"Where Ignorance Is Bliss”: Bashing The Whistleblower

Although the Western German film, The Nasty Girl (1990) is not directly about feminism, it is no coincidence that the heroine, Sonja, is an intelligent and curious school girl, the pride and joy of her small town.The film is based on the biography of the journalist Anna Rosmus who grew up Passau in Bavaria. The nasty Girl is an example of the intolerable price that one brave whistleblower ends up paying for discovering and exposing the truth.

When young Sonja decides to enter an essay competition and chooses the topic: “My town during the third Reich,” she has no idea what this topic entails. Moreover, she doesn’t know anything about, her town, Pfilzing’s Nazi past, and can’t imagine the Pandora Box she is about to open. As she embarks on a quest to discover what really happened in her quaint little town, she threatens to expose forgotten secrets, which were hidden for almost 50 years.

This seemingly innocuous assignment, takes over Sonja's life and gradually shatters her world, and that of the people close to her. The townspeople unite against her and from being the town’s darling Sonja becomes an outcast.

Please keep reading in the Times of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/where-ignorance-is-bliss-bashing-the-whistleblower/

The Comfort of Denial

A powerful cartoon on PBS,  by Jack Ohman, with the perfect title: “In my dad’s final weeks, I was still in Denial, “  reminded me, this morning, of the time of my husband's illness. I too, till the last moment, was in complete denial.

This is an essay in which I argue that denial could be helpful when dealing with tragedy.

Sometimes I hear people remark “she is in complete denial,” several years ago that's probably how they described me. They could not have known, but at that time I chose denial as a way of life and as the best course of action. After my husband was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer, and heard from the Oncologist about his prognosis, I decided to put that knowledge aside.

Please keep reading in the Times Of Israel

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/the-comfort-of-denial/

Jack Ohman's cartoon

http://www.pbs.org/newshour/updates/everything-went-wrong-dads-health/?utm_source=facebook&utm_medium=pbsofficial&utm_campaign=newshour

“I'll Think About That Tomorrow “: The Comfort of Denial

Sometimes I hear people remark “she is in complete denial,” several years ago that's probably how they described me. They could not have known, but at that time I chose denial as a way of life and as the best course of action. After my husband Tzvi was diagnosed with stage 4  lung cancer, and heard from the Oncologist about his prognosis, I decided to put that knowledge aside.

While normally we used to study every  foreseeable situation, this time we didn't. It was better  to spare ourselves, thus we purposely limited our exposure to information.  Strangely enough it was much easier than anticipated as it was clear that nothing good could come from that front.

It is amazing how the mind becomes a willing confederate in such decisions. Although I heard with my own ears that Tzvi had only  9 months to live, I did not listen.  I kept insisting to myself that he was young and strong and would get better. In addition, the doctors kept planting  comforting messages in our minds, or perhaps  we just thought we heard them.  Statements like "you are looking good," were translated into “the treatment works” or “he is going to make it.”

The other day I talked to a friend, who was witnessing  utter denial in similar circustances, and it sent me back to the time of Tzvi's illness. I believe that although it was hard, perhaps painful for others to watch my self-deception, it made life better for us. In a way it was like being in love: we placed ourselves in our small cocoon and tried to keep  reality out. Inside we were safe, active and even happy,  as there were many joyful moments in those bleak  months. But there were instances when reality refused to stay out, when Tzvi wanted to talk. Then I really had to listen and even wrote down what he said in a special notebook. Somehow writing made it seem less imminent as though it was something we had to record for future reference.

Another friend told me that when her husband was terminally ill, she knew that he was going to die and could not to deny it. I feel that such realization makes it easier to say good bye, to accept the situation and to get used to the idea of the day after. I chose not to see that far.

If there is an insight to share from my plight, it is that being energetic and hopeful  doesn’t mean that you don't know the truth. It only indicates that in the meantime you choose not to deal with it. In short, there are times when Scarlett O'Hara's technique of  “I'll think about that tomorrow,” is a recommended option.

What Would Dorian Say? Or My New Gray hair

That I stopped dying my hair is not news of any importance, but seeing Hilary Clinton’s soft golden hair, as she faces Barack Obama, on the front page of Ha’aretz today, I realized again, that when it comes to gray hair a rose is never just a rose. And no, this post is not about Feminism (with a capital F), although I must admit that whenever I attend any Feminist function I notice a sea of gray hair.

For as long as I can remember, my mother had beautiful  gray hair, she kept it short and let it dry in the sun. For a nurse, it was a practical no-nonsense hair style, and it suited her personality. I was convinced that one day I would be just like her. But when the time came and I turned gray, one of my daughters asked me to dye my hair. I hesitated; I always considered myself a woman who accepted  life changes, and imagined that I would age, if not gracefully, at least, with style.

 My daughter argued that it was too early, that I was too young to be old.  She even paraphrased a favorite line from The Diary of Bridget Jones in which Bridget admits that, as a student of women magazines, she knew better than to believe that we were judged by our personality.

As my daughter is the family’s fashion arbiter, I deferred my plan to grow old and seized the last days of spring by restoring my hair back to its original dark color. After all, I told myself, it was important to make my daughter proud.

But, from my experience,  trying to please our loved ones hardly ever works. I knew the truth behind my gray roots, and resented the effort of hiding it from the rest of the world. Whenever I saw gray haired women I found myself  complimenting them on their hair, and then explaining  why it was that I had dark hair. Of course I sounded false and hypocritical. I experienced a similar unease (and even wrote a post about it), under very different, and graver, circumstances, when we lived on the green line. Then too I felt that I had to justify to the world why I lived in a town which was considered a settlement.

A psychologist might call my predicament in both cases a cognitive dissonance, but it simply translates to not being true to myself. I was lucky that, with those two different issues, I was able to remedy the situations and to live according to my beliefs again. I moved back to Tel Aviv and stopped dying my hair.

Inside I don’t feel old, not even a bit,  but I wonder what other people see when a gray haired woman skate by them. This is a new thought, probably my dark hair blended better, and made me less conspicuous in the park.

My daughter told me the other day that gray hair is back, it may be true, but I like to think of it as her way of saying that she accepts my choice.

PS. Although I chose not to explore this aspect, it is interesting to note the juxtaposition of Clinton's golden hair and Obama's "distinguished looking" gray hair.

And one more thing, several  friends commented that hair color is a matter of personal choice. I agree, and hope that it was clear that, like always, I was only talking about myself.