Refugees

Picture: Government Press Office: Refugees from Sudan in Jerusalem’s Rose Garden

 

 

I know I’ve written about this subject before, but it’s one that simply isn’t going to go away, and in fact is getting worse every day, every hour, every minute.

Many of these unfortunates come from Africa, from countries where conflicts, poverty, corruption and hopelessness are endemic. Others come from Middle Eastern countries such as Syria and Libya where orderly government has collapsed, wars are being fought and no one is safe from danger.

They are the refugees who, like the poor, are always with us.

Most people reading this know at first hand or at one or two removes what the word refugee means. It is a word that has defined an entire generation of Jews who were forced to flee their homes in Europe. And even though I was born in England, to this day I still proudly define myself as ‘the daughter of refugees.’

The Jews of Europe who tried to find shelter in the years following Hitler’s rise to power were subjected to rigorous restrictions. A sponsor or place of employment had to be found, a place of residence guaranteed or an affidavit provided, and to all this were added the exorbitant taxes that had to be paid in order to be allowed to leave Germany. The heartbreak arising from having to leave home and family was not confined solely to the children who were fortunate enough to get a place on one of the Kindertransport trains.

At that time no one thought of getting into a crowded rubber dinghy and throwing themselves on the mercy of some kind person out there. No one expected to be provided with food and accommodation after enduring a hazardous journey and being exposed to the elements. The nearest thing to that experience may have been that of the illegal immigrants to pre-State Israel, but that did not save very many Jews from the fate that the Nazis had prepared for them.

Mankind has always been on the move. Millions of years ago Neanderthals and Homo Sapiens migrated from one part of the African and European continents to another in search of food and shelter. Migration is an integral part of human nature and, as we all know, there have been more than a few battles for territory and booty in the course of human history. But unless one tribe was being threatened with extinction by another, the people involved in this kind of movement could not be defined as refugees. What we are witnessing today is a different kind of mass migration, but for roughly similar reasons.

Israel has its own refugee problem. First there are the Palestinians who left Israel in the course of the War of Independence in 1948, and who have been deliberately kept in that state of limbo ever since. Their children and grandchildren have the same refugee status and demands as the first generation. They continue to live in poverty and privation in UN-sponsored refugee camps and are not enabled to obtain citizenship in the Arab countries where those camps are situated.

The contrast with the Jewish refugees who left Europe and scattered all over the world in the 1930s and 1940s, rapidly becoming self-supporting, is striking. Furthermore, Jews who were expelled penniless and en masse from Muslim countries in 1948, after the establishment of the State of Israel, were taken in and absorbed by the nascent nation to the best of its ability, and on the whole have become an integral part of society, leaving their mark on its culture and economy.

In the last few years Israel has been forced to contend with the problem of people coming from Sudan and Eritrea, seeking refuge and a way out of the conflicts and poverty that afflict their countries. Faced with a constant flow of these refugees, Israel built a fence to prevent their entry from Egypt, and a special holding camp for those who nonetheless managed to enter. Some of them have found low-paid work, but many of them constitute an almost insoluble problem. Israel’s Supreme Court has recently ruled against their protracted imprisonment in camps, so that now the ball is in the hands of the politicians once more.

Many Israelis come from families that were themselves once refugees, and, as I do, find it difficult to harden their heart to the problem of today’s refugees.

 

Books and Brocantes

 

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Every village in central France – and possibly elsewhere, for all I know – holds a brocante once a year, when locals and anyone interested can set up a stall and sell anything that they feel is superfluous to their needs.

In other words, it’s an opportunity to get rid of Stuff. And there’s an awful lot of it about, it seems. It may be their parents’ and grandparents’ discarded household goods, collections of interior design magazines, children’s clothes and toys, odds and ends that have accumulated in the house over the years, and anything and everything that comes to mind.

I’ve been a dedicated follower of brocantes ever since I first discovered them several years ago. The thing about brocantes is to go with an open mind, as you never know what you might find there. I did not go looking for crystal wine glasses, but over the years I have acquired more than a few, as well as a few crystal flutes— ideal for drinking champagne. So now I have also acquired the champagne habit, although I haven’t yet descended (or is it ascended?) to the level of my Australian neighbor who drinks only champagne when he’s on holiday.

