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The longest way ’round

June 9, 2005 by

When I was a little girl, I would often read ahead in one of our reading books at school while the class was engaged in something I had already done. I came to one story, however, that had a word that I didn’t understand. Oh, I could pronounce it fine. The word was “detour” and I was able to sound it out. I knew that it was pronounced “det-our” (debt hour.) Of course, since I was reading ahead, I couldn’t ask the teacher what a det-our was, but I thought I would understand when I read the story.

Well, it seems that someone was in a car and was driving home when he came to a det-our. For some reason, he could not proceed and tried to go another way. There was a det-our, but he didn’t want to take it. He went through forests and woods and who knows where else, and finally, after many hours, reached home. The great denouement came when he found out that by taking the det-our, he would have been home much faster.

So I had read the story and still had no clue what a det-our was. When I got home, I asked my mother what a det-our was. She asked me what I was talking about, so I showed her the story. She told me that the word was detour and she explained to me what it meant. I went back to the story and suddenly it made a lot more sense.

There was a refrain at the end of the story that went “the longest way ‘round is the shortest way home.” What it meant was that if the person had followed the signs, and not taken the “shortcut,” even though he would have driven farther, he would not have encountered as many obstacles and would have arrived at his destination a lot faster.

I think of that lesson sometimes when I see people with their young children. In a typical scenario, when a child misbehaves in public, the parent responds in one of several ways.
1. He/she is oblivious
2. He/she ignores it
3. He/she tries to distract the child
4. He/she calls to the child and verbally corrects him/her
5. He/she gets up and picks up the child to hold and/or to talk to

The shortcuts of remaining oblivious and ignoring the behavior are a lot easier for the parent. The parent can maintain composure and relax. Of course it doesn’t stop the behavior and for the child, there is no learning. If the behavior is self-reinforcing (like drawing on a wall or taking cookies from the cookie jar at the wrong time, it may even become strengthened and therefore more likely to recur.

Distractions often are effective, but they lack the educational aspect that can prevent a future occurrence of the unacceptable behavior.

Verbal correction, depending on the tone, may be helpful. Many parents, however, correct in such a tentative tone that they are actually giving their children mixed messages. “Honey, I would prefer if you didn’t color all over the table with lipstick” may, for some children, sound like there is still an option. Verbal corrections usually are only effective once the child has a real sense that he/she has a parent who will follow up if the behavior doesn’t cease.

Getting up to get the child, holding him/her, talking to him/her and explaining what the problematic behavior was and why it is unacceptable takes a lot of work, but it is the most effective way to teach a child how to behave in a socially acceptable manner.

For example: Janie is playing on the monkey bars and another child starts to climb. Janie starts shouting, “Go away! This is where I am playing!” and then pushes the other child. The parent then gets up, takes Janie from the scene, holds her and explains, “Janie, you must not push other children. The monkey bars are there for you to play on and for other children as well. There are lots of things that we need to share, and this is one of them. And you must never hurt another person.” The parent then takes Janie back so that Janie can apologize and then play nicely.

All of that takes energy, but sometimes the longest way ‘round is the shortest way home, because after not the first or the second or the third time, but eventually, the child begins to understand that there is a consistent message about how he/she is expected to behave.

The effort expended by parents in the early years of their child’s life is well rewarded and is far less than the energy that would be required when a child who has not been so trained becomes a teen who engages in dangerous and/or illegal behavior.

Parents are their children’s primary and most important educators. It’s important to take an active role in helping one’s child to develop into a responsible, caring person. There are no shortcuts. It’s hard work. But it’s worth it.

Filed Under: Family life, Parenting

…and you shall see your children’s children

June 6, 2005 by

Today is Matan and Lilach’s birthday. Nine years ago today I stood just a few feet away from my daughter as the first twin emerged. “It’s a boy!” But the doctors were concerned. The second baby’s heartbeat was slow and so they took my daughter to the operating room to perhaps do a Caesarian section to get the other baby out. Fortunately, the C-section was not needed and 14 minutes later, Lilach emerged. And suddenly, we became a family that had twins, a boy and a girl! I would never have guessed then that by now, there would be two more sets of boy/girl twins!

