Harris, Ziva I.

[Deleted]

full name Ziva Ilana Harris date of birth 13.02.86 home town Haifa, Israel current city London, England education University of Oxford occupation Intelligence Officer  ________________________________________ ________________________________________ Dinner To: Ziva Harris <[e-mail]> From: Hamish Bennett <[e-mail]> I tried the coffee shop this morning. 7 am on the dot. But Shannon said you were out for the day? For a manager you're out quite a lot. But that's okay, I made dinner reservations for us instead. At Berners Tavern. I tried to call you later to explain, but it went straight to voicemail. I hope you got my message babe, because I think we really do need to have a night out for ourselves. You've been working like crazy, and then there was our last conversation two weeks ago, about you moving to Brazil? We're going to have to talk about that, considering the wedding and all. Call me back soon, okay? Us being apart like this and not talking isn't healthy. Love, Hamish RE: Dinner To: Hamish Bennett <[e-mail]> From: Ziva Harris <[e-mail]> You always seem to catch me when i'm out for a pee, or grocery shopping, getting my vagina waxed, or taking my every five minute walk around the block. Crazy. Oh and sorry about that, your number came up as "Do Not Answer For Any Reason #Suicide." Someone must be playing a sick joke on me, how unfunny! As for a night out, that sounds unbelievably great. Well it would be great if you were The Fassbender, John Stamos, Tom Hiddleson, or even Stephen fucking Hawking for fuck sake. Basically any other man for that matter. Honestly Hamish, how many restraining orders do I need to get before you get it through your thick skull that we aren't getting engaged? I'm pretty sure putting your ring into your jacket pocket was a dead give away. Or me saying NO. Just a thought. Pls die. Really. Lots of NO love, Ziva ________________________________________ ________________________________________ You know when you start at University, and it's your first class of the year, so the professors go around the classroom and ask the always tiring questions of your name, where you are from, one random thing about you etc etc? Like they couldn't figure out a better way to break the ice between young adults. But it becomes even more tiresome, when you get the awkward looks when someone finds out you don't have parents, a solid home, and you spent your life through the foster system. The room turns solemn, and it's like someone died. And in a way, it kind of did. But more like your social life. Now it's automatically filled with judgment and nosy questions. There's also pity in your new classmates eyes, and one of many things I hate in the world when it comes to humans, it is unnecessary fucking pity. I spent most of my 28 years meeting people who would either do two things when it came to family conversations or events, 1. act like they were walking on shards of glass, or 2. they'd be so incredibly insensitive and mocking. Coworkers, hairstylist, random Tesco employee, friends, boyfriends, a fiance for a day. Honestly, can't there be an in-between? But really, life would have been a little different, perhaps even a little better, if I was surrounded by people who would simply try and treat me normal. ________________________________________ My life in Israel is sort of blur in some parts, and in others, it is clear as day. What I do remember as the earliest turning events in my life though, was on my tenth birthday. I worked up a courageous attitude, hands on hips and all for the added flavor, and told my house mother, that I was ready. The only gift I wanted that year was to know where I was from. Hearing that you were found abandoned on one of the green paths in Wadi Lotem, wrapped in a shitty blanket stitched with only your first name, wasn't exactly what I was hoping for. I'd honestly take a crack addict for a mother other than what I was told. So yeah, it pissed me off. Wouldn't it you? The aspect of leaving an infant to die instead of at least giving them their best chance, or owning up to their responsibility as parents, is selfish. And makes my birth parents, for a lack of a better word, massive cunts. I won't lie and say it didn't leave me scarred, for it did a bit, but I think that comes with it when you're an orphan. It's inescapable. Living in an all girls orphanage was about survival. Unspoken things happened, but so did a lot of good, and I watched a lot of friends come and go, wishing only that I could go with them. Don't get me wrong, i'm pretty grateful for being able to have that place during most of my younger years. It gave me a roof over my head, food in my belly, and everyone tended to be nice in general. I dressed in embarrassing flood jeans a size too big and plain oversized t-shirts a lot though, but somehow I made it work. The occasional roll up and knot to create a crop top made me the leader in a small rebellion, as well as my many refusals to do other holy and normal citizen-like things. Clearly my rambunctious spirit wasn't a favorite amongst our house mother and counselors. And half the time they'd chide me and tell me that was the reason i'd never get adopted or find a real home. I had the pretty face, but the poorest attitude. I was the fucked up Annie of Haifa. Joy. But that all changed when I was twelve, and was adopted (to the surprise of everyone, apparently) by a Daniel and Valerie Harris. They were both travel enthusiasts from England, who lived off of their old family wealth to take various exotic excursions around the globe. Life took a dramatic turn then, and so did my attitude, as all I wanted to do was please them. It was a bit pathetic, but at the same time, I just wanted to well, be wanted. I got the full treatment, a taste of the glamorous life, my very first traveling experiences, from spectacular to wild to poor, yet all very memorable, only the best education, friendships, comfortable housing, freedom, and even better, people to call family. But with that also came with what I felt