religious experience

Visiting this country and doing all the touristy stuff, the first obvious thing is religion and the accumulation of them in such a small space and the puzzling mess going on here because of it. And it made me think back on my first religious experience, if so can be called.

I was raised in Norway, a country that used to take Christianity very, very seriously. Now they just take it seriously. Just to give you an idea; the previous prime minister there was a priest before he became a politician, and I wouldn't think of the “becoming” so much as “was and now is”, as they have a Christian political party where probably nuns, crusaders, missionaries and young Christian soldiers are grown and encouraged to infiltrate the governmental sphere with brotherly love and the ten commandments (all for the greater good and a ticket to heaven). Any outdoor jobs on Sundays used to be frowned upon and even straight out forbidden to use the communal washing machine in the basement of the various block of apartments. Today I think they've relaxed a bit (or everyone owns their own washing machine).

Don't get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with good Christian values. In revanche, I guess crime rate is lower as thou shall not steal (although I have no statistics to prove my point).

But it is particular.

They had, back then, something called the 6 years club, which you could join (you guessed right) when you are 6 years old. So when I turned six I felt the pressure of the social obligation that makes us want to be at the right place at the right time and asked my communistic, socialistic, feministic, freedom-of-religion-although-it-is-opium-for-the-masses-believing mother if I could join. She, not wanting to cramp my free spirit, signed me up.

It was a kind of a Sunday school thing, except it wasn't on a Sunday, but they talked about Jesus and how he was a friend of the children (which was a little confusing, because I had just been taught how to be suspicious of strange men who wants to befriend children) and there was a picture of him (which looked like one of my mom's boyfriends with the beard and the sandals, except for the white long dress). Any ways, it was still exciting as I had this new lunch box and I was happy hanging out with my girlfriends and listening to fishing stories and magic tricks.

Then there is a blur in the memory. Either because it is almost 25 years ago or that I got traumatized. I think that I got traumatized. I can't tell you exactly what happened, but surely it could have been something like my constant curiosity and capacity to argue must have rattled the bones of the desperate housewife that ran the show, because I remember the stank eye she gave me. Now, I could have been a very delusional child or a very sensitive child, but I only went that one time realizing that I didn't want to be friends with Jesus and definitely not with Mrs. Stank-Eye.

Pictures - Haifa

Baha'i Gardens that I have yet to see

Orange Tree in the backyard

The Minaret and the Government Offices building

Haifa Jungle

Pretty Haifa

Pretty pretty Haifa

Pretty pretty pretty Haifa

Me pretending to be a clandestine Jewish immigrant on the boat "Af-Al-Pi-Chen" ("Nevertheless")

From the detension camp in Cyprus

It's not really visible, but the beaks of the birds here are pointier than in Europe

Note to self: don't become an animal photgrapher

Man scooping candles outside Elijah's cave

Fully furnished family picknick

Haifa seen from one of the main bustations

Shabbat Shalom

When in Rome, do like the Romans...

Since sundown yesterday until sundown today it has been what the Jewish call the Shabbat, the day of rest (and it is the name of the weekday Saturday). It is like the Sunday in Christian countries, but in very Jewish orthodox areas it is like Christmas Day (before the rise of capitalism). Nothing is open, buses don't run and any writing or handling of money is forbidden. What in the olden days was ban against starting a fire is now translated into modern terms of not dealing with electricity like switching lights, on or off. So if the lights are on when Shabbat starts you can't turn them off and they'll have to stay on until the end. There is also something called Shabbat elevators, where the elevator runs by itself and stops at every floor so the person riding it does not have to break the Shabbat by pushing a button. Smart, eh?

What is allowed during Shabbat is visit (friends & family), read (the Torah) and have sex, so I went down to the beach and visited Mother Ocean, read “Son of Hamas” by Mosab Hassan Yousef and masturbated. That was my two cents towards Judaism for today.

