If Only……

The other day a friend asked whether I had ever experienced an ‘IF ONLY’ moment in my life, for example had I ever had occasion to pause and reflect about something I had longed to do but failed to achieve it.

My immediate reaction was ‘No’, as for me yesterday is gone and I am very much rooted in today, looking neither backwards nor forwards.

She said she didn’t believe me and there must be something I had overlooked, so, as one does, when unable to sleep in the early hours of the morning, I thought again, and sure enough something did come up.

I had always dreamed of being a dancer. As a small child I recall sitting in the cinema on a Saturday afternoon with my Russian grandmother watching endless Hollywood movies. They were spellbinding. We left the theatre in a dream state “trailing clouds of glory” to quote Wordsworth. It was just after the war when, during times of austerity, Hollywood led us into fantasy worlds far removed from our everyday lives.

I remember the glamour and the songs in those seminal musicals, from the 40’s – Carmen Jones, Oklahoma, On The Town, Carousel, Annie Get Your Gun, Brigadoon, Finian’s Rainbow, Kiss Me Kate, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, and South Pacific.

Then in the 50’s The King and I, Call Me Madam, Guys and Dolls, CanCan, Damn Yankees, West Side Story, My Fair Lady, The Flower Drum Song, and the Sound of Music. The list is endless.

This was a prolific and rich period with composers such as George and Ira Gershwin, Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hart, (later Rodgers and Hammerstein), Irving Berlin, Jerome Kern, Harold Arlen and Leonard Bernstein filling our lives with the unforgettable lyrics of their classics.   Today reading a list of melodies from the ‘Great American Songbook’ (which was never published as such but just refers to the creative output of that period), I realise that I know every word of almost every song whereas ask me anything post Beatles and I am stumped.

My friends and I dreamed of experiencing that glittering world on screen. We imagined how it felt to be Ginger Rogers partnered by Fred Astaire, gliding across the floor in a bias cut frock, or being Leslie Caron or the divine Audrey Hepburn partnered with Gene Kelly.

Neither I nor any of my friends were sent to ballet lessons but I do remember a brief sojourn as a tap dancer and until today I can recall all the steps and the music – the ‘Anniversary Waltz”.

At grammar school we had ballroom dancing during lunch breaks. All I recollect of this embarrassing ritual was how we uniformed schoolgirls danced with our female teachers.ScanI was asked to dance by our English mistress ( see above)  and had to take the lead, which must have looked very odd as she was very well endowed and I was one of the smallest in the class. I clearly remember placing my hand gingerly in the centre of her back, but instead of encountering voluptuous female flesh my hand rested against what must have been the armour plating of the day, an all encompassing corset. Even writing this now I recall the overwhelming feeling of distaste and my relief when our foxtrot reached its end. Amazingly this did not diminish my love for ballroom dancing, it merely reinforced my determination to make sure I had an appropriate partner next time round.


Dancing did however take another more enjoyable form at the ice skating rink in Cheetham Hill, Manchester where I had occasional dance lessons with the professional teachers. I continued this until my early twenties when, whilst living in Middlesbrough, I would skate three times a week. I remember wondering, as I circled the rink endlessly in an anticlockwise direction, whether this was all my future held for me, but it was glorious being whirled across the ice dancing the waltz or tango, supported in the arms of the instructor who made it feel so easy and totally sublime.

Music was a natural part of our childhood. Dad and his two brothers were professional musicians – he played saxophone, clarinet and piano accordion with Billy Cotton and his band.


Mother told me that they met and fell in love when she appeared on stage at one of his concerts and sang “Mean To Me” – a bluesy classic written in 1929, recorded by Billie Holliday in 1937, a year before my parents wedding. It was later recorded by greats such as Frank Sinatra, Ella Fitzgerald, Bing Crosby, Sara Vaughan and Dean Martin.

Father always looked dapper and elegant as was the fashion in those days. No sloppy casual clothes for him, but wide leg slacks, tight fitted jackets and two-tone brogues.

vic nice shoes.jpgMother too was the epitome of style, slender and long waisted. I remember clearly her 39th birthday. She was dressing to go out. In those days my parents attended many ‘functions’. To watch her make up and dress was pure theatre from her powder puff and dressing table ornaments to her silk stockings.

That night she wore a dark royal blue silk bias cut full length evening dress. The shoulders were padded as was the fashion, and there was a triangular cut out shape at her neckline. In her tumbling auburn hair she wore a blue bird, the same colour as the dress and her matching shoes. “How do I look?” she asked. “I am getting old, I am 39”. I gazed at her admiringly and confirmed that I had never seen anyone quite so glamorous. She was the closest I had ever come to my fantasy world of the movies.


Throughout her life mother was immaculate, always formally attired and well groomed. For her it would have been social suicide to appear before anyone without makeup or in her dressing gown. Quite unthinkable. Appearances were everything and had to be maintained. Her best friend ‘Auntie Faye’, was a milliner and she too looked like a fashion plate right into her nineties.

Thirty years ago they came to visit us in Jerusalem. I tried really hard to give them a memorable week. Afterwards I asked what Faye had to say about it, to which Mother replied “She wondered if you are letting yourself go”. It was then I realised I could never live up to Mother’s exacting standards and didn’t stand a chance in the fashion stakes.

Mother loved dancing. I took her to the Royal Albert Hall to see ‘Songs from the Shows’ where we sang along, both feeling nostalgic and emotional. How she would have adored the ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ series to which I have become addicted.

I did have a brief excursion into the world of tango, when Charles and I booked dance classes, prior to a trip to Argentina. It was not hugely successful, because whilst Charles is wonderful in every other respect, on the dance floor he was somewhat out of his comfort zone. But once in Buenos Aires we attended a tango session in a seedy downtown hall – it was magical!

