#Just to explain to me how her grief is? How she feels as an Israeli (clearly how all Israelis feel)

[rotzaprachim]

*breathes in and out through mouth* everyone is scared and grieving and still waiting for news of their families everyone is scared and grieving everyone is scared and grieving*

[matan4il]

IDK how to write today's update post. There were so many things I meant to include info about, but now everything pales in the face of the terrible news we got this morning.

At least 24 Israeli soldiers were killed in the last 24 hours in Gaza.

Here are the faces of some of them:

The terrorists responsible for most of these deaths, attacked in a spot just 600 meters (0.37 miles, with the border breached on Oct 7 in the middle) from a southern Israeli community, Kissufim.

[this paragraph is for the people spewing hate, on and off anon : if you read the news and smiled to yourself, or felt any kind of joy, I want you to know that's vile. It's devoid of any morality or humanity. You can tell yourself and others that you're for human rights all you want, but if you feel joy at the death of human beings, human beings who had the right to live (and would have lived, had it not been for the terrible massacre Hamas carried out on Oct 7, which the terrorists promised to recreate repeatedly, targeting Israelis and Jews alike), then you're not for human rights. It's just an excuse you use to be able to publicly celebrate the death of Jews, and of non-Jewish citizens of the Jewish state who defend their fellow Jews. It's just the same, age old antisemitism under a new guise]

IDK how to explain what that number does to me, as an Israeli, as a Jew, as the granddaughter of Holocaust survivors.

I still remember the morning of Oct 7, as the news started pouring in. First, just talking about the rockets, they had no confirmation of casualties yet. Then, we got the news of one elderly woman, killed by a rocket as she left her home to open the communal bomb shelter for others to use. Then suddenly it was 5 dead, then 10, then 22, along with the news that Palestinian terrorists from Gaza have invaded Israel's south.

And I knew then that the number is going to be higher. The way it normally goes with news of terrorist attack, is you first get a big number, those killed immediately or shortly after the attack, and then there are a few more wounded who don't make it. Basically, there's a big number, and then a small adjustment. Something like... first hearing about the 10 immedaite casualties of an attack, then the number is adjusted to 12 or 13 in the following hours, or days. But here, the jump in the number of dead from 10 to 22 told me we're not in the "small adjustment phase" yet. We're still in the "counting the initial big number phase."

That was so hard, because 22 was already hard to deal with. Up until Oct 7, if I remember correctly, we had lost 38 people in 2023 to Palestinian terrorism. That was already considered the bloodiest year in terms of terrorism victims since the second intifada. People were already grieving, asking questions about what was going on, talking about how the renewal of certain (American) funding to Palestinians (such as the Palestinian Authority's Pay for Slay program) was causing this surge in murderous activity, and what can be done to change the situation. To lose 22 people in one day meant that the number of 2023 terrorism victims was almost doubled already... and we were not yet done counting our dead. The grief and loss of almost 9 months and change almost doubled in a day... and it was likely about to grow.

The number of dead kept rising. We jumped from 22 to 50. From 50 to 100. Then 200. Still no sign of getting to the "small adjustment phase" and it was hard to breathe with every new update. We got to 300, and it was almost unbearable. Then 450. A jump of 150 dead. There was no way to process it, no way to really comprehend it, and the worst was always that the jumps in numbers between updates meant we're still in the "counting the initial big number phase." Somewhere after 600 and before the next update, I realized from an interview (nothing official, just the implication of what one person, who was in the know, said) that it was not going to be less than 1,000 people killed. And I no longer felt like I could contain any of it. The horror, the grief, the shock, the struggle to comprehend that this is real, and not the worst nightmare I've ever had.

At least 1,200 people were murdered during Hamas' massacre. It's been over 3 months, and when I write that I didn't know how to contain everything I was feeling back then, I still don't. So you might think, what's 24 people in comparison to 1,200 dead? But that's not how it works. The death of one person does not pale in comparison with the death of the many.

When I work on Holocaust research, and I work on the testimony of one Jewish girl, who had to watch her father being beaten in front of her eyes by Nazi-collaborating Italian fascist soldiers in a concentration camp in Libya, in northern Africa, when I try to process what the murder of just one parent, just one person means to her, I know it's the destruction of her whole world. It doesn't lessen the pain, that the number of Jewish Holocaust victims outside of Europe is "just" in the thousands, while in Europe it's in the millions. One death can in itself be impossible to bear.

And here's the thing. Those deaths and their impact accumulate. We didn't just learn today that we lost 24 soldiers. We lost 24 worlds (because as the Jewish saying goes, "He who kills one person, it's as if he killed the entire world, and he who saves one person, it's as if he saved the whole world," Mishna Sanhedrin 4.5) and we lost them as a part of now over 220 soldiers we lost in this war (see below a map of Israel with a red dot for every place where at least one soldier was killed), which was forced upon us with the murder and destruction of over 1,200 worlds, which comes after 75 years of a conflict we didn't want, in which we lost 28,000 worlds, and that followed a genocide in which we lost at least 6,000,000 worlds, and that in itself is the peak of almost two thousand years of persecution, during which the full and total number of Jews lost, of worlds destroyed just because of antisemitism, will never be known. All I know is that the Jews we know today, we're not the Jewish people. We are what's left of the Jewish people. And we will live. Am Yisrael Chai. Always. In the face of countless attempts at our destruction, we're still here. But we remember them all. Every single soul lost. Every world destroyed. Every child that had been murdered, every child that will never get to be born. We have lost 24 worlds today, and the fact that we have lost so many before, only makes the loss worse.

And we would not have lost a single person in the fighting in Gaza if we had actually been guilty of the crimes they accuse us of. We could have wiped out all of Gaza from the air, without risking the life of a single soldier on the ground. Every one of the Israeli soldiers killed, died to protect Israelis, as well as to save Palestinian civilians.

The way I feel right now, I think about the words of one member of Kissufim who I heard today: "We are broken, but strong."

May the memory of those lost be a blessing, every single one of them, every Jewish person, and non-Jew killed for standing with Jews, in every generation.

You're all still with me, I carry all of you in my heart, always.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[theredqueenandthebloodwyrm]

I see we’re just reposting things without sources for some reason?? I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it’s because the tweet used the magic word “Zionist” which is taken to be “irredeemably evil and vile person”. For context, the context which that tweet purposely left out (and yeah I’m going to say it’s fucking purposeful) is this article by the NPR. Inside this article the allegedly pro-Palestine posts on social media were fucking videos of the Hamas on October 7th. So, yeah if you’re reposting antisemitic stuff (blatantly antisemitic too), fuck you.

The images that came out of Israel on October 7 were brutal and graphic, and the images coming out of Gaza for months now are constant, also brutal and horrific. All this violence is being shared on social media, and as KQED's Lesley McClurg reports, that's affecting the mental health of Americans with loved ones in Gaza and in Israel. A warning - this story contains descriptions of violence. LESLEY MCCLURG, BYLINE: Some of the footage Shoshana Howard (ph) saw on social media months ago still haunts her. A video appears to show a Hamas fighter pulling an Israeli hostage from the trunk of a jeep. CNN aired a clip of the video. (SOUNDBITE OF ARCHIVED RECORDING) UNIDENTIFIED PERSON: Her face is bleeding, and her wrists appear to be cable-tied behind her back. MCCLURG: It looks like blood is seeping through the back of the woman's sweatpants. SHOSHANA HOWARD: And that broke me - and then seeing friends calling it liberation. MCCLURG: Howard, who is Jewish, couldn't believe people she knew were writing comments online that, to her, felt inhumane and anti-Jewish. HOWARD: That's when I started to have night terrors, and I was ending my days going into my closet and just would cry. MCCLURG: She couldn't stop thinking about her cousins living in Israel. As the days passed, it became harder to focus on her life and work in Oakland. HOWARD: Like, I just was so fragile. MCCLURG: And then recently, she felt shamed by a friend who told her her grief doesn't matter when so many Palestinians are suffering.

Is it “making the argument” to point out the hypocrisy of saying the Houthis (a terror organization) are protecting international laws and human rights when there’s documented evidence of Houthis perpetrating slavery, diverting humanitarian aid, and so on? Or you know, is it providing necessary context that readers might want to know?

And the comments below that tweet are awful (with a few exceptions rightfully pointing out accuracy of said community note and how slavery is in fact bad).

Antisemitic Tweet #1: This is what all community notes have become now. Total Zionist propaganda machine.

Antisemitic Tweet #2: There's been an influx of "community notes" that are clearly just people trying to protect the narrative.

Antisemitic Tweet #3: It's like the Israeli Bot accounts that change the community notes to favor Israel.

Already reblogged multiple posts explaining what's wrong with the Houthis with sources attached, so linking those now to save space (rather than adding ten different links).

This? This is what you say on October 7th, 2023?

Shaun: Lot of reaping being condemned by the sowers today. Shaun (cont.): I'm talking about politicians who stridently oppose all options except those which lead to violence and then act shocked violence occurs. Their condemnations of violence are worthless while they ignore their hand in the apartheid causing it.

October 7th was an attack against civilians where hostages were taken, people were murdered, people who advocated for peace were harmed, killed, and so on.

I also noticed a tweet not too far down from that one which said the following:

Lots of people in these comments very mad that Palestinians aren't being victims of occupation in the right and proper way.

No, people are mad about civilians being massacred and taken as hostages by a terrorist organization. The lack of empathy is something.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Art by Fair Trade Frame of Mind by Duy Huynh

* * * *

My boyfriend had been dead four minutes and I was asleep when he my nudged my arm. Baby, he said, I have something to tell you.

Oh, God, I said, seeing him on the edge of my bed, knowing there was a snowstorm between us…knowing he was sick, and of course just KNOWING what this could possibly mean.

This can’t be good, I said out loud – and then the phone rang and really woke me up. His daughter told me, in between sobs, that he had died in the middle of the snowstorm that had kept us apart, and in a moment I was the wife answering the door, the widow without a ring on Christmas morning.

After his funeral, where people I had never met lined up for blocks, wrapping around a small church he never attended - when my friends were getting high in the living room of Virginia’s apartment, I went to lay down, and that’s when he came to me again, gently waking me up, his hand on my forearm.

Music was playing in the other room, the notes gently sliding under my bedroom door - Talking Heads singing same as it ever was, while my friends laughed and cried in the background.

Baby, he said, with his ocean eyes - I have some things to tell you.

He had come to say goodbye, so excited by death he could barely contain himself, and it felt rude to me at the time - me so young in grief, and him so free and happy in this other world that did not yet belong to me, but he explained the dead don't feel grief the same way.

He was kneeling on the floor like he could stay, then sitting on my bed with his legs crossed, and then he told me he couldn’t stay, that this would be our last communication.

When I met this man, we danced a lot. Mostly slow dancing as a prelude to wet, to hard, to flames that licked both our bodies when we got near each other. Sounds came out of the deepest part of me that never left my body when I had been with other men.

I entered my Billie Holiday and Louis Armstrong period beside him, a period I never returned from. We danced to All of Me in my kitchen while I was cooking, my garlic fingers wrapped around his neck.

Her one perfect octave like a songbird entering the all of us.

Love spills.

Love sings.

Love is always a prelude to grief, because if we didn’t love so hard, if we didn’t jump into the fire with all our clothing on, we would never have scars to show for the love when it leaves us.

His breath, when it mingled with mine always smelled of cigars and onions and tomorrow.

After he explained the great forgiveness, after he explained God by not explaining God in the way any of us would expect (he had been an atheist) - after showing me the doorways of death, and how magnificent what was behind each door, he had one last message for me, and today I give that message to you:

He said....music is the language between all the worlds.

And just like that, he was gone, no notes lingering in the air, no hum, no lullaby, no Billy Holiday crooning take all of me.

Just gone.

Today I want to remind you that it's through music we reground, we enter love, we discover our voices. Through music we grieve, reemerge and sometimes rage.

The mockingbird serenaded my lovemaking with another man ten years later, when my thighs learned to sing again.

Songs come from the whales, the songbirds, the frogs and the crickets, the earth. Langston Hughes said, I’ve been waiting long for an earth song.

Maya Angelou tells us why the caged bird sings.

The ancient text of the Perek Shirah, literally means "a Chapter Of Song," reminding us that everything on the earth has a voice, and sings in exultation, not just for mating, or to find food, but in exultation.

I’m inviting you to listen, to sing, and in doing this, to find your voice. This wonderful man, so many years ago, helped me find my voice when it had been silenced for most of my life.

We are in extraordinary times, my friends, and we are all waking up. A lovely Israeli woman staying in my home for four days said she’s standing in the question now, wondering if the song she has been singing her whole life might belong to someone else - perhaps it’s time for her to find her own notes.

This life may at times feel like a nightmare we want to wake from, and that’s because we are literally in between worlds, the old world and the new world, and that liminal space sometimes feels disorienting.

It’s as if we are dying - and in that death of our old selves we must find our voices, our new song - a new way of moving through a new world we can all create together.

One note, one bar, one refrain at a time.

❤

(Laura Lentz)

[nataliesnews]

Meeting of the Combatants 26.11.2023

I know I put in a lot of posts but that is there for those who want to read more when I quote something. Yesterday was a very difficult day ....I went to sit with the families at Kabbalat Shabbat and saw people knitting on their fingers....I don't know how to explain that but they were making this amazing mat and each time someone was laying down a line ....I asked one woman to show me but I doubt I would know how to do it.  This girl was knitting but others were literally doing it on their fingers.

