Theodore Roosevelt's ideas on Immigrants and being an AMERICAN in
1907.
"In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who
comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates
himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with
everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any
such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is
predicated upon the person's becoming in every facet an American,
and nothing but an American...There can be no divided allegiance
here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also,
isn't an American at all. We have room for but one flag, the
American flag... We have room for but one language here, and that
is the English language... and we have room for but one sole
loyalty and that is a loyalty to the American people."
Theodore Roosevelt 1907
Friday, March 31, 2006
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
This War Is For Real ...
This WAR is for REAL! By MG Vernon Chong, USAFR
To get out of a difficulty, one usually must go through it. Our country is now facing the most serious threat to its existence, as we know it,
that we have faced in your lifetime and mine (which includes WWII).
The deadly seriousness is greatly compounded by the fact that there are very few of us who think we can possibly lose this war and even fewer who realize what losing really means.
First, let's examine a few basics:
1. When did the threat to us start?
Many will say September 11, 2001. The answer as far as the United States is concerned is 1979, 22 years prior to September 2001,
with the following attacks on us:
* Iran Embassy Hostages, 1979;
* Beirut, Lebanon Embassy 1983;
* Beirut, Lebanon Marine Barracks 1983;
* Lockerbie, Scotland Pan-Am flight to New York 1988;
* First New York World Trade Center attack 1993;
* Dhahran, Saudi Arabia Khobar Towers Military complex 1996;
* Nairobi, Kenya US Embassy 1998;
* Dares Salaam, Tanzania US Embassy 1998;
* Aden, Yemen USS Cole 2000;
* New York World Trade Center 2001;
* Pentagon 2001.
(Note that during the period from 1981 to 2001 there were 7,581 terrorists attacks worldwide).
2. Why were we attacked?
Envy of our position, our success, and our freedoms. The attacks happened during the administrations of Presidents Carter, Reagan, Bush 1, Clinton and Bush 2. We cannot fault either the Republicans or Democrats, as there were no provocations by any of the presidents or their immediate predecessors, Presidents Ford or Carter.
3. Who were the attackers?
In each case, Muslims carried out the attacks on the US.
4. What is the Muslim population of the World? 25%.
5. Isn't the Muslim Religion peaceful?
Hopefully, but that is really not material. There is no doubt that the predominately Christian population of Germany was peaceful, but under the dictatorial leadership of Hitler (who was also Christian), that made no difference. You either went along with the administration or you were eliminated. There were 5 to 6 million Christians killed by the Nazis for political reasons (including 7,000 Polish priests). Thus, the Nazis, killed almost the same numbers of Christians as the six million holocaust Jews who were killed by them, and we seldom heard of anything other than the Jewish atrocities. Although Hitler kept the world focused on the Jews, he had no hesitancy about killing anyone who got in his way of exterminating the Jews or of taking over the world - German, Christian or any others.
The same, exactly, with the Muslim terrorists. They focus the world on the US, but kill all in the way -- their own people or the Spanish, French or anyone else. The point here is that just like the peaceful Germans were of no protection to anyone from the Nazis, no matter how many peaceful Muslims there may be, they are no protection for us from the terrorist Muslim leaders and what they are fanatically bent on doing -- by their own pronouncements -- killing all of us "infidels." I don't blame the peaceful Muslims. What would you do if the choice was shut up or die?
6. So who are we at war with?
There is no way we can honestly respond that it is anyone other than the Muslim terrorists. Trying to be politically correct and avoid verbalizing this conclusion can well be fatal. There is no way to win if you don't clearly recognize and articulate whom you are fighting.
So with that background, now to the two major questions:
1. Can we lose this war?
2. What does losing really mean?
If we are to win, we must clearly answer these two pivotal questions.
We can definitely lose this war, and as anomalous as it may sound, the major reason we can lose is that so many of us simply do not fathom the answer to the second question - What does losing mean?
It would appear that a great many of us think that losing the war means hanging our heads, bringing the troops home and going on about our business, like post Vietnam. This is as far from the truth as one can get. What losing really means is:
We would no longer be the premier country in the world. The attacks will not subside, but rather will steadily increase. Remember, they want us dead, not just quiet. If they had just wanted us quiet, they would not have produced an increasing series of attacks against us, over the past 18 years. The plan was clearly, for terrorists to attack us until we were neutered and submissive to them. We would, of course, have no future support from other nations; for fear of reprisals and for the reason that they would see we are impotent and cannot help them.