So, when the local village announced it would be holding its annual brocante last week, I decided it would be a good opportunity to try and sell my latest book, ‘Levi Koenig, A Contemporary King Lear.’

As I also dabble in painting (in watercolors), I have developed the habit of using one or another of my paintings for the covers of my books. My first novel, ‘The Balancing Game; A Child Between Two Worlds, A Society Approaching War,’ was published in conjunction with an American publisher, and they prepared the cover, using one of my paintings. I thought that the cover was good enough as these things go, but was later told that it was not inviting, and would not attract readers. This may or may not have been why its sales were poor, but for this and other reasons I decided not to stay with that publisher.

My second novel, ‘Time Out of Joint, the Fate of a Family,’ was self-published on Amazon and itrs cover was based entirely on one of my own paintings. Lo and behold, it sold quite well initially, and has continued to sell at a fairly steady rate ever since.

So I went ahead and prepared a suitable painting for ‘Levi Koenig, A Contemporary King Lear.’ Since both Shakespeare’s play and my novel are about three sisters and their aged, ailing father, I painted three female figures embracing, and a gnarled, bare tree (ho, very symbolic!) at the side. The book appeared (on Amazon) a few weeks ago, and is not making as much of a splash as I would like, but I console myself by saying that it’s early days yet.

And that’s when I had my bright idea, what I thought was my masterful marketing ploy. I have the twenty-odd paperback copies I had sent to me, with their colorful covers. Why don’t I make a few copies of the painting on the cover, I thought, position myself at the brocante, and offer one to anyone who buys a copy of my book?

The appointed day came round. The weather looked bleak, but I persevered. A friend had kindly allowed me to occupy a corner of her stall, where I could put my books, and my notice offering a free original painting to anyone who bought a book.

Attendance at the brocante was weak, whether because of the inclement weather or the competition presented by rival brocantes at other villages. The few visitors who came looked, smiled, and moved on to the next stall. It was cold, and there was even some drizzly rain at times, but I stuck to my guns and remained at my post (why the military metaphors, I wonder?) for a full three hours. But no fish took the bait.

As lunch-time rolled round most of the stall-holders packed up and left, and so did I. Perhaps my brilliant marketing ploy had been somewhat misguided. After all, what had made me think that in the middle of rural France anyone would be interested in reading a book in English about life in another part of the world?

And so another bright idea bites the dust.

Hoppe Hoppe Reiter

Tags

Fraenze Vanson, Recipes, Sunshine Hostel

Not long ago I was invited to join a group on Facebook that goes by the name of ‘Yecke Yeckes, Hoppe Hoppe Reiter, Young Descendants of Yekkes Seeking to Preserve the Yecke Heritage.’

That’s more than a bit of a mouthful (and I had to have the site’s name up on my iPad in order to copy it out here), but still I joined, first as a proud descendant of the Yecke tribe, and second out of curiosity to see who the fellow-members of my tribe really are.

The thing is, I grew up in England, to parents who came originally from Germany, and most of whose friends were also from there. Those few Yecke relations who survived were scattered all over the world, including in Israel, and eventually I met them, too, and formed an instant bond with most of them.

But I’m an outsider even in that group of Israeli Yeckes. I’m envious of the fact that many of them seem to have grown up with grandparents (none of mine managed to get out of Germany in time), and remember sayings they heard from them and games they played with them. I do remember the game of ‘Hoppe Hoppe Reiter,’ but have no recollection of who it was who played it with me.

The members of the group are very enthusiastic when it comes to going down Memory Lane. One person remembers a certain dish his or her mother used to make, and that triggers a whole host of memories, and even recipes, that people remember or long for. Then someone else recalls a certain German phrase or expression and along comes a series of phrases, some more obscure than others, that people remember. The only phrase I heard my parents say in German was ‘Ach, die kinder!’ probably more in despair than admiration, as far as I can make out.

Once again, I feel excluded from ‘my’ community. My parents managed to escape to England just before war broke out, and it was not advisable to speak German, the language of the enemy. As it happens, they both had a very good command of English, as did their social circle, and so that’s what I and my sisters heard when we were growing up. We were aware of the fact that our elders spoke English with a foreign accent, and found this either amusing or embarrassing or both, but accepted this as a fact of life.

