Rude or what, or not.

It was long before I came to Israel for the first time that I heard some epic tales about the legendary Israeli impoliteness. Thankfully the Lord didn’t make me wait very long at all to have them backed up by my very own little taster. While I was considerably shaken by the experience at a time, my perception’s shifted already. A passionate fight in a public place, sucking in bystanders, who each feel obliged to take sides and express their personal opinions? I’d say, nothing out of the ordinary.

Impoliteness - it's omnipresent - it saturates the entire country through and through. The moment you step foot on the Holy Land, your circle of personal space shrinks rapidly. Here tact is nonessential, conversations are direct and queues have a culture of their own. Strangers make comments to you about things that, in Australia, you'd only hear from the mouths of close kin.

Israelis are raised to feel they are kings and queens and consequently shyness is a rare quality. People will talk to you in the street if they feel like it without the slightest hesitation and will tell you what to do without a second thought. There’s a joke that explains this:

Why does no one make love on the street in Tel Aviv?

Because if they did, someone would come along and say:
‘No, no, no! Squeeze her ass before you kiss her! Where did you learn to do this? Alright, move aside and let me show you…’

Now, Western foreigners do get hit hard. The atmosphere in Israel is something new. The country seems developed, modern and civilized. They see the Americanization at work and wonder how the heck Israelis still aren't behaving American! They seem so direct and, well, unrefined.

What follows, is the common assumption: Israelis are rude, barbaric and inconsiderate.

While I’ve certainly has some less than pleasant interpersonal encounters whilst in Israel, I’m refraining from straight off the bat judging and criticizing the whole nation. Perhaps I’m simply sentimental and let people get away with lots of crap for my unexplained affinity with their ways. I’m also trying to be observant here, and understanding.

Israelis simply love to argue. The saying ‘You have four Jews in a room and five opinions’ couldn’t be more correct. They shout at one another but no one’s really angry. It’s just their way of saying that they care.

The grandparents of Israelis came from all corners of the world and so the country is essentially a melting pot of European, American and Middle Eastern cultures, all mixed up with a dash of Zionism and a healthy paranoia that everyone always has been and always will be, out to get them.

But Israelis love to assimilate and the one million Russians who arrived in the 90’s are already thoroughly Israeli – which doesn’t mean that the national jokes about them all being criminals or whores have completely died out. The Sephardic Jews are still sometimes seen as being one step away from being Arabic and everyone knows that when the Polish Israelis are in a good mood they sit in the dark until it passes. The Iranian Jews never want to spend a shekel, the Moroccans all carry knives and the Americans aren’t real Israelis but Jews living off their rich relatives in New York.

Although they can appear the rudest people in the world, at heart they’re immensely kind and hospitable. Israel is a tribal society so if you’re on the outside they seem quite hostile. But once you’ve cracked their shell, they’ll spoil you rotten with their hospitability: they’ll invite you to their homes, offer to kill your enemies or their daughter’s hand, that kind of thing. The Israelis are very much community oriented and often exist as tight networks of friends and family. They are fiercely loyal to and protective of the ones they love. Prickly-skinned fruits with big bleeding hearts inside.

These people make the polite Americans and Australian appear ingenuine and constrained by comparison. And my little Slavic soul has no choice but to long to jump right into the middle of that row and bellow: "Ma ani, ez?"*

* "What am I, a goat?"- an expression used as a protest against unequal treatment

Quiet

Where to from now?

It's suddenly gone all quiet around here. Can you hear it? The words sort of dried up. Then, I don't even know if anyone comes here anymore, or maybe I'm writing to a void, bottomless, toothy and writhing like a giant caterpillar.

I'm still sort of sad, having left the Holy Land. I wake up with my head full of palm trees, and desert winds, and lively conversations half in Hebrew. I wake up to the reality of being here, in this cozy haven, familiar as the womb itself, where the coolish weather has been a respite for my sun-drenched skin. The reality reminds me to get off cloud nine for fuck's sake, and face it, man.

Why does my heart ache so? Why do Jaffa's mosques nest underneath my eyelids like rolled up carpets, to be stretched into vivid and richly patterned images as soon as I close my eyes? It's a laden step to decide to grow up. It hurts. No wonder not many travel this road.

Where to now?

