Cacti in Tel Aviv

Funny Farm

One of my best friends has a Bipolar disorder, another friend of mine has some Borderline disorder and three years ago I was diagnosed for having suffered from Dysthymia since the age of eleven.

I know quite a number of people who take a Happy pill every day and some others who take Ritalin for an ADHD-disorder. I have friends who suffer from anxiety attacks, panic attacks and OCD. Still others who abuse alcohol in large amounts or are drug addicts. I know many who go and see a “person to talk to”, some who go on “silent retreats” and others who try every New Age ritual in the world to find their "true inner being". They meditate, drink herbs and use hot stones to drive bad energies away. Some people look to the stars for guidance and others use tarot cards or religion to answer the questions of life.

All of these friends of mine, have one thing in common which is - all of them are completely “normal” for anyone who doesn’t know what diagnose they have or what pills/herbs/drugs they pop.

When travelling or talking to friends from abroad the subject of Sweden being notorious for suicides and a high rate of depression, always comes up. I’ve heard the notion that in “other countries” there aren’t as many mentally "sick" people.

This I think is totally absurd, maybe we have higher statistics and more people are diagnosed here, but couldn’t this be because there is a greater understanding of depression and other mental health issues here? Also, since media writes about these things everyday it lessens the negative stigma and people become more open about it.
In countries with corruption, wars and/or other social miseries, media concentrates on those news topics instead. The mental health matters are not talked about and therefore the negative stamp and ignorance is still strong.

But then what is a mental health problem?

What is the difference between people who take sleeping pills prescribed by a doctor against insomnia, and people who self medicate them selves with a ‘spliff’ before bedtime to help them sleep?

Why is a person who takes a drink to calm his nerves every day more “normal” than a person who takes a prescribed Ritalin pill to focus?

Is a person who goes on ‘silent meditation retreats’, drink St Johns Wort tea (against depression) and visits a tarot card reader so much dissimilar from a person who talks to a psychiatrist and gets a prescription for Prozac?

Why is it more shameful to have a 2 week psychosis caused by a hereditary disorder than a psychosis caused by smoking too much hashish?

Is one of them saner than the other? And who decides what sanity is? And when is a person so insane that he/she should be institutionalised?

Too many questions.

All I know is that if someone wants to institutionalise me and all my friends – because I am sure every single one will fall under some category of insanity if one looks closely enough - on a beautiful tropical island because we might be a danger to ourselves or society, then I will welcome them.

But hang on a minute, maybe Sweden (which on the map looks like a big dick) already is a big loony bin or funny farm for people who worship phallic symbols (the midsummer pole) and copulate like mad men in every bush?

Freeze and reflect

I’ve come back to Sweden after 3 months in Israel and most people ask me “How was Israel? Did you see any…?” Then there is always a strange pause. A trail of unsaid words after “Did you see any…”. In the beginning I automatically filled in the unsaidness with the word “trouble” and would answer accordingly. “No, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, no suicide bombers, no horrific wall, no poor Palestinians being abused by nasty Jewish people” but now I am so fed up with the preconceived picture of Israel and Israelis that I just answer “Did I see any…what? Blue monkeys?”

It saddens me that no one seems interested in knowing what Israel is like. As soon as I’ve made them unsatisfied with my answer lacking juicy tragic details of the Middle East I’ve lost their attention. However if a person does against all odds listen to me out of politeness they look bored and sceptical and end up telling me “ Well yes, it seems like you’ve been lucky to meet nice people with good views”

So now, whether or not you want to know what I thought of Israel I am going to tell you.

In Israel I met a large number of amazing people, very warm, generous and open-minded. The Israelis that I’ve met are the most positive and funny people I’ve met. Nothing is a problem, but if it is, it will be solved in an instant. And if you don’t laugh till you nearly wet your pants at least once a day something is wrong or else you’re not hanging out with an Israeli.

It was a surprise to me that the countryside of Israel reminded me so much of South Australia. Sometimes, it felt like I was in the Barossa valley. The reason for this was because one of the most common trees is the Eucalyptus tree, stringybarks and ironbarks everywhere. Imported once to help dry out the swamps and get rid of Malaria. Also in Amiqam where I lived there where orchards and vineyards everywhere just like Oz.

But it is a pity that the wine culture is nearly non existent. If you go to the country yourselves, don’t be surprised if the only wine you get is when the host on the Friday Shabbat meal opens a bottle of red wine and shares it between 14 guests. If you are unlucky the wine might have stood opened for two or three weeks in the fridge.

