Our Old Fridge

After sixteen years our old Amana was noisy and hinting it was ready to retire. Not wanting to hustle for a new refrigerator while our dairy products curdled on the countertop, a few weeks ago we bought a sleek side-by-side number with the freezer on the bottom and a stainless steel finish. After we positioned it in the kitchen and admired it long enough, we wheeled the old one outside and deliberated what to do with it.

Benny wanted to sell it. "How much is it worth?" I queried. "A few hundred shekels? Let's give it away to someone who needs it." We agreed to put an ad in the paper; if no one bit we would find a worthy recipient. A few people called, one or two came by but in the end there were no takers. Meantime, we could barely squeeze past it to get in the front door and I was feeling like my space was infringed on. I pushed - it's a mitzva to give it to a needy family. Who should it be?

We both agreed that it won't be a charity organization. Although they all do important work, in Jerusalem most of the furniture and appliances donated to them wind up in the homes of ultra-orthodox families. With all due respect to their poverty, it is a lifestyle of choice for them. The ultra-orthodox opt to have extremely large families and to choose a lifetime of study over earning a living. The meager salaries that their overworked wives bring in can't possibly support families of this size adequately and they have developed into an extraordinary burden on the rest of us who work hard and pay taxes. And that's without mentioning that they're not even Zionists. They're definitely not getting my fridge.

"Let's call Haled," Benny suggested. Haled is a Palestinian of Bedouin origin who renovated our first apartment. A former policeman in the Bethlehem district, when the first intifada broke out in 1987 he quit his job for fear of being accused of collaborating with the Israelis and reinvented himself as a construction worker. A conscientious craftsman and a warm, genuine individual, we have remained in touch for many years even though Haled no longer has a permit to work in Israel and has fallen on hard times. We dialed his number the day after Yom Haatzmaut, Israeli Independence Day. The joy in his voice was palpable when he heard Benny.

"Happy Independence Day!" he called out.

Now friends, please understand that there are very few Palestinians who would use the words 'happy' and 'Israeli Independence Day' in the same sentence, let alone pronounce them with wishes of good tidings to their Jewish neighbors. For them, 'Israeli Independence Day' is synonymous with 'catastrophe.' It's something they say and then spit venomously.

So, how to explain Haled's heartfelt greeting? Nostalgia, I guess. A yearning for the days when there was no border between Israel and the West Bank, when everyone moved freely from one area to the other and a regular person could make a good, honest living to support his family. It is, of course, the nostalgia of a pragmatist - one who sees a certain futility in the years of struggle between the two sides, one who values economics over a complicated and problematic national liberation. One who views the birth of the Jewish state as the best thing to ever have happened around here. One in a million, maybe.

Now granted, Haled is a unique individual. He has great affinity for his Jewish neighbors, perhaps because he suspects his family has Jewish roots. During the worst years of the second Intifada he earned a few pennies by giving Hebrew lessons to people in Zaatra, his village. He's a good man. He loves us, and we love him. He was thrilled to receive the refrigerator and I was thrilled to be able to give it to him. (Hopefully it won't expire in the near future).

He couldn't come into Israel to pick it up so he sent some friends with entry permits.
"Haled sends his warmest regards," they said before they hoisted the fridge into the truck and drove away. Although the fridge appeared empty, it was really packed full with all of our best wishes, intentions and hopes.