But what I do not understand is where we are going....how far into Gaza and what will happen with all the people who are displaced. Knowing how Arab countries treated the refugees of 1948 and Yom Kippur I doubt they will get much help from them. 

My arm is healing the nurse says. They change the  bandage every day at Nofim. I sat with my friend. Yehudit Elkane for over an hour putting a complaint to the police on the internet and then the police phoned to say that I have to go to the accident centre in town. It is more discomfort than anything else but I find that I am rather traumatized and have trouble using public transport. I force myself to do so as I don't want to give in and also it is a hell of an expense. I spoke to Uzie, my lawyer and he says that we will not take any action now.  He is right as I did not expect that it would have an influence on my head. He said I must go to my doctor and have it documented. 

I think of the Palestianians with whom we met yesterday. The Combatants for Peace. We were about 20 You can see by the group picture. None of us were sure of how this meeting would be. They cried for their dead. We cried for ours. And we all cried for a communal grief. This young man, Daniel, a Christian Palestinans asked for a photo with me to show to his mother to persuade her to also come to our meetings. Both Israelis and Palestinians said that they have difficulty talking to friends of what they feel and  have found that people have cut themselves off ...both Israelis who spoke to Gaza and Palestinians have spoken of their shame at the massacre. On both sides there were people who said that they had not wanted to come but we all left feeling strengthened in our desire to  go towards peace together however far away it may seem today. Everyone is smiling in the pictures but I think we were all drained by the emotion of the day.  

  There was once a little thorn tree standing right beside the road, where long spans of oxen went with their heavy load. And one day in that place an ox-wagon came past, and with its heavy wheels wheeled right over the little tree. ‘The other day, o thorn-twig, you scratched me with your bough and that is why my wheels came and squashed your little crown.’ The ox-wagon disappeared then over a far hill-crest, and slowly the little tree to stand straight did its best. Its beauty was in tatters; its bark was torn askew; and at one place the little trunk was even snapped half through. But yet that little thorn tree gradually stood upright

 healing itself with its own gum, the ointment of its plight. Along with passing years the wounds were wiped away at just one spot there was a scar that irreversible would stay. The wounds are all healed up again as the decades come and go, but that mark gets larger and yet will always grow  

It is actually a poem about the Boer war but the one day walking through Hawarra after the pogrom I thought of it when I walked past a a burnt fig tree and thought of the Palestinians. But at the meeting I said it was now not only a poem for the Palestinians but also for us and also for Gaza. The last line though that the mark gets larger. I hope that we will be able to overcome it but it will take many years. 

Another thing which really brightened my day. I told them of Mofida in Hebron and how I wanted to help her and one of the Palestinian ladies came to me and said that she had family in Hebron and could get money and necessities to them ....I phoned Edna Baskin and she also sent me money by bit and we gave them a decent amount which should help for a while. They are a family of 20, none of whom can work at the moment or even leave the village. But we are not only harming their economy but our own. One sees it all over. We went to a restaurant and I found the whole menu had changed and the waitress told me that they are short of workers but also in Ein Kerem there are none of the usual Christian pilgrims. 

This is what one of the Palestnians, Jamil, wrote about the meeting:

Hello.. I would like to share with you some of what I felt today. A meeting was scheduled for the Bethlehem Group, a joint group with Israeli activists.  From the beginning of the meeting, my heart began to be tickled by some of Natanya’s words when I greeted her on the office stairs and she said to me, “Where is my stair railing?”.  Then I remembered that the last time when she visited the office, she asked for a stair railing, and I felt embarrassed because I had not yet fulfilled or taken into account her needs, and I felt that she was telling me, “This is my home, too.” The office was full with all the activists, and when I see the activists and the team of the two offices together, I feel overwhelming joy.  We started the group meeting with words from the heart and mind, with pain and hope. Everyone shared their feelings, but among the touching words was Ayala’s talk about not feeling safe even in her community, in her home and in her surroundings. Tears were shed and it was painful to see our friends in pain and losing the feeling of security.  I understand their pain because I was and I'm still in this painful situation. I heard Natanya’s speech when she was describing the police attack on her friend at the door of the Al-Maskobiyya police station and how she described the arrogance of the police. She was also in tears.”  I felt as if I saw my mother crying and talking about her pain when she described telling her family that the Israeli police and army beat, suppress, and arrest left-wing activists just as they do to the Palestinians. She was sharing her words with tears in her eyes.  I couldn't handle the situation.  I kissed her hand and head, in admiration of her strength, which, despite the weakness of her body, has the heart and determination of a combatant.  I and all of us learn from Natanya how to insist that our principles do not change despite all the horrors.  She gives hope to all those who have lost it.  At the end of my speech, I would like to say that our meeting today is a step forward and a step towards a common hope.  Thank you to everyone who contributed to arranging this meeting. Thank you Iris, Sayel, Sevan and Mahmoud. Thank you to everyone who attended despite fear and anxiety. Thank you, my partners. Together, let’s build a joint society free of hatred, racism and supremacy.  “Together” to promote love, freedom and mutual respect.  Yes, freedom for all because we are all -Palestinians and Israelis- living under the occupation of extremists.

[theseadagiodays]

May 4, 2020

This is Not a Performance

Irving H Bolano’s incredible repurposed newspaper fashion for the Met Gala Challenge on Twitter #HFMetGala2020

May the Fourth be With You as you reach the next chapter of this current sci-fi drama we seem to be living through.   As the saying goes, reality can be stranger than fiction.   But it just happens to be a many red-eyed virus rather than an evil, black-masked father that we’re fighting as we all walk around like Storm Troopers.  

There are so many aspects of our lives, during Covid, which make it feel like we are actors in a make-believe story.   First of all, we’ve all become movie stars, with our faces, homes, and even pets showcased on our own silver screens.  As isolated as we are, our private lives now play out in the public sphere more than ever - no paparazzi required.    For some, this invasion of privacy is unwelcomed. But for many people, it satisfies a secret longing to share themselves with a wider audience.  After all, deep down, everyone wants to be seen and heard (I guess, me included, since I have this blog, after all).  It’s why TikTok and YouTube and Facebook have become multi-billion dollar companies so quickly.  And now, while this pandemic is a harsh daily reminder of the impermanence of all things, it makes sense that these digital missives are an attempt to seek immortality, in some strange way.

As someone whose work responds to human’s need to have a voice, I truly get why this is the case.  And I love that this time has turned housewives into opera stars, and health care workers into hip hop dancers, and housepets into circus performers. But, at the same time, I have become very aware of the masks that we wear, even inside our homes, to portray a certain self to the world that may stray quite far from our authentic selves.  The expression “dance like no one is watching” acknowledges the fact that we all tend to perform when we have an audience, and perhaps we’re only truly ourselves when we don’t.   I understand that the way we “perform” ourselves online gives each of us a chance to reinvent the fictions we want our stories to have.   So, while I surely take some guilty pleasure from intimate glimpses into strangers’ lives, I also do so with a certain skepticism about the veracity of what I’m seeing.  

This became particularly true for me when I received a recent link from my friend and amazing singer/songwriter, Dominique Fricot. Capitalizing on this current trend of oversharing, he cleverly asked his fans to film their morning routines for the music video of his new song, Wake Up, by his duo, Flora Falls.  Dom’s warm tenor voice blended with his partner’s breathy tones feel just like a lazy morning in bed.  But I’ll leave it up to you to decide just how accurate these portrayals of people’s idyllic daytime rituals actually are.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=EbsqXou5FeY

May 5, 2020

Homeschool Heroes

About twenty years ago,  I was invited to adjudicate a youth music competition in the Yukon.  Travelling to one of the northernmost inhabited spots on earth, I imagined that my greatest surprise might have been a polar bear or Northern Lights sighting.  But it turned out to be something entirely different.  Among the 25,000 residents of the thriving metropolis of Whitehorse exists a treasure trove of talent.  I could not believe the incredibly honed skills and nuanced expression with which these 11-18 year-olds played.   Wondering why, I developed a theory that I now call SLoW: Sheltered Living Wonder.  When long, dark days, cold climates or pandemics force people indoors, they tend to spend inordinate amounts of time on creative endeavors and skill development.  In other words, they slow down and take time for wonder.

This theory has surely applied during these past few months of sheltering in place.   One of the most remarkable examples has been the inventiveness that many of my friends have brought to their first attempts with homeschooling.   So, I wanted to give a few shout outs to some of these Homeschool Heroes and the highly imaginative projects they’ve done with their kids.

Stunning Easter Eggs made from natural materials and dye, by my friend Jane Cox and her kids  (Botany lesson)

Candy Covid virus, made by Amelia, my friend Jen Sanke’s daughter, as she learned about the virus’ proteins (Biology lesson)

But perhaps the prize for most complex homeschool project has to go to my architect friend, Bryn Davidson, who upon returning from Australia, in late March, had to fully quarantine for 2-weeks.  So, with his 5-year old son Bei as helper, this Physics lesson allowed him to enjoy home delivery beer while in isolation.  Just brilliant!

https://youtu.be/FF9-2dWoUtc

May 6, 2020

Living in livestream

So today, 5 million British Columbian’s awaited our “sentence” with baited breath, as word spread that our provincial prime minister would deliver the Re-Open BC plan at 3 pm.   I have to admit, it felt a bit like when you were “grounded” as an adolescent and then your parents returned certain privileges to you.  Of course, I’m well aware that our province has already been far more licentious than many places around the globe.  We’ve been fortunate to maintain reasonably low numbers of infection (just over 2,000), with counts as low as 8 new cases per day, at this point. So, while our provincial parks closed, our beaches never did.  While we were encouraged, within a reasonable range of home, to be active outdoors, we were not restricted to walks only within the 100 metre radius of our house, as my Israeli friends were.  And while we could still shop at gardening and furniture stores, to make sheltering at home more enjoyable, New Zealanders had nothing but grocery stores and pharmacies open, for two months.  

I have sensed the gratitude my fellow Vancouverites have felt about these privileges.  But that does not mean that we aren’t still anxious to return to other aspects of living which we’ve missed.  When lockdown began, ominously on the Ides of March (the 15th), I’d harboured a secret hope that certain restrictions might be lifted on my birthday (exactly two months later).  And it turns out that Phase Two of the BC ReOpen plan will commence on May 19th, just 4 days later than I’d hoped.  What I most look forward to experiencing again are small gatherings with friends, (we’ll soon be allowed to socialize in public with up to 10 people); meals inside certain restaurants and pubs (those that are able to function within WorkPlace BC’s safety regulations); visits to registered massage therapists; and hugs with select people, (”using one’s own ‘risk assessment’.”)

But in the long-range plan, the harsh reality for artists has been laid out, as Phase Four (which includes resuming large-venue concerts, conventions, and international travel) can not occur until either a vaccine has been developed, an effective treatment plan is widely available, or herd immunity is achieved.  And this is not estimated to occur until mid-2021 or later.  So, the prospects are still bleak for symphony orchestras, opera and dance companies, artists who perform in crowded bars, or musicians who travel for arena shows and festivals.  This likely means that in order to satisfy audiences’ need to access live performance, and for artists to continue to share their creativity,  livestream formats will still have to persist for some time.  Therefore, I thought I’d share a few regular weekly livestream arts events here, both from Vancouver, LA & NY.

Canadian National Live Art Champion, Dmitri Sirenko, who we featured at our non-profit’s annual benefit on February 20th, 2020

Every Monday Night at 7 pm PST (Vancouver) Poetry Slam: https://www.facebook.com/Vancouverpoetryslam/

Every Thursday at 5 pm PST (LA): LIVE Art Battles - Watch painters do their magic in just 20 minutes: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCWJoWGVwzGtk99nTOCib9vg

Every Thursday at 8 pm EST (NY): Spotlight on Plays - famous actors perform readings of theatre pieces, online: https://www.broadwaysbestshows.com/post/the-best-of-series/

May 7, 2020

Collateral Blessings

So many thoughtful writers are adding to the discourse, as we all strive to make meaning from what can feel like a senseliess time.  I have so appreciated the abundance with which people are sharing these missives, right now.  Every day, bursts of inspiration or flickers of insight come my way, thru texts, emails and Facebook.  Like adventurers, traveling together thru the dark of night, we shine light on guideposts, anywhere we can find them, as we collectively quench each other’s thirst for wisdom.  

One of the most profound writings I‘ve recently discovered came from a stranger’s blog.  In The Examined Family, Courtney Martin, without ever diminishing the gravity of the havoc that this virus has wreaked, writes about some of the assets that have also come out of this time.  New friendships with neighbors.  A long-neglected puzzle completed with her kids.   The time to draw and truly notice an artichoke in her back garden. My good friend Juan calls these collateral blessings.  This reference to the accidental gifts that this cruel virus has given us, is a beautiful twist on “collateral damage”, a term coined to explain accidental friendly-fire deaths during the Gulf War.  Commenting on the anticipatory nostalgia that she projects she will feel about certain things, once this time has passed, Courtney writes:

“I instantly feel overwhelmed at the prospect of schedules and stuff. I don’t want to go back to our former accumulation or frenetic pace. I don’t want to stop texting (my neighbor) my little triumphs. I don’t want to forget about the artichokes in the garden. I don’t ever want to forget this happened--the grief and the beauty of it. I’m not even sure that will be possible, but if it were, I wouldn’t want it. I don’t want to vote like it didn’t happen. I don’t want to eat like it didn’t happen. I don’t want to consume like it didn’t happen. I don’t want to schedule like it didn’t happen. I don’t want to mother or daughter or befriend or neighbor like it didn’t happen. I don’t want to sit inside this little life, noticing and appreciating and breathing, like it didn’t happen. There is unnecessary suffering all around me, and inside of me, too, but there is also necessary meaning. May we hold on to that.”      