Miss Smilla wants to run. She wants new virgin planes to set her not so little foot on. She screams for deserts, roads, books, stairs, stars. Is she stupid? Is she dreamin'? Is she marrying a demon? (just cos it rhymes)

Should Miss Smilla stay where she is? Just goddammit stay for once??

No, don't answer.

Perfect

Photo: Courtesy of Zvika Rotbart

It’s clearly a non-enlightened being speaking, but some days are better than others. Some days suck. While other days just seem to flow, like nature intended them to do, without grinding halts, or pitfalls, or otherwise annoying obstacles.

On one of these days, you may go out for dinner with a dear friend. You may sit in a waterfront restaurant and watch the sun lazily make its way down towards the water, your skin aglow with the evening light. You may wiggle at the sight of the amazing array of middle-eastern salads being brought, all for you to taste and fill you with carnal delight. There might be some bubbly white wine involved, gentle in taste but exploding in your head with fireworks and stories that arrive from god knows where. You’d look up from these fragrant goodies, into your friend’s laughing eyes. You’d be mildly surprised, ever so slightly baffled, for all the knowing him, you’ve suddenly seen him again, anew. You’ve both been able to temporarily strip off, from your individual histories, and from the one you share together. You’ve even forgotten the neglect and grief you might have caused one another. As you laugh, eat, tell funny stories, feed your posh fish dish to the cat – you feel excited; you want to start getting to know your friend all over again.

And then…

Then Shai and I repeated our infamous walk through the empty and trashy Carmiel Market again. It was just as stinky and sticky as on my first night here, only this time Shai (sans the halva), God bless his soul, carried me on his back.

And then we said good-bye. And I was wistful, but joyful, that a friendship I thought of as lost, showed hope to be salvaged after all. That forgiveness and compassion can triumph over resentment and hurt feelings. That you can know someone long and well, and continue to see the goodness in them.

As my Israel trip inevitably draws to an end, I am sad. I don’t want to leave yet. So much still to see, to learn. So many people to meet and have a little banter with. So many pitas with falafel to eat.

It hasn’t been an entirely easy month. Some of my expectations crashed with a huge thud when confronted with ruthless concrete of reality. Some timid hopes had to be buried under the not so clean sands of Tel Aviv’s beaches. Other timid hopes have had to remain timid hopes, for now. And there were times when my longing for loving touch preceded all thought.

But amidst all this balagan, unexpected love for this breathtakingly beautiful land was born. I began to find stories in the mundane and catch them on the fishing rod of my words again. Passion and creativity were restored to me. The sorry leftovers of my prozac pills finally landed in the bin. We all know that life ain’t an endless firework show. Still, for here and now, dear readers, let Miss Smilla proclaim herself – recovered.

"Say anything is possible,

It's not too late

The sun has already risen

It's time for love

Together, heart to heart,

we'll open and we'll see

The light in the sky

Together, heart to heart

we'll open with hope

- to love" Yachad, by Gaya

(translation from Hebrew)

(and she better not be mistaken).

Be Ivrit bil'adit

Had I known how much fun it’d be to seriously tackle a new foreign language, I would’ve started many years ago.

A few months ago I started learning Hebrew. Studying a new language as an intellectually fully-fledged adult (as if!) –a totally different kettle of fish! Like, trying to understand what’s going on from the grammatical, as well as linguistic point of view. It’s challenging, frustrating, makes you question the extent of your own intelligence, makes you appear a fool in front of laughing audiences, all that stuff. It’s also loads of fun. And more.

For the last 2.5 weeks I’ve been studying Hebrew at Ulpan-Or in Tel-Aviv. It’s a vibrant and young-in-spirit company, offering a real smorgasbord of one-on-one programs, customised and tailored to their students’ needs. They use this kick-ass methodology, called Rapid Language Acqusition (RLA) Method – and I swear, they must be doing something right, for I’m quite happy with my progress, as happy as I’ve been with the whole experience.

Three hours of study a day, five days a week? Intensive. And intense. But mostly: pure fun. They use wonderful study kits based on lively up-to-date dialogues and day-to-day life situations, presented often as audio-dialogues, soap opera-style. Which made me howl with glee, banshee-style. How many times would I arrive for class slightly frayed at the edges from some internal drama I was battling, and leave with a huge moronic grin on my face? Many. Ask Leanne, the office manager – she’ll tell you.