So today is their birthday, and it coming on Jerusalem Day this year, we thought it would be a good idea to take the children to Jerusalem last night to see the parade and perhaps the fireworks.

However, Matan was tired after soccer practice and his 11 year old sister, Hadas, really wanted to go, and so we ended up with the two girls making our way to Jerusalem.

The traffic in the city was almost at a standstill as street after street was closed. When finally we parked and walked to Jaffa Road, the parade was still going on and we watched as group after group of children and adults from all over the country paraded in uniforms and costumes, on floats and on foot, driving motorcycles and ambulances, to salute Jerusalem.

Suddenly I was transported to my first trip to Jerusalem. It was in 1965 when I came on a youth tour. I stood at that very spot on Jaffa Road, but back then, the Old City was closed to us. We could not visit. We were taken to Abu Tor to look out over to the Temple Mount. We went to Mount Zion and tried to see what we could of the holy city. I was in Jerusalem longing for Jerusalem.

And then I thought about June 1967. I was in Philadelphia, seven months pregnant, sitting in my parents’ family room, embroidering a challah cover, the one we still use, when the news came onto the TV, “the Temple Mount is in our hands!”

I can’t describe the joy. I remember thinking that the baby inside me will never know that longing that the Jews had felt for so long. I remember seeing TV reports about the first Shavuot after the reunification—people streaming into the gates of the Old City.

It took us many years to return to Israel, but finally, in 1978, we took all of the children. On our first day, we went to visit to the Old City of Jerusalem. I still remember the awe I felt when I first saw the Western Wall standing there, golden in the sunlight.

My experience of Jerusalem has not changed, not after having visited there, not after having lived there. Jerusalem is holy and special from the very stones to the special fragrant smell of the air. Going to Jerusalem is returning to the place where I belong.

So we watched last night’s parade, we sang along with the music that was playing beautiful songs of Jerusalem, we ate dinner, we walked through the downtown walking area that was filled with people, and on our way home we were treated to fireworks that were best seen from our car as it descended down Betzalel Street to Sacher Park.

And I felt grateful for my husband, my children, my grandchildren, and for my city, Jerusalem.

Filed Under: Family life, Israel, Spirituality

A drawer marked “Tomorrow Afternoon”

June 5, 2005 by

When my husband delivered the eulogy for my mother, he termed her “a word-class worrier,” and it was true. My mother had a tremendous capacity for worrying. She did it better than almost anyone I knew. My father was five minutes late coming home from work? “He could have been in a car accident,” “his store could have been robbed,” “he could be lying dead in a pool of blood.” And she worried. My mother would stand by the window, willing him to arrive. We couldn’t use the phone because he or the police might be trying to reach us. Then, she would pick up the phone and call the store. The phone would ring a couple of times and he would pick it up and tell her that he was with a customer who had come in just before closing. She would ask him to call before he left (I assume so she would know at what point to begin worrying again) and if too much time went by, she would call to check if he had left yet.

This was a pattern of our lives. Our days were filled with drama because who knew what tragedy could befall any of us at any moment.

It served some positive purposes: my sister and I are perhaps the most cautious people I know. We simply did not take chances. We knew that any misstep could invite disaster.

But my mother’s worrying was not an aberration. It was an exaggeration. All of us worry to some extent. And in many cases, worry is good—if it causes us to be prepared or to be cautious of real danger.

For example, recently there was a tragic accident on a school trip in the northern part of Israel where three children, who had been instructed not to enter the cold water of a stream, either willingly jumped in or fell in. One child died as a result of entering the very cold water and having limited swimming ability despite the immediate response of the people accompanying him. In this case, the investigation showed that the adults had acted responsibly and the outcome was still tragic. School trips to the area continue, but I imagine that the worry that the chaperones now harbor inspires extra caution and extra warning to the children.

But worry can be destructive as well. Today it is a beautiful sunlit day. The temperature is about 75 F/23 C. Our garden is sweet smelling with the scents of lemongrass, rosemary, lavender, and sage. Our trees are growing clementines and lemons, and our decorative plum tree has yielded the world’s sweetest plums.

