A Nursery School, a Toilet, and Two Parent Strikes

We’ve decided to spend the year in Jerusalem to raise our children in the land of Israel. We’re living our version of the American Modern Orthodox dream. The city has grown by leaps and bounds since the last time we were here. The city’s infrastructure has improved, culture and recreation is extraordinary, traffic has decreased significantly, and the city is truly beautiful in many, many ways.  However, education and education planning are not among them.

Our children are 3, 7, and 9.  Upon arrival, we confirmed that our older children would attend a local elementary school. We knew that this particular school was in the midst of an ongoing court battle to get more classrooms for their ever expanding student population. Nevertheless, we decided to enroll our children there as it’s within walking distance and many children in our neighborhood will attend this particular school. It was not quite so easy to get our youngest into a nursery school. Last year, the city decided to change the structure of nursery schools – allowing free education for 3 year olds, rather than requiring parents to pay for childcare. As a result of the new financial structure, a significant increase in enrollment in public education hit the city’s Early Childhood Registrar, and it seems that they were not quite prepared for this wave.  When we attempted to enroll our son in the nursery school next door to our building, we were told that it is already full. No worries, we’ll take any nursery school within walking distance where they don’t allow broken glass within the children’s reach. Ahhh, great, then you can go to the brand new nursery school on the street across from where you live, they told us.  Please join us for a parent-teacher orientation meeting next week.

I enter the parent-teacher orientation and find that, though the teacher has been hired and the location has been found, the renovations on said location have not exactly started yet.  And they only have very basic school supplies, so they’d like the parents to donate toys, educational materials, and school supplies – that is, only if we want them to be there for our kids. And there’s no outdoor area. And they haven’t hired an assistant teacher.  And there are 40 steps to get into the nursery school and they’re not planning to build a ramp for strollers. Huh, I think to myself, perhaps this isn't the parent-teacher orientation that I had imagined. 

Fast forward to tonight, three nights before the start of the school year. We have just received an email from the municipality informing us that our three year olds will start the school year in another location, not within walking distance, because they haven’t quite finished the renovations. When the parents asked how long we will be in that location, they replied by informing us that there are only 8 days of school in September, so that month is really a wash, isn't it? They’ll do their best and hopefully that will work.  *Note to self: This one goes down in history as one of the top ten ways to set Jerusalem Alpha Moms into action.* 

After fifty emails, the plan is hatched. It seems that the parents will strike on the first day of nursery school. That will attract plenty of media attention and then the city will have to respond.  Am I allowed to wonder whether this could have been prevented by just checking to see how many kids live in the area, make some smart demographic projections, and make sure that enough nursery schools were built in the neighborhood before the start of the school? Or is the educational consultant in me just on overdrive? Really, I just wanted to send my kid to nursery school without having to get into a taxi every day.

The good news is that the older children’s elementary school will start as planned on Tuesday morning. Or so I thought. While sitting on a bench watching my children play and meeting people who live in our building this afternoon, I learned that the parents of the elementary school are also planning to strike on Tuesday morning. Why you ask? Ahhh, it’s because they won the court case which awarded them enough classrooms for the students in the school. But evidently, no one thought about the toilets. So, the first graders will learn in an area of the school without access to toilets.  And they’re not allowed to share the toilets with the other school which was forced to share the building. Because you know what happens when children start peeing in the same toilets.

And so, though I thought that my children would be starting school on Tuesday, the first day of the school year here in Jerusalem, it seems that all of the parents in BOTH of my children’s schools will be striking. To get media attention. So that their children can both have a building – and pee in it, too. 

Anyone have a babysitter available for Tuesday? I’m supposed to go to work.

Flowerpots, refrigerator art, and puzzles

A little tour of our new lives in Jerusalem.

We live in a building in a neighborhood called Katamonim. The builder claims that it's really in Katamon. And government officials call it Gonnenim.

These are our flowerpots

Basil, mint, and lemon verbena

This is our art filled fridge

 And this is the toy cabinet and scooter.

While you may have hoped for a full tour of our apartment, it seems to me that these are the markers of having settled in. The kids are enjoying camp at the local Nature Museum and Don is in his office writing a book. I'm taking a break from the normalcy of it all to notice that there is artwork hanging on the fridge, a toy cabinet filled with activities, and flowers blooming on the balcony. I think that I'll take a deep breath, eat a pear with some blue cheese and celebrate the fact that we've actually made it. 

