April 9, 2024

Joseph Zitt's [as if in dreams] 2024-04-08

Hi. I'm Joseph Zitt. I moved from the US to Israel in 2017. This is my newsletter about more-or-less daily life in my city in the shadow of war. You can select these links to subscribe or unsubscribe. There are more links at the bottom. You can also read this email online here. Here we go...

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I emerge from an appointment early in the morning. As I stand in front of the building, checking my phone, I'm struck by something from above. I look down. A bird has scored a direct hit on my shirt.

As usual, I don't react quickly. I stand and consider my options. I could head straight to work and try to wash my shirt off when I get there. That isn't appealing. I don't want to walk down city streets with other people while wearing that. I'm also not sure that I would be able to clean it all off when I get to the office.

I head back home. As the innocent victim of an avian air strike, I'm not pleased.

Once home, I take my shirt off, leave it to soak in the bathroom sink, and put on another one. I refill my water bottle and head out again.

As soon as I pass through our gate, it starts to rain.

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My favorite local dance company, Vertigo, is doing a brief tour in the US.¹ Over the next couple of weeks, they'll be performing a new piece in Dallas, Pittsburgh, and (perhaps of the most interest to folks here) Cleveland.² They'll also be doing a masterclass at Cleveland State.³

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In an effort to combat loneliness among senior citizens, our Ministry of Social Affairs has announced that they will be able to stay at retirement homes and attend Seders free of charge this year.⁴

I haven't heard official word from the House of a Hundred Grandmothers, but I suspect we'll be seeing a good crowd for the Seder there.

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Our new mayor has given an interview about traffic problems here in the city and the plans to alleviate them (some of which were already in progress before he was elected).⁵

The city has grown in lumps over the past century, without much effort to connect them. Public transportation has lagged (though I get around OK with it), and fragile infrastructure runs between the disconnected pieces. Another rich neighborhood has been plopped down recently with big apartment towers, tons of drivers, and little connectivity. And it looks like flagrant NIMBYism is killing the plans for the light rail that was supposed to come here.

The city is working to improve the shuttle system around town, even on Shabbat. (They've worked out routes so that the shuttles don't disturb the Sabbath-observant, while making it easier for others to get around.) But we just have too many cars. As the mayor says:

"Each of us must also recognize that the old way of transportation is no longer relevant. I too sin and drop the girl off at the kindergarten 500 meters from the house. We all need to make a switch in our heads that it's over."

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A woman with khaki pants and flowing hair comes up the hallway as we gather for the afternoon prayers. She smiles and looks quizzically at the group of men with yarmulkes and prayer books. "Are you here to pray?" We are. "May I?" Of course. Ten men have already gathered, so we don't have to wonder whether to count her for the minyan.⁶

She doesn't need a prayer book. She has the app on her phone. She puts down her bags and briefcase, and stands along the wall across from me. Men stand in front of her and behind her. While some traditions would insist that she stand quietly away from the men, it isn't an issue for us. She participates in the service, responding audibly and gesturing with the rest of us.

I suspect that she is here for the Mourners' Kaddish.⁷ She isn't. She had just spotted the prayers about to happen and joined in.

The insurance agent is saying the Mourners' Kaddish today. He isn't mourning for anyone from his family. He has the role, within his home congregation, of saying the Kaddish for people who had passed away on this date in previous years, but don't have relatives to say it for them. As we finish the long silent prayer, he takes a slip of paper out of his pocket and studies the names. He wants to be sure to be thinking of them as he says the Kaddish.

After the Kaddish, the agent leads us in Psalm 130 and the prayer for the soldiers. We disperse.

The woman smiles again and heads on her way. She and we thank each other. We hope to see her again.

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Feel free to forward the newsletter to other people who might be interested.

Here’s an archive of past newsletters.

You can find me via email, Bluesky, Mastodon, Facebook, and, just out of inertia, X/Twitter. There's more about me and my books, music, and films at josephzitt.com.

The newsletter’s official mailing address is 304 S. Jones Blvd #3567, Las Vegas NV 89107. (I’m in Israel, but if physical mail comes to me at that Las Vegas address, it’ll get scanned and emailed. I don’t expect that to happen much. If you want to send me physical mail, ask me for a real address.)

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L'hitraot.