welcome to hamoshava hagermanit

Following my current motto of, “I’m Israeli, I can do whatever I want,” I’ve recently secured myself a two-month sublet to serve as my very own bachelor pad in Jerusalem. Of course I actually mean that the apartment was found for me, but that’s just a technicality. At any rate, the reasoning behind this development is that I’m Israeli and can therefore do whatever I want, including rent a private apartment in Israel.

So I’m living the highlife in my basement loft, which may sound like an oxymoron, but that’s just what they want you to think. It is situated on the first floor of a three-story building, in a shoebox-style apartment that is about as spacious as an ice cream cart. The bathroom window faces the sidewalk outside, which doesn’t bother me because I’m sure the religious people walking around are more afraid of me than I am of them. My “bedroom” is little more than a loft area connected to the kitchen/dining room table/dresser nook by a rusty pull-down ladder; furthermore, there are no roommates to speak of. In sum, I love it.

The thing is, Otzma was great, and I liked that it introduced me to parts o the country that I never would have noticed outside of that framework. But Be’er Sheva, albeit the capital of the Negev, doesn’t exactly have much in the way of bragging rights considering the region is mainly populated by impoverished and semi-nomadic Bedouins. And although Kiryat Shmonah and Kibbutz Ketura are both quaint and lovable in their own rights, they are each so remote that, well, you can’t get much farther from the center (both geographically and culturally) without entering international territory. Finally, I have the chance to experience this country to its fullest with my own home base in a real city.

Anyway, I now reside in a neighborhood that I like to refer to as the German Colony, but really it’s about a kilometer away from the main drag of overpriced cafes and trendy boutiques. Popular attractions around my dwelling include the Greek Consulate, the International Christian Embassy, two parks, a bottle-recycling bin, and a bus stop. I’m also a short distance from the city center and the shuk – that is, if you call a one-hour hike short, which I decidedly do after working as a Young Judaea madricha for three weeks.
The must-have accessories among my neighbors are tzitzit, baby strollers, and orange ribbons; seeing as I am currently in no position to acquire any of these items, it seems that my only method of assimilation is to adorn the long skirt and Crocs combination, which I assure you is not in my near future. I mean, I’m all for integration by appearance, but only when this involves relaxed hygiene, mismatched clothes, and comfortable footwear. But the modern orthodox ensemble – not likely.

It took me a few days to pick up on the local fashion norms, and in the beginning I made the mistake of gallivanting about in short shorts and tank tops, a getup that attracted quite a few menacing glares. On the other hand, I could have been mistaking hostility for jealousy, regarding my flawless tan; compared to the ultra religious who just can’t put down the tanakh to catch a few rays, I must look like an Arab! No? Not so much? At least a Moroccan Jew.

In the mean time, I’ve decided that if everyone in my neighborhood is going to make a political statement by parading around with orange paraphernalia attached to everything, I’m going to make my own counter-statement by not only disposing of every orange item I happen to own (by coincidence, of course) but by personally destroying it all so that no one can use my former belongings to fulfill any fanatical agendas. Below is a catalog of my possessions in that particular hue:

- Secaucus t-ball shirt from a thrift store (approx retail value, $2US)
- Striped scarf from the shuk (approx retail value, 15NIS)
- Ugly bangle from H&O (approx retail value, 10NIS)
- Masa backpack (free)

Oh, the prices we pay for liberal ideologies.