A snake, as anyone can attest, slithers about here and there all the while tongue flickering like an old film projector. As I recall from biology, the snake’s primary sense is its sense of smell which is of course interlaced with the sense of taste. The tongue, then, is the antenna which amplifies and relays sensations of the outer world to the snake.

The snake gets its name from its sensory function which is quite different from the english word ’snake’ which can be used as a verb to describe a zig-zagging motion.

While this is interesting, what I find more intriguing is that the snake that lured Adam and Eve to their downfall is also known as נחש. And, as much as Adam and Eve were punished for their explicit disobedience, the implicit reason for punishment is more fascinating.

As everyone knows, Adam and Eve were forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge (עץ הדעת). Before their fall, it can be assumed that they were in a state of perfect naivety and unity with the world around them. The snake is the vehicle by which they are expelled and by which they come to understand their nakedness.

The snake represents the ’sense’ or the ‘guess’ of Adam and Eve; their temptation is precipitated by their desire for understanding. The snake’s slithering movement is a clever metaphor for how one proceeds from innocence to uncertainty on the path to knowledge.

From a linguistic perspective, the story of the fall of Adam and Eve is a much richer and more fulfilling allegory. It isn’t simple disobedience, it isn’t even a ‘fall’, it is the courageous hunger for knowledge and self-awareness that is the basic essence of humanity and that which separates us from the rest of the creatures of the world.

The root is (ח ת ל) and the word for cat is khatoul (חָתוּל) and the word for diaper is khaytoul (חִתּוּל). Without the diacritical markings, the words are identical. The verb ‘to diaper’ is khaytl (חִתֵּל) and this is where the connection between cat and diaper comes into play.

The linguistic connection between the words ‘cat’ and ‘diaper’ is in the act of cleaning. Cats are fairly sanitary creatures and are so kind as to deposit their waste into a tidy hole and then cover it with some material to diffuse and soften the odor. In much the same way, although not really at all, the diaper is used to carry around the waste of the very young (and very old).

It’s a thin connection, to be sure, but apparently that’s the connection between ‘cat’ and ‘diaper’.

As it turns out, my naivety was a shared naivety. And while a good number of my classmates thought Hebrew could be learned through osmosis and skipping class, I at least made the effort through mountains of flash cards and regular class attendance.

I went to ulpan in Jerusalem for 5 months with classes 5 days a week for 5 hours a day. Each day was spent learning new grammar and vocabulary, reviewing homework and some actual Hebrew conversation. It was repetitive and boring. Little time was actually devoted to speaking Hebrew and the pace of the class was dreadfully slow.

At the end of the five month period I was burnt out and while my Hebrew vocabulary was actually quite good, I could barely handle even the most basic conversation. It was tremendously disheartening to have spent so much time and energy trying to learn Hebrew (I knew almost no Hebrew when I arrived) and to have actually learned nothing.

Two years later, my Hebrew is dramatically improved; my level of comprehension is very high and my vocabulary has expanded further. My conversational skills, however, are still wretched and that has prompted me to return to ulpan. I now know enough grammar and vocabulary to be placed into one of the highest levels where Hebrew conversational skills are supposed to be developed.

I went to the first class earlier this week. I had mixed feelings, somewhere between dread and a strong desire to learn Hebrew. The dread proved to be the correct intuition. The teacher showed up 25 minutes late and the class atmosphere was indifferent. I think I spoke for maybe two minutes and it was only to answer a question; my answer was construed as boring. The teacher asked what had happened in the news today and I said that Lieberman was likely to become foreign minister. I guess she was looking for something more sensational. The rest of the class was spent reading a terribly simple text about Einstein; the teacher only called on the Swiss-French contigent in the class and ignored the rest of the class.

I left class crestfallen. It’s hard to describe the sentiment exactly; one wants to feel part of society and an essential component of the belonging is a common language. No matter what one’s legal status is or what passport one carries, it’s the language that most readily identifies and entangles one with a place or group. American English is distinct from British English and the mechanically perfect Scandinavian English; the language itself is what defines the person because it is through that more than anyhing which a person defines himself and relates to others.

