This will be my final posting before taking a hiatus for what promises to be an insanely busy summer. Israel will soon be overrun with tourists but their presence won't have any effect on upcoming political developments. Here are the hot issues of the summer that I will be monitoring (although chances are good that by the time I resume posting in late September, most of them will be old news):
The Labor Party Primaries - Monday's five-way contest left Ehud Barak and Ami Ayalon in the final run-off in two weeks' time. Both winning candidates were pictured on the front page of Haaretz with one of their their parents, 89 and 92 years of age, who dutifully deposited their respective votes in kibbutz ballot boxes. This was an interesting juxtaposition - what can we learn from it? That the kibbutz movement has produced many of the country's current leaders and thus continues to shape Israel's future even though the kibbutz itself is not long for this world? That both Ayalon and Barak have strong longevity genes and will remain on the political scene for many years to come, whether we like it or not? Or maybe that life expectancy on kibbutz is longer, as long as you stay out of politics? Or perhaps just that the parents of famous politicians are like all other Jewish mothers and fathers who like to brag about their children.
I can't say I feel strongly about either of them. Barak has a brilliant mind and has accumulated a decent amount of experience in politics but he's arrogant and not a team player. Ayalon seems promising, but how many times have we been disappointed in a new leader? His detractors say he's as left-wing as Yossi Beilin, as inexperienced as Amir Peretz and as nasty as Ehud Barak. Sounds like a winning combination, huh? Still, there's an impressive cleanliness about him - maybe that's because he looks like Mr. Clean (but without the earring).
Speaking of Amir Peretz, he made a very impressive showing in the primaries, considering all of the abuse he's been taking since the war last summer. As bad as things look for him as leader of the party it is clear he will remain a powerful presence in the Labor party because he has an extremely solid power base. Keep an eye on him...
The Gaza Strip - This cursed little pinpoint on the globe is the root of most of our problems at the moment. For starters, the captive soldier Gilad Shalit is still being held here for what is close to one year, and the longer he's there the more complicated his release grows.
Secondly, the rockets continue to rain down on Sderot and its environs and no one has a remedy for the matter. Clearly, the only sure way to put a stop to the launchings is to reoccupy Gaza, which means lots of casualties, a price no one is willing to pay as long as most of the rockets do not result in direct hits on civilians. Meanwhile, Sderot is one big bubbling cauldron of traumatic stress disorder and no one has offered a solution to protect them. This is a classic example of the futility of Israel's military advantage. Levi Eshkol called it "Samson the nebech."
Lastly, the chaos in Gaza and the internecine fighting between Fatah and Hamas have grown so out of hand that Israeli journalists report that many Gazans are praying for Israel to invade and restore the old order there. The Palestinian leadership is paralyzed for a variety of reasons, and while some enjoy gloating over their misfortune, ultimately the situation is bad for us, too. Who will save the Palestinians from themselves? Can't see a savior on the horizon.
The future here remains, as always, completely unpredictable. Who can say what the summer will bring - war, peace, the continued suspension between the two? If anything earth-shattering happens (i.e. an event that sends all the tourists home and puts me out of work) I will be back on the blog, reporting. If all stays quiet I will resume writing in late September after my vacation in New York. Wishing you all a quiet and uneventful summer!
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Reflections on United Jerusalem
Last week we marked the fortieth anniversary of the reunification of east and west Jerusalem in the Six Day War, an occasion perhaps more worthy of contemplation than celebration. Interestingly, most of the festive ceremonies planned to commemorate the occasion were cancelled due to an enormous freak downpour that flooded the city's streets and sent everyone scurrying for high ground. It was hard not to wonder if this un-seasonal cloudburst was some sort of signal indicating our hubris level had spiked into a forbidden zone.
United Jerusalem is the eternal capital of the Jewish people and, with a population of 732,000, it's the largest city in Israel. Yet, most Israelis do not want to live here (78%, according to a recent survey). Do they know something I, a longtime resident of this city, don't?
Perhaps it's the Arabs – all 200,000 of them, over there in the wild West Bank part of the city (funny, I didn’t notice any festivities taking place on their side of town last week). It's true that in the halcyon days of the first Intifada the east Jerusalem Palestinians led their nation in stone throwing, rioting and stabbings on a nationalistic basis. Our nostalgia for those days grew poignant during the second Intifada, when you couldn't walk down Jaffa Road without dodging a suicide bomber or shrapnel from an exploding bus. For years Jerusalem has been stigmatized as a dangerous locale even though similar horrors have taken place in numerous other cities in Israel.
