Bat Mitzvah

Our daughter has her bat mitzvah coming up soon.
As we are active members of our local Reform congregation our daughter will be leading the congregation in the Friday night Kabalat Shabbat service and on Saturday she will read from the Torah (Bible).

Because we regularly frequent our synagogue the religious aspects of the bat mitzvah have been no surprise to us or our daughter (I did my own bat mitzvah in 2006). She has settled happily into her study sessions with the Rabbi and can focus most of her attention on her Torah portion as she is well acquainted with the songs, prayers and order of service. She has already taken part in our yearly Rosh HaShanah Youth Service where, in addition to reading, she and her brother played on the flute and trumpet accompanied by the Rabbi.
As a rehearsal, this month she assisted the Rabbi in leading the Friday Night service and read the drash(sermon) she had written (with a little help from her mother.)

But there are more banal aspects to a bat mitzvah:
There is the celebratory party. For most bnei mitzvah this is a large party in a local wedding hall. I can't remember the last time I went to an 'aliyah l'Torah' (reading from the Torah scroll) of a bnei mitzvah who wasn't a member of our congregation but we are frequently invited to such parties. There is food, music, dancing and lots of guests. Normally resulting in a fat overdraft for the parents.

The only times we have organised large, fancy parties in a wedding hall was for the brita and brit after the birth of our children. Both times we felt both over- and underwhelmed. (as well as exhausted and broke!)

Luckily for us Daughter decided to pass on a fancy party as she preferred a trip to England.
Last time were in England, in fact the last time we went abroad, as a family was in 2001. The children were quite young and remember very little. Daughter is intrigued by my mother's stories of friends and family and ever year, when my mother return from visiting the UK, the daughter asks when we will be going.

Apart from the trip to England there is still plenty of planning to be done - friends and family will be invited to services so lists must be made and invitations printed. I also need to provide kiddush snacks after Friday evening service and a light brunch for after Saturday service.

And then there are the clothes. We may not need party clothes but this is a major life cycle event and Daughter will expect us to be looking our best. However Israeli we maybe, this time jeans and a t-shirt will not do.

First and foremost we have the question of clothes for the bat mitzvah herself. Her wardrobe is surprisingly thin on party clothes which is a good excuse for some retail therapy.
For the boys of the family we must check they have smart trousers and matching shirts, neatly ironed and ready to be worn.
For me - well, can I justify buying new clothes? Do I have anything suitable in my wardrobe? When did I get so old that shopping for party clothes became a chore?

Succot

"Welcome" to our succah

When I lived in England I had mixed feelings about Succot. It was this funny little festival coming after all the hullabaloo of Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur.

When I went to cheder on Sunday morning there would be a couple of my classmates' fathers dangling from ladders in the JCC's small courtyard and our lessons would be accompanied by the sounds of rustling leaves and hammering nails. The younger classes would troop in after a while to hang their decorations. Inevitably it would rain at some point.
Following the Succot service itself the congregation would huddle in the cold, damp Succah and say a blessing. Then after devouring a symbolic morsel we would shuffe out again. It was all a bit of an anti-climax.

But the service itself held a touch of magic. In cheder class the teacher explained to us about each element of the Four Species letting us gently examine the lulav and etrog used in the synagogue and explaining a few basic rules of what made them kosher.

What stuck most in my teenage mind was the symbolism of the taste and smell of the various elements.
The lulav (palm) has taste but no smell, symbolizing those who study Torah but do not possess good deeds.
The hadass (myrtle) has a good smell but no taste, symbolizing those who possess good deeds but do not study Torah.
The aravah (willow) has neither taste nor smell, symbolizing those who lack both Torah and good deeds.
The etrog (citron) has both a good taste and a good smell, symbolizing those who have both Torah and good deeds.
All these elements must be combined for the Four Species to be kosher. If one is lacking then the mitzvah has not been performed. A good lesson in Jewish unity and heartening for those of us who weren't quite so expert in the laws and ritual of Judaism.

I would sit alone at the service, my friends with their families, my father in the men's section and my mother at home, glad to actually be able to understand something about this fascinating festival. As the lulav and etrog were shaken in my direction I would feel blessed by the power of these plants that had been grown in the soil of Israel and gave a wry smile as we half-heartedly repeated the prayer for the rain we could already hear pit-patting as it dripped through the roof of the Succah.

