How to be a Mensch

I have a theory (as opposed to a dream) that Heaven is a three-class Boeing 777. You can sit in a narrow seat that doesn’t recline and eat chicken-like substances next to a screaming baby in coach class. Or, you can sit in a slightly wider seat that reclines slightly more and eat a beef-like substance in business class.

But The Goal is to spend eternity in first class–specifically Singapore Airlines first class. Here your seat reclines to a completely flat position, and there’s a power outlet, personal video player, wireless access to the Internet , and noise-cancelling headphones. There are also chefs, not microwave ovens.

You cannot buy your way into first class; nor can you use frequent flyer miles. The only way to earn an upgrade is to be a mensch. Leo Rosten, the Yiddish maven  and author of The Joys of Yiddish,  defines  mensch this way:

Someone to admire and emulate, someone of noble character. The key to being “a real mensch” is nothing less than character, rectitude, dignity, a sense of what is right, responsible, decorous.

Here is my humble attempt to help you achieve menschdom.

1.         Help people who cannot help you. A mensch helps people who cannot ever return the favor. He doesn’t care if the recipient is rich, famous, or powerful. This doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t help rich, famous, or powerful people (indeed, they may need the most help), but you shouldn’t help only rich, famous, and powerful people.

2.         Help without the expectation of return. A mensch helps people without the expectation of return–at least in this life. What’s the payoff? Not that there has to be a payoff, but the payoff is the pure satisfaction of helping others. Nothing more, nothing less.

3.         Help many people. Menschdom is a numbers game: you should help many people, so you don’t hide your generosity under a bushel. (Of course, not even a mensch can help everyone. To try to do so would mean failing to help anyone.)

4.         Do the right thing the right way. A mensch always does the right thing the right way. She would never cop an attitude like, “We’re not as bad as Enron.” There is a bright, clear line between right and wrong, and a mensch never crosses that line.

5.         Pay back society. A mensch realizes that he’s blessed. For example, entrepreneurs are blessed with vision and passion plus the ability to recruit, raise money, and change the world. These blessings come with the obligation to pay back society. The baseline is that we owe something to society–we’re not a doing a favor by paying back society.

Exercise: It’s the end of your life. What three things do you want people to remember you for?

1.

2.

3.

Read more: http://blog.guykawasaki.com/2006/02/how_to_be_a_men.html#ixzz0qKpG2Q3K

At that time, we had just moved under not the happiest of circumstances and my brain was still clogged up with mourning: my relationship, my old house, my happy self and my happy hopes. I was desperately trying to inspire some soul into the flat I was renting, struggling to find a place for stuff bulging out of the moving boxes, keep a stiff upper lip and be a reasonably good mom to my two children – enfin, we were not the happy household we are today.

One day my son came home from school, telling me of a new Canadian classmate, Zac. Zac was cool, had a sister of three, his dad worked at a multinational and, could I imagine, his dad had had a lung and heart transplant, meaning that someone else’s heart and lung were living within him ?

This made me jolt: My goodness, I thought, now that must have been stressful for his wife.

My son’s bubbly chitchat went on: Zac had this and Zac had that, Zac was allowed to go hunting and fishing when in Canada…white noise…. white noise….”and can you imagine, Mom, their stuff will arrive only in a few weeks. I mean, isn’t that stupid? What, are they supposed to sleep on the floor?” Jolt again. Them sleeping on the floor is stupid?! That’s what we were doing at that time.

“Couldn’t we give them something, Mom?” I did not know whether to laugh or to cry – me, give them something?! It’s not like they are poor or what?! A big shot in a multinational…go to a hotel! Not again ! a classmate that has a gazillion trillion better gadgets than my children…. I guess they would look upon my Kringloop stuff with pity, in the best of cases. And who were they anyway ? What do I know….would I ever get my stuff back?!

“And I gave them your number, to call you, so you can meet” my son concluded. “No, you did not !!!!!” The genuine shock in his eyes revealed just how warped my inner monologue must have been, interrupting yet another episode of simmering in self-pity.