What most people don’t know is that the Arabs of east Jerusalem have become extremely sophisticated. You live with the Jews long enough and you learn to play their games. Case in point A: Omar at the medical clinic, in front of me in line. He claims a woman called his home to confirm his appointment but the secretary has no record of it and tells him he'll have to reschedule. Omar ratchets up the volume a few decibels. "You people are all the same. You think you can lie to me because I'm an Arab. You just want to give my appointment to a Jew." A little Jewish guilt works like a charm. He got shown in straight to the doctor.
Case in point B: Zakaria, a taxi driver who drove me to Tel Aviv the other day. "My son was one of two Arabs in an Israeli-German delegation visiting the Western Wall. The security guard ordered them to stay out while everyone else went in because they were Arabs. Not only did the other members refuse to go in, but I called my friend, a well-known journalist, who published the story in the newspaper the next day. You should have seen the headline!"
Boy, he sure showed us. Any Arab who successfully manipulates the tools of democracy to advance his own interests is welcome in my city any day.
Personally, I think the real reason Israelis shudder at the thought of living in Jerusalem is the dossim, that wonderfully derogatory term for the ultra-orthodox. In bygone days when they represented a fairly negligible slice of the municipal population their communities were considered quaint and picturesque, but in recent years they have morphed into a demographic tidal wave that is threatening to take over the city. Regardless of secular Jerusalemites' intellectual and moral superiority over other Israelis, unavoidably the majority sets the tone and the ultras are rapidly becoming the majority in this city. Even as the temptations of modernity force them kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, they still cling fiercely to the shtetl mentality. Their values, their aspirations, the way they educate their children and their (anti-)vision of the Jewish state are completely foreign to me. We share nothing in common and they cast an extremely threatening shadow over the future of Jerusalem as a modern, enlightened and efficient city.
Granted, in the eyes of many Jerusalem has always been problematic. Isolated by an unforgiving landscape of treacherous ravines, it always lay out of the limits of visitors and invaders entering from the coast. Pioneers of the early Zionist movement wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole for all that it represented, and even those who did choose to settle here seemed, well…different. In A Tale of Love and Darkness Amos Oz says, "In Jerusalem people always walked rather like mourners at a funeral, or latecomers at a concert…But Tel Aviv – wow! The whole city was one big grasshopper. The people leaped by, so did the houses, the streets, the squares, the sea breeze, the sand, the avenues, and even the clouds in the sky."
Tel Aviv has undeniably grown on me recently. What for years seemed like a collection of shapeless buildings with crumbling plaster and stifling humidity lately has revealed its hidden charm to me and reinvented itself as a city of character, with unique architecture and new takes on Judaism. Yet, I still can't see myself living there, although I'm not sure why.
So I turned to some of my fellow secular Jerusalemites for inspiration, asking them to explain, in a few lines, why they still live here. Much to my surprise, only one hemmed and hawed; the others responded unequivocally about their passion for this city. Almost all remarked on its unique beauty; several mentioned the weather. The ethnic, cultural and religious diversity figured prominently: one person noted that Jerusalem offers the most alternatives for non-orthodox Jewish observance, and another remarked that crossing a street here can be like crossing a border between countries. But the strongest sentiment was the sense of connection one feels in Jerusalem between our history and the contemporary reality of life in Israel. Virtually every important issue is played out in some form in Jerusalem, and many of us thrive on that difficult energy. Our location at the pulsing epicenter of Israel heightens our awareness of the fascinating history that unfolds here every day; therefore we think we are smarter, more down-to-earth and more values-oriented than our compatriots from the sweaty, superficial coastal plain.
I can hear the guffaws rising over the Tel Aviv metropolitan area and floating upwards on the Highway 1 current. Seventy eight percent still think we're crazy for staying in Jerusalem, and who knows? Maybe they're right. But then again, here's a typical Jerusalem weekday morning from this week:
In the car on the way to school my girls went over their notes for the final exam on Jewish Thought. They discussed different visions of the world and compared John Lennon's ideal from 'Imagine,' where there are no countries, borders or religions, to Yeshayahu Leibowitz's affirmation of the positive nature of the Tower of Babel story, noting he said it is preferable for everyone to think independently, even it means there will be bloodshed in the world. Listening to them I wished myself back into tenth grade at Tali Bet Hinuch high school, just so I could participate in the discussion.
Wistfully I continued to the gym at the YMCA. As I approached the building I heard a loud noise from the King David hotel across the street. A large crowd was gathered in the entrance and as I grew closer I could see several television cameras and large microphones dangling overhead. A few musicians dressed in classic middle eastern garb were playing darbuka drums and someone was blowing a shofar. Suddenly, a figure appeared from within the knot of people. It was a kid, about thirteen years old, in a fancy suit and a kippa. Noting it was Monday, I realized this cacophonous production was actually a bar mitzvah and they were probably on their way to the Western Wall. A well-to-do Jewish family had come all the way to Jerusalem with an enormous entourage to celebrate their son's first Torah reading at the fanciest hotel in town. A sublime co-mingling of ancient tradition, historical framing and twenty-first century hoo-hah.
