Memories of an Indian upbringing - The Keys to the Garden: Israeli Writing in the Middle East

Literary Review, Wntr, 1994 by Ilana Sugbaker, Ammiel Alcalay

People mill around at the intermission: a friend from Yavne, another from Kiryat Gat, a chance to greet a relative who came this month from India--father went to school with her there.

On her second cassette, Zahava sings an Indian song. An Indian song in Hebrew. Zahava singing an Indian song. So what? But I still feel a little weird about it. Zahava takes something that is "mine" and interprets it the way she wants. After all, Zahava is Moroccan with a heavy Turkish influence, right? So Zahava sings an Indian song, what's the big deal? Nevertheless, deep within me that same chord strikes, to sing, to dance. Just like in the movies, like in the songs, to be beautiful and have long hair, to be a great dancer. But, really, what do I have to do with Indian songs? Zahava sings an Indian song. Actually, that's nice. I would even say, really nice. Great, Zahava. Ten and a half.

The dancers have pure skin, their clothes are bright. With tiny bells on their ankles, they perform classical and modern pieces, to the pleasure of everyone. Long, fake braids. Sequins. Flowers. Movies. The winner is declared. A dancer in violet; a charismatic dance, but lacking spirit. They're well-trained, these dancers from Kiryat Shmone, Beersheba, Dimona, Ramla, Lod, Ashdod, Kiryat Ata, and Or Yehuda. Twenty-year-olds, at most. Salt of the earth. Israelis, like me. Like you.

At the grocery, everyone wishes each other a good New Year. The days flow on again, streaming off in hidden torrents. A magical spring, stories about life, stories from life. Once tales gathered the spirit in. Now a heat wave does it.

Allenby, the summer is full of sounds from the banks of the Volga, accordion tunes from Broadway, and I struggle not to dole out a cent. At the Carmel Market, Russian immigrants grunt as they inspect the loads of meat displayed at the butchers. Pork is at a premium. I see their eyes pop out at the huge, tender pieces. Craving for a taste. They're hungry, starved to the soul. For them, the Carmel Market isn't the crowds and the awful stench, the misery and oppression, not even the vulgarity. On the contrary, they don't even look at the people. Their gaze is transfixed. They can't get enough of the abundance of food displayed. Lusting vision. I take a look: damn straight, there is a hell of a lot of food in the Market. That the prices are high, that's another story.

What fascinated my parents when they came to the country? What surprised them in their first years? I don't know. My, my, am I sinking into all the miserable baggage that goes along with those days again? The dark fifties? My mother claims that if the water here is tainted the way it was there, that is, in India, then what was the point of coming at all. We were infected. Father, still an innocent boy, loves the country--he discovers innovative methods to raise chickens in the Moshav. The conveyer belt produces like a wood-chip factory in Taiwan. Taken hostage by technology. Something or other simply blinded them, one of the enchanted country's miracles. Maybe the army, maybe proximity to the revered west, maybe the myths of peoplehood.