A brief explanation beforehand: I live in Nof Yam, a small section of Herziliya Pituach, itself the seaside portion of the city Herziliya. On the whole, the city is a convenient adjunct to the Tel Aviv area, with beach access and a reasonable restaurant/night scene. It's no Tel Aviv, of course, but the city is 15-20 minutes away when there's no traffic, as was the case yesterday.
Ok, now the stories.
The Many Faceless
On Berkowitz St., right behind the art complex in Tel Aviv center (where the Museum, Performing Arts Center, and Opera House sit side by side), stand the faceless statues. A group of two, a group of three, and then one on his own, at the vertex of the sidewalk. The statues stand on plain brown metal pillars. Their faces are blank, their hands are in their pockets or behind their backs, and their clothes are drab. They don't suggest silence and conformity; they insist on it.
There are many ways to interpret what a set of art like this might mean. We are forever doomed to search for meaning, and the easiest one, considering the statues' location and their silence, is to say that these people stand for the faceless, nameless people who stayed silent during the Holocaust, allowing the Jews and the gays and the gypsies and everyone else to go straight to the camps, straight to their doom.
A person with a broader understanding of history might expand on this. This could just as easily be a symbol for all the privileged Western European Jews who shunned their provincial Eastern coreligionists in the early 20th century, during the pogroms. It could be a broader statement on our tendency to allow genocide to occur everywhere, from Darfur to Armenia. Those from a different political orientation might say it marks the Jews' mistreatment of the Palestinians since Israel has been established. The further complication that the statues stand near a Japanese and Swiss flag, among others, leads to more potentialities.
These are all fine suggestions, and perhaps one or more is correct. But I prefer to rise above the allegorical leanings of those possible explanations, and beyond the strict political interpretations.
As I see it, these faceless statues stand for all of us. They stand for all the times we have not taken a chance, have not followed through on an opportunity. The times we let love slip through our grasps because the situation wasn't quite right, the times we let a friendship go away because of a silly slip or a persistent pride, the times we misspoke or misunderstood and lost something that could have been preserved. The times we try to fit in because it's easier or because we're afraid, the times we allow someone else to suffer because that's easier then stepping in and supporting him.
Each time something like this happens, we lose our face. We lose who we are, we lose our essence. We become one of the masses, someone just like everybody else. Our hands are in our pockets because we don't know what to do with them. We wash our faces of the problem and watch as it passes us by, and then we say, "But what could I do?" and move on.
We're all faceless. Nobody can avoid losing their face in their lifetime. To be human is to be faceless.
And yet, as humans striving to be more, doomed to search for meaning, we seek to recover. We endlessly search for our faces, for our essence, for the I that I and only I can be. Not always are we aware of this search, and awareness doesn't really aid in the finding. And we'll never recover our face; not completely, not in this life. Still, we seek.
So these statues serve to remind us that we are all the same, all stripped of our essence by our own actions and failures. Still we stand there, hands in our pockets, wondering how to get it all back. And the world moves on.
My Sarona
Just south of Kaplan St., a major road in the center of Tel Aviv, sounds a peaceful song of dissonance. West of three skyscrapers that form the Azirelli Center, a commercial and business landmark along the Ayalon freeway, are three blocks of two story beige mud-brick houses. They are surrounded by green grass and trees in full summer glory, with open squares for couples to sit together in, or for young children to run about in. There are benches and tables to sit at, with maps of the city serving as the table designs.
A few signposts in English explain that this was once home of a winery or wine refinery, but otherwise whatever indications there are for the name of this region are in Hebrew. Fortunately, a look at the map explains that this is Hakirya, and a search on the internet eventually leads to a wikipedia article on Sarona. Once a settlement for Templers (who, per wikipedia, appear to be Christians who don't believe Christ was the son of God but just a really good guy), the area was preserved even after the Templers were kicked out around WWII and Israeli independence; apparently the Templers, founded in Germany, had ties to the Third Reich. Positive ties.
In the eternal irony of history, that settlement now offers an oasis within the largest and most modern city in the only Jewish nation (Brooklyn has yet to declare its independence, as far as I know). Everywhere in Tel Aviv there are exciting juxtapositions between cold, intimidating modernity and comforting, outdated history. Hakirya can envelop the visitor so that he forgets that there is a big road meters away, or that the skyline surrounding is full of towers. When walking in it, it's unclear whether the area is an Arab village, a college student enclave, or just a general area of escape. Its serenity and beauty shines, however, by remaining simple and calling back to all the things that are lost or soon will be lost. It's the sort of place all the best cities need, and Tel Aviv has it in abundance.A City of Mélanges
One of the new teachers in our school, who is married to an Israeli and has been here before, made the point that in Israel, you see more variety in car brands. Along with Honda, the occasional Ford, and Toyota, you get Peugeot, Fiat, Citron, Smart Cars, and a bunch of others I can't recall. (He also made the point that all his friends who visit him here, male or female, ask about how Israeli women's breast sizes are so large. Also an interesting observation.)
