Drink Camel’s Milk!

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Tarabin

Tucked away on the edge of the village of Tarabin, named for the Beduin tribe that inhabits it in southern Israel, is a farm whose sole objective is to produce camel’s milk. For that purpose some fifty female camels are kept in pens to be ‘serviced’ by a single lucky male camel during the breeding period. The mothers are then milked and the product bottled and packaged for delivery to customers all over Israel. Both the milk and the cream produced using it have been scientifically proved to have generally beneficial and medicinal properties.

We had set out on a seemingly routine excursion to sites of interest in southern Israel and also to see the ‘red carpet’ in the fields produced by the flowering of thousands of wild poppies. But as sometimes happens, the day of our trip turned out to be rainy and cloudy, yes, even in the Negev, the traditionally arid south of Israel, so that the poppies were closed. Apparently, this year has witnessed the freak phenomenon of more rain in the south of the country than in the north, upsetting the usual course of climatic events, but producing wonderful green vistas as far as the eye can see in the south. You might think you were in a European country when on all sides are green fields and gently rolling hills and valleys.

Seated in rows facing the camels, our group, consisting of some fifty retired residents of Mevasseret Zion, was treated to an edifying lecture by Eyal, the manager of the farm and a chemist with extensive knowledge of the intricacies of the various ailments that flesh is heir to. Along with a warming cup of (milkless) tea or coffee, we were given an extensive account of the wondrous properties of camel’s milk. Since the chemical composition of camel’s milk is very close to that of human mother’s milk, this enables it to make a valuable contribution to the human immune system.

According to Eyal, in conjunction with a healthy diet camel’s milk helps to combat diabetes, heart disease, illnesses of the joints and lungs, ailments of the digestive system, specifically colitis, Crohn’s disease and gastritis, skin diseases, osteoporosis and illnesses associated with old age, allergies, and certain types and stages of cancer. It can even be used to allay the symptoms of ADD and ADHD in children as well as having a significant effect on some kinds of autism. Anyone wishing to order milk or who is in doubt as to whether camel’s milk is the most appropriate treatment for their particular medical problem is invited to call the farm for a free phone consultation (077-3295116; 077-5560212). There is also a website: http://www.camels-milk.com

As we sat listening to the lecture we were treated to the sight (and smell) of the fifty or so female camels and their babies, who gambolled and sprang about among the adult females, each one eventually returning to its own mother. The single male was tied up at the side, and Eyal was at pains to point out that there could only be one male to the herd as more than one would inevitably give rise to a fight for supremacy.

At the end of the lecture we were all given a little cream on a small stick and encouraged to smooth it onto any part of our body that was giving us pain. I was in no pain and so declined this offer, but there were some people who did so and who claimed that the cream did indeed allay their pain, even if only temporarily. Even if it doesn’t reduce pain, the cream is supposed to be good for the skin and even to have an anti-aging effect while also serving as a sunscreen. Hardly surprising, then, that many people, myself included, bought a pot of the cream to take home.

The farm is open to visitors and we were all encouraged to return with our families at the weekend and be assured of a warm welcome.

 

A Transport of Translators

You can have a flock of sheep and a herd of cows, a covey of witches and a murmuration of starlings, so why not a transport of translators? This is one of the thoughts that occurred to me in the course of the recent annual Conference organized by the Israel Translators Association. While the Association itself numbers several hundred members who translate into and from a plethora of tongues, not all of them attended the conference, or did not do so for all the three days of its duration. Nonetheless, attendance was relatively good, with some two hundred translators present at any given time. It goes without saying that the organizers did a terrific job and the usually isolated translators were glad of the opportunity to meet one another face-to-face instead of computer-to-computer.

The lectures were many and varied, some extremely polished and professional, others less so, on subjects ranging from the challenges and difficulties of being a medical interpreter to translating works by Jane Austen, with any number of categories in between. Lectures were also given on aspects of business management, technical terminology, making use of MT (machine translation), and what the future holds for today’s translators. That, of course, is not at all clear, as the likes of Google and Microsoft are steadily encroaching on the translator’s turf. One message that came across loud and clear in one of the plenary sessions was that machine translation will take over the work done by individuals who translate like machines, leaving the field clear for translators whose work depends on intelligence. Let’s hope…

At a previous conference a few years ago I gave a talk at about translating financial texts, and was suddenly seized by that terrible tickle in my throat that sometimes haunts me when I’m at a concert. That inevitably arouses nasty glances from those sitting near me. I’m always equipped with strong cough sweets, which sometimes help, though the noise that unwrapping them is sometimes even worse than the cough. At that conference I was able to benefit from the cup of tea brought by the kind chairperson.

