Has Spring Finally Sprung?

After blowing hot, then cold, then hot, then cold again, the weather in Israel seems finally to have settled down to the appropriate behaviour for this time of the year. Yes, I know that for a while last week it was warmer and sunnier in London than here, but at present the barometer seems to have swung back to its normal state. In England one can expect April to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb, but that is not what one expects here.

Though, of course, with all the current climate warming anxiety we can no longer be sure what is or isn’t ‘normal’ any more. Because of the abundant rainfall here this winter the display of wild flowers that are to be found on open spaces all over the country was more abundant and lasted longer than is usually the case, providing balm for the soul whenever one happened to catch sight of another clump of wild cyclamen on a hillside as we made our way to Jerusalem, or to see the fields of red poppies in the south.

The flowers in our garden have also jumped to the conclusion that spring is finally here, so that while the winter-growing pansies and cyclamen are still blooming, the roses have also started to produce flowers, causing me to fear a night-time frost, though fortunately so far we’ve been spared that particular trauma.

Spring in Israel coincides with the Passover festival that marks the exodus from Egypt thousands of years ago by the enslaved Children of Israel, and their forty-year journey through the wilderness to become a free nation. The notion of freedom assumes a pivotal role in the traditional retelling of the exodus story which is the focus of the Seder, the Passover meal that marks the beginning of the eight-day ‘festival’ of eating Matza (unleavened bread).

And spring also means spring-cleaning. Some folk consider themselves duty-bound to follow the religious requirement of not eating bread and not even having it in the house to extravagant lengths, hunting for recalcitrant breadcrumbs in every nook and cranny of their homes. I long ago gave up the belief that the non-existent deity is concerned with the minute observance of rules and regulations set down at a time and place that has absolutely no relevance in today’s world. I won’t go out of my way to eat bread, like some acquaintances who stock their freezer with bread before the rules of the festival are imposed on the entire country, but I refuse to bow to those restrictions willy-nilly.

As far as I’m concerned, the Seder constitutes an opportunity for the family to get together for a festive meal, something akin to Thanksgiving in America. I remember the Seder at my late parents’ home, to which sundry friends and acquaintances were always invited as well as the small family unit, and where my mother would serve all manner of delicacies over which she had toiled for long hours in the kitchen. I won’t deny that I did my own fair share of toiling in the kitchen, aided and abetted by my OH and, in the home strait, by my two big granddaughters, bless them. I just hope that my efforts came somewhere near the delicious food my mother used to provide.

At the meal itself, everyone helped and did their bit to make the evening enjoyable. Even our youngest member, just three years old, provided the occasional diversion, concerning herself mainly with keeping her parents occupied in order to keep an eye on her. We were privileged to enjoy the presence of three grandchildren who are serving members of the IDF, as well as others older and younger than them, as well as our own offspring with additional relatives.

And so now we can get down to the serious business of getting ready for our very own Independence Day, which we celebrate in a very different way, devoid of any religious significance. It is an occasion on which we note our relief and joy at finally having a country of our own and the freedom for which our people have waited for over two thousand years.

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More of Same

 

Now that the actual elections (though not the coalition-building process) are behind us we can stop and think about what we have all just been through here in Israel, and what awaits us in the near future.

Apparently this election campaign was the nastiest in living memory, which isn’t saying very much as these inevitably tend not to be filled with sweetness and light. Probably what lay behind the unusually vituperous nature of the 2019 campaign was the very real threat to the long-standing hegemony of the right-wing Likud party, together with its head, Benjamin Netanyahu, who have been ruling the country for over ten years.

This is, in my opinion, a sorry state of affairs. Many people had pinned their hopes for a regime change on the Blue-and-White party, led by former Chief of Staff, Benny Gantz. Pre-election polls showed that the threat posed by that party was very real, and in the event they received the same number of seats in the Knesset as the Likud.

However, Netanyahu is assured of coalition partners from the various religious parties, so that there is every indication that in the final event he will form the next government, and introduce more right-wing (some might even say fascist) legislation.

What is surprising to onlookers from both within and outside Israel is the fact that Netanyahu has managed to be re-elected despite the fact that he will soon be facing charges of bribery and corruption in Israel’s courts, and that the process for bringing him to justice has been ongoing for several months, if not years. While he is undoubtedly a clever politician, brilliant speaker and charismatic individual, it is nonetheless surprising that support for him remains widespread among the Israeli voting public.

Behind this there would appear to lie a social phenomenon that is unique to Israel. Long-held political allegiances and family traditions are often difficult if not impossible to shift. Many of these go back to the period before the establishment of the State, when various para-military groups resisted British rule, displaying differences of attitude and approach that cut deep into pre-State society.

And so, whereas in France we have the ‘gilets jaunes’ demonstrating in the streets against a system they regard as unfair, and in Sudan the people are holding sit-ins in order to change the regime – and succeeding – in Israel the people who are suffering poverty and inequality continue to vote for the ruling party that has kept them poor and underprivileged for generations.

In my opinion, this is also due to the failure of the education system to educate youngsters and enable the younger generation to think and judge for itself. The same can perhaps be said for the education systems of the UK and the USA, explaining the phenomena of Brexit and Trump.

The future is looking bleaker by the day, as ignorance, racism, xenophobia and prejudice gather ever more support. As goes Israel, so goes the world, it would seem.

A line in the London production of the play ‘Pompeii,’ which I saw last year, comes to mind. The play showed how politics in Ancient Rome bore many similarities to events that are taking place in the world today. When one of the characters said ‘Stupid people vote for stupid things’ the audience erupted in laughter, presumably thinking of Brexit.

