My Russian Learning Exchange in Jerusalem

I’ve always had a knack for languages. Maybe it was my mom’s initiative in sending me to a French-English preschool that got my linguistic wheels going. Maybe it was my father’s knowledge of random curse words in multiple languages that kept me curious. I can’t pinpoint the exact source of being a linguaphile, but suffice to say that I love having the ability to meet and communicate with different people in their languages.

Tonight was the beginning of my second stint studying Russian.  The first time I studied the language, I was a junior in high school. SUNY Stony Brook had offered after-school foreign language courses for excelling students, and I had a thirst to expand my horizons while taking advantage of my junior license and new car. I loved studying in a university setting, and soaked up the Russian by listening to tapes and reading books.

Fifteen years later, here I am living in Jerusalem, still with a burning desire to communicate with Russian people and learn more about their culture. Given my self-proclaimed status of ‘eternal student’ and ‘language nerd’ (חנונית לשפות in Hebrew), I felt that I needed another linguistic challenge in my life now that I am fluent in Hebrew. I figured I’d give this Russian class a try to see how much I remembered from high school and perhaps make progress with my comprehension and conversational skills.

I find that I learn best in group settings, so the class at Berlitz got me very excited. After the trial class, I am pleased to report that my reading and comprehension skills in Russian are actually still quite good, which I think is due to a combination of frequent eavesdropping on random Russian conversations while traveling on public transportation throughout Israel, and reading every single sign in Russian that my eyes land upon.  I would say that my visit to Moscow also plays a part in my language retention, but my trip was eight years ago, so I don’t think it’s a contributing factor anymore.

The other students in my class intrigue me more than the language study itself. Talk about an "Only in Israel" moment – their backgrounds are testimonies to the authentic diversity in Jerusalem as a city. Just hearing a small snippet of their biographies made my own narrative seem mundane and lackluster. I’ve only met these young adults twice thus far, but I am looking forward to starting an enriching encounter with a different face of Jerusalem.

Take V., for example, a twenty-something Armenian Jerusalemite. He lives in the Old City, and works in his family jewelry business, which has stores in the Armenian Quarter of the Old City and one of the fancy hotels on Road #1 (the busy thoroughfare which serves as the border between “Western” and “Eastern” Jerusalem).  He speaks four languages fluently, and already knew how to say in perfect Russian, “Friend, for you, I give you a discount!” 

Then there’s A., a young twenty-something Arab guy with strawberry-blonde hair and bright blue eyes. He is finishing his degree in Mechanical Engineering. A. is from Abu-Gosh (I think that means he’s a Christian Arab), and went to school in Neve Shalom – the cooperative peace village near Latrun that I've been reading about for years. This came up in conversation because I assumed he had to translate the Russian exercises into Hebrew and then into Arabic, but he informed us that he’s been in an all-Hebrew learning environment since elementary school.  Hearing that he studied at Neve Shalom was a particularly exciting discovery for me since I’ve been following their work for many years, when I was researching bi-cultural peace education in areas of conflict. It also turns out that David Broza’s grandfather was one of the founding fathers of Neve Shalom –so many connecting pieces for me!  A. has the lowest level of Russian, but I think if he starts watching Russian TV, he’ll improve quickly.

K. comes from the FSU Republic of Georgia. He’s been here since he’s about 10, and works as a lecturer in Physics and Mathematics at ORT. He also studied German, plus he’s fluent in English, Georgian and Hebrew.  I don’t know how his Russian is so good, but he has little patience for A. and steals the spotlight. There’s always one know-it-all in every class!

Then there’s C, who is a sweet Charedi girl who was born to American parents in Jerusalem. It turns out that she volunteered with the same organization that brought me to Russia eight years ago, and spent three winters teaching Judaism to Russian students. She is kind, gentle and speaks Russian on a basic level. She reminds me of myself when I was young, more frum and more naïve.

The process of studying a foreign language in a foreign language is a fascinating process. There aren’t enough words to fully express how excited I am to refresh my Russian skills, but the added element of learning it in my third foreign language (Hebrew; Spanish is my second language) is going to be very challenging.  For me, the mental gymnastics is enjoyable. I love the cerebral challenge of translating back and forth, but I thought I would be the only one doing so in the classroom. I'm definitely not alone here.