So there it is. My ‘If Only’ is revealed to the world and yes, I would love to have met a man who can dance – not so well as to make me feel inadequate, but just well enough to steer me around a dance floor in time to the music.

So what can I do about it? I did have my first public solo singing performance after retirement age in Jerusalem, so is it entirely naïve to think that the world of dance has escaped me for ever? We shall have to wait and see. Miracles do occasionally happen.


Re Cycling and Re inventing the Wheel.

Presentation first page.jpg27 years ago when my father died he left me with an amazing legacy – the gift of curiosity. He was a talented musician and artist who could turn his hand to anything. Perhaps it is his influence that provides me with the inspiration to write – especially when it concerns new and original ideas. This tale fits the bill perfectly.

My research led me to many sources that focused on the shared characteristics of inventors from Thomas Edison to Steve Jobs. The first thing they must have is the passion to turn their dream into a reality. They also need curiosity, an investigative analytical mind, an ability to see the ‘big picture’ plus fearlessness to deal with the inevitable setbacks on their journey to success.

One such person is without doubt Izhar Gafni about whom I first heard in 2013, an Israeli mechanical engineer and cycling enthusiast who was inspired to create the world’s first all cardboard bicycle.

One day on a visit to his local bike store, he engaged the owner in a conversation about his ‘crazy’ idea to build a cardboard bike. He had heard about someone who had built a cardboard canoe and figured that, if this worked, why not a bike? The shop owner had only one comment “It’s impossible”.

However to say ‘impossible’ to an inventor merely provides him immediately with the challenge to succeed. A prime example was in 1895 when the Wright Brothers were told by many leading scientists and engineers of the day, that heavier than air flying machines were an impossibility.  Eight years later they became a reality. (see below)


But back to the cardboard bike. There had been a earlier example, built by a student of product design at Sheffield University in 2008. But his prototype barely survived six months of regular use and was unsuitable for anyone weighing more than 76 kilos. In addition, its tyres, drivetrain and brakes were taken from a regular bike and as they were handmade, were quite expensive.

Gafni was convinced that he could use only waste materials to realise his dream and so began the complex process of facing his many real challenges. At this stage no technology existed to determine the mathematical properties of cardboard. Gafni needed to calculate this in order to produce a machine which could withstand a pressure of 500lbs. He also had to redefine the wheel structure, the frame design, the transmission parts and the saddle.

His method was based on the Japanese art of Origami, or paper folding. He realised that folding and refolding the cardboard would strengthen it to the stage when it would be suitable for shaping. He began to cut the sections of the frame from this reinforced material and next the parts were stiffened with a special varnish  resin mixture to increase durability and strength. Finally waterproof coating and lacquered paint were added and the bike reached the assembly stage.

RM.PNG The frame, wheels, handlebar and saddle on this single speed bike are all made of cardboard. The brakes, tyres and drivetrain are made of other recycled materials such as  plastic and used car tyres and the finished bike is both fire and water resistant.  (Below the bike in evolution)Bike Evolution-P7-Alfa.jpg

Gafni however was motivated not just by the technical challenges but also by the need to make his bike eco-friendly and affordable. The annual packaging waste generated in the EU alone is 34 million tons. Using waste materials meant that his cardboard bike would cost less than $20 to produce on an automatic production line – an essential part of the company’s technology. The advantages of such a bicycle are self-evident, particularly in low income countries where factories could be set up, which, in turn would generate employment.

Gafni also wanted to produce a bicycle which would be less attractive to thieves because of its low cost.  Bicycle theft is an immense problem.  I found many websites showingstolenbikechicago-600.jpgphotos of stolen bikes provided by victims in the vain hope they might recover their beloved, and very expensive, machines. One site alone has 500 pages with 12 stolen bikes displayed on each page. Sadly, hardly any are ever retrieved, since whatever security devices are employed, thieves somehow manage to steal the bikes, often leaving the owner with just one forlorn wheel tied to a railing.

I  became fascinated with Izhar’s  project but could not find updates on the web and so decided to try to contact Cardboard Technologies in Caesarea, the start up established by Gafni, to learn of the project’s progress.  I  received an immediate reply from their CEO Nimrod Elmish. He told me that their initial press coverage in 2013 had been so overwhelming that they decided to go into ‘stealth mode’ to give them time to sort out the patent issues concerning their products.

This took almost four to five years, but the good news is that now they are ready to go ahead and their first product, a balance bike for children, will start mass production in Israel in June 2018.   The first two years’ production — approximately half a million bikes a year — are already designated for major retailers in North America. (see below)balance-bike-2-1.jpgNext on the production line will be a cardboard wheelchair. Gafni and Elmish decided to produce this before the bike in the belief that giving help to those who cannot walk was a major priority for Cardboard Technology. Hopefully both the chairs and the bikes will reach the market in 24 months or so. They will then be able to market these for $49-59 each. ( below, wheelchair and Alfa P9 bike)WC P5.jpg


Gafni, of course, is never someone who can  sit back and relax and he is already busy working on the prototype for his first cardboard electric car.

As for the future the Company also plans to produce cardboard housing in order to be able to respond rapidly to natural disasters wherever they occur in the world. Gafni and his colleagues are truly on the brink of providing a range of products that will both benefit the environment and contribute significantly to helping the disadvantaged.

