[as if in dreams] A newsletter from Joseph Zitt - 20 October 2023t
My landlord sits in his garden with a green grapefruit that has fallen from its tree. He holds it up, rotates it, and sniffs it. Seen in profile with his bald head and short white beard, lit by sunlight through the leaves, he looks as if he might be waiting for Rembrandt to paint him.
I usually see him darting around the yard, pruning, sweeping, watering, and constructing odd objects from scraps of wood. It's good to see him just sitting there, enjoying the literal fruit of his labor. I say "Good morning" to him as I come up the stairs. He says "Good morning," too, not moving his gaze from the grapefruit.
The House of a Hundred Grandmothers is still operating in war mode. The doors are still locked. The dining hall is closed. I'll be on my own for Shabbat dinner again.
When I reach the street, I check my transit app. Once again, the direct bus to the mall isn't running. I walk downtown. Maybe I can catch a bus there. If not, I'll just shop and get lunch where I end up. Right when I reach the stop across from the Heart of the City, a bus to the mall arrives. I get on.
Small posters have appeared on most of the bus stops that I see. The faces of two young people look out at us. Their names are printed in English, along with words in white and red: "Kidnapped by Hamas. Contact Us." There's a QR code at the bottom left of the page. "Kidnapped" is misspelled. The meaning gets across.
The supermarket at the mall is only mildly busy. I pick up most of what I need.
I decide to get a steak again. They're expensive, but I don't get them often. Maybe I won't overcook this one.
Several steaks are in the display case, individually wrapped. Choosing is easier than last week. I wave at a worker standing far in the back, beyond the meat counter. He wanders over. I point at the least expensive steak in the case. "Anything else?" No. "Just one?" Yes. He looks at me with what I read as pity and condescension.
I wait in the fast lane at checkout. The aisle is only supposed to be for people with ten or fewer items. Today it actually is. People stand in line, holding what they're getting in shopping bags or in their arms.
The line moves slowly. The cashier calls a manager over repeatedly to override errors. While she waits for a cancellation for the customer before me, she unwraps her headscarf until only a single layer covers her hair, then winds it back up. She holds a fingerprint reader in the air. The manager reaches over the register and puts her thumb on it.
The café is crowded. A man using a wheelchair is in line. Behind him, people branch out in different directions. After a while, he says something that I can't understand. The woman who is with him wheels him away. The branches of the line zip together into a single queue. At the registers, they have the same signs as the café downtown about free coffee and inexpensive food for soldiers.
I flip through the news as I eat my lunch. A cheap internet marketer has cut ties with influencers here and cancelled free deliveries. We have evacuated a city in the far north. Our government has approved regulations barring foreign media sources that are biased against us. (That's not good. I still follow Al Jazeera to get its differing views and good news-gathering.)
Outside the big Art Museum, a Shabbat table has been set up as a protest, with an empty chair for each of the hostages. Other countries claim to be talking with the terrorists about releasing them. The crossing to bring humanitarian aid to the south still isn't open. People with foreign passports trying to get out of there can't.
The local school district has announced the current rules for attendance. It isn't mandatory. We still have the chance of rockets and sirens. Students headed to school or back might not be able to get to shelters along the way. There are security guards at every school. Residents with gun licenses (which aren't easy to get) may volunteer. Kindergartens have their sessions in small groups, in shifts.
The mayor had closed all construction sites at the start of the war. The Ministry of Housing has ordered them to reopen. Our city has set new rules: All foreign construction workers must have visas. There must be police onsite. No one can stay at them overnight.
When I get home, a dear friend from the States calls me. We talk on an internet voice chat for about an hour and a half. She wants to know what's really going on out here. She gets a lot of her news from TikTok and from friends in her city. She says that she has seen people downtown with ski masks and the flag from across our border. She's frightened and confused.
I explain to her what I can, trying to lay out who is who and what is happening. I emphasize the differences between the countries and regions' leaders and their people. She asks me what she can do. The best I can suggest is that she try to listen with compassion to people talking about the war. Everyone on both sides is feeling differing amounts of fear, pain, and rage. That leads people to speak in extremes.
She asks me if I'm thinking of leaving. Not yet. Economically, I'm in a better situation here than I would be back in the States. She assures me that I have friends back there. If I had to come back to her city, she says, they would figure something out.
I check the news again after supper. The American president has said that the border crossing far to the south should be open to humanitarian traffic in the next day or two. The road surface is in poor shape and has to be repaired to handle the trucks.
Two hostages are being released, a teenager from Illinois and her ailing mother. There was no exchange. For the moment, the people holding them may have let them go (after a nudge from other countries) out of simple humanity.
Everything continues to move slowly, but the latest bits of news are good. Maybe this Shabbat will actually be quiet.
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L'hitraot.