The Cave of Elijah

I woke up the second day in Israel, resenting my alarm clock for waking me up, thinking what kind of vacation is this? But I was destined for the tour of the Baha'i gardens, so up I rose. I got dressed in the requested modest clothing and did my morning routine, but miscalculated the bus ride and missed the guided tour (karma punishment for resentments againts clocks?). I continued on the bus until it reached the port. There I found a take away coffee and wandered around the area. After lunch at the docks I headed westward towards the Immigrant and Navy museum. The Navy stuff was not so interesting, but the other half of the museum told the story of how, after WWII, many Jews organised themselves clandestine and bought ships to sail for Israel, but couldn't get in and were deported to detention camps in Cyprus. Djeez Louise, Groundhog Day goes camping.

I decided not to waste my modest dressing for that day and headed across the street from the museum and climbed the stairs for Elijah's cave, or the Cave of Madonna, or the Mosque Khadar depending on what faith you belong to.

Guide book says: “Elijah's Cave: a holy place for three faiths, is where the Prophet Elijah is believed to have hidden from King Ahab and Queen Jezebel after he slew the 450 priests of Ba'al (Kings 1:17-19).[...]. There is also a Christian tradition that the Holy Family sheltered here on their return from Egypt. [...] Although prior to 1948 the cave was a mosque dedicated to Khadar (the Green Prophet), Elijah in Muslim guise, these days the rock chamber is usually crammed full of praying Haredim [ultraorthodox Jews].”

At the bottom of the stairs I passed a Jewish family pick-nicking in full action. I noticed the 12 seats folding table they must have brought with them and thought to my self how pick-nick is a serious business for some (actually, eating together is a serious business here). The old lady selling religious nicknacks on the way up, hand signalled for me to cover my shoulders before entering, which I religiously did. Coming up the few stairs that leads to Elijah's cave, the first thing I saw was an old man scooping candle rests from this big outdoor-barbecue like shelf, situated on a terrace in front of the opening to the cave. Looking around, I saw several of these blocks with openings where candles burned. The gassy smell of burning wax was in the air. While looking around I tried my most not to catch the attention of the Rambling Man, that looked like he might have caught the Jerusalem syndrome, although we were about 200 kilometres away from Jerusalem (maybe it is highly contagious?), but to no avail. He came right up to my face and offered to sell me candles and right at that instant I re-baptised him Vodka Breath Man. I declined graciously and continued up the final stairs to get into the cave. There I realized where Vodka Breath Man had caught his syndrome; the cave was divided in two by simple wooded fence, girls on the right and boys on the left. The air was filled with low humming voices, of what I presume to be religious reciting, only to periodically be disturbed by high shrieks of what I can imagine being epiphanies or other forms of spiritual eurekas. The wooded fence, at least on the girls side, was covered with frames that had writings and some pictures. I recognized the one picture about the first documented UFO sighting (http://www.alienresistance.org/chariots_of_fire.htm) that's usually confused with the story about Elijah's ascension in a burning chariot in the sky, but I couldn't read what it said because it was in Hebrew (or Alien?). When I'd done the 2 seconds tour of the cave I stood out side checking my guide book, in case there was something crucial, but not obvious, about the cave that I had missed, I caught the Vodka Breath Man in a chatty mood. While he was mixing his bottles together and offering me a sip he asked the customary questions like where I was from, if it is cold there and how much money he needed to get there.

Vodka Breath Man: “Are you Jewish?”

Me: smiling, “No”

Vodka Breath Man: “Christian?”

Me: “No, Pagan!”

Vodka Breath Man: “What! What's that!? Buddhist???”

Me: “No, Pagan. You know, Thor and Odin and Freyja and those guys”

Vodka Breath Man: “Buddhist!”

Me: still smiling and now nodding “yes, I'm Buddhist”

Vodka Breath Man: “Are you sure you don't want a drink?”

Me: “yes, I'm sure”

Vodka Breath Man: “Are you sure you don't want a candle?”

“yes, I'm sure” I said as I got ready to walk away. Going down the stairs I tried to figure out the whole hype this cave is for religious people and try to put myself in their shoes, kind of. And as I turned back I noticed further on to the side, a little hidden kind of hole in the wall, with a sleeping bag and stuff, that kind of stuff you see the homeless guys in Paris have and I thought to myself “hmm, another cave...The cave of Vodka Breath Man."

Lehitra'ot

shalom

This is nothing but amazing.

