bout de papier, Vol. 18, No. 3 (2001) — Fall 2001 // Automne 2001, pp. 21–27
From: Butcher, Elaine – TAVIV-TD
Sent: June 15, 2001
To: Distribution
Subject: Trading Places (Part One)
Shalom!
Hello from Tel Aviv. I am here for the next 5 weeks and a bit, on temporary duty, filling the gap between the departure of the former trade program manager and the arrival of the new one. Having such exposure to the day-to-day work in the embassy is a new experience for me, since my previous trips have always been connected to a major project or visit. I hope to offer a highly personal and hopefully entertaining account of my stay in Israel. Some of those copied on this message who have had longer exposure to this place are respectfully requested to excuse my unavoidably superficial perspective. It is still a positive view and I hope to portray my affection for the place and the people, despite the contradictions and frustrations of recent months.
To set the scene: Israel is NOT a calm place. People are busy — they walk, talk, drive, argue, shop and generally live at top speed. This is lively but also wearing. Even simple tasks become complicated as several people, most completely unrelated to the event, offer opinions on what should be done. However, the happy result is that although you are by yourself, you are never alone! Commuting is a particular challenge, with people juggling cell phones, coffee cups and having a general disregard for cross-walks. And these are just the pedestrians. Drivers treat lane markings on the road as mere suggestions, and the parking mentality is one of squatters’ rights. Winner take all. This has two results: horns honk constantly and aggressive driving is essential in order to make any progress at all. While people have a free and refreshing disregard for traffic signs and even traffic laws, this auto-anarchy does contribute to (or may be caused by?) the pressures felt by the inhabitants
It is a land of contrasts. Tel Aviv is a large modern city. Tall buildings, endless traffic jams, constant construction and streets filled with hip young (mostly very slim) people in the latest fashions. It is also perched on the shore of the Mediterranean Sea, a deceptively beautiful body of water that helps turn a busy cosmopolitan city into a vacationland. I say deceptively beautiful because as you look out from the beach at ships plying the waters, you know they are leaking fuel, sewage and other unmentionables. So a dip in the sea can have lingering effects — also unmentionable.
Tel Aviv is also situated on the edge of a desert. This cools the evenings, making the climate a bit more bearable in the hot months. Although we are at the start of the very hot period now — 31 yesterday and hotter today — it is still pleasant in the morning, so the short walk to my ride is not a trial. My garden is tilled with unfamiliar trees, birds and cacti. Proximity to the desert also means a shortage of water, a well-known challenge in the Middle East. Although they are way ahead of North Americans in water conservation and recycling, the Israelis use a lot of water compared to their neighbours. However, water is still seen as a precious resource. This would explain the sight of a neighbour washing his car — the hubcaps really — using bottled water. Not surprisingly, it was a very nice car.
Security is extremely tight. We attended a Chamber of Commerce lunch aimed at the foreign and business community, where Prime Minister Ariel Sharon was the keynote speaker. Someone commented this was probably the safest place in Israel. The entrance to the room resembled an airport check-in, and alert officials checked bags, asked questions and operated the X-ray scanners for more than 600 guests. But just when you think that there’s no place like this in the world, we were brought back to reality with a thud by being subjected to almost 3 hours of not very informative speeches, including that of the PM — all BEFORE the lunch was served. By 3:15 we had almost given up hope, our two small buns were long gone and people were almost tackling waiters to get more water. Even the simultaneous translation failed; we assumed she had fainted from hunger. All in all, eerily reminiscent of other lunches I have known.
That in essence is the most unusual, uncomfortable, disturbing and surprising part of being here. It LOOKS so normal. And in the end, it mostly is normal, but apprehension about a possible attack is real and caution has become a part of everyday life. However, it is still a great place, fun, interesting, exciting, lively. I was made to quickly feel very at home and with the advantage of having been here a few times, streets and places are familiar to me.
And it is a very small place. At the Sharon lunch I met my former counterpart from the Israeli mission in Toronto. We were both shocked to see each other but it was great to meet and she has a position where the connection with Canada will be most useful. I had fun teasing my Canadian embassy colleague that finally it was my turn to introduce her to someone. I hope this will continue to
From: Butcher, Elaine – TAVIV-TD
Sent: June 22, 2001
To: Distribution
Subject: Trading Places (Part Two)
Travels with my dictionary
It’s always the follow up question that gets you.
