The house is made of sticks and mud and corrugated metal sheets. The floor is dirt and, like the other homes in the village, there are no glass windows, only a wooden-hinged square that swings in and out. Nor is there electricity. A Contra attack blew up the power source for the whole village three years ago and it’s never been fixed.
On the morning of the attack, Estela and her family were inside their house. They listened, terrified, to the shooting from the guns and the explosions from the hand grenades. They smelled the smoke from the burning buildings. And they heard the Contras screaming for Estela. Somehow the Contras had found out she was a teacher and they were trying to find her house.
While the family held each other in terror, the Contras searched other houses, asking for her. They eventually kidnapped eight villagers: a fifteen-year -old boy, his twelve-year-old sister, a teacher, and five others. All but the teacher eventually escaped. The teacher has never returned.
Later I meet a twelve-year-old girl and I ask her why she thinks the Contras are doing this?
“I don’t know,” she tells me. “I think the United States wants our land and our resources. It’s the United States that gives the Contras their weapons, you know. But I really don’t understand why they want to kidnap our children.”
Back in Managua, everyone is getting ready for the First Communion of two of Doña Juana’s granddaughters. Doña Juana is sewing the dresses. Her arthritis has been bothering her all month, and she wanted the tailor shop down the street to do the sewing, but their Singer sewing machines need parts. Doña Juana is awake until two in the morning finishing up the final stitching.
Before we go to church, Doña Juana and I cook for the party. We’re making gallo pinto, the national dish of Nicaragua—beans and rice flavored with onions, salt, and pepper. It is to be my final meal with the family. My book research is completed. When the Communion party is over, I am flying back to the United States, via Costa Rica (there are no direct flights from Nicaragua to the U.S.).
I’m going to miss Doña Juana and her gang. The joy and pain of this family have become part of my life. Every few minutes, over onions and beans and rice, Doña Juana and I hug each other with tears in our eyes. I have never lived so closely with people whose emotions are so open and honest, whose hopes and fears are so freely expressed.
In spite of the difficulties of their lives, or possibly because of their problems, everyone in this family laughs hard, dances with abandon, and emotes with an exuberance that is contagious. I have learned from these people how to explode with laughter and dance with joy. The Nicaraguans, who have so little, have taught me so much.
When the onions are fried and the rice and beans are ready, Doña Juana and I go outside to sit on the porch until we have to leave for the church.
“Rita,” she says to me, “you are educated. You have read many books and studied many things. May I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” I respond.
And this grandmother, mother, and loyal Sandinista, who took bullets out of kids and celebrated with her neighbors when the revolution was won, who struggles every day in a Nicaragua that is without food and parts and necessities of life, looks at me with an enigmatic expression on her face and asks, “What is a Communist?”
My visit to Nicaragua marks the end forever of my political innocence, which was already seriously damaged by the Vietnam war. I write what I saw and heard. When the book (Inside Nicaragua; Young People’s Dreams and Fears) is published, I worry that it will be seen as subversive; but instead, it is included in the American Library Association’s list of Best Young Adult Books of 1988. For all my anger at the Reagan policies, I am thankful to be part of a country that honors freedom of the press. It is a theme that will be reinforced over and over again during the years I live in Indonesia.
For now, I am celebrating the freedom and independence of my chosen life. I would never have made it to Nicaragua if I’d had to ask permission to go.
Israel
CHAPTER SIX
ROOTS
Nicaragua was tough. The streets were too hot, the buses too crowded, and nothing worked. The trip to the war zone was psychologically wrenching, and saying good-bye to Doña Juana and Marco’s kids was hard.
By the time I arrive at my son Mitch’s apartment in New York, I’m drained. I plan to stay with him for a while. I know he’s been worrying about me. As a journalist working the crime beat for New York Newsday, and frequently getting front-page bylines (I love seeing his name on page one), Mitch knows that gathering research material leads people to places that tourists don’t go, places he’d prefer his mother stay out of. He also knows that, as I once did for him, he has to let me go.