Writing this story led me to reflect on my own, rather limited, cycling experience. I was never allowed a bike as a child, my parents considering it to be too dangerous. However I recall that some time after I met Charles, my second husband, we visited a spa for a few days.  Rested and relaxed, on the last day he suggested we go out biking. All was fine until a couple of hours later we had almost returned to the spa, when Charles lost control, crashed into my bike and sent me flying into a spiky hedgerow from which I emerged bruised, lacerated and bleeding.

We returned home to be greeted by my son Richard, who, on seeing my pitiable condition confronted Charles and warned him saying “Listen, if you do this to my mother again you will have me to answer to!”

In spite of this traumatic episode, I remain optimistic that I might manage to ride a bike at least one more time. I am invited to visiting Cardboard Technologies  where I hope not just  to ride on a bike but mostly to meet their dedicated team, including  Izhar Gafni, a man with cycling in his soul, who through his labour of love, dedication and determination has come up with so many wonderfully original ideas to help this world of ours.  I will keep you posted!

Probably the most satisfaction I got from writing this story was deciding on the title : RE CYCLING and RE INVENTING THE WHEEL!

Cardboard Team_2013.jpg

The Dream Team


All company photographs courtesy of Cardboard Technology

a Frothy Tale and Chic(k) Couture

For this story I decided to tackle the subject of Israel’s seemingly endless ability to invent – particularly in the fields of medical science and high tech. However, being a self-confessed technophobe my concern is that I probably would not understand what I am writing about. I decided, therefore, to select two imaginative innovations which, whilst maybe not world shattering in their impact, are nevertheless worthy of a mention.

My first choice must be the machine that originated in Prof. Shlomo Magdassi’s lab at the Hebrew University. What does it do? For those of you coffee devotees who like like your latte or cappuccino topped with foam, you can now choose to order it with a message printed in the foam such as “Good Morning Darling”, “Happy Birthday”, or even with a photograph of a loved one – all produced in less than 10 seconds.


The Israeli machine, called the Ripple Maker, was launched at the Consumer Electronics Show in Las Vegas in 2016 where it won a major prize. It works by combining 3D printing technology with an ink-jet system that prints out natural coffee extract.

The people most likely to feel the impact of this are the baristas. Those coffee house employees who serve espresso and have over the past decade mastered the art of producing  ‘designer beverages’, illustrated with hearts or leaves, by pouring steamed milk into the coffee and etching designs with the use of a small pencil-like tool.


However with the Ripple Maker, the barista can elevate ‘Latte Art’, as it is now called,  to new heights and – to quote the manufacturers – “You don’t just get a beverage – you get a piece of artwork.” It seems almost a shame that you have to drink it.

Today there is a craze on social media for taking pictures of food and sharing them with friends. This has gone ‘viral’ with a high proportion of such photos featuring ‘photogenic coffee’. It is the second most popular subject for snapping after the selfie.

Statistics show that since 2015 photogenic coffee posts on Instagram have risen by 4500%. Of those who post, 65% are female of of these 68% are 35 years and older. China is the country that posts the highest percentage of food pictures on social media each week – 34% of the entire population. Frankly I am not quite sure what these statistics tell us and am personally  at a total loss as to why on earth anyone should want to share a photo of their coffee with a friend. My granddaughter attempted to explain this phenomenon to me, but as as I haven’t drunk coffee since 1956, am obviously of the wrong generation and am not hooked into social media, her message fell on deaf ears.

I do however clearly remember my first introduction to this food phenomenon. Eight years ago I received a Facebook message and photograph from a close friend, who incidentally, was an influential corporate vice president, telling me how, at 11am that morning she had eaten a chocolate muffin. After my initial feeling of puzzled disbelief I was tempted to reply “Thank you so much for informing me of your magnificent achievement – it has made my day” but decided against it.

However I fully believe that anything that makes you smile or lightens your day gets top marks in my book. The Ripple Maker is not only fun but has created a massive market for advertisers to display their messages in an entirely new area – one’s daily cuppa.

But this passion for foam has gone to ever more exotic lengths – this time in Taiwan. Here latte art has become three dimensional – where skilled baristas have mastered the art of sculpting an image of your beloved pet in the foam on your coffee and painting the details to get a truly life-like representation.

Crafting latte.jpg




I can almost understand the pleasure one might get from having such a representation of a beloved pet on top of one’s coffee, but what I can’t quite comprehend is how one must feel when demolishing and devouring it – does that not strike you as slightly cannibalistic – or am I oversensitive?


Another Israeli scientific development, this time involving animals of the feathered variety, comes from Avigdor Cahana an Israeli geneticist at the Rehovot Agronomy Institute. In 2002 his team began research to create a featherless hen by cross breeding a regular broiler with a species that has a neck without feathers.

20111101-featherless chickens.jpg

The objectives in producing a ‘naked’ bird were several. Primarily it was to create a bird that does not require constant cooling to be kept alive. In hot countries expensive cooling systems are necessary to breed factory farmed chickens. In heat waves these systems can break down with the result that many birds die which is both cruel and wasteful of resources. However a lack of feathers enhances the bird’s natural cooling system – similar to someone not wearing a coat as compared to someone wearing one. Thus with naked birds there is a saving of electricity and nor do they require plucking, a lengthy and costly process, before reaching the market.featherless-chicken-jalwah-facebook_orig.jpg

In 2012 after many trials and modifications, Professor Cahaner, confirmed his initial hopes, restating that his was not a genetically modified chicken, but rather one from a natural breed whose characteristics have been known for 50 years. These traits were transferred to quick growing broilers, and his scientists have demonstrated how this new breed grows larger as it wastes no energy on creating feathers. The chicken tastes exactly the same as before but is healthier, being low fat.