To say that my Hebrew is rudimentary would be a wild exaggeration. I can make polite responses, give my telephone number, and say the right greeting at the right time of day. My grasp of numbers however remains elusive. Although I know the numbers from I to 10, I tend to mix up the order (1,3,6,2, etc.) sounding rather like I had a spotty attendance record at school.
I can accomplish the first part of a task — greet the cashier, even order a taxi by phone — but it’s the question that follows my request which always defeats me. At the grocery store, is she asking will that be paper or plastic? Cash or charge? A yes or no answer just won’t do. Is the taxi company asking where I want to go (good guess) or is he saying “Could you repeat that poorly-pronounced address?” In that case a wrong answer could send the cab to another destination entirely. Not quite what I had planned.
So I regretfully revert to my visitor refrain “Ani lo medaber Ivrit”, as if they hadn’t already suspected I don’t speak Hebrew (but at least I still had some fun pretending I could).
At home, grocery shopping is a favoured activity. I love and appreciate the selection, the abundance and new or seasonal products. In Israel — and there are many large Canadian-style grocery stores, including one beside the embassy — there are several challenges, some less obvious than others, when buying food.
My numerical failings often result in odd purchases — 2 olives? — which perplex the servers and slow the process considerably. Since I find myself determined to do this in Hebrew, I have decided to just order 4 of everything; I am confident that “arba” is 4 and T’Il take my chances on what I select.
Shopping in another language when there are no familiar or even readable words is much more daunting than you might expect. Not only can I not read the signs, labels or prices, neither can I be certain of what the package contains just by the picture on the label. It seems that a cultural gap exists even in packaging. The photos are elaborate but confusing and at times have no obvious relation to the contents. So I have ended up with appliance cleaner instead of laundry detergent (a washing machine was on the label) and tomato paste instead of tomato sauce. Nothing fatal, but still a surprise when you open the jar (like Kinder eggs).
I experienced my first real Tel Aviv moment this week. I have been trying to keep up some semblance of an exercise programme. I have a drive to and from work and therefore walk much less than normal. So in the evening I try to take a brisk walk in the neighbourhood. There are good long stretches of sidewalk, and even an incline that seems Alpine-ish after I’ve been out for a while. I’m happy to be getting some exercise, but am surprised that I seem to be the only one doing it outside. People are very fit here. They are very body-conscious and their clothes are form-fitting to a degree we don’t see at home. But I hardly ever see anyone exercise. It must be a more private endeavour than in Canada where we slog outdoors in questionable attire for uncertain reward
At any rate, although solitary, the real joy of this effort is being able to end my walk at the beach. The beach runs for miles, with few interruptions, and is well-used by people of all ages. In the evening, the beach is full of people who have come to watch the sun set into the sea. Although beautiful, it sinks like a stone and is always over much too quickly. The colour of the sky and the sound of the sea is a great antidote to a busy city. It’s also a better reward than my usual chocolate chip cookie.
If you walk north along the beach where I live in Herzliyya, you will come across a pile of old stones, originally part of an ancient dock or aqueduct. I had been encouraged by my director not to miss this casual historical site. Unremarked and unprotected, it is thought to date back to Roman times. I was told that one could still find bits of Roman glass among the rocks. I confess I didn’t look too closely, fearing a fall that would result in a consular case, but the only glass I found was of the Molson variety. I’ll keep looking.
My Tel Aviv experience came at the end of my walk, fortunately well after all the huffing and puffing was done. The cell phone in my fanny pack started to ring. (We carry the phones all the time so as to stay in touch in an emergency). Now I don’t carry a cell at home and am not used to the sound of ringing on my person — it’s always the others who are ringing — so I am usually slow to react. But this time, I found the phone, it was for me, and I had the multitasking experience of walking on the beach, watching the surf and talking on my phone, just like most of the people around me.
In a world of big events, it’s often the small things that make life memorable.
From: Butcher, Elaine – TAVIV-TD
Sent: June 29, 2001
To: Distribution
Subject: Trading Places (Part Three)
Oh Canada
Every year on July 1, Canada Day, Canadians look forward to a wonderful celebration of country and family. In Ottawa, this festive occasion is marked by speeches, chicken barbeques, fireworks, concerts and, except for this year, Snowbirds. In other cities the day has a more local flavour — a boat being “rowed” with hockey sticks down the street in Cardigan, PEL, stands out as a more unusual Canada Day event. Sometimes it even results in a long weekend, in itself a reason to celebrate.