Never admit to being a Foreign Resident if you want to buy an oven.

First month giggles.

Customer service and sales techniques have improved by leaps and bounds in Jerusalem. Unfortunately, no one told Osnat or Moran in the back room that they were supposed to get with the program as well. This creates a rather awkward reality check after you've had a quick, friendly, informed conversation with the front-end sales team. You see, following this conversation, Moran (or her doppleganger found in hundreds of stores around the area) stares at you blankly,  then tells you you're wrong, then tells Osnat about how wrong you are, and then attempts to go on a cigarette break with Osnat while you stand there laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation.  Let me tell you a little tale of how I bought my stove and oven. I enter the store and walk to the kitchen area, looking around at the floor models. A salesman asks what kind of oven I'm looking for.

Me: "I need one that cooks."
Gever: "Try this one that also launches rockets."
Me: "No thanks, I just need one that cooks."
Gever: "Oh, okay, sweetheart, try this one that can also polish your shoes."
Me: "No thank you, I'll just take the one that cooks."
Gever: "Well then you need the one with the turbo cooker so that you can cook 6 dishes at once."
Me: "Hmmm, 6 dishes at once?  How will that work in this 2 foot by 2 foot oven? Wait a second, have you ever cooked? Anything?"
Gever: "So, you just want the oven and stove then?"
Me, "Yes please, that'd be great."

The salesman checks that they are in stock by asking his co-worker, Shmulik, to look at the scrap papers in his hand and double check. Shmulik confirms that the scraps of paper show that my models are in stock. My salesman then writes up a sales note which I need to take to the cashier. This takes all of 4 minutes.  I stand in line as the cashier yells at the 3 customers in front of me. She's not angry with them, it's just the way she emphasizes that she is in control and they are simply the customers with the money.  During my 20 minute wait, I wonder why there are a half dozen other cashiers sitting around and chatting/doing paperwork/making doctors appointments for their kids while we wait on line, but decide to go with the flow since I have time, the guy in front of me has already attempted that battle, and this seems like it's shaping up to be one of those experiences that I will write about one day.

I get to the front of the line and take out my credit card. They need to see my Israeli teudat zehut (social security card).

Me: I don't have one, I'm not Israeli. ***Note to self: WRONG ANSWER!!***
Osnat: Well then, we can't sell these to you.
Me: Uhhhhh, what? You can't sell me a stove because I'm not Israeli?
Osnat: Absolutely not, are you insane??!!
Me: Uhhhh, what would it take for you to sell me this oven?
Osnat: Proof that you live here.
Me: Ahhh, I can do that. Here is my checkbook with my address on it.
Osnat: But your checkbook says, FOREIGN RES on it, what does that mean?
Me: It means that I'm not Israeli. ***Note to self: WOULD YOU STOP WITH THAT ANSWER!!***
Osnat: Well then we can't sell you the oven. We don't even sell ovens to people who live in *whisper* East Jerusalem.
Me: But I live here. In West Jerusalem. This is my checkbook with my address on it. This is my credit card. This is my supermarket club card. And this is the little thingy that I use to get the grocery carts unhooked from each other when I don't have a ten shekel coin in my pocket.
Osnat:  Ohhh! Why didn't you say so?  But we'll have to sell it to you under your husband's name.  (Has anyone noticed that I proved to the woman that I live here b/c I had a thingie on my keychain that unhooks grocery carts?)
Me: You'll have to sell it to me under my Israeli husband's name? Alright. No problem. I'll tell him he has to make dinner.
Osnat: That's funny. Hey Moran, listen to this one. I told her I have to sell her the oven under her husband's name and she said that she'll tell him he has to make dinner!
Moran: Why do you have to sell it to her under her husband's name?
Osnat: Because she's not Israeli
Moran: *Look of sheer terror on her face*
Me: *Brain explodes*
===another 15 minutes of negotiation ensue while I have to convince the store's assistant associate manager-in-training (Osnat's aunt??) to allow me the privilege of paying them money for the oven. This finally occurs when I raise my voice to meet hers, stand up, and declare that she will sell me the oven. That seems to work, she apologizes for the hard time, and offers me some rugelach so that there are no hard feelings. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

I prepare to walk out the door and the transaction ends with the following warning:
Osnat: Whatever you do, don't open the box.
Me: Ha, that's funny.
Osnat: No, it's very very serious.