Amiram Hayardeny’s BigMouth

After writing from Beijing for a couple of years, some would expect this post to be about the cultural gap between East and West, between American and Chinese.  It’s not.  Not even close.  It’s between me and my children.  Between my generation (AKA the old generation) and my children’s generation (AKA the new age)…

Let me start by stating that my children’s generation doesn’t have a clue about culture.  Their heroes are shallow, skinny, and beautiful.  Unlike our generation’s heroes, who were really deep and much bigger.  Singers who can’t sing, celebrities who make it big for winning some stupid reality show.

Having said that, I thought that there’s no way I’m ever joining the kids to a show, with all those punks, particularly not around the holidays.  It’s a waste of time and money, and what you get in return is headaches, stomachache, and ripped eardrums.  Plus your wallet becomes significantly skinnier on account that theirs is getting bigger.  Forget it.

Every year around Hanukkah, kids around Israel start to nag their parents for tickets for the Festigal.  It’s not a typo.  It’s some kind of a combination of words between festival and, well, something else.  This festival is an opportunity for all the quasi-famous local celebrities to make a quick buck.  It’s a serious production, it takes place at stadiums around the country, they go through five shows every day to keep the momentum going.  It’s not unusual to see an actor or two collapse during one of the later shows.  Exhaustion.  You pay, they dance and sing themselves to oblivion.  The show must go on.

Obviously, when my wife suggested that we all go this year, I strictly refused.  I planned on spending some quality time in front of the TV, hanging out with friends, or just making up some missing sleeping time.  I therefore find it extremely unlikely that I did get dressed and drove to town, parked the car and marched with the rest of the herd and their loud youngsters to watch the Festigal.  For the first time.

I was already planning this post.  I knew that I’d use my sharp language to describe how bad the show was, how terrible the lessons are for the children, how I’m never going again, and how I’d even reconsider allowing my kids to attend.

But as soon as the show started, I found myself having a great time.  I couldn’t help noticing the choreography, the outfits, even the scripts.  The music was OK in terms of 1980s pop music, and the special effects were, well, really special.

The kids, not mine only, were thrilled.  They kept recognizing people from unknown TV shows, and commercials.  My five year old was practically glued to the action on stage.  To make a long story long, I even bought the DVD…

Clearly, I’m experiencing what my father experienced when I was growing up.  He thought Mozart and Beethoven were culture, and that Led Zeppelin was junk.  He loved Elvis, and the Platters, and hated Fleetwood Mac.  Pink Floyd, my favorite band ever, was considered by him as noise.  He thought that the source of all evil in the world was hard rock.

It stops right here.  While I don’t have to like it, I acknowledge - my children are entitled to have their own taste in music and culture, and it certainly can be different than my own.  I will respect it, and in the case of the Festigal, I even liked it.

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A strong feeling of anticipation began to build up a full day before we met.  I realized at a certain point that I was biting my nails, and that I was using various strategies of distraction - like taking down the garbage frequently, and picking on the kids.  The night before, I was a nervous wreck.  I was trying to think how it would feel like.  Did things change?  Will it be the same?  I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking of the past.

I was reminiscing about where we met first, how did we come home together, our mutual experiences.  I knew I was sinking into nostalgia.

At a certain level I knew there was nothing to worry about.  Indeed, we were apart for a couple of years.  But strong feelings don’t change dramatically in a couple of years.  Do they?  I can’t wait already.  I couldn’t wait.

I woke up at sunrise.  And what a glorious sunrise it was.  I was dressed and ready long before it was time to leave.  I wore one shirt and then changed to another, smarter.  Shaved.  Put on my best cologne.  I was as ready as possible.

They were all waiting for me in the study.  In the old house.  They were quiet.  The didn’t make a sound.  None.  They didn’t show excitement, or anxiety.  They were just sitting there, waiting.  I didn’t know where to start.  And that wasn’t even it.  There were more coming in later that day.  Admittedly, I’ve been away from the others for only a couple of months, but I still missed them.  A lot.

So I reached for the first one.  Not even knowing what was inside.  I opened up the first box.  And there were books.  Harry Potter came out first, and then Timeline by Michael Crichton.  Shortly after that cam out CDs, by the dozen.  U2, and Elton John, Boston and Pink Floyd.  And then, in another box, some old tax documents, and some cowboy hats that we bought in some rodeo years ago in Tucson.  China (dishes, not the country), more books, cooking gear.  I missed them all.  I was happy to see them.  I think the feeling was mutual.

And then came the container.  Like a long lost relative.  Accompanied by four strong men speaking a foreign language.  And they started unloading.  And there was our favorite table, and our favorite linen.  Our towels and clothes, and the LCD TV.  The teddy bears, the toys, the bikes, the dishes.  We finally reunited.  We’re home.

When it was all over, the truck drove off, and we were left with tons of stuff to put away.  Hopefully by next week we’ll be able to move back in.  I can’t wait.

