Alone in Holy Land - The Book

It is finished!
Do you remember when I told you that I intend to gather all my old blog posts in a book? Well, it is done!

These posts, my blog, accompanied me through years of loneliness, immigration, motherhood, fear, absurdity, survival, and rediscovering myself. I never intended them to become a book. But somehow, together, they did.

I don't intend to sell the book, not at present. For now, I am offering it here, on my blog, free of charge. If you want it, it is yours. 

And maybe after you read it, come back and tell me what you think.  

(the cover is the work of my daughter)

https://drive.google.com/file/d/1xoKCv5QAiUxy_vRVRenGiVzt9jgkjTFG/view?usp=drive_link

Click on the link, it will take you to the book. 

Happy Birthday, My Dearest Agy!

Happy Birthday Agy !

We all have special people in our lives and I am sure that we don't tell them how much we appreciate them often enough.

I've met Agy approximately 30 years ago back in Romania. She took me under her wing and we have been friends ever since, even if we live on different continents.

Some time ago, I wrote this blog post for her. I think it applies to the present day, too. You can read it below.

Today is her birthday, so, happy birthday my dearest friend. I wish you everything that I wish for myself, and much more. You deserve it!

She is My Guardian Angel

Today I am going to tell you about a very special person...I am calling her my guardian angel, and you know what, I really believe she is one...People like her are oh, so rare, and I consider myself blessed for meeting  her.
I met Agy more than 15 years ago, back in Romania. I was a young career woman and single mother, struggling with life in a new , post-communist Romania. She was my cleaning lady...Well, that was in the beginning...because, in time, she became my friend, my confessor, she took care of me, cooked meals for my son and waited for me when I came from work exhausted, with a cup of coffee and an understanding ear. Only one year my senior she was like a mother to me because she has wisdom beyond her age. She was my sister because she has a true, tender and loving heart and she knows how to listen. Truly listen. She was my best friend because she wasn't afraid to tell me the truth even if she knew it would hurt and then it was there to wipe my tears.
After I left Romania and come to live in Israel she stayed there and took care of my "affairs" (I have an apartment that I rent) and then she "adopted" my mother-in-law and became her friend and helper and guardian angel until the her last days...When my mother in law passed away, Agy was there and not her son, and she made the funeral arrangements and now she is the one that goes to the cemetery and lights a candle on her grave...
Twice a year, on Easter and Christmas she sends us presents, each summer when we travel to Romania, she is there and takes care of everything for me, gives me one of her mobile phones, brings me flyers for take-aways and does my washing, take us fishing and spends hours entertaining Maya, which adores her.
And she is like this with everyone around her...
She is a simple woman, no higher education, no fancy life...just a simple, hard-working woman, and believe me, she works hard...but every person that knows her loves and respects her. Because she is honest, above all, and has a heart the size of a continent.
I consider myself lucky and I thank God for the day when our paths crossed because I know that He sent Agy to watch over me. She is an angel. And I love her.
The words are too poor to describe the depth of my thankfulness, to tell you more about the woman that touched our lives and made them better.
I am just telling this: Thank you Agy, from the bottom of my heart. I love you.

I thought I would get used to people being assholes by now. But I'm not. I cannot, for the love of God, understand my fellow humas. Does anybody fucking care in this entire world? And, no, no, don't get tricked by the illusion of "caring" that hides behind it all kind of interests. It is hard to believe, but people will "care" for everything if they are paid enough, if it is fashionable and trendy. 

Real care? Not so much.

And it extends from the general to the personal.

The world is filled with people suffering - disease, famine, war, hate, crimes. You name it, it is here. And yet, most of the time, we choose to look away. And something more. People that really do something, they don't shout about it, they do it quietly, without fanfare, without waiting to be praised. and because of that, nobody knows about them, acknowledge their deeds, because it is silent, because it doesn't want praise.

On a more personal level, I see it all the time, in the small reality where I live. Nobody really cares, either. I know I sound like a broken record, I know I said it so many times. But I care and it destroys me. 

My husband always says that I have to higher expectations from people. Maybe. But I judge them according to my moral compass, and because I have high expectations from myself, I guess I expect it in others. Formula for disappointment, my wise husband would say. Strangely enough, I repeat the same words to my daughter, when she comes to me with the the same complaint - that people don't care, don't do their job or do it badly. Don't expect people to be like yourself, don't expect anything from them.