They will pick off the other non-Muslim nations, one at a time. It will be increasingly easier for them. They already hold Spain hostage. It doesn't matter whether it was right or wrong for Spain to withdraw its troops from Iraq. Spain did it because the Muslim terrorists bombed their train and told them to withdraw the troops. Anything else they want Spain to do will be done. Spain is finished.
The next will probably be France. Our one hope on France is that they might see the light and realize that if we don't win, they are finished; too, in that they can't resist the Muslim terrorists without us. However, it may already be too late for France. France is already 20% Muslim and fading fast!
If we lose the war, our production, income, exports and way of life will all vanish, as we know it. After losing, who would trade or deal with us, if they were threatened by the Muslims?
If we can't stop the Muslims, how could anyone else?
The Muslims fully know what is riding on this war, and therefore are completely committed to winning, at any cost. We better know it too and be likewise committed to winning at any cost.
Why do I go on at such lengths about the results of losing? Simple. Until we recognize the costs of losing, we cannot unite and really put 100% of our thoughts and efforts into winning. And it is going to take that 100% effort to win.
So, how can we lose the war?
Again, the answer is simple. We can lose the war by "imploding." That is, defeating ourselves by refusing to recognize the enemy and their purpose, and really digging in and lending full support to the war effort. If we are united, there is no way that we can lose. If we continue to be divided, there is no way that we can win!
Let me give you a few examples of how we simply don't comprehend the life and death seriousness of this situation.
President Bush selects Norman Mineta as Secretary of Transportation. Although all of the terrorist attacks were committed by Muslim men between 17 and 40 years of age, Secretary Mineta refuses to allow profiling. Does that sound like we are taking this thing seriously? This is war! For the duration, we are going to have to give up some of the civil rights we have become accustomed to. We had better be prepared to lose some of our civil rights temporarily or we will most certainly lose all of them permanently.
And don't worry that it is a slippery slope. We gave up plenty of civil rights during WWII, and immediately restored them after the victory and in fact added many more since then.
Do I blame President Bush or President Clinton before him?
No, I blame us for blithely assuming we can maintain all of our Political Correctness, and all of our civil rights during this conflict and have a clean, lawful, honorable war. None of those words apply to war. Get them out of your head.
Some have gone so far in their criticism of the war and/or the Administration that it almost seems they would literally like to see us lose. I hasten to add that this isn't because they are disloyal. It is because they just don't recognize what losing means. Nevertheless, that conduct gives the impression to the enemy that we are divided and weakening. It concerns our friends,
and it does great damage to our cause.
Of more recent vintage, the uproar fueled by the politicians and media regarding the treatment of some prisoners of war, perhaps exemplifies best what I am saying. We have recently had an issue, involving the treatment of a few Muslim prisoners of war, by a small group of our military police. These are the type prisoners who just a few months ago were throwing their own people
off buildings, cutting off their hands, cutting out their tongues and otherwise murdering their own people just for disagreeing with Saddam Hussein.
And just a few years ago these same type prisoners chemically killed 400,000 of their own people for the same reason. They are also the same type enemy fighters, who recently were burning Americans, and dragging their charred corpses through the streets of Iraq. And still more recently, the same type enemy that was and is providing videos to all news sources internationally, of the beheading of American prisoners they held.
Compare this with some of our press and politicians, who for several days have thought and talked about nothing else but the "humiliating" of some Muslim prisoners -- not burning them, not dragging their charred corpses through the streets, not beheading them, but "humiliating" them.
Can this be for real?
The politicians and pundits have even talked of impeachment of the Secretary of Defense. If this doesn't show the complete lack of comprehension and understanding of the seriousness of the enemy we are fighting, the life and death struggle we are in and the disastrous results of losing this war, nothing can.
To bring our country to a virtual political standstill over this prisoner is
sue makes us look like Nero playing his fiddle as Rome burned -- totally oblivious to what is going on in the real world. Neither we, nor any other country, can survive this internal strife. Again I say, this does not mean that some of our politicians or media people are disloyal. It simply means that they are absolutely oblivious to the magnitude, of the situation we are in and into which the Muslim terrorists have been pushing us, for many years.