When I first came to Israel I lived on a Kibbutz. I remember the parties for Purim, yellow cheese on Shavuot and the disco turned synagogue on Yom Kippur but although I'm sure they must have built a succah I have no recollection.
In fact I have few memories of Succot in Israel until my parents moved here. Their second rental was an 'arab' (ie built of local stone in the Ottoman era) house in Akko and we constructed a thoroughly non-kosher succah under their pergola. It was kind of nice and we invited friends but most of the decorations were shop bought. And the shiny Christmas-style decorations that had made us laugh in the shop seemed sort of tacky when combined with the fruits of the Seven Species. For the next few years I always found building our succah a little disheartening and preferred visiting our friends in theirs.

My Dad fixing up the succah

And then we had children. The first year my daughter was in daycare she came home clutching a Succot banner and clear CD decorated with small circular stickers. By the time the both children were in kindergarten we had quite an assortment of banners and Torah scrolls, fruit and doves.
I threw out all the shop bought decorations, found a new set of lights adorned with pomegranates to make them look less like something destined for a Christmas tree, and decided that Succot was actually quite fun.

This year, between work and Shabbat, we were a little delayed and ended up decorating the morning before the start of Succot. After building the actual Succah we dug out the decorations. Or at least we intended to; problem was they seemed to have disappeared. Thinking back to last year we had vague a recollection of throwing out most of the children-made decorations, that had began to fall apart from years of use.
As my father was going to cook the meal I made a detour to the local office/craft supplies shop on the way home and instead of dedicating my afternoon to a siesta the children and I crafted doves, apples and Succot banners from card, crepe paper and glue.

Even the cats 'help' with the succah

In the evening we went as a family to synagogue and enjoyed kiddush together with our friends in the congregation's succah. We listened to our Rabbi's, now traditional, Succot sermon reminding us that Succot is zman simchateinu, the time of our joy, and that the Torah commands us not only that "thou shalt rejoice in thy feast" but also "thou shalt be altogether joyful".
When we pray for rain I though mean it with all my heart and am thankful for the cool breeze on my bare arms that brings with it the hope that the rain is not too far away.

The only thing I miss is the shaking of the lulav. In our congregation such pleasures are reserved for those able to convince their families to get up early for the Shachrit (morning) service. So far I have succeeded only once and that was the year Succot coincided with Shabbat when the shaking of the lulav is not permitted.

Oneg Shabbat

Today has been a little weird.

I am not hosting the meal tonight but still had to cook a couple of dishes. No problem except that in my usual fashion I had left the purchasing of certain vital ingredients until this morning and then I didn't feel well enough to go out.

After a while I began to feel better. Luckily as I was about to go out my Dad came round, delivered the lemons I needed and gave me a lift up the hill to the shops.
By this time it was 10:30 and I had to be home by 11:40 for the children.

I had good luck in finding the birthday present I needed pretty quickly. Then I walked to our small shopping centre keeping my eyes alert for any sign of the children as they walk through the centre on their way home.

Nearly forgot one vital ingredient in the supermarket but remembered at the last minute and got out of there quickly as my efficient friend was working the till and when she is around the queue moves fast.

Then to the greengrocer who also had just what I needed and finally to the cafe where they sell the eggs. Lucky again - I bought the last tray of eggs.

I arrived home and began to cook. The children turned up after about 10 minutes and as I was putting the quiche in the oven, my husband walked through the door.

He was home earlier than usual because today was the azcara (yahrzeit or memorial day) for his paternal grandmother.

He helped the children practice on their musical instruments to keep them occupied and out of the kitchen while I made a chocolate mousse and then, while they tidied up, I finished off the tabouleh. I have been a little cautious about making tabouleh recently as the quick couscous often becomes lumpy and tasteless. Today I added the seasoning first, with lots of fresh lemon juice and olive oil. When that tasted good and the couscous was well separated, I added the chopped mint, and finally the tomato and cucumber. According to my husband, this house's expert taster, it is delicious!

I changed quickly and we left for the cemetery. We travelled the road through the Arab villages, Kfar Yassif, Yarka etc. The traffic was heavy and when we got to the junction the traffic coming from the direction of Akko was blocked solid for more than a kilometre. We phoned to warn my in-laws but luckily it was a problem traffic light, which was at that moment being sorted out. The traffic dissipated quite quickly so no one was delayed.