Where else, but Jerusalem?
United Jerusalem is the eternal capital of the Jewish people and, with a population of 732,000, it's the largest city in Israel. Yet, most Israelis do not want to live here (78%, according to a recent survey). Do they know something I, a longtime resident of this city, don't?
Perhaps it's the Arabs – all 200,000 of them, over there in the wild West Bank part of the city (funny, I didn’t notice any festivities taking place on their side of town last week). It's true that in the halcyon days of the first Intifada the east Jerusalem Palestinians led their nation in stone throwing, rioting and stabbings on a nationalistic basis. Our nostalgia for those days grew poignant during the second Intifada, when you couldn't walk down Jaffa Road without dodging a suicide bomber or shrapnel from an exploding bus. For years Jerusalem has been stigmatized as a dangerous locale even though similar horrors have taken place in numerous other cities in Israel.
What most people don’t know is that the Arabs of east Jerusalem have become extremely sophisticated. You live with the Jews long enough and you learn to play their games. Case in point A: Omar at the medical clinic, in front of me in line. He claims a woman called his home to confirm his appointment but the secretary has no record of it and tells him he'll have to reschedule. Omar ratchets up the volume a few decibels. "You people are all the same. You think you can lie to me because I'm an Arab. You just want to give my appointment to a Jew." A little Jewish guilt works like a charm. He got shown in straight to the doctor.
Case in point B: Zakaria, a taxi driver who drove me to Tel Aviv the other day. "My son was one of two Arabs in an Israeli-German delegation visiting the Western Wall. The security guard ordered them to stay out while everyone else went in because they were Arabs. Not only did the other members refuse to go in, but I called my friend, a well-known journalist, who published the story in the newspaper the next day. You should have seen the headline!"
Boy, he sure showed us. Any Arab who successfully manipulates the tools of democracy to advance his own interests is welcome in my city any day.
Personally, I think the real reason Israelis shudder at the thought of living in Jerusalem is the dossim, that wonderfully derogatory term for the ultra-orthodox. In bygone days when they represented a fairly negligible slice of the municipal population their communities were considered quaint and picturesque, but in recent years they have morphed into a demographic tidal wave that is threatening to take over the city. Regardless of secular Jerusalemites' intellectual and moral superiority over other Israelis, unavoidably the majority sets the tone and the ultras are rapidly becoming the majority in this city. Even as the temptations of modernity force them kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, they still cling fiercely to the shtetl mentality. Their values, their aspirations, the way they educate their children and their (anti-)vision of the Jewish state are completely foreign to me. We share nothing in common and they cast an extremely threatening shadow over the future of Jerusalem as a modern, enlightened and efficient city.
Granted, in the eyes of many Jerusalem has always been problematic. Isolated by an unforgiving landscape of treacherous ravines, it always lay out of the limits of visitors and invaders entering from the coast. Pioneers of the early Zionist movement wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole for all that it represented, and even those who did choose to settle here seemed, well…different. In A Tale of Love and Darkness Amos Oz says, "In Jerusalem people always walked rather like mourners at a funeral, or latecomers at a concert…But Tel Aviv – wow! The whole city was one big grasshopper. The people leaped by, so did the houses, the streets, the squares, the sea breeze, the sand, the avenues, and even the clouds in the sky."
Tel Aviv has undeniably grown on me recently. What for years seemed like a collection of shapeless buildings with crumbling plaster and stifling humidity lately has revealed its hidden charm to me and reinvented itself as a city of character, with unique architecture and new takes on Judaism. Yet, I still can't see myself living there, although I'm not sure why.
So I turned to some of my fellow secular Jerusalemites for inspiration, asking them to explain, in a few lines, why they still live here. Much to my surprise, only one hemmed and hawed; the others responded unequivocally about their passion for this city. Almost all remarked on its unique beauty; several mentioned the weather. The ethnic, cultural and religious diversity figured prominently: one person noted that Jerusalem offers the most alternatives for non-orthodox Jewish observance, and another remarked that crossing a street here can be like crossing a border between countries. But the strongest sentiment was the sense of connection one feels in Jerusalem between our history and the contemporary reality of life in Israel. Virtually every important issue is played out in some form in Jerusalem, and many of us thrive on that difficult energy. Our location at the pulsing epicenter of Israel heightens our awareness of the fascinating history that unfolds here every day; therefore we think we are smarter, more down-to-earth and more values-oriented than our compatriots from the sweaty, superficial coastal plain.