As he talks about his concerns, I realize that he and I are experiencing a role reversal. To add to the image, I arrive with a bag of dirty laundry and a stack of stuff I ask him to store for me until I’m ready to take off again.
I fly to Colorado for a quick visit with my daughter, Jan, who is now the social and recreation editor of The Vail Trail. What a thrill to hang out with her as Vail socialites stop her on the street to give her news items, and headwaiters greet her by name and bring us complimentary drinks.
Jan is as concerned as Mitch about my Nicaraguan exploits (they’ve obviously talked about it); and she’s also happy to see me safely back in the States. My next destination is Israel. There are bombs exploding in Israel, too, but they’re not as concerned. Mitch has been there and Jan has heard stories. The unknown is scarier than the known.
I’m not sure what to expect in Israel. I grew up in a Jewish home where, during and after World War II, the importance of a Jewish homeland was a constant topic of conversation. The creation of Israel in 1948 assured world Jewry that there would always be a safe haven for Jews, and though we were not a religious family, fundraising for Israel was a major part of my childhood.
As an adult, my Jewishness is way down on my list of how I see myself. I am a woman, a mother, a writer, and now, a nomad. In the absence of anti-Semitism, the fact that I was born Jewish seems unimportant to me. But I wonder, nonetheless, if I will find a special bond with the Israelis, something stronger and deeper than I feel with people in other countries.
I am going to visit Israel as a traveling member of an international organization called Servas. I first discovered Servas in 1977 when a friend and I took Jan and her cousin, Susan, to Paris for a month and a half. We rented a big apartment on the Left Bank from friends of friends. It had five bedrooms and a giant living room with a library loft and a grand piano. The rental had been arranged long distance, and we gasped when we walked in. It was perfect.
The owner gave us a tour and then left on her vacation. Twenty minutes later, the telephone rang.
“Hi,” said a young woman on the other end. “My friend and I are here from Denmark and we are members of Servas. May we stay with you?”
I had no idea what she was talking about, so I asked. Servas, she explained, is an international network of hosts and travelers who are committed to building peace and understanding by putting together people from different cultures. Its members are hosts who want to meet international travelers, and travelers who want to connect with the people of the country they are visiting. The family who owned our apartment were members, and their phone number—and ours—was in the host booklet of France.
The Danish couple were both seventeen. They stayed for a week. The day after they arrived, a pharmacist from Czechoslovakia called; then a couple, librarians from Montreal; then a Swedish couple who owned a farm. I just kept saying yes. Together we bought wine and cheese and bread, and there was always room for more. There were nights when five languages were spoken simultaneously around our table.
Jan and I vowed to become official Servas hosts as soon as we got back to L.A., but my husband wasn’t interested. So Servas was shelved . . . until now, when I decide to visit Israel as a Servas traveler.
Servas and I are a good fit. Over the last two ye
ars I’ve learned that what I like most is to participate in people’s lives, and that’s what Servas is all about. I send for an application.
The essence of the application is the “Letter of Introduction”:
Please describe yourself and your trip for your hosts . . . include your background and previous travels, your involvement with other peace organizations and issues, your interests and hobbies, previous Servas experiences if any, and what you hope to learn on this trip and how it relates to Servas.
I write my essay and go for an interview. When I pass the screening, the interviewer certifies me by stamping and numbering my application. Then he tells me that I must show each host the original application as soon as I arrive.
I pay forty-five dollars for a one-year membership and leave a fifteen-dollar deposit for a book listing more than three hundred host families in Israel, their names, ages, occupations, interests, the languages they speak, where they’ve lived, and where they’ve traveled. (In 2001, membership is sixty-five dollars and the host books require a twenty-five-dollar deposit.) The hosts indicate how many people they can take and how much advance notice they need. Some say NPNR, “no prior notice required.” Others need two weeks.
