Zorba

This past week I spent five intense days at the Zorba the Buddha Festival at the desert ashram, in the middle of the desert (obviously).

From 8am till 7pm there were 12 different sessions going on in different tents, each tent’s name indicating the type of meditation, therapy, or exercises they offered. Then from 9pm till dawn is live music.

There was the Chai tent, the Hebrew spirit tent, focus tent, yoga, theatre, Buddha, Chi, breathing, New-Mind, therapy, movement… You get the point.

A couple of sessions I went to really sung through.

Doing yoga surrounded by the dry forest of rocks and sand as the rays of the hot sun poked the morning sky was bliss.

Tantra Pulsations was a class aimed at opening the ‘Love Chakra’ (energy pool) where I sat a gazed into a strange woman’s eyes for an hour, no talking, only breathing and gazing.

Belly dancing class, where I was the only one with a Y-chromosome, formed a steel-like comradery between me and the other women of the ashram. I didn’t learn their names, but I could speak to them the next day with a silent side-thrust of the hips and they understood me just fine.

Also, the ‘return to the root of the child’ session where I had to be the baby of an alternate couple who had to stroke me, sing lullabies, and whisper soft words of encouragement was a real experience.

The most powerful of all the sessions was most definitely the ‘AUM’ workshop. No we didn’t just sit in a circle saying ‘Om’ it was quite different.

The easiest way to describe this session was surgery on the soul where you are both the patient, and the surgeon.

The meditation goes from 1am until 5am, you need to bring 1.5litres of water and you can’t leave until the end, just as you can’t leave the theatre before the surgeon has sewn you up.

So we’re in a dimly lit dome tent, packed with 80 people, just enough room to violently stamp your foot on the ground without hurting your fellow man. The session has 12 stages, im not going to mention all but it starts with a trance party. Then you need to summon all your anger and walk around the room and scream “I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU!” to whoever you make eye contact with, plus whatever follows on from that (my mum would not be pleased with my language...). Then after 10minutes of that you need to walk around touch a person on the shoulder and say “If I hurt you I’m sorry” and hug. Then you need to look deep in to peoples’ eyes and tell them you love them.

The night progresses, the instructors goal is to tire your body out entirely with through physical movement that you at such an emotionally vulnerable state.

At one point we had to run on the spot with our hands straight up in the air for 20 minutes while listening to motivational music. The instructor lets anyone who is struggling into the middle of the tent so they can feed of everyone else’s energy.

I also spend 20 minutes chucking an absolute tantrum, stamping my foot, banging my fists on the floor, screaming at the top of my lungs “NO! NO! NO!”

The final few stages are sitting with my stomach and chest against a guy I don’t know, legs and arms pretzled in an embrace and head tilled away from his ear shout with every ounce of energy you have left “I’M AFRAID, I’M AFRAID...” then whatever flowed, just go with it. Then “YOU HURT ME, YOU HURT ME, YOU HURT ME…”, then “I NEED, I NEED, I NEED…” until you break down into a 10 minute crying fit with your stranger.

The instructor builds you again through a process of laughter, hugs, a Namaste, and the final “Om” which is actually chanted.

After this session I was exhausted, I woke up with the biggest hang over, no voice at all, muscles aching (could also have to do with setting up my tent of jagged rocks), but also somehow refreshed, awake, and more alive than I’ve felt in so long.

To the Zorba Family,

Together we walked,

Together we laughed,

Together we embraced,

Together we breathed,

Together we pondered,

Together we wept,

Together we deconstructed, dissected, deepened ourselves,

Together we danced like tribal warriors creating rain with their bodies,

Together we sweated,

Together we opened our chakras,

Together got burnt by the desert sun,

Together we loved,

Together we shared,

Together we will remain.

Thank you.

Are We All Free?

Patriarchy controlling who leans

Reclining in my seat while drinking wine was a custom I grew up on around the seder table. As I laze over the arm of my chair covered with a pillow of sorts like a bloated emperor I looked  around at my family and guests and always saw everyone, women and men alike doing the same “כולנו מסובים” “we all recline”.[1] I grew up knowing that on Passover eve there was a direct correlation between the freedom we celebrate, and the action of lounging about the dining table in an intoxicated state - Most probably a practise borrowed from the Greek or Roman emperors who behaved this way which we’ve done since then.