My gorgeous teacher Yael was by my side every step my language-learning journey: enthusiastically cheering on my progress, patiently correcting my cringe-producing mistakes and gently encouraging me when my confidence was faltering and my brain turning into falafel mash. She was guiding me through the maze of Hebrew verb groups with astuteness and grace of a tightrope walker. And she’d produce a wonderfully cheesy song for me to learn, just when I needed to laugh, then make me soppy with tears with another.

I don’t think of myself as an easy student: I’ve been known to be stubborn, lazy and perpetually low self-esteemed. But I might have made it up to Yael by producing sentences like: “Why do you like these young black studs so much?” during writing exercises. Or by brightly announcing that “I like to get up in the park*”. Or by professing that Tel Aviv absolutely needs a “Secretary Shop**” Ah, the perils of hammering the new into the thick mass that is one’s brain; you need a licentia poetica for all the damage you do to the innocent language. Nonetheless: kudos to Yael for sticking it out with me. I miss you already.

What I also like about Ulpan-Or, is that it successfully combines language study with the immersion in Israeli culture and history. T-Ulpans – short tours to historical places in Tel Aviv are a fantastic way to learn about the Eretz, and you get to interact with your teacher only in Hebrew be for the whole two hours. I’ve had a great time on both of my Tiyuls. Both my tutors – Yoav and Tzvika were ace, and unperturbed that instead of talking about history, I drilled them with personal questions. I guess they know better than me that in Hebrew there’s no word for “tact”, but the word “chutzpah” is not for nothing.

Yesterday Tzvika and I were touring the Old Train Station (HaTahana). While admiring artsy old-school posters at Made in TLV shop, I even got treated to an upgraded, yet unauthorized version of the Bible story about Jonah and the Whale. One featuring Pinoccio, who came to accompany the prophet in the guttural abysses of the great fish.

“So Elohim requested that Jonah talks to the Assyrians, and tells them ‘No no no’, but Jonah wasn’t interested” continued Tzvika “He’d rather go to the beach, smoke a ciggie…” .“Have a beer…” I chimed in. Even the shop girl came over to listen in, attracted by our unabashed giggles.

And that’s how I came to realize that I can actually have an entire conversation be Ivrit bil’adit*** without imploding from frustration and effort. A conversation as halted and awkward as it gets, but still – a conversation.

Learning Hebrew has proved a very empowering experience to me. Not only did I discover that I wasn’t brain-dead yet, but I also found something that the very brain has a real liking for (I tried it with maths and physics before, but it didn’t work). It’s like landing on a brand-new planet and discovering that you can actually live and breathe on it. It’s exciting; exhilarating in that child-like kind of way. It’s many things. It’s saved my arse from drowning.

Gee, I love Hebrew! Both ancient and modern, it’s got spunk and soul, it churns in my belly and sings in my heart. It’s beautiful.

I wonder who can temper my polyglotic appetites now? In my sinister fantasies the list of languages I want to acquire in this lifetime is expanding. Yet I’m hoping that I’ve still got a considerable amount of time left, before the mighty Alzheimer claims me. Which, hopefully and considering the energy I put into keeping my wits running on high octane– will be never.

* I mistakenly used “lakum” (to get up) intead of “laruc” (to run).

** Idem, “mazkira” (secretary) instead of “mazkeret” (souvenir).

*** meaning: “exclusively in Hebrew”

I was sitting on a bench on Frishman Street, just off Ben Yehuda Street. I had come to hear a teaching on the tenets of Jewish faith at the Tel Aviv International Synagogue. “Bible! Halacha! Jewish Philosophy!” had screamed the bold letters on the random flyer that I’d found earlier in the day, clipped to a notice board at the hostel.

But I’d come a bit ahead of time and had a few minutes to kill.

I was just energetically biting into an apple, when a dark tall stranger walked past me and said something in Hebrew.

“Say that again” I said automatically “I didn’t understand”

“You didn’t understand? What didn’t you understand?” he bellowed the Israeli style “I said bon apetite.”

But he had an open face and when he smiled, something happened between us. I felt my insides melt and become like Max Brenner hot chocolate…the world slowed down, everything becoming thick and sweet with anticipation…

Ah no my lovelies, I’m just joking.