All that remains for us, then, is to laugh at the folly of those around (and above) us, and to pin our hopes on the ancient saying: ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’

 

Living the Dream by Lauren Berry

 

The book describes the lives of Emma and Clementine, two young women in their twenties, living and working in contemporary London, and struggling to achieve their dreams of success in one or another field of writing, but meanwhile struggling to stay afloat in jobs they dislike. A great deal of booze is consumed along the way, there are affairs and one-night stands, pregnancy scares, and friendships that sometimes descend into quarrels. The book ends with the grand wedding of a third friend, but we are not treated to a supposedly satisfying conclusion where everyone finds ‘the one.’ That, I suppose, is the new feminist approach at work.

The writing flows smoothly and is pretty bog-standard journalistic or feature article writing as found in the mid-level press in the UK, i.e., not over-intellectual but grammatically correct on the whole, with the occasional well-crafted and insightful phrase to alleviate the monotony. The book constitutes an easy read, appropriate for the beach or a holiday, and does not make undue intellectual demands on the reader. I personally found the booze culture difficult to understand, with the characters shifting almost perpetually between states of being drunk, vomiting, or hung over. I suppose that just as violence was an integral part of the childhood environment described in Elena Ferrante’s books about Naples, drinking alcohol in order to numb the senses is an integral part of contemporary life in England. I find that to be a very sad state of affairs, I must confess.

Expletives abound throughout the book, and that also seems to be pretty much par for the course for contemporary feminist writing. It takes a bit of getting used to, but I suppose that’s the new normal for this kind of ‘literature.’

The end takes the reader slightly by surprise, as one of the two main characters finally leaves her stultifying job and finds herself on course for the creative career to which she has been aspiring. BEWARE, SPOILER! She sits down to write, and the heading she puts on her screen is the title of the book we have just been reading. That is certainly a nice way to end a book.

An Exercise Fiend? Me?

The thought that I might be an exercise fiend hit me as I was walking along the promenade that skirts the Dead Sea and then continues, quite scenically, along the road to the hotels there. The route has been planted with shrubs, bushes and palm trees, with benches at strategic points so that one can rest and contemplate the serene scene. While taking a few days off from our hectic retirement schedule, hubby and I took ourselves off to one of the hotels along the Dead Sea for a few days of pampering and over-eating. So at least a couple of hours of exercise each day were called for to ease the conscience.

However, when I’m at home I exercise regularly for about an hour almost every morning in my basement, where we have a treadmill and various items of exercise equipment, and of course a TV to alleviate the concomitant boredom.

If only Miss Lawrence, my former gym teacher at Brondesbury and Kilburn High School for Girls, could see me now, I sometimes think. I was her least favourite pupil, whom she regarded (with some justification) as a habitual shirker. To hear her enunciate my name with the attendant consummate sense of dissatisfaction, would invariable send shivers down my teenage spine. Short in stature, I was inept at getting the netball into the net or performing one or another of the exercises that were customarily inflicted on teenage girls in those far-off days, and perhaps still are.

The solution to my seemingly unending antipathy for sports and gym at school was to claim that I had forgotten to bring my gym-clothes to school that day. This was an excellent ploy on days when we girls marched in twos, crocodile-style, to the nearby games field where my classmates happily jumped and ran to put the ball in the net or bash their hockey-stick against one another’s. No team sport ever appealed to me, and the failure to have brought my gym-gear along meant that I was ‘condemned’ to walk around the sports field for the hour or two while the others jumped and ran in the cold London air. Luckily for me, my friend Diana was of the same inclination as I, and so we spent many happy hours talking and walking around the playing field while the others got all hot and sweaty on the netball court.

But somehow when I reached my forties (was it my mid-life crisis?) I began to exercise, having spent most of my first forty years sitting with a book or at a desk to read, write or type. I started off at a class run by a charismatic trainer who tailored the exercises he gave us to his assessment of our capabilities. Attending his private gym once a week was all I could manage at first. But then I started going there twice a week, before setting off for work. Later I was able to exercise in the gym that was established at my place of work. After retiring I decided to continue going there, but gradually found myself preferring to exercise at home. I’m happy to report that I’ve been able to keep it up, and now go downstairs to my private ‘gym’ six days a week.

From talking with friends I realize that I’m not alone in this concern (I don’t want to call it an obsession, though it may well be). One friend is very involved with her yoga classes (three times a week) and regales me with the wonders of headstands and other similar contortions. Another is an ardent devotee of water aerobics (three times a week), while yet another swears by the ancient oriental practice of Chi-Kong, whatever that may be. Yet another swears by Zumba, the noisiest, sweatiest form of exercise I have ever encountered. There’s no accounting for tastes.

But you get the picture, don’t you? Here is a random cross-section of middle-aged (or even older) ladies who are all displaying admirable concern about their bodies. All those I’m thinking of are well over sixty (seventy, even in some cases), look good, are not overweight and seem to have all – or most – of their mental faculties intact.

When I think about the elderly aunts and acquaintances of my childhood my mental picture is of stout ladies whose appearance was less than appealing. Their faces were lined and tired, and this was definitely not from overwork, as most were from relatively comfortable backgrounds, though many of them had been widowed at a relatively early age.

These days we are inundated with data and information about how to stay healthy, what to eat, how important it is to exercise regularly and to take care of our bodies. I suppose all that propaganda must have got through to me, as it apparently has to others of my generation. And so, unlike our mothers and grandmothers, we are almost as concerned about our physical health and appearance as we were when we were teenagers, and are even prepared now to do something about it.