It is amazing the small things you are able to pick up when speaking isn’t an option. How studying a person talking, looking, walking, all be it in another nationality and language can tell you so much despite never having sat down with the person for coffee.
For example, here at the Ulpan there is a rash of French speaking Jews, constantly babbling away with the occasional Hebrew word thrown in there for good measure. Two of the French boys seem mentally competent… Well one of them anyway. Like you just know you could sit down and have a conversation with this person. He is a smart capable human being whose single disability is that you cannot say a word to him. It is both isolating and frustrating to not be able to communicate more then three words. I recall the first time I felt this way was when I was 14 and my mother and I first visited Paris. It was my first trip out of the country and we went to visit her old French family the Arlays. I can still vividly feel the bizarre sensation of being in the room with people who were normal, functioning humans with thoughts and dreams, with no way for them to be able to express it or vice versa. Without language the human connection isn’t dead, if anything it becomes more alarming, stripped naked from the clothing of words and left out in the open for all to see.
That being said I’m not big on being naked.
One of the boys here on the kibbutz is a handsome 18 year old named Yvonne from Paris. He is orthodox with a kippa, praying every morning in the tall grasses outside our dorm. The second he found out I was interested in furthering my religious education he became horrified and confused, like I’d left a mangled baby on his door step. He would relentlessly try to speak with me, argue with me- IN HEBREW or FRENCH- an argument neither side could win or fight fairly for that matter. I would tell him, when I speak Hebrew we can argue, till then let’s not bother. But that wasn’t good enough for him. He’d be up in arms calling me a Christian and talking trash about my Rabbi. My freakin Rabbi! Frustration overcame my sense of decorum and smarts. I ended up saying he had no balls and storming out.
Which we all know is the polite way to win a fight.
Where as Yvonne simply refuses to learn English, many local speakers do try to at least meet you half way. One local kibbutz boy named Dan will use French, Hebrew and English until what he’s trying to say comes to fruition. But despite this one look at Dan shows he’s not a fellow with a rich inner life. The way he walks, the tone of his voice, his wide confused eyes. Amazing how I can tell poor Dan isn’t all there without ever having a proper conversation with him.
Another example of a local speaking bits and pieces to communicate is a taxi driver I had recently. He saw I had a coke, made the hand gesture as if he wanted to share it and take a sip. I said no, and when he asked why I said “because”. This was not a good enough answer. So I said, “Because it’s gross”. The driver had no idea what gross was, which is good because I would have insulted him. Turns out he simply wanted to know why I wasn’t drinking my coke- not to share it.
Ultimately I can’t wait to speak Hebrew, if only to test if my human instinct about people’s nature and smarts is true. Ironic if you think how when I meet an Israeli I talk like a two year old, slowly and shy. Perhaps they all think I’m the dumb one!