Were I this quick to be charmed by men, I’d be in deep shit by now, believe me. For these Israeli men, they are notorious. Notorious! Not a day goes by without some attempt from someone to chat me up.

“How old are you?” they demand candidly “Do you have kids? Husband? Boyfriend? Would you like one?” I’ve met a man who claimed to be a playwright and who pleaded with me to become part of his project as the 70s’ “nature girl in the woods”. There’ve even been one or two marriage proposals.

And just to dispel any confusion: I’m no Angelina Jolie. Just your average girl next door (plus a brain). I recall Samira telling me about a man who approached her at a bus terminal. After she gave him a cold shoulder, he swiftly moved on to another female passenger in the queue. These men are just trying their luck, and they’re honest about it. It’s just the way it is.

I actually find this attitude not entirely unpleasant; it’s non-pretentious and somewhat refreshing. At least most of the time. I’ve been experimenting a bit with being less rigid in these situations than I was even a few years ago. Travel experience and aging combined, doing the deed. Still, there are lessons to be learned. Fast. But that’s a topic for another topic, as I’m digressing shamefully.

This experimentation and all, could be why I allowed the dark tall stranger sit next to me.

Enter Yossi. Yossi is funny, easy-going and self-assured in a sweet kind of way. Born and bred in Tel Aviv, he drives like a maniac. We were cruising on his scooter last night, breaking just about every law there was. When the road gets too jammed, Yossi has no qualms about driving onto a footpath. And I seem to have no qualms about being his partner in crime. So last night we were powering through the sea promenade, manouvering between Muslim families and gay men with their dogs, until we nearly ran over two police officers! Op-pah.

Not to worry but. I mean, Yossi didn’t bat an eyelid: “It’s all good” he reassured me as he duly produced his driver’s licence out of his pocket. The three men engaged in a properly heated exchange of words and gestures.

“I really wanted to get off the footpath, but I couldn’t” he pointed towards the wired fence separating our path from the road “who put this stupid fence here!”

He got away with it, of course. We parted with the policemen, with friendly “Layla tovs” and convivial pats of one another’s backs. “I know how to talk to them” said Yossi “been down that road many times.”

And the Jewish teaching I had been going to the night I met Yossi? When I finally entered the synagogue, I was met by three men, advanced in age and very friendly. They advised me politely that the shiyur was for men only. That was pretty obvious actually; the vibe was that they couldn’t wait for me to get out of there fast enough. I even got a personal escort out.

The slick road of my conversion to Judaism might have just been averted. But not to worry. I acquired a new friend instead.

I forgot to mention something about Yossi: he works as a driving instructor.

A boring post, but so tends to be life

My window

The infamous rooftop

“Nu” I asked Zohar, the middle-aged woman, whom I often see behind the reception desk at my current home, the Old Jaffa Hostel “Are you the boss here?”

She laughed.

“The boss” she answered, gesturing towards the ceiling with both hands “is upstairs.”

“Upstairs?” I parroted. I was slightly baffled; while there is a great rooftop at the top of the building, and a bunch of mattresses for more adventurous travellers to sleep on, that’s about it.

“I meant, up there” she corrected herself, annoyed at my dumbness, and then I clicked: I realized which Boss she was talking about.

“But” added Zohar after a moment, as if chewing on thought that wouldn’t go away “the real boss is here” she thumped her chest “the boss up there doesn’t always help, I’m not convinced. But your heart knows and will tell you, if you listen well.”

Both Zohar and her daughter are, like many Israelis, tough and a little abrasive on the outside. Like an eggshell with spikes, perhaps?

“Have a look at the map yourself, it’s all there. Don’t be lazy!” Zohar snapped at me on my first day at the hostel, after hearing me inquire timidly whether “there is a chance-that perhaps-she might happen to know-where the post office was”.

But once you crack that eggshell, there is bounty of pudding and sweetness in there. After over a week of me being here, we are very friendly.

And I love this bloody place.

Even though the noise outside (the flea market, people shouting at each other at different times of day and night) annoys the shit out of me, and at night (oh at night) ravenous mosquitos feast on my dermal tissues like there is no tomorrow.