Remember, the Muslim terrorists' stated goal is to kill all infidels! That translates into ALL non-Muslims -- not just in the United States, but through out the world.
We are the last bastions of defense.
We have been criticized for many years as being 'arrogant.' That charge is valid in at least one respect; we are arrogant in that we believe that we are so good, powerful and smart, that we can win the hearts and minds of all those who attack us, and that with both hands tied behind our back, we can defeat anything bad in the world!
We can't!
If we don't recognize this, our nation, as we know it will not survive, and no other free country in the world will survive if we are defeated.
And finally, name any Muslim countries throughout the world that allow freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of religion, freedom of the press, equal rights for anyone -- let alone everyone, equal status or any status for women, or that have been productive in one single way that contributes to the good of the world.
This has been a long way of saying that we must be united on this war or we will be equated in the history books to the self-inflicted fall of the Roman Empire. If, that is, the Muslim leaders will allow history books to be written or read.
If we don't win this war right now, keep a close eye on how the Muslims take over France in the next 5 years or less. They will continue to increase the Muslim population of France and continue to encroach little by little, on the established French traditions. The French will be fighting among themselves, over what should or should not be done, which will continue to weaken them and keep them from any united resolve. Doesn't that sound eerily familiar?
Democracies don't have their freedoms taken away from them by some external military force. Instead, they give their freedoms away, politically correct piece by politically correct piece.
And they are giving those freedoms away to those who have shown, worldwide, that they abhor freedom and will not apply it to you or even to themselves, once they are in power.
They have universally shown that when they have taken over, they then start brutally killing each other over who will be the few who control the masses. Will we ever stop hearing from the politically correct, about the "peaceful Muslims"?
I close on a hopeful note, by repeating what I said above. If we are united, there is no way that we can lose. I hope now after the election, the factions in our country will begin to focus on the critical situation we are in, and will unite to save our country. It is your future we are talking about! Do whatever you can to preserve it.
After reading the above, we all must do this not only for our children, but our grandchildren, our country, the world and ourselves.
Whether Democrat or Republican, conservative or liberal and that includes the Politicians and media of our country and the free world!
Please forward this to any you feel may want, or NEED to read it. Our "leaders" in Congress ought to read it, too.
There are those that find fault with our country, but it is obvious to anyone who truly thinks through this, that we must UNITE!
To get out of a difficulty, one usually must go through it. Our country is now facing the most serious threat to its existence, as we know it,
that we have faced in your lifetime and mine (which includes WWII).
The deadly seriousness is greatly compounded by the fact that there are very few of us who think we can possibly lose this war and even fewer who realize what losing really means.
First, let's examine a few basics:
1. When did the threat to us start?
Many will say September 11, 2001. The answer as far as the United States is concerned is 1979, 22 years prior to September 2001,
with the following attacks on us:
* Iran Embassy Hostages, 1979;
* Beirut, Lebanon Embassy 1983;
* Beirut, Lebanon Marine Barracks 1983;
* Lockerbie, Scotland Pan-Am flight to New York 1988;
* First New York World Trade Center attack 1993;
* Dhahran, Saudi Arabia Khobar Towers Military complex 1996;
* Nairobi, Kenya US Embassy 1998;
* Dares Salaam, Tanzania US Embassy 1998;
* Aden, Yemen USS Cole 2000;
* New York World Trade Center 2001;
* Pentagon 2001.
(Note that during the period from 1981 to 2001 there were 7,581 terrorists attacks worldwide).
2. Why were we attacked?
Envy of our position, our success, and our freedoms. The attacks happened during the administrations of Presidents Carter, Reagan, Bush 1, Clinton and Bush 2. We cannot fault either the Republicans or Democrats, as there were no provocations by any of the presidents or their immediate predecessors, Presidents Ford or Carter.
3. Who were the attackers?
In each case, Muslims carried out the attacks on the US.