Canada Day abroad has a whole other meaning. It is a curious fact that Canadians’ patriotism and sense of Canadian-ness is inversely proportionate to their distance from Canada. Embassies maintain a consular list — the Registry of Canadians Abroad (ROCA) — in order to keep track of Canadians residing in the host country. This list facilitates contact in case of emergency and is a key element in assisting Canadian nationals living outside Canada. Updating this list can be tiresome and time-consuming — people often don’t want to be found. But we are discovering that Canada Day is an unparalleled tool to ferret out previously-unknown Canadians, far more effective than the threat of war or natural disaster.
More than 1200 people have been invited to the Ambassador’s Canada Day reception. Although, thankfully, we don’t have to be concerned about the weather, the logistics of putting on such an event are considerable.
Preparations have been in the works for months. Food, drinks, sponsors, professional party-goers have all caused much scratching of heads in the lead-up to the great day. The not-insignificant pitch of the lawn at the Official Residence has been a cause of some concern. Keeping the serving tables and conveniences level requires the technical skills of an engineer.
Will the port-a-potties be stable? There is a real fear of headlines screaming “Pisa-like portable washroom topples — guests scattered like nine-pins”
Although memorable, and a sure-fire way to get people to come to next year’s event, this is hardly the image we want to promote. The reception is aimed at contacts who are important to the success of representing Canada to Israel. It is not meant to substitute for the Parliament Hill spectacle.
This comes as a huge surprise to most people. This past week we have been living in a beer commercial. Countless calls from people who cry “I am Canadian” when insisting they should be invited to the reception. “I am Canadian” so the embassy should provide flags and trinkets for a private Canada Day event. “I am Canadian” so we should arrange a Canada Day skating party for 25 people at the Canada Center (sic) rink in Metullah. This last request — and they are all true — is especially fun because the Canada Center didn’t know it was Canada Day. But now that they know, can they come to the reception?
I am Canadian. But I won’t be enjoying the holiday in the traditional way. It’s not even a holiday here. Because I’m abroad, I’ll be working, helping to host hundreds of close and personal contacts (and maybe even a few Canadians). But I’ll be thinking of you, and hoping that you have a safe and happy day.
And like most Canadians serving their country abroad, even temporarily, we’ll be looking forward to that great day that really reminds us of who we are and what we are working for.
Monday July 2nd. It can’t come soon enough. Happy Canada Day anyway.
From: Butcher, Elaine – TAVIV-TD
Sent: July 6, 2001
To: Distribution
Subject: Trading Places (Part Four)
Notes From Near and Far
This visit, I have not travelled nearly as much as I had hoped.
Although I have seen a lot of Israel during previous trips, there is still an endless number of interesting places to explore. However, they will have to wait for another time and better days. Workload, weekend events, lack of a car and security concerns have led me to stay closer to home than I had expected.
This has allowed me more time to observe and participate in the daily travails faced by Israelis, and during a brief visit to Ramallah, by Palestinians. The contrasts between the two sides are both greater and fewer than would be expected. I hadn’t been to Ramallah in more than a year and due to the present security situation such a trip requires more effort and coordination. I was curious to see how things had changed.
First of all, going to Ramallah requires the use of the Embassy’s armoured car. This is far less dramatic than you might think. It doesn’t appear any different than most other large, ugly, beige vehicles slowing your drive to the cottage or office. A Chevy Suburban, it is remarkable for being so ordinary. But it is heavy. Really heavy. So heavy that I sound like Monica Seles, grunting as I try to open or close the door. You may laugh, but Monica and I know grunting helps. By the end of the day, even our driver Kamil was joining in the chorus.
Although dull outside, inside it is very cool with all kinds of special options such as the *OnStar feature — “How can I help you Batman?”, an unexplained button with a rotor-like design (could we have lift-off?) and what appeared to be a very sophisticated fire extinguishing system. We didn’t find the cone of silence. Our exploratory efforts (it was the first time in the armoured car for both of us) were constrained by fears of unintended results. We recalled the German Ambassador’s chemical-warfare resistant vehicle, which was far too sensitive and regularly battened down the hatches in Tel Aviv’s heavily polluted traffic jams.
