Oh Egged

So I was on Egged, and I just got back to Natzeret/Natzrat/Nassri/Nazareth (select whichever name you like best). Logically I should unpack, but like most technology-addicted 20-somethings, of course the first thing I do is sit down on my bed with my laptop to catch up on email and Facebook.

Anyway, back to Egged, one of my most familiar, tardy and faithful friends in Israel (you can count on Egged buses to be late 90% of the time, and 90% of the time they always show up). Riding the bus back from Tel Aviv always gives me ample time to think (which is probably good in the fact that if I ever got dropped off on a deserted island, I think I could keep myself entertained, but I would also probably go a little nuts).

Israel continues to amaze me with the conversations I have with ordinary folks. I really wish the Israeli government would listen to what the average Yosef has to say (in America, it would be "the average Joe").

Anyway, last night I was talking with a soldier. I wish I could have recorded it. I asked them why the army doesn't bother teaching soldiers Arabic at a higher level; like, if all soldiers knew Arabic well, I think they could communicate more easily with Arabs (duh).

The soldier gave a couple of reasons (like, not all soldiers come into contact with Arabs, and Arabs in Israel proper usually speak Hebrew), but mainly that it's not seen as that high of a priority compared to other immediate needs. 

We got into a long, winding conversation about how the army experience shapes people and influences the culture; like the army is something that everyone goes through, and everyone has "army stories." I guess it's the equivalent of American college experiences. (I can't help saying college, even though the rest of the world says "university.")

I asked the soldier why they thought Arabs would join the army (if they weren't Druze, who are required to serve). I was thinking I would receive an answer saying that they would probably want the government benefits that come with it, but instead, they told me that they could understand why Arabs wouldn't want to join the army, given the obvious conflict of interest regarding identity and fighting against one's own people.

I'm sure other soldiers also see this point, but it was important for me to remind myself that the IDF is not a massive, one-brain organism, but filled with individuals who are probably just trying to get through their experience.

That shouldn't trivialize the social and political consequences of living in a conflict zone with an entrenched military-industrial complex. However, I think it is always important to look for the person behind the mask, so to speak (or under the helmet, or hijab, or American cowboy hat, which I have seen numerous tourists in Nazareth wearing).

I may sound idealistic at some level (and usually do), but having been in Israel for pretty much a year (minus 1.5 months of summer travel), I have actually become less idealistic. I no longer believe in a 2 state solution or that this land will ever return to being a place called Palestine. I just don't think either is logistically possible or realistic. 

Like, America is technically an "occupied" land, but it's been there since 1776 (I say that in quotes because I don't want to offend anyone - you know, Emily the perpetual smiling foreigner - so whoever wants to think of Israel as "occupied" can do so, while those who don't can interpret "occupied" however they want).

But names are so important to people. And I wish I could do an ethnographic, multi-generational survey of both modern Jewish and Arab millenials and their grandparents.

I want to ask the grandparents' generation (again, Arabs and Jews), how they identified before the creation of the state of Israel. For example, when Israel was called Palestine (before 1948), did Jews living in Israel identify as Palestinians?

And how did Palestinian grandparents identify before the creation of Israel? I'm guessing they called themselves "Palestinians" but it seems that identity grows stronger when threatened. Did they simply identify as "Arabs" and only become "Palestinian" when faced with the threat of losing control over the land?

And how do tragedies that happened decades ago shape the identity of modern youth? For example, if I had had any Jewish relatives that died in the Holocaust, how would I "remember" something that didn't happen to me? Likewise, how do black kids in America "remember" the struggles of their parents and grandparents from the early and mid 20th century?

I say "remember" because really understanding something - not just intellectually, but at an emotional level - I don't think that's something which can happen just by reading a book or seeing a plaque on a wall.

Hypothetically, let's say (though this idea is totally unrealistic), that Palestinians today were not discriminated against, were "integrated" into the mainstream, did not have strong linguistic connections to Arabic, etc., would they still want a state of their own, or at least recognition of historical wrongdoings?

I'm guessing stories have a lot to do with it. Like today I went on a hike through a park that had remains of some pre-48 Palestinian villages. It seemed to me that the youth I was with were there to educate themselves about their roots, because the public school system probably doesn't have too much on Palestinian history in the curriculum(though if I'm mistaken, reader, please correct me). 

How does public education of history, versus personal interpretations and memories passed on from grandparents, affect the new generation's cultural identity?

I've been to tons of Holocaust museums, and sure, they have tons of archived information, but information meant so much less to me than seeing a number tattooed on an old lady's army in a synagogue service I attended.

Keeping history "real" seems to become increasingly difficult when elders pass on. Reading something on a page does create a distance from "feeling" the reality of a past experience.

I wish I could get elderly Jews and Arabs together.

No, not for "peace-making efforts." I'm not sure I believe in that anymore. Rather, I believe in promoting tolerance. Tolerance and co-existence are two different things.

I'm so much more cynical now. Kumbaya-loving folks, please forgive me.

Sigh. Oh Egged.

I wish I could write more, but I really need to unpack (so daunting!).

And I'm kind of stressed about the Misrad Hapnim, my other familiar friend (besides Egged) who is constantly disorganized and usually not reliable, but has allowed me to stay in this country. They only gave me a 1 month visa this time...which means I have to go back to the Misrad Hapnim right away and see about my A-1 visa application, which I started the process for in November (they told me to come back in January). In sha Allah, b'ezrat HaShem, like PLEASE God let them be organized this time. I really don't want to have to leave the country again in a month with the paranoid fear that I won't be let back in. Because I am a Jew volunteering with an Arab organization.

Enough said. I wish the mere existence of a language wasn't so damn political. Really, I'm just trying to learn cuz I want to be a friggin' translator, and I thought Israel would be the best place to do it as a Jew, but it's not something I always feel comfortable advertising around other Jews. Like, am I "betraying" my tribe?

Oy vey, maybe I'm just overtired and need something to gripe about.

Good night. Buenas noches amigos.