Begrudgingly, I went through our few household items, listing two blankets, some bedding I had just been given, three pillows, two pots, some sheets…. As I kept going through the boxes, I could feel the shard of ice in my heart melt away… I was searching for toys, for something funny and cuddly to give away, to make a home for my son’s friend…

When Zac’s mom Pam called to make an appointment to pick up the items I really, really, really did not want anybody to come through my door. Ok, I thought, I would just bring the stuff down and hand it to them over the threshold, and that’s that. When they came, all four of them, my son simply pushed me away and said: “ Hi, wanna come and see my room?”

Burning with shame on the inside, I asked the whole family in and offered tea. The children trundled upstairs within seconds, leaving me with two very nice people I did not want to have sitting around the mighty-ugly-true-fake-oak table from the Kringloop. Some conversation was dotting the screeching silence. More tea? I found myself dishing out unasked-for advice on how to feel at home in The Hague, eventually inviting them to church.“You go to church?” asked Pam. “Oh yes, we do. And what a church we have” Finally I had a story to tell. And I did.

After a good few weeks Pam invited us for dinner to their house, which was finally furnished with their own belongings. Her husband would then give us a lift back, she said, returning the things I had been so kind to lend them.

Their house, set in a rather posh part of our city, was fragrant with home cooking and we were received with the genuine simplicity and warmth only true friendship can breed. Not at all what I had expected. After a few minutes we sat down for dinner and prayed– now that was truly unexpected! And, after a delicious dinner, Pam said: “guys, should we do the prayer box? “

Pam’s prayer box, a smallish wooden box, was filled to the brim with cards bearing the names of loved ones. I learned that every evening, after dinner, the family would pull out a few names and pray for those thus called. Eventually, they prayed for the three of us being there, gracing their home, thanking God for friends in a strange country. My, was I humbled.

I did not meet up with Pam very often – she was a rather shy stay-at-home-mum and I was insanely busy, trying to get my life back on track. However, my few visits to her sunny, loving home left me with aching admiration for her. In the most noble sense of the word, she was the embodiment of the Biblical wife: wise and cheerful, serving her family in love and devotion. On the window sill, above the kitchen sink, she had a calendar with Bible quotations – and I could not help but check each time I was there and yes, the page was turned, every day. After finishing her domestic chores, she would actually manage to set aside about an hour a day to Bible reading and ‘listening to God’. Pam taught her children to walk His path, without taking away the fun and joy of their childhood. She kept a happy home without fuss or pretense and her”yes” was yes and her “no” was no. She was simply fun to be with, never too busy or too self absorbed to listen, smile or pray. Sometimes we would pray over the mobile; I was driving, she was baking…and it felt right. Modest in many ways, she was truly bold, when it came to talking to God. She was happy and fulfilled, yet puzzled at what her role might be during their stay in The Netherlands. “I’m waiting for God to tell me his plans”, she said, and I know she meant it.

In May 2008, out of the blue, Pam was diagnosed with terminal bowel cancer, at barely 38. A medical nurse herself, she fully understood the implications and kept saying: “it is not my time to go yet. “ Hoping for a different diagnosis, the family moved back to Canada within ten days. Facebook and a few emails kept me informed of the ups and downs of days and nights filled with pain, hope and whatever fun with the children was still possible.

In her general Christmas letter, Pam mentioned all the occasions God had given them to talk in public about His goodness and mercy, about how God stayed with them, every step of the walk. “Obviously, we are not privy to God’s plan in all of this, but He has carried us this far and we try to trust Him to continue this for as long as we live. May God richly bless you with his presence and his peace in your lives this 2009 Christmas season.” And then a few handwritten lines: ”We always enjoy hearing from you, and we have you in our prayer box and often bring you and yours before the throne. By the way, the recent scan was not as we would like. The cancer has invaded my lungs, left ovary and chest, causing pain in my shoulder…it is discouraging at times. I have asked God for 15 yrs to raise my kids, but I have not had a definite answer on that one. Sorry to end on a down note. Love you all. J “

Pam died this spring, on 9 May and was buried on Ascension Day. Her husband wrote an email that breaks my heart every time I read it:

Subject: Pam has gone to her final home – we miss her already

All,

It is with a very sad yet relieved heart that we let you know that my beautiful wife, Zac and Megan’s mom, Pam went to a much better place this afternoon after a short, final battle with cancer.