You can read her full entry here: https://courtney.substack.com/p/unnecessary-suffering-and-necessary?token=eyJ1c2VyX2lkIjo3OTg0NDcyLCJwb3N0X2lkIjozNzU1NDMsIl8iOiJCTnk2VyIsImlhdCI6MTU4NzA1MjgyMCwiZXhwIjoxNTg3MDU2NDIwLCJpc3MiOiJwdWItMjA5MjIiLCJzdWIiOiJwb3N0LXJlYWN0aW9uIn0.puI9NMne-783ypInpvTkJ96T237WcrTo2ItDhqlkMiY

May 8, 2020

Nostalgia

I’m rarely one prone to nostalgia.  My childhood photo albums are in storage.  I have no family heirlooms displayed in my home.  My tendency is to revel in the present or dream about the future.  But this pandemic has strangely turned me into a sentimental fool.  Perhaps this return to simpler times, where we seldom shop, where we wander mostly by foot, or where we get to know our neighbors better, makes us long for the past in certain ways.  

For me, I’ve honored this by resurrecting my daily teenage Twizzler habit - a candy I’ve rarely eaten since then, but that now feels so satisfying during my Netflix & Chill evenings (while watching films almost as old like Groundhog Day & Anchorman).  

I’m also listening a lot to Old School Hip Hop, where the explative-free rhymes of the 90’s feel so strangely innocent.  It’s refreshing to listen to these musicians spit verses that merely celebrate the joys of dance and rap, rather than ranting about gun violence and other societal ills.  Run DMC It’s Tricky (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l-O5IHVhWj0) and Beastie Boys Body Movin’ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uvRBUw_Ls2o) happen to be personal favorites.  

Last month, I was tickled by an old memory while planting a lilac bush in my backyard.  I suddenly remembered a story about my college boyfriend, whom I hadn’t thought of in 30 years.  Our relationship started a bit secretively, so as not to hurt his ex’s feelings.  So, one May afternoon, we snuck away to a distant park that was hosting a Lilac Festival.  Unfortunately, our ruse was quickly spoiled when a candid photo of our picnic under the purple blooms was plastered all over the front page of the Rochester Democrat and Chronicle the next morning.  

Another sweet memory returned in culinary form. Every Tuesday, for 7 years, my mother selflessly drove me an hour from home and back, for my flute lesson.  And to break up the long drive, we regularly stopped at Bickford’s Pancake House for my favorite adolescent treat: breakfast for dinner. Their specialty was the Dutch Baby Apple.  And I finally made my first homemade attempt at this deceptively easy delicacy, last Tuesday.  

This has also been a time to return to bedtime stories (some I’ve read to friends’ kids, and others for adults to hear.)  The Great Realisation by British performance artist, Tom Foolery, has been making the social media rounds. But in case you missed this touching tale that looks back on this time as if the tale is being told in a not-so-distant future, it’s a wistful story about some aspects of modern life that we may never long for in the future:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nw5KQMXDiM4

[thejakeformerlyknownasprince]

Ladybird, Ladybird

[Ficlet set during The Beginning, more or less canon-compliant.  Title from the children’s rhyme.]

For the first time after the war, Jean has a good dream about Tom.  Nothing special or particular, just a dream of lying in out on the sun-soaked lawn on a Saturday morning with her chubby six-year-old pushed up against her body, wiggly and snuggly.  No day in particular, she doesn’t think.  Just an aggregate: memory, imagination, longing.

“Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home...” he sings in her dream, pulling petals from a flower one by one.  Jean doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s doing it wrong.

For a long time the dreams were of him crying out somewhere Jean couldn’t reach to help.  It wasn’t hard to figure out what those dreams meant.  They started too late, but they warn her anyway.  That her little boy was hurt.  That he was in pain.  That even as he sat across the kitchen table with the corners of his mouth pulled into a smile, he was begging her for help so loudly that the black thing inside him had to hurt him just to shut him up.

Mommy, I’m hurt.  Mommy, I’m scared.  Help me, Mommy.

And Jean didn’t hear, back then.  She didn’t know.  She couldn’t fling herself halfway out of bed the way she did the other night.  Half-asleep, half-frantic, murmuring to Steve, “Just gotta check on the boys—”  Before she remembers.  That Tom is dead.  That Jake...

Jake doesn’t need her help anymore.

Anyway, Jean wakes gently this time.  And she thinks maybe this is the first sign of healing.  That maybe she’s crested to that place where the memories become treasures rather than shards.  She’s heard that can happen, from her counseling group.

The dream was still sad, of course.  The memory of it, slanting gold sun over Tom’s tiny fists and dark curls, awakes an emptiness inside her.  It probably always will.

Because that’s what grief is: a thousand shades of regret.  Sometimes even regret for the regret.  “I just want to stop feeling this way,” Jean told her therapist once, before slamming her hand over her mouth too late to keep the words inside.

It’s been almost two years.  Maybe it’s time for it to start to hurt less.

“Jeannie?  You all right?”  Steve sits up next to her now, fumbles to slide his glasses on so that he can make out her expression.

“Sure.”  She presses a hand to her face, unsurprised to find last night’s salt tracks painted on her cheeks.  “Sure, honey.  I’ll get breakfast going, yeah?  You get Jake up this time.”

****************

There are four chairs at their kitchen table, still.  Again, Jean reaches down four plates before breakfast.  Again, she finds she lacks the strength to lift and put the extra one back.

It sits there on the counter, more often than not, a silent testimony throughout their meals.

“Thanks, Mom,” her son’s murderer says.  He smiles up at her, mouth still full of pancake.  “These are really good.”

****************

It was a mercy kill, according to the newspapers.  Or else, it was self-defense.  When feeling charitable, Jean thinks defense of an innocent life might apply.  But then, who’s innocent?  Tom was, when Rachel’s blow cut through his spine.

“That’s great, sweetheart,” Jean says, no inflection to her voice.

Jake sets the scrap of gilded aluminum on the mantelpiece and walks away.  It’s a Medal of Honor.

Apparently that’s the going price for fratricide, these days.

****************

“Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home,” Tom recites in her dreams.  He crouches over a blade of grass with the kind of intensity only a four-year-old can muster.  “Your house is on fire, your children all gone.  All but the little one, asleep in his bed.  Fly away now, before he is dead.”

I know, Jean thinks, when she wakes.  Baby, I know now.  It’s not enough, it’s too late.  But at least now she knows that all along her home did burn.

****************

The rabbi speaks of the deaths of the firstborn.  How the Angel of Mercy came through Egypt, and took the eldest son from every home.  How that was what it took to be free.  How the Israelis had to learn to cling tight to what they had left, even when flung from their homes.

Jean doesn’t think of Passover, when she looks at Jake.  She doesn’t think of Teshuva.  She thinks of God asking after Abel: Where has your brother gone?  Thinks of how Cain had one last chance to repent and confess, and of how pride made him refuse.

Eve cast him out, after that happened.  She had no choice, really, with her baby’s blood crying out from the land.

****************

There’s footage of her son’s death.  Footage, and everyone has seen it.  Jean only knows because her sister-in-law called to tell her.

Rage choked Naomi’s voice through the tears, that whole conversation.  “How dare they,” Naomi said.  “How dare those bastards think they can... they can...”

It was a mercy kill, CNN says, or it was love, or at least he tried.

Anyway, she’s not surprised that they dare.  That her coworkers, her greengrocer, her next-door neighbors have all watched her son die, somewhere between the weather and the six o’clock news.  It fits, given the way they look at her and then look away.

****************

Jake gives her things all the time, these days.  He custom-orders a new lawn mower.  Slides million-dollar checks across the kitchen counter.  Sets a twenty-carat diamond gifted by the Queen of England into the hand-carved bowl for Jean’s car keys.

(Jean snatched the diamond out, the instant he left the room.  It’d felt like blasphemy; the letters T-O-M-M-Y carved on the underside of the bowl made it no place for such blood money.  She dropped the jewel in the trash, not knowing what else to do.)

Today it’s something new.  Today, Jake presses an envelope onto the table between her and Steve.  “It’s upstate a little ways,” he says.  “Santa Barbara.  You don’t have to move if you don’t want, but I paid it off in full, and I figured...”

Figured what, Jean would like to know.  Figured that they’d abandon their home, abandon its memories of Tom, in exchange for this latest guilt gift?

“Thanks, kiddo.”  Steve sounds like he means it, which hurts.  “This means a lot.”

****************

Jean is running up the stairs before she consciously registers why.  It is daytime, and there was a noise from Tom’s room.  She’s awake.  But she heard the half-muffled sob, and it came from the empty bedroom at the end of the hall.

It’s the middle of the afternoon.  She’s not dreaming.  Her baby is calling out to her, and she can reach him.

When she wrenches the door open, she freezes.

Jake stands amidst the wreckage of Tom’s things.  A box sits at his feet, half filled with t-shirts and basketball trophies.  The tears on his face are fresh-flowing, badly muffled.

“What are you doing in here.”  Jean’s voice comes out hard-edged and cold.  And also: how dare you.  How dare you.

It was all arranged, exactly how it should be.  Clothes in the closet.  Gameboy in the desk drawer.  Bed made.  All his things where they belonged.

Jake moved it all.  Jake touched it.  Defiled it.  Ruined it.

“I was just...”  Jake swallows hard.  Rubs a hand over both cheeks.  He’s still got one of Tom’s sweatshirts in hand; how dare he.  “Just figured we could sort through all this, see what makes sense to keep when we move and what...”

“Get out.”  Jean doesn’t recognize the woman speaking with her voice.  All she knows is this: she’s giving it all up.  Motherhood has brought her nothing but pain.  It’s high time she relinquished it.  She will box up Tom’s things to donate or destroy.  She will make the call about what stays, and she will get rid of the things that need to go.

Starting with Tom’s killer.

“Get out,” she says again.

“Yeah.”  Jake takes a breath.  “Yeah.  Okay.  Sorry, I’ll let you finish up.”

GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, she screams inside, when she realizes he doesn’t understand.  GET OUT OF MY LIFE.  “You’re eighteen,” she forces herself to say.  “It’s high time you found your own place.  And goodness knows you can afford it.  Your father and I will take the house in Santa Barbara.  You can find your own place.”

Something happens on Jake’s face then.  Something vulnerable breaks.  Stops being wounded, because now it is dead.

She’s ready, now.  To stop being Mom, to anyone or anything.  To box up her sons and throw them away.  To learn, all over, what it is to be Jean.  Jean with the potted plant on her desk.  Jean who leaves little presents for the sanitation workers.  Jean the writer.  Jean the wife.  Jean, herself and nothing else.  She’s done with pain.  Done with love.  Done with Mommy, help me.

It takes Jake less than a day to pack up and leave.  Neither of them explains it to Steve.

****************

Fool, fool.  Your house is on fire.

It’s Steve who answers the door, when the cops’ hard knock shatters the quiet of their new kitchen.  Steve whose voice wavers as he says, “What do you mean, missing and presumed?”  Steve who whispers, “Thank you for taking the time.”

Steve who holds her, when the air leaves her body as a senseless scream of disbelief and pain.  When she rocks on the floor, moaning, whimpering, like a wounded animal.

Jean, you fool.  Fool, to think she could cut him out of her heart.  What a fool, to think she could ever not care.

Jake.  Jake.  Her baby boy.  Her clumsy, solemn, second child.  Her only son.

Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home, Steve once recorded Tom saying, his little voice lisping, the tape hissing.  All but the little one, asleep in his bed.  Fly away now—

But she never dreams about it again.  The warning only lasted while there was still time to warn her.

Instead she sleeps, and hears both their voices crying in the night.

[radiant-flutterbun]

Naomi

Previously: The Proposal 

Isra hugged his fiance, Amaranthine.

“Please don’t be gone long,” Amaranthine said.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back in time for the wedding.”

“And don’t get hurt! Stay safe!”

He nuzzled her head with his muzzle “I’ll be safe. I promise.”

“Well… Alright then. I’m going to miss you so much!”

“Me too, but hopefully this will only be a short trip and then we get to have our wedding!”

“I know! I’m so excited! I’ll make preparations for it while you’re gone!”

“Ok, but don’t strain yourself too much. You’re still recovering.”

Amaranthine nodded “I’ll take care of myself.”

“I love you Ammy.”

“I love you too Izzy.”

***

Muerto paced. He was impatient. He had waited long enough to go on this journey. He needed this. He needed to meet Naomi, the Goddess of Death. She was his only hope of finding out what happened to Sepulchral’s soul.

And maybe… Just maybe she could revive him.

Muerto shook his head.