The original Akko cemetery, like the one in Nahariya, is next to the sea on what used to be the edge of town. When they ran out of space a new local cemetery was created far out of town, along the road to Carmiel. It is impossible to reach without a car as there is no public transport and there is a steep walk uphill from the main road. However, it does have a lovely view across the fields to Haifa.

In some cities the Chevrat Kadisha (burial society) makes a lot of fuss about anything non-Hebrew on gravestones. In Akko I think they have given into the inevitable: Along with the Hebrew there was plenty of Russian as well as a smattering of English and Amharic (Ethiopian).

Next to the grave of my husband's maternal grandfather there was a grave with a chessboard etched into the covering slab and there were several graves where the corner of cover slab and been cut away and flowers planted beneath so they poked through - pretty if a little creepy.

One grave had been turned into a rock garden. There was no flat covering stone. Instead there was a mountain-shaped chunk of rock, roughly carved on one side and 'terraced' on the other. The 'terraced' side was covered in smooth stones and nestled in the stones were small pots of hardy but colourful plants. It was quite beautiful.

After paying a quick visit to the grave of my husband's maternal grandfather, the relatives arrived. There were the hugs and hellos, then we made our way to the grave of my husband paternal grandmother and my father-in-law read the appropriate prayers followed by a few moments of reflection.

Then we washed our hands and ate some cake.

As we got in the car and drove home the sky was already starting to darken even though it was only 3:30pm.

We drove past Regba, which is between Akko and Nahariya, and maybe I subconsciously recognised her but my eye was caught by a young woman at the bus stop trying to hitch a lift. At that time of a Friday afternoon there are still plenty of cars but no buses or taxis.

A glance at her long sleeves and long skirt told me she was religious. She was definitely cutting it fine to get home in time for Shabbat. I almost told my husband to stop for her but we would have had to pull across three lanes of heavy traffic. Instead she got a ride with someone who took her to the main junction into Nahariya.

She immediately started trying to hitch another lift from the drivers stopped at the red light. Again, she attracted my notice and when she caught my eye she asked if we could take her to Shlomi. Of course! I immediately called her over and her face lit up with relief.

As she settled into her seat she thanked us profusely. My husband remarked on the lateness of the hour and the fact that Shabbat came in at 4:15pm. She replied that she had though she had until 4:15 pm but her mother had just phoned in a panic because Shabbat started at 4:05 pm. Either way she had been worried she would be stranded somewhere in Nahariya.

My husband drove along at his usual smart clip and we chatted with our pleasant hitchhiker. Shlomi being so small it was no problem driving her to her doorstep and we left her there at 4:01 pm.

It was a pleasing way to start the Shabbat.

Pretty in Pink

My daughter, the Ballerina, occasional flirts with fashionable turquoise and claims she likes purple as an act of filial loyalty but basically she is pink. Lots of it and in various shades and hues. Luckily for her room I managed to steer her towards a pale and neutral pink that would be easier to match with furnishings and would not give me a migraine.

Having managed to remove the frieze from at least a section of her wall, I washed the dust off the walls and then called in the plaster expert, Dearest, to repair some of the damage inflicted on the walls during previous bouts of decorative activity.

I returned a few minutes later to realise he had filled in every hole not containing a rawlplug.

"Dearest, you need to support the shelves at both ends."
"Yes, Darling"
"Well, Dearest, you are missing a hole this side for the second shelf."
"But it didn't have a rawlplug"
"Because the rawlplug fell out when I removed the shelves. It needs to be replaced." In a hole that doesn't exist anymore!
"Oh."

So I disappear off to do something in the kitchen, laundry room etc while he liberates the hole. I return to find several other holes now unplugged.

"Dearest, why the others?"
"For the shelves." Notice he is not calling me Darling anymore.
"But they only need one at the bottom and one at the top, on each end. If you look carefully they line up."
Our conversation did carry on for a little while after this but it's best just to say that despite the decorating we are still happily married.

Plaster dry, I began to paint. Ballerina was eager to help and after a few wild swings with the paint roller, Dearest tried to explain to her the fine art of home decoration. A little while later his only audience was the wall. Soon he suffered an attack of lumbago and after cruelly ridiculing the amount of paint already decorating my skin he returned to his car magazines.

No, it was not finger painting

At first the pink looked a bit splotchy and I did wonder if the fact that the original paint was supposedly washable would affect the coverage.
Dearest insisted that we were being too stingy with the amount of paint on the roller but more paint on the roller increased the amount of spatter over my body and caused drips down the wall. So I decided to be patient, do a first coat and then examine the results.