On a more serious note, these armoured vehicles proved their worth and utility this year when an employee of our Ramallah office escaped injury after being fired upon in the West Bank. Happily, on a quiet day, our biggest challenge was manoeuvring at the gas station.
The former route to Ramallah is now closed to traffic, a load of earth denying access through a Palestinian village. A new stretch of road leads you by a settlement, after you navigate a number of checkpoints. Un-manned on this quiet day, these consist of a series of concrete barriers which force traffic into a single lane, “S”’-shaped pattern. We passed without incident.
Ramallah itself is a large bustling Arab town (pop. 80,000), full of traffic, shoppers and at least one bakery on every street corner. These did not attract my usual interest due to a severe toothache which has plagued me all week. But there is little in Ramallah to indicate the fighting which has taken place, or the 10 months of closure which has virtually imprisoned most citizens. There are conflict points on the edge of town where TV reporters do their stand ups, but they do not reflect the daily existence.
The Canadian Representative Office (CRO) — it is not an Embassy since the Palestinian territory is not a sovereign state — is located in a lovely stone building shared with the South Africans. Doughnut-shaped (a recurring theme in Ramallah), the offices are on the second floor surrounding an open courtyard. It used to be a residence, so all the office’s washrooms contain a full bath and shower — plastic curtains, bidet and all.
Doughnuts loom large in any trip to Ramallah. The Canadian firm, “Bakers’ Dozen”, ’, has a store, co-located with a US fast food chain, Checkers.
Everyone coming to Ramallah is inundated with doughnut orders from the Canada-based staff at the Embassy. Since the intifada began last September, trips to Ramallah have been few so the pent up doughnut demand is high. I had visited the store a few years ago and although it wasn’t quite Tim Horton’s (and therefore not the religious experience it is for me at home), it was very good and worth the trip. Unfortunately, we were not able to go this time.
Meetings at the CRO and at the Ministry of Industry underlined the impact of the conflict on the Palestinian people. A senior Ministry official spoke with an emotion and passion I had not heard before – his anger and sadness were palpable. Ironically, he sounded much like people I had spoken with on the Israeli side. Both sides feel aggrieved; there is no clear or easy way out of this impasse.
On the way home we made a stop at Mount Herzl, the cemetery where many of Israel’s leaders are buried. I wanted to see the grave of Yitzhak Rabin, the Prime Minister who led the Oslo peace process and who was assassinated in 1995. His grave is a ritual stop for all official visitors (Ministers and such) and although over the years I have helped devise many programmes containing this element, I had never been there myself. Like the man, it is plain and unadorned, featuring two curved slabs of marble, one black and one white. Although it is a military cemetery, Rabin’s wife Leah is also buried beside him. Her inscription reads “Carrier of the Torch”, testimony to her enormous efforts to protect and promote her husband’s legacy. I was struck by the sense of loss I felt. Where would the two sides be now if he had lived? Is the current situation an inevitable cost of his untimely death?
I fell asleep in the car on the way back — some things never change. That evening I went for my regular walk to the beach, and passed by the house of the Danish Ambassador. I had met him at a dinner shortly after my arrival; he is a very interesting and thoughtful individual. I also saw him at Canada Day — which was a big success by the way — and this night I happened upon him coming home from work. He seemed surprised to see me, probably wondering if I am a contact he should cultivate since we keep running into each other. It will be a mystery for him when I disappear next week.
Finally, July 3 was the occasion of the US Independence Day celebrations (presumably so they could have the next day off — we could learn from that).
The Ambassador invited 2500 people to his residence for what was also his farewell party. A huge event which I did not attend, it was topped off by fireworks at 10 pm. As I live only a few blocks away, through the trees I could see a burst of colour and light. You could almost hear the “Ooohhs” and “Aaahhs” of the guests. Since I had heard there were no fireworks in Ottawa on July 1, I was pleased to participate in this event if only by viewing the spectacle from my garden.
However, this is Israel and the start of the fireworks made for an uncomfortable first few seconds. These are explosions after all, and on the previous day two car bombs had gone off in a nearby city. In Tel Aviv, as in Ramallah, the effects of the violence are not always visible, but are never far from the surface.