“Shut up!” He snapped at himself “Don’t let yourself even think that. Hope will only make this worse…”

She might not even know where Sepulchral’s soul is, or she may not even tell him.

“Muerto?” He looked up to see his girlfriend, Niossa staring at him “I just wanted to say goodbye and good luck.”

She walked up to him and gave him a hug.

Although the hug was nice and comforting, he did not hug back. He just couldn’t bring himself to. Showing affection was still new to him, and his mind was too wrapped in grief to even try to be affectionate.

Niossa seemed to understand this and let go of him. At least he no longer flinched from her hugs. He trusted her.

“I’ll be honest, you going on this trip makes me nervous, but I won’t get in your way. I can tell this is something you need to do. I hope you get the answers you’re looking for, and if not… Well I hope this does you some good.”

“Thank you, Niossa.”

Niossa grinned “Anyway! I’ll miss you while you’re gone, and I love you!”

“I… I love you too.” Those words still felt odd in his mouth. Love was a difficult concept for him, but he was learning.

Muerto met with Isra in the lobby. One of the clan healers, Hecate found them and handed both dragons a package. Isra’s was much larger than Muerto’s being the larger dragon.

“Here are some emergency supplies like a first aid kit, food and water. Good luck on your journey, and Isra?”

“Yes?”

“Please remind Muerto to eat.”

“Of course.”

“Master wait!” The grey guardian, Bubonic ran into the lobby “I’m coming too!”

“Well ok if you want.” Muerto said.

“I feel I would be a bad Guardian if I didn’t.”

“You’re never a bad Guardian, Boo. But do I think it would be best for you to join us too.”

Bubonic grinned “Hooray!” She purred and bumped her head against Muerto as a sign of affection.

Muerto smiled, a rare sight.

The trio left the clan as dragons wished them good luck and waved goodbye.

“Alright, lead the way, Isra.” Muerto said.

Isra nodded “We’re heading the the Starfall Isles, which means we must cross  the Sea of a thousand Currents. It’ll be a long flight, but if you get tired you can rest on my back.”

“Ok. Can we walk until we’re out of the Sunbeam Ruins?”

“Yes. I suppose that makes sense. Let’s conserve our flying energy for the Sea.”

It took a few days for the trio to reach the edge of the Ruins. It was a quiet journey. Neither of them were very talkative.

“Well. Time to fly,” Isra said. He spread his wings and leaped off of the cliff overlooking the Sea of a Thousand Currents. Muerto and Bubonic joined him a moment later.

Flying for so long was an interesting feeling to Muerto. He already hated flying, but he had nowhere to go except on Isra or Bubonic’s backs. Below was only water, water and more water.

The thought of falling into the sea terrified him. He wasn’t a very strong swimmer.

The longer he flew the more he started to hear singing. It was faint at first, hardly noticeable, but soon it grew overwhelming.

The singing was beautiful, but Muerto found he was having trouble flying because of it.

Don’t you want to be loved?

The thought caught him off guard. It came from nowhere.

Come join us. Join us and you’ll be loved.

“But I’m already loved.”

The voice laughed. You know that’s a lie.

Muerto bit his lip.

Come into the water Muerto. Join us. We’ll love you.

“You will?” Muerto’s voice was soft, as if spoken from a dream.

Yes Muerto. We will give you the love you deserve.

Muerto found himself getting closer and closer to the water.

Something jerked him back before he could touch it. Isra clutched Muerto’s cape.

“Muerto whatever the sirens are telling you, they’re lies! They only want to drown you.”

Muerto shook his head “Wha-”

“You’re hearing the siren’s song. You must ignore them.”

“But… they said…”

“They always lie.”

“Master? Master are you alright?” Bubonic asked.

The singing faded and Muerto’s head cleared “Yeah… Yeah. I’m ok. Uh. Thanks Isra.”

“Oh you’re a clever dragon! Isra, right? You’re one of those demigods running about, huh?” A dragon popped her head out of the water. She was a black mirror with bar patterns and a white underside. Her eyes were a milky white and unseeing and she wore a blue crown on her head.

“I dislike sirens,” Isra said.

“We’re just having some fun dear.”

“Drowning dragons is not a good past time.”

The mirror shrugged. A few other dragons popped their heads out of the water to see what was going on.

“Well come on dears, break time is over. We should go back to hunting for my monster.”

“Yes Queen Megalodon!”

“But before I do, if you need any directions I’ll be happy to help. Really. I know these waters well.”

“I don’t trust sirens,” Isra said.

Megalodon shrugged “I prefer ‘merdragons’, but alright that’s fine! Just if you’re heading to the Starfall Isles, be careful around a clan called ‘Nihil’. That is all.” Together the dragons went back underwater.

Bubonic growled “I should go after them and kill them for trying to hurt Master!”

“No Boo. Leave them. It’s ok.”

But he didn’t feel ok.

It was scary how easily he believed them.

“Muerto, would you like to rest on my back?” Isra asked “You look tired.”

He didn’t realize how heavy his wings felt.

“Yeah,” Muerto said “Thanks.” He curled up on the imperial’s back and fell asleep.

***

The next few days were mostly a blur. Muerto mostly stayed on Isra’s or Bubonic’s backs. Seeing the water below day after day was a little nauseating. But luckily they encountered no more sirens.

They saw a few ships go by, but were left alone. It rained for a day or two, but other than that the weather was nice.

When land was finally in sight it was such a relief to see.

Until Muerto took a good look at the shore.

Some sort of ooze was bubbling into the water and the land was red and barren, like a scar. Bones scattered the shore and scraggly looking plants looked like they were barely hanging on.

“Isra, what is this hellish place? I thought we were going to the Starfall Isles!” Muerto said.

“We are,” The imperial said “But we must cross the Scarred Wasteland first.”

Bubonic’s eyes lit up “The Scarred Wasteland? Then these are the fabled Plague lands I’ve heard about! The land of my children!”

“Uh… your children?”

“Bubonic is the goddess of Plagues and Parasites in our world.” Muerto explained.

“Oh.”

“I want my children back. The Plaguebringer stole them from me!”

“Boo, remember this isn’t our world. Those aren't your children here.”

“But…”

“Considering you’ve never been exposed to the plagues of this land and you’re a mortal here you’ll probably get sick if you try to interact with them too,” Isra said.

“But I don’t get sick.”

“You can here. So… I was going to take a break here, but now that I think about it it’ll be safer to just fly overhead here too. I don’t want to risk any of you getting ill.”

“Are you sure?” Muerto asked “You look exhausted. So do you Boo.”

“I will be fine Master.”

“As will I,” Isra said.

They continued to fly deeper into the Wasteland.

Muerto was used to bad smells, being the God of Death, but the smells of this place were on an entirely different level.

“Does anyone actually live here?” He asked with a wrinkled snout.

“Hmm?” Isra took a moment to respond and yawned “Oh yes. Many dragons do.”

“...How? I mean. I lived in a place that smelled like Death for sixty thousand years and I can’t stand this.”

Isra shrugged “Guess they get used to it…” He felt his eyelids growing heavy.

“Hey… Hey! Isra? Isra! You’re falling!” Muerto shouted.

Isra shook his head and quickly pulled himself back up “S-sorry…. I drifted off there.”

“Yeah. I saw. Maybe you should really take a break.”

Isra sighed “Yes… I suppose you’re right. But please be careful. This land is teeming with illnesses none of you are immune to.”

“We’ll be fine.”

“Very well,” Isra landed and curled up. It wasn’t long before he was sound asleep.

“Aren't you tired too Boo?’ Muerto asked “Uh… Boo?”

The massive guardian had disappeared.

“Well shit.”

[jennamustafa267]

Creative Non-Fiction Final Draft

                            Secrets Of The CobbleStone Streets 

   In the summer of July 2016, when I was fifteen years old, I took a rather interesting trip to Italy with my grandma (Tata), my Uncle, my Aunt, two baby cousins, and my uncles’ mother in law. We traveled to three different places. First Venice, then Florence, then Rome. Out of three Florence was my favorite. The days would get pretty hectic trying to balance out two grandmas and two children. Regardless it was still a trip that I cherish deeply. 

   It was about to be the one year mark of my mother's passing, which was August 2015. We were on our way back home from Palestine and she had a stroke on the plane. She was only 43 years old, and it was completely unexpected. So my uncle decided he wanted to do something special for me and my grandma for all the stress we endured over the last 11 months. 

   When I first lost my mother I didn’t quite understand why it happened or how I would ever be able to heal. The entire trip me and my uncle (My moms’ brother) would be talking about how much she would have loved Italy. Everything from the chic boutiques to the savory pasta and fresh salad.  Nonetheless, we were together enjoying it for her and to honor her. My mother was the perfect daughter and sister. The majority of my upbringing, I was surrounded by my father’s family. My maternal aunts and uncles all lived in different states and my grandparents lived in Jordan. The only times we got together were only for short periods of time for family weddings.  It was refreshing to be able to spend some time with them as they continued to tell me stories and little things about my mom as we toured the city. 

   One night, in particular, my aunt and uncle went out to dinner and left the kids with me and their grandmas. However, my grandma and I did not feel like being confined to the hotel to stay and babysit. Florence was a historical and beautiful city, that we just wanted to explore some more.  My grandma and I conceived a plan to pretend that I- was the one that wanted to go out but my “Grandma didn’t want me to go alone.” So, we made sure Carla (My aunts’ mom) was all set with the kids and we left to venture out. We did not tell my uncle that we were leaving simply because he would have told us “No.” He would have just been worried about us being alone in a foreign atmosphere alone at night. We kept it our little secret. 

   Our hotel was right next to the long, calm, glistening Arno river. It’s clear blue color has turned almost golden as all the street lights reflected off the river. There was no breeze in the air, but it was just comfortable enough so you weren't sweating. The streets were filled with noise and people. Every corner had a musician, playing either their guitar, piano or violin. The restaurants were filled with people gazing at each other in love, sharing plates of pasta, or families laughing drinking wine. The street flourished with tourists. My grandma and I are two of them. Stopping at every storefront to admire the merchandise inside like the jewelry made out of Murano glass, vintage clocks, or the classic sweatshirts that read, “I LOVE ITALY”. There was a violinist playing his own rendition of an American classic “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond. He had a keyboard and would have the audience surrounding him sing “SWEET CAROLINE!!” We stopped to watch some street performers dancing to an unfamiliar Italian hip hop song. We stopped to watch them for a minute and gave them a few Euros to respect their grind and display our appreciation.  

   There was very little conversation exchanged between me and my grandma. We were just taking everything in while we could. We walked at a slow pace, arm in arm. It wasn’t until I asked her to tell me stories, that we could not stop talking. She shared with me memories of what my mother used to do when she was my age, like how she would impersonate Steve Urcle or play as The Little Mermaid in the pool. We shared laughs over the old times’ of when she used to visit me when I was younger, about 6 years old and I acted like a complete brat. She told me how she wanted to sleep in my bed but I put up the biggest fit and refused to give up my bed for anyone. My grandma also explained some Islamic teachings to me and made certain situations easier to understand. Such as stories about Prophets and their wives. Their lives are supposed to be an example for us Muslims. The feel of the cobblestone streets made it fun to walk slower. Something about the round feeling on the bottom of my thin sandal made it much more fun to walk on. The cobblestones were slightly warm, acting as a healing agent to how sore my feet were from all the walking previously done that day.  

   We walked past this gelato place, the gelato in Italy was the richest, sweetest, creamiest and dreamiest gelato in the world. But, for some reason I did not want … neither did my grandma. Instead, I treated us both to a cup of fresh, juicy watermelon. Nothing like the fruit and vegetables back home in America. Everything in Italy seemed better. The food everywhere in every shop and restaurant was organic and bursting with flavor. The people are calmer than those back home in New York. No one was rushing or shoving you. They were all just minding their own business and going about their day. 

   Tata’s knees started hurting her, something that was familiar to me. Tatas’ hands were as soft as the inside of a rose, I felt her weight on my arm more and more as we walked indicating that she was getting tired and we should probably pick a spot to pick. But I didn’t mind, there was warmth radiating from her arm on to mine. We snapped some pictures and took a rest sitting on a bridge above the Arno river. There were a few people also sitting on the bridge. This one lady next to us noticed our hijabs (Headscarf) and asked us where we were from. When we told her Palestine, she excitedly told us she was from there too. Her name was Salam and she was with her husband, they both are from a town right next to ours in Palestine called Beit Hanina, and lived in Brooklyn. It was the strangest thing. All four of us agreed that the world was extremely small. The fact that we never ran into each other in New York, yet we so happened to be sitting on a bridge at the same time in Italy. We let them go on their way, being that they were on their honeymoon and wanted to enjoy each other's company. 

    There was a small moment of silence as I pondered about how strange things (like meeting that couple) happen and how it was all meant to be. And it drew me back to how that moment of being alone with my grandma in Europe was meant to be and how it will most likely never happen again. This is an opportunity to just have a deep conversation with her and speak to her about anything I wanted to know, 

   “Tata, how were you able to handle the grief of momma?” I asked her with apprehension not wanting to make her upset. My grandma was the one my mother always went to, so I felt it fitting to ask her, even if I was wary that it would make her upset. But to my surprise, she answered,  

   “When you have a strong trust in Allah (God) plans, you will understand that this was always meant to happen. He will not give us anything that we can not endure. You must have patience and trust to be able to get through anything. Thank Allah for everything.” 