4. What is the Muslim population of the World? 25%.
5. Isn't the Muslim Religion peaceful?
Hopefully, but that is really not material. There is no doubt that the predominately Christian population of Germany was peaceful, but under the dictatorial leadership of Hitler (who was also Christian), that made no difference. You either went along with the administration or you were eliminated. There were 5 to 6 million Christians killed by the Nazis for political reasons (including 7,000 Polish priests). Thus, the Nazis, killed almost the same numbers of Christians as the six million holocaust Jews who were killed by them, and we seldom heard of anything other than the Jewish atrocities. Although Hitler kept the world focused on the Jews, he had no hesitancy about killing anyone who got in his way of exterminating the Jews or of taking over the world - German, Christian or any others.
The same, exactly, with the Muslim terrorists. They focus the world on the US, but kill all in the way -- their own people or the Spanish, French or anyone else. The point here is that just like the peaceful Germans were of no protection to anyone from the Nazis, no matter how many peaceful Muslims there may be, they are no protection for us from the terrorist Muslim leaders and what they are fanatically bent on doing -- by their own pronouncements -- killing all of us "infidels." I don't blame the peaceful Muslims. What would you do if the choice was shut up or die?
6. So who are we at war with?
There is no way we can honestly respond that it is anyone other than the Muslim terrorists. Trying to be politically correct and avoid verbalizing this conclusion can well be fatal. There is no way to win if you don't clearly recognize and articulate whom you are fighting.
So with that background, now to the two major questions:
1. Can we lose this war?
2. What does losing really mean?
If we are to win, we must clearly answer these two pivotal questions.
We can definitely lose this war, and as anomalous as it may sound, the major reason we can lose is that so many of us simply do not fathom the answer to the second question - What does losing mean?
It would appear that a great many of us think that losing the war means hanging our heads, bringing the troops home and going on about our business, like post Vietnam. This is as far from the truth as one can get. What losing really means is:
We would no longer be the premier country in the world. The attacks will not subside, but rather will steadily increase. Remember, they want us dead, not just quiet. If they had just wanted us quiet, they would not have produced an increasing series of attacks against us, over the past 18 years. The plan was clearly, for terrorists to attack us until we were neutered and submissive to them. We would, of course, have no future support from other nations; for fear of reprisals and for the reason that they would see we are impotent and cannot help them.
They will pick off the other non-Muslim nations, one at a time. It will be increasingly easier for them. They already hold Spain hostage. It doesn't matter whether it was right or wrong for Spain to withdraw its troops from Iraq. Spain did it because the Muslim terrorists bombed their train and told them to withdraw the troops. Anything else they want Spain to do will be done. Spain is finished.
The next will probably be France. Our one hope on France is that they might see the light and realize that if we don't win, they are finished; too, in that they can't resist the Muslim terrorists without us. However, it may already be too late for France. France is already 20% Muslim and fading fast!
If we lose the war, our production, income, exports and way of life will all vanish, as we know it. After losing, who would trade or deal with us, if they were threatened by the Muslims?
If we can't stop the Muslims, how could anyone else?
The Muslims fully know what is riding on this war, and therefore are completely committed to winning, at any cost. We better know it too and be likewise committed to winning at any cost.
Why do I go on at such lengths about the results of losing? Simple. Until we recognize the costs of losing, we cannot unite and really put 100% of our thoughts and efforts into winning. And it is going to take that 100% effort to win.
So, how can we lose the war?
Again, the answer is simple. We can lose the war by "imploding." That is, defeating ourselves by refusing to recognize the enemy and their purpose, and really digging in and lending full support to the war effort. If we are united, there is no way that we can lose. If we continue to be divided, there is no way that we can win!
Let me give you a few examples of how we simply don't comprehend the life and death seriousness of this situation.
President Bush selects Norman Mineta as Secretary of Transportation. Although all of the terrorist attacks were committed by Muslim men between 17 and 40 years of age, Secretary Mineta refuses to allow profiling. Does that sound like we are taking this thing seriously? This is war! For the duration, we are going to have to give up some of the civil rights we have become accustomed to. We had better be prepared to lose some of our civil rights temporarily or we will most certainly lose all of them permanently.
And don't worry that it is a slippery slope. We gave up plenty of civil rights during WWII, and immediately restored them after the victory and in fact added many more since then.
Do I blame President Bush or President Clinton before him?
No, I blame us for blithely assuming we can maintain all of our Political Correctness, and all of our civil rights during this conflict and have a clean, lawful, honorable war. None of those words apply to war. Get them out of your head.