But what am I thinking about? My daughter’s new (less than one-year old) refrigerator has stopped cooling and the repairman can’t come until tomorrow afternoon. My worry, that has no purpose, has distracted me from the wonder of life, the beauty that abounds, the joy of friendship and the love of family.

Sometimes I tell my clients to metaphorically take the worry, define it, compress it, wrap it up in a package (preferably brown paper) and put it away. I am filing mine in a drawer marked “tomorrow afternoon.”

Filed Under: Emotional health, Spirituality

All in all, I would rather be in Croatia

June 1, 2005 by

A couple of months ago I got the news. I was going to be asked to be a witness in a criminal trial. I would have to give testimony to support a former client. I was not thrilled. In general, my experience with courts has not been pleasant. In Lawton, Oklahoma, I had served as an expert witness a couple of times and it was less than enjoyable. The whole idea of an adversarial proceeding in which every word was scrutinized reminded me of nothing so much as an argument with my mother. But I digress…

In the US, I was a native speaker of the language of the court proceedings. In Israel, although my Hebrew is fluent, it is not native and therefore there are nuances and expressions that Israelis use and understand that elude me. So naturally, I was wary and reluctant. It was kind of like the way my then 5 year old son must have felt just after he started the fire in our living room: “maybe if I just get into bed and close my eyes, it will all disappear.” Well, the fire didn’t disappear and with the arrival of a notice from the court roughly equivalent to a subpoena, neither did the trial.

The prosecutor called me and asked for information. A second call came to change the date to nearly a week earlier. A third call came to change it back. Then we received a call from friends who wanted to know if we would like to join their trip to Croatia and Slovenia which was to take off the night before the anticipated testimony.

I called the prosecutor’s office. I explained that we had an opportunity to go on a trip and asked if there were any possibility that I could testify before or afterwards. The clerk sounded understanding and after checking with the prosecutor said that he regretted that there was no alternative.

Yesterday, the prosecutor called me to go over the facts and the points she wanted to make with my testimony. She helped me with some of the technical Hebrew phrases. For example, bruises are translated into Hebrew as “blue marks.” And professional journals, she told me, are “professional newspapers.”

So this morning, having no idea of the extent of the morning traffic to Tel Aviv, I left my home at 6:50 a.m., in order not to be late for the 8:30 summons. I was at the door of the courthouse at 7:30. Unfortunately, the doors open to the public at 8:00. I sat and read the book I had brought, and waited.

At 8:00, I got into line to wait for the security check and finally, I arrived upstairs at the courtroom. My former client was there. Little by little the other participants arrived and finally today’s session of the trial began. I was asked to stay outside while other witnesses were testifying. During that time I repeated to myself phrases that I knew would not come naturally to me. I kept reassuring myself that my hesitations over language could be of use because it would give me time to think. As the time passed, I just wanted it to be over because I was feeling more and more tense.

Finally, I was called. I hooked on the microphone and swore to tell the truth. Before the prosecutor could ask me the first question, the defense attorney began spewing objections. I say “spewing” because I am pretty certain that I saw steam rising from her and I certainly felt as if I was engulfed by a stream of lava. I was “irrelevant”, she asserted. However, it took her more than five minutes to say that. Then the prosecutor responded for another minute or two. Then two of the three judges tried to answer while the defense attorney continued spewing. The mayhem continued for about another ten minutes during which I was asked little more than my name, qualifications, time period during which I treated my client, and general impression of her condition at intake. Then the next eruption took place. At that point, the questioning was stopped and I was thanked for my participation.

I went back to the parking lot, paid, and left. All in all, I would rather be in Croatia.

Filed Under: Ramblings

No Regrets

May 30, 2005 by

Like a lot of people I know, I had a less than perfect mother. As a child, my life with her was tumultuous. I could never predict what she would be like in the next moment. I am certain it wasn’t easy being her, but as a little child, all I could think was that it wasn’t easy being me.