Something that was not always practiced is the act of allowing women to recline as men do, which may have been a result of the following laws:

(1)    “A woman near her husband does not need to lean, and if she is an important woman, she needs to lean”[2]

(2)    “A woman does not need to lean, and if she is an important woman she needs to lean”[3]

(3)    A woman does not need to lean, because of fear of her husband, and she is subservient to him”[4]

(4)    “A woman does not need to lean, as there is no freedom for a woman near her husband. And if she is an important woman, she needs to lean, as there is no servitude in her marriage relationship. Therefore all that are not in the presence of her husband, it appears she needs to lean.”[5]

(5)    “A woman does not need to lean, since she serves her husband”[6]

I think you get the picture.

I find it so interesting that on a day when we celebrate our freedom as a nation, our Rabbis dictate that women are in fact still enslaved.

This is not the first time women are grouped together with that of servants; “women, slaves and minors are exempt from the reading of the Shema”[7] the main reason for this being that when she reads “Hear O Israel the Lord my God, my Lord is One” she is lying because she has a second master over her – her husband.[8]

Now there are many words used in Jewish Law to describe a woman (Maidservant, youth-woman, girl, wife, virgin, slave-girl, widow, divorcee), and I think in this instance it is really important to define who is being exempt from leaning at the seder table and is therefore not entirely ‘free’.

Now I was told that Rashi, one of the most literal commentators, died in the middle of his commentary of these laws, but he was survived by his grandsons and sons-in-law, who actually change the status of all women regarding this situation by saying “nowadays all our women are considered ‘important’ and need to lean”[9]

This is huge!

Instead of changing or finding a loophole within the laws they simply come along and change the defining terms which limit women from this ritual.

I’m impressed, and to me it seems that if things like this can happen then there is hope for the oppressive patriarchal laws within our tradition.

Something similar happened a while ago as well; the hearing impaired used to be grouped with the intellectually handicapped because in the 3^rd Century C.E. someone who couldn’t hear usually didn’t receive the sufficient therapy to be able to communicate, so it was assumed that they didn’t comprehend and had an intellectual handicap as well and where thus expect from leading services: “A deaf-mute, an imbecile and a minor do not fulfil an obligation on behalf of the many”.[10] The correlation between impaired hearing and mental disability is known today to be false.  

Chag Sameach! May we all progress toward a more complete state of freedom

---

[1] For the Mah Nishtanah

[2] Babylonian Talmud, Pesakhim, 108b

[3] Rif, Pesakhim, 23a (1013-1103)

[4] Rashbam, Pesakhim, 108b (1080-1160)

[5] Meiri Pesakhim, 108b (1249-1315)

[6]Ran of the Rif (1320-1380

[7] Mishnah Tractate Brakhot 3:3

[8] See Talmud Bavli Brakhot, 20b.

[9] Mordokhi (Tosafot), as quoted in Sefer HaMaharil, The Hagadah S.V. Haseibah (1360-1427)

[10] Mishnah Rosh HaShanah 3:8

The Mattress

The following story is true. You may have heard it somewhere, whereas I heard it from my Grandfather, son of a Hasid, who heard it from his teacher the Tzaddik of Lodz, direct fourth generation descendent of Yitzchok of Vurka the Holy Rebbe who did not embellish or bend the truth. And because of the way in which I heard this story from my father's father, who herd it in the very language the Rebbe told it in, and did not add a word because he was not a fan of adding cheap frills for the sake of the story, my version is the direct from the original stock.