From: Butcher, Elaine – TAVIV-TD
Sent: July 13, 2001
To: Distribution
Subject: Trading Places (Part Five)
Goodbye/Through the Looking Glass
The trouble is, I feel very strongly both ways. I’m looking forward to getting home, but I’m not ready to leave Israel. It’s happened so subtly I hadn’t realized how at home I felt here.
After 5 weeks, I recognize many of my neighbours. We have brief conversations — well, very brief, but smiley. I know the neighbourhood stores and restaurants; the fruit sellers and the ice cream man recognize me. I no longer grip the dashboard as cars whiz by on the paved shoulder, flitting in and out of highway traffic. I think it’s a good deal when dinner costs only $60, without wine or dessert. I am not surprised to get three work-related calls after 9 pm.
Well, maybe it is time to go home.
Patrick, the Embassy technician, was due to return to Canada this summer. There had been a farewell party for him, he was all packed up and his replacement was due to arrive next month. However, the replacement suddenly changed his mind and now Patrick will stay for another year. Although a bit discombobulated at the abrupt change in plans, he is very pleased and will have a party on Saturday to celebrate his non-departure. It’s like “Alice in Wonderland”, where they held an un-birthday party. This non-farewell dinner will be among my last events in Israel, and a fitting end to an unforgettable and thought-provoking experience.
Israel is a collision of opposite and often opposing forces, with little middle ground or moderation. It’s either full speed ahead, or full stop — with the latter usually in a no parking zone. For example: people have an enormous and obvious love of children, yet there is worrying violence in schools and serious domestic abuse. There is a shortage of water, yet suburbs are a wasteful landscape of lawns and gardens which nature had not intended. The heavily-irrigated national forest is in disturbing proximity to a slum-like Bedouin camp lacking potable water. In a small country where the land is thought to be a sacred gift, the cities and countryside are littered and unkempt. The sidewalks in my wealthy neighbourhood are broken and covered in dog feces. Recycling is almost unknown. Driving is an unrelenting challenge, a series of accidents and frustrations where even the most elementary courtesy would have a positive impact no pun intended — although enjoyed). Israeli Arabs are marginalized, and the renewed violence has exposed the hurtful exclusion they endure. It is also a place of warm, funny, outgoing and energetic people who have created a dynamic and successful society. A complete stranger will caution you to wear a hat in the desert sun. Waiters — at least the non-surly ones (sadly, these are a minority) — will tell you which dishes to avoid. The proprietor will offer a bottle of wine, on the house, for no apparent reason. The most unexpected people have the most interesting backgrounds, making even ordinary meetings or events a wonderful voyage of discovery.
That, I suppose, is the attraction of this place, it always surprises you, for good and for ill. But I am grateful to have had the opportunity to try and understand it better. Back at the beach last night I was thinking about picking up some shells for John -am La big spender or what! While looking at shells I came upon a small round piece of pale blue glass. It was very small, children’s Aspirin size, but it was indeed the elusive Roman glass. In short order, I found about 10 pieces in varying shades of blue and green, smoothed by two millennia of sand, salt and tides. I was thrilled to have found some. A few weeks before, I had met a woman combing the beach for glass who had a sandwich bag full of marble-sized pieces. I then spent five fruitless minutes searching for Roman glass. Having a short attention span and a need for immediate gratification, I quickly gave that up. The woman had said that searching for glass was addictive. Now that I had finally found some, I understood what she meant. I kept looking for more and larger stones until I suddenly realized that I had spent 20 minutes with my head down and the sun had almost set.
That was it. My dreams of custom jewellery evaporated and I resumed my walk, richer by a handful of small stones, one shell, and another sunset. Now I’ll be returning home, also enriched by the exposure to this place and the experience of having lived here, albeit briefly. It is a topsy-turvy country, a complex mix of right and wrong, fear and hope, anger and joy. But to even begin to understand it, you need to keep your eyes open and stay alert to the bigger picture. Although I am not very optimistic for the immediate future, in the long run I can’t see any other option than co-existence for two peoples who share a dream of a secure and independent homeland. I’m looking forward to coming back.
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Originally published in bout de papier, Vol. 18, No. 3 (2001) — Fall 2001 // Automne 2001, pp. 21–27. Read the rest of this issue →