As I grew, there were times when I felt angry with her, but there were more times when I felt wounded, hurt, devalued, and misunderstood. Her verbal and physical assaults left me weak and vulnerable.

Sure, there were good times. My mother was an expert at good times. She knew how to take us to fancy restaurants and buy us beautiful clothes and send us to overnight camp. But without warning, her mood could change and the emotional assaults would begin once again.

I couldn’t wait to grow up and leave home.

But of course, there is always love and affection that are intermixed with the pain, and so even after I left home, a warm call from my mother felt loving and reassuring and I looked forward to the times we spoke or saw each other and everything went right.

I remember one such time with special fondness: We had been married about 7 months and I was about 5 months pregnant. We were living in Valley Station, Kentucky, about halfway between Fort Knox where my husband worked and Louisville, where I was finishing college. My husband was going to fly out to Spokane, Washington, for a job interview. When my mother heard about it, she was convinced that I should not be alone, and so she arranged to fly to Louisville to spend the weekend with me.

My husband and I drove to the airport and just as I kissed him goodbye, my mother’s plane from Philadelphia landed. I took her back to my home and from then on we spent three wonderful days together—shopping for maternity clothes, eating ice cream, laughing and enjoying each other’s company. Sunday, I took her to the airport and after kissing her goodbye, my husband’s plane landed.

I remember that short period vividly because it was so very special. Most of my adult life, however, my relationship with her was problematic. I hadn’t made the choices in my life that she would have made for me. I hadn’t married a doctor and stayed in Philadelphia and had one son and one daughter and lunch with mom once a week. Instead I had become independent.

But now here was my dilemma: My mother had a lot of ideas about what constituted loyalty and love. She had lots of demands. She could become unpleasant on the phone. But, at the same time, she was my mother and underneath it all, I felt love for her and an obligation to respect her. How could I choose my behaviors toward her?

I formulated my “no regrets” rule. I decided that I would treat her the way one treats a mother who has given birth to one and who loves one despite her inability to adequately show it. I would do it not for her, but for me. In the end, I knew that I would have to be accountable to myself for my behavior. I would have to be able to live with myself in the long run. I would have to be able to look back at my actions and feel proud that I had maintained the relationship, shown respect, and not allowed her shortcomings to limit my ability to be the kind of daughter I knew I should be.

Did I meet all of her demands? Certainly not. That would have been impossible. However, she was always a welcome guest in my house, even when she wasn’t acting her best. I never insulted her, interrupted her, or argued with her. I listened and acknowledged what she said, and then I made my own decisions.

In the last year of her life, when she was weak and sick, she told me that she approved of my life choices. I think the best of them was to act so that I would have no regrets.

Filed Under: Emotional health, Family life, Relationships

Intentional Parenting

May 28, 2005 by

Recently I was involved in a discussion about teens who were doing destructive things. These teens were not taking drugs or getting drunk, but they were involved in destroying things—smashing windshields, setting fire to trees, and defacing public property.

Someone said, “But what is a parent to do? Parents can’t follow teens wherever they go.” That is, of course, true. The problem is that once the children have reached their teens, the measures that need to be taken are pretty drastic because the parents have not been successful in their early training of these children.

I think of childrearing as a process through which parents teach their children how to live their lives. It involves instruction in a large number of areas. It starts in the crib and if the parents stays “on message,” by five or six years old, the child will have gained a structure that will help him function for his whole life.

The internal structure of the child, akin to the framework of a building, includes basic trust, honesty, respect, caring, giving, curiosity, cooperation, feelings about others, feelings about his or her own body, etc.

From the earliest days of a child’s life we cuddle them to give them a sense of security, we feed them to let them know that their needs can be met, and we protect them from danger by making sure that their environment is safe.

Later, we teach them that we need to share, that other people have needs, that hitting others hurts them and that instead of hitting, we can “make nice.” We teach them that they need to stay safe and to listen to their parents. In short, we indoctrinate them. By age five or six, if we have done our job, the child will look disapprovingly when someone throws a piece of trash on the ground. They will understand that it is not desirable for someone to shout in a quiet place. They will have a sense of what it means to live in a civilized society where people respect each other.