After that experience I swore I would never give another such talk, but this year, possibly because I had forgotten my embarrassment or was inspired by the book I had been working on, I offered myself once more on the altar of public speaking. And thus it was that I found myself standing in front of a room half-full of people who had come to hear me speak about the book I had translated. Like the book, my talk was entitled ‘Every Day in Theresienstadt is a Gift,’ and I set out to describe my experience of translating the diary of Martha Glass, a 63-year-old Jewish woman who was deported from Hamburg to Theresienstadt in 1942. Her trajectory was very similar to that of my own grandmother, Regina van Son, the main difference being that Martha Glass survived whereas my grandmother did not. This may have been because Martha was able to receive occasional food packages sent by her daughter in Berlin.

The book was sent to me a few years ago by the Hamburg Council for Political Education, and I decided to translate it from German into English in order to better understand it. There is nothing like translating a text for gaining a deeper comprehension of it, in line with Chomsky’s analysis of deep and surface structure. The insight provided by the great linguist encapsulates what translators do: going beyond the surface to access the deep, underlying sense of a text and then reformulating it in surface structure (which in this case is another language).

Although I had prepared my talk to the best of my abilities, and had been provided with a fine Power-Point presentation by my husband, I felt that I coughed, stammered, spluttered and spat my way through it, even though I had made sure to have a cup of hot water by me beforehand. Yigal and both my sisters were there, as well as several translators, so I felt that I had a supportive audience. When it was all over there was polite applause and a few people came up to me and made comments (mainly positive) and asked questions.

I hope I remember not to let myself in for this kind of nerve-wracking experience again and can content myself with sitting at my computer in splendid isolation.

 

 

Germany and Israel

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Degenerate Art, Gewandhaus, Horst Strempel

(‘Night Over Germany’ by Horst Strempel)

To mark both the fiftieth anniversary of the opening of the Israel Museum and fifty years of German-Israeli diplomatic relations, the  Museum is currently presenting an exhibition of masterworks from the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin,. The exhibition, entitled ‘Twilight over Berlin’ and showing works from the period between 1905 and 1945, provides a fascinating glimpse into the art scene of pre-WWII Germany. It also constitutes an attempt to explain what the Nazis defined as ‘degenerate art’ (entartete Kunst) as opposed to ‘genuine German art,’ and to which they devoted separate, peripatetic exhibitions in the 1930s. The works on display in Jerusalem leave the visitor with a sense of wonder at the wealth and originality of the creative minds that produced them, much of it representing the Expressionist school of painting and by painters affiliated with the Blue Rider and Bridge groups, with only a relatively small percentage being created by Jewish artists. The film screened at the entrance to the exhibition depicting ‘a typical day in Berlin’ and created in 1927 by director Walther Ruttmann provides a fascinating glimpse into the daily life of the population of the metropolis.

In association with the same anniversary, the Museum is also displaying a selection of German Renaissance prints in an exhibition entitled ‘Dürer and Friends,’ consisting of woodcuts and engravings culled from the Museum’s own Prints and Drawings collection. Another allied exhibition, ‘New Types; Three Pioneers of Hebrew Graphic Design,’ is devoted to three graphic designers and originators of Hebrew typography who emigrated to pre-State Israel from pre-WWII Germany. The three ‘yekkes,’ Franziska Baruch, Moshe Spitzer and Henry Friedlander, lived and worked in Israel for many years, leaving their imprint (sorry about the pun) on Hebrew typefaces, which they sought to simplify and modernise, each one in his or her own individual way.