There was a pleasant breeze drifting through the open window and by the time I had performed gymnastic feats on my kitchen stool in order to reach all the high spots and corners the main part of the wall was dry.
The paint looked good but there were definitely places were the former colour peaked through. It needed a second coat.

Left on my own I poured out some more paint and quickly covered the main expanse of wall. It took little time and effort with the paint covering much more easily now it had a bottom coat to grip on to.
After a few minutes the result looked satisfactory and when I returned, after a well deserved snack, to check the dry paint my conclusion was confirmed - two coats were plenty.

I delegated Dearest and Ballerina to clean up the brushes and roller while I cleaned myself before we went out in the evening.

So What Did You Do During The Ceasefire?

(Sorry this is late. I forgot to post it)

So now there is no background noise of artillery fire and we can walk freely outside.

On the first Sunday of the ceasefire my son’s classmate had a birthday. Her mother wanted to hold the party at the local beach. I thought it was a great idea but warned that other parents might still be nervous of an outside event.
The party was held in a local burger joint.
It was a surprise party and for once most people turned up in time and the birthday girl was truly surprised.

Of course just burgers are not enough, every party must have an entertainer. This guy introduced himself by explaining how pleased he was to be back working at children’s parties – he had spent the last month as an infantry solider in Lebanon.
He was a small, wiry guy with an animated expression and the birthday girl’s parents towered head and shoulders above him, the Dad was almost twice as broad.
It made for great comical effect when he asked the parents to help him blow up the balloons. They huffed and puffed to no avail then he bounced over and in a couple of quick breaths inflated each balloon. An opening gambit that had us all laughing.

After more balloons and some games he told the children of a night he’d spent in Lebanon. In the middle of nowhere carrying heavy equipment they had crouched under some bushes for cover while Israeli and Hizbollah fire crisscrossed the night sky above them. The blazing colours had, he claimed, inspired him to create a new game. The children liked the story and loved the game.

My children were quite tired when they got home. They have got out of the habit of socializing and find it quite tiring.

The Matnas (local community centre) arranged an activity program for the children in the morning of the first full week after the ceasefire. Sunday they just met up with their friends and on Monday there was a trip to Kfar Maccabbiah (home of the Jewish Olympics). Because the activity program was organised informally parents had to accompany the children for safety reasons. Oh the sacrifices we make for our children!

It was nice for once to be with my husband and not just alone with the children, especially as I showed my usual aptitude for choosing the bus with the slowest driver and the trip took forever.

Kfar Maccabbiah had invited groups from several towns in the north as well as from Sderot (main target for Qassams from Gaza) in the south. They were very organised. As we walked through the entrance they handed us a snack breakfast and the lead us to the area reserved for Shlomi. Our friends were already there (different bus) and had saved us seats. We also received Kfar Maccabiah T-shirts and caps in a Kfar Maccabiah bag.

There were hot and cold drinks on tap. We were supposed to received coupons for the snack but somehow that didn’t work out. It didn’t matter as there was a plentiful supply and the servers were easygoing. When the children rested between dashing around all the different pools they refreshed themselves with iced lollies and candyfloss.

We accompanied the children to couple of the pools but mostly we lazed around chatting with friends. There was a Jacuzzi which we were too hot to try but the Olympic pools was ‘adults only’ so we escaped to the calm and quiet and swam a few lengths in company of a large group of pensioners.

Lunch was also well organised. They arranged shifts called each town to eat by name. The food was laid out on tables buffet style with staff serving at the hot platters. There was a wide choice of food and it was tasty. Even though we piled our plates high we went back for seconds. After a month of bland army food my husband really enjoyed the spicy stir-fry noodles.

In the afternoon there was a performance by the stars of the children’s channel and a couple of pop stars. There was some highly amplified singing and an insane amount of bouncing around on stage.

Meanwhile the parents had a heated discussion about the failures and corruption of local government during the war. Stories communal to all of the inability to obtain food parcels while warehouses were packed full, trips to 5 star hotels that nobody knew about except those close to the Mayor, donated electronic goods that had never been distributed and the total disregard for the majority of the population stuck in security rooms. The more you hear the worse it gets. Children with special needs or health problems who were told that there was no relocation of any sort while donor organisations tell a totally different story of trips and relocations.

I thank everyone for being so generous but I think from now on organizations will have to supervise their assistance programs much more closely.