What’s interesting is that gender in Hebrew is also מין because we all came from something – most probably the womb – and all of us have a type – male or female. So, in Hebrew, one’s origin is both a designation and a point of origin.

However, the Latin root for gender comes from the root for family which is “genex” and also birthes the words for genealogy (study of the family) and genitals (that whose function brings forth family). Gender implies belonging to something greater; the parents that conceived and the one that birthed you.

It isn’t so much a type cast as it is a relationship. In modern usage, gender is a mark of identification that has little to do with familial relationship. In ancient times, however, the root “genex” implies not so much whence one came and what type one is but to whom one belongs.

(”Whence”, as an aside, seems to be used only to convey an elevated sense of language by the author and it’s almost always used in a clumsy fashion. Whence implies “from where”; hence the reason for a separate word. To say, “from whence” is redundant – “from where you come from”. Although, sadly, it seems that “from whence” is an acceptable usage according to the American Heritage Dictionary – “But from whence has been used steadily by reputable writers since the 14th century, most notably in the King James Bible: “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help” (Psalms). Such a respectable precedent makes it difficult to label the construction as incorrect.” However, it also claims “The construction from whence has been criticized as redundant since the 18th century.” So unless you’re a literal author (deceased long ago) of the Bible please don’t use “from whence”.)

מין is also used to describe a type of something. For instance it can be a happy cat or a red cat or some other adjectival-noun combination. מין covers much more general ground than gender and is used accordingly. However, there have been a number of instances where I’ve tried to us מין in context as a type of something but somehow it comes out as gender and leads to a confusing and frustrating conversation.

Israel, since it is largley an immigrant nation, should then be prepared to offer new immigrants the option of learning materials or reference materials in their native language. For the most part, the Aliyah materials I received before coming to Israel were well-done and informative; perhaps they put the bar a bit too high.

Adjusting to Israel as a native English speaker and bumbling Hebrew speaker was not terribly easy. Most of the non-governmental offices (such as cable, electricity, phone, etc) only offer Hebrew, Arabic or Russian support. So this meant guessing at which number to push on the dialpad and repeated attempts to uncover a human who invariably didn’t speak any English and would transfer me immediately to another person who would do the same. Eventually the line would be disconnected. It was very frustrating.

I suppose it’s somewhat arrogant to expect Israel to provide English support except that English is most of the world’s second language…

For a truly frustrating experience, go to any Israeli restaurant and ask for an English menu. Either they will provide you with a dog-eared, ratty menu held precariously together with scotch tape and scraps of previous meals or they’ll tell you they don’t have one but they’d be happy to tell you what’s on the menu (or in addition, they’ll lecture you about living in Israel and requiring an English menu which is always pleasant).

If an English menu is available, it is almost certainly a mishmash of misspellings and insane transliterations. On the bright side, however, you are treated to some of the most colorful and blase interpretations of words. The Italian menus are usually the most amusing; it’s so odd though that an Italian restaurant would so casually dismiss the spelling of so many common Italian words — they’re in Roman characters after all.

If no English menu is available, the accuracy of the translation depends on the Israeli. But, if you ask a question and the waiter isn’t sure of the answer, you will be given a hesitant “yes”. Many meals have been ruined or at least dampened by the expectation of a sumptuous meal only to have the reception of something you expressly did not ask for and would have refused.

It is a mystery as to why Israelis are so cavalier in their disregard to the most basic consistencies in spelling and translation. Most of the visitors to this country are not native Hebrew speakers and rely on English and secondarily Russian to communicate. Having shoddy English menus and spotty English support is – to those who haven’t become acclimated – somewhat rude and off-putting. For the rest of us, it’s just part of the Israeli charm.

Nearly everything outside of a pen and paper has a spell checker along with it. In Israel, however, no one seems to care how anything is spelled. One can chalk it up to the fact that Hebrew, despite its ancient origins, is a new language and the country is made up of non-native Hebrew speaking immigrants and Hebrew orthography is not yet calcified.

