Cold War Kids

I grew up at the denouement of the Cold War but very vividly remember the giant red Soviet Union oozing itself across Asia and the Soviet menace that threatened to destroy our way of life and make us all acrobats even if we were acrophobic (my dad’s nutshell explanation of communism; my great uncle would have been mortified if he weren’t already).  In the early 80’s, no one would have predicted the imminent collapse of the Soviet Union and while the turmoil and paranoia of the McCarthy era was over, the Soviets and their minions were considered the primary enemy and the greatest threat to world peace, etc. Of course, in the Soviet Union, the rhetoric was mirrored and the US and our allies were the villains with our worker chains and such.

Growing up in an atmosphere of anti-Soviet propaganda and the Rooskie – as the Russians were once so affectionately called – meance, it’s somehow ironic that I should now be living in Bat Yam which is not-so-affectionately dubbed “Little Russia” or “Little Moscow” or worse.  I used to like the sound of Russian and Russian authors are among some of my favorites.

I’m not sure how it happened; maybe it was being pushed around in line or the blatant disregard for the country which they have come to inhabit or the drunk Russian boxing a sign at noon on Saturday but I have come to loathe the otherwise lyrical Russian language.

I can’t help but wonder if it’s some latent anti-Soviet mantra from my youth or my identification – only in contrast – as an American in a Russian locale.  Unbeknownst to me – and revealed to me only in contrast to my Russian neighbors – are some striking American mannerisms and an annoying faux-patriotism that arises whenever a Russian does something irksome.

This pseudo-patriotism usually reveals itself in the “we won the cold war” or “at least i’m not boxing a sign” (which has nothing to do with origin).  The reason for these bizarre rationalizations it seems is that I miss home which is still the States.  All of the loathing and skulking and looking-down at my Russian and Russian-extract neighbors is a perverted projection of my mind to compensate for my sickly sweet longing for home.  And, because Russia was enemy number one to my country of origin, it fits nicely that my feelings of homesickness should emerge, however twisted, as an opposition to the enemies of my home country.

Even though I can’t pinpoint an exact thing that I miss from home, there’s something home-like that I miss.  In my year and change here, I haven’t developed – to my surprise – a replacement sense of homeliness.  The food and people are still foreign to me and I am still a foreigner here.  Despite my legal and paper status testifying to my Jewish-Israeliness, I am still very much an American or at least not an Israeli.

 

The Wretched Little Town by the Sea

I’ve been living in Israel for about a year and a half now in a wretched little town next to the sea called Bat Yam. There’s nothing exceptionally horrendous about the town; it’s simply drab and feels hollow.

The city is populated mainly by Russians from the former Soviet Union and to a lesser extent, Mizrachi and Ethiopian Jews. Many of the Russians aren’t Jewish and don’t identify as such. That’s why one sees Santa Clauses and Christmas trees popping up around Christmastime and a noticeably absent number of menorahs.

When we moved into the apartment, we were greeted – rather, shunned – by our new neighbors.

On our floor, there is a real life prostitute who operates from home and who, like rotting cheese, attracts a number of unpleasant and mealy customers. Another apartment is occupied by an elderly lady and her Moldovian servant who I occasionally see beating rugs on Friday morning with meaty arms. The final occupant on our floor is a distant relative of my girlfriend; despite her frequent barging in, she is a great help for us and relays news about the rest of the building. She speaks Polish and Hebrew and I only kind of speak Hebrew so that’s kind of a problem.

On the floor above us is an angry, raspy immigrant from Georgia.  At all hours of the day and night he bellows at his wife and baby.  When the baby cries, he thunders in response such an angry tirade that sounds as if his larynx is being crushed his screams come out so hoarse.  His appearance befits such a brute; he’s short, fat and bumbles about.  He even yells at the stray cats searching for food outside; he’s convinced the cats arm themselves with mosquitoes to be launched like so many little missiles at his beloved child.

The rest of the building is a mass of barely recognizable faces who tread heavily on the stairs and slap the light on the landing of our floor.