    I looked at her completely in awe. Stunned, that there were no tears building up in her eyes or even a crack in her voice. This was a woman who was talking about her own daughters’ death. It is her faith that is helping her push through this. I, however, could not respond. I knew if I spoke it would just drown in tears. The lump in my throat was too large to let anything out. 

   She continued, “You know, she was too good for this world. We did not deserve her. She’s right where she belongs now. And one day we will all be reunited.” she continued. 

   When she said “We will be reunited” it really made me think that I need to remain the proper Muslim girl that my mother would want me to be. 

   I just admired her as she spoke and gave her a big hug. She was completely and truly right. It put everything in perspective for me. It made the anger I had built up after losing my mother disappear. She made the world make sense again. My grandma had an answer for everything. No wonder my mom was as perfect as she was. She had a great mother to look up too. 

   “This means so much to me,” I expressed to Tata, “You are so strong and so brave to be able to handle all of this and I love you.” I gave her a kiss on the cheek, 

   “I love you too,” she said. 

   We watched the amber color river flow. Tata then started to tell me about how she grew up. Living in Palestine at the start of the war was a very disquieting time for her. She explained to me how she practically had to escape from her home and keep moving from village to village in Palestine until she reached a place where the Israeli army would not be able to harm her and her family anymore. She even explained to me that she lost her newborn baby sister on the way.  Yet another thing that is so admirable about her. Before we knew it the streets slowly became quieter and less busy. After we both yawned, we hugged again and made our way back to the hotel, right before my uncle came back.  That night I realized how truly strong-spirited, faithful, and exceptional my grandmother is. She is my ultimate role model and I hope to grow to be just like her.

   Overall we should all learn to appreciate our family while they are around. I understood my whole family was hurting after the passing of my mother, but I was so worried about everyone else I forgot to try and deal with the grief myself. People would just talk to me and it would go in one ear and out the other. I was too busy thinking about if my brothers and my father are okay. I’m so beyond grateful to have had this walk with my grandma and for her to have been able to explain to me her grief. But it had to take us venturing off on our own to fully connect and help me grieve better. 

[gta-5-cheats]

The Best Movies of 2017 You Probably Didn't See

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The Best Movies of 2017 You Probably Didn't See

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Like the years preceding it, 2017 has been filled with amazing movies, some of which we’ve had the pleasure of watching while others will release over the next few months with the awards season in full swing. If you’ve been following critics publishing their year-end lists, you’ve likely heard these names multiple times over: Lady Bird, Call Me by Your Name, Phantom Thread, The Shape of Water, and Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri.

But there is a lot of good cinema that hasn’t got the same level of attention as the aforementioned films, either due to its origin outside Hollywood origin, or a lack of accessibility (most won’t be easily available for some months). But that doesn’t mean it’s any less deserving – in fact, the films below are more global, and hence more reflective of the world we live in.

You’ll see some of the following movies at the Oscars next year, and you might have already watched some of them if you’re lucky enough to attend an international film festival. Here are the best hidden-gem movies of 2017 that deserve a place in your bookmarks/ wishlist:

A Fantastic Woman Chile’s first openly transgender actor, Daniela Vega, stars as a trans waitress and singer named Marina in this socially aware and compelling character study film, who feels the full wrath of society after the unexpected and sudden death of her lover, an older man named Orlando. His ex-wife forbids Marina from attending the funeral, a detective looks at her as a sex worker and suspect, and Orlando’s son threatens to throw her out of the flat she used to live in.

Instead of being able to properly mourn Orlando, Marina must confront both family and society, and fight for the right to be herself: a woman. Shortlisted at next year’s Oscars for best foreign-language film, A Fantastic Woman is a compelling portrayal of grief and alienation, bolstered by Vega’s multi-layered, expressive and steady performance of a character she understands, and brought to life with immaculate control by director Sebastián Lelio.

Ex Libris: The New York Public Library Ninety-two branches across three New York boroughs serving dozens of millions, the NYPL is one of the greatest knowledge and most democratic institutions in the US. In Ex Libris, the documentarian Frederick Wiseman goes behind the scenes, to observe and report how it functions, what it does, and the place it holds.

It’s surprisingly moving, and reminds us that libraries aren’t just about housing books, they’re about people. And through the NYPL’s inclusive message – all races and ethnicities are active participants in its working – Wiseman sends the most powerful of messages, without ever asking someone to sit down and explain to the camera, aka a talking head.

Faces Places The 89-year-old Agnès Varda – known for her immense contributions to French New Wave – goes on a road journey with 33-year-old photographer and muralist JR in this documentary directed by the two, which sees them meeting locals in the villages and small towns across France, and then painting large portraits of them on houses, barns, storefronts, and trains.

Along the way, Faces Places also looks at the unlikely friendship between the two creators at its centre, an age difference of 55 years, and how their lifelong passion for images – but more importantly, the humanity in their subjects – moves, and unites them. The result is heart-warming, surprising, and undeniably political.

Foxtrot Another film that’s shortlisted for next year’s Oscars, the Israeli drama Foxtrot is divided into three sections around the death of a young soldier: how his affluent parents handle grief with intrusions from rabid relatives and army officials, the son’s experiences during his military service, and the life of the parents six months after. Through its subjects, it captures the emotions of a country that’s being pulled apart.

Denounced by the Israeli ministry for spreading “anti-Israeli narrative”, director Samuel Maoz said he criticises out of worry, and because he wants to protect it out of love. Though it’s not for everyone thanks to its long close-ups and slow pacing, those who stick around will get to see a visually-brave and intricate depiction of repressed guilt, and a profound exploration of mourning and loss.

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God’s Own Country Being called a “Yorkshire Brokeback Mountain” by critics to easily describe what it’s about, this love tale between an emotionally stifled English sheep farmer and an irrepressible Romanian migrant worker is anything but straightforward, though it does pay homage to that award-winning Ang Lee film with the struggle of two souls trying to find each other.

God’s Own Country is smart enough to skip over the predictable story obstacles you expect from such a coming-out drama, and instead forges a thoughtful film about loneliness, identity, and society that contains a subtle pro-immigration subtext. It’s a beautiful love story that couldn’t be more timely in an era when there’s ongoing discussion and debate of the consequences of a post-Brexit UK.

Jane Jane Goodall, the 83-year-old primatologist, usually considered the world’s best expert on chimpanzees, is the focus of this documentary that features over 100 hours of unused footage shot by future husband Hugo van Lawick in Gombe, Tanzinia during the 60s. The footage was only recently discovered sitting in a storage unit, and director Brett Morgen (Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck) intercuts with present-day interviews for an in-depth look at Goodall’s life.

Morgen understands that what makes the story tick is not the data she gathered about chimps in the wild, but rather the emotions the chimps brought out in herself. Jane is the portrait of a strong, remarkable woman who always fought for what she wanted, and helped us not just understand the world better, but also make it a better place to live in. It also has a wonderful score by the great Philip Glass.

Loveless Andrey Zvyagintsev’s last film – 2014’s Leviathan – prompted the Russian government to amend what films would be eligible for state funding, given its undercurrent of corruption in the country. His latest, Loveless, once again tackles the state of Russia, its police, society and anguish, through the lens of a missing 12-year-old, who runs away after seeing his about-to-divorce parents continually fight.

Winner of the Jury Prize at this year’s Cannes, Loveless affords complexity to each of its characters, who are played wonderfully with sincerity and nuance by its two leads: the parents. Structured as a procedural crime thriller, the story is full of mystery and layers, offering a honest look at a country in crisis via a dissolving marriage.

The Other Side of Hope This Finnish film follows a Syrian refugee who arrives in Helsinki as a stowaway, and decides not to return to his native Aleppo even after being denied asylum by the government; and a salesman who has recently left his wife and job to buy a seafood restaurant that doesn’t seem to be making any money. The two meet with the Syrian looking for his sister.

The Other Side of Hope isn’t explicitly political, but rather a film about human decency, infused with humanity and solemn humour, showing how the cruelty of the bigots – Europe is grappling with an influx of migrants, and most countries are seeing a rise of far-right opposition – can have very real consequences for the unfortunate. All that’s to say, it’s very political.

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[lisabelkin-yahoonews]

Resilient, or just numb? As atrocities mount, Americans become adept at moving on

Items are seen left at a memorial near the site of the shooting at the First Baptist Church of Sutherland Springs in Sutherland Springs, Texas, Nov. 7, 2017. (Photo: Jonathan Bachman/Reuters)

There is a melody to national tragedy, to national grieving.  It starts with shock, segues to fear and anger, crescendos with memorials and tributes, then codas into vows to never forget. The notes are similar from one rendition to the next, but the tempo, the distance from beginning to end, is never exactly the same. And it’s the rhythm, the speed, that’s the true measure of a country’s psyche.

Lately Americans have been playing a quickened, shortened tune.

We were transfixed for months after Oklahoma City and 9/11, for weeks after the Boston Marathon, more like days after San Bernadino. We watched the Columbine memorial services live, knew the faces of the Newtown children, but probably can’t name the victims of Sutherland Springs. The nation paid the family of each 9/11 victim $3.1 million; those injured in Orlando and Las Vegas started GoFundMe accounts and many struggle to pay their medical bills.

“It’s like it never happened,” wrote Amanda Getchell in the Washington Post  last week, of her life after she fled the fusillade of bullets from the Mandalay Hotel. “My phone stopped ringing with concerned calls and text messages…The mourning lasted a day, and then everyone forgot about what happened in Las Vegas.

And in lower Manhattan, not far from the 9/11 Memorial, the Guardian described the scene on Halloween this way: “Within hours of Tuesday’s Home Depot truck attack more than a million New Yorkers poured back on to the streets for the annual Halloween parade, and countless thousands of other kids and their parent-minders were out trick-or-treating in their neighborhoods. By Wednesday morning, nearby schools that had been in lockdown during the attack were open for business…”

Heavily armed police guard as revelers march during the Greenwich Village Halloween Parade, Tuesday, Oct. 31, 2017, in New York. New York City’s always-surreal Halloween parade marched on Tuesday evening under the shadow of real fear, hours after a truck attack killed several people on a busy city bike path in what authorities called an act of terror. (Photo: Andres Kudacki/AP)

The popular word for this insta-back-to-normal is “resilience”, and it is used with pride. “This was a cowardly act of terror,” New York mayor Bill de Blasio tweeted less than 24 hours after the attack. “It was intended to break our spirit. But New Yorkers are resilient. We will be undeterred.”

Resilience, though, is a symptom: a muscle that develops with over-use, a coping mechanism that hews close to various degrees of resignation.

“Resilience requires being able to contain certain emotions that would otherwise overpower you,” explains clinical psychologist Alon Gratch, “and denial involves exactly the same thing.”

Gratch has been musing on this duality a lot lately. Israeli-born but working in New York for 38 years, he wrote a book called “The Israeli Mind,” and he sees Americans following the mental path that Israelis started down decades ago.

During the two waves of Infitada roughly from 1987 to 2005, there were periods of daily terrorist attacks. “There was just no way to cope with other than to just go on living,” Gratch says. “You clean up the blood and go on.” Israelis took pride in the fact that a café targeted by a suicide bomb in the morning would be back in business by nightfall, and that people continued to ride the bus in the face of frequent attacks.

In part, Gratch says, Israelis coped by off-loading the role of honoring and memorializing the dead to the government. In his book he calls this the “grief industrial complex”, the hero-worship of victims by officialdom “which allows people in day to day life to ignore it and move on.” By quickly transforming events into history, and treating the dead as part of a national narrative, violent loss becomes “oddly normalized, a story of sacrifice for a cause that feels like a story.”

And so it is in the US as well. The news alerts bing, the cable coverage begins, there is speculation as to motive, and interviews with partisans who declare either that that immigration restrictions would not have prevented this or it is too soon to talk about guns, depending on the emerging portrait of the killer. There are vignettes about the dead, hashtags — #bostonstrong #vegasstrong – and a candlelight vigil. A celebrity organizes a concert. The motions become familiar.

The U.S. Capitol dome backdrops flags at half-staff in honor of the victims killed in the Las Vegas shooting as the sun rises on Tuesday, Oct. 3, 2017, at the foot of the Washington Monument on the National Mall in Washington. (Photo: Manuel Balce Ceneta/AP)

“Congress is already doing what it sees as its part,” Congressman Steve Israel wrote in a New York Times op-ed last month, after the Las Vegas shooting spree that left 58 dead.  “Flags have been lowered, thoughts and prayers tweeted, and sometime this week it will perform the latest episode in the longest-running drama on C-Span: the moment of silence. It’s how they responded to other mass shootings in Columbine, Herkimer, Tucson, Santa Monica, Hialeah, Terrell, Alturas, Killeen, Isla Vista, Marysville, Chapel Hill, Tyrone, Waco, Charleston, Chattanooga, Lafayette, Roanoke, Roseburg, Colorado Springs, San Bernardino, Birmingham, Fort Hood and Aurora, at Virginia Tech, the Washington Navy Yard, and the congressional baseball game practice, to name too many.”

Somewhere in this cycle a prominent public official declares, despite all past evidence to the contrary, that the nation will always remember. “They were mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers,” Donald Trump said in Las Vegas. “They were husbands and wives, and sons and daughters. They will be dearly missed, and they will never be forgotten.”