Some have gone so far in their criticism of the war and/or the Administration that it almost seems they would literally like to see us lose. I hasten to add that this isn't because they are disloyal. It is because they just don't recognize what losing means. Nevertheless, that conduct gives the impression to the enemy that we are divided and weakening. It concerns our friends,
and it does great damage to our cause.
Of more recent vintage, the uproar fueled by the politicians and media regarding the treatment of some prisoners of war, perhaps exemplifies best what I am saying. We have recently had an issue, involving the treatment of a few Muslim prisoners of war, by a small group of our military police. These are the type prisoners who just a few months ago were throwing their own people
off buildings, cutting off their hands, cutting out their tongues and otherwise murdering their own people just for disagreeing with Saddam Hussein.
And just a few years ago these same type prisoners chemically killed 400,000 of their own people for the same reason. They are also the same type enemy fighters, who recently were burning Americans, and dragging their charred corpses through the streets of Iraq. And still more recently, the same type enemy that was and is providing videos to all news sources internationally, of the beheading of American prisoners they held.
Compare this with some of our press and politicians, who for several days have thought and talked about nothing else but the "humiliating" of some Muslim prisoners -- not burning them, not dragging their charred corpses through the streets, not beheading them, but "humiliating" them.
Can this be for real?
The politicians and pundits have even talked of impeachment of the Secretary of Defense. If this doesn't show the complete lack of comprehension and understanding of the seriousness of the enemy we are fighting, the life and death struggle we are in and the disastrous results of losing this war, nothing can.
To bring our country to a virtual political standstill over this prisoner is
sue makes us look like Nero playing his fiddle as Rome burned -- totally oblivious to what is going on in the real world. Neither we, nor any other country, can survive this internal strife. Again I say, this does not mean that some of our politicians or media people are disloyal. It simply means that they are absolutely oblivious to the magnitude, of the situation we are in and into which the Muslim terrorists have been pushing us, for many years.
Remember, the Muslim terrorists' stated goal is to kill all infidels! That translates into ALL non-Muslims -- not just in the United States, but through out the world.
We are the last bastions of defense.
We have been criticized for many years as being 'arrogant.' That charge is valid in at least one respect; we are arrogant in that we believe that we are so good, powerful and smart, that we can win the hearts and minds of all those who attack us, and that with both hands tied behind our back, we can defeat anything bad in the world!
We can't!
If we don't recognize this, our nation, as we know it will not survive, and no other free country in the world will survive if we are defeated.
And finally, name any Muslim countries throughout the world that allow freedom of speech, freedom of thought, freedom of religion, freedom of the press, equal rights for anyone -- let alone everyone, equal status or any status for women, or that have been productive in one single way that contributes to the good of the world.
This has been a long way of saying that we must be united on this war or we will be equated in the history books to the self-inflicted fall of the Roman Empire. If, that is, the Muslim leaders will allow history books to be written or read.
If we don't win this war right now, keep a close eye on how the Muslims take over France in the next 5 years or less. They will continue to increase the Muslim population of France and continue to encroach little by little, on the established French traditions. The French will be fighting among themselves, over what should or should not be done, which will continue to weaken them and keep them from any united resolve. Doesn't that sound eerily familiar?
Democracies don't have their freedoms taken away from them by some external military force. Instead, they give their freedoms away, politically correct piece by politically correct piece.
And they are giving those freedoms away to those who have shown, worldwide, that they abhor freedom and will not apply it to you or even to themselves, once they are in power.
They have universally shown that when they have taken over, they then start brutally killing each other over who will be the few who control the masses. Will we ever stop hearing from the politically correct, about the "peaceful Muslims"?
I close on a hopeful note, by repeating what I said above. If we are united, there is no way that we can lose. I hope now after the election, the factions in our country will begin to focus on the critical situation we are in, and will unite to save our country. It is your future we are talking about! Do whatever you can to preserve it.
After reading the above, we all must do this not only for our children, but our grandchildren, our country, the world and ourselves.
Whether Democrat or Republican, conservative or liberal and that includes the Politicians and media of our country and the free world!
Please forward this to any you feel may want, or NEED to read it. Our "leaders" in Congress ought to read it, too.