After 12 hours of travelling (it only takes that long if you buy cheap ass tickets from Czech airlines) arriving at Ben Gurion airport at 4.30 in the morning was very exciting. I was hoping to get some passport control action since, by own judgement, I fit the profile of a peace fighter ready to demonstrate on the West Bank (also I kind of look the part in my hippie style Aladdin trouser).

But the snotty young Israeli chick that was probably serving her mandate army service gave up on her 7^th “Why?” when I asked her to stamp a separate piece of paper instead of my passport (since some Arab countries doesn't allow you to enter if you have Israeli stamp).

She:“Why?”

Me: ”because I MIGHT like to visit Iran in the future MAYBE”

She: ”Iraq?”

Me: “noooooooooooo, Iran”

She: “Why?”

Me: “I heard that is where Jake Gyllenhaal, Prince of Persia, would be residing, practising on his, seems to be, British accent”

(ok, I didn't say that, I babbled nervously something about having a travel bug).

She: “What are you doing here?”

Me: “I got invited to a wedding”

She: “Why?”

Me: “yeah, that's a good question” (ok, I didn't say that either)

And then the normal questions on how long, where etc. There was tension between us. Granted, we didn't get off very well since in my sleepwalking of the plane I went straight to the booth that said “Israeli passport only”. But I gave her my apologetic, charming smile when we were done and I felt we had a better relationship now leaving each other than when we met (which is usually the opposite for me).

I roamed the airport for a while, getting a coffee and an Israeli sim-card (realizing that I had become one of those lost tourist with big puppy-dog eyes begging for someone to just swoop me up and say “not to worry, follow me”) trying to figure out how to get to the train station. On my second trip down the same escalator this old man smiled at me and said “boker tov” (good morning) and I regained my cool. It was a boker tov indeed and I just landed in this crazy fantastic country.

From there it was down hill; bought a train ticket to Haifa from a machine, helped an old lady with her luggage (“toda” - thanks) and realized that information on boards in Hebrew usually are followed by instruction in English if you just show some patience.

Israel is a tiny country and in one and a half hour I had travelled from the south to the north. To the Hof HaCarmel train station where my ever inspiring professor, Dr. Brenda Shaffer picked me up and opened her home to me. So this will be my HQ for the next seven days.

After a quick shower and reorganising my carry on bag I was ready to scout out Haifa city. It is a coastal town, based on and around the Mt. Carmel (546m) in the north that has around 300 thousand other human beings. That is approx. the same amount as in the whole of Iceland or the 15émé arrondissement in Paris. They have heavy industry that is more and more turning into hi-tech industry, university and a port. But the most interesting thing about this place is that in all of Israel and the Palestinian Territories this is the model city of how to get along. Arab and Jews work, study and relax side by side with no problems what so ever. The standard of living is higher here than in other places, so there is one thing less to argue about, but it is also the socialist heritage from previous settlers that still lingers. Apparent left voters too. Maybe communism only works in extremes.

After taking meticulous notes of the logistics (bus table) I need to discover this city I headed home for an afternoon kip à l'Ella (around 300 minutes) and woke up in time to enjoy dinner with my hosts.

Tomorrow I'll attack the Baha'i gardens and let me self get lost and found.

 

ready... or not

Hello Internetters,


This will be my first time blogging, if lame attempts at twitting and occasional spuing profanities on facebook doesn't count. The reason would be my voyage that I am about to embark upon, and just the thought of me having to repeat to aaaaaaaall my friends the same story over and over makes me cringe. Anyone who knows me knows my hatred for repetition... so maybe this blogging won't last long either. I'm full of good intentions.


I've packed my bags, chosen the template for this blog, cancelled my navigo pass and made several photocopies of my passport. I've stocked up on guide books, printed out tickets and written down confirmation numbers and phone numbers. Still... I don't feel ready. Could be late developed hodophobia (yeah, you'll have to google that) or old age. As if any traveling after thirty weighs more, kind of. Or, the fact that I am going to a country where they crucified the first (famous) bringer of peace and since then there has been constant unrest (not historically correct, but is good for dramatization of this recount). So as a natural born pacifier I might soon be ending my days dangling from a crosswood like a yummy dry fish.

(insert: http://www.wikihow.com/Eat-Dried-Fish )

Self-analyses: unreadiness = underlying fear of death.