Thursday, July 31, 2008

The Frailty of Tolerance for Others

On a sherut, shared taxi van, en route to Jerusalem, I found myself in a situation in which the driver accused me of not having paid the 22 shekel fare, which was given to him via the gentleman sitting in front of me to the right of the ten passenger vehicle. Two men vouched for me, the one recounting that he handled the money and the other who witnessed the transaction. Still, the driver insisted that I had not paid, “Anahnu mehakim la bahura, yihihey zman.” We are waiting for the woman, there will be time, he said, in an accented Hebrew that I assumed was Arabic.

I repeated myself, again, “Shilamti!” – I paid.

I could feel my insides start to rumble and fire up with anger, frustration and insult. How dare this man accuse me of not paying my fare, how dare he continue his indictment despite the testimonies of two men, including the one who took the money from me and gave it to the driver.

Irate, my heart pounding, my eyes making all sorts of signals of disgust and pissed-offness at the people around me for this affront to my person, I had images of walking up to this driver, insisting that he apologize to me and if he refused, as I descended from the shared taxi, in one swoop I would pull the lever that would send all of the coins to the floor, rolling out of the van and onto the street, and thus, feel my good name avenged.

Returning to the world outside of my mind and its satisfying images of retribution, I continued to feel offended, looking up from time to time from my book, titled Interpretation of Cultures, hoping to make eye contact with maliciousness in my stare at the driver.

Between my book, the girl who spoke French and Italian who was sitting behind me and kept switching languages to communicate with her two friends, the man next to me who spoke a mixture of Persian and Hebrew on his cell phone and the thoughts stewing in my mind, I had that sensation that I so often feel here that the actual organ of my brain would explode with too much stimulation if it could. Seemingly involuntarily trying to understand the alternating languages, read and not think about the uncomfortable situation I just couldn't seem to get over, I was feeling rather flustered.

The gentleman who handed him the money earlier looked at me after I continued to make noises and faces with a look of, “what can you do?” and the hand/shoulder shrug gesture skyward, that usually accompanies such a look. I took no comfort from this offering and continued to fume inwardly. Just as luck would have it, an extreme accident blocked the road to Jerusalem, making a sometimes quick 50 minute commute drag out into the infamous hour and a half trek up the Jerusalem hills before finally reaching the center.

As we waited in standstill traffic, the driver turned on the radio. A Russian-language station. He was Russian. Immediately, my mind’s preoccupation with anger, disgust, insult and humiliation turned another corner in my mind to find a memory from Independence Day.

The Tel Aviv Boardwalk, the Tayelet, was filled with thousands of attendees for the 60th anniversary of Israel’s Independence and the Israel Defense Forces’ air show extravaganza to commemorate the occasion. Cafes, restaurants, booths, kiosks and popsicle vendors were overwhelmed by the number of people. No one seemed to be prepared for the onslaught of crowds this event drew to the shores of the Mediterranean between Gordon Beach and the border with Jaffa.

In search of a cup of coffee after a fun-filled night of drinking and celebrating in the streets of Tel Aviv, I found myself at a cafĂ©/bar where I could get a coffee to go. As with most places in Israel, there was a security guard at the entrance. I discussed with the hostess if I may pass through to the bar to order a cup of coffee “lekahat,” to take. With her consent I proceeded to walk past the entrance of the restaurant when suddenly a sharp pain burst through my right hip bone.

The security guard, oblivious to my discussion with the hostess, barely able to speak Hebrew (a Russian) put up his baton and whacked me in the hip to keep me from going forward. Unable to process the painful sensation and why I was feeling it, all I could do was look at him in horror and then the hostess with pleading eyes. There was no Hebrew in my mind at that moment, I felt helpless and able only to produce wicked stares and feel that, becoming all-too-familiar feeling of cursory hatred, disgust and humility. The hostess explained to this brute (I still feel this way about him) that I was getting a coffee to go. I walked through, ordering and thinking of all the things I would like to say to this incompetent nincompoop who so quickly assumed I intended harm and who was willing to use force -- against ME!!! When all I wanted was a cup of coffee.

Back to the sherut, here I put two stories side by side and found a common villain – the Russian -- accusing me of something I did not do, presuming me guilty without finding out whether or not there were any grounds for such accusations. Suddenly I was a mass of hatred against all the “Russians” in Israel, all the miserable experiences I have endured with Russian clerks at the Ministry of Absorption, I relived all of those feelings in my emotional body in that taxi. My insides felt overflowing with that best described as, oozing black goopy bitterness that swims inside of me when I feel like I have found a scapegoat for my problem(s), decide to completely castigate an entire people for all of my time on this earth, and having done so, allow myself the darkest, most inhuman, undignified thoughts of which a human being is capable. (Confessional: I deal with bouts of this on a weekly basis, sad to say. At least I’m not discriminating – I feel this for Israelis, Arabs, Hasidic Jews and a few other “groups” on an alternating basis.)

Then my better senses returned. We arrived in Jerusalem. I stepped off the sherut, refused to thank the driver for the safe arrival, and began to wonder what was THAT all about? Then it came to me.

Last Saturday, Eitan and I saw a movie by the name of Ma asalama, Jamil. A film about honor killings between Shiite and Sunni Muslims in Denmark, although the film could have taken place anywhere in the world. Leaving the theater I asked Eitan, “what is this thing about honor? How could you kill someone for honor?”

I couldn’t understand, this concept of honor being offended, the repercussions of perceived “disrespect,” so prevalent in Pakistani, Afghani, Pashtun, Sicilian, Albanian and many other cultures of which I am not aware, that require such drastic measures, to be regained.

While this incident on the sherut did not involve murder of a loved one who needed to be avenged, I felt as though something had been taken from me that I had not given permission to be removed from my possession, and I was ANGRY. I acknowledged, perhaps for the first time in my life, how I feel and what my mind says and imagines doing when my honor is offended.

In that moment of powerlessness, humiliation, misunderstanding and shock, my mind dispelled all of its practice of tolerance, of not stereotyping, not categorizing, not demonizing and not clumping together “other.” This suspension of higher consciousness paved the way to making generalizations, condemnations of another, distinctively different from myself, so that I could eventually feel better, feel that I had reclaimed something taken from me.

Over such a simple, silly, stupid thing as 22 shekels for a ride to Jerusalem.

The driver miscounted, which he realized after the man who gave him my money told him, “hee shilmah, lispor et ha kesef,” – she paid, count the money.

I claim to want to peace, to work for peace, to understand how to come to peace. But every day that I am here, my experiences only prove that this endeavor is interminably challenging. Having peace within myself and the ability to keep composure in the face of ridiculous, meaningless accusations and interactions in which I feel offended by other people, proves to me that before I have any applicable strategies, I have quite a lot of work to do inside of myself.

I begin to understand how people can act "irrationally." If the conditions are right, meaning tense enough, and the person does not have the capability to get some perspective, the range of behaviors that humans exhibit and act upon in order to satiate that anger, or merely to resume that sense of homeostasis, temporary as it apparently can be, are, in some cases, frighteningly dramatic.