After the children’s show we all made our way to the buses. Again it was very organised with staff holding signs to direct us to those buses parked further away.

Once on the bus we received ‘supper’ – a fresh, delicious sandwich. They also distributed a goody-bag of sweets and snacks for each child.

I always prefer travelling in the dark but cannot understand why drivers insist on going through Yokeneam rather than straight through Haifa. Haifa traffic is heavy but only congested at rush hour and even on the new roads if you get stuck behind a semi-trailer in Yokeneam the journey can seem endless.

My mother claims it’s the scenic route but what is so scenic about flat, dusty fields, scrubby Arab villages and the occasional quarry or industrial area. The Haifa road parallels the coast and then winds through the shabby chic of the downtown port area. Even the shortcut my husband takes that leads through what was once the city landfill has now been beautifully landscaped.

Tuesday we had our congregation board meeting. We spent half the time discussing various initiatives to help members of our congregation deal with the aftermath of the war.

First order of business was to confirm that we had made the necessary repairs to the Matnas where we meet for Friday services. A katyusha had fallen in the yard damaging an aircon unit and some railings as well as shattering the windows. The Matnas is a government building but we had decided that the bureaucratic red tape would tie us up forever and so we took on responsibility for repairs. This ensures a quick return to normal services for us and we hope will build goodwill for the future.

The other half of the meeting was spent discussion preparations for Rosh Hashanah (Jewish New Year) which was, as usual, mildly contentious. There are also questions concerning whether we should relocate to accommodate the extra people. The rental of most locations answers that question for us.

We are again feeling the need for a building of our own but we need somewhere central with ground floor access and a central room big enough for services. Not so easy in Naharia.

On Thursday I picked up the children at 13:00 and we had just finished lunch when my friend phoned, “When do you think you will be here?”

It had totally skipped my mind that we had a project-funding meeting with the Director of the Reform Movement. Thankfully my friend had phoned early so I still had an hour to get ready before we needed to leave. We had arranged that my children would stay home with hers.

The meeting went reasonably well.

When we returned to my friend’s house we fed the children then my friend’s husband offered to drive us home; my friend’s daughter came with us as an overnight guest for my daughter.

My husband got home about 5 minutes before we did, the guys chatted while the children settled in and I watched a great Sci-Fi program.

My husband was at home for most of the week as the army had given him extra days to catch up on sleep before he returned to work. At work they were desperate for him to go back and he was greeted with great celebration when he returned on Thursday.

You would think that with the children at the Matnas and my husband at home to run errands I would have had plenty of time to work. But husbands, however pleasant they maybe, are time-consuming. They needing feeding and clothing and occasionally you have to talk with them and pay them some attention!

By the end of the week I had mountains of laundry. All I seemed to be doing was cooking and washing dishes, eating and keeping my hubby company as he consumed the news.

On Friday I had planned to take the children out but they were happily occupied with their guest and I was absolutely exhausted from doing nothing all week.

In the evening we went to services in the Matnas, through the newly repaired windows we could see the children playing in the courtyard and the shrapnel marks peppering the walls.

ES

Food, art and sirens

Yesterday I woke to find two small mammals snuggling me.
Even with the ventilator I was rather hot and realised I had slept late – no bombing.
I felt a vague possibility form in my brain - maybe it was over? I ignored the thought before it was fully formed in order not to jinx it.
I took a quick look at my email and carried on with the improvements to my blog template that I started the day before.

My father popped in during the morning with something I’d left behind and to say a final ‘Lehitraot’ (see you) before he leaves for Beer Sheva.
He‘d heard from his sister in Beer Sheva that my cousin from Naharia was now living on a kibbutz because her house in Naharia had been destroyed. When I phoned she told me that her husband’s work is paying for the stay at the kibbutz for the meanwhile but afterwards they will have to live with family and friends until their house is rebuilt. It is the house where they brought up all their children and I remember it from my first visit to Israel in 1979.

I also phoned to see what had happened at the municipality. They said no deliveries had been made the day before because of all the sirens. When I inquired the lady confirmed that that there were no more toys or activity kits for children.

Fortuitously just as I finished speaking to her my friend from the Reform Movement’s Keren BeKavod phoned to ask directions to the municipality – they were making another delivery. She also asked for an update on our community’s needs. I replied that apart from the constant need for food staples and canned goods they had run out of toys and games for the children.