In the meantime, we picked the kids from school and went to a late lunch.  I believe it would ordinarily be called a “restaurant”, but the institution we went to was not even close.  Restaurants are for amateurs, this place is for professional, starving, lower middle class, serious-about-fast-food, no-nonsense, people.  The only analogy I can come up with are pets.  And the difference between a restaurant and Sammy-in-the -Square Shawarma is the difference between a hamster and a drooling Doberman.

The menu is very basic.  Shawarma is number one (a rolling block of meat, turkey and lamb, surrounded by low flames for extended periods of time, occasionally being “shaved” off the last layer and put into a piece of bread - most likely pita or better - baguette).  They also have skewers with different kind of meat.  Around, a very colorful museum of pickled vegetables, humus, tahini, hot sauce, etc.  People stand in line.  Pavlov would have been proud of us all.  As soon as you see that rolling block of meat, saliva is starting to work its way out of your mouth.  It’s a predictable and obvious process.  All people standing in line are going through it.  Not even trying to hide it.

Once you get your order, you usually withdraw to a dark corner and start chewing.  Huge bites, dripping, filled with joy.  We couldn’t help watching this guy who was sitting there opening his mouth big, as if he came up with a method of unhooking the hinge connecting his jaws, filling his mouth with inhuman bites of bread, meat, vegetables, and tahini sauce.  It was almost a biblical experience.

It feels like a puzzle.  Packing, closing accounts, saying good bye to friends and colleagues, flying home, meeting the family, seeing old friends, connecting with the family, receiving your things, putting the house together, moving into it.  Re-attaching yourself to the things you love - the people, the foods, the places.  The good things, the bad things.  It’s home.  For better for worse, it’s home.  We are in the process of connecting our severed roots.  It’s a joyful yet painful process.

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It’s been over a week since we landed in Israel. And what a week it was.

It started at 3:00 AM at the Ben Gurion International Airport outside Tel Aviv. The sky was clear and the weather was warm and welcoming. So were my sister and her friend who came to pick us up from the airport. We were out pretty quickly, myself, my wife Dorit, two sleepy but very excited children, and ten pieces of luggage, totaling almost 250 kilograms.  The state of Israel was kind enough to allow us all this overweight simply because we were returning Israeli citizens on Israel’s 60th year.

After two and a half years of being away, we were home.

Those of you who experienced remote assignments, relocations, and even the simple act of moving from one place to another will recognize this feeling right away: the feeling of euphoria. Everything looks great, the people are nice, the lines are shorter, the traffic is reasonable. Obviously, this feeling is temporary, simply because every place has its own shortcomings. But the bottom line is simple: this is home, and after being away for so long, home is beautiful.

It hit me when I went to vote for the Binyamina mayor and city council. I was standing there, waiting in line, when I saw a photo of the late Ehud Manor, a famous Israeli poet and composer. He was smiling in the photo, and the quote underneath it said (in Hebrew, and in a much nicer language):

“I want to tell you, and I want you to believe me, wherever I go and wherever I live, I am a Binyaminer”

By the same token, and with direct contradiction to whatever the cosmopolitan Amiram, who lived in various parts of the US, and in Beijing, I want to make it clear and I want you to believe me when I say:

Wherever I go, and wherever I settle, whatever I do and whoever I talk to, whatever passport I carry, and whatever language I speak. I am first and foremost, and will always be, an Israeli.

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It was just another flight for me.  Or so I thought.  I flew from Tel Aviv to Beijing a couple of days ago.  As I boarded the Boeing 767 I expected the usual bore, the occasional shuteye, the discomfort.  But at the other end, Dorit and the kids were waiting for me, and for that I was ready to experience infinite amounts of inconvenience…

A few years back I had a very strange observation about myself.  I was a Pavlovian Dog.  The thought of an airplane would put me to sleep right away.  As soon as I get myself seated, my seatbelt fastened, and the airplane leaves the gate - I fall asleep.  It’s truly amazing, but I doubt I experienced takeoff while being awake in quite a few years.

But this flight was different.  As the purser introduced herself, I realized that she must be the mother of a former employee of mine.  A pretty as well as clever employee.  I went over to the purser and introduced myself.  I told her that her daughter and I worked together, that I could see her daughter in her.  I then went back to my seat.  Being the traveler that I am, I quickly went to sleep, forfeiting an airline dinner for for a dream one.  The purser stopped by a few times, but I really didn’t need anything, plus I don’t like to be given preferential treatment, and the flight was progressing nicely.

But then she came over and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.  Not in a million years.  She offered me to spend some time at the cockpit.  I enthusiastically accepted.  Mind you, it isn’t very easy to get into the cockpit.  There are two doors between the cabin and the cockpit, and they can’t be both open at the same time.  But the space between them is too small for the two of us to stand, so one of us had to go to the bathroom.  Needless to say, it was me.  But a short minute after that, I was in the cockpit, where the sun was shining, and the captain and the first officer were all smiles.

I must have been too excited to say anything of significance, and I believe I mumbled something.  The two men, obviously comfortable with the monster they were in control of, showed no surprise.  They were nice and welcoming, and shortly after I came in, a conversation developed.  We spoke about flying airplanes (I took flying lessons a decade ago, but were too scared to pursue the hobby), developing software, the computing power of the airplane and the automation.  Indeed, they informed me, an untrained person can land the aircraft with instructions from the ground.  I was relieved.