There is no other way to describe Reb Yitzchok of Vurka’s socio economic status apart from saying plainly that he was extremely poor. It happened one night in early spring just two weeks before Passover, after returning to his home devoid of material possessions from the evening service. It was one of the first nights he was able to walk the streets without fear of getting frostbite from the deathly cold of the winter now past. For fear of getting his dovening trousers dirty he had tucked his pants into his socks much in the style of the Chassidim of today. Feeling drained as he usually does after projecting his voice with words of Torah through the drafty shule, he rested his frail frame by lying down on his bed, upon which one of the planks of wood which had rotten through during the winter gave way leaving an indent in the Rebbe’s mattress. The Rebetzin, being handy as she was, managed to repair the indent cheaply with a bit of straw which left a dense lump in the mattress. Although the Rebbe found it difficult to sleep because of the mound of straw, he thanked Ha-Kadosh-Baruch-Hu for the challenge, and attempted to cope with the blessing in disguise.

After a week of sleeping on this mattress the righteous man had developed a knot in his shoulder which throbbed relentlessly and on the eve of Passover the pulsating pain had escalated to an unbearable point which even two cups of wine could not numb.  Surrounded by his disciples the holy man of God understood that he could not halt the reading of the Exodus from Egypt. He thought long and hard and despite fear of appearing immodest he called his gentle wife from the next room to sooth his ailment by rubbing his back. The seder continued and they sang with sorrow the song “we were slaves in Egypt”. The disciples, understanding that the Rebbe would not be openly immodest without deep significance, interpreted the act as a representation of the Talmudic passage “The Jews were redeemed as a reward for their righteous women” (Babylonian Talmud: Tractate Sotah 11b). So mid-song, they too called their wives to rub their backs. And in a crescendo of song and deep tissue back rubbing the passage came to a close in a gentle fade-out at which point a deep groan of relief escaped the Rebbe’s mouth “Yhoy-vey!”.

The students gasped at the sound of the four letter unspoken name of God (י-ה-ו-ה) bounding against their eardrums, but their blind faith of their holy leader accepted it as sign of the spiritual height the Rebbe had achieved through the song.

The Seder ended with “Next year in the rebuilt Jerusalem” and everyone went on their way feeling a sense of elation at having experienced the Rebbe’s spiritual ascent.

It happened that in time, the righteous Rebbe passed on. His successor in remembrance of his beloved teacher maintained his mid-seder minhag of having his back rubbed by his life partner, only after expounding on the Kabbalistic relevance of the act. Is came to pass that generations later, the tradition spread to all of Ashkenaz who to this day recline in their chairs and are massaged by their wives in order to reach the spiritual climax of the Rebbe long gone.

SHAKAKI!

"הפלשתינאים ביקשו יפה מדינה. קיבלו? זיבּי קיבלו. עברו להתפוצץ על ילדים באותובוסים, פתאום התחילו להקשיב להם"

“The Palestinians asked nicely for a State. Did they get one? They got babkas. They moved on to blowing up children on buses, suddenly we started paying attention to them”

-          Etgar Keret - Suddenly, a Knock at the Door, 2010 (My translation)

Last week I had the privilege of hearing Dr. Khalil Shakaki, the #1 Palestinian pollster, speak. It was really refreshing hearing a summary of the conflict from an academic grassroots perspective, as opposed to an emotional irrational lecture littered with remarks containing vocabulary from another people’s suffering. i.e. “The Israeli Holocaust Apartheid Regime, inflicting a Hiroshima-like barrage of bombs on the Palestinians. Israel is building a slave trade out of their babies, tsunami, Stalin, 9/11, Satan, bad men…”

I feel it necessary to mention that Prof. Shakaki’s brother was head of Islamic Jihad in Gaza, Israel may or may not have assassinated him. Despite this Khalil was quite a moderate speaker.

The topic of his talk was on “Palestinian Domestic Politics and the Peace Process” focusing on number of subject areas but basing his opinions in statistic he gathered from the residents of Gaza, the West Bank and East Jerusalem.

I will try to attach the slides to his presentation but the main fact which interested me was the differenced statistically of the perception of one another’s intentions.

The amount of surveyed Palestinians who support a two state solution where Israel lives side by side with them as two separate states, each having autonomy of their own territories with the right to defence and economic freedoms was 62%! A fantastic majority.



I hade the breakdown of these stats if someone is interested

Of course I’m not so naïve as think that if half of Jerusalem is handed over to the current governments of the Palestinian territories along with the West Bank and all the Israeli settlements within it, that peace will come to our doorstep on the wings of a dove riding a rainbow like a teenager dizzy on acid.