I can hear the guffaws rising over the Tel Aviv metropolitan area and floating upwards on the Highway 1 current. Seventy eight percent still think we're crazy for staying in Jerusalem, and who knows? Maybe they're right. But then again, here's a typical Jerusalem weekday morning from this week:
In the car on the way to school my girls went over their notes for the final exam on Jewish Thought. They discussed different visions of the world and compared John Lennon's ideal from 'Imagine,' where there are no countries, borders or religions, to Yeshayahu Leibowitz's affirmation of the positive nature of the Tower of Babel story, noting he said it is preferable for everyone to think independently, even it means there will be bloodshed in the world. Listening to them I wished myself back into tenth grade at Tali Bet Hinuch high school, just so I could participate in the discussion.
Wistfully I continued to the gym at the YMCA. As I approached the building I heard a loud noise from the King David hotel across the street. A large crowd was gathered in the entrance and as I grew closer I could see several television cameras and large microphones dangling overhead. A few musicians dressed in classic middle eastern garb were playing darbuka drums and someone was blowing a shofar. Suddenly, a figure appeared from within the knot of people. It was a kid, about thirteen years old, in a fancy suit and a kippa. Noting it was Monday, I realized this cacophonous production was actually a bar mitzvah and they were probably on their way to the Western Wall. A well-to-do Jewish family had come all the way to Jerusalem with an enormous entourage to celebrate their son's first Torah reading at the fanciest hotel in town. A sublime co-mingling of ancient tradition, historical framing and twenty-first century hoo-hah.
Where else, but Jerusalem?
Sunday, May 13, 2007
The Winograd Aftermath
The publication last week of the Winograd Committee's interim report on the second Lebanon war has sparked a raucous free-for-all of political punditry and prophecies of doom. The accusations and rebuttals have formed a cloud of verbiage so dense over the land that for seven days and seven nights the sun barely broke through. Although the democratic value inherent in this Monday morning quarterbacking exercise is of prime importance, it's hard to draw definitive conclusions from so much information. Here are a few of my muddled musings based on what I have seen, read and heard so far. All are subject to change.
1. Ehud Olmert is dead meat. I look at him and I see Houdini, straightjacketed in a sealed trunk weighted down by cannon balls, plumetting to the murky depths. It will take a miracle to see him finagle the keys and emerge on the surface alive, but stranger things have happened in the Middle East. It's interesting to remember the wall-to-wall consensus about going to war after the kidnapping of two soldiers and the imperative of regaining our deterrent capability, because the Winograd Committee seems to think this was an unnecessary war. Olmert inherited a problematic situation vis a vis Lebanon: a policy of restraint was in effect on our northern border since the outbreak of the second intifada in 2000 in order to avoid opening a second front. This enabled Hezbollah to camp out right under our noses. In addition, most of our military resources were invested in dealing with the urban warfare necessary to deal with terrorists. The army has not trained for the conventional warfare required last summer in quite some time, which put it a great disadvantage. Should he be blamed for that? Evidently, yes.
The committee also condemned Olmert for not thinking independently of the Chief of Staff of the army, who bullied him and everyone else into accepting his directives. Defense minister Amir Peretz, on the other hand, was criticized for not surrounding himself with sufficient army professionals to make up for his complete lack of experience. I'm no fan of Olmert but it appears the cross was cut the moment the first soldier died; all that remained after the war was over was the choice of nails. Israelis are very busy searching for a cure for cancer and floating start-ups; we don't want to go to war because life is too good even in this godforsaken neighborhood to send our sons to die. That is, of course, unless it's a deluxe war, id est a war where no one gets hurt - which is what they promised us in the beginning. Was the removal of Hezbollah from our northern border and the deployment of the Lebanese army in its place worth the deaths of 160 soldiers? Did we salvage our deterrent capability? Could it have successfully been done differently? Who the hell knows.
2.The removal of Ehud Olmert from the political leadership will not resolve anything because there is no one capable of filling the position of prime minister waiting in the wings. If Olmert goes, who will we get? All the opinion polls show that if elections were held tomorrow Bibi Netanyahu would win by a landslide, which makes me think that the people of Israel choose the leaders they deserve. The last thing we need right now is a shallow, pompous blowhard with a reactionary political agenda in the driver's seat. (If he gets in I'm relinquishing my Israeli passport and moving to an island in the Galapagos where there's no television reception. I'll write blog entries about giant turtles and survival of the fittest and pretend I can't hear Israel imploding.)