I went outside for a little while. The sun burned my skin and heat beat up off the road. There was no refreshing breeze and world seemed nakedly exposed to the unremitting heat. A couple of people were walking around and a group of old people were chatting under the building opposite. Suddenly there is the most tremendously clatter. One of our neighbours with a ground floor garden flat had decided to mow the lawn. He was not rushing and even stopped to have a heated discussion with his wife.

Interruption

10:53am and there goes the first siren of the morning. My son scampers in to the security followed by daughter trying not to spill a bowl of cereal and grumbling that she is missing her TV program, yet again.

The first sirens went off about the same time yesterday. There were several loud bangs so I checked the news and sure enough someone in Shlomi had been injured. It said a man, though later this was corrected, and I phoned Dad to check he was OK.

My father-in-law also phoned. A work colleague lives near me and said one of his neighbours’ houses had played host to a katyusha the previous day. I hadn’t known.
I feel so isolated from reality. Being solely responsible for the children I can’t even leave the house.
My father-in-law reiterated his offered of help and added that his collaegues from Shlomi had also offered to help.
Also one of my husband’s colleagues phoned on his return North to work to remind me he was only a call away if I needed any assistance.

So far I am OK and not in desperate need of anything but it is comforting to know I have so many people on call – just in case.

Early afternoon the sirens calmed down a bit so I was able to give the children a late lunch. I made the Israeli classic - Schnitzel. No, not Viener Schnitzel. I couldn’t afford veal even if I did buy it, which I don’t on principal.

And a quick digression. I have tried to find out how veal is produced in Israel but have had difficulty obtaining any information. Anytime I’ve spoken with animal rights campaigners they just give me the usual dogma about becoming vegetarian. Waste of breath guys, waste of breath!

To digress even further I was pleased that Kashrut authorities have decided that fois gras can’t be kosher because it involves cruelty to animals and now the practice of force-feeding is banned.

But back to Israeli Schnitzel, which is chicken or turkey breast beaten into thin slices then breaded and shallow fried.
I don’t actually do it a lot because although the children like my homemade breading I find it a bit bland no matter how much seasoning I add.

Now I am part of the ‘slow food’ movement not because it is fashionable but as someone descended from a family of cooks it is genetic. I can remember first peering over the edge of the mixing bowl and my joy when at five my grandmother judged me old enough to help with the weekly cake making. I prepared my first roast dinner aged 9 and even helped my parents cater my own wedding.
I don’t quite understand the point so called shortcuts like cake mix – you still have to add most of the ingredients and it takes just as long – and ready made portions are so tiny I can’t regard them as any more than a snack, a very expensive snack. I cook at least one meal a day and save processed foods – like frozen pizza and those dreadful sausages the children love so much – for days when I’m pushed for time.
Naturally I regard prepared schnitzel coating with more than a little suspicion. It took a war for my will to weaken and last week I hurriedly threw a packet into my shopping basket before I could change my mind.
It was a great success. The children snaffled up their schnitzel with glee and I was pleased to have relatively little mess to deal with. I have to admit that I have been convinced but I still don’t see the point of a cake mix.

During the afternoon it was quiet enough for the man from the municipality to drive round and drop off a box of supplies. Of course I am grateful for anything to help eke out the rations I have at home but it is obvious that they are running low on supplies. Apart from the ubiquitous bagele and petite beurre biscuits there were some basic supplies like oil, pasta and drink concentrate and a positively industrial quantity of green tea with mint. But no treats for the children or anything that could provide the basis for a nourishing meal.

It was relatively quiet until the evening when so many sirens went off I lost count and it seemed that every time the children asked if it was safe to come out the siren went off again.
Finally it calmed down and we just heard the boom-boom of artillery in the background.

I made toasted cheese sandwiches which are popular with the children and so easy.

Later on my Dad phoned to say he’d reached Beer Sheva safely and was having a pleasant time with his sister and her family.

I decided to take a rest from the computer and watched a film about Modigliani. I hadn’t realised he was Jewish. I loved hearing all the Italian though I was surprised at how much I understood.
Just a question to anyone who speaks Italian – What is all this Mo DIG liani? Has Italian pronunciation changed since I learnt the language in the 1980s?
Mind you, my ears were too numb from all the bombing for the pronunciation to really annoy me especially as I was so swept along by Andy Garcia’s passionate portrayal of the painter.

I went to sleep dreaming of fine art.