I also discover that there are rules: a Servas visit lasts two nights, “allowing host and traveler time to begin a genuine exchange.” The host usually offers breakfast and dinner to the guests. Guests are expected to spend time with their hosts and participate in their lives, help with the cooking and cleanup. Guests are also expected to be with the family in the evenings. None of which I knew when I was a substitute host in Paris ten years ago. No money is to be exchanged, but the literature emphasizes that Servas is not to be thought of as a free hotel; it’s an opportunity for cultural exchange.
I had intended to study the Israel host book, plan an itinerary, and send off copies of my “letter of introduction” with requests to stay in various homes throughout the country . . . before I left. Instead, I leave with no plans whatsoever. I’ve never much liked making long-distance plans; I’d rather do it there, wherever there may be. There’s a list of backpacker places in the back of the Servas book.
I check into a youth hostel in Tel Aviv and plan my trip. Then I send off my letters with handwritten notes in the margin: “I’m planning to be in Israel for the next month and a half and am leaving myself a loose itinerary. Sometime in the beginning of December (or whenever), I’m hoping to be in your area. I shall call two days before, as you request. Looking forward to meeting you, Rita.”
Three days after I mail the letters, I phone Sarah, an eighty-two-year-old woman who lives in the historic city of Sfat.
“Yes, yes,” she says when I introduce myself on the phone. “I got your letter this morning. You will be my first Servas guest. When will you arrive?” All this in a crisp British accent.
I tell her I’m planning to be there around ten in the morning.
“That’s no good,” she says. “I go swimming at nine. You’ll have to come at quarter to nine. You will swim with me.”
She is brusque but welcoming.
When I say that I don’t have a bathing suit, she says that she’ll give me one.
It is exactly quarter to nine when I ring the doorbell. Chunky and erect, walking briskly with a cane, Sarah lets me in.
“Good, you’re on time,” she greets me and hands me a bag. “Here’s your bathing suit, a cap, some goggles, and a towel. Let’s go.”
We get into her car and she talks nonstop in impeccable British English. “My family has been here for five generations,” she tells me. “Over there, that’s the Sephardic synagogue. Do you know who they are? The Sephardim are the people who came here from Spain and North Africa. It’s very historic. We will go there this afternoon.”
We arrive at the indoor pool. The bathing suit fits. So do the goggles and the cap.
After the swim, Sarah drives through town. “I’m going to drop you here so you can look at some of the galleries. Sfat is famous for its artists. Meet me back on this corner in two hours. I have some errands to do.”
This is a woman who enjoys being in charge. She’s a bit overwhelming, but I like her. I’m here to learn and she wants to teach. I take her to lunch.
That night we sit at her desk, which is covered with a huge jigsaw puzzle of a landscape in a dark forest. We work quietly, saying little, each of us trying pieces until we find ones that fit. After about fifteen minutes of comfortable silence, I ask about her British accent.
“I was born under the Turks and brought up under the British. Why don’t you move here?”
The question takes me by surprise. I tell her that I don’t want to live anywhere.
“You don’t have to live here, just be from here,” she says. “You can do exactly what you are doing. Your life doesn’t have to change. When you’re in Israel, you can stay with me.”
“Who knows, maybe someday I will. For now, there’s so much I want to see. Sarah, you must have seen a lot during your eighty-two years.”
“My family owned a big hotel here in Sfat. When Menachem Begin was in the Irgun, fighting the British, he used to hide in our hotel. The British soldiers would come looking for him and the others, but we knew how to hide people. In those days that was an important skill. No one was ever found in our hotel . . . and they were always there, both the soldiers and the Irgun. Those British soldiers would go through every room, but they never found anybody.” She laughs as she tells me about hidden passages and movable walls.
The next day we swim and lunch and puzzle and talk and laugh all over again.