Not unexpectedly, the Compassion In World Farming Lobby claim that these changes make chickens’ lives unbearable. Males are unable to mate as they cannot flap their wings and lose their balance during the mating process. In addition featherless chickens are more prone to attracting parasites and skin infections through injuries and and will be more sensitive to temperatures, even getting sun burn.

Whichever side of this fence you stand, these birds are certainly somewhat shocking to look at.   I, as a vegetarian, gave up the benefits of Jewish Penicillin (chicken soup) many years ago and I must say I did not really enjoy writing about this topic, until discovering some surprising facts about the extent to which others carry their concerns for fowl.

8619620-3x2-large.jpgIn Queensland there exists a group of women who knit and sew coats for ex-battery hens that have lost feathers due to ill health and old age and are unused to outdoor life and cold weather. They create these outfits ‘with absolute love’ and their designers are encouraged to be creative and use bright colours because “ it’s important that the chickens are happy, as well as warm.”

Another coterie of devoted knitters in Sussex, UK, are also making fashion items for their rescued battery hens. They name their outfit the Chikini. And in Cornwall a mother and daughter team have spent the past year knitting to provide their 60 hens with winter warmers in a variety of patterns and shades.

knits-tiny-chicken-jumpers-battery-hens-nicola-congdon-cornwall-61.jpgThey say that their chickens really  like the sweaters and don’t try to remove them. Apparently requests have been received from all over the world from those wanting to buy these designer clothes for their own chicks  – and all credit to Mother and daughter, they have stipulated that the profits will go to an AIDS orphanage in South Africa.

In spite of this, one question remains in my mind – are all these conscientious knitters vegetarians, or do they, at the end of a day spent busily with needles clicking, nip out to the local take-away to get their chicken nuggets or creamy chicken korma?










Send In The Clowns – Working Their Magic

Clowns have been around for millennia. 5000 years ago pygmies, dressed in animal skins and masks, danced to amuse the Pharaohs. The Chinese Emperor, he who built the Great Wall, had his own personal clown attached to the Imperial Court. The Greeks put them in short tunics padded with huge grotesque phalluses strapped to their loins. The Romans had mime artists grimacing and pulling faces and others named ‘Stupidus’ (no prizes for guessing his speciality), Scurra ( scurrilous) and Moriones (moron). ancient_greek_clowns.jpg

Greek Jesters

In the Middle Ages it was customary for grand houses and courts to maintain fools. They were well treated, being considered endowed with special powers from the gods. They served royalty as court jesters with the right of free speech at a time when this was not permitted for the mass of the population.

220px-Rahere_Jester_to_Henry_1st.jpgJester to King Henry 1 – Rahere

The jester to King Edward IV in 1400’s was, unusually, an Oxford don. His maxim was “a merry heart doth good, like a medicine” – an adage echoed in many cultures. Earlier, In 1123 Rahere a courtier and jester to Henry I, became ill on a pilgrimage to Rome. He vowed that should he recover he would build a hospital for the poor to honour St Bartholomew. He survived. The hospital – Barts – has been one of London’s leading hospitals ever since.

Today’s clowns however, do not derive from this courtly heritage but rather from street performers. Professional improvised comedy known as Commedia Del Arte began in Italy at the time of the Renaissance. Harlequin, the central character, would chastise adversaries with his magical bat – his ‘slapstick’. It was also at this time that the word ‘clown’ entered our vocabulary, the first instance being in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.


Harlequin with his slapstick.

As circuses became popular centres of entertainment, clowns performed both there and in theatres – several becoming world famous such as the English actor, dancer and comedian Joseph Grimaldi (b.1778) and Charlie Cairoli (b.1910) – an English-Italian musician and impressionist. There were many others and the silent movie era heralded a host of talented clowns including Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd and Laurel and Hardy.


I guess that clowning was never really considered a suitable job for a ‘nice Jewish boy’, but we do have a couple of co-religionists in this field of whom we can be justly proud. Marcel Marceau, a Frenchman (b.1923) whose father died in Auschwitz, went into hiding during WW2 working for the French Resistance. He first began using mime to keep Jewish children quiet whilst helping them to escape to Switzerland. In 1988, he was awarded the Legion d’Honneur, and the Order of Merit in France. He was an elected member of the Academy of Fine Arts, Berlin, and declared a ‘National Treasure’ in Japan.


Marcel Marceau

Happily my research also led me to Avner the Eccentric, (Avner Eisenberg b.1948) hailed as one of the greatest clowns of all times in the US. I watched as many of his YouTube videos as I could find and he really is a great performer – hugely talented and very funny.

images.jpegAvner the Eccentric

His extensive and varied career has included hypnotherapy, developing silent theatre skills as a therapeutic tool and much more. He also sits on the Board of Directors of a synagogue in Portland, Maine. Having read quite a bit about synagogue politics recently, it seems to me highly appropriate to have a clown perform such a function.

The medical profession has long recognised the value of art and music therapy to alleviate the anxiety of patients in hospitals, but in recent years this has taken a new form – medical clowning. It began in the 1970’s, inspired by Patch Adams, an American physician, social activist, clown, and author. ( featured in the film starring Robin Williams.)

In Israel too an entirely new breed of clowns have professionalized ‘clown therapy’, now developed into a research-backed healthcare discipline. In 2002 the Dream Doctors Project started at Hadassah Hospital, Ein Kerem. Courses were eventually set up to train clowns to become skilled paramedics integrated with the clinical teams.IMG_6463.JPG

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Trainees must have a background in dramatic arts including acting, street theatre and physical clowning. I spoke at length to David Barashi (DuSH) whom I first met on his visit to London where he gave master-classes to English clowns. He explained that clowning is a more complex process than acting as it requires the subtlety of non-verbal communication, body language and empathy as to how ‘the other’ may feel and react.