ES

The Silver Lining

Yet again this Saturday we travelled to Tel Aviv, this time to visit cousins of my mother in law who live in Ramat Gan.

My husband’s parents and grandmother have been living with one cousin for several days so that was our first stop. Last time we met this cousin was about ten years ago.

This cousin has a beautiful house with a small pond and water feature in the back garden. There were lilies and goldfish in pool with a swing that swung out over the pool.

Her husband also has a passion for wool carpets and although I don’t understand much about carpets I could see they were fine examples. One in particular would have looked stunning in my sitting room!

We sat on the patio. The tinkling of the water was relaxing but it began to feel strange not to hear the constant ‘boom-boom’, as if without the sound as a reference point I had become detached from reality and felt slightly lost, disoriented.

My mother in law described how she had finally had enough when the sirens sounded eleven times in one day. Living on the 3^rd floor she had run up and down three flights of stars each time in order to reach the communal shelter under the building.

Our cousin reminds us that her sister has plenty of spare room and would love for us to stay, even though I have never met her.

My children amused themselves on the swing and our cousin’s husband taught them to ‘tickle’ the goldfish and we immediately make friends with their lovely old dog.

There are two older boys in the family, one in the army and the second about to join. There is also a younger son about the same age as my son. They make great playmates though unfortunately my daughter feels a little left out and bored. I begin to feel a little guilty and consider that maybe if we stayed in Tel Aviv she would have a better social life. On the other hand most of our relatives children are older boys so wouldn’t be much of a solution.

After a while another cousin arrived with her boyfriend and they took us all out for a meal.

We followed them in the car and after much twisting and turning we realised that we were in Yafo.

The parking was horrendous so the boys dropped us off in front of the restaurant and joined us a few minutes later.

The restaurant is quite well known – Big Itzik – so our curiosity was piqued. The problem with all the popular restaurants is that they are.... popular. And therefore crowded.

The table were jammed in so close we had to breath in to squeeze past and that became problematic as my mother in law and her mother sat down and got up trying to decide where to sit.
The children had to use the bathroom and by the time we returned everything was settled. Once we were seated the table was wide and spacious and the chairs are large and comfortable. Most importantly the food was delicious.

We dropped Grandma back at the house for a siesta and decided to go to Arena, a shopping mall in Hertzelia Marina.

We had heard a lot about Arena but it was just an ordinary mall. Quite nice but nothing special. However we did meet some family from Acco who were also escaping from the sirens and one of the people who works with my father in law and had disappeared without a trace after the first bombing.

We continued from Arena to the cousin’s apartment. It is not small by Israel standards but not enormous. I really liked the way it was arranged. The sitting room is a big square with room for three sofas and a large central space for the children to play in. Best of all was the kitchen. Nothing fancy, a normal modern kitchen but with a wood table big enough to a comfortable eight, and a TV on the wall.

The son was at home and our cousin invited her daughter with her husband and children. We have already met both the son and the daughter and we get along very well.

After catching up on news in the sitting room we all sat round the kitchen table. The TV was turned on for the news while in one corner there is a huddle discussing ‘the situation’, in a another huddle we discussed ‘life' meanwhile the children sat at the table eating some supper. It was friendly and enjoyable. The kind of informal family meal I love.

It began to get late so we took some photos and gradually moved towards the cars.

Back at the first cousin’s house we checked on Grandma, heard what everyone had been up to and then freshened up before the drive home. My father-in-law had to return to Acco for work but my mother-in law and her mother decided to stay on.

Even though we set out much late we yet again got snarled up in traffic on the coast road, which made my husband extremely tired. We got home in the early hours of morning to the familiar boom-boom.

ES

After The Big Orange

So I never finished my story of the trip to Tel Aviv.

We stayed on the beach a couple of hours and got a little sunburnt but not badly.

We phoned everyone to say we had arrived safely. A friend phoned us; concerned she hadn’t been able to reach me at home. She laughed when she heard where we were. She was in Naharia, katuyshas dropping all around.

We went to visit my husband’s aunt. She is only about five years our senior so is really more like an older sister to my husband. She has four children: two teenage boys and younger twin girls, about the same age as my son.

I am always surprised at how patient the boys are with the smaller children; they always have been even before their sisters were born.

The children mixed well and had a great time playing with the Playstation and running in and out of the large sitting room, squealing with pleasure.

After an enjoyable visit we left quite late and as always forgot that the coastal road is often jammed up on a Saturday night.