So, who are the other options? Every new leader from the Labor party since Rabin's assassination has been a colossal disappointment, including Amram Mitzna , Ehud Barak and Amir Peretz. Despite a wealth of talented individuals the party has been miserably unsuccessful in creating a leadership constellation that can effectively deal with its own back-biting politics and the major issues of the country. Tzipi Livni? Yet another well-meaning but inexperienced politician. Shimon Peres? He's eighty-five years old - forget it.
We need a giant and the horizon is empty of imposing shadows. Perhaps we can take consolation in the fact that both Tony Blair and George Bush are, to differing degrees, in the same boat as Olmert. All the western leaders up against those tricky Muslim fundamentalists are being criticized for involving their nations in losing battles. In truth, no one knows what the hell to do with them.
3. There's probably going to be another war. The Winograd report was so damning that the only way Israel can rectify all the failures of last summer is to go for another round. We won't stop until we wipe the smirk off Hassan Nasrallah's face and show those Arabs who's the boss. Hopefully, this time they'll wait until after the tourist season is over...
1. Ehud Olmert is dead meat. I look at him and I see Houdini, straightjacketed in a sealed trunk weighted down by cannon balls, plumetting to the murky depths. It will take a miracle to see him finagle the keys and emerge on the surface alive, but stranger things have happened in the Middle East. It's interesting to remember the wall-to-wall consensus about going to war after the kidnapping of two soldiers and the imperative of regaining our deterrent capability, because the Winograd Committee seems to think this was an unnecessary war. Olmert inherited a problematic situation vis a vis Lebanon: a policy of restraint was in effect on our northern border since the outbreak of the second intifada in 2000 in order to avoid opening a second front. This enabled Hezbollah to camp out right under our noses. In addition, most of our military resources were invested in dealing with the urban warfare necessary to deal with terrorists. The army has not trained for the conventional warfare required last summer in quite some time, which put it a great disadvantage. Should he be blamed for that? Evidently, yes.
The committee also condemned Olmert for not thinking independently of the Chief of Staff of the army, who bullied him and everyone else into accepting his directives. Defense minister Amir Peretz, on the other hand, was criticized for not surrounding himself with sufficient army professionals to make up for his complete lack of experience. I'm no fan of Olmert but it appears the cross was cut the moment the first soldier died; all that remained after the war was over was the choice of nails. Israelis are very busy searching for a cure for cancer and floating start-ups; we don't want to go to war because life is too good even in this godforsaken neighborhood to send our sons to die. That is, of course, unless it's a deluxe war, id est a war where no one gets hurt - which is what they promised us in the beginning. Was the removal of Hezbollah from our northern border and the deployment of the Lebanese army in its place worth the deaths of 160 soldiers? Did we salvage our deterrent capability? Could it have successfully been done differently? Who the hell knows.
2.The removal of Ehud Olmert from the political leadership will not resolve anything because there is no one capable of filling the position of prime minister waiting in the wings. If Olmert goes, who will we get? All the opinion polls show that if elections were held tomorrow Bibi Netanyahu would win by a landslide, which makes me think that the people of Israel choose the leaders they deserve. The last thing we need right now is a shallow, pompous blowhard with a reactionary political agenda in the driver's seat. (If he gets in I'm relinquishing my Israeli passport and moving to an island in the Galapagos where there's no television reception. I'll write blog entries about giant turtles and survival of the fittest and pretend I can't hear Israel imploding.)
So, who are the other options? Every new leader from the Labor party since Rabin's assassination has been a colossal disappointment, including Amram Mitzna , Ehud Barak and Amir Peretz. Despite a wealth of talented individuals the party has been miserably unsuccessful in creating a leadership constellation that can effectively deal with its own back-biting politics and the major issues of the country. Tzipi Livni? Yet another well-meaning but inexperienced politician. Shimon Peres? He's eighty-five years old - forget it.
We need a giant and the horizon is empty of imposing shadows. Perhaps we can take consolation in the fact that both Tony Blair and George Bush are, to differing degrees, in the same boat as Olmert. All the western leaders up against those tricky Muslim fundamentalists are being criticized for involving their nations in losing battles. In truth, no one knows what the hell to do with them.
3. There's probably going to be another war. The Winograd report was so damning that the only way Israel can rectify all the failures of last summer is to go for another round. We won't stop until we wipe the smirk off Hassan Nasrallah's face and show those Arabs who's the boss. Hopefully, this time they'll wait until after the tourist season is over...