The clown develops this added dimension in order to decide whether to approach patients with gusto, or quietly and gently to gain their trust. Non-verbal communication is often more explicit than words, particularly useful in Israel where much of the population is a mix of peoples speaking many different languages.

Dream Doctors undergo five months of intensive training including theory and practical studies – expressive art therapy, psychology, nursing and medicine as well as physical clowning and acting. During an average year over 100 Dream Doctors, working in 29 hospitals, have contact with approximately 200,000 patients and work closely with physicians to assist with more than 40 medical procedures.

I visited Hadassah and following DuSH around the wards. It was a truly moving experience to observe how sensitively he judged the state of mind of each patient to decide how best to be accepted by them. Everyone he encountered became at ease and was left smiling. After seeing him in action it was no surprise to learn the extent to which this work has had such an impact.DuSh Hadassah.jpeg   DuSH

Research results demonstrate how the presence of a medical clown reduces anxiety in patients and their families. It can reduce pain, lessen the need for sedation in certain procedures and also alleviate depression. Surprisingly in vitro fertilisation patients experiencing clown therapy immediately after implantation, are 40% more likely to become pregnant. Add to this the feel-good-factor experienced by the hospital staff themselves, who report on the changed atmosphere in their wards.

Little known is the fact that these dedicated Israeli clowns also work abroad in disaster zones including Thailand, Indonesia, Philippines, Angola, Ethiopia, China, Germany, Greece and the USA. In Haiti and Nepal they have worked longer term as an integral part of the IDF field hospitals.

IMG_6202-min.JPGFor the clowns theirs is a hugely emotionally challenging vocation, one that at times can be joyous but at other times sad beyond belief when dealing with terminally ill children.

There can be no better gift in the world than love, giving it to someone and seeing them smile. This is even mentioned in the Talmud. Two men in the marketplace were approached by a Rabbi who asked their occupation. “We are jesters who go about cheering up people who are sad,” at which the Prophet Elijah appeared and declared “They are truly worthy of the world to come”.

I leave you with the following quote from Daisy D. Dots – an American clown.

A clown brings happiness where there is sadness, an ear to those who need to be heard, a tear when someone needs to be sad. Their clothes tell you that they are not ordinary, but people whose big shoes and red noses are small in comparison to the size of their hearts.   They make you feel you are the most special person in the room, giving of their heart to make you feel better…and somehow before you know it, it does.



Not by Bread Alone

One of the most iconic places to visit in Jaffa, is the renowned Abulafia bakery established in 1879, located on Yefet Street, an area where Jews and Arabs run businesses cheek by jowl.the-restaurant.jpg

I assumed that Abulafia was an Arabic name – Abu meaning father, affia meaning health or well being. But apparently the name was also used by Sephardi Jews from the time when much of Spain was ruled by Arabic-speaking Moors from 711 – 1429 – the so called Golden Age when Moslems, Christians and Jews could follow their own religion and everyone lived in harmony. (The Convivenzia)

Several prominent and influential Jews living there bore the name Abulafia. Meir Abulafia was the scion of a wealthy family and a renowned Jewish scholar so highly regarded that when his father died in 1225 he was honoured by receiving his father’s title of Prince. (‘Nasi’)

Abraham Abulafia, born in 1240 in Zaragosa, learned Bible and Talmud as a child but at 18 began a life of wandering after his father died. His first trip was to the Land of Israel where he hoped to begin a search for the Ten Lost Tribes, but owing to the chaos and lawlessness following the Crusades he got no further than the port at Acre. Back in Europe he once more immersed himself in study and, being articulate and charismatic, attracted many followers, eager to learn of his writings on Kabbala and philosophical matters.

On returning to Spain he concentrated on the study of mysticism and began having visions. In answer to an ‘inner voice’, he left for Rome with the intention of converting Pope Nicholas 111 to Judaism on the day before the Jewish New Year, 1280. The Pope ordered ‘this fanatic’ to be burned, but then died suddenly from an apopletic stroke. Abulafia was imprisoned for only four weeks and then released after which he started claiming to be the messiah. He continued writing until around 1291 after which all trace of him disappeared. However his esoteric works are still read and were published in full as recently as 1990 in Mea Shearim, Jerusalem.

A third Abulafia of note was Samuel Ha Levi, member of an illustrious family that served the Castilian Christian kings for generations. In 1356 he was permitted to build a family synagogue, the El Transito in Toledo. He defied all the laws that synagogues must be undecorated and no larger or higher than any church, presumably with the tacit consent of the King. El Transito was famous for its rich stucco interior, being compared to the Alhambra in Granada and the Alcazar in Seville. After the Expulsion in 1492 it became a church, then a national monument in 1877 and in 1910 it was restored to the Jewish community and is known officially today as the Sephardi Museum.


El Transito, Toledo

Following the Expulsion, some of the Abulafia family settled in Safed in the Land of Israel where they established a rabbinic dynasty and later in Tiberias, where Rabbi Haim Abulafia helped to found the community. The Sephardi synagogue bearing his name remains the main one in the town to this day and his tomb is a place of pilgrimage.

In 1907 his great-grandson Shlomo built a house in Neve Tzedek at 2 Rokach Street. Around this time a young man named Shmuel Yosef Czaczkes arrived in the country and rented a small attic room in their home. He later became known as Shai Agnon, the writer. From his five bedroom windows Agnon described the views of the sea, the train, the desert, the orange grove and Neve Zedek. He also caught glimpses of the beautiful Margalit Chelouche in a window opposite, but got nowhere with his courtship as the Chelouche family did not feel that his occupation was respectable enough for their daughter. One wonders whether they would have had second thoughts had they known that he would one day become Israel’s Poet Laureate winning the Nobel Prize for Literature and honoured with his portrait on the Israeli 50 shekel note.

