The Yom Kippur Follies

“On Rosh Hashanah will be inscribed and on Yom Kippur will be sealed how many will pass from the earth and how many will be created; who will live and who will die; who will die at his predestined time and who before his time; who by water and who by fire, who by sword, who by wild beast, who by famine, who by thirst, who by storm, who by plague, who by strangulation, and who by stoning.” – The U’Netaneh Tokef Prayer (I don’t know how to correctly cite biblical stuff, though).

U’Netaneh Tokef is a prayer Jews recite on Yom Kippur, our day of repentance.  For me, the prayer has little significance.  Still, I have fond memories of Cantor Simon’s rendition back home in New Jersey.  He would riff for about thirty minutes, and the congregation would (not really) listen to his obnoxiously loud and quasi-operatic voice.  His falsetto was to die for, and after a half-day of fasting or fake fasting, it really hit the spot. 

I would usually spend part of that half-hour drearily reading through the prayer’s English translation—which, in general, is never a good idea—and wondering what “perishing by wild beast” would be like.  Really, you’d think the author would have the foresight to include car crashes and cancer in the U’Netaneh Tokef.  I don’t think many people are mauled by lions or stoned to death anymore.

Anyway, the prayer is especially pertinent to us spending Yom Kippur in Ethiopia, since there are quite a few hyenas living in the country.  And they can go to town on humans.  Perishing by wild beast is a real possibility here, so I made sure to pray extra hard this Yom Kippur…PSYCHE!  I still just sort of sat and let my thoughts wonder in an attempt to ward off boredom.

This Yom Kippur was definitely unique.  I went to a service led by Israelis and a few Adenite Jews (who have roots in what is now Yemen) at a very small synagogue in Addis Ababa.  It’s an Orthodox service that’s entirely in Hebrew, so I naturally felt even more out of place than I usually do.  At the Kol Nidre service on Tuesday night there were probably around 35 people packed inside.  But on Wednesday there was hardly a minyan—defined by most of the dudes there as a group of ten Jewish men—so I felt a bit obliged to stay there for a good chunk of time. 

The synagogue is next door to a huge mosque, so we (or really, the people who actually knew how to read the prayers and text) sometimes had to compete with the blaring call to prayer—which I thought was neat.  And the synagogue’s bathroom consists of a hole in the ground.  So those were both firsts for me.

The service itself featured of a bunch personal mishaps and Sam Lewin-esque obliviousness, which sometimes rubbed off on the rest of the congregation.  Here is list of those mishaps and other meditations (that’s one of my first times using the word “meditations” in this context; how did I do?) on my first Yom Kippur in Addis:

1.     I bought a big water bottle before going to shul.  Since I drink water all the time, I brought the bottle with me.  So I walked into the Kol Nidre (Yom Kippur eve) service with a huge bottle of water.  This is a big no-no, since probably almost everybody else at the synagogue was fasting, which includes not drinking.  But I only realized my error when halfway through the service I picked up my water bottle to take a drink.  I spent the remainder of that service trying to hide the bottle behind my legs.  When everyone left, I tried to slyly take the bottle with me.  I don’t think I was so sly.

2.     I never knew where we were in the service…ever.  I usually do okay when the rabbi reads page numbers, but at this service everyone had different books, and congregants were expected to know how to perform basic service tasks—like praying and following along.  Yet everybody still repeatedly glanced over their neighbor’s shoulder, trying to figure out which prayer to haphazardly mumble the words to.  Few people had the courage to admit that they really just had no idea.  I ended up using my default opening the book to some random page and then flipping it periodically technique, which I supplemented with occasional vague mouth movements.

But while the Hebrew-ness of the service made it nearly impossible to follow, I can’t say that I miss responsive English readings—i.e. the hallmark of Reform and some Conservative services in the U.S.  Maybe if responsive readings were even remotely poetic and meaningful it would be okay, but usually they are just verbatim translations of prayers and songs.  So the English is biblical, archaic and ugly.