For individuals, Gratch says, this way of coping is a good thing. “It’s necessary to face it and then move on,” he says,. “Otherwise you become paralyzed and then paranoid. You amplify the dangers and overreact to them.”

He tells of a colleague who closed an office above Grand Central Terminal after 9/11, believing it was a next logical terrorist target. Gratch, in turn, remained in his space near Grand Central, feeling it was important for both him and his patients to face down the fear. “The best treatment for anxiety is exposure, small steady doses of what you are afraid of so you can increase your tolerance,” he says, and  in that way the rash of public violence in the United States in recent years has been a perverse national experiment in cognitive behavioral therapy.

But this treatment works because it creates the feeling of taking back control, and that element seems lacking in the current national tableau. Instead, legislators and advocates describe being reminded with each attack of how ineffective attempts at change have been over the years. Choose your reason: a hopelessly polarized society, a political system shackled by special interests, leaders who choose party over country… Whatever the cause, the result is a growing realization that grief and outrage do not lead to change. Those who see the solution as fewer guns, recall assault bans that did not pass after Sandy Hook and the bill to ban ‘bump stocks’ that has been stalled in Congress Those who think stricter control of the borders is the answer note that their promised wall has not been built and courts have blocked all attempts at a virtual “extreme vetting” version.

Dozens of people attend a vigil remembering the 59 people killed in Sunday’s shooting in Las Vegas and calling for action against guns on Oct. 4, 2017 in Newtown, Connecticut. The vigil, organized by the Newtown Action Alliance, was held outside the National Shooting Sport Foundation and looked to draw attention to gun violence in America. Twenty school children were killed at the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting in Newtown on December 14, 2012. (Photo: Spencer Platt/Getty Images)

Is the result a resignation that accounts for the quickened pace of moving on from tragedy? Is what looks like resilience really helplessness mixed with depression? And if so, what is the cost long-term to the national psyche?

“The paralysis you feel right now – the impotent helplessness that washes over you as news of another mass slaughter scrolls across the television screen,”

is how Connecticut Senator Chris Murphy described the phenomenon after Sutherland Springs. Its effect, he warned, is to make the fight exhausting and futile, to numb citizens into dropping their demands for gun control.

“We are suffering from combat fatigue,” agrees Nikki Stern, an essayist and author who was executive director of Families of 9/11 and who says her cause is now gun control. “We’re being pummeled into accepting this as normal. We must fight that.” But, she adds, she is not exactly sure how.

“If I could figure out how to get through, I’d probably have a peace prize to put on my shelf,” she says.

A panoramic of the quickly built Healing Garden in the Arts District of Las Vegas as a memorial for victims of the recent Las Vegas mass shooting on October 8, 2017, in Vas Vegas, NV. The garden was built in four days in response to the mass shooting that killed 59 people and injured more than 500 at the Route 91 Harvest Festival near Mandalay Bay on October 1, 2017, in Las Vegas, NV. (Photo: Doug Kranz/Icon Sportswire via Getty Images)

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Read more from Yahoo News:

After the killings, shock and grief in a small Texas town

In China, Trump confronts an emerging superpower flexing its military and economic might

‘Are you kidding me?’: Terror expert reacts to president’s Gitmo idea

In the hands of Trump, the past is a political weapon

Photos: Deadly mass shooting at Sutherland Springs, Texas, church

[rotzaprachim]

idk I think that woman is currently accounting for a lot of missing family in IL and the fact they’re in bomb shelters and felt the need to emphasize my privilege as an American in this time - very true - but I also think she thought I was calling for the further death of her family or something, because of the way she felt the need to tell me about the bomb shelters, about rockets from Hezbollah, about it all, about the history their and that the people who /got/ killed were the ones that had /tried/ for coexistence or something. And it’s like I do live far from it, I am safe, but I haven’t been deluded by social media - hopefully not at least - but this feels like gaslighting. Maybe I was being unempathetic but I feel like the worst thing you might be able to call me is unempathetic

[envirotravel]

Surprises From Six Weeks in Brazil

As my biggest getaway of 2016, I spent plenty of time meticulously planning my six week trip to Brazil. And yet for all my research and reading, nothing can actually prepare you for the culture shock of completely immersing yourself in a new country, new language, and new lifestyle.

So many aspects of Brazil took me completely by surprise — both good and bad! While I’ve sprinkled in plenty of stray observations throughout my coverage, here are a few final thoughts on the biggest bombshells of my trip. Of course, in the end these are just the musings of a tourist — my experience was shaded heavily by my luck and by my mood. Others might have a different take. Brazilians, feel free to set me straight if I’ve misinterpreted your culture in any way.

How safe we felt

One of our pleasant surprises of the trip was how comfortable Heather and I felt as two women traveling alone through what is often considered a very dangerous county. I should note that we had very low expectations in this regard. Stories of theft in Brazil are so rampant that I literally considered buying a backup iPhone before this trip, because that’s how much I had pre-accepted that I was going to be robbed blind. My first day in São Paulo was a hilarious wake up call that I really needed to chill.

While we were constantly — like literally, constantly — warned by everyone we encountered to be careful with our cameras (to which we were like, yeah, duh), we were vigilant and cautious and had zero issues and really felt surprisingly safe and secure throughout our time in Brazil, with a few uneasy but brief exceptions. Of course many travelers do experience crime in this country, hence the constant warnings, but our experience was a reminder that there are plenty of travelers who move through the country grief-free, too.

How no one gave a flip about Zika

Our trip was at the HEIGHT of Zika mania. My dad, a busy CEO who probably isn’t really sure what country I am in the vast majority of the time, called me specifically to ask if I might consider postponing or canceling my trip — Heather’s parents did the same.

So I arrived half-expecting some sort of Hazmat-covered country under quarantine. And seriously? No one cared. No. one. cared. The first few times Heather or I casually brought up Zika to Brazilians, they looked at us like we were paranoid nutjobs. When we told them that Zika was still headline news every night in the US, they were baffled. “Oh yes, Zika. I had it last year. Dengue is much worse,” a doctor we met at Tomorrowland told us flippantly before casually ordering up another caipirinha. As someone who is kind of the opposite of a hypochondriac, I found the whole attitude very refreshing.

Also? We literally did not see one mosquito. Anywhere. Ironically, our two biggest fears before arriving in Brazil could not have been less of an issue.

How hard it was to communicate

Yet the thing I didn’t think to fear left me so frustrated I nearly flew home early. Living in Thailand, a country where I speak no more than a pitiful few throwaway phrases in the country’s notoriously difficult and tonal language, I have done plenty of pantomiming and getting by with little-to-no shared vocabulary. I’ve traveled to 37 countries now and before Brazil, communication has never been an issue beyond a passing flicker of frustration — I certainly never imagined that a language barrier would negatively influence one of my trips.

It started with a very misplaced sense of confidence. I like to classify myself as a “blissfully barely-competent Spanish speaker.” Which is a winking way of saying that while I’m far from fluent, I love speaking Spanish and embrace the challenge with gusto, never letting an improperly conjugated verb get in the way of a productive conversation in Latin America. And I thought, how different can Spanish and Portuguese be?

Ha! That false sense of security was only heightened by the planning stage of our trip, in which I was able to fairly easily understand several all-Portuguese websites. Oh, how naive I was! I’d soon learn that written Portuguese and spoken Portuguese are two entirely different beasts. While the former is quite similar to its Spanish cousin, the ladder was unlike anything I’d ever heard. “When we first boarded our plan to Brazil for Argentina, we wondered why they were giving the announcements in Russian,” confessed my Israeli travel companions in Jericoacoara. At the risk of offending my Portuguese-speaking readers, the primary adjective I’d use to describe Brazilian Portuguese was mushy. Without the sharp clarifying corners I’d grown to love in the Spanish language, I couldn’t even pick up the different words when spoken to in Brazilian Portuguese. And again, I greatly hesitate to write this and offend any Portuguese speaking readers, but the truth is the language didn’t agree with my ears. In the same way that some people’s taste buds are predisposed to certain foods, the sound of different languages appeal to different people. Portuguese just isn’t my jam.

Of course, I accept full responsibility for not knowing more than the basic guidebook phrases when I arrived in Brazil. Translation apps can only go so far, and I should have been better prepared.

But regardless, you must be thinking, surely there are plenty of Brazilians who speak English? Nao muitos! Studies claim only 3% of Brazilians speak English as a second language. And I found that those who might were extremely reluctant to speak it.

In Southeast Asia, for comparison, my experience has been that there is no expectation among locals that foreigners will speak Thai, Khmer, or Laotian. Fluency in English is also a rare trait in this region, though communication between traveler and local is generally light-hearted and earnest. There’s a sense of, we’re in this together, and neither of us is leaving until we figure out how many papayas I want to buy and how much you’re going to charge me for them, gosh darn it. 

But I found that in Brazil, it was harder to get anyone to even attempt to communicate — my apologetic English or hapless attempts at Portuguese were frequently met with terror, blank stares, and the person I was speaking to simply walking away from me. At Tomorrowland Brazil, I was unable to hear an employee at the information booth’s hesitant reply to me in English due to the loud music playing; when I asked her to repeat herself, she shook her head over and over again in mortified horror until I finally gave up and walked away. In Duty Free at São Paulo’s international airport, multiple employees practically sprinted from me in fear when I, again, always apologetically, requested assistance in English. When I wrote emails to hostels with English websites, they went unanswered. And more than once, I called a business and was told harshly, in perfect English, “we don’t speak any English,” before being hung up on. Needless to say my attempts to politely ask, “puedo hablar in Español?” were, with a few exceptions, also a giant flop.

I don’t think any of the people — just a few random examples plucked from six weeks of exasperation — were trying to be rude or unhelpful (in fact, the Brazilians we met who were comfortable speaking English were overwhelmingly warm and bubbly.) It was explained to me that many Brazilians are simply embarrassed by their lack of English abilities. In fact, one Brazilian I met explained that the reason we’d encountered so many domestic travelers at the hostels we stayed at was that Brazilians are often hesitant to travel to other countries, given their limited English abilities. It affects not just travel but business, too. And while many articles I’ve read in researching the lack of English speaking in Brazil assured me that locals would go out of their way to help me despite our lack of shared languages, I unfortunately did not find that to be the case. Maybe we just had bad luck.

Heather and I spent a lot of time reflecting on why we personally found the language barrier in Brazil so upsetting. We met quite a few men on the road (women traveling without male companions in Brazil were rare from our observation) who were basically like, “ha ha yeah we don’t understand anything! Who cares!”

Is it that as women we have to be more concerned about our physical safety? Is it that we are highly attuned to being talked over and brushed off? Do we just find communication to be more important? Whatever it was, I found myself very on edge knowing that I was unable to express myself in the local language, and that if I were to try to use body language or, heaven forbid, my mother tongue, I’d clear the room. I felt invisible and vulnerable in a way I never have before while traveling.

The champagne campaign

On a lighter note, I couldn’t believe how much Brazilians LOVE bubbly. I was extremely onboard with this. Tomorrowland Brasil had more champagne tents than beer ones, our brunch restaurant in Rio de Janeiro had a DIY Bubbles Bar for creative mimosas, and at three out of the five hotels I stayed at on the trip, sparkling wine was handed to us at check-in — at in some cases, again at check-out!

We learned at our cooking class in Paraty that the sparkling wine industry in Brazil is booming, which made it all click.

How diverse it is

One thing that struck me immediately is how many nationalities Brazil encompasses, especially coming from uber-homogonous Thailand. Brazil is enormous and incredibly ethnically diverse, and there is no one way to look Brazilian.

From the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, German-descended Brazilians of the south to the Afro-Caribbean Brazilians of the northeast to the indigenous tribes of the Amazon and everyone inbetween, Brazil is a really beautiful mosaic of different faces.

What novelties we were

I mean hello — this is the country that has hosted the World Cup and the Olympics in just a few short years! Surely a few blonde gringas wandering around would be no big deal? Yet even in one of the most famous cities in the world, we were blessed with some very authentic little interactions that reminded us that we were a fairly exotic sight to some, and provided a sweet and refreshing counter-point to the frustrating anecdotes I outlined above.

It started with the dozens of Brazilians whose eyes lit up with excitement when they saw the American flag I was waving at Tomorrowland and came over to give me a high five — a refreshing reaction, as a citizen of a country that tends to take a lot of international flack.

And it continued with the hilarious National Park Ranger at Christo Redentor who whipped out a notebook and solemnly quizzed us on random English slang and insults after hearing us chatting; furrowing his brow and taking detailed notes at each of our replies. The employees at the pet supply shop it Botafogo who were very indiscreetly taking photos of us with their cell phone until we started chatting in broken Spanish and showing them pictures of our dogs, at which point they dropped the secrecy and each took turns taking photos with us and shyly gifting each of us a special free dog toy to bring home to our pups. The man in the favela who waved us over and insisted I try his BBQ meat straight off the grill, wanting only a smile in return. The salesgirl who sold me a $12 dress and gave me a huge, heart-felt hug before I left the store.