But the most interesting part was the surveyed Palestinian’s perception of Israel’s goals. Only 15.7% perceive Israel as wanting to resolve the conflict.

On the Israelis side the perception of how many Palestinians want a two state solution is less.

18 Things You Shouldn't Say While an Army Doctor Checks your Nuts

#1 Is it my turn next?

#2 While you down there…

#3 This is just like what Uncle Jack used to do…

#4 Look sir! I have a Man-gina!

#5 Dr. Spitzer did a great job with the transformation don’t you think?

#6 Be carful, my one-eyed snake bites

#7 Sorry for staring you in the eye

#8 I know you’re impressed!

#9 Usually people take me out to dinner first

#10 He’s got a cold,  sometimes his nose runs, but it’s the sneezes you gotta watch out for

#11 Oh so that’s what that does!

#12 WHEEEEEEEE!

#13 That’s nice

#14 I think you forgot to cut your nails

#15 Was it as good for you as it was for me?

#16 Why but the cow if you get the milk for free?

#17 Their names are ‘Good’ and ‘Bad’, right now you must be feeling good.

#18 I’m having a ball!

The truth is, when I got into the doctor’s office at the army recruitment headquarters I had gone through so many stations on different levels of this building (without a lift) that I was quite numb to the whole experience. Initially this expereince was building up in my head to be the most uncomfortable part of the whole process. Luckily the army doctor managed to morph the anxious feeling at the pit of my stomach, into slight disgust.

The man was sitting behind his desk with another future soldier, and whilst interviewing the 17-year-old his fingers where lodged so far up his nose that I was worried they would end up like the Chilean miners (before they got out). His fingers were digging for gold for more time than they were on his keyboard punching in the answers to his routine questions. I just thought to myself: “you’re gonna touch my jewels with those hands?”

Thinking about the bits of booger and snot that was going to end up on my junk distracted me from the idea of a strange man touching me. I was ready. It was going to be like pulling off a band aid… Only pulling down my pants… The only thing that ruined my train of thought was when he said “iz okay, iz okay” which sounded too similar to “me skuzy, me skuzy” (EuroTrip). A wave of violation swept over me along with a shiver of disgust.

So this is what it is to support Israel

Jerusalem Bombing

So a bomb goes off in one of your common hang-outs. You’re not actually there but on the TV screen you see a street sign which you recognise all too well and suddenly you’re at the scene. You recognise the number on the bus which tells you it is a route which travels through your neighbourhood. Its windows are shattered and tyres are tattered. Isles run red with blood, an image too graphic, too reminiscent of Ezekiel 28:23.

The corner stores on the edges of the black ash erratic circle, crudely drawn on the ground by the explosion are too familiar. You bought a bottle of water from that one last week. An apple from the one next door.

You watch as a volunteer on the street lowers a child’s blood soaked coat into a bin where a friend of yours butted out his cigarette the day before.

I’m not physically there, but my mind plays tricks by superimposing me sitting on the edge of the footpath behind the channel 2 news reporter. I see myself there because I was there. Not today, no in that hour, not in that split second where a woman took her last breath of city air, or when the driver punched a hole in that last ticket. The moment before fire and shards of the phone booth the bomb was attached to tore through the air, cutting and burning everything in its path. I wasn’t there then, but I am there now.

I’m sucked back into my sea in front of the TV, and in a whirl my mind flings me back to Sydney. I imagine seeing Bondi Junction in ruins like my bus station in Jerusalem. They are the same distance apart. My house in Vaucluse to the bus depot, my home in Jerusalem to the central bus station. I can see the 387 tilted on its side because it tires are shredded, glass on the seats from the shattered windows, identical to the seat I sat on my way to work.

I am not reminded of my mortality amidst all this. Yes I do feel slightly more alert and aware that any object on the street could be a death trap if someone is successful enough in hiding their home made bob. But I am more so reminded of why I came to this place, and I am glad that I don’t have that usual feeling in the pit of my stomach, feeling helpless as I sit behind the World section of the Saturday paper as I read about the attack, because I will get up tomorrow and ride the very bus which could have been blown up the day before, because I am Israeli, and we’re not going to stop our lives, in order to prolong them. For living in fear is worse than death.