Sunday, April 29, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Israel's 59th
Israeli Independence Day is my most favorite holiday on the Jewish calendar, so I'm always faced with a dilemma about working now. Invariably I find myself out on the road somewhere in Israel with a group, observing the rituals with host communities when I 'd really rather be at home in front of the television, steeping in the ceremonial services that so powerfully represent the reality of the modern Jewish state. This is particularly true for Memorial Day, which proceeds Independence Day. After the ceremony in the evening the tv channels are filled with stories about fallen combat soldiers and their families. While these programs are difficult to watch, they serve to directly connect those of us fortunate enough not to know bereavement with the haunting pain of those in Israel who have lost family members in war. These moments of visceral empathy deeply strengthen our connection to one another and perhaps are most palpable during the sounding of the memorial siren. As a native of a country 300 million strong, I am intrigued anew each year by the idea that an entire nation stops what it's doing to stand together for two minutes of silence in memory of fallen soldiers. Americans could never perform this feat - they're too disunited over too many issues. In fact, the same could be said about Israelis: is there any one thing we can all agree on? Standing in the middle of a busy street and watching everyone suddenly stand at attention when the siren begins to wail at eleven o'clock, I'm reminded that the acknowledgement of the terrible price we pay in order to be here is in fact the single idea that unites all Israelis.
I got a good dose of ceremoniality this year because I accompanied my group to the national service that marks the transition from Memorial Day to Independence Day. Broadcast live from Mount Herzl, only a few thousand guests can actually attend, so it's a treat to be there with the diplomatic invitees, the hot-shot Israeli politicians and all the other well-connected Israelis who wangle tickets. Last night as we were about to leave I discovered we had three extra tickets. I quickly called my husband and two daughters and told them to meet us at the entrance. I had to work hard to convince the girls, as they were still getting over their disappointment over missing a big concert near Tel Aviv . (The bus was meant to get back to Jerusalem at 4:30 am, which I was not happy about. My fellow Americans, Israeli teenagers keep obscenely late hours so we are constantly battling with them about what time to be home when they go. This time my husband convinced me we should give them a little slack and I reluctantly agreed. What a shame the tickets were all sold out!) I finally convinced them to come but they found seats a few rows away from us and pretended they were by themselves.
The ceremony follows the same formula every year and is an unusual bastion of formality in a culture that prides itself on informality. The army standards and the marching color guard, the speech by the speaker of the Knesset and the citizens chosen to light the torches are all beloved and respected symbols of Israel's sovereignty. Watching them each year reassures me that we are a member-in-good-standing of the club of normal, stately nations, although I'm always on the lookout for unique glimmers of Israeli-ness within the ceremoniality. This year I admired the female members of the Knesset Guard, who marched past us in above-the-knee skirts, strappy sandals and uzi submachine guns, and the Israeli war veterans dance troupe, who participated in the over-the-top, musical finale on their wheelchairs.
With all due respect to George Washington and the United State of America, the Fourth of July celebrations never moved me in the way that Israeli Independence Day does. The joy here is so real that I can reach out and touch it - and I do.
I got a good dose of ceremoniality this year because I accompanied my group to the national service that marks the transition from Memorial Day to Independence Day. Broadcast live from Mount Herzl, only a few thousand guests can actually attend, so it's a treat to be there with the diplomatic invitees, the hot-shot Israeli politicians and all the other well-connected Israelis who wangle tickets. Last night as we were about to leave I discovered we had three extra tickets. I quickly called my husband and two daughters and told them to meet us at the entrance. I had to work hard to convince the girls, as they were still getting over their disappointment over missing a big concert near Tel Aviv . (The bus was meant to get back to Jerusalem at 4:30 am, which I was not happy about. My fellow Americans, Israeli teenagers keep obscenely late hours so we are constantly battling with them about what time to be home when they go. This time my husband convinced me we should give them a little slack and I reluctantly agreed. What a shame the tickets were all sold out!) I finally convinced them to come but they found seats a few rows away from us and pretended they were by themselves.
The ceremony follows the same formula every year and is an unusual bastion of formality in a culture that prides itself on informality. The army standards and the marching color guard, the speech by the speaker of the Knesset and the citizens chosen to light the torches are all beloved and respected symbols of Israel's sovereignty. Watching them each year reassures me that we are a member-in-good-standing of the club of normal, stately nations, although I'm always on the lookout for unique glimmers of Israeli-ness within the ceremoniality. This year I admired the female members of the Knesset Guard, who marched past us in above-the-knee skirts, strappy sandals and uzi submachine guns, and the Israeli war veterans dance troupe, who participated in the over-the-top, musical finale on their wheelchairs.
With all due respect to George Washington and the United State of America, the Fourth of July celebrations never moved me in the way that Israeli Independence Day does. The joy here is so real that I can reach out and touch it - and I do.