There are those that find fault with our country, but it is obvious to anyone who truly thinks through this, that we must UNITE!
Monday, March 20, 2006
Common Republican Beliefs
Common Republican beliefs.....
Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of
homosexuals and Hillary Clinton
Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad
guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy
when Cheney did business with him, and a bad guy
when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden"
diversion.
Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is
Communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital
to a spirit of international harmony.
The United States should get out of the United
Nations, and our highest national priority is
enforcing U.N. resolutions against Iraq.
A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her
own body, but multi-national corporations can make
decisions affecting all mankind without regulation.
The best way to improve military morale is to praise
the troops in speeches, while slashing veterans'
benefits and combat pay.
If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents
won't have sex.
A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our
long-time allies, then demand their cooperation and
money.
Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy,
but providing health care to all Americans is
socialism. HMOs and insurance companies have the
best interests of the public at heart.
Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk
science, but creationism should be taught in
schools.
A president lying about an extramarital affair is a
impeachable offense, but a president lying to enlist
support for a war in which thousands die is solid
defense policy.
Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which
include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.
The public has a right to know about Hillary's
cattle trades, but George Bush's driving record is
none of our business.
Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime,
unless you're a conservative radio host. Then it's
an illness and you need our prayers for your
recovery.
You support states' rights, but Attorney General
John Ashcroft can tell states what local voter
initiatives they have the right to adopt.
What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital
national interest, but what Bush did in the '80s is
irrelevant.
Feel free to pass this on. If you don't send it to
at least 10 other people, we're likely to be stuck
with more Republicans in '06 and '08. Friends don't
let friends vote Republican
Jesus loves you, and shares your hatred of
homosexuals and Hillary Clinton
Saddam was a good guy when Reagan armed him, a bad
guy when Bush's daddy made war on him, a good guy
when Cheney did business with him, and a bad guy
when Bush needed a "we can't find Bin Laden"
diversion.
Trade with Cuba is wrong because the country is
Communist, but trade with China and Vietnam is vital
to a spirit of international harmony.
The United States should get out of the United
Nations, and our highest national priority is
enforcing U.N. resolutions against Iraq.
A woman can't be trusted with decisions about her
own body, but multi-national corporations can make
decisions affecting all mankind without regulation.
The best way to improve military morale is to praise
the troops in speeches, while slashing veterans'
benefits and combat pay.
If condoms are kept out of schools, adolescents
won't have sex.
A good way to fight terrorism is to belittle our
long-time allies, then demand their cooperation and
money.
Providing health care to all Iraqis is sound policy,
but providing health care to all Americans is
socialism. HMOs and insurance companies have the
best interests of the public at heart.
Global warming and tobacco's link to cancer are junk
science, but creationism should be taught in
schools.
A president lying about an extramarital affair is a
impeachable offense, but a president lying to enlist
support for a war in which thousands die is solid
defense policy.
Government should limit itself to the powers named in the Constitution, which
include banning gay marriages and censoring the Internet.
The public has a right to know about Hillary's
cattle trades, but George Bush's driving record is
none of our business.
Being a drug addict is a moral failing and a crime,
unless you're a conservative radio host. Then it's
an illness and you need our prayers for your
recovery.
You support states' rights, but Attorney General
John Ashcroft can tell states what local voter
initiatives they have the right to adopt.
What Bill Clinton did in the 1960s is of vital
national interest, but what Bush did in the '80s is
irrelevant.
Feel free to pass this on. If you don't send it to
at least 10 other people, we're likely to be stuck
with more Republicans in '06 and '08. Friends don't
let friends vote Republican
Friday, March 10, 2006
Another Day In Dogpatch
ANOTHER DAY IN DOGPATCH From Moshe Saperstein, Nitzan temporary
housing:
It is 4:15am and I'm awake because I slept so much on Shabbat.
Semi-trailers rumble on the highway, whining and screeching to a halt
when the traffic light turns red. It is cool and, I suppose, still
starry though the street lamps blot out whatever feeble light comes
out of the sky.
I drag on my cigar and inspect the laundry hung out last night. Of
course it is still damp. One of the first things we did while setting
up was have the laundry lines installed. There were at least three
boxes full of bedclothes hurriedly stuffed in – remember, we had many
people sleeping over – before the expulsion. Though most were clean,
after six months in storage they were also odiferous. So I enjoyed
washing and hanging them out, and folding them.