The play on clutch and accelerator was extremely wearing for my husband. It took nearly an hour before we were travelling freely and by then we were almost in Haifa. My husband had to pull over and refresh himself, glad that there were still drinks and snacks in the back.

Most of Haifa was closed up but the burekas and falafel stands on Yafo road were still open, though nearly empty, and the lights in the Bahai gardens were beautiful.

As we neared home we saw the lights of an artillery encampment and realised the increased noise was explained by their increased proximity.

We got home around midnight and shuffled the children inside. My mother phoned to check we had arrived and we chat until even I am too tired to talk.

Sunday

The first day of the week. Shlomi is relatively quiet. The artillery has a certain rhythm that we soon get used to.

The news elsewhere is not so good. Naharia and Haifa are still getting pounded and there are casualties.

A neighbour told my parents that the municipality had organised a short stay for some families in Beer Sheva.

How come we didn’t know? During The Grapes of Wrath they sent round leaflets. This time there almost no communication.

I suspect that they have only told people in the shelters when really it is the children stuck at home in security rooms who need social activities more than anyone.

Having spent Friday on the phone inquiring about the delivery of the activity kits I know the municipality are answering the phones. When I get through I say I’ve heard there were activities for children and inquire what is available.

Beer Sheva is not mentioned but on Tuesday they are arranging a trip to a water park. I sign up straight away then phone back several times today until I receive all the details.

Now I just have to make sure we get ready in time for the 7am bus!

ES

Weekend under fire

With nowhere to go I expected Friday to be quieter than usual. Fat Chance!

First I tried to tidy up but with four large mammals constantly in the house it wasn'’t so easy.

Then I read on the Argentinean’'s Spanish language notice board that the lady killed in the attack on Naharia was a relative of one of our younger congregants. So sad.

A quick look at the news pictures showed that a missile had fallen right on Naharia, close to the houses of many of my friends, most especially the Rabbi.

I phoned our congregation coordinator to check I had understood Babel fish’'s translation correctly (I don’'t speak Spanish) concerning the lady who was killed. They had already moved out to friends as they have newborn baby and live in an older flat without a security room. He was still managing the congregation long distance, and despite the fact he himself has not been here long he was helping the new immigrants from the community come to terms with the less pleasant aspects of living in Naharia.

Next I phoned the Rabbi and had a chat with his wife. They also live in an older flat without a security room and have moved within Naharia to stay with friends (and fellow congregants).

Finally I phoned our congregation chairman to pass on news, confirm the cancellation of Shabbat (Friday evening) services and to inquire after his well-being. He is a native Nahahrian so was as cheery as usual.

I forwarded messages of goodwill and a notice of cancellation of services to the English language notice board and then started to phone English speakers without an Internet connection. They were all glad to hear from me to exchange news and chat about the situation but no one seemed particularly stressed. They are mostly veteran Naharians, well aware of the significance of living so close to the border with Lebanon.

In the middle of all this chaos we have suffered a family bereavement: my cousin from the south died after a short illness. Although I met him several times and found him a kind, friendly man he was closer to my father in age and in fact they were friends from childhood.

Of course there was no possibility of my father getting to the funeral but he would like to pay his respects at the shiva (seven days of mourning). My mother can'’t stay alone with all the animals in this situation so I offered to move up for the night when my husband returns to work and the night shift this week.

We also realised that my aunt in Naharia had not been informed of the death. Due to the situation we couldn'’t reach her. I phoned one of my cousins and although I had no success in locating my aunt I had a nice long talk with my cousin'’s wife. Eventually we got hold of another of the sons who confirmed that my aunt was safely ensconced in the communal shelter with friends and neighbours.

After hours on the phone I was pleased I had chosen a simple meal for Shabbat. I invited my parents and it was all pretty much as usual except for the fact we hadn’'t been to synagogue.

Saturday was the usual lazing around, watching motor racing interspersed with news.

In the afternoon we visited the in-laws, as usual. There was a traffic snarl from Naharia to Cabri so we took the road ‘through the villages’ – the scenic route past Arab and Jewish villages.
Later a friend phone my husband in shock. He had been waiting at the traffic lights in Naharia when a missile had landed on the junction. Luckily he was not hurt.

Acco was a little livelier than Shlomi but there weren’t many people on the streets. Naturally it was a lot quieter than here and it was nice to have change as well as a good meal cooked by someone else.

ES