its (perceived) enemies!
Being immersed in Israel’s national narrative has given me a glimpse at what US patriotism was probably like until the 1950s or so (and strands of it remain unchanged today). The story is so bland, so one-dimensional. There are the glorious “founding fathers” (Washington or Ben Gurion, Jefferson or Menachem Begin). There are the “bad guys (be they Indians, Arabs, or Brits). There are the brave citizens fighting the bad guys. And then there is the eventual, hard-won but never-really-doubted dénouement – the good guys triumph over the bad. Here, for instance, is a quote from one of the exhibits at the Haganah Museum:
“From July 1948 onward, the [Haganah was] continuously victorious over the enemy until the end of the war.”
The Enemy. To whom does this refer? All the Arabs of Palestine? What a terrible, dehumanizing way to refer to an entire people. Even if these people are your opponents, to brand them “the enemy” without qualification is really beyond the pale.
In Israel, what I’ve been struck by most is the militaristic nature of the national narrative, the centrality of the army to the national myth – even to the exclusion of other contributors like scientists, musicians and entrepreneurs. Those people and arenas are celebrated, of course, but not nearly as much as the military. To be fair, Israel does owe much of its existence and continued strength to the military, but there is such little – public at least – self-critique. Should I be surprised? Is there that much public self-criticism in America? In Washington DC, the best analogue to Tel Aviv, there are hundreds of national monuments and memorials to brave resistance fighters and national heroes. There is one Native American Museum. There is one official African American Museum. Interestingly, being in Israel and finding fault with the dominant Israeli narrative has made me much more self-critical of America’s and my own.
But back to Israel.
If Israel’s narrative/identity is dominated by the military, and the Palestinian narrative/identity is dominated by the 1948 Nakbah – where does this leave the two societies with respect to a cessation of hostilities? How can the conflict end when both nations define themselves by it? Israelis, of course, would argue that for them this is simply not the case. Look at the cities, the businesses, the schools and government and infrastructure they’ve built in only 60 years! And that’s true. But if you think about it, what was “Israeli” before 1948 and the “War of Independence”? And what was “Palestinian” before 1948 and the Nakbah? There were Palestinian Jews and Palestinian Arabs. Not Israelis and Palestinians. That distinction and the crystallization of two peoples came as a consequence of that pivotal year.
...
If I hadn’t spent so much time talking about the museum, I might have had a chance to tell you about Sunday afternoon/evening. I attended a very interesting event with Nir for my internship, all about Israeli philanthropy and social entrepreneurship. But that will have to wait for next entry I guess.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Can I Quote You?
Just a brief update:
Remember the Rabin Center event I attended last week? Well, I met a journalist there, Genevieve Long of the Epoch Times. She subsequently filed a short article online, and lo and behold, there's my name and a little quote at the bottom. Actually, the full "scoop" is a bit more complicated. We talked for a while at the event, and I was rather nervous at first (since she told me I might be quoted), so I just rambled away, trying to sound smart. Bad move. When I checked to see what she had written, she had actually published a long quote by me - which made me sound terribly pro-Israel. I emailed her in dismay - please, please change or delete part of that quotation! That's not what I meant!
She was very kind and did delete the offending remarks. Whew! A good learning experience though. I feel bad for famous people who get quoted all the time. You better have practice and know your "talking points" because otherwise it's just too easy to let slip something inoffensive in person but glaringly off-color in print.
Anyway, I managed to pull through with my reputation for being balanced intact. If you're interested, here's the link to the article: http://www.theepochtimes.com/n2/content/view/18653/
Remember the Rabin Center event I attended last week? Well, I met a journalist there, Genevieve Long of the Epoch Times. She subsequently filed a short article online, and lo and behold, there's my name and a little quote at the bottom. Actually, the full "scoop" is a bit more complicated. We talked for a while at the event, and I was rather nervous at first (since she told me I might be quoted), so I just rambled away, trying to sound smart. Bad move. When I checked to see what she had written, she had actually published a long quote by me - which made me sound terribly pro-Israel. I emailed her in dismay - please, please change or delete part of that quotation! That's not what I meant!
She was very kind and did delete the offending remarks. Whew! A good learning experience though. I feel bad for famous people who get quoted all the time. You better have practice and know your "talking points" because otherwise it's just too easy to let slip something inoffensive in person but glaringly off-color in print.
Anyway, I managed to pull through with my reputation for being balanced intact. If you're interested, here's the link to the article: http://www.theepochtimes.com/n2/content/view/18653/
Where Does the Setting Sun Go?
Now that I’ve been here for a few weeks, the initial sense of wonderment has begun to wear off. I don’t think I’m experiencing culture shock. I’m too used to Israelis for that. It’s more like culture fatigue. With the glamour of newness gone, the everyday realities are settling in – the banalities of daily living without the intensity and intellectual rigor of the first ten days in Jerusalem. It’s running errands, going shopping, cleaning the house, sitting down with my laptop and writing profiles, summaries, doing research. It’s realizing that Israel is a small, small country and sometimes the offerings are slim. In terms of geography, religion, conflict, Israel is rich indeed. In terms of museums, bookstores, theater, dance, the sphere is more limited – at least for an English speaker (my own limitation).
But I have tried to take advantage of being in one of the Middle East’s most bustling – albeit relatively young – cities.
Since my arrival in Tel Aviv, I’ve visited Independence Hall (that was during our first ten days, actually), where, on May 14, 1948, Ben Gurion declared the establishment of the state of Israel; Ben Gurion’s House/Museum, two blocks up the road from our flat; the Jabotinsky Institute, devoted to the history of the Jewish national resistance movement; the Rubin Reuven House/Museum, an lovely intimate gallery of the artist’s work; the Tel Aviv Museum of Art, with a spattering of Monet, Picasso, Braque, etc.; the Rabin Center, not yet open, but with quite a formidable museum attached; HaYarkon Park, by the river; the Old Port; Carmel Market; the Nahalat Binyamin Crafts Market; the Bauhaus Center; the Azrieli Center, a mall/office/observatory complex (Israel’s “Empire State”) ; and all the used bookstores and new bookstores in the area.