Which brings me to…

3.     When I got bored—like most of the time—I would try to slowly read through the Hebrew.  Upon remembering that I can’t really read or understand Hebrew, I would look at the English translations of prayers, chuckle at their ridiculousness, and then daydream.  Or something…like going outside and playing snake on my phone.  (I never had a phone in middle school, so I missed out on all of the cool simple games.  Now that I’m rocking a retro Nokia, I play snake to pass the time all the time).  I also silently—and sometimes not-so-silently—practiced different drum things on my legs.

4.     I still don’t know how to wear a big tallit (a Jewish prayer shawl).  I can do okay with the small ones, but the big tallitot require all kinds of throwing them over your shoulder.  When someone hands me a tallit, I’m always scared it will be big.

5.     When there were only nine other people in the service, someone asked me to carry the torah.  I’m terrified to carry torahs because they’re awkwardly-shaped and heavy—and, most importantly, if you drop a torah you’re supposed to fast for 40 days and 40 nights.  (I think.  My Hebrew School fun-facts could use some brushing up).  That’s a pretty straightforward utility calculation for me.  Costs: Carrying an awkwardly-shaped and heavy object; possibly dropping it and fasting for 40 days and 40 nights.  Benefits: Some possible, non-immediate and unidentifiable spiritual gratification.  Needless to say, I pawned off the honor on some sucker.

6.     Someone also asked me to go up to the bimah (the front podium part of a synagogue) for an aliyah—which is when you say the prayers before and after someone reads from the torah.  This is considered a big honor.  After much trembling and internal-debating about not wanting to make a fool out of myself, I went up and stumbled through the prayers.  The two more learned (make sure you pronounce this as learn-ed) Jews at the bimah fed me the words.  The text wasn’t up there—as it is in many American synagogues—since the congregants at this synagogue probably assume that everyone knows simple, fundamental prayers.  But not me.  I don’t think I’ve had an aliyah since my Bar Mitzvah nine years ago.  And I went to a not-very-Jewish school for the past four years, where I attended maybe four services.

Anyway, after recovering from my humiliation, I listened to other people recite the prayers before and after reading from the torah, and I realized…

7.     I miss Jews with thick Long Island accents.  Virtually every Jew living in the Northeast has at least one grandparent from Long Island or New York, at the very least.  And I don’t think it’s possible to be a Jewish grandparent from Long Island who doesn’t have a thick accent. 

Whenever Jews have Bar or Bat Mitzvahs, they invite their Long Island grandparents up for aliyahs.  So growing up in a Northeast synagogue, you always hear aliyahs being chanted in thick accents.  Which I think hilarious.  My favorite is the way Long Islanders pronounce adonai, the Hebrew word for god, as adoonoooy.  It gets me every time, and now I miss it.

8.     There were times when over half of the people at this service were asleep.  Do services need to last the whole day if everybody is too tired to actually focus on repentance?

9.     Israelis like Crocs too much.

10.   I still don’t know when to sit down and when to stand up.  Silent prayers are especially tricky, since you can usually sit when you’re done.  I usually just wait for someone who looks more religious than me to sit down.  The trick, though, is that no one else knows when to sit down either, so if you sit down first others will follow suit.  But if they don’t, you’ll look like a secular jerk.  Which you are, of course…at least if you’re me.  

….

On Yom Kippur, God is supposed to seal the book of life, which I guess contains everybody’s fate—like whether they’ll live or die.  I wonder if he uses Excel spreadsheets…

My brother and I have a running joke that if god has a book of life, he must also have a book of death.  And that, in a slightly twisted way, is a hilarious image to me.  So, may you all not be inscribed in the book of death.  Peace.

New Year Showdown…and sheep and digressions… and ellipses…PART 1

Last week, on September 11, Ethiopians celebrated their New Year.  Since the Ethiopian calendar is seven years behind the Gregorian calendar, they’re just now starting 2005.  So shhh…don’t spoil the Red Sox’ World Series win in 2007, Phish’s reunion in 2009, Charlie Parker’s reemergence (with Tupac) in 2010, the beginning of eternal world peace in 2011, and all that other good stuff.  But then, just as Ethiopia was getting all New Yearsed out…BAM!!!  God hit us with Rosh Hashanah, the beginning of the Jewish New Year, which started this past Sunday night!!!  TWO NEW YEARS IN ONE WEEK!!!  DOES THAT MERIT A BLOG POST OR WHAT?!  The phenomenon seems like it also lends itself to a New Years comparison—or possibly even a New Years showdown—but I’ll probably get lazy and just talk about one and then the other.