Jerusalem’s colorful cultural tapestry is once again showing its face. Each one of us is learning Russian in a foreign language, yet most of the students (besides K. and I) were born in this very city! This “Only in Israel” moment is one that I have never encountered before. 

Today's cultural experience once again shows me how much similarity there can be between individuals who otherwise seem to have little in common. Each person has a narrative, and each person is fascinating in his/her own right. Even the aggressive, sketchy merchants in the Old City have families and children who wish to help develop their families' businesses! I find that when you encounter different people from various walks of life, you develop an appreciation for and curiosity about everyone.

Oh, I am a student of life, and every day in Jerusalem is my classroom!

The Longest Six Miles Away

The mainstream media makes conflict zones seem so black-and-white. You’re either on this side or that side. One side is the aggressor, the other the underdog. We are made to think that one side is made up of terrorists, and the other consists of innocent, peaceful civilians. Riots, demonstrations, divestment strategies. Yadda, yadda, yadda.

The longer I actually live in a so-called 'conflict area', the more encounters I have in my day-to-day life that make me realize how grey and complex the reality is. I come home at night after a day at work and a short shopping stint in the city center, and realize that the most palpable conflict zone is the one going on in my mind. Exhausted, with a million thoughts in my head, I come to see that this geographic conflict zone has become an emotional conflict zone for me. Short sociocultural exchanges quickly become long, twisted existential dialogues in my mind, when all I really want to do is live in pleasant surroundings and be able to trust those around me.

So I will rewind to the scene last night, as I walked by the luxurious David Citadel Hotel on my way to meet a date. I got off the bus and began to head towards the outdoor Mamilla Mall. As I walked down King David Street, I saw a large group of teenagers and young adults hanging out with some snare drums parked on the side, close to the building. They were all wearing a beige uniform with tassels on the shoulders and carried green flags. The closer I got, the more visible the Arabic writing on the flags became. At first I thought they were a group of tourists who had returned from a pro-Arab rally or maybe were about to start one. Then I got even closer and saw small Palestinian flag emblems on their uniforms, and noticed that they did not look like any European tourists. The dark hair, olive complexions, mustaches (Yes- Mustaches! Hello 1982? You were 30 years ago.) They were also speaking Arabic. I thought I was mistaken because even though I see lots of Arabic writing in Israel, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a Palestinian flag in real life.

However, these youngsters definitely we were wearing Palestinian flags on their uniforms. I got closer.

Now, I recall my own days in marching band. We were not a scary bunch. We wore those dorky green uniforms every darn Memorial Day Parade and marched down the bridge in Centerport proudly displaying our shiny instruments which glared from the sun as much as our metal braces in our mouths. As I walked by this group, I made the presumption that the nature of marching-band-geeks prevails internationally, and therefore did not sense any threat of potential violence. Fellow band nerds, Palestinian style. OK I have nothing to fear.

I walked over to a girl who was sitting down talking to a guy. They were probably around 17 years old. “Where are you from?,” I asked in Hebrew.

“What?” They responded in English.

“What kind of group is this?” I asked in Hebrew again.

“We don’t understand,” in English they responded.

“Oh,” I said in English, “Where are you from?”

“From Ramallah,” the guy said, “We are scouts.”

“Oh. Ramallah. Where did you play your music?”, I asked them in English.

“Beit Fajjar. You know it?,” he asked me.

Now at this point, I was stunned. Stumped! For 2 reasons:

1) Here is a group of school kids- boy and girl scouts - from a town about 20 minutes from Jerusalem who do not speak a word of Hebrew. Their English wasn’t so great either, but they didn’t even understand me when I spoke Hebrew, and usually comprehending a ‘foreign’ language is easier than speaking it (note: this is my own theory, not based on any research). And they live just up the road! Do they not get reception for Galgaltz Radio or Yes TV?!

2) Beit Fajjar? Do I know it? Um, yes. It’s in Gush Eztion. I pass by the sign for Beit Fajjar whenever I go to Alon Shvut. I distinctly remember the sign because it’s right near a trempiada (hitchhiking stand) in Tzomet HaGush which stands out in the open on the highway. There have been numerous shootings in that little traffic circle called, "The Gush Junction". It is one of few places in the Gush that frighten me. Whenever I see hitchhikers there, I get anxious that another shooting could easily occur again because there’s really nowhere to hide for safety except for behind a bus stop. So yes, I know of Beit Fajjar.