We are sad because there is never a right time. We are sad because we loved her so much. We are sad because it is a chapter of life we did not want to enter. We are sad because of unfulfilled dreams and plans. We are sad because there was so much more to be and do. We are sad because we already miss her so much.

We are relieved and hopeful because we know she is in a better place. A place where there is no longer any death or dying or pain or tears or wrong. A place where she will not be poked or prodded or examined or woken up for the wrong reason. She is with her Lord and Saviour and we will meet again.

We are thankful for the extra 2 years we got with her – time to do fun things, important things, grow a little older together.

I thank all of you who have helped us through this time. Please continue to pray for us.

Allen, Zac and Megan

I do not know what is worse: the pain of losing Pam before I had the chance to get to know her better or to know that God has sent an angel into my life and I did not pay attention. Sometimes God’s gifts go unnoticed, and this was a very precious one. I will, however, make a prayer box myself, to keep God’s gift of faith, hope and love flowing. Oh Pam, blessed be your memory!

In deep gratitude, miss you very much,

Eva

For someone raised in a theologically knowledgeable family, hymns go with the service as eggs go with meringue…I never thought too much about them. Listening to the excellent discourse, I found it striking how the shift went from celebrating the victory (early church), to sharing the suffering (medieval), from restoring the rule of law (Reformation) to the dawn of social conscience (Victorian), to Liberation Theology (20th century) and the sarcasm and imagery used in present day hymnody.

When we sang a hymn by Paul Gerhard translated into English, the tune, originally a German drinking song, struck a deep chord with me: a chorale, I had sung it myself last year in a performance of Bach’s St Matthew Passion.

What came out of all that came together, is a hymn for my dying father….same tune. Miserere nobis !

The end is near, oh Father,

I’m crying out to Thee!

I’ve seen his face in torment

I’ve seen his pain, his fear.

I thank Thee for the father,

the teacher, judge and friend;

Your son has borne in silence

Thy ruling – to the end.

The eyes, they seek no further,

just hold the sights go by.

The lips, they speak no longer,

just dam the breath and sigh.

The hands, they rest and tremble,

the feet unmoved and cold,

the ribs can barely barrage

the illness’ ravage, bold.

How long, oh how much longer

before You set him free ?

How many hours,I wonder,

before he is with Thee ?

Have mercy, Lord, upon him,

and take away his fear.

Reveal Thy face and call him

and let him know You’re near.

Your will be done, oh Father,

Your word will be fulfilled.

And in the darkest hour,

Your love will gently lead:

through deathes gripping gorges,

through fear of loss and pain

into the light that forges

the peace in which You reign.

13.3.2010

In the 80ies, Copsa Mica in Transylvania was one of the most polluted cities in Europe, due to a local factory that produced negru de fum – soot ! The entire city was black, from the leaves on the trees, to the ears of a donkey trotting along the black road…everything was just black. I shot a picture once at 6 am, in the ill-famed railway station; the sunrise was deep purple, like an aubergine.

I have been living in Western Europe for nearly twenty years now – and I am still bewildered about the politically correct pollution in this ‘civilised’ part of the world where people are bragging about how little they spend on food, where a pair of shoes can cost as little as 19.99 euro, where it is advisable to throw away appliances instead of repairing them…really angry about the big plastic box that displays a memory card the size of a stamp.

I get mad about the huge amounts of paper showed through my door, irrespective of all the stickers I have installed, stating that I DO NOT WISH TO RECEIVE ANY ADVERTISING MATERIAL ANY LONGER. No, njet, nada.

I have seen An Inconvenient Truth, I see it every day. And it frustrates me really badly, when my 13 year old son says, after seeing the film: But Mom, by the time the flood comes, at least you’ll be dead.

The older I grow, the more radical I get in my anger. I boycott shops that don’t give a damn about my plea  not to put the two colorful plastic straws into my smoothie. That have no paper cups for take away. That try to wrap my flowers into cellophane. That overpackage veggies and fruit. That have the airco on high. That leave too many light bulbs on during the night. That still hand out plastic bags.