International Women's Day

I feel it would be inappropriate for me to post a blog without mentioning International Women’s Day which came and went this past week. We’ve come a long way a people in terms of achieving equality between a number of things in West.

Women have the vote and we’re quite proud of that, but it has been quite a while since we’ve progressed any further than this point.  Hopefully next year we’ll have true equality!

REFUSER
From the Lebanese mountains
To the Kenyan village of El Doret
We are practicing self-defense
Versed in Karate, Tai Chi, Judo, and Kung Foo
We are no longer surrendering to our fate.

Now, we are the ones who walk our girl friends home from school.
And we don't do it with macho. We do it with cool.

Our mothers are the Pink Sari Gang
Fighting off the drunken men
With rose pointed fingers and sticks in
Uttar Pradesh.
The Peshmerga women
in the Kurdish mountains
with barrettes in their hair
and AK47's instead of pocket books.

We are not waiting anymore to be taken and retaken.

We are the Liberian women sitting
in the Africa sun blockading the exits
til the men figure it out.

We are the Nigerian women
babies strapped to out backs
occupying the oil terminals of Chevron.
We are the women of Kerala
who refused to let Coca Cola
privatize our water.
We are Cindy Sheehan showing up in Crawford without a plan.
We are all those who forfeited husbands boyfriends and dates
Cause we were married to our mission.
We know love comes from all directions and in many forms.
We are Malalai who spoke back to the Afghan Loya Jurga
And told them they were "raping warlords" and
She kept speaking even when they kept
trying to blow up her house.
And we are Zoya whose radical mother was shot dead when Zoya was only a child so she was fed on revolution which was stronger than milk

And we are the ones who kept and loved our babies
even though they have the faces of our rapists.

We are the girls who stopped cutting ourselves to release the pain
And we are the girls who refused to have our clitoris cut
And give up our pleasure.

We are:
Rachel Corrie who wouldn't couldn't move away from the Israeli tank.
Aung San Suu Kyi who still smiles after years of not being able to leave her room.
Anne Frank who survives now cause she wrote down her story.
We are Neda Soltani gunned down by a sniper in the streets of
Tehran as she voiced a new freedom and way
And we are Asmaa Mahfouz from the April 6th movement in Egypt
Who twittered an uprising.

We are the women riding the high seas to offer
Needy women abortions on ships.
We are women documenting the atrocities
in stadiums with video cameras underneath our Burqas.
We are seventeen and living for a year in a tree
And laying down in the forests to protect wild oaks.
We are out at sea interrupting the whale murders.
We are freegans, vegans, trannies
But mainly we are refusers.
We don't accept your world
Your rules your wars
We don't accept your cruelty and unkindness.
We don't believe some need to suffer for others to survive
Or that there isn't enough to go around
Or that corporations are the only and best economic arrangement
And we don't hate boys, okay?
That's another bullshit story.

We are refusers
But we crave kissing.
We don't want to do anything before we're ready
but it could be sooner than you think
and we get to decide
and we are not afraid of what is pulsing through us.
It makes us alive.

Don't deny us, criticize us or infantilize us.
We don't accept checkpoints, blockades or air raids
We are obsessed with learning.
On the barren Tsunamied beaches of Sri Lanka
In the desolate and smelly remains
Of the lower ninth
We want school.
We want school.
We want school.

We know if you plan too long
Nothing happens and things get worse and that
Most everything is found in the action
and instinctively we get that the scariest thing
isn't dying, but not trying at all.

And when we finally have our voice
and come together
when we let ourselves gather the knowledge
when we stop turning on each other
but direct our energy towards what matters
when we stop worrying about
our skinny ass stomachs or too frizzy hair
or fat thighs
when we stop caring about pleasing
and making everyone so incredibly happy-
We got the Power.