Our building, for example. It was such a nice place to be. But, as years have passed, new tenants appeared, noisy, dirty, rude, in a word- assholes. They double park, throw their garbage everywhere apart from the bins and by doing so, smear everything with their leaky trash bags. They smoke in the stairwell and they put out their cigarettes on the window sills or better, they throw them on the grass while still burning. They get too many in the elevator so they get stuck and then the elevator doesn't work for three days. And you have to take the stairs to the 6th floor with the shopping. And their dog poops on your doormat and they just leave it there for you to step in it. Careless, indifferent douchebags. But, whenever there is something to be done in the building, repairs and such, they all disappear. But when there are problems, they are all very busy. 

And I have many more examples. But only thinking about them makes me sick. I don't want to write them down, do make them visible, permanent. 

So, yes, people are assholes. Nothing has changed and unfortunately, nothing will. 

 

The Village's Idiot

 

Sometimes I feel like the village's idiot. As if I am not able to think for myself, to do things without being patronized. Everyone seems to know what's best for me. From politicians that want me to believe I am free, to my husband that scolds me whenever I want to buy something -"You have enough plants, we don't have the space"- or even clean the house -You are cleaning again?! Didn't you clean last week?"- to my daughter, who rolls her eyes at me whenever I tell her something she doesn't agree with.

Yes, I know - I don't have a doctorate, nor am I a successful business woman .I fought tooth and nail to finish my degree, to built something for myself. But, as things in life don't go exactly as planned, I had to leave everything and become what people like to label a "stay- at- home mom", a "homemaker", whatever term is acceptable now. 

And yes, I did it on my own volition, nobody forced me to do it. At the time, I felt I was the one who could give my daughter the best start in life, the best education. Why pay somebody else to do it? And be dissatisfied about that, later. I had seen, from the inside, how the system works. I am not sorry for my decision. My daughter is living proof I did it right.

But, that decision had cost me a lot. My financial independence. My independence - full stop. I became always the one that was available, no matter what. The one who did everything, all the time. And usually, I didn't complain. I told myself I had made my peace with it. But, sometimes - God - sometimes I feel I am going to explode!

As I get older I realize that, by nurturing everyone else, I set myself aside. And by setting myself aside, I taught others to do the same. 

So, I rebel from time to time, in small ways. I go on buying sprees. I write poems. I stay up all night reading. Small things - but they feed the illusion that I am the master of my own life. 

Which I am not.

 

A Bag of Mixed Feelings

Yesterday I had these overwhelming feelings... I was sad and angry and lonely, all of them at once. When this happens, I usually take deep breaths and try to figure out what happened, why it happened. It isn't always an easy process, but I try. 

So, I pick up one feeling. Sadness. I am sad because I have been writing some stories from communist Romania and while writing, all those other feelings, of powerlessness, of being caged in an absurd reality, together with the nostalgia of a lost youth came rushing , drowning me. Sometimes, when I write, I actually transport myself to that time, and it hurts.

Anger. Well, this one is something that many of us carry in our souls. We live in an imperfect world and as long as we don't act on that feeling, we are all right. Anger is easier to manage. Punch something, break jars, shout , it all helps. And even if the world continues to make you angry at least you found an escape route, a valve that lets the pressure out. I usually cry.

Loneliness. This is the most difficult one for me. Sometimes, I think, for me, loneliness as a general state of mind. I am lonely. I exist in this state. I don't have a social life, mainly because, as an expat it is hard to find others like yourself. On top of that, I don't share the same beliefs as most of the population here, hence the added layer of loneliness. Of course, I gave friends, I am not a savage. But people, especially at my age have their own plethora of problems, especially health ones. Old age, unfortunately, comes with a plethora of ailments and disorders and pain and doctors and hospitals. my family? Here, me, my husband and my daughter. The rest of them? Hmmm...you can read about it here: https://aloneinholyland.blogspot.com/2009/07/my-disfunctional-family.html

It is difficult to be in my skin, sometimes. I am glad I can write about it, though. At least, for a few minutes, the burden is not here, on my shoulders.

 

Who Am I?

Did you ever ask yourself this question? And more - Who am I? What defines me? What is my role in this world? Did I fulfill it?

When we are young we don't question ourselves like this. When we are young, we have dreams and aspirations and we think life is just this straight highway, no bumps, no crossroads no should I turn left or right? But life is not that simple, life has ups and downs and dangerous curves and crossroads and accidents and stop and go back. Stuff like that. And somewhere along the road, we begin doubting ourselves. Am I on the right track? Did I take the right decision? When I look in the mirror, do I see the person I wanted, I dreamt to see?