I buy groceries from the organic market in the center of town (Wednesdays, at the Buitenhof - bring your own bags !) and from my Kurdish neighborhood store (Firat, Weimarstraat 268, 2563 HS Den Haag. Basic English spoken and smiles when they help with the shlepping) using a beautiful basket I bought from the Fair Trade Store.

I don’t drive beyond the city borders, unless I reallreally need to get there on time and there is reallyreally no public transport to take me there. I have stopped wrapping presents. I have not used a dryer since 2006. I go for wood, linen, metal, glass, paper, rubber, wool, cotton, straw and accept  plastic only in a medical context. When I fly, I pay into the carbon footprint scheme of the airline. Since I know that feeding steaks to a family of five costs the same in bad emissions as driving an SUV around the block for three hours, leaving all the lights on in the house, I am mindful of our meat consumption.

I am blessed with a wonderful Kringloop (www.kringloop.nl) store about seventeen doors down from my own. Except for food and underwear, it gives me all I need and before stuff comes in stuff must go out – to the same Kringloop (circle in Dutch) to hopefully make other people happy about their findings.  If I don’t find it there, I look in the Fair Trade store, Dille en Kamille  (Plaats 16, 2513 AE, The Hague, 070 3640284 ‎dille-kamille.nl) and a few other small, family run businesses in town.

I am no saint and I am not rich. Still, I am so much happier than in the years when I drank a lot of coffee with people I no longer miss. Being radical about this one life I have on planet Gaia leaves me a lot of tenderness and appreciation for all that is priceless: family and friends, good health, the spectacle of clouds in the sky, instant bottom-of-the-fridge dinners shared in good company, peace, the right to free movement, books, the right to make choices… and my list is looooong.

Ah, forgot to mention – I also sleep much better, although the world has definitely not become a better place since my ongoing epiphany.

If asked to tell what the play was all about, I’d have to think a bit – I was gripped by the sophisticated wealth of ideas, my thirteen year old son was impressed with the rap and the break dance elements, my slightly younger daughter loved the female performer’s necklace but loathed the bleeding body at the end and we all agreed that seeing it on a 17th century galleon creaking in the wind at night is a rather cool experience.

New Crusoe is a play that adapts to its surroundings: the opening night took place at the High Court in The Hague; for a few performances it moved to the VOC ship in Amsterdam, only to come back to The Hague’s Beelden aan Zee museum, to host the last remaining performances in a real dune, sea, sky and stars included, separated from the spectator by a mere sheet of glass.

Inspired by Hugo de Groot’s groundbreaking principle published 400 years ago, that the sea was international territory and all nations were therefore free to use it for trade and travel, the play was recently written by a Dutch philosopher, Ton Theo Smit and was commissioned by the city of The Hague.

It builds upon the ‘old’ Crusoe situation – what are the survival chances of a man pushed into the sea by pirates, stripped of all the modcoms of the first world ? In the 21st century, Hugo, the middle aged lawyer and philosopher, ends up stranded on an island, in the company of his sea-proof Samsonite and the many voices in his head. In defeat of loneliness, some of these voices materialize – into Osman, the breathtakingly beautifully built Somali pirate, Razi, the smoothly talking, in-control Kurdish refugee and Belle, the woman in red, apparently in search of a nudist beach. The voices soon turn into real flesh-and-blood characters; confined to the exclusivity of their own companies they fight – with words, with thoughts, with knives, keeping up appearances as best they can.

At times, Razi-the-refugee disappears, only to return with delicious food and wine which he shares gracefully. At some point, Osman-the-pirate, bursts into an uncanny rap song on the advantages of being convicted and taken into custody by a first world tribunal. And Belle ? Belle is beautiful… and blind at times. She could easily be seen as the embodiment of noble Justitia, as she tries to teach three quarreling men some manners….was she not scantily dressed in flaming red, the red of blood, of sin, of hooking.

Their meandering dialogs compete to get to the bottom of it – whose views and deeds are worthier, better and ultimately right ? Amidst a lot of bickering, the hot topics are justice, freedom, security, peace, some issues of human dignity thrown in for good measure…and it is disturbing to witness that no one rushes to stop the bleeding of the victim, continuing the debate on the right course of action to be taken.