I also have heard about it because it was the village in which the mosque was vandalized by some fanatic Gush Eztion residents.

So how would you respond to this exchange?

Do you make reference to “Gush Eztion”, a totally legitimate, legal, widely recognized name that refers to the same exact neighborhood they were playing their music in? No.

The trempiada? Nope, they don’t stand there. They’re probably not allowed to.

The shootings? Em, nope.

Tzomet HaGush? ‘Shu Hadaa?’ They won’t know what that is either.

The mosque? Oh God no.

South of Jerusalem? Maybe, but they call Jerusalem ‘al-Quds’. So probably not.

Each time I tried to make some reference to show recognition of the town, I couldn’t.

Different language, different recognition, different frame of reference, different mentality, different ways of life. Different, different, different.

Foreigners with no common frame of reference at all who literally live 6 miles away from each other.

Sad.

More than that, and this is where I get crazy, but the likelihood of some of their close relatives being members of the very organizations who actively pursue our annihilation is high. Hamas? Fatah? They build their parks, hospitals, and schools in their neighborhoods! Internationally-recognized terror organizations are the equivalent of the freakin’ Salvation Army down the road a few miles.

I don’t know what they were doing waiting openly in front of the hotel, but I am confident that there is no way a group of teenage, Jewish scouts would ever survive hanging outside of a Ramallah hotel lobby in one piece.

Perhaps I should be upset to see this group so comfortably hanging out on the streets of our Jerusalem. But honestly, I felt fine. I had a calm, yet admittedly awkward conversation with a group of Palestinian marching band members, with not one guard or policeman around.

I don’t know whether I should have been scared or comforted. Hopeful, maybe?

Maybe if we just find some common ground, and keep ourselves open to listening, we could just have a conversation and move on with our lives.

…And maybe in the end of the day, I’m really grateful they’re heading up 6 miles to Ramallah – the longest 6 miles away in the world.

In the Beginning... The Birth of OneBitterSweetSymphony

I sat on the bus the other day, driving down a busy thoroughfare in South Jerusalem. With my earphones on, I listened to my favorite Israeli radio station Galgalatz, which plays a random mix of music ranging from the best of Lady Gaga, Madonna, Led Zepplin, Israeli rock and folk songs. I listen to that station and I am happy. The combination of tunes that I grew up on, made me smile upon hearing the first few familiar notes, and along with the beautiful Jerusalem scenery outside the Egged window, I felt a sense of self-satisfaction that made me tear up.

I laugh at myself when this happens (and yes, it does happen occasionally). It's a sensation that I never felt when I lived in the United States, and it confirms over and over again, how pleased and grateful I am to have chosen the right path for myself.

I just love having both sides of me fulfilled at the same time: my strong American heritage, expressed in those palpable guitar riffs of the Allman Brothers, followed by the bus driver wishing me a "Shabbat Shalom" as I get off the bus. This is my life here. So sweet and meaningful.

As we approached my bus stop, I peered out the window to the bus stop across the street. Two groups of people stood: Jews and Arabs. The difference between the two groups was glaring obvious, but neither group seemed to bothered by the physical space that divided them. One group awaited an Egged bus, and the other awaited the Arab mini-van that transports them between the Muslim Quarter of the Old City & Bethlehem. It's just the way it is here: two peoples - each consisting of a conglomeration of religious & national convictions - living in one city.

My bliss fizzled quickly. I began to wonder how I should feel about this scenario -do I accept it? Ignore it? Rally against it? Whose side would I take? If they're not bothered, and all is "peaceful" at that time, why should I be bothered by it?

And so began "One Bittersweet Symphony".

Living in Jerusalem means encountering a roller coaster of adventures, thoughts, and emotions that do not mirror any other place in the world.

I decided that I needed an outlet to process what I see and encounter here. All of these things are extremely personal. I hardly discuss them out loud. Ever.

So get ready to join the adventures with me. It gets crazy... just warning 'ya!