The Uber driver who saved us from disaster and drove us all the way from Rio to Buzios, calling everyone in his phonebook and excitedly repeating the same story — we got the gist of it when we heard “Americanos!” sprinkled in over and over again. Though he didn’t speak a single word of English, he chivalrously tried to be of assistance when we stopped at a rest area for snacks, hugged and kissed us when we got to Buzios, and looked back at his star fares with pride as he started the long three-hour drive back to Rio.

How much I loved São Paulo

While planning this trip I kind of considered São Paulo a necessary evil; a place we had to fly into and out of and stop in on the way to and from Tomorrowland. And yet it literally turned out to be one of my top two favorite destinations of the trip (alongside Jericoacoara, its polar opposite).However, while São Paulo might have been the greatest surprise, all the destinations I visited were great in their own ways. There’s not one stop on our trip that was a disappointment in and of itself, though some were somewhat marred by terrible weather and other circumstances.

I originally only planned four nights in São Paulo, but it was long enough to have lingering moments of wondering what it might be like to move there. (And also to my great surprise, I never once had that “if I lived here…” daydream in Rio.) I loved South America’s largest city so much, however, that I ended up stopping there for three more nights on my way back out of the country.

I spent most of it chilling out and reflecting on the six weeks behind me and little else (hence the lack of a blog post on this time), and what a better place to do so than Hotel Unique, where I wildly splurged on one last night of luxury. One of the most architecturally distinctive hotels I’ve ever stayed in, Hotel Unique summed up the cutting edge art, stylish design and bold style that made me fall for São Paulo in the first place — what a perfect note to say goodbye to the city, and the country, on.

The crazy kissing culture

Heather and I didn’t go out much for the first five weeks we were traveling together (my final week, when I was itinerary-less in Jericoacoara, I let loose a bit more.) However, we had one big night out in Rio and one big night out in Buzios, and both of them had one common theme — we were fending off random liplocks left and right!

In Buzios, we actually ended up chatting to a group of guys away on a bachelor weekend who spoke great English, and playfully confronted them about the apparent Brazilian preference for kissing first, asking names second. They conceded with a laugh that it was true, but countered with a scandalized observation of their own. “But American women… it’s crazy… they dance like they want to [redacted term for intimate activities]!” 

The finer nuances of twerking, it seems, have not reached the shores of Brazil. We couldn’t stop laughing. But it’s true — in the US, it’s fairly common sight in nightclubs for people to wordlessly approach each other and dance pretty intimately, which we were learning was as shocking to Brazilians as their saying-hi-with-a-snog was to us.

That Brazil is not a year-round tropical paradise

Perhaps some of you will read this and say “duh.” But Heather and I were ridiculously unprepared for the weather we encountered throughout April and May in Brazil, which is their autumn. Our first week was glorious (residents of São Paulo complained of a heatwave but it felt great to us!), our second was a disaster (it downpoured in Paraty non-stop for days), and the two weeks that followed were mostly nice with a few full days of rain tossed in to keep us on our toes. We had to cancel a bunch of activities as a result, which was a bummer.

However, the larger issue is that we were just completely unprepared for the evening temperatures. During the day, these two Southeast-Asia expats were happy and smiling in sleeveless tops and sundresses. But as soon as the sun went down at 5:30pm, the temperature would drop down to the fifties — omg! — and we would literally be sent into a frenzied cold panic. Neither of us had anything more substantial than jeans and a cardigan, and I kid you not when I say there were multiple people in Paraty wearing puffy coats and winter hats to keep warm. There were many days where we’d make big plans to go out for a few drinks in the evening and as soon as we felt that chill in the air we would freak out, run back to our rooms, put on as many layers and possible, make ourselves into bedding burritos and wish for for the warmth of the sun until morning. Dramatic? Abso-freaking-lutely. But there is very little that I loathe more than being cold — I’ve literally designed my entire life around avoiding it. And I didn’t do a very good job in Brazil.

Don’t let the pictures of palm trees fool you. Brazil is an enormous country with four seasons and a major range of eco-systems. Do your research and pack accordingly!

How carefully you need to pack

In addition to the weather wake-up call above, we also discovered a few other surprises that make packing well essential for a happy trip to Brazil. First of all? Laundry is surprisingly tough to do. Hostels don’t offer per-kilo laundry service like travelers might be used to in Southeast Asia or other parts of Latin America, and laundromats are few and far between.

Second? Electronics are insanely taxed and tough to track down. For long trips, bring extra camera batteries, a spare laptop chargers, the works. I got the shock of my life when my MacBook charger fried and it was going to cost a cool $17oUSD to replace it. No joke! I heard at least one Brazilian explain that Apple products in particular are harshly marked up by both authorized and off-the-books retailers — one of the reasons iPhones are one of the prime targets for street snatchings.

How few backpackers we met

I’ve touched on this before, but in our weeks of traveling through Brazil, I was absolutely blown away by the lack of English-speaking travelers we encountered (which meant, compounded with our issues communicating with locals, Heather and I got to have a lot of deep and meaningful conversations with each other. I’m pretty sure she was ready to never, ever hear the sound of my voice again by the time she headed home.)

Having experienced the Gringo Trail full blast in Peru and Ecuador and throughout Central America, I found it baffling at first. Hello… where are all the battered-passport, backpack-toting Europeans, Australians, and North Americans on long haul trips around the continent?! Where are the retirees in zip-off pants? Where are the honeymooners? I didn’t find a heavy concentration of any of them, or any sort of traditional backpacker scene, until I hit Jericoacoara.

Why? Brazil has more visa restrictions than its neighboring countries, it is bigger and more expensive and thus a bit more intimidating to travel. Plus, six of the seven hostels I stayed in throughout my six weeks in Brazil were overwhelmingly populated by domestic Brazilian travelers. The cool thing is that the Brazilians staying in hostels are more likely than the rest of the population to speak a bit of English, and getting to bond with locals who are also traveling is pretty unique and fun — I went to the beach and to dinner with Brazilians in Jeri, we partied with Brazilians at Tomorrowland and I had some awesome chats over breakfast with Brazilians in São Paulo. However, those were kind of the exceptions and for the most part, everyone in the hostels spoke Portuguese and it was hard to break into that clique as an English speaker. Speaking Spanish does help, as many non-domestic travelers hail from neighboring Spanish-speaking countries, specifically Argentina.

Typically I love traveling alone, however in this case I was incredibly grateful to be on the road with Heather for the majority of my trip, lest I feel totally linguistically isolated from the world for six weeks straight.

How unique the beach culture was

As a certified beach girl, I thought I knew a think or two about spending a day on the sand. Nah. Brazilians have the most unique beach culture I’ve encountered anywhere in the world — I wrote a whole post about it! People always talk about how Brazilians can teach the world a thing or two about how to party. I think they can also show us how to go to the beach!

How tough it was to get a visa

Seriously, hats off to those of you who have to go through the difficult process of procuring a visa for every country you travel to. As a US citizen, most of the visas I’ve applied for in my life have been because I have desired to stay in a specific country longer than the standard visa-waiver would allow. And while they’ve often been a headache to procure, Brazil was the biggest eye opener by far.

First, I had to travel in-person to Bangkok to apply, and by that point I’d already gone back and forth with the embassy multiple times with questions about the application questions and procedure and other logistical issues. The amount of information I had to procure was astounding and I felt like I had assembled approximately twenty-seven documents by the time I was finished. My appointment was stressful, with my interviewer grilling me on minute details of my trip, cross checking my application with Heather’s (who had gone in separately) and berated me for not photocopying my passport ahead of time to the point that I broke down after my appointment worried that my application was going to be denied.

And it was expensive! The whole shebang set me back about $230, not including the cost of a trip to Bangkok, where thankfully I was going to be anyway. I was definitely left with a newfound respect for my fellow travelers who have to cut through this much red tape and more for every trip.

Have you been to Brazil? If so, what surprised you about your trip? If not, which of these would catch you off guard?

Surprises From Six Weeks in Brazil posted first on http://ift.tt/2k2mjrD

[nataliesnews]

t: The opera stars of Nabucco fired, two little children wish me shabbat shalom 15.11.2020

From: Natanya Sent: Sunday, November 15, 2020 11:55 AM Subject: The opera stars of Nabucco fired, two little children wish me shabbat shalom

 I woke up in the evening to hear thunder. Actually I was glad to have the opportunity of spending the morning at home. I always have the opportunity but hear I had the backing of the weather. Last night I was out from 15.00 to 20.00 and walked with the demonstrations of which there were two. Eight kilometre. I sometimes do eight kilometre usually it is divided at various times of the day. This time I did not manage to walk with the demonstrators from the  bridge to Balfour as there were only about 200 or them. I had three young women who stayed behind with me and did not feel comfortable. I told them to go on but they said that individual demonstrators had been attacked and they were there to help stragglers. I told them I would close my jacket and no one would see my Leibowitz shirt. We had a water bomb thrown on us but it hit the side. I am so glad when people say I am an anarchist. At my age it is a compliment that I can still be considered so dangerous. And I wonder how a young man in his 20s can call an old lady a prostitute…..but maybe that is all he can afford and at least the elderly ladies who work in that profession are earning their own livings. Not like the Balfour family with one son nearly in his 30s who has never done an honest days work in his life and when in the army had a nice safe job. Which he did not carry out very well.

 Two of the young demonstrators.

    Probably some people will see this as another one of Netanyahu’s achievements but Ethiopians do not have the same idea. He is keeping up the process of making peace with questionable rulers.

 https://www.ynetnews.com/article/SkNfawnuD

  “The recent announcement of a normalization agreement between Jerusalem and Khartoum has stirred feelings of anger and betrayal among many of Israel’s first generation of Ethiopian immigrants, who made the difficult pilgrimage from Sudan to Israel on foot over 40 years ago”.

  I had a very pleasant experience . About a week ago I met a woman and two really cute children  in the wadi and she saw that I had been collecting bottles. I explained to her about Mercaz Rachel and she said that they had about 4 big bags of bottles which they had been collecting for a needy family. The family had not come to take them so today I went with Karin to pick them up. She had put them in her yard which was very much on a slope and I was trying to help Karin to carry them down when, because of the slope and the heaviness of the bottles, I fell into her gate and could not  get  back on to my feet. I yelled for Karin and Lavana came running out of the house. Anyhow I was not really hurt, just knocked my shoulder a bit. But this evening Lavana sent me a message to ask how I was and I said fine. And then she sent me two voice messages from each of her little one so wish me shabbat shalom. A small thing? Yes but it made a good ending to a good day.

 Today’s TOI:

German whose grandfather bought Jew’s shop in 1938 ‎calls descendant to apologize

Benjamin Heidelberger was forced to sell to Wilhelm Edelmann due to Nuremberg laws; Edelmann's grandson found Heidelberger's 83‎-year-old Israeli granddaughter to make amends

https://www.timesofisrael.com/german-whose-grandfather-bought-jews-shop-in-1938‎-calls-descendant-to-apologize/

 It is hard to watch the tv. Each night people who have lost their livelihoods have the chance to speak and pour out their grief and fear. Netanyahu appears every night with piggy twinkling eyes telling us how well he is doing. Except for the beginning when he wanted to make a dramatic appearance and spoke to the felafel seller who was in tears he does not seem to be very affected by what is happening to these people. Every night we see people trying to tell what is happening to them. Men who would never  before have thought they were capable of crying in public, start speaking and then the tears come to their eyes and they turn aside in shame, try to speak again and then make a motion with their hands….”Enough, enough” and walk away from the cameras with the their shoulders shaking. Last  night I watched the opera stars of the Israeli opera weep as fifty of them were told that they were to be fired. And, in-between the interview with them, they sang the slave song from Nabucco and cried with them. I remembered the night  I sat with Charles and Arthur at Nabucco with tears in my eyes and pride in my heart as I listened to them singing  “By the rivers of Babylon we sat and wept when we remembered Zion” but how different from last night when I cried with them.

 Natanya

[radiant-flutterbun]

Naomi Part 3

Previously: Part 2

“You know who I am?” Muerto asked.

“Well of course. From the moment I heard there was a hatchling running around calling himself the God of Death I knew I had to keep an eye on you.”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“Every once and awhile yes. Now come, come inside! You’re my guest!” The skydancer skeleton backed away from the door to give Muerto some room.

He looked back at Isra and Bubonic.

“Your friends will have to stay outside. They’re too big.”

“Oh. I can uh. Shapeshift!” Isra said.

“Right. Because you’re a demigod?”

Isra nodded. He shrunk down to a more humaniod shape.

“Well then come inside. You’re practically kin.”

“I must enter with Master too!” Bubonic protested.

Naomi shrugged “Sorry. Too big.”

The black cat rubbed against Bubonic and meowed.

Naomi gasped “Oh! You found her! I’ve been looking for this one. I have so many cats, it’s so hard to keep track of them all.” As she spoke more cats appeared, some alive others dead.

“Kitties!” Muerto couldn’t help but be delighted. He hadn’t seen so many cats in one place since he left his palace. The thought of his poor cats all alone in the Underworld made him sad, but he couldn’t risk returning. It was no longer safe in his world.

Naomi smiled “Wonderful creatures aren't they?” She scratched the cheek of a calico nearby.

The black one came up to Muerto and rubbed around him, purring.

“She seems to like you. I haven't had her for long. Never even got to name her.”

“I named her Ren.”

Ren purred.

“She seems to like that name. You know what? I’ll let you keep her.”

Muerto gasped “Wait? Really?”

