Joel Schalit

The Magic Word

On the way back from Milan’s Triennale museum, Jennifer and I ran into an info booth for the Refounded Communist Party. Sickle and hammer-themed flags were flying everywhere, it seemed.

Pulling out my camera, I was immediately accosted by a woman who said that she wanted to talk to me about the upcoming EU elections. Hoping she’d leave me alone, I replied that I didn’t speak Italian.

“Where are you from?” the lady responded in perfect, American-accented English. Knowing I’d send her running, I said “Israel.” Within seconds, she’d turned around and began walking away.

Who Stole The Soul?

It looks like a promo pic from classic hip-hop record. The kind the publicist used to slide in the sleeve of a 12″. These Haredim look so positively lost in their own thoughts, they might as well be stoned.

What these poor guys were doing sporting their Sunday best (not quite, but you get the idea) on a May day in which temperatures reached well past 100 fahrenheit in Zurich is beyond me.

Grand Theft Demo

Speaking of the repurposing of technology-associated imagery by the Italian left, the reliance on the packaging of the best-selling video game Grand Theft Auto, for this demo advert, is abundantly clear.

Take special note of the use of English in the poster. It makes an enormous amount of sense given the intense degree of politicization accorded immigration by the Berlusconi government.

Besides, every time I’ve ordered myself a kebab, gone out for Eritrean food, or ordered the ever-ubiquitous Milanese delicacy, sushi, I’ve found English to be far more commonly employed than Italian.

Secret Weapons Factory

The Iranians are under the carpets. Quite literally. Imagine my shock when, upon exiting the elevator this morning, I found a stack of these flyers prominently displayed in our lobby.

Because my Italian is so bad, (not to mention my eyesight) the first thing I saw was “agenda” instead of “aziende,” which in English means “firm” or “business.”

A closer examination revealed that it is a brochure for an Iranian-owned, Persian rug cleaning company. I must be reading too many right-wing newspapers, I joked, as I left the building.

Mother and Child Reunion

My parents used to live a couple of doors down from this illustration.  There was no such thing as art in the square back then. At least not like this.

I taught a middle aged relative how to fix a flat tire in front of this spot, too. It was 1995. He’d just arrived from Uruguay, and told me he’d never driven before.

Kikar Hamedinah, Tel Aviv. 11/5/09.

They Call It Mimesis

One of my favorite parts of Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno‘s account of German anti-Semitism is their emphasis upon the the role of mimesis, or imitation, in racism. The Nazis did not want to destroy Jewish identity as much as take it over, they argued in their masterwork, The Dialectic of Enlighenment.

The strength of Horkheimer and Adorno’s argument does not just lie in the correctness of their analysis. It is also present in its applicability to other instances of racism, apart from that which discriminates against Jews. Take this Northern League poster here in Milan as but one example.

Warning Italians that they risk becoming the equivalent of Native Americans confined to future reservations, this poster encourages voters to fear the demographic threat of foreign immigration. That many of these immigrants are actually indigenous Americans, from Latin America, is it’s own mimetic moment.

In the first installment of Everywhere But There, a new column I’ve begun writing for Zeek, I discuss tensions over race in Italy, from the vantage point of the Arab-Israeli conflict.

Future Perfect

Rough trans: The good will overcome the bad. Ibn Gvirol, near the Ministry of Defence. Tel Aviv, 11/5/09.

Life in Captivity

A poster child for those seeking to demonstrate the Israeli government’s failings to properly look after its citizenry, or a prisoner of the larger Arab-Israeli conflict, the figure of Gilad Shalit has come to symbolize almost every conceivable kind of victimization Israelis suffer from.  So ubiquitous has his image become, both in Israel and in the Diaspora, Shalit’s captivity has been used as though it were a reminder to Jewry that it is collectively hostage, and that everything is, as usual, threatening to spin out of its control.

Pity the parents of POWs like Shalit, who have to contend with the uses of their children for such ends. Granted, Noam Shalit (pictured here) has put himself in the public eye for longer than anyone can remember, in order to get the government to secure the release of Gilad. Yet, the defacement of Shalit here, in this Tel Aviv phone booth – eyes crossed out, the word “Inspire”, in English, scrawled on his mouth – suggest a weariness with how Noam’s image, as an anxious father, has been put to as many partisan uses as his son.

King George Street, 5/5/09.

Hadera Boombox

The manager of the garage offered me a cup of coffee. “Bo, Yoel,” he said, inviting me in to the office. Asking me how I wanted it prepared, I told him I’d prefer it black, with sugar. The message was immediately relayed to his secretary, who replied sharply “I’m a Yemenite. I know how to make coffee like that.”

A few minutes later, I took a cup of instant Turkish coffee into the garage, to join my father as he spoke to the mechanic about the repairs to his car that were required. To my left stood this vintage 1980s era boombox, which announced itself ever so subtly by serving as a conduit for a local Arab music station.

“You ought to be on Dizengoff, not in a garage” said my father to a woman wearing knee high patent leather boots, who immediately drew up a receipt for the work that was agreed on. The complement was not immediately understood. If it was, she wasn’t taking it. None of us, including the mechanic, was entirely clear.

“You mean on the Mizrahi side of the street?” she replied in Hebrew, handing us our paperwork.

The Road to Nazareth

What would the Americans say? Wadi Ara, near Umm al-Fahm, Sunday afternoon.