Some members of the Facebook group have expressed a desire to meet fellow-members in order to conduct German conversation. I also felt that desire some time ago, and for the past fifteen years or so have been meeting with a German teacher once a week in order to learn the language (my ‘unknown mother-tongue’), and am now able to read German and even translate it into English.

As for the recipes, as it happens a few years ago my sisters and I embarked on a project to transcribe and translate our late mother’s recipes. This involved weekly meetings with a friend who could read and decipher Gothic handwriting, and then a lengthy process of translating the transcribed texts into English and Hebrew. The illustration at the top of the page shows the cover of the book we eventually published, with dozens of recipes in both languages, as well as the menus our mother worked out for feeding the children at the Sunshine Hostel, which she and my father ran during the war. I’m glad to see that we’re not the only ones, and other descendants of Yeckes have also produced collections of recipes from their parents and grandparents.

The members of the Yeckes’ descendants group tend to be moderate in their views and gently supportive of one another, as befits the tradition of our tribe. It’s a pity that instead of belittling the Yecke culture, as was the tendency in Israel in its early days, the attitude and approach of my compatriots did not gain wider acceptance. Who knows how much bloodshed and anguish might have been avoided had that been the case.

Sacred and Profane

 

 It’s not right and fair to engage in ‘old-timer’ nostalgia at any time, I know, but in view of recent events I can’t help comparing Israel as it was fifty years ago, when I first came to live here, and today.

Israel today is, if anything, even more vibrant, productive and creative than it was then. But it is also more hidebound, more xenophobic and far less attractive. Not only has Israel as a country changed, both for better and for worse, but the Jewish religion that I grew up with has also undergone a sea change. That seems a strange thing to say, after all, the Jewish religion has been immutable since time immemorial, and that is its strong point, or so we’re told.

However, the role played by religion in Israel’s daily life has definitely changed. Most notably, the nature of the political parties representing the orthodox element of the population has altered drastically. The party that once represented the moderate and tolerant Judaism of Yosef Burg and his colleagues of the now-defunct Mafdal has been transmuted into one that purveys rampant racism (anti-everyone who isn’t Jewish, and even anti other Jewish groups), serving mainly to exacerbate mutual hatred and hostility within Israeli society, but also directed towards those sectors of the population that are not Jewish. The resulting internecine hostility is seen on our streets and features prominently in the media with sickening frequency.

The resurgence of religious fervor, and its volatile combination with the old-new ‘religion’ of nationalism, serves to create an atmosphere of enmity, fostering violence, malevolence, murder and mayhem. It is as if a juggernaut were making its slow and inexorable way towards Israeli society, destroying everything in its path.

Hatred and enmity within the Jewish camp are nothing new, and since the senseless murder of Emil Greenstein at a left-wing demonstration some thirty years ago they have continued to rear their ugly head from time to time.

Protestations about the failure of the Left to demonstrate when Arabs kill Jews do not wash. There is no justification for that either, but we don’t expect such visceral hatred to emanate from within our own ranks. The thought that there are some among us who aspire to attain the barbarism of Daish and other such groups is an abomination.

Is history about to repeat itself? If it hadn’t been for the internecine violence within Jewish society two thousand years ago, Jerusalem, the Temple and the independent existence of the Hebrew nation would not have been destroyed. Those who saw themselves as the upholders of what was sacred were the very ones who led to its being made profane.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not in favour of rebuilding the Temple. Far from it. Whatever was the agent that was behind that event, call it God, fate, or whatever you like, he/she/it knew what they were doing when it was destroyed. Who in their right mind would want to reinstate the practice of animal sacrifice and various other distasteful antique rituals?

But the ensuing exile of the Jewish nation and its two thousand years of suffering could and should have been avoided. All that was needed was one clear, sane voice calling for unity and the mending of the internal ruptures in order to overcome enmity, envy and betrayal.

But no such voice was forthcoming, and the result was disaster. Today, too, no such voice is forthcoming, and this bodes ill for the future.

To me it seems clear that there is a strong possibility that contemporary Israeli society will disintegrate and implode, creating an untenable situation in which the forces of hyper-nationalism will prevail, causing the eventual annihilation of Israel as an independent state.

And that would be a terrible shame.