“Careful Muerto,” Isra warned “She’s a goddess remember. She’s probably not doing this out of kindness.”

“Well aren't you a little rude! Ren is free, no strings attached. I promise. She a gift from one God of Death to another.”

Bubonic growled from outside “I want to be with Master!”

“I���m sorry Boo, but you can’t shapeshift like Isra. You have to stay outside.”

Bubonic whined, but eventually laid down beside the door “Then I will guard Master outside.”

“Excellent. Now, let’s chat!” Naomi gestured for another skeleton, it looked like some kind of deer creature, to shut the door.

Ren leaped onto Muerto’s back and crawled up on top of his head. He laughed.

“I was hoping someday you’d visit me. I’m curious about your world, but you came here with a purpose, didn’t you? Something important.”

Muerto frowned “It’s… about my friend,” Grief crept its way back into him “He’s dead and… I want his soul back.”

“You want his soul back? Now that’s awfully bold. You should know more than anyone that a God of Death isn’t going to just hand over a soul.”

“You must understand. He’s from my world, so therefore his soul is mine.”

“Ah. So you’re talking about Sepulchral. I should have known. Well he died in my land, so his soul is mine.”

Black flames enveloped Muerto and Ren jumped off of him with a hiss.

“Careful. Those flames can kill Ren. And cat lover to cat lover, we both don’t want her to die, hmm?”

Muerto took a deep breath. She was right. The flames died down.

“Then what can I do to get it back? Or at least see him? Can I talk to him? How does the Afterlife work here? Is he safe? Is he happy?”

“Slow down there. That’s a lot of questions. Questions I need payment to answer. Ren was free, but my information is not. How about let’s trade info? You tell me what you do to souls in your world and I’ll tell you what I do to souls in mine. Deal?”

“Yes. That’s fair,” Muerto flicked his tongue “When a mortal died their soul was Reaped… That was… Sepulchral’s job,” His voice broke and he coughed “And then they were brought to the Underworld, where the souls could form into ghosts. Here their deaths are explained to them and they are told the basics of the Underworld. Next comes Judgement, where the good and evil within them is judged and based on their actions within life they are sent to Eternal Punishment or Paradise. Depending on how good or bad their actions were brings them to different sections of Punishment or Paradise and may earn different Punishments or Rewards.”

“Hmm. Very interesting,” Naomi tapped her chin “We do things different here. I always thought an Afterlife would be too much of an effort to keep up. Judgement, as you’ve put it, is too complicated. Too much time.”

“Wait. You don’t have an Afterlife here?”

“That’s right. Here souls are reincarnated. Much simpler. All I have to do is reap them and let nature take them to some newly birthed creature. There is no need to judge any souls. There is no need to tell them about their deaths. No need to do anything at all with them.”

“So… So Sep is…”

“He’s somewhere in this world. But a baby, with no memories of his previous life. He could be anything as long as it has a soul.”

Muerto felt deflated. His knees weakened and he let himself fall to the floor. Tears welled up in his eyes and he began to sob “But… I came… All this way… I need to know. I need to know if he’s ok. I need to know if he’s happy…”

Naomi shrugged “Sorry, but I don’t know. I don’t keep track of souls. But…” She grinned “I could find him for you.”

“But it comes at a price, doesn’t it?”

Naomi chuckled “Yep! Give me a vial of your blood and look up your friend for you.”

“A… vial. Of my blood. But it’s poisonous.”

“I know. It’s demon blood, isn’t it? Similar in property to Shade goo but… different.”

“Muerto… I don’t advise you go through with this,” Isra warned.

“But Sepulchral…”

“He’s not Sepulchral anymore.”

Muerto’s flames returned and he hissed at Isra “I don’t care! It’s still his soul! It’s still him! I just… need to know if he’s happy. I need him to be happy. I need to know. He can’t live another sucky life. He deserves better.”

“So? Is it a deal Muerto?”

“Yes. Do it. Take my blood.”

“Excellent!” Naomi found a needle and injected it into the underside of Muerto’s front leg. He hissed in pain but stood still until she had enough of the black blood to fill a small vial.

Isra bit his lip. He didn’t feel good about this. Why would the Goddess of the Dead want demon blood? But he didn’t dare say anything more. There was no changing Muerto’s mind.

“Alright! Now to find your friend,” Naomi lifted a glass ball off of a shelf nearby and placed a paw on it. It began to glow pink.

Isra gasped “Is that… A Seeing Crystal?”

“You are correct. With this I can see any soul I want.”

“That’s how you were watching me.” Muerto said.

“Yes. And how I knew you were coming. Now let’s see, Sepulchral, Sepulchral, where is the soul that used to be Sepulchral?” The ball swirled and images stirred inside of it until finally settling on one.

The crystal ball showed a family of skydancers. All were white and with pink Arcane eyes. Two were adults and they nuzzled the third, a hatchling. The hatchling laughed and nuzzled the adults, mostly likely its parents, back.

Muerto pressed his nose on the crystal “Is that?”

“Yes. It appears that hatchling is your friend. It’s odd considering he looks so much like his past life. A coincidence like this only happens once in a thousand years.”

Muerto touched the image of the laughing hatchling “Sep… Sep I’m so sorry… I miss you. I really miss you. I took you for granted and I regret every moment of it. I wish I could tell you. I wish I could thank you.”

Naomi grabbed the crystal ball from Muerto “Alright, that’s enough. You’re getting tears all over this thing.”

“W-wait! Can you tell us where he is?”

“Nope sorry. My guess would be as good as yours.”

Isra placed a hand on Muerto “Hey, look he’s happy. Isn’t that what you wanted to know?”

Muerto shrugged away from Isra “Looks can be deceiving. What if he’s actually miserable and we just happened to glance at a rare moment he was laughing?”

“I’m sure he’s fine. I’m sure his new parents love him.”

“But what if they don’t? He already had to grow up with abusive parents in one life, I can’t let that happen again!”

“Muerto. We found Naomi. We found out that Sepulchral was reincarnated into a dragon hatchling and is happy. There’s nothing more to do.”

Muerto sniffled “I need to see him in person…”

“No. I’m sorry. Really, but I think this is enough. If you obsess over this any further I have a really bad feeling about this.”

“He… He has to be somewhere in the Starfall Isles. He and his family were all Arcane dragons…”

“Muerto-” Isra was cut off by a yowl of pain.

Muerto gasped “Boo!” He slammed open the door.

The guardian was on her side, yellow drool dripping from her mouth as she yelped and screamed. She held her bite wound. It was open again and yellow pus leaked from it.

Muerto turned to Isra “I thought you healed her!”

“So did I…”

“Oh boy. That’s Rots Wood Disease,” Naomi said “It only has one cure, which lucky for you is located here in the Starfall Isles. Better hurry. You don’t have much time until she loses her mind.” Naomi shut the door behind them and it sealed shut.

Muerto clawed at the door “Tell us the cure!” He screamed. Ren rubbed against him and meowed.

“Muerto. The cat,” Isra said.

Ren began trotting forward and then looked back to make sure she still had the dragons’ attention.

“She wants us to follow,” Isra said.

“I hope it’s to the cure,” Muerto said “Can you… Can you carry Boo?”

Isra nodded and turned back into his massive dragon form. He carefully placed Bubonic on his back. She was a bit too big to carry comfortably, but it was manageable. She mostly prevented him from flying.

Muerto and Isra followed Ren and hoped for the best.

[nataliesnews]

A really bad night, a kitbag question but maybe there is a bright side   4.5.2020

 2.5.2020  I had a really bad night. Two sleeping pills did not help. I only feel asleep after 3 and woke up at 6 am. I spoke to Rachel  who everyday and of course she came up with the, “You can speak to one of our psychos.” What is that going to help? I know what I need. Even if it is once a day to get out for a longer walk, out of the premises. Some of the retirement homes have large grounds. Ours, as I have said, is very small. Today I hope I will get some visitors which does help. Everyone wants to bring me food. I am trying to space out whoever phones to say they are coming. I don’t want to ask people to come as then I will really sound like a sad sack. But I am beginning to feel that I am hanging on to my sanity and the thread is getting thinner. I realise the problem here. I wish I had never come but who would have imagined such a situation. I don’t want to endanger anyone. I would even think of going to a friend’s house which she offered me but as I said then I would not have my home comforts around me and, if I did so, I would again have to go into complete isolation for two weeks and that would definitely send me round the bend.

 I had three lots of visitors today which has helped enormously. And all brought food of which I had so much that I gave some to the foreign worker who is doing a temporary job. My friends are keeping me sane as they did after my operation. I am very lucky.

 Such a bastard and again one of  the Haridiem. I keep telling myself they are not all like this. But where is their religion? read article: https://www.timesofisrael.com/authorities-looking-to-punish-man-who-visited-ikea-knowing-he-was-sick/

 Sunday    The last few days I have lengthened my walking, as have others, to include walking to the parking area and on the other side up to the road. This morning one of the women asked me if this is allowed. That is what is called a kitbag question. I don’t see a problem as these few extra steps are not in the public area and the only ones walking there are tradesmen, people who come visiting and not many at the best of times. She went to ask the director which I did not do and I guess he said no because she did not join those of us who were walking there.  It is what is called in my opinion guarding your ass. If he says anything to me I will tell him how I fell on the uneven path we are allowed to use and more than a week later I still have a knob on my head.

 Originating from Israeli-Army slang. The original/canonical kitbag question explains its meaning quite well:

A military boot-camp squad commander orders the squad to take a break and meet at some place after 10 minutes. A soldier asks: "Do we need to bring our kitbags?" (A kitbag is heavy bag that soldiers have) Commander: "Yes, of course, bring your kitbags!" The commander would had not given the order had the kitbag question not been asked.. Because of asking the question, the soldier has caused grief for himself and the fellow soldiers from his squad.

 I have signed up with Schechter for an interfaith class on zoom. One of the panel is David Neuhaus. At least it will give more structure to my day.

 The bright spot of the day was last night a zoom with Susan and her family and Charles, Debby and Shelley.

 4.5.2020  Fay, Dafna, Dalia and Irit…..my friends keep me going. But also today I went down to a couple who are on the committee and I feel a bit more hopeful and I now have more information. The first decisions were taken by the director and the head of the committee who used to be the director. Now only has the house committee been included in the decisions. I am glad I did not know that as it would have made me more nervous. But I know that in the beginning when the first cases were discovered here and the staff was sent into isolation it must have been pure chaos for everyone concerned so I accept that.

 What made me feel better?

 I had this feeling of an iron prison closing over me. Most of the people seemed to accept the restrictions without too much question. I wanted to know who was decided and how. Also I did not know how much control there was over Nofim. I heard of two people who went out , one to the supermarket with his car and the other to her hairdresser. I heard they had been sent back into isolation but I wondered how? My too fertile imagination took flight and crashed into solid glass. Police?  Locked in their rooms? Maybe you will say crazy but when you are in a situation when, for the first time in your life, you think you are not able to make decisions for yourself it is very hard to think clearly . it is a feeling of Brave New World. Maybe I should have gone sooner to speak to Amiram and Ilana but I am not sure that I would,  at that time,  have come out with answers which would have calmed me down. And I did not want to put a further burden on anyone. I asked what was one to these people. If they were kept again in isolation but I realized that there are no answer to this.  Maybe only the attitude  of those around them . Although everyone is talking about it I do not know who they are

 But now I realise that actually we are free to make our own decisions. But  I also realize we have to make decisions which are fair to everyone concerned. Amiram said that is I decided to go for a longer walk there is nothing anyone could do to stop me. Basically what is happening here is a question of cooperation of everyone. Unlike other places   we are not government owned and the doors cannot be locked on us nor are there gates which can be closed. There is the main entrance but there is always a door we can go out. Now that I know all that I can wait . We have to see what the next week will bring with the opening up of places. Of course if  there is a resurgence of the disease then probably we will be asked to keep ourselves in the premises.

 My only wish at the moment is to walk in my wadi and to have a haircut. But for the first time since I came back I feel more in control of what is happening to me. So I can wait without feeling that there is a cage over me.

 Irit was just here to collect bottles. She says that unlike before there have been mainly wine and hard liquor bottles. Probably because people have not been on picnics. She says that one of the reasons that we have fewer deaths and sickness is that we eat more healthily  (don’t worry, not me) and we exercise more and do not live in family groups. On the other hand we both agreed that the reports on sickness no longer tell us where there are the most sick. In the beginning the Hariedeim but now everything is quiet about that. And  yet a man who was dressed like an ordinary business man and looked  normal said  as did the idiot Kanievsky that the learning of torah by the children will save Israel and the world.

 Chaim Kanievsky, the 92-year-old maran, most senior of the Lithuanian rabbis who uphold the standards of ultra-Orthodox ideology and piety, had decided that suspending Torah study, even for one day, was a greater risk to the survival of the Jewish people, even to the very existence of the world, than the fears of infection from the new coronavirus. Not all the senior rabbis agreed with Kanievsky’s choice. But few dared voice objections once his ruling was published – not even Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, who is dependent on Kanievsky’s goodwill for his minority coalition. (Netanyahu was eventually forced to allow them to keep their schools open, while studying in groups of 10, in return for at least closing the dormitories).

 So, and I hope it will continue, though who knows what the next day will bring that maybe there is light in this tunnel/