Ethiopians often slaughter sheep or (more affordable) chickens for New Years.  Since I wasn’t about to pass up on one of the most quintessential encootatash (New Years) traditions, our Ethiopian New Years Eve started with a visit to the sheep market.  (Actually, my use of “sheep market” may imply that there was only one place to buy sheep in Addis, which would be totally misleading.  In fact, the city was filled with sheep in the days leading to the 11^th.  Every other block functioned as an ad-hoc sheep market, as livestock poured into the streets and complicated an already aggravating traffic situation).

We had planned to buy our sheep early in the day, but as per usual, those plans got postponed and re-postponed. Pretty soon it was “too late” to buy a sheep, at least according to my friends doing the selecting, bargaining, and buying.  Crowded spaces can be dangerous at night, and it’s also more difficult to see revealing sheep features—like the whiteness of the teeth (which shows age) and spine and tail size (which have something to do with the meat vs. fat ratio, I think). 

We eventually ended up buying the sheep at night regardless, and the market was nuts.  There were tons of sheep and people mixed into a small grassy strip next to the side of the road, with rush hour traffic (which is like a six hour ordeal here) whizzing past.  The other foreigners and I stayed in the taxi to avoid getting overcharged, though our driver hopped out to help with the selection.  (Are there any New York cab drivers that double as sheep consultants?)  My habesha (Ethiopian) friends proceeded to inspect several sheep, buy a big one, tie its legs together, and throw it into the trunk of our taxi!  (The sheep-in-trunk was one of several modes of sheep transport; the others included tying live sheep to the top of cars or minibuses—a la Mitt Romney’s dog—and the sheep backpack, which I’m naming after this dude who rode a bike with a live sheep tied to his back).  Thus began my first experience—to my knowledge, anyway—of riding in a car with a live mammal in the trunk.  When we got to my friend Bayelgn’s house, we unloaded the sheep, tied him up in the yard, gave him some grass, and let him chill overnight. 

The next day we woke up early after an incredible night of dancing and New Years partying (more on that in the next post) and headed back to Bayelgn’s house.  He was adamant about slaughtering the sheep at 9:30 that morning, but we still waited at his house for about an hour since he was at church (another example of the looser conception of time here).  When Bayelgn finally arrived, he showed up with a butcher—I think he was also the shepherd/seller—who agreed to slaughter our sheep for free if we let him keep the skin, which costs about 50 birr.  (I asked several people what they do with sheepskin, but the only answers I got were that it’s either sold at markets of exported abroad).

The slaughter itself was straightforward and devoid of any ceremonial bells and whistles.  The butcher quickly wrestled the sheep to the ground, slit his throat, and bled him into a bucket.  The sheep kicked and spasm-ed for a while after the initial cut (mostly because of reflexes), but the butcher soon hung him upside down and removed the head and guts.  The butcher then removed the skin and was careful to preserve as much of the sheep as possible.  He set down organs and innards in bowls and even drained and washed the stomach.  The whole process took around 20 minutes and left us with several large plates of meat and a bowl filled with blood.  Finally, the butcher tied up our sheep’s skin, added it to his growing collection, and went on his way.

We ate the sheep later that day, and it was delicious.  There were a bunch of different sauces with sheep meat, which we ate with injera (sour, spongy traditional bread).  I don’t think I’ve ever had the satisfaction of eating meat that fresh, except for maybe fresh fish like 15 years ago.  And it really was satisfying; I had fewer reservations than might be expected, and I wasn’t too grossed out by the whole process.  However, I’m sure that quite a few people who read the last few paragraphs might be a bit grossed out by my not-so-vivid description of sheep slaughter.  So allow me to explain (i.e. finally make a point)…

In America, for the most part, we have no idea where our food comes from—meat or otherwise.  We just go to the supermarket, buy ground meat, and go home and make a burrito.  Or—for the cooking-impaired—we’ll go to Taco Bell and order a burrito.  For those of us who care more, we may check for “organic,” “farm raised,” or “grass-fed” labels, or maybe we’ll pay even more and go to an “organic” supermarket.

