We're not in Italy anymore

Ashdod, Israel could hardly be a more striking contrast to the landscape of Italy. Even the most modernized areas of Italy, like the bustling streets of Rome, still had an air of history and mystique about them. Not to mention, most of the smaller towns I visited in Italy ( Siena, Lucca, Venice, a majority of Florence) don't even have car access on their narrow, winding streets. And along those alleyways, you could barely walk one hundred meters without bumping into something of historical significance. But Ashdod, well Ashdod is maze of white concrete apartment buildings, linked by wide, four lane roads, and massive round-abouts. In Italy, it was everyday fare to walk into a building constructed two thousand years ago. In Ashdod, no building dates back further than 1948.

In Italy, we roasted our chestnuts, always over an open fire. In Israel, we zap 'em in the microwave.

Don't get me wrong, I had a nice time in Ashdod. It felt good to relax, sleep in my own room, catch up on emails, etc.. It was just a bit of culture shock, or environment shock, having come straight off a permaculture farm tucked into the mountainside of central Italy.

Anyways,

The other night, I was standing on the beach in Ashdod with my cousin Bar and a few of his friends. "What is our cousin Simona's daughter named?' Bar asked. "I don't know..." I replied sheepishly.
"Oh, Amram's son came to visit also, you know him?" he tried again.   Uhhh, "nope."
How about my sister ? Nada.
"Wow, you really don't know your family," Bar's friend remarked.

And he's right! I have about thirty five cousins I've never met, along with ten aunts and ten uncles whom I only vaguely know.

Earlier this summer, while sitting in the San Francisco airport with my father and uncle on the way to my sister's wedding in Philadelphia, we attempted to list out each of my father's siblings along with all of their offspring. Getting the siblings in chronological order was hard enough, but listing all of the nieces and nephews left half of the page blank. Turns out, I'm not the only one who doesn't know my family very well.

I grew up very close to my mom's side of the family, but my dad's side had always been a sort of ambiguous Israeli mass that I just labeled "Like Dad". I did feel a certain pride in calling myself a Morrocan, a Danan, but I had no real idea why. Now that I am finally spending time with this Moroccan mob, I am beginning to pick out the nuances and personalities that make up the Danan clan.

Take my uncle David, for example. I really love David. (Well I love both my uncle Davids, but right now I am speaking of the one of the Israeli variety)
Maybe, I love him so much because he calls a 'kindergarten' a 'kittengarden', and that's just adorable.
Or maybe, I love him so much because he takes notice of every bird, every flower, and every rock - giving each his loving admiration.
Or could it be, that I love him so much because he woke me up one Saturday to walk me thirty minutes out into the sand dunes, just so that he could tell me "to meditate" ?
Most of all, I think the reason I love him so much is because he proves false just about every assumption I've made about my dad's family. I thought they would all be stubborn, hard headed, orthodox Jews with overly Zionistic tendencies. But David is almost the exact opposite; he is gentle, patient, thoughtful, and he would much rather meditate by the ocean than pray in a shul.


Or my aunt Gloria, she is clearly the 'mama' figure in the family. She is the type that won't let you set foot in the house without sitting down to have something to eat. When I visited, she had prepared a traditional Moroccan couscous with a chickpea and sweet potato stew.  As the afternoon waned, ten or so of her family members wandered into the apartment to collect their foil wrapped portion of steaming couscous, exchange stories, and return home with their bounty in tow. I told my aunt Celine about how sweet it was, to which she responded, "You should see her on Friday nights." When apparently, her small apartment turns into a full spread take away restaurant for hungry loved ones.

My knowledge of Hebrew also got put to the test on that visit to Gloria's. It's nice to know that I can still understand pretty well. If people talk slowly, like to a baby, I can get about 52% of what's going on. She kept repeating what I think translates to, "Your are getting fatter, why don't you have a boyfriend now?" Good question.

Then there's my aunt Tehila, whom I met for the first time last night. I'll admit, I was a little nervous to meet her. She is the only one of father's siblings who is still orthodox; the kind of orthodox that disapproves of my mom being a female Rabbi, and wears clothes from wrist to ankle, including a head covering. I currently have very long and colorful yarn tied in my hair..  so I braced myself. Turns out, Tehila is one of the sweetest people I've met. She's very welcoming, and she's an amazing cook. Perhaps even the best cook in the family, according to my cousin, Mor.

It's really beautiful to see the multifaceted world from which I come. I got different view of this world when my aunt Gloria invited me to a "brita" ( a baby naming ) for her newborn granddaughter.

"Yes!" I replied excitedly, imagining the same traditional Moroccan festivities which I had experienced at several family Bar/Bat Mitzvahs and weddings. You know, the kind where everyone piles into a crowded living room, dressed in a rainbow palette of sequined Moroccan dresses, and dances around a table (that's even more crowded than the living room) filled with homemade cakes, sesame candies, macaroons, and pastel hued meringues ? So when asked Gloria if I could help her bake for the party, I was surprised when she looked at me slightly confused and replied, "No...?"

But as soon as I walked into the party, it all made sense.  Expecting to come to someone's house, I instead walked into a posh nightclub ballroom set with thirty white clothed tables, dimly lit by pink and red mood lights, and the sounds of Israeli hip hop coming from a raised DJ stand. If this is what her naming looks like, I can't wait to see her wedding.

In awe, I sat down at a table with my uncle, Shimon. I was relieved when he told that this wasn't technically my family, so I didn't feel so bad for not knowing a single one of the two hundred guests. That is, until a man with a stocky build walked up to me smiling with open arms, "Arielle! How are you? Are you enjoying Israel?" He must have seen my dumbfounded look, because he then asked me,
 "What? You don't remember me? I'm your uncle Danny!" Oh, shit.

"I really don't know my family.. I need to figure this out," I thought to myself. I silently counted on fingers which of my father's siblings I had met so far, "OK.. David, Shimon, Danny, Marco, Amram, Celine, Gloria, Jaclyn, two more... I know Tehila won't be here.. and that leaves..? Oh ya! Sami!"
"Danny," I nudged, "Where's Sami? Why isn't he here?"
"Sami? He's right there!" Danny said as he pointed to an unassuming man with glasses sitting directly across the table from me. Oh, shit.

How is it that I can sit right next to my own blood relatives and not know the difference? Shame on you, intuition. It's a very strange sensation, really. These people are just as much my family as my aunt Missy and Ali from the States, yet our relationship is so vastly different.
This is one of the main reasons that I chose to visit Israel; I feel a yearning to get back in touch with my family, my roots. Even if its painfully clear that I still don't really know everyone, I am already beginning to recognize the diversity of individuals within my family. And within each personality, I see a mirror for something I hold within myself. In Tehila and Gloria, I see my love of cooking and caring for others. In Celine, my passion for art. In David, my desire to lead a peaceful and meditative life.

Maybe in order to get to know my family, I need only get to know myself.