If we teach them when they are still young, they will carry those attitudes with them for their entire life. It doesn’t mean that they will never throw trash on the ground and never shout in a quiet place, but it does mean that they will know that it is not the right thing to do. They will have heard maybe a thousand times that this is a world that we need to share with others and that we cannot just be thinking of ourselves.

To teach these lessons, parents need to be consistent. Children need to see their parents’ actions as reflections of their instruction. Parents cannot expect their child to be respectful if they are not respectful. They cannot expect their children to be kind and caring if they are not kind and caring. They cannot expect their children to be honest if they are not honest.

Sometimes I speak to people about what I call intentional parenting. What it means is simply to sit down and think of what attributes parents want their children to have and then to focus their behavior and instruction in that direction. If parents have a picture of what their child should be as a teenager—not what sports he or she should excel in or not which subjects he or she could be a genius in but what qualities he or she should have—then their efforts are more likely to be effective.

Being a parent isn’t easy, but if you survive until they are out on their own, you can expect to enjoy the results…. And if you are really lucky, you might have a chance to see your children meet the very same challenges.

Filed Under: Emotional health, Family life, Parenting

Lighting candles with Grandmom

May 25, 2005 by

Recently I have been thinking about the impact that one generation makes on another. Someone once quipped that grandparents and grandchildren get along well because they have a common enemy. In my case, my grandparents had a large influence because of their unqualified love for me. I wrote this several years ago as a tribute to my maternal grandmother, Rose Tizer. It takes place in 1949.

My name is Rona. I am 4 years old. I live in Philadelphia. I have green eyes and rosy cheeks and dark brown hair. When my mother washed it this morning, she twisted it, piece by piece, and told me to hold it so that when it dried, I had curls like Shirley Temple. I feel pretty and I feel special because tonight, when my parents are home, I will stay here with my grandmom and grandpop and I know they will spoil me.

I think about what it will be like to stay here tonight. When it’s time to go to sleep, I will walk up the stairs that are at the back of the living room. When I get to the top of the steps, I will turn left and walk through Uncle Albert’s room to the spare room where I sleep. In the room there is a big bed with a bedspread on it. I love the bedspread. It has raised parts that are fluffy when I touch them and they make a design. I think about letting my fingers glide along the fluffy parts and following them all over the bedspread. I can do it even in the dark. But it doesn’t really get dark because in order to get to the bathroom, my grandparents and Uncle Albert have to walk through the spare room and so as not to wake me, they leave the light on in the bathroom. Being here is exciting and the light being on makes me want to stay up.

There is another reason that it is not easy to sleep here. Behind the row of stores in which my grandparents live, there is a brewery. The whole neighborhood smells of beer all the time. When we drive down Second Street I always get excited just smelling the beer and knowing that soon we will be at Grandmom and Grandpop’s. Because the train transports the cases of bottles of beer, there are railroad tracks right outside the window and all night long when the train sits on the tracks, the warning bells ring.

It is a cold winter day. It is a Friday and my grandmother is getting ready for shabbos. I can smell the chicken and I know that there will be soup. She puts very thin noodles in the soup and she calls them “luckshen” but I know they are just noodles. I like fishing around in the soup for the noodles and, to tell the truth, they are the only reason I eat the soup at all. Well, really, there is one other reason. I don’t know why, but whenever I finish everything on my plate or in my bowl, my grandmother gets very very happy. It’s like by just eating, I do something that she’s very proud of.

Now I see her sitting at the table in the kitchen. The table is still not set and it is getting to be late afternoon. She is sitting with a big stack of money in her hands and she is laying it out in piles, counting strangely. I try to count like her sometimes: one-tzik, two-tzik, three-tzik, but everyone starts laughing and I realize I don’t have it right yet, so I listen harder the next time, but she just counts too fast.

Soon the men who work in grandpop’s store come in. One by one, she gives them the piles of money, counting them again as she hands them to the workers. Then she puts the tablecloth on the table and sets it for dinner. Now comes the magical time.