towards others, but never really experienced towards myself: Jealousy. Ophelia Harris, the niece of my new parents, was psychotic. I'm serious. Like, she played that pretty and sweet English rose on the outside, but inside, there was something off. All her dolls had short hair and marker-esque gothic makeup whenever she said she got "angry" at them, she'd hate whenever I got any sort of attention, especially from our grandmother (the mother load of all things $$$), and she'd spend too much time trying to embarrass me in any way shape or form. Crazy Eyes I called her, and did so more often to her face than not, which often ended with her tattling on me. But tattling on little things got even bigger and more dangerous, when we were in our teens. Like at thirteen, when she threw a rock at my head when I was flirting with Tommy Sheridan, her two second-ago-before-that-even-happened-crush. The worst of it happened when we were sixteen, and Ophelia and I ended up at the same party together. That already started off the bad mood, and the whole house could sense it whenever we were near. But we had our own friends, so it should have been fine right? As if I had that luck. At the time I was dating a boy who shall not be named, or really, for this purpose, i'll just say J. J had been Ophelia's crush for as long as I can remember, though he had never been interested in her (something about her obsessive personality, fake looking titties and no sex appeal). But when he became interested in me, it was like Hades had it out for me. After fucking around upstairs in one of the vacant bedrooms, we came down and had a few drinks where the rest of the guests were. Of course she came over and interrupted our good moods, and she called me all the derogatory things she could think of. Jew fucking this, Jew fucking that. Even though I haven't even been a full on practicing Jew in a while, it got to the point where I could feel it getting to me. But we took the high road for once and left her there. Twenty minutes later though, when J and I decided to leave and head back to his place for the night, he complained of stomach pains. And then out on the front lawn, he collapsed. He was throwing up, eyes rolled back and he was twitching in all the worst ways, I still have nightmares over it sometimes.. Apparently he had “mysteriously" overdosed on a mixture of drugs, and we were lucky enough that the paramedics got to him in time, or it would have been fatal. In the house she gave some stupid and mental monologue about everything, and we had a brawl massacre. By the end of it, I had used my lighter to set her dress on fire, which traveled and burned off some of her golden locks as well. Our family had protection like no other though, people were bought and that day remains only a memory that people were bribed to be quiet about. But it was at that time as well that Valerie became pregnant with their first child. ________________________________________ In short, they didn't want to have to handle a troubled foreign girl in her teens as well as their first real heir. Not to mention their image became a priority. I should have expected that, as it wasn't uncommon with foster care and flimsy adoptions. But I was heartbroken, had the hardest time with it, and I can't even tell you how I even managed to stay with them as I finished up my Sixth form and A-Levels. But I left soon after and hopped couches at friends and J's, until I found a job that offered me enough money to rent a flat with three others in London. When I was eighteen, I also thought of changing my last name to something of my choice, but I never went through with it. Despite the fact that the Harris family gave me up, I guess I still held on to the happier memories with them, and keeping the surname just had to be apart of it. After working as a bartender at a local pub for a while, I even spent some time in a strip club when bar tending wasn't cutting it. I did whatever needed to be done so I could live the life I wanted to lead, as well as have a comfortable one. Those jobs were shitty sometimes, but they paid enough if I wanted them to, and I mean, they were a means to an end. I applied to University eventually and spent my next few years at the University of Oxford, studying all I could from politics, linguistics, psychology and even a little music for an added fun flavor. But I left with degrees in linguistics and psychology, despite the fact that I couldn't for the life of me, pinpoint exactly what I wanted to do. So in typical dramatic fashion, I partied it up instead. Borrowed money I still owe friends today, somehow got engaged for a day by a guy I knew for two months, drank so much with people I barely knew and passed out on unknown laws or rooftops, used my psychology skills to swindle delusional people with palm and psychic readings in the park.. you know, the typical things an eighteen year old girl should be doing. That all ended though when I was somehow found and recruited at the end of the summer by the British Secret Intelligence Service. And that was the perfect start to a whole new life. I needed it. My love for what I do is a reckless kind of love honestly. For country sure, it's beautiful and honorable, but it also lets me live a life on the edge. It can become emotional behind closed doors, but in the moment, you don't have time to feel much, as it's all about analyzing and producing the right outcome. And sometimes it's not even that rational, it just works. But feeling something does come in handy when you have to be someone else. Agent training could be in my future in the next year, as i've already had encounters in the field. The thrill of that is unbelievable but absolutely fucking terrifying. But it comes with the job and honestly, I can still see my life progressing towards it. But for now, i'm content being on the other end of a phone or computer screen and helping those trekking on the ground in disguise. ________________________________________ your name liza play-by ariadne a. your most recent work ¿por qué?