I like Hebrew.
I like Hebrew, even though I still speak it, after a year and a half here, with the assured self confidence and deluded competence of a three year old. I like the language even though it features strange, almost unreplicable sounds like ‘Chet’ (best described as the sound of a goat whom has just been shot in the neck) and ‘Resh’ (which, unlike the counterpoint ‘Rrr’ sound in standard English, starts at the back of the throat; whenever I attempt to enunciate it correctly, I end up with something unspeakable in my mouth).
I like Hebrew even though written Hebrew generally (and, in my opinion, quite unreasonably) eschews vowels; I like the language even though there are two letters with no identifiable sound and conversely, several sounds represented by more than one symbol. I like the language even though this last point has been a matter of some embarrassment for me in the past, not least when once, during a language class, I managed to confuse the sounds for ‘sss’ and ‘shh’, and thus the words for ‘People’ and ‘Rapists’ (“In Eilat, Rapists from all over the world visit on holiday”; the look of horror on my tutor’s face was a sight to behold).
I like Hebrew because I think it forms an integral aspect of this nation’s identity, its sense of self. When Eliezer Ben Yehuda emigrated to Palestine not much more than a century ago and determined that his son would become the first Jew in more than a millennia to speak Hebrew as his native tongue, he wasn’t being irascible or unreasonable, as is the wont of most parents; he understood that language is an integral aspect of identity, and thus the surest means of binding together the disparate inhabitants of this not-yet country was to give them a common tongue. (What his son thought of being the subject of this live experiment, with no friends other than a dog because he wasn’t allowed to speak with other children, is another matter altogether. Still, the nation owes him a debt, and one can but hope that this was some consolation.)
I like Hebrew because individual words say much more about the character of the country than any number of scholarly articles. That a word like ‘Yezzizim’ (an aggregation of two existing words: the first meaning ‘friends’, the second an euphemism for sexual intercourse) is used commonly, and as a far more elegant alternative to the ungainly ‘friends with benefits’ in English, hints at the liberal, matter of fact attitude that defines social life in the country. ‘Pitzotz’, literally, means ‘the Bomb’; but if someone says to you, ‘it’s the bomb!’ he probably means it as a compliment rather than as a warning. Security matters are, naturally, at the forefront of everyone’s mind, but still somehow fail to inhibit the sardonic sense of humour that most Israelis share.
A friend told me once that he was hoping for an ‘Exit’; not Hebrew, strictly speaking, but a word invested with a specific meaning when used in Hebrew all of its own. Israel is populated liberally with software development houses and high tech incubators, far more than what one might expect in a country of 7 Million. Without much in the way of natural resources, it is – of necessity – a country of entrepreneurship, making the most of human capital to develop products that are then sold on to the wider world – and thus, facilitating the ‘exit’ from the rat race, a deed that quite a few Israelis actually achieved during the boom years of the computer industry, and still aspire to today.
I like Hebrew because it is a language of brevity, a matter of fact language that largely eschews polite euphemisms. A family member visited from London once, and came for dinner with my in-Laws. After a few moments of rapid, staccato conversation mainly in Hebrew, he leant over and whispered discreetly in my ear. “Why is everyone fighting with one another?” Of course, they weren’t. They were actually discussing the merits of the soup. Admittedly in loud tones – it’s important, apparently, to speak Hebrew in an assertive, confident and loud manner – but still in short, pithy sentences that said exactly what they meant without beating about the bush. People tend to say what they mean, and briefly, in Hebrew. The language is good like that.
I look forward to improving my Hebrew, and one day being able to speak and read with confidence, because then I know that the country will open up to me completely – and not just through communication, but through appreciating its culture and character fully. Mind you, I suspect there’ll be a few detours along the way. Take last week, for instance. I was in the car with my wife and sister in law, and tried to listen attentively as they spoke about some matter earnestly. If I concentrate properly, I told myself, I’ll understand them fully. And perhaps even contribute to this evidently important matter. After a moment or two, I comprehended what exactly they were talking about: The various merits of brushing one’s hair before a shower, immediately afterwards or, as my wife was doing as she drove, in the car on the way to work. Profound matter indeed. (Of course, there’s the entirely separate matter about brushing one’s hair whilst driving. Perhaps I’ll talk about Israeli drivers another time. Let’s just say they tend to take liberties.)