Grandmom goes over to the stove. On the flat part next to the burners she sets up two big candlesticks and two little ones. She puts a scarf over her head and says, “Come, Rona; it’s time to bench licht.” I go to her and she covers her eyes and says something that I cannot hear, but I know it is a prayer. I too cover my eyes and all I can think of is how special it is to be Grandmom’s girl and to light these candles with her. It’s something I can always count on. The kitchen feels warm, and full of candlelight and Grandmom’s love, and the cold, darkening sky is not so cold or dark anymore.

Filed Under: Emotional health, Family life, Spirituality

Chana’s Kitchen

May 23, 2005 by

This is an article I wrote a long time ago.

Chana’s Kitchen

Last night I saw Chana’s kitchen. It was about 8:30 p.m. and Chana’s husband, David needed to pick up a prescription, but their daughter, Sara, who is three years old, was sleeping soundly in her room, her blue eyes closed and her blond hair curling around her face. He couldn’t leave her alone, so I went to watch Sara while my husband gave him a ride over to the pharmacy.

It’s a small apartment. Just big enough for the three of them. An apartment filled with toys and games and magazines and books and love. And Sara slept , dreaming, perhaps pleasant dreams.

And I sat in the living room and looked into the kitchen and a stab of pain hit me almost as if it were a real knife stabbing into me. There was Chana’s kitchen. There was her microwave and her double oven and the stand mixer. There were the dishrack and the dishes. In that place, Chana made breakfast and dinner, holiday meals and snacks, cookies and cakes for her husband and her daughter and her parents and siblings.

But now Chana is far away. She lies in a bed, connected to a machine that helps her breathe. Since the murderous attack at Sbarro’s last August 9 that killed 15 innocent people, Chana has been in a coma. When Sara wants to see her mother, she is taken to the rehab center and there she lovingly touches her mother, kisses her, brushes her hair. Chana’s parents spend most of their days doing exercises with Chana to try and stimulate her brain so that she will wake up. They gently talk to her, hold items with different aromas under her nose, sing to her, and exercise her limbs, straightening out her contracted fingers. Once, recently, they saw Chana react to Sara. Tears formed in her eyes.

So they pray and we pray. And last night, looking at her kitchen, I prayed that soon she would return to her parents, to her siblings, to her husband, and to her daughter. I prayed to see her smiling face as she returns home and reclaims her kitchen.

The bombing of Sbarro’s took place on August 8, 2001. Chana is still in a coma. Chana’s web page is http://www.geocities.com/racharik/chana.html

Filed Under: Family life, Israel

Coping Skills

May 18, 2005 by

Everyone knows that people are born with their individual packages of abilities. Some people are excellent at doing mathematical calculations, adding multiple digits in their head before they enter kindergarten. Some people have musical talents that seem incredible. Recently I saw a piece on television about a young man whose first drawings were of staves of music and who was writing symphonies when his age was still in the single digits. Similarly, there are people whose bodies are so flexible that at young ages they already are doing amazing gymnastic feats. Indeed, we are not all created equal.

Of course environment is an important intervening factor. A home environment that allows a person to grow and develop in his or her field is very important, and indeed, most of the geniuses we hear about might never have achieved such stature without the support they got from their parents.

There are other talents that are less visible and less recognized. One of them is resilience. Some children seem to be born emotionally stronger than others. They seem to land on their feet no matter how much they are buffeted. These children possess a strength that most people don’t recognize: coping skills.

Coping skills are what allow a person to act in their own best interest in the worst of circumstances. They are what enable people to endure difficult situations without screaming or panicking. They provide for people a mechanism for dealing with difficult situations. Instead of taking the advice, “When in danger or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout” (The Notebooks of Lazarus Long by Robert A. Heinlein) these people find a constructive response.

Once I had a young girl as a client. Her parents were going through a long and acrimonious divorce. It included public scenes, accusations, threats, and a lot of yelling. She was brought to me so that I could provide support. During the first session I asked her what she did when her parents were having a fight. She said that most of the time she would go to her room, close the door, and listen to music or call a friend. Sometimes she would take a shower. Sometimes she would go out and take a walk.. She proceeded to give me about ten more ways that she coped with her parents’ fighting. I was astounded. Here was a young girl who had the ability to make the world safe for herself by finding something to do to distract herself from the helpless and sad feelings that she could have been experiencing.