It has been a while since a play kept feeding me thoughts for days after seeing it… This slow-release theater experience must be taken in carefully administered doses and you have shared responsibility for the success of your own entertainment. All the ingredients are at hand – an excellent cast performing a provoking, rich text in a staging laden with symbolism and suspense.

I’m considering seeing it again, in me- time and no kids…to dive into it all over again; a bit stranded and lonely, amidst my uncensored curiosity for more of my own thoughts.

New Crusoe: Edmund Dehn, Lionel Leeuwin, Philippe Rachid Ivanov, Emmeline Prior. Directed by Ellis van Maarseveen

New Crusoe plays in The Hague on 24th, 25th and 27th November at Museum Beelden aan Zee and the Supreme Court of the Netherlands. For tickets and more information please visit www.theenglishtheatre.nl / tusktheatre.net

The only portals of entry are the nostrils and mouth/throat.

In a global epidemic of this nature, it’s almost impossible to avoid coming into contact with H1N1 in spite of all precautions. While you are still healthy and not showing any symptoms of H1N1 infection, in order to prevent proliferation, aggravation of symptoms and development of secondary infections, some very simple steps can be practiced

1. Gargle twice a day with warm salt water or Listerine. *H1N1 takes 2-3 days after initial infection in the throat/nasal cavity to proliferate and show characteristic symptoms. Simple gargling prevents proliferation. In a way, gargling with salt water has the same effect on a healthy individual that Tamiflu has on an infected one. Don’t underestimate this simple, inexpensive, and powerful preventative method.

2. Blow the nose hard once a day and swab both nostrils with cotton buds dipped in warm salt water. This is very effective in bringing down viral population.

3. Boost your natural immunity with foods that are rich in Vitamins C and D. If you have to supplement with Vitamin C tablets, make sure that it also has Zinc to boost absorption.

4. Drink as much of warm liquids (tea, coffee, etc) as you can. Drinking warm liquids has the same effect as gargling, but in the reverse direction. They wash off proliferating viruses from the throat into the stomach where they cannot survive, proliferate or do any harm. I suggest you pass this on to your entire e-list. You never know who might pay attention to it — and STAY ALIVE because of it.

(Source: The University of Kansas Hospital Dept. of Nursing Units 43 & 51)

I would add: SLEEP. My son slept 10-12 hours a day.

Yesterday, my very private session with the past comprised Everything is Illumminated, the film. The past, not only mine, but also the one of the last three generations on my family tree, reached out and grasped me by the throat. My next session with the past will be sitting down and watch Das Leben der Anderen - again. One could add 4 Month, 3 Weeks, 2 Days; Sunshine; Katyn; The Reader and so many more.

The older I get, the better I know: I need to remember, I refuse to forget…..The Wall in our heads is more of an issue than anything else that hits the news nowadays.

A VIP – very important project – is stuck in my head. A novella, that oscillates between ending with a happy one, an abrupt and open one or a rather dissatisfying but feasible one. My characters have taken over and I no longer wish to boss them around.

Autumnal impulses, ranging from being grumpy to being hungry to being tired, are altering the ego. I withdraw between the whithering leaves, looking forward to the dazzling butterfly, soon to erupt from clogged up confusion…..

No butterflies hatching in November ?

Do I care ?!

I picked up Irène Némirovsky’s Suite française from her chaiselongue, took it home and placed it on top of the pile of ’stuff to read for when I have time’. I picked it up weeks later…something to read on a trip that promised to be long and boring.

Having just finished reading page 226 ( out of 440) I must admit that I am sick with envy and admiration for this woman’s talent, intelligence and grace. AND: the translation into English by Sandra Smith leaves me humble and quiet, too – it is a rare blessing when an accomplished book gets translated by a person whose skills are worthy and equal to the author’s.

The book lives by two narrative strings; one is entirely fictional, recounting the lives of a good two dozen characters…how to praise such skill without giving away the plot ? …Do you know caricatures by Daumier ? Nemirovsky does the same, only with words – quirky, arrogant, perverse, lovable, humble, humiliated, human, passionate, greedy, lecherous, miser and misogynous, caring and loving, calculating and impulsive…her characters peel off the pages; their vices and virtues are sketched with the quick and effortless strokes of a very fine and refined brush of words.