Monday, April 9, 2007
Lunch at Maxim's
Yesterday we took a drive up to Haifa with my mother to meet some friends of hers who live in the Galilee. After taking in the spectacular views from the top of Mount Carmel, all sixteen of us piled into our cars and reconvened for lunch at Maxim's restaurant at the bottom of the hill, overlooking the Mediterranean. Although this restaurant, a cooperative venture between Jews and Christian Arabs, is a popular eatery and the favorite hangout of the local soccer team, it is a household name in Israel thanks to a female Palestinian suicide bomber who detonated herself here on October 4, 2003, killing twenty-one people and wounding fifty-one.
It was impossible not to flashback to those dark, horrendous days as we ascended the steps into the restaurant. A security guard with an orange vest scanned each of us diligently with a detector wand, a procedure now waived by most of the complacent watchmen at the entrances to public places. "Keep up the good work," I nearly said, but then remembered that almost every customer that crosses the threshold here probably has a few words of advice and encouragement for the man responsible for our safety.
Throughout the meal I found myself imagining the scene moments before the explosion a few times, but mostly it was an ordinary gathering, with plates passed around, children tended to and snatches of conversation bouncing between the adults. A baby cried long enough for us to remark on the disturbance, and then was whisked out by his young mother. The younger children took turns on the empty seat at the adults' end of the table. The waiter brought a missing entree. All in all, an unremarkable experience.
Three and a half years after that infamous bombing and life has returned to normal. Israelis eat in restaurants, ride on public transportation and live lives that aspire to normalcy. Our experts have contained a grave threat to the personal safety of the citizens of the state impressively, and although our enemies never desist from their efforts to renew the violence, a certain kind of victory is evident here. The economy is flourishing, tourists are returning and the resilience gleams from every corner like specks of a broken vessel.
Yet, it's difficult to feel optimistic about the future. There are encouraging signals emanating from our neighbors but a realistic path toward resolution of the conflict is not yet in sight. Abba Even once said that even the absence of war here is an accomplishment, but somehow this tense quiet is not reassuring. With belligerent Hamas in control and an Israeli government wracked by scandals it's hard to imagine any serious progress on the road to where we all want to be.
But then again, Rome wasn't built in a day and neither will peace be rushed. It will amble along when it's good and ready, perhaps taking us all by surpise. In fact, it could be any day now...
It was impossible not to flashback to those dark, horrendous days as we ascended the steps into the restaurant. A security guard with an orange vest scanned each of us diligently with a detector wand, a procedure now waived by most of the complacent watchmen at the entrances to public places. "Keep up the good work," I nearly said, but then remembered that almost every customer that crosses the threshold here probably has a few words of advice and encouragement for the man responsible for our safety.
Throughout the meal I found myself imagining the scene moments before the explosion a few times, but mostly it was an ordinary gathering, with plates passed around, children tended to and snatches of conversation bouncing between the adults. A baby cried long enough for us to remark on the disturbance, and then was whisked out by his young mother. The younger children took turns on the empty seat at the adults' end of the table. The waiter brought a missing entree. All in all, an unremarkable experience.
Three and a half years after that infamous bombing and life has returned to normal. Israelis eat in restaurants, ride on public transportation and live lives that aspire to normalcy. Our experts have contained a grave threat to the personal safety of the citizens of the state impressively, and although our enemies never desist from their efforts to renew the violence, a certain kind of victory is evident here. The economy is flourishing, tourists are returning and the resilience gleams from every corner like specks of a broken vessel.
Yet, it's difficult to feel optimistic about the future. There are encouraging signals emanating from our neighbors but a realistic path toward resolution of the conflict is not yet in sight. Abba Even once said that even the absence of war here is an accomplishment, but somehow this tense quiet is not reassuring. With belligerent Hamas in control and an Israeli government wracked by scandals it's hard to imagine any serious progress on the road to where we all want to be.
But then again, Rome wasn't built in a day and neither will peace be rushed. It will amble along when it's good and ready, perhaps taking us all by surpise. In fact, it could be any day now...
Monday, April 2, 2007
It's Passover Again
Living in Israel, it's impossible to ignore the crescendo of passover mania as the holiday grows closer. Each year I am astonished anew at the hysteria over food and cleaning. Two weeks before the holiday I was dismayed to discover that my favorite brand of brown rice was nowhere to be found in the supermarket. "It's because of pessach," the Arab stock boy explained to me, eyeing me incredulously, as if to ask, "what planet do you live on?"
"I guess I missed the boat, huh?"
He shrugged his shoulders and I kicked myself - who knew that brown rice was hametz? I would have stocked up ages ago.