But I think the most memorable experience I’ve had yet was the afternoon I spent in Old Jaffa last Tuesday (June 28). Unfortunately the Visitor Center was closed (until June 30, so I’ll go back), but I meandered through the HaPisgah Gardens, crossed the Wishing Bridge while gazing out over the Mediterranean, the sun glancing off the diamond waves. I walked around Kikar Kedumim, the reconstructed center of Old Jaffa, ringed with little galleries, restaurants, and shops. I managed a brief glimpse at the artists’ colony on a previous visit, but on this day, I spent most of my time at St. Peter’s Monastery.
I got there just minutes before it closed, managing a brief but wonderful alone time in the dim sanctum. A kind priest told me that they were closing at 5 pm, but would reopen for Mass at 6. Apparently it was a holy day. I have subsequently searched online and I think it was the Feast Day of Saint Peter and Paul, in remembrance of their sufferings (very fitting too for St. Peter’s Monastery). Though I’m not Christian, I’ve been to services several times, usually around Christmas. I’ve always connected to the Catholic traditions most of all. However formal, ornate and perhaps disassociated from daily life they can be, the grandeur, mythology and beauty of Catholic cathedrals and liturgy still fill me somehow.
The entire service, of course, was in Arabic, but I cherished the throb and weight of the words, interspersed with singing from the congregants. I watched the little children playing in the aisles, the older ones kissing them and braiding the girls’ hair. At the end of the ceremony, the priest instructed his parishioners to turn to one and another and smile and greet each other and shake hands. The older couple sitting to my left as well as those in front of me (I had quietly snuck into the last pew after the service had started; apparently I was not the only late-comer – people kept showing up, making an unholy ruckus opening the heavy doors) turned and smiled, shook my hand, and I felt, in that moment, a human connection surpassing the language and cultural barriers between us.
Then I walked back to Tel Aviv along the seaside promenade. It was a very windy evening and all the wind-surfers and paragliders were out – the sky filled with colorful, bobbing chutes. The sun was setting and its beauty and the brevity of the moment were the last thoughts in my mind as it sank below the horizon.
Hmmm. Now that I think of it. That sense of wonderment – the one that was supposedly wearing off? – yeah, it’s back.
But I have tried to take advantage of being in one of the Middle East’s most bustling – albeit relatively young – cities.
Since my arrival in Tel Aviv, I’ve visited Independence Hall (that was during our first ten days, actually), where, on May 14, 1948, Ben Gurion declared the establishment of the state of Israel; Ben Gurion’s House/Museum, two blocks up the road from our flat; the Jabotinsky Institute, devoted to the history of the Jewish national resistance movement; the Rubin Reuven House/Museum, an lovely intimate gallery of the artist’s work; the Tel Aviv Museum of Art, with a spattering of Monet, Picasso, Braque, etc.; the Rabin Center, not yet open, but with quite a formidable museum attached; HaYarkon Park, by the river; the Old Port; Carmel Market; the Nahalat Binyamin Crafts Market; the Bauhaus Center; the Azrieli Center, a mall/office/observatory complex (Israel’s “Empire State”) ; and all the used bookstores and new bookstores in the area.
But I think the most memorable experience I’ve had yet was the afternoon I spent in Old Jaffa last Tuesday (June 28). Unfortunately the Visitor Center was closed (until June 30, so I’ll go back), but I meandered through the HaPisgah Gardens, crossed the Wishing Bridge while gazing out over the Mediterranean, the sun glancing off the diamond waves. I walked around Kikar Kedumim, the reconstructed center of Old Jaffa, ringed with little galleries, restaurants, and shops. I managed a brief glimpse at the artists’ colony on a previous visit, but on this day, I spent most of my time at St. Peter’s Monastery.
I got there just minutes before it closed, managing a brief but wonderful alone time in the dim sanctum. A kind priest told me that they were closing at 5 pm, but would reopen for Mass at 6. Apparently it was a holy day. I have subsequently searched online and I think it was the Feast Day of Saint Peter and Paul, in remembrance of their sufferings (very fitting too for St. Peter’s Monastery). Though I’m not Christian, I’ve been to services several times, usually around Christmas. I’ve always connected to the Catholic traditions most of all. However formal, ornate and perhaps disassociated from daily life they can be, the grandeur, mythology and beauty of Catholic cathedrals and liturgy still fill me somehow.
The entire service, of course, was in Arabic, but I cherished the throb and weight of the words, interspersed with singing from the congregants. I watched the little children playing in the aisles, the older ones kissing them and braiding the girls’ hair. At the end of the ceremony, the priest instructed his parishioners to turn to one and another and smile and greet each other and shake hands. The older couple sitting to my left as well as those in front of me (I had quietly snuck into the last pew after the service had started; apparently I was not the only late-comer – people kept showing up, making an unholy ruckus opening the heavy doors) turned and smiled, shook my hand, and I felt, in that moment, a human connection surpassing the language and cultural barriers between us.
Then I walked back to Tel Aviv along the seaside promenade. It was a very windy evening and all the wind-surfers and paragliders were out – the sky filled with colorful, bobbing chutes. The sun was setting and its beauty and the brevity of the moment were the last thoughts in my mind as it sank below the horizon.
Hmmm. Now that I think of it. That sense of wonderment – the one that was supposedly wearing off? – yeah, it’s back.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
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