The second string of narration is more or less the voice of an eyewitness, recording what went on in France, between June 4, 1940 to July 1, 1941:  the Germans are nearing Paris, the exodus; the Germans have conquered la belle France,the stupor; some German troops are leaving France to attack the Soviet Union, relief and disbelief (oy…. Stalingrad…). Probably the first faction writing on the German occupation in France, it is written by the same Madame N, the pure-bred journalist, who withholds her personal views in order to serve truth and objectivity.

The words were written in 1941, the book was published in France in 2004 and is, by now, translated into 38 languages. It has earned many awards and rave reviews…You have not heard of Irène Némirovsky ? You have not heard of Suite Française ?

Irène Némirovsky was killed in Auschwitz, in 1942, aged 39 – her notebook, filled to the brim with a minuscule, neat handwriting, proves that she had planned three more parts to her novel. Our craving to read them will never be quenched.

Beyond aesthetics and theory, beyond the deep, helpless frustration triggered by the umpteenth attempt to grasp that which can not be understood – the Sho’ah, this book is the living proof that the gift of creation exempts the creator from the rules and dues governing mortality.

In deep gratitude for her gift, I hereby place a white rose and a pebble onto the imaginary grave of Madame Némirovsky.

Blessed be her soul.

Set against the uncannily well fitting backdrop of a real dune (aka the belly of the Museum Beelden aan Zee ) and separated from a real beach and an even more real sunset by a mere sheet of glass, this story is a literary sleuth’s reconstruction of the life of Mercedes Gleitze, the first British woman to swim across the Channel.

Starting from this historical fact, the play wraps itself around the audience by ways of a highly suggestive narrative, grace to the many talents of playwright and performer Lynda Radley. Her tools are few and well chosen; and just as Mercedes had to manage her resources very well in order to reach the other shore, Ms Radley doses her soliloquy with an incredibly accurate sense of timing. Her voice oozes like the ticking of a well-tuned metronome or the trickle of a hospital infusion, giving away just enough of the story to keep the audience enthralled. By proxy, the different layers of the story touch upon vulnerable realms within ourselves: the longing for finding one’s home, failure, fear, exhaustion, humiliation, sensationalism, fame, plagiarism, patriotism, determination, honor and more.

With sparing movements and a few symbolically charged props Ms Radley manages to recreate much more than just the life of Mercedes Gleitze. (To mention but one of the many auxiliary achievements of the author: Mercedes feels British and yet, she murmurs her Hail Mary in pristine German before diving into the black waters. What a credible way to reconcile her issues of identity and belonging in times of war and peace – a rather complex matter in the 20th century, when one’s parentage is half German and half British… )

Throughout the play Mercedes Gleitze keeps swimming, allowing glimpses of her thoughts, her pains and fears reach us and take us along, deep into the dark, cold waves. When the waves of life hit her hard, Mercedes keeps swimming, and her silent grandeur becomes evident when she embarks on a hopeless, dangerous quest, in order to restore her honor. We are told that her colossal achievement actually stems from childhood homesickness for the beloved English shores.

The narrator swims, as well – on dry land, so to speak. As she feeds us crumbs of her life as a typist, snippets of her incursions into the library archives where she peruses Mercedes’ swimming logs, photographs, letters and sketches, the circle of her words widens and tightens, just as waves would hit the shore in rhythmic crescendos and decrescendos.

Throughout the play Mercedes and the narrating I merge and separate; the two voices reflect upon their lives in the slow, ceremonious, and graceful steps of a minuet. Chaperoned by John McCarthy’s live accordion airs, they tell their story in an unhurried manner, flawless, spot on and always on time.

I can’t help it – this quiet tale does not let go of me. The more I listen to its echo within the more it enriches and exhausts me, and I find myself swimming along; for honor and country and for my very own salvation. As of today, beyond the endless waves there lie the ripples of determination, of untold courage and endurance – be it the inspiring courage of Mercedes Gleitze or the humbling courage of young Lynda Radley, the biographer-cum-writer-cum-actor, who dared to put all of the above into words and then come before us.

The Art of Swimming is brought to The Hague by STET – visit them for a fresh breath of culture in English