I love the rustic rooms full of old photos, and I love the fact that there is enough other half-residents and half-tourists like me stationing here; queer, socially awkward nerdy types, sexual outlaws or undefined kinds of misfits – which makes me feel right at home. There is of course a steady stream of young, 95% American backpackers passing through, clogging the lounge with their ipads, iphones and whatnot. They are sweet, but they barely register on my film screen, if you know what I mean? They don’t seem to notice me either. Somewhat, somehow, I’ve moved to the more invisible middle-aged group, and how did that happen and when? So, while the young lasses don their super cool dancing-queen outfits to go out partying for the whole night, I chat with Zik the cleaner in broken Hebrew.

“Enough of this studying” he’d tease me “If you want to learn Hebrew, you’ve got to speak with people!”

“What was that? Sorry, I didn’t understand” I’d say in return.

By the way, I haven’t said my last word with regards to the glamorous party-land yet. The raucous gate-crasher Smilla will be back one day in her wildest glory. Just sayin’

In the meantime, the quaint rooftop of the Old Jaffa Hostel it is. Me and outsiders, out-sidering together awkwardly. Then the magnificent “Allah Akbars” (Muslim call for prayer) rip from the three neighbouring mosques in a thwarted attempt at unison, and the whole mess dissolves for a minute. The clear voices of these unseen muezzins seem to cradle my heart; I long for these moments. The other day these spiritual chants went on for an exceptionally long time, and I was ecstatic.

But not everyone was.

“Fuuuck Allah! Fuuuck Allah! Fuuuuuuuck Allah!!!” an anguished voice floated over the roofs, competing, albeit unsuccessfully with those of the imams.

“La illaha illa Allah!” responded the muezzins.

“Fuuuuck Allah” the voice grew more desperate and raspy as it diminished in power.

“Allahu Ekber” continued the muslim singers, unfazed.

To that there was no response. Undoubtedly the infidel lost his sinful voice.

Noone should fuck with Allah, you see.

Anyone could be Jesus. Yes, even you!

“Hallo! My name is Carlos*” introduced himself a bright young man after Samira entered her dorm room at Abraham Hostel in Jerusalem for the first time.

"Hi, I'm Samira" said she.

"So, my name is Carlos, but really, I am Jesus"

Whoa, how's that for an acquaintance, Samira made a small inward jump. On the outside, she kept her cool. She's used to eccentric individuals; she worked in fashion industry for many years after all.

He seemed nice and friendly, so Samira continued to acquaint herself with him. I'm sure as hell she was intrigued. The Messiah business was no joke, or sassy pick-up line, it turned out. Carlos, or "Jesus" truly believed that it was his mission act as the hand of God and (try to) redeem the stray (again) and sinful (always) human race. He'd been in the Holy City for three weeks up to that point, performing purifying rituals and waiting for the God-appointed day to announce his son's second coming. Set ablaze, the infidel Jerusalem was to crumble and fall. And it was amidst the debris, that Carlos cum the Messiah was to be revealed; to lead the petrified flock towards purer, simpler future, governed by love and devoid of grief.

But she did go to dinner with him.

Despite that unusual kink of his, Carlos was no wall-jumping raving loony; no half-baked cookie. His speech was coherent. He has a comely face, adorned by a beard that he'd grown long. His sense of humour remained unscathed. He was blessed with a healthy appetite for food, although he did refrain from alcohol and grapes. And last but not least, he proved not entirely resistant to Samira's womanly charms.

"You drive me absolutely bonkers" he said to her "But right now the timing isn't right to pursue a new girlfriend".

Samira didn't despair.

The Big Day was approaching fast.

"Would you like to come to the (Wailing) Wall with me tonight, to watch Jerusalem burn and be rebuilt by God's will?" he offered generously to my friend.

"Sure" answered Samira. Off they went. Alas, Armageddon didn't hit. Not a single burning leaf was to be sighted in the immediate surroundings, not to mention burning bush. Nothing, but the most ordinary comings and going of the HaKotel HaMa'aravi - land. The evening stretched interminably like Negev Desert and Samira grew weary.

"Stay a bit longer" pleaded "Jesus" - "I know it will happen tonight. You and I will rebuild Jerusalem together"

But she had to go. She had already made plans to celebrate her last night in Jerusalem with a friend, by having lambchops and wine.