I liked the fact that all road signs are written in Hebrew, English and Arabic; but I think it is sad that it is not compulsory to learn Arabic in school, in a country where 20% of the population are Arabic. But 15% of the population is now Russian and growing so maybe the next compulsory language in school will be Russian.

I loved the architecture in Tel Aviv or the White City as it is also called. Tel Aviv has the largest concentration of Bauhaus style buildings in any one city. It is a modernistic style, clean-cut and gives me goose bumps of pleasure. However I hate that the buildings are so run down and dirty. What could have been the prettiest city in the world is...not. Someone should get seriously tortured for letting it get so rundown.

Oh and I've never felt so cold in winter in any country.

In other words I saw a lot of things I liked and a few things I liked less.

And the people are amazing.

Road sign to home

Pain

The terrible phone call came too suddenly. Life shattered into pain. One moment we were trying to wake our sleepy minds from the previous night of fun and in the next instance, space, emotions and time zoomed into a pinpoint of pain like a flash of white.
The family dinner stood hot and steaming on the table waiting to be eaten with relish but it had now been forgotten. All of us stood immobilized around the person hurting so much I wished the glasses and plates in the shelves behind me could shatter in sympathy, just as his soul was shattered in that moment. All my muscles tensed, adrenalin was pumping through my veins willing the limbs to do something to protect him from the unprotectable whilst the mind at the same time was anchoring my body, afraid of moving or touching - as if touch could cause more pain, like pouring salt into a raw wound.

One week ago exactly, the loved one received the phone call everyone dreads - that his best friend, who had been in hospital for the past six months didn’t have a long time left. I could only watch helplessly, recognizing the pain but unable to help. What should one say or do?

The best friend’s nickname can be translated to “he lives” and this morning he died. I only met him once, about one year ago at a huge party for over 100 people so unfortunately I didn’t get to know him personally. He was tall and very good looking; his face had a light in it that I can’t explain other than that it was beautiful. From stories I have heard, he was an amazing person and a wonderful friend.

I don’t know what to write, I don’t know how to comfort. I know that the pain the Drummer Boy feels now will never go away, but it will become bearable eventually. Hopefully he will create something out of that pain one day, for his friend who loved music.

Jaffa Harbour

Life in Israel

As always, I find myself in a bliss wishing that the outside world wouldn’t remind me of its existence.

However it has just been that special holiday when one thinks of others and I was very surprised to find that I missed the chaos and tension of the Xmas I so much love to hate. I missed the arguments with Dragon mum and the last minute Xmas shopping whilst the rest of Sweden watches cartoons on television. I missed starving all day and longing for the traditional Polish thirteen dishes for dinner even though it would mean killing that beautiful big fish we’d had swimming around in our bathtub the last few days. I missed getting horribly tangled up in tinsel whilst dressing the tree and I missed cursing my sister under my breath cause she gets away with not dressing it cause of her allergy. I missed opening presents and feigning happy surprise at the check I get from Dad and the pink underwear I get from Mum every year. And I missed apologising by phone to faraway friends and family because I am so bad at keeping in touch.

But life here in Israel is wonderful. The days start with being woken by the phone at 7.30 – it’s the smiling neighbour Iris, who takes me out walking for an hour. When I get back I put the boiler on for hot water and then snuggle up next to the loved one in bed. At elevenish I get up for a hot shower, grilled pita bread and coffee. I usually sit in the sun on the two tiny steps in front of the door of the little bungalow where we live with my breakfast watching the grove of silvery olive trees in front of the house and behind it the soft hills dotted with eucalyptus trees, here, there and everywhere a movement will reveal a white cow grazing.

Sitting there I hear Thai pop music, the houses on both sides of the bungalow belong to Thai immigrant workers and a few times a day ten of them crowded on a tractor drive by. They seem very sad, my Drummer Boy told me they stay in Israel for at least 4 years, the entire first year only pays for the working permit.

Some days Drummer Boy works from 6 in the morning but when he doesn’t I wake him a couple of hours after I get up. During the day not much happens, I study and listen to music being made on the keyboard and every couple of hours Iris’s husband Eyal comes by to play with the beloved. Eyal works at the school which is just across the road from us and whenever he has a break he will come over for a chat, coffee or just to jam. The best moments are when the two of them go crazy in the music room of the school, Drummer Boy on percussions and Eyal on piano. I could listen to them for ever, they are the best jamming sessions I’ve ever heard.

Then day unfortuanatly has to end and even though they end late for me it usually is even later for the loved one who can play till five in the morning. This is my life. This is bliss.