If
Janis Joplin was nominated the ugliest man on her campus
And they sent Angela Davis to jail
If Simone Weil had manly virtues
And Joan of Arc was hysterical
If Bella Abzug was eminently obnoxious
And Ellen Sirleaf Johnson is considered scary
If Arundhati Roy is totally intimidating
and Rigoberta Menchu is pathologically intense
And Julia Butterfly Hill is an extremist freak
Call us hysterical then
Fanatical
Eccentric
Delusional
Intimidating
Eminently obnoxious
Militant
Bitch
Freak
Tattoo me
Witch
Give us our broomsticks
And potions on the stove
We are the girls
who are aren't afraid to cook.

"Refuser" is published in Eve's newest work - I AM AN EMOTIONAL CREATURE: The Secret Life of Girls Around the World

Kvetch

In coming to Jerusalem I thought I would be suddenly overwhelmed with theological clarity. In reality, the opposite has happened. I’ve never been so consumed with doubt regarding religion.

I can understand that uncertainty is a trait which very typical for someone of my generation, but I never felt a part of my generation in aspects of organised religion because I think in some way, I was content with where I was.

My new understanding is that to be Jewish, is to Kvetch.

To sit uncomfortably because of the uncertainties welling up inside of you; To struggle with doubt in your innermost being to the point where it feels as though there is a noose around your guts pulling you awake at night, making you lose sleep, lose your hair, loose colour in your face. You have to feel as though you’re swimming upstream against the ebb and flow of atheism and commitment to your ‘Jewish day school deity’, who weights his children’s deeds, rules over all in existence justly but with an iron fist.

It’s exhausting but I believe engaging in the struggle is key to being an observant Jew.

I believe we’re the chosen people – Chosen to kvetch!

We left a life of slaver only to burn our feet on hot sand and accept a covenant which chains us to another ruler who at the drop a hat will sentence us to death. (see: Vayikra/Leviticus and Devarim/Deuteronomy)

And what a cleaver deity we committed ourselves to under that burning mountain! She (gender non-specific) gives a law-book which enables Her (again, not gendered) to be completely absent from this world, but have Her people self-bound to her eternally in committed service because of their curse to kvetch at the thought of not doing something right which is so embeded into our genes...

Oddly I am glad to be a part of this, couldn't picture it any other way...

The Desert Speaks!

“The desert speaks,

It calls for you to be happy,

Reminding you that everything blooms,

Within you, in your heart.”

I spent this past weekend in the desert on a small Kibbutz called Kramim (Vineyards). The recent rain in the area has allowed for the potential life to sprout from the tough arid earth and cover the amber soil in greenery. The landscape was not a dry as I was expecting but the nourishing silence of the desert was there in all its wonder!

I heart the Negev because of its ability change overnight. It expresses its willingness to grow if only it had the resources. 

Sitting on a bus for two hours on the way there I find I always have these two options; either think about how everything around me is somehow connected to my life’s journey, or sleep and wake up on the shoulder of the person sitting next to me in a puddle of my own drool.

This time I chose the former.

I really feel that here there is so much opportunity to grown and bloom. The kibbutz I was on hosts a year long program which gives ‘post-high school, pre-army’ teenagers the chance to explore themselves and learn about their cultural, national and religious identity. So of course there was a lot of ideological discussions on everything from ‘education methods’, to ‘the need to settle the Negev’, to ‘how much alcohol teenagers should be drinking on their gap year’ (in hebrew, ulpan must be working, who knew!?).

It was really fantastic! A wonderful bunch of kids who helped me reaffirm my being here, and made me fear Israeli youth a little less.

Bless!

Happy Julie

Julie was a six-year-old girl who wanted nothing more than to be a bird. So much so that all her physical activities were devoted to building up her upper-body strength so as to hold her own weight while navigating through strong convection currents.

Depending on her mood Julie would morph into a different species of bird and respond to her circumstances accordingly:

When Julie was thirsty, she was a pelican, holding vast bodies of water in her elastic-like bill.

When Julie was hungry, she wasn’t a magpie because worms were not to her taste.

When Little Timmy threw a dodge-ball at Julies face, Julie was a bird of prey.