During my stay at the cockpit, we changed altitude from 37,100 ft to 39,100 ft.  We also changed course (was part of the original flight plan), were alerted of nearby aircraft, which we later saw, and had some conversations with several control towers somewhere in China.  I have no idea how long I spent in the cockpit, but I’m pretty sure it was well over an hour.  It was an outstanding, exhilarating experience.  I would like to use this opportunity to thank Captain Avi, and his First Office for an unforgettable experience.  Also, I would like to thank the purser for giving me this opportunity.

Flying in the cockpit of a Boeing 767 from Tel Aviv to Beijing - Outstanding!

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I took Guy downstairs to ride his scooter, a very unusual event. And with good reason. Watching Guy riding his scooter, his bicycle or even playing on the monkey bars isn’t good for my health. Every time he falls, or seems to fall, or about to fall, or is standing next to a child that might fall in the next hour or so, my heart starts beating out of rhythm. I usually ask my wife, Dorit, to watch Guy playing or riding. I’m good at reading stories, playing computer games, and jigsaw puzzles. The couch potato games…

Anyway, I’m standing there, recovering from Guy’s last maneuver, and there she was. A young woman, shabby looking with a floor touching skirt, an out of fashion out of season hat, sandals, and a huge nap sack. In retrospect, she was looking precisely as she was supposed to look, but she was so out of context, that I was completely thrown. She was all smiles, and she introduced herself, in Hebrew. I extended my hand, and the answer was surprising at the time, but not so in retrospect. It was: “I don’t shake hands, but my husband does”. Providing a few pieces of completely irrelevant data: she’s married, uninterested in strange men, and that she is a practicing religious Jew. As I said, irrelevant. Then came the next surprise. She actually was interested. Well, not that way. She was interested in making the acquaintance. Israelis, particularly when they are living outside of Israel tend to flock. It’s not an unusual thing, nor a bad one, it’s just a fact. Everyone likes to have the company of his or her own kind on occasion. In the absence of family, it’s a great substitute.

But in fact, religious Jews in Beijing in general, and in our apartment complex in particular are as common as fish on bicycles, scuba diving birds, or flying baboons. No offense meant of course. In retrospect, I was very disappointed at my own reaction. The offense deserved some reaction.  We continued the conversation, I handed her my number, and we parted. What I should have done is to say: “I don’t talk to strange women, but my wife does”. But I was brought up differently. Courtesy comes natural to me. In order to not offend someone I’m willing to go to great distances. I will eat strange foods, take part in strange ceremonies, I will be polite, and well mannered.

Amazingly, Judaism preaches to just that. There’s a famous proverb in Hebrew which suggests “The Way of the Land Precedes the Torah” (דרך ארץ קדמה לתורה). In other words, respect and courtesy come first, religion second. But this isn’t practiced anymore, unfortunately. Moreover. The original Judaism is very aware of personal relationships. In fact, Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, only covers the relationship between a man and his Creator. What it doesn’t cover is the relationship between man and man. In other words, if someone didn’t follow the word of God, they can repent on the Day of Atonement. But if someone hurt another human being, they can fast and pray year round, and it won’t be forgiven, until the person goes and asks for forgiveness. From the hurting person that is. But unfortunately again, this too was put aside. Forgotten.

I was offended, I was hurt. And the additional data provided only made me feel worse. I was only being polite. And I’m willing to bet, that the real Jewish women, who care about God, but also care about their fellow human beings, would shake my hand even if it was inappropriate. After all, if that was a sin, Day of Atonement would take care of it. Now, she has to look me up and ask for my forgiveness…

But there’s more. Is a relationship between our families possible? According to their practice, they can’t eat even a bread crumb at our house, not a glass of water. We can’t go out to restaurants, there’s only one kosher restaurant in entire Beijing, and it’s way too expensive and way too unrewarding. We can’t watch a movie, we can’t walk in the park on Saturdays. Truly, there’s nothing we can do together except one. The usual scenario is simple. Real simple. We can get invited to a “Shabbat Meal”, usually a Friday night dinner or Saturday lunch. We can practice their ceremonies - wash our hands before the meal, recite the prayers before and after the meal, sing some special poems and songs. Supposedly, not a big deal for us, except “experiencing a little Yiddishkeit” - Judasim, become “closer”. For them, it’s the opportunity to get a completely secular (some even atheist) family a little closer to Judaism. I hear that you score some good points with the Man upstairs for that.

Well, my friend, I’ll have to disappoint you. It won’t work. The reason is simple, and short. Been there, done that. I graduated from a Yeshiva (yes, for those of you who had no idea, particularly you, who think I’m the exemplary atheist - I’m sorry for not disclosing earlier), and my ex wife is a religious Jew. I spent more time in synagogues than I care to admit, and recited way too many prayers already. I want my children, at least the ones who live with me, to grow free of this burden. I want them to be curious, inquisitive, and to learn to live with unanswered questions. And in answer to your unasked question: no, I’m not a self-hating Jew. In fact, I’m proud of it.

And yes, I forgive you.

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