In Ethiopia, at least in my experience, it is nearly impossible to buy meat that isn’t organic, grass-fed, etc.  I’ve talked to farmers who say they wouldn’t even be able to afford pesticides if they wanted to.  Moreover, the country is landlocked, so the produce is just about all local (whatever that means)…even the stuff they sell at grocery stores.  (Though minimarts do sell Arabic brand pringles, and the Sheraton imports Scandinavian fish for sushi).

Yet it seems like the natural American-meat-eater reaction to Ethiopian sheep slaughter is to cringe.  Which to me seems a bit ironic because it’s not like the meat we eat in America isn’t killed.  In fact, the animals are raised with hormones and all this crap and are then killed in factory farms.  There is a huge disconnect—so much so that we become queasy when we see how a living sheep turns into food.

I’ll let the experts figure out agricultural policy, and I think there are more than enough people rehashing the debates surrounding vegetarianism and meat eating.  I’ll just say that if I’m going to eat meat, I’d prefer to know where it’s coming from…and that doesn’t just mean looking at a label in Whole Foods.

P.S. I know I have friends who know a lot more about food than me, so if you’d like to comment, please do.  And if the blog doesn’t let you (or makes it complicated), let me know, and I’ll look into it.

(That ended up being longer than expected, so stay tuned for PART 2 to read about the rest of the New Years showdown (the italics mean that you should pronounce the word “showdown” like an obnoxious macho-man sportscaster)). 

Second Impressions

Hello “Western” world…and I guess a few readers who live in the “non-Western” world.  (That distinction is still sort of lost on me since the earth is a sphere, but for the sake of convention and laziness, I’ll use it).  It’s been a really hectic and volatile second/third week here in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, which is the main reason why it has taken me so long to write another post.  I think I’ll try to update this once a week, but that entirely depends on my schedule and mood.  It’s such a blessing to be able to write without any deadlines after four years of sleep-deprivation, bleary eyes, and sprinting to turn papers in on time; we’ll see if I’m at all productive, blog-wise.

But onto why the past few days (okay, more like the past two weeks) have been crazy.  First, the Ethiopian Prime Minister, Meles Zenawi, and the Ethiopian Pope (the head of the Ethiopian Orthodox church) both died within days of each other.  There had been some speculation about Meles, since he was abroad for a month, but his death still came as something of a surprise and may well shake up the country’s political scene. After all, he had been in power as both president (1991-1995) and prime minister (1995-2012) for over twenty years.

Not surprisingly, there has been a lot of mourning recently—for both leaders.  More than a week and a half later, their deaths still monopolize TV programs, radio shows, and even conversations.  (Michael Jackson, anyone?)  Although my Amharic is worse than elementary, it’s easy to make out the name “Meles” when it’s repeated over and over again. 

Vendors sell photos of Meles on the streets, which then get plastered on minibuses, restaurants, hotels, and some home interiors.  There are shrines throughout Addis, and when Meles’ body was returned to Ethiopia, habeshas flocked to see the motorcade make its way through the city.  Funeral-related traffic has been crazy, and the police have shut down major streets during remembrances.  Perhaps most impressively, I went to a restaurant where the entire staff was decked in shirts prominently displaying Meles’ face.

Both TV and radio programs play solemn tribute music—featuring either a solo flute or piano—ad-nauseam. The music sometimes wakes me up as it’s blasted from different shops down the street, but it lulls me back asleep when I half-consciously listen on my way to work. Solo flute now provides the soundtrack of choice for restaurants and bars—especially those that can afford TVs, which almost inevitably broadcast some form of Meles tribute.  Frankly, I think the music is rather dull and repetitive, but I guess that’s not really the point; it’s played as a form of mourning.  I also always hear people humming along—including my driver—so I suppose I’m in the minority. Ubiquitous mourning music is an interesting phenomenon, and I don’t think there is a comparable tradition in the U.S. 

This has photo has nothing to do with the content of this post, but it helps break up the flow of text.