She saw him at the hostel later on. Still no miracle. "Jesus" returned deflated but still hopeful. He threated he was going to visit the Western Wall the day after. Maybe the exact date of his appointment with God had slipped through the cracks in his mind, due all excitement. Or maybe God himself had changed his plan ever so slightly. Unfortunately time wasn't on Carlos' side. His flight back to Miami was leaving in a couple of days.

* * *

It’s the first time I have heard of such phenomenon, but apparently, the malady called Jerusalem Syndrome is no joke. Affected tourists have been found wandering in the Judean desert wrapped in hotel bed sheets or crouched at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, waiting to birth the infant Jesus.

The Jerusalem Syndrome was first clinically identified by Dr. Yair Bar El, former director of the Kfar ShaulPsychiatric Hospital and currently district psychiatrist for the Ministry of Health. Bar El studied hundreds of tourists who were referred to Kfar Shaul for treatment between 1979 and 1993. On the basis of his work with these visitors, who had been declared temporarily insane, he reached some highly interesting conclusions.

The clinical picture that emerges usually consists of the same symptoms. It begins with general anxiety and nervousness, and then the tourist feels an imperative need to visit the holy places. First, he undertakes a series of purification rituals, like shaving all his body hair, cutting his nails and washing himself over and over before he dons white clothes. Most often, he swathes himself in the white sheets from his hotel room. Then he begins to cry or to sing Biblical or religious songs in a very loud voice. The next step is an actual visit to the holy places, most often from the life of Jesus. The afflicted tourist begins to deliver a sermon, demanding that humanity become calmer, purer, and less materialistic.

No one is certain about exactly what causes Jerusalem Syndrome. Perhaps it's jarring for a serious Bible student to arrive in modern-day Israel where, instead of prophets in sandals, he hears businessmen discussing profits on cell phones. Or maybe it's the fact that Jerusalem has always been a magnet for messianic messages, and visitors get carried away.

Perhaps it’s not too far fetched to suggest that before your next planned visit to Jerusalem, you might want to take along the phone number for your favourite shrink back home.

More info http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/History/jersynd.html

*not his real name

Endings, beginnings and all that jazz called life

Old Jaffa by night

'"Something's ending" said Jaskier

"Something's beginning" answered Yarpen'

A.Sapkowski, Saga o wiedzminie.

Alas, there’ve been some shifts in my Israeli life (did I just say "My Israeli life?" ha, ha).

I have moved cities, for once. I still cruise between the City of Fire and the City By The Sea for work reasons. But I’m now based in Tel Aviv, in Old Jaffa to be exact. A quaint, blessed little area surrounded by mosques and nourished by the sea.

I have also suffered some rather significant losses in the friends’ department.

While this last thing saddens me greatly, the rock-solid truth that all endings tend to coincide with new beginnings has been a consolation to me.

You could say that after the first weeks of fervent travelling and social activity, my existence in the Holy Land has finally come to a standstill of sorts (much like Jerusalem and Tel Aviv do on Friday nights).

My days seem to revolve around two activities: studying Hebrew and writing (plus the occasional falafel+pita fix for the hurting brain). I also go to the beach. In the evenings I peruse the narrow streets of Old Jaffa with my camera, boringly enchanted by rustic charm of the sandstone buildings and the glint of tastefully placed lighting. Then I’m in bed with my book by 10 pm, more than ready to delve into the land of Morpheus. Yup, I’m a complete bore – but that’s no news. The news to me is that under that mediocre costume beats a heart, one that is brimming with passion - for people, for connection, for experience, for living - once again.

I still have my moments: when my demons crawl out of the dark corners and screech in my ears, and pull at my sleeves and want me to be reckless, or to run. I wouldn't be myself without these, right?

But undoubtedly there are minutes, hours even, when I feel peaceful. Or contented. Or perhaps…ooops, what was the word?

Happy.

And that's good. Tov meod.

Shabat Shalom!

Random snapshots, stolen while walking the (exceptionally busy today) narrow streets of Old Jerusalem...

Challah bread

Co-existing peacefully

Don't mess with us!

what happened to...Axl Rose then?

Not the Garden of Eden indeed...

Shabat Shalom everyone!

Is it hot over there?

Here’s a little Jerusalem story that Bertrand recalled to me, and is happy for me to share with you.

