The Davka Complex

Lisa Hirschmann

Traveling to Israel is one thing I was sure I would not be doing anytime soon. Despite having Jewish ancestry and a misleading last name, I was raised Catholic and have little knowledge of Judaism and no personal connection with Israel. So when an Israeli friend at Columbia urged me to apply to Project Interchange, a program for college journalists in Israel paid for entirely by the American Jewish Committee (AJC), I couldn't believe I was going "over there." The trip was a crash course on Israel and the conflict, a jam-packed combination of seminars, speakers, and tourism that both overwhelmed and transformed me.

On such a short trip, I knew if I wanted to get even a small sense of the Israeli people, I would have to tone down my deer-in-headlights look and play up my reporting—strike up casual conversations and not be afraid to ask some intrusive questions. That's how davka came up.

During the second Intifada, Davida, a staffer for the American Jewish Committee's Jerusalem office, had returned to her native Israel after graduating from Williams College in Massachusetts. She had intended to reconnect with a long-lost best friend from her childhood who was engaged to be married, but for various reasons continued to nonchalantly postpone making the phone call. When three months had passed, the friend was killed with her father in the September 2001 suicide bombing of Café Hillel on Jerusalem's Jaffa Road. It had been the eve of her wedding. The night following the bombing, Davida made a point of drinking coffee at Café Hillel. "Davka," she said.

"Davka?" I repeated.

It's an expression, literally untranslatable into English, used in ironic or paradoxical situations to release tension. It is used negatively when one is unable to accomplish a simple routine task despite continuous attempts to do so, a sort of "just my luck." For example, one could say, "I arrive on time for class even though the teacher is usually late, but davka on the day of the exam, I arrived a minute late and he had already started class."

But it's the positive use of davka that is more illustrative of the Israeli gestalt. It's used when one is unexpectedly able to accomplish a task despite unfavorable circumstances or the precedent of failure. It can also connote a sense of doing something "just because" or "because one wants to." For example, a Jew could say, "It may be Yom Kippur, but davka I'm going to have a hamburger for dinner," or "My mother hates when I wear black, but I wore it to my prom davka." It's said everyday in the midst of traffic jams and long lines, as well as in those rare and serious situations. It depends who you ask. You'll hear it called the "davka complex" or the "davka mentality."

I rubbed elbows with davka on New Year's Eve in downtown Jerusalem. The trip leaders informed us that the Israeli Defense Forces believed a suicide bomber had entered Israel with the intention of detonating in the midst of a midnight celebration, so we were given the individual choice to go out or not.

As an American and nervous first timer in Israel, my stomach turned inside out as soon as I heard the words "suicide bomber." The official warning was more than enough to send me running in the other direction. Holding my breath, I rushed back to my hotel as fast as I could.

But I seemed to be the only one concerned. Save my American buddies, no one seemed to pay much notice to the warnings. Israelis filled the streets and packed into cafes, restaurants and clubs. While I had panicked like a drowning child, they calmly went about their business, even if that meant congregating in large dance clubs on one of the most crowded nights of the year.

I tried furiously to comprehend it. Why was it that nothing had changed for the Israelis? Maybe they hadn't heard the news? Maybe they didn't care?

I was voicing my incomprehension to Davida and a few friends over dinner, and she casually mentioned davka.

I interpreted it along the lines of throwing a pie in the face of those occurrences which purport to preclude one from doing so. It speaks volumes to me on the Israeli people's will to continue living—despite expectations to the contrary—in the face of adversity. Of course, it's a concept of which I've only caught a glimpse, but that was more than enough to make an impression on me. Filling the nightclubs despite the warnings and paranoia was not a lack of care or ignorance of danger: it was davka.

LISA HIRSCHMANN is a sophomore in Columbia College, majoring in Spanish Language and Literature. She is also a news writer for the Spectator.