Israel 50 New Shekels banknote 1992.JPG

Shlomo Abulafia was one of the first people to build a home on land close to the port of Jaffa purchased by a society called Ahuzat Bayit. On 11 April 1909, 66 Jewish families gathered on a desolate sand dune to parcel out the land by lottery. White and grey shells were collected. Each member’s name was written on the white shells and the plot numbers on the grey shells. A boy drew the names from one box of shells and a girl drew the plot numbers from the second box. This event is considered to be the birth of the city of Tel Aviv.
Whilst Shlomo Abulafia is regarded as one of the city’s founders, another Abulafia, Said, of Arab descent, began to make his mark even earlier, when in 1879 he established the now famed iconic bakery in Jaffa, which his descendants have continued to run for 140 years. His great grandson, also named Said, lives in Jaffa, a city he is proud of as being a truly multicultural society. The touching story related below concerns his grandfather and illustrates this aspect of life there.

In the 1970’s Rabbi Shlomo Zalman owned a shoe factory next to the bakery. During the Jewish holiday of Passover it is forbidden for Jews to eat bread, so all Jewish bakeries close. However Abulafia’s, as an Arab run business, remained open, much to the distress of the Rabbi who saw many non religious Jews queuing there to buy bread.

The Rabbi approached the bakery’s owner, Said, asking him how much profit he made during the week of Passover. It was a substantial amount, but the Rabbi offered to pay him this money if he would close during Passover. Said consented.

For the next five years the agreement continued, but on the sixth year Said visited Rabbi Zalman a week before Passover. “My family” he said, ”has made so much profit during the past five years thanks to the blessings from Allah because of our merit in closing during Passover, that we do not want to accept your money any longer”. The agreement was terminated, with Said promising to continue to keep the bakery closed during Passover. So it continues to this day. Below is a photograph of the grandsons of the two parties to the contract holding the original agreement.

abpic abulaf and rabbi's son:xontractulafia pic.jpg

This old style bakery operates for 24 hours a day, using huge brick ovens to produce an amazing range of delicious products. One recommended speciality is a folded pastry called Sambusak, filled with silky smooth mashed potatoes, onions, mushrooms and cheese. It is served hot with the addition of a hard boiled egg and lots of black pepper. The desserts on offer can only be described as yummy!


Today the original owner’s great grandson, Said, combines his work as a lawyer with running the family’s real estate and a new branch of Abulafia in the Tel Aviv port. In 2007 being passionate about American football, he acted as President of the Tel Aviv Sabres – the local football team. It was unique in its composition of Muslim and Christian Arabs, local Jews, non Jewish Americans and even a Filipino Israeli. The players, despite being from very varied backgrounds, all worked together towards the same goals – literally.

What Said has achieved represents the ethos of this melting pot called Jaffa. It is another example of which there are many in Israel, of how people from different traditions, contrary to popular belief, can successfully work and play together, much as they might have done so many generations ago in Al Andalus, Spain. Viva the Convivenzia.



Flight to Freedom

One of the unanticipated joys of writing my stories has been the feedback I receive from readers all over the world – some known, but many others unknown to me. As a result I have been led on unexpected journeys and met some memorable characters._MG_7583.JPGOne such person is Shlomo HIllel. The day I first met him was the high spot of five years work on my book. Two years ago I wrote a story about the bullet factory (The Ayalon Institute), built clandestinely by the Hagana at Rehovot in 1945 during the British Mandate. It appeared in my book Unexpected Israel and on my blog.

Shortly after it was published I received a phone call from a quietly spoken formal gentleman saying “Thank you for writing about the Ayalon Institute. It is a very important story”. His name was Shlomo HIllel. I asked why it interested him, to which he replied “I was there”.

We arranged to meet at his home. I sat captivated for over two hours as he told me how, in 1945, aged 22, he was the oldest of a youth group and in charge of a dozen teenage boys and girls, one of whom would later become his wife. Together they built this secret underground factory, the size of a tennis court. I asked how they did it. “Like this” he said, showing me his hands. What they achieved defies belief. In the next two years over 2.5 million bullets were manufactured, to help the Jews defend themselves when the British left and the State of Israel was established in 1948.

After it was completed, Shlomo Hillel did not stay at the Institute. Instead in 1946 the Hagana sent him for a year to Baghdad, his birthplace, to plan the exodus of Iraq’s Jews. Between 1949- 52 he returned, working tirelessly to bring 130,000 of them to Israel – almost the entire community. Years later the story of this operation was published in his book ‘Operation Babylon’, it reads like a master spy thriller.


We keep in touch by phone. On my last visit to Israel we met again and I was fascinated to hear about his latest project as President of the Society for the Preservation of Israel Heritage Sites, involving the Atlit Detention Camp near Haifa. Constructed during the Mandate, it served as an internment camp for illegal’ Jewish immigrants captured by the British from 1939 to 1948, illegal inasmuch as they were attempting to defy the strict British entry quota. Shlomo HIllel also had a more personal connection as his late wife, Temima, was held there with her family on her arrival as a child refugee from Austria.

atlit-detainee-camp.jpgI visited the museum. At first sight it was chilling, evoking images of Nazi concentration camps. The original camp was 90,000 square meters – today’s camp is smaller but still lined with rows of wooden huts and the entire camp is surrounded by heavy barbed wire fences and watchtowers. I went first to see the disinfection building, where the arrivals undressed, showered and were sprayed with DDT.

