How I learned to stop worrying and find consolation in the situation
By Doron Rosenblum
"It can't be helped, and that's one consolation, as they always says in Turkey ven they cuts the wrong man's head off." Charles Dickens, "Pickwick Papers"
At first we said, Nu, whaddya gonna do. Then shooting broke out at Ayosh Junction (wherever and whatever that might be). "Big deal. So we won't go there on Shabbat," we said with tongue in cheek. So an intifada more or an intifada less didn't seem like such a great bother. Anyhow, it's not something that changes your way of life, or heaven forbid, has implications for the high-tech and startup index. Maybe it's even a good thing, we said. Maybe we'll benefit: We will expose Arafat's true face and also the bluff of the "end of history."
It's true that when the shooting at the Gilo neighborhood in Jerusalem started we said, Hold on, what's going on here? What's the story with this shooting night after night at a densely populated neighborhood in the capital, including women, elderly and toddlers (never mind middle-aged men, whose blood is always considered cheap here, unless they happen to be cabinet ministers)? But when they built a concrete wall three meters high there and painted on it the pastoral landscape that was hidden because of that ghetto wall itself, we said, What's so bad? You get used to anything. And some say that the painted landscape is even more authentic than the vanished landscape, and certainly a lot safer. And besides, "It's only Jerusalem."
The events of October 2000 did present a bit of a problem. After all: Jaffa. You know, "Doctor Shakshuka" and the narrow lanes and the sizzling frying pan and wiping the sauce off the plate with a slice of bread. At first we thought, Wouldn't it be a shame to give that up? Not to mention Dr. Lek's ice cream by the clock tower. On the other hand, we got used to it. Let's keep everything in proportion, we told ourselves. Between us, you know, they aren't actually real doctors. It's not that we are dealing here with pediatricians, dentists or oncologists - the kind of doctors you visit for health reasons. After all, when you come right down to it, we're talking about a sunny-side up egg with tomato paste and chocolate-walnut ice cream. So let's just get used to the emergency situation in which you give up something culinary for the sake of the country. And thank you, Barghouti.
At first we were a bit gloomy at the closure of the option to indulge in hummus in the Arab villages on Mount Carmel, in Galilee or around Jerusalem - until we got used to it and realized that maybe this was a dietetic window of opportunity: Do you have any idea how many calories a pita has, let alone knafeh? It didn't take long before we got used to not going to Lake Kinneret or the forests of the Jewish National Fund for picnics and such, and we took consolation from the fact that we were reducing the chance of forest fires, improving the quality of the environment, thinning out traffic jams, saving money by buying less gas for the car and slowing down amortization. This is also for the good, we said, and thank you for flying Tanzim.
At first the terrorist attacks in the city centers left us stunned and shaken, and seemingly unconsoled. But soon enough the innumerable little consolations and adjustments that make us such a special nation came to the fore. True, going to shopping malls, window-shopping and even simply strolling through the city streets were shot to hell. But we got used to it and we even welcomed the improvement in the parking station, the undercrowding at the airport, the few murders for criminal reasons, and the going-out-of-business sales of stores that went bankrupt. We also took consolation in the fact that the situation on the streets of Nablus and Ramallah was a thousand times worse. Let the Palestinians thank Arafat, a yesterday man, for bringing them to this pass, we told ourselves.
And what about us? What kind of pass have we reached?
Just a minute - first things first. For a few months, until the "economic emergency plan" and our worldwide ostracism, we went on according to the motto: "Living well is the best revenge." We said, War war, Sharon Sharon, Kosovo Kosovo, despair despair over peace schmeace - but still, a little dinner in a small restaurant by the light of a flickering candle, in the expectation of creme brulee never hurt anyone.
Until the terrorist attacks on the restaurants proved the opposite.
But we got used to it, and we said: Never mind. We can be resourceful. Let's see what we had here: Because the attacks were in the afternoon or the evening, or on Saturday night, and in the city centers, why don't we outsmart Barghouti and the Hamasniks by going to a restaurant on a side street on a Wednesday? Or have a good time at an out-of-the way gambling joint in some industrial zone? And what could be safer than a non-kosher restaurant called Matsa, especially at Passover? Or should we meet at a cafe in the dead of night? We will follow the mystical rule we invented according to which a terrorist, contrary to lightning, always strikes twice, and in exactly the same place and at the same time. But then came the terrorist attacks on My Coffee Shop, Moment and at Sea Food Market at 2 A.M., and in a closed club on the third floor of some industrial zone, and proved that the Barghouti types had sussed out all our little tricks - including the most Anglo-Saxon names for the most local places.