In addition to these visual feasts, the anniversary of German-Israeli diplomatic relations also brought Leipzig’s renowned Gewandhaus orchestra and St. Thomas choir to Israel to perform Bach’s Christmas Oratorio. This was an occasion not to be missed, and the performance was indeed memorable. The precision and musicality of instrumentalists and choristers alike, some of the latter still very young boys, constituted a once-in-a-lifetime experience for many of us in the audience. A richly illustrated brochure depicting the musical and artistic delights of the region of Saxony was distributed free in the foyer evidently seeking to encourage its readers to make the trip to that area, which it described as ‘a paradise for music-lovers.’

In one of its paragraphs the phrase “Elector Augustus the Strong was addicted to porcelain” caught my eye, and upon reading further I learned that this eighteenth-century ruler did much to encourage the manufacture of fine porcelain in his realm, which included Dresden, as well as accumulating the largest, high-quality specialist collection of ceramics in the world.

Fifty years of diplomatic relations have served to foster artistic and musical exchange between our two countries, as well as providing financial reparations, and it is sobering to recall that just over seventy years ago Germans were hunting down and murdering Jews at a rate unprecedented in human history. My own German-born parents refused to ever set foot again in that country, the country for which both my grandfathers fought in the First World War. Today, German tourists and well-wishers come to Israel, and I have visited Germany a couple of times (once to be present at the launch of the book of my grandmother’s letters published by the Hamburg municipality). To be quite honest, I must confess – albeit with mixed feelings – that I hope one day to visit Leipzig and hear the St. Thomas choir sing in the church where Bach once composed and conducted his sublime music.

(This article originally appeared in the February issue of the AJR Journal)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Going to the Cinema

Because both my husband and I tend to prefer going to a concert of an evening rather than attending the screening of a movie, our visits to the cinema are relatively few and far between. Due to a shortage of concerts we have, however, been to see a couple of movies recently, and I’m afraid that the experience has generally fallen short of our expectations.

Last week we saw ‘Suffragette,’ which portrayed the harsh life of a young woman in late 19^th century or early 20^th century London in the context of the struggle for women to obtain the right to vote, or suffrage as it was termed (hence the term ‘suffragettes’). The battle waged by women of all classes, led mainly by upper-class ladies in hats, was long and hard, ending only when the government of the time acceded to their demands towards the end of the First World War. The picture painted by the film was not a pretty one, giving prominence to the male prejudice and brutality that prevailed at the time, particularly among the working class. The high point of the film was the evident transformation undergone by the main character as she moved from being a downtrodden working housewife to an elegantly-dressed mature person. I wonder how much truth there was in that depiction of life at the time.

The film we saw this week, and which both the critics and the trailer that we had seen the previous week painted in glowing colours, was a very different kettle of fish. The main attraction, of course, was the actors, the once-gorgeous Charlotte Rampling and the less-gorgeous Tom Courtenay, both of them excellent thespians who once shone on stage and screen.

To be quite honest, it was no great pleasure to see close-ups of Rampling’s lined and aging face with its tired skin, sagging cheeks and bags under her eyes. Possibly it was all makeup, but I doubt it, though her figure is still pretty good. When I looked her up on the internet I was shocked to find that she is four years younger than I am. Tom Courtenay was never a great beauty, and the role he played in the film was that of a man who has experienced illness, and may perhaps even be a tiny bit confused, but that is beside the point.

My main criticism of the film is that it is achingly slow and thus verging on the boring. In fact, for the first half an hour I was convinced I was watching a film by Ingmar Bergman that happened to be in English, with minimal dialogue and barely-discernible undercurrents of emotion. Oh, how very British, I hear you cry, but still, who goes to the cinema for that?

The director of the film, Andrew Haigh, has taken pains to reconstruct the life and times of a very ordinary British couple living in a fairly ordinary cottage in the country and living a pretty ordinary life. The only ripple in their mundane existence (the discovery of the body of the husband’s former girlfriend) is nothing more than a minor storm in a very British teacup, and everything comes to an end, not with a bang but with an equally British whimper.

The real star of the film, however, is a huge alsation dog called Max. We see Rampling taking him for a walk across the fields every morning, we hear him panting happily on his return home and we both see and hear him whining anxiously when his mistress climbs the folding ladder to the loft. At times it seems as if he’s the only one in the film who shows some genuine emotion.