At least they could be washed. Many of the foodstuffs we bought in
anticipation of a long siege in Gush Katif have had to be thrown out.
Canned good were okay but the pastas and dry cereals and soup nuts,
though sealed, developed a strange odor. So out they went.
Rachel wanted to go to a meeting in Ashkelon tonight at which the
three options for permanent housing are being considered. Option 1 is
an area called Nitzan just south of here in which 600 housing units
for former Neve Dekalim people will be built; Option 2 is just north
and called Nizzanim Park, 1000 housing units, first choice for Neve
Dekalim; Option 3 is Lachish. I refused to go, pointing out that if
the State is going under as rapidly as I believe, `permanent housing'
is a joke.
Even discounting my fate-of-the-State obsession, none of the options
is feasible. Both Options 1 and 2 are very close to Ashkelon, where
Kassam rockets are already falling daily. It is an open secret that
the dribble of rockets will turn into a hailstorm after our corrupt
version of Neville Chamberlain is elected. Why plan for an area to be
hit far worse than Gush Katif ever was?
Option 3, Lachish in the Negev, is Rachel's choice. I envy her
enthusiasm, and her ability, like most of this country, to ignore
reality. The area in question has 100 Jewish families, and several
hundred thousand Bedouins and Palestinian Arabs. These latter married
Bedouin women and under our oh so humane laws have been permitted to
join them, and to bring many relatives along. This area, as related to
my son-in-law Chanan by a friend of his who is an officer in the Green
Patrol environmental police, is already no-go for police and army. It
is totally under the control of drug smugglers. If this weren't
enough, our Supreme Court has ruled that the government's plan to
develop the Jewish Negev is racist, and that no sums can be allotted
for Jewish expansion without a proportionally larger sum for Arab
expansion.
Friday morning a representative of the Defense Ministry showed up. The
Defense Ministry, in our topsy-turvy world, is responsible for the
garden. That he showed up at all is unprecedented, a testimonial to
your faxes and e-mails. He looked at the protruding pipe: "We can't
fix that". He looked at the electricity-threatening sprinkler: "That's
not going to cause a short. But if it does, call me." And away he
went. Rachel and I have pretty much decided that we want to keep the
pipe where it is. So many people have visited and insisted on taking
pictures of it that it clearly is an attraction. And we don't want to
disappoint our public.
That same day my brother and sister-in-law brought my mom for a
working visit. Best of all mom brought food for Shabbat, and being mom
she made enough to last us all week. While they were here an ice-cream
truck arrived, parked right outside our door, and deafened/serenaded
us with `Jingle Bells'. I had left this noisome terror off the list,
in error. It appears every day just as kids get out of school. We'll
survive it.
By now all our pictures are hung, or almost all – there are some too
heavy for the wall – and the house looks like an art museum. La P is
happy.
La P was even happier over Shabbat visits with neighbors. At the best
of times I am not easy to live with, and these are – a rare
understatement – not the best of times. Rachel is a social creature
and I find socializing torture. Yet, after a lovely dinner a deux we
decided to take a walk. The weather was balmy as we strolled through
the Neve Dekalim section of Nitzan. The streets were largely empty as
most were still eating.
To our surprise, and sorrow, though here and there an effort was
clearly being made to make property attractive, most places looked
like dumping grounds. I'm not referring to the shipping containers
behind many houses. People have nowhere else to put them. But litter,
such as one never saw in Gush Katif, abounded. Not garbage, but broken
chairs and empty cartons and the like. It was Dogpatch, without the
stills.
We visited friends, who returned the visit Shabbat afternoon. And
Shabbat after services we ate at other friends. I was my brilliant,
witty self and a good time was had by all, particularly Rachel.
Both last Shabbat and this past Shabbat the sermon in shul was about
the Almighty's miracles and how we must never give up hope for a
miracle. These sermons fill me simultaneously with awe and anger. The
first Shabbat after the expulsion, just three days earlier, found
thousands of refugees gathering for Friday night prayers in a large
outdoor square between the Central Bus Station and the Jerusalem
Convention Center. All week the square has a small population of
derelicts, beggars and homeless. Refugees housed in the nearby
Jerusalem Gate, Jerusalem Gold and Caesar hotels were there, as were
many who made the forty-five minute walk from the Shalom Hotel.