Julie wasn’t quite sure what attracted to her to the idea of the being a bird, she didn’t relate to Jenny from Forest Gump, she was happy at home.

She thought of her home as a nest she could comfortably grow, live and learn in.

She received enough consensual hugs and (although not regurgitated) food form her mother.

Julie was happy.

Perhaps it was the colours, or the flaunting of feathers while defending her territory, or the calls, oh the calls!

The hunting calls.

The goodnight calls.

‘THE-SUN-IS-RISING’ calls.

They made Julie happy.

The mating calls didn’t interest her so much, she was six you sicko!

By the age of thirteen Julie wanted nothing more than to be a cat.

The weird part was the transitional period...

Julie would pounce, and scratch, rub up against strangers.

She still wasn’t one of those girls who was introverted cause she thought she was fat, or was flat chested compared to Stacey Mcfree, or had a pimple on her face connecting her eye-brows.

Julie was Happy.

Julie became more patient as a cat, and slightly more voyeuristic, she would watch people. As her teenage years went on her inner-animal became more metaphorical. She hunted information for school projects. She meowed secrets to her friend-girls in class about boys. She licked her emotional wounds clean which were caused by bitchy calls made toward her in the playground.

Julie became a vegetarian.

Julie became lactose intolerant.

Julie met a boy.

The boy though he was a dog.

Julie thought that was weird.

Julie is eighty-five.

She wants nothing more than some human contact. Her only friends are Mitzy, Mittens and Snuggles. She only eats chicken. It’s not as though she has had a bad life. She’s been married with kids and achieved things and such. Really her life has been rich and full.

Julie is happy.

Especially for a cat...

Gill

A month after my Aliyah I brave the old city to visit some close friends. Until now I'd been a avoiding the place for reasons unknown. Having strolled through the Armenian quarter, the January air beating against my face turning my cheeks red and making my eyes water, I figured it was only appropriate that I visit the kotel as well. In preparation of my meeting with the Holy rocks which create the boundaries of a now extinct temple I try to think holy thoughts:
''Chareidim are close minded'' no, that's not holy.
“ These rocks are the vertical version of the ones I’m walking on” still not so holy
''Rocks don't represent Godliness'' getting a little closer
''Daily meditation (or prayer) can help you get centred'' close enough! Off I go!

I wash my hands for ritual purity and like a fly to a web of black leather straps I navigate right into the mitzvah trap.

A black coat grabs my arm, it’s stronger than you would assume a man who studies chassidus all day would be.
''Is your mother Jewish!?''
Apprehensive response: ''...ye''
''Tfill!''
Politely refusal: ‘‘its ok thank you, I have them at home if I want to put them on I will''
''You are home! Tfill!''
He drags me to the mitzvah wagon dripping with men swaying to the rhythm of their prayers and starts binding the felactories to my arm. Wish I hadn’t left my whistle at home coz this was definitely not consensual.

''Why should I put these on?''
''God said so!'' he replies with the enthusiasm of a fat kid in a cake shop.

(so many questions, why does an omnipotent being care that one of his creation's skin is being strapped to another? How does a being without a voice box speak? How do the rabbis go from reading 'totafot' to 'teffilin'?) He doesn't have time, he needs to fill his mitzvah quota.

This spiritually riveting experience escalated when a pale senior with a long white beard and peyot to match locks eyes with me with and with no respect for my personal space starts to preach into my face.

I know this guy, its Guru Gill, I've read his book, went from being a Buddhist hermit on a mountain top to a member of the Chassidic world. It’s a shame that all his years spent in silence and he still hasn’t learn to listen...

He taught me these lessons Three:
(I'll save u the full transcript)
1) Men wear pants, physically and especially figuratively. A relationship works because man is dominant.
2) Being vegetarian is a good thing, but if God says skin a cow and strap em on, you strap em on!
3) There is nothing more to life than marrying a Jewish woman and popping out a few more Jews, the rest is peripheral ramblings.

I serreptitiously sneak away both of us enriches for the experience.
I head toward the bus feeling dirty from being mitzvah-raped...
Going back there on Saturday, such a sadist.