However, this is no excuse for the blatant disregard for the abundants mispellings decorating Israel.
For instance, at the Ayalon Ha-Shalom junction (next to the Azraeli Towers) there are two signs for Ayalon; one is a blue sign that points to Ayalon North (איילון)and another that signals the off-ramp for Ayalon North (אילון). This is one of the busier intersections in Israel; how can the Roads Authority (or whomever is responsible…) be so clumsy? Both of the signs spell “A-Y-A-L-O-N” in Roman characters so why the disparity in the Hebrew spelling?

To further confuse the situation (and elucidate the orthographic laziness), there are restaurants around the area that incorporate variations of Ayalon, that is אייילון and אילון, so it’s totally unclear which spelling is correct or even if one is actually considered correct.

(To make matters more confusing, the Arabic transliteration of Ayalon is spelled three different ways on three consecutive signs; roughly, Ayaalon, Ayalon, and Aalaayon.)

Another word that one would think would be standardized would be the word for bathroom — sharutim (שרותים). The spelling of bathroom varies from שרותים to שירותים in the same building in the same hallway. Clearly this isn’t cause for much confusion but for consitency it’s baffling. I think שרותים is the correct spelling but who knows.

Part of the blame lies with the Hebrew language itself; as a Semitic language, the vowels are written diacritically (that is, above or below the consonant on which they are supposed to sound). Called nekudot (נקודות), they are a series of dots corresponding to specific sounds. In modern Hebrew, they are generally not written; thus if the pronounciation of the word is unknown to the reader, it may be impossible to tell exactly how to pronounce it.

While the lack of vowels may be part of the reason for the varied spellings of certain Hebrew words, that certainly doesn’t explain all of it. The bulk of the fault lies with whomever writes the words on the signs and the general lack of concern for this from the populace at large.

Having pointed out these glaring omissions to many Israeli, I receive the same response; a shrug of the shoulders and an exasperated, “what do you expect?” I understand the blase response because there are more pressing issues facing the country but the indifferent attitude persists throughout Israeli culture and is indicative of something much more serious than just orthography.

One day, some day when the forever tardy Messiah returns, the world will be set in order and all will be well; the outcast and the deceptive will be welcomed back into the fold. The pig will come squealing back and the alien will become the familiar.

The underlying linguistical connotations are fascinating. It presents a worldview that is essentially incomplete until the Messiah returns and that the function of the alien and the pig – and generally of the unknown and outside – is to serve as a contrast between the incomplete and complete.

Every culture or group has a definition of within and without but to define an animal (the deceptive one) and the foreigner in terms of their eventual return is quite extraordinary.

What’s strange, though, is that the pig is treated with such disdain. All the reasons written about in the Pigs in Space notwithstanding, the root – ח ז ר – from which pig comes has something of a positive connotation.

Someday, the root urges, this curlicued beast will – with the certainty of a zealot – come back to the community. It seems like the pig should be revered because its entrance into the fold will be heralded with the world’s ordinance.  Instead, the pig is held apart as a reminder of its deception and its future redemption  will remain unheralded  –despite the etymological guarantee of a return.

The difference between “in” and “on” is more than one would intially believe. Being “on” something implies that the subject and object – the line – exist independently of one other; the person waiting in line is constitutionally distinct from the line and the line distinct from the person. When the person leaves the line, the line, metaphysically trivially or not, continues to exist. The line’s function persists even if no one is on it.

Waiting “in” line suggests that the subject is within some encompassing boundary. Being “in” something, like a tunnel or a car, means being enclosed within something. The person in line and the line itself are constitutionally distinct, but instead of being on top of the line, the line itself encloses the person.

Who knows what it says that some regions of the country say “on” whereas most of the country says “on”, but perhaps it’s interesting; perhaps not.

Clearly, this interpretation of “in” or “on” is completely subjective. It’s simply meant to stress that when one considers the perceived underpinnings of the reasons for certain prepositions, it is clear why prepositions can be especially difficult in a non-native language.

In Hebrew, for instance, there is a direct article marker – את (at) – that doesn’t mean anything other than to signify the direct object for some verbs. So, for instance, instead of saying, “I know him,” you’d actually say “I know (את) him.” This isn’t difficult to get used to but it’s still something awkward. In addition to that, of course, there are a number of prepositions that one must master. The confusion arises, however, when one tries to translate from English to Hebrew; this is normally a bad idea but with prepositions, it’s almost always a failed proposition.