Oh, when I was young, I had so many dreams, small ones and big ones and I was so naive. I thought that if I wish something hard enough it is going to become real. And I wished and I fought for my dreams for a long time. At one moment, I thought I had it, that even it was so hard and so difficult I could do it, I could see it to the end. But, at least for me, it wasn't meant to be. 

Then, again, after a while, I thought I found the answer, one more dream to fulfill. And again. It ended. Heartbreakingly. How many times did I fall and rise again? I don't recall exactly. Many times. Did I learn anything from past experiences? 

I was a laborer, a student, a journalist. A writer. A mother. A wife. A teacher.

Small victories, big fuck-ups. Many tears, deception. Sometimes, sunny times and then a huge storm.

So, what do I see when I look into a mirror? Am I the person I imagined myself to be? I am not sure. I don't think so. Maybe I am too critical of myself. Maybe this is the best I could ever be. 

Or maybe, who knows, I have one more dream in me...

 Living in the Past

As the title says, I find myself lately musing about the past. 

It all started when I had a discussion with my husband about the summer camps of our childhood in communist Romania. I remembered so clearly and vividly my first summer camp in Navodari, at the Black Sea, as if it was yesterday...And then, the memories just kept coming...and coming. Am I really getting old? As my husband says, I can't remember what I did yesterday, but I remember clearly what I did on the 1st of September 1972...well, I exaggerate, but you get the gist of it. The truth is, I am glad I am (still ) able to remember so many things. 

The memories of living in communist Romania are the most powerful, now. Maybe because they were triggered by the God awful summer camp in Navodari. I searched the net about that period and I was surprised to find very little information. As if that period didn't really exist, or that it had to be erased from the collective memory. I looked, for example, for my former high school, the infamous Industrial Nr. 6 and I didn't find anything. Not even a picture. I mean, why do we want to forget about those times? I think that if we will forget them we will definitely repeat the mistakes we made then. 

What I found speaks more about nostalgic times like we all lived happily in a commune where, yes, it was difficult to live but all we got by...And it is not true at all. The communist years in Romania were bad, bad times. And with the rise of Ceausescu, we got it even worse. No food, no liberty, no heating, long hours without electricity, the Securitate watching us all the time...You tell me, what was good about that. Maybe the fact we were young and detached from our parents' daily struggles. 

One of my friends said "We had dreams back then". True, I agree. We had. But we were also naive and ignorant of the true reality. I read somewhere that we were living in a jar with a lid on top. We knew only what we were told. And when all the newspapers and tv programs were censored, we weren't told much. Ignorance is bliss, right? Just it wasn't like that. We wouldn't have listened to Radio Europa Liber - Free Europe if we were Ok with the situation.

Just my thoughts, really.

And I'm off to the past. I have some memories to sort through.

 For me, writing is life. Writing is breathing. Writing is waking up in the morning. Putting one foot in front of the other. Surviving. Since I remember I used to cope with life by putting it on paper. Words helped me through some very dark periods of my life.

So, I'll carry on writing.

I don't know if anybody draws anything out from my ramblings, and, in a sense, I don't think I care. Not anymore. Sorry, I don't. I used to. It was like, oh my God, I am writing and people are going to read it and oh my God what are doing to say? Are they going to be interested at all in what I am writing?

Maybe it is the journalist in me, always writing with a purpose in mind, like making the world a better place. Kafkian, I know, and oh so pointless.

So, I'll be here, writing away. 

If you want to be part of this, I don't know, journey, circus, whatever, you are welcome.

If not, that's Ok , too.

Me? I have to write in order to survive.

 

If you love poetry and even if you don't but you are a bit curious now, please visit 

https://wherethewordsdwell.blogspot.com/

come back ,and tell me what you think.

 

What about us lefties?

In communist Romania I wasn't allowed to write with my left hand. They tied it back during lessons because I kept changing hands while writing or drawing. It was hell. At calligraphy my marks were the lowest in my entire career as a student because my hand writing was atrocious. It took me a long time to be able to write eligibly. At family dinners my relatives were displeased because I was eating with my left hand. It wasn't "acceptable". I couldn't play the guitar properly because guitars were for right handed people. 

I was good at sports though. Fencing, mainly and volleyball, too. Being different was an advantage, even if it wasn't in line with the communist party ideology - we were all supposed to be the same. 

I have forgotten about this up until today, after buying (on-line, my only excuse) a very sweet mug. I like quirky mugs, I have lots of them. But, surprise, surprise! I won't be able to drink from it. Because it was made for right-handed people! Only for them. You can see it in the picture. I am bit disappointed, to be honest. I didn't think when I bought it, though. I am going to gift it to my husband and maybe ask Next (it was their on-line shop I got it from) a question or two.