I can live without brown rice for a few weeks but the problem was much more acute in the days when we had a cat. The first year Mashie came to live with us we ran out of Friskies during passover. I was stunned to discover that in the supermarket the cat food was taped up behind cardboard in the untouchable aisle. Who knew that even the cats in Israel keep kosher for passover? In a moment of criminal insanity I stuck my hand behind the barrier and sneaked a box out when no one was looking. Luckily the checkout girl didn't say anything, but it took me years to cleanse the guilt from my soul. (In fact, this is the first time I've confessed in public. Forgive me?)
(P.S. When Mashie scratched my infant daughter right beneath her eye we decided she had to go. She was adopted by Haled, the Palestinian contractor who was doing work on our house at the time. She went to live with his family in Zaatra, near Bethlehem, and never had to worry about keeping kosher again.)
The cleaning madness is a slightly more honorable phenomenon, if you don't mind waiting hours on line at the car wash. Pre-passover cleaning is actually a great time to hunt for abandoned treasures because the garbage dumpsters are full of salvagable junk people have tossed out. A dear friend of ours who shall remain nameless cleans her house once a year on passover - and that's it. The rest of the year her place is a pig sty. As for me, I'm not about to go searching the house for crumbs with a candle, but passover is a great excuse to get my two teenaged daughters off the couch and out of their television stupor. At this very moment they are cleaning the kitchen and internalizing the importance of family cooperation.
Chores and inconveniences notwithstanding, I love the practical applications of the passover story - all the ways we have to make the liberation and redemption of the Jewish people 3200 years ago a first-hand experience for all of us. I love the gathering of the whole family around the seder table and the centrality of the children in the re-telling of the story. I love the way we reconfigure the daily necessity of food to make it part of the experience of remembering. I love the ten drops of wine on the plate during the recounting of the ten plagues that remind us always to be compassionate toward our enemies. And I love the search for new relevance and meaning in this ritual every year. Once we were slaves and now we are free people, so it is our obligation to ensure freedom for all.
In addition to those who live within our midst without freedom, three Israeli families remain imprisoned in fear and anxiety while their sons continue to be held captive by merciless enemies. Indeed, we cannot truly savor our freedom as long as Gilad Shalit, Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev have not returned home. Hopefully this spring they will be freed and that beautiful passage from the Song of Songs will ring true: "...the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land."
"I guess I missed the boat, huh?"
He shrugged his shoulders and I kicked myself - who knew that brown rice was hametz? I would have stocked up ages ago.
I can live without brown rice for a few weeks but the problem was much more acute in the days when we had a cat. The first year Mashie came to live with us we ran out of Friskies during passover. I was stunned to discover that in the supermarket the cat food was taped up behind cardboard in the untouchable aisle. Who knew that even the cats in Israel keep kosher for passover? In a moment of criminal insanity I stuck my hand behind the barrier and sneaked a box out when no one was looking. Luckily the checkout girl didn't say anything, but it took me years to cleanse the guilt from my soul. (In fact, this is the first time I've confessed in public. Forgive me?)
(P.S. When Mashie scratched my infant daughter right beneath her eye we decided she had to go. She was adopted by Haled, the Palestinian contractor who was doing work on our house at the time. She went to live with his family in Zaatra, near Bethlehem, and never had to worry about keeping kosher again.)
The cleaning madness is a slightly more honorable phenomenon, if you don't mind waiting hours on line at the car wash. Pre-passover cleaning is actually a great time to hunt for abandoned treasures because the garbage dumpsters are full of salvagable junk people have tossed out. A dear friend of ours who shall remain nameless cleans her house once a year on passover - and that's it. The rest of the year her place is a pig sty. As for me, I'm not about to go searching the house for crumbs with a candle, but passover is a great excuse to get my two teenaged daughters off the couch and out of their television stupor. At this very moment they are cleaning the kitchen and internalizing the importance of family cooperation.
Chores and inconveniences notwithstanding, I love the practical applications of the passover story - all the ways we have to make the liberation and redemption of the Jewish people 3200 years ago a first-hand experience for all of us. I love the gathering of the whole family around the seder table and the centrality of the children in the re-telling of the story. I love the way we reconfigure the daily necessity of food to make it part of the experience of remembering. I love the ten drops of wine on the plate during the recounting of the ten plagues that remind us always to be compassionate toward our enemies. And I love the search for new relevance and meaning in this ritual every year. Once we were slaves and now we are free people, so it is our obligation to ensure freedom for all.
In addition to those who live within our midst without freedom, three Israeli families remain imprisoned in fear and anxiety while their sons continue to be held captive by merciless enemies. Indeed, we cannot truly savor our freedom as long as Gilad Shalit, Ehud Goldwasser and Eldad Regev have not returned home. Hopefully this spring they will be freed and that beautiful passage from the Song of Songs will ring true: "...the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land."
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