When one waits in line in Hebrew, there is one preposition – ב (b’) – that signifies a relationship of accompaniment as well as manner. In Latin, you have “cum” (with) which can be used similary; you hit someone “with” a hammer (means, manner) but you travel “with” friends (accompaniment). While the function of some prepositions are clearly similar, the translations of those prepositions can be quite different.

Therein lies the conundrum. The only way to get though these horrors is to read and listen to native speakers; it is truly a laborious and tortured process.

The pig appears to be clean and pure (קדוש וטהור) and should thus be kosher and edible; for the average person it would be nearly impossible to verify the internal macchinations of the animal. The pig’s a priori deception is, at least to hear the religiously inclined intone, somehow an affront to God and is akin to the snake’s deception of Eve in the Garden of Eden.

It seems odd that God would create an animal in such a way that would be created deceptive; mysterious ways I guess. It does, however, explain the etymological roots of the words for alien (חַיְזָר) – heezar – and pig (חֲזִיר) – hazeer – in Hebrew.

For English speakers, alien and pig are in no way related. Alien comes from Latin “alius, -a, -um” which means “the other” or “the rest”; pig sounds Anglo-Saxon-ish and doesn’t, as far as I know, carry any special significance.  The pig is seen in the same way as the cow and the chicken – as sources of food.  There isn’t any reason to attach any special significance to the animal other than indentity.

In Hebrew, since the pig (חֲזִיר) is essentially an outcast and deceptive animal, the word hazeer carries the connotation of outsider or strange. The word for alien (חַיְזָר) also has the root (ח ז ר) and the connection becomes obvious. Since the alien is outside of society – “the other” to use the Latin root – and is potentially deceptive and harmful, the etymological link with pig is established.

Instead of referring to the pig as a biological entity with certain physical characteristics like a corkscrewed tail, the Hebrew focuses instead of the meta-physical properties of the animal – it is deceiving you, it is not from among you.

Modern Hebrew has attempted to reintroduce pork under a less loaded word. For the surprising number of stores that sell pork and other piggy products, the meat is described innocously (and taking a note, perhaps, from the Americans) as white meat (בשר לבן) . Not quite “the other white meat” but at least it exorcises the negative connotations of deception and betrayal.

“It’s just a meat that happens to be white – like chicken! Everyone loves chicken!”

The pig – as food – is still pretty reviled in Israel and the “white meat” moniker has done little to change that. It seems that the historical association is too much to overcome; it will be most likely always be considered an outsider.

In a sense, it’s like the English words “a lot” and “plenty”. When to use the words are left to the speaker; “I have a lot of potatoes” and “There are plenty of potatoes” can essentially mean the same thing. The nuance between the two is slight; having a lot of potatoes means to have more than a few – an indeterminate number – whereas having plenty of potatoes means to have more than a sufficient amount.
Additionally, the roots of “a lot” and “plenty” are different. “A lot” is an Anglo-Saxon word that refers to a plot of land and is generally considered to be bad form by high school English teachers. “Plenty” is from Latin and denotes sufficiency, satience. It shares the root with the word “plenum” which is a full assembly or a container filled with matter (in opposition to a vaccum). So, looking beneath the common use of the words reveals subtle differences in meaning. “A lot” is a fixed amount of space whereas “plenty” implies fullness and sufficiency.
הרבה has a similar root with רבה and רבים which, in turn, mean “a lot” or “many” – as in “many thanks” or “thanks a lot” – and רבים is used as plural. I’ve no clue from where המון comes; the associative words imply an unquantified mass. The words for “mob”, “multitudes” and other massive and undefined entities that also carry with them a sense of chaos.

In day-to-day Hebrew and maybe even in printed Hebrew, these distinctions are probably not noted. The nuances are difficult to grasp as a non-native speaker. The same awkward and forced sentences that non-native English speakers speak, I must also be making in Hebrew; it is exceedinly frustrating to not know whether to use המון or הרבה specifically and Hebrew words generally makes learning a language difficult. One hopes that with time and conversation, the concerns about nuance fade and the language becomes more natural and fluid.