“Listen,” she says to me when I prepare to leave. “I don’t know anything about Servas. My friend signed me up, and you’re the first person I’ve had. But I don’t care about two-day rules. You stay as long as you want.”
I stay a third day and then move on to visit Ruth on a kibbutz.
Ruth is in her seventies. Her curly hair is dyed a light brown and she is full of energy. She takes me on a tour to the nursery school, where I read my book More Spaghetti, I Say! It’s about a monkey who can’t stop eating spaghetti. The pictures are silly. Ruth translates and the kids laugh. Then we’re off to the milking barn. To the fields where the food is grown for kibbutz consumption. And to the factory where they are making machine parts. All part of the kibbutz enterprise.
When the tour is over, Ruth talks about when she first arrived from Austria in 1937. She was twenty-two years old. The kibbutz was a mosquito-infested swamp, and half of the early settlers, her friends and family, died of malaria. Now the kibbutz is a garden, lush with flowers and food and healthy people.
“My friend was right,” she says to me after dinner in the communal dining room. “When I got your request, I was going to tell you I couldn’t have any guests this week, but instead I took your letter to a friend who is a handwriting analyst. He said you were different and creative and I should meet you. I’m glad I did.”
The next morning I go by bus from the kibbutz to Jerusalem, where I stay in a mother-in-law apartment next to the apartment home of a journalist who writes a column for the English-language Jerusalem Post. He brings me to the paper and introduces me to his colleagues. When my two days are up, he and his wife, who is a nurse, offer me the apartment for as long as I like.
But I’ve already made plans to celebrate Chanukah with a family that has recently immigrated from Argentina. I speak Spanish to the two young children. We light candles, sing songs, and eat potato pancakes, the traditional Chanukah meal. I give each kid one of my books as a Chanukah gift. When I leave, I decide to spend some time on my own. I’ve met some great people, but four families in nine days are too many.
I rent a room for two weeks in a private home where I write in the mornings and wander the city in the afternoons and evenings. One day I wander into the ultra-Orthodox walled community of Mea She’arim. I feel as though I have stepped into an eighteenth-century Polish ghetto, laced with courtyards, lined with paving blocks, and populat
ed by pale-faced men and boys with side curls (payot), long black coats, and broad-brimmed black hats. It is a culture within a culture.
I rush back to my room and look through my Servas book, but I can’t identify any Mea She’arim hosts. I’m intrigued by this community of bearded scholars and women who wear wigs and cover their bodies so only their hands and faces are visible. Orthodox Jews are only 20 percent of the Israeli population, but they have considerable power; Orthodox votes frequently tip the balance in close elections.
It is a touchy issue among secular Jews that Orthodox young men do not have to serve in the Israeli army (exempt because they are supposedly studying the holy Torah). I have read also that ultra-Orthodox youths of Mea She’arim have been stoning cars in Jerusalem on Saturdays because they feel no one should be driving on the Sabbath. Mea She’arim is a world unto itself; I would like to visit it for a few days.
One day I take a walking tour of old Jerusalem. The guide is an American woman who now lives in Israel. As we are walking, I ask her if she knows anyone in Mea She’arim. Yes, the woman tells me, she knows an American woman named Zahava and her husband, Ephraim. The guide is sure they would be happy to have me for a few days.
When the tour is over, I buy a scarf for my head and a long skirt, which I slip over my khakis. I also put on a long-sleeved sweater. We walk together, from the elegant King David Hotel into Mea She’arim. It is Thursday. Zahava, a tall, stocky woman in her late forties, invites me to come back the next morning and stay for the weekend. Good. I tell her that I am hoping to help her prepare for and welcome the Sabbath.
The next day, as we are peeling potatoes and carrots for the traditional Sabbath stew called cholent, Zahava tells me she has arranged for me to have Sabbath dinner that night with a big family who is celebrating the wedding of one of its seven children on Sunday.
Tales of a Female Nomad Page 10