While the two deaths have shaken life in the country as a whole, my life in particular has also been pretty hectic.  (OK, that was a forced and kind of terrible transition, but the freedom to do that without any consequences—other than you exiting this page in disgust—is still a novelty.  Sorry.)  We sent a group of twelve patients to India for heart surgery on Wednesday, and it was gratifying to finally see them go, though of course it will be even more gratifying to see their healthy return.  It was also clear that the surgeries were urgent, as two patients died within weeks of the trip.  Even once we made it to the airport, a patient with a tumor in his heart struggled to walk to the plane.  I’ll provide updates on the surgeries as they come.

Not surprisingly, most of our work last week involved preparing for the trip…taking care of visas/passports, medical consent, keeping track of documents, booking flights, and making this brochure to help fund the surgeries.  We also recently started working with Watsi, a terrific organization/website that applies crowd-funding to low cost health care in the developing world.  You can donate what may seem like a trivial amount of money in the “Western” world (e.g. $10) and significantly contribute towards a life-saving heart surgery.  The website seems like it’s taken off; three of our patients are already fully funded, and we should have more up on the site shortly.

Some hot peppers.

After we sent the India patients on their way, one of Rick’s kids, a former spine patient who has lived in Rick’s house for the past several years, left later that night to attend high school in Ohio. He received his visa Wednesday afternoon, and then they booked him a flight for Wednesday night.  Talk about a quick turnaround; I can’t imagine having to pack a year’s worth of stuff in just a few hours!  But Americans have tons of stuff that we think we can’t live without (see: how can I go two days without my smart phone?), and we make like five Target runs before leaving home for a week.  (I made two Target runs and like three CVS runs before moving to Africa for a year, so I feel pretty good about myself).  In Ethiopia, for the most part, people have a lot less stuff, and a hell of a lot less junk.  In fact, American “junk” often becomes rather valuable here.  There are entire markets in Addis filled with not only used clothes, but also used electrical appliances, kitchenware, and toilet parts.  (The markets remind me of the “big market” in Freetown, which doubles as a touristy craft-market and spare toilet part depository).  It can sometimes seem like everything is worth something here…when I put out my laundry in a tote bag, our maid also washed the bag! 

I have slightly mixed-feelings about this, since at times it seems like the “Western” world just dumps stuff on Africa—without much oversight and local partnership—and thinks that it qualifies as aid.  Just because people use used things does not mean they want your ripped and stained crap.  As my friend Cat says in her recent blog post, “…garbage is garbage is garbage.  OUR problem of consumerism cannot be thrown over an ocean for someone else to deal with.”   

But while I think it’s important to think carefully about aid in itself and the possible consequences arising from certain kinds of aid or “aid,” I usually dig the whole using-used-stuff thing.  There certainly aren’t recycling PSA’s here—and I have yet to meet any liberal-arts-school grade environmentalists—but there is a whole recycling culture born out of necessity…or at least “fiscal responsibility.”  People reuse everything! 

But don’t get the idea that this is some kind of environmental utopia.  There aren’t really emission regulations here, so there is a lot of pollution.  Trash collection isn’t the best either, and I hear that loggers have demolished some high percentage of the country’s forests.  Still, the air is a lot cleaner out in the country, and I look forward to breathing once I have some time to travel.

There still are some country elements in Addis, though.  Here Bayelgn, a friend and colleague, wrestles a goat.

Anyway, Ohio is a bit different than Addis, so he’s certainly in for a trip…literally.  His whole departure was made even more ridiculous by the fact that a film crew followed him around during his last few hours in Ethiopia. 

The film crew arrived early last week to film this documentary about Zemene, another former patient who now lives at Rick’s house.  It’s been great having them, but I’m still not used to having my every move be on camera.  They filmed basically everything that went on at Rick’s house—from silly conversations, to me sitting on my computer sending emails.  It seems like they’re onto a very compelling story, and it’ll be great to see the final product.  And yeah, being a movie star would be cool too.

There is so much more to write about, including my guard’s quasi-wedding last weekend.  But you’ll have to wait till next entry to read about that…if I haven’t scared you away yet.