One can understand the need for this, for when they eventually reached the Land of Israel they were dirty, dishevelled and carrying who knows what kind of parasites. But for those who had left the death camps it must have been traumatic to find themselves once again behind barbed wire. Men were separated from the women and children, another reminder of what they had endured under the Nazis.

However at Atlit the men and women were allowed to meet once daily and walk along a central ‘boulevard’. Archive photographs show smiling and hopeful faces – something never seen in Auschwitz.

P1080326.JPGThe accommodation huts contain rows of beds and domestic items such as a sewing machine, toys and books – evidence of a slow return to normality. The local community set up help groups to assist the newcomers whilst they waited either for their permit to stay or, sadly, to be deported.


P1080341.JPGAt the museum I watched a short film about the successful Palmach raid in October 1945 to liberate the detainees. it was powerfully moving and I was reduced to tears by the finale.

Most illegal immigrants (‘Ma’apilim’) arrived by boat beginning in 1934 and the accounts of their hazardous journeys are recorded in the archives. Following WW2, in spite of their knowledge of the Holocaust, the British intensified their policy of restricting the number of Jews permitted to enter the country.

To counter this, a complex international Jewish network was established to get survivors onto boats and to the Land of Israel. Many eluded the British but several unpleasant incidents occurred. Refugees were dragged off boats and in some cases returned to Europe. Others were shipped to camps in Mauritius.

These stories made the world  headlines.  An Italian boat was detained in La Spezia on the orders of the British and all the passengers went on hunger strike. The Exodus left France carrying 4,515 survivors. The British fired at the ship, lives were lost and the boat was towed to Haifa where the passengers were forcibly returned to Germany.

Atlit was now so overcrowded that the British built camps on Cyprus. From August 1946 until the British Mandate ended in 1948 52,000 Jews were deported to and held there.

(When I grew up in England I remember the pride of believing that our British soldiers behaved better than others and didn’t engage in atrocities. It was only when I came to Israel for the first time did I realise that our troops were not exactly squeaky clean, nor was our government. A sad realisation!

The majority of refugees arrived by sea. To commemorate this, a boat from that era is installed at Atlit for visitors to enter and experience what life was like on board.

P1080340.JPGCuriously the British assumed that only boats would be used to bring ‘illegals’ to the country so Shlomo Hillel and the Hagana decided to bring some by air. In August 1947 the first flight took place with Hillel and 50 Iraqi Jews who landed undetected at Yavne’el in the Lower Galilee. A month later a second flight arrived from an unused airport in Italy, again landing secretly. The pilots then returned to Iraq and brought out 50 more.


Whilst these flights involving 150 refugees may seem insignificant numerically, it was a major development. Hillel wrote “We took great satisfaction from knowing that we were the first in the history of the Aliya Bet to successfully bring in Ma’apilim by air”.

Recently the museum spent years looking for a plane of the same type that was originally used. They eventually found one in Alaska. The story of how it reached Atlit is an adventure in itself. It was taken apart and reassembled in its original condition in Alaska, then transported to Israel via China. It now takes pride of place on the site and will soon open to the public to tell the tale of its exploits.

What I find quite remarkable is to know that Shlomo HIllel, the man who 70 years ago helped to save so many Jews, is still, at the age of 94, actively involved in projects such as this. His enthusiasm and energy never diminishes.

He is one of the true pioneers of this country, having served as a Member of the Knesset, Deputy Director of the Foreign Ministry, Minister of Police, Interior Minister, Ambassador to five African nations, Speaker of the Knesset for five years and so it continues. He was also awarded the prestigious Israel Prize in 1998 for his special contribution to the society and the State of Israel.

Shlomo will not welcome this living eulogy, regarding it as totally unwarranted, (he being the most self effacing person I know.) When I asked if I could put a credit from him on the back of my book saying “Thank you for writing the dramatic story of the Ayalon Institute – I was there”,  he replied “Dont say that, it wasn’t dramatic, we had a job to do and we just got on with it.” This is typical of a truly special person. A role model for us all.




Mary – wor bonny lass

Life is not always about people achieving fame and success. More often it is about some unforgettable characters who may appear to lead ordinary lives – such as Mary.

We first met Mary 30 years ago. A down to earth Geordie she was our cleaner for ten years until retiring at 70 because of her ‘gammy knee’.

opcss9w.jpgMary was born in 1925, the fourth of five siblings in South Shields, a coastal town near Newcastle at the mouth of the River Tyne. Her family were Catholics who came to England from Ireland during the Potato Famine (1845-54) to seek employment. Small scale iron making had existed here since the 12th century but after the Industrial Revolution the Cleveland Main Seam was discovered locally at Skinningrove in 1837 which created a boom for the iron and steel industry, railways and shipbuilding. The town of Jarrow became known as ‘Little Ireland’ and the 1861 census recorded that 67% of Newcastle’s population were immigrants.

When Mary was growing up her mother worked in a fish and chip shop and her father found occasional work at the shipyards when weather permitted the boats to dock. He mostly worked on the ropes of cargo ships – a dangerous job. On one occasion he fell into the docks. He was wearing a dirty white mackintosh which his wife had been urging him to throw away – this saved him as he was seen floundering in the water and rescue



WW2Bomb damage in South Shields
Mary was 13 when WW11 began. She remembers clearly the night that all eight
bridges in Shields were bombed, leaving massive craters in the road. The area suffered constant raids from enemy aircraft targeting the iron and steel works, chemical plants and shipyards. Over 1,000 civilians were killed or maimed by Luftwaffe bombing raids. Her elder brother was called up to serve in the prestigious 51st Highland Division – the only Englishman recruited.