It was knowing her that helped me to understand that coping was indeed a skill that some people naturally possessed and others did not.

Some people, in stressful situations try to go head to head with the person or people who are causing them trouble. Often, that is counterproductive. When others are acting irrationally, then the best response is to stay rational. Often I tell my clients that in a stressful situation, “somebody has to be the grown-up.” Someone needs to keep thinking creatively and decide what the best course of action is. Sometimes it is to walk away. Sometimes it is to remain unruffled. Sometimes it is to comfort the person who is being unpleasant. Sometimes there is nothing to remedy the situation, but the person who copes with it effectively knows that at least he or she remained rational.

Parents can help their children by beginning to teach them coping skills early in life. Explaining to a hysterical three year old, “You don’t have to cry; you can tell me with words,” is the beginning of helping a child to understand that he or she doesn’t have to fall apart when things are not optimal. “Think of how handsome you will look when the barber is finished cutting your hair,” is a way of saying that one can cope with a process for the sake of the result. This will come in handy someday when the child will have tasks that do not give immediate rewards. “You are looking tense; why don’t you go outside and get some exercise” teaches the child that sometimes exercise can relieve stress. Parents should make note of how they themselves cope and teach those tricks to their children.

We are not all born as well equipped as my little client, but coping skills can be taught and practiced. The more techniques we learn, the better we are able to deal with our day to day lives.

Filed Under: Emotional health, Parenting, Relationships

Is anybody listening?

May 16, 2005 by

One of the first things I noticed about Israel is that everyone is involved in the country in a way unlike anything I had seen in the US. Every minimally educated Israeli can recognize a large percentage of Knesset members and cabinet members by sight. They can tell you who is a member of which of the myriad parties, what party he or she used to belong to and whether he or she is someone you can trust. Politicians seen on television or in a restaurant are always identified by their faces. Most politicians are identified by their voices on the radio. There are no places to hide.

Israel is simply too small a country. It really is just a very big family. If in the US there are six degrees of separation—that is any random person is connected with any other somehow through only six sets of relationships, in Israel, the number is much lower. In fact, it is rare for us to meet anyone with whom we have no one in common.

Similarly, everyone is involved in the political situation. The country from long before its founding has been under attack. The shomrim guarded the earliest modern settlements from marauding Arabs and in 1929, long before statehood, the Jews of Hebron were massacred. So here we are a big family who have constantly been under attack by our neighbors since before we were born (not to mention throughout history.) That pushes emotions pretty high. Everyone here realizes that survival is a constant struggle. All of us know that we are vastly outnumbered by people who seek to destroy us. So what do we, the common citizens do about it?

We fight with each other.

Actually, although most of us are capable of civil debate, we usually express our strong opinions to those who already agree with us. It saves our noses and cuts down on the use of gauze pads. We are a hot-blooded people and there is nothing more emotionally stressful than a debate over what the government should or should not be doing.

Now add to the mix two more elements (at least… my almost brother is sure to remind me of the ones I forgot) Add the fact that Israel has a limited concept of democracy and the need of Israel never to anger the US who is our benefactor and protector.

Now what we have is a bunch of hot-headed people talking to other people who agree with them and getting more and more stirred up about the rightness of their approach to survival. They decide that they are so right that really the other side should not have the right to oppose their ideas even by what in the US would be called legitimate protest or civil disobedience. They believe that what they want to do is the only course of action acceptable to the US government, So what we have now in Israel is prior restraint. That is, possible protestors and organizers of possible protests are being arrested and questioned for days and sometimes weeks. Today, as the people opposed to the expulsion from Gaza prepared for peaceful demonstrations, buses of young people were stopped and not allowed to proceed so that people could not get to the demonstrations.

In the end, the protest was effective. At intersections all around Israel from the north to the south, protestors held signs and chanted, “Jews do not expel Jews.” The message was expressed, but will it be heard?

Filed Under: Israel, Ramblings
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