Similarly, walking in Tel Aviv will lead you to a bunch of different languages. Hebrew and Arabic, Russian and English, sure, of course. I also stumbled across a French language shul off of Trumpeldor St. Mishkin's Place, a Russian restaurant on Ben Yehuda, had the menu written in English and Russian, but then said they spoke Spanish and French there. Italian signs popped up. The grocery store sold things in Ukranian. Cafes boasting Yemenite, Ethiopian, or Libyan cuisine are not uncommon. Even within languages there were a variety; I heard all sorts of different English accents, for example. And not to return to it too much, but the one book I've read that brings up Tel Aviv in the action is The Savage Detectives, a book written by a Chilean, where the action in Tel Aviv revolves around Mexicans and Mexican Jews.
Take my dining experience last night as an example. I wanted to make it all the way to Neve Tzedek, hearing that they would have some artsy cafes open even on Shabbat. I thought I might be able to avoid eating a major dinner. My stomach asserted otherwise, and still a little north of the district, I decided I would eat soon.After some dithering on Ben Yehuda, as I pondered walking to my car to make sure blue and white curbs did indeed mean free, tow-safe parking, I decided to turn back south towards Neve Tzedek. And then after doubling back through a dilapidated housing complex, I stopped at a restaurant that boasted of a "True Eastern Cuisine", in Russian, while displaying the menu in English.
A man of dark skin sat at an outside table, alone. I walked inside and said, "Shalom" to the man behind the counter, also of olive color with a neat gray haircut. "Yes, please," he said. "Filafel," I said.
He went to work and prepared the pita for me, asking me whether I wanted this or that ingredient to be included. His family - a mother with two girls - sat at a table on the raised dining area to my right, and the younger girl kept coming to him, saying "Abba, abba". He made my pita, fielded her questions, and kept an eye on the TV, where the Jamaican 100-meter Olympic Champ wrapped himself up in a Jamaican flag.
I returned outside and saw a girl about my age sitting with the man at their table. She was American, judging by her accent in English, and chatting up the man while smoking a cigarette. They were strangers to each other, I think, and she the initiator for their conversation. I took notes on my day in my notebook as I ate, also glancing over at them occasionally. Meanwhile I watched Mishkin's Place across the street from us, wondering if the old couple and the waitress who served them were actually Russian, like they looked, or if I just thought that based on the circumstances.
Once finished with my fine falafel, I went inside to put my dishes away. I had already asked the restaurant owner where Neve Tzedek was - to our south, as I thought - and I thanked him on my way out.
The girl, noticing my English, perhaps decided I would be a better conversational partner. "I like your shirt," she said of my notorious designer, skeleton design white T. "Thank you," I said without missing a beat, perhaps coldly in turning away her conversational parry, as I headed south.
On the way to Neve Tzedek I found the Russian Embassy, or so I believe, which explains the slightly higher frequency of Russian signs on Ben Yehuda. From there I walked about 15 minutes to get into the Neve Tzedek region, at which point I settled on the closest, most advertised cafe I could find.
Unclear on whether it was a cafe or a restaurant, and how to order, I went inside to the bar. There, a girl my age in light brown dreadlocks gave me an English menu. She spoke good, British-accented English, though she spoke Hebrew as well, leading me to believe she was Israeli. She gave me the menu, I ordered tea and a Fanta, and once she confirmed I wanted it for here and not takeaway, she sent me to a table.
I sat at a table outside and took a few more notes. A waitress brought me a glass of hot water, a glass with ice in it, a 350 ml glass bottle of orange Fanta, and a tray with various tea options. I took a Japanese green and let it soak, and I finished my notes.Next to me were two guys in their early 30s comparing arm tattoos. They spoke in English, but both were clearly not native speakers, and at times they would elide into another language, which I didn't hear too well but I would guess was Hebrew. It reminded me of Friday night on the beach in Herziliya with teachers, where one of them spoke with a girl who offered us free massages (working for tips) in a mix of Hebrew and English, easily flitting back and forth between the two.
I pulled out my book, Murakami's Norwegian Wood, and immersed myself in his Tokyo and careless sex. At the same time, the guys continued on the debate of forearm versus biceps,
and a couple sat at another table (later that night, in Herziliya with other teachers, I found out from our waitress that yesterday was a "love holiday", akin to Valentine's Day). I couldn't hear what they spoke in, but very little would have surprised me.
A Few Stray Cats
Tel Aviv, or maybe broader Israel, is known for having a lot of stray cats around. Here were a few I saw.
The first one, outside the tranquil and most righteously named Dan Family Park, near the art complex.
This one thought he could hide from me. Not from my lens, at least. Also, note the wheel of the car at the right of the picture.
You noted the wheel, right? Good. That's the car this cat is under.
This cat was actually afraid of my lens, and quick enough to hide from it. So, another faceless creature with which to end the post.
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