Mary left school at 14. She and her siblings had to support their parents struggling on a small pension. Her siblings worked in munitions factories and Mary’s first job was at Carricks Catering with 100 cafes in the north east. She stayed four years until the company was bought out just before the war ended and everyone lost their jobs.

Social life was a weekly visit to the ‘pictures’ and going to the beach in summer, although this was often out of bounds because of the land mines that had been buried there to deter the Germans.

Mary never married. “I was too busy working for the family to bother”, she said, though she once got engaged to a Irish pen-friend from Belfast. He came to meet her family but, whilst on the train, she saw him take a purse out of his pocket and was instantly put off. “I couldn’t marry a man who used a purse!” she told her mother, a forthright and direct character, who agreed, saying he might have been alright as a pen-friend, but was much too sedate – not rough and ready like our real men. Since then Mary never met anyone she fancied.

Post-war there was even less work available in the north so in 1945 she tried her luck in London, finding a job with the BBC in Bayswater where she spent a year working in their staff canteen. She earned £4 a week with £2.12s.6d deducted for bed and board.

It was about this time that she met Moira, who became her dearest friend and with whom she lived for the rest of her life. Moira was ‘adopted’ by Mary’s family – her mother regarding her as a daughter – the only one whose cooking she would eat.

They met whilst working for a Miss Drew who who ran a small hotel in Fitzjohns Avenue, Hampstead just 200 yards from where we now live. Moira was the housekeeper and Mary a waitress. One day the unimaginable happened – Miss Drew committed suicide, (Man trouble, says Mary). For Moira, a devout Catholic, this act was an unforgivable mortal sin so she left her job and Mary followed suit – “Moira didn’t have a soul in the world and I couldn’t bear to think of her managing on her own”. So they went back home for a month, returning to London courtesy of Miss Smith’s agency for young ladies.

Back in London their first night was spent in a Soho attic next to the boiler which was so noisy they couldn’t sleep. Next day they left early, spent the day trudging around London and finally found work and a room, but with little left for food after paying the rent. Their treat for the week was to share a bottle of lemonade on a Sunday.

Eventually they put their names down for a council flat in a block they watched being built and 15 years later moved into Weedington Road, (Kentish Town) where she remains today.

She and Moira travelled together to Ireland, Lourdes, Rome and Jerusalem when they came to stay with us for a holiday. She reminded me of the Independence Day concert we all attended and also recalls their visit to an area where all the men wore long curls ( Mea Shearim)

In London Mary visited ‘the bingo’ weekly, but now finds it too noisy and has transferred her loyalty to the Irish National Lottery. If she wins she says she wants to come back to Jerusalem.

Sadly Moira died in 2011 aged 95, Mary continues to live in the flat with Benjy her small white fluffy Bichon Frise who she found at the Battersea Dogs Home. Benjy is central to her life. He loves her dearly and sleeps at the top of her pillow with his head drooping down onto hers.

P1080294.jpgHowever Benjy is discriminating and refuses to eat tinned dog food. Every day they visit a local cafe – Benjy eats chicken nuggets or a bacon sandwich and she has a latte. I observed that he ate the filling but left the bread – evidently a gluten conscious dog. Mary meanwhile sits enthroned on her buggy surveying the world. Everyone passing by knows and loves her.

Mary is a regular Church-goer, but for some reason Benjy categorically refuses to go. We think he must belong to a different religion. He waits at home barking constantly until her return.

Mary gets on well with all the neighbours however ‘her upstairs’ complained about Benjy. Mary apologised, but the neighbour continued grumbling until Mary eventually said “Fine, I’ll get rid of Benjy if you get rid of that fancy man of yours who comes for fun and games with you four nights a week leaving his wife and children at home”. Nothing more was said. Since then the fancy man is off the scene and ‘her upstairs’ actually now loves Benjy.

At 92 Mary’s mobility is limited, but she compensates by travelling on the Rolls Royce of buggies – scarlet red with, as she puts it, a ‘saucy’ horn. She is critical of those pedestrians who incessantly use mobiles, presenting a hazard to her and everyone else on the pavements.

extra dry

IMG_7683.JPG  xxx.JPGThe first time Mary visited us on her supermobile, we were astonished by the speed at which she travels. “Don’t break the limit”, cautioned Charles, which prompted the response “why is it always the men that don’t like me to race around!”

Every day, weather permitting, she rides up to Parliament Hill where she reigns supreme for a couple of hours chatting to many of the friends she has made. She has become something of an institution in Kentish Town. On a recent visit I went the wrong way and asked a postman if he knew Weedington Road. I was maybe a mile or so away. I said “I’m visiting a good friend”Oh you must mean Mary” he said. “Give her my love”.

Her special long term friend is the local priest, Michael – no spring chicken at 86, but that does not stop him visiting her every morning at 9.am plus Wednesdays at 3pm when they have a glass of gin and tonic. They also take trips to Richmond or Brighton – put the buggy on the train and they’re off.

I have never met anyone with such determination and enthusiasm for life. For months she was housebound as the ramp to allow her buggy out of the flat was not fixed despite frequent pleas to the Council. Mary was frustrated but, true to form, she developed enduring friendships with the local squirrels who now visit several times a day for their peanuts. Mary hates asking for help, but she eventually overcame her stubbornness and the neighbours now get her in and out of the flat. She is ‘back on the road’.

Mary will tell that you she has had a great life. Thanks to her humour, stoicism and beliefs, she is the most uncomplaining person I know – an indomitable character, who has enriched the lives of many. Incidentally she is also the staunchest Conservative – as she says my mother would never have allowed anyone in our family to vote differently.

God bless her.