But what's the saying? God closes a door and opens an armored window. The fact is that he created the security guards. True, it is a grotesque and pathetic sight, and melancholy enough to make you cry, to see the collapse of everyday life in Israel; the whole "culture of security" to which our wretched lives have been reduced: the squads of security guards who fill the streets; the drill of being checked at the entrance to every food establishment and store; to experience eating shawarma in a pita as though you were boarding a plane ... To feel your heart start pounding at every suspicious movement, to have the spaghetti get stuck in your craw in the light of the roadblocks, the sandbags and the patrolling by the commander of the outpost - the security guard. But as Maurice Chevalier said when asked about his advancing years, "Considering the alternative, it's not too bad at all." Isn't it preferable to being turned into human shakshuka in an explosion? So why gripe? Give thanks for still being alive at all. And thank you to Sheikh Yassin for solving our unemployment problem.
And besides, is there no terrorism in Pakistan? Is there no anti-Semitism in France? Is there no crisis in Argentina? At least here morale is high, and national unity - including recognition that we are right - has never been higher, either. And thanks to Oslo, without the failure of which we might be eating one another instead of merely hating.
Even when it became clear that the only existential vision and horizon remaining to us is "living by the sword" - from operation to war in an endless cycle - not only did we get used to the idea in jig time, we fell in love with it and we began to find its minuscule consolations and joys: for example, the high response to the serial emergency call-up orders, or the wonderful news that this time, in Operation Defensive Shield 2, the reservists will actually get food. So what's bad?
Just look at the wondrous power of adaptation. Like the hanged man who kept twitching and jerking "until he got used to it," we too are getting accustomed to every situation and even learning to love it. After all, what is it that turns adaptation into such an amazing and riveting phenomenon? The gradualness of it.
Think about it: If we had been wrenched from our routine life of two years ago, say, and abruptly thrust into our present way of life, we would have shuddered, we would have fainted, we would have torn out our hair in disbelief and despair. Is it conceivable that we should find ourselves in such a horrific situation? But because each day is worse than the one before, and we reached our present pass gradually, we are pleased at the soft landing.
Gradually - though also quickly - the joys and qualities of our lives are being torn off, like petals from a flower. Stores are constantly closing as in a protracted decline; entertainment areas are growing dark like a slowly sinking ship; jobs are vanishing; prospects are fading; the Hebrew sites are disappearing from the Internet one after the other; the channels are disappearing from cable television: first the Italian channel went, then Channel 10, and soon, it's said, Channels 8 and 3 will go; Hebrew Book Week will be held in closed areas; loneliness is increasing, the world is receding. Our lives are coming more and more to resemble the fading consciousness of the computer HAL in the film "2001: A Space Odyssey," when the machine is turned off lobe by lobe: first the sense of humor goes, then the sense of criticism turns into mush, the thought process devitalizes, the circuits diminish. Even the guides to leisure have stopped dealing with restaurants, fairs and events, and are focusing more and more on home delivery options, articles about the latest tour of the refrigerator in the kitchen, or reports from the "inner I." Our bounds of jurisdiction are slowly being reduced to the Israeli version of the "Balata camp" - the tiled floor between the hall and the balcony. But wait a minute - did Arafat have more space in the Muqata?
So all in all, it's not such a big tragedy. You can get used to anything. And besides, we will at least take consolation in the fact that we are only living through this stage of the deterioration and not in the next stage, when even the house may no longer be safe.
But why look at the down side of negativity? It's possible that the wonderful power of adaptation is testimony to our vitality, flexibility and our dynamic lust for life. A case in point is the Tel Aviv restaurant that is now offering home delivery with the slogan "Now you can enjoy yourself safely at home" (for those who are afraid to come to the restaurant itself for a "meal of the brave"). Not only is the menu available on the Internet, you also have the option of getting home delivery - "for cooking and pampering at home for a minimum of 10 people" - of the chef himself! The restaurant summed up our whole adaptive situation - all our misery that rejoices in its portion - with these few deathless words, which appear at the head of the advertisement: "The situation sucks (with olive oil and oregano)."