Characters:

Bertrand, the ever curious scientist on a spiritual path

An Orthodox Jew (let’s call him OJ) of unspecified age, properly clad in black and white, with twirling side locks completing the picture.

Place:

Lobby of the hostel, where Bertrand is staying. Bertrand is chilling on the couch, when OJ, who seems to be the friend of the house and frequent visitor saunters in, sees Bertrand, and the two of them begin small talk.

OJ: Where are you from?

B: From France, but now I live in Australia.

OJ: Wow, Australia! So, tell me, is it hot out there?

B: Well, it’s winter at the moment…

OJ (interrupts him): No, I mean GIRLS. Is it HOT???

Bertrand (bewildered): I guess you could say it’s all right…

They go on for a little while in this semi-tedious mode, and then…

OJ: What do you do for work?

B: Research.

OJ (suddenly animated, fingers flexing in kneading movements): MASSAGE???

B: No, research!

OJ (disappointed): Oh…

The story, when told, spurred peals of laughter, followed by earnest reflection whether such smooth example of one-track mind (hot->girls->massage) could, and would be by-product of OJ’s religion-governed sexual abstinence, and in consequence, his sexual repression?

Quoted after Marissa Brostoff: Abstinence Education: Not Just For the Goyim?

"That the Orthodox Union supports abstinence before marriage is hardly news. Halacha (Jewish law) and rabbinic writings prohibit not just non-marital sexual relations, but also some seemingly benign behaviors that might precipitate sex outside of marriage. Many traditional Jews are shomer negiah, which means that they refrain from physical contact with members of the opposite sex other than a spouse or close relative. They may also practice yichud, which prohibits members of the opposite sex from spending time alone together."

You can read the rest of the article here

I reluctantly recalled my own up-close third-degree encounter with a young Orthodox man in a dark alley of Old Jerusalem from the year before, which left a bad taste in my mouth (but thankfully wasn’t threatening to my life or anything like that). Then there was the Bedouin in the Negev, a young man lonely in the desert and most likely forbidden contact with girls of his own faith (Muslim I presume), consoling himself by voyeuring Western tourists during their ablutions and attempting to lure them into his bedroom ("Do you want to see my room?").

Says Shiva Rodriguez of Liberated Christians: "Some of the side effects of sexual repression as observed in human beings include lack of self-confidence, low self-esteem, depression, suicidal tendencies, and higher aggressive behavior. A child who has been taught to believe that sex is dirty and bad will often mature to become an adult who is self-conscious about his body and overwhelmed with guilt when the natural desire to breed arouses him. Adults who are restricted in their sexual inclinations will often experience frustration that can result in either suicidal actions or violence towards others.

It should come as a surprise to no one that societies that have more relaxed legislature over sexual matters enjoy a lower violent crime rate and are not often seen butting heads with other societies on the war field.
Numerous medical professionals, psychologists, philosophers, and other champions of sexual liberation and its benefits to society have been defamed and their work bastardized by political and religious leaders on the platform of morality and wholesome family values. Citizens of such societies are therefore instructed to deeply repress many of their strong natural urges and desires, resulting in an increase of frustration, stress, and emotional instability that is disguised with the mask of being “the right thing to do.” (...)

Often this opens the door wide for religion, particularly the brands that demand their followers forsake earthly delights and suppress all natural inclinations as proof of being a good and worthy person. Never has the idea of how sexual repression can result in aggressive behavior been better demonstrated than with the history of the followers of such religions butchering and torturing other peoples whose attitudes on such subjects differed from their own. Nor is it a coincidence that the punishments dealt to such people often involved the mutilation of their sexual organs."

Now go and read more here

Hey, I'm not saying that every religious person is a pervert. Okay? Okay. There are numerous spiritual traditions (Tibetan Vajrayana Buddhism for example), where sexual abstinence is practiced, but the practitioners are given methods to harness and transform their sexual energy into wisdom and compassion - to sublimate it. I don't know how effective they are in reality, but at least the powerful kundalini energy is acknowledged and worked with - it is not repressed.

Good for them.

But for the rest of us, ignorant common folk...

Bertrand, Samira and I looked at each other and wagged our heads:

"Sexual repression?" we concluded "No good."

Update:

For those interested in reading about some implications of being "shomer negiah", go there: Nice Jewish Girl's Blog.