Swelling our ranks were sympathetic Jews from nearby neighborhoods. A
contingent of television and newspaper reporters and photographers
appeared, and were politely asked to leave. They didn't leave until
they were asked less politely.
Even August nights can be cold in Jerusalem and most of us were
inadequately dressed: short-sleeved shirts, sandals, nary a sweater in
sight. But the tears and embraces as we exchanged horror stories kept
the cold at bay. I suspect most of us were too numb to feel anything
except our grief. Our rabbi spoke of the need to pray even harder for
a miracle. This absurdity – we had already been expelled – and the
fervor with which most people prayed drove me to the edge of hysteria.
It was clear to me, if to few others, that our loyalty to Him was
clearly greater than His loyalty to us.
[Aside: Now don't get all persnickety over that last sentence. I
accept intellectually that the Creator can do no wrong, and that all
will eventually be seen to have been for the best. But I cannot accept
it emotionally. Not yet, anyway. That I do know my place in the great
scheme of things is illustrated by the following:
Several months before the expulsion a crew from the Korean
Broadcasting Service visited us at home. By this time I was no longer
giving interviews – a subject for another letter – but Rachel was
doing an interview at the Local Council offices and I was stuck. In
truth, I was beguiled by the reporter. Small, sweet-faced, so ageless
that I couldn't tell if she were twenty-five or sixty-five, with a
soft, lilting voice. Her camerawoman seemed to be an airhead, also of
indeterminate age.
During an interview that went on for more than an hour I kept
restating my certainty that the expulsion would not take place,
because the Almighty wouldn't allow it.
Two weeks after the expulsion she appeared at the hotel. I was out yet
she and her cameraman waited for over an hour til I returned. The
interview was held in that part of the hotel parking lot closed to
cars and filled with chairs and tables. While Rachel sat at a nearby
table giving an interview to a Norwegian journalist, Miss Seoul and I
and her cameraman began working.
At one point, after reminding me of my certainty that the Almighty
wouldn't allow the expulsion to happen, she said, "Ah, Moshe, you must
be very angry at God."
"Yes. But I am more insignificant to God" – tears were flowing – "than
this speck of dust is to Mt. Fuji."
She reached across the table and took my hand, my hideous claw-like
hand, in one hand and began to stroke it with her other hand. "Ah,
Moshe, you are in such pain. Is there anything I can do to make you
feel better?"
Well… actually I had several suggestions. But kept my mouth shut
because Rachel was nearby and her cameraman, a zits-faced youth with
baseball cap turned backwards, was glaring at me.
As they left I asked her age. "I am forty-five, dear Moshe, and still
looking for love."]
7 March
Yesterday morning I was up at 3, did a load of laundry and hung it
out, and was on the way to Jerusalem by 4:30. Why I needed to leave so
early doesn't make sense to me, so I can hardly explain it to you. But
the roads were clear and I could be thrilled as ever by the first
lightening of the sky.
My first stop, shortly before 6, was the hotel. A bag of laundry had
not been returned to us before we left and I was hoping it would be
awaiting my arrival. It wasn't. May the s.o.b. wearing my underpants
get terminal crotch rot.
I was surprised at how I felt entering the lobby. Surprised because I
felt nothing. It was familiar, of course, but familiar in the way
that, say, a subway station is familiar. You know the place but there
is no feeling of connection. The night watchman, with whom I had spent
many hours gabbing in Yiddish because he didn't want those around us
to understand that he was cursing them, gave me a warm greeting and
started one of his interminable tales of hotel managerial malfeasance.
I listened just long enough not to be impolite. The sole Gush Katifer
in the lobby at that hour asked a pro forma question about how we are
managing in Nitzan and started on hotel gossip, which was pointless to
me. The pointless need not be uninteresting, but this no longer meant
a thing to me and I escaped quickly.
This left me two hours to prowl downtown while waiting for my bank to
open at 8:30. I was struck, as I invariably am, by how dismal
everything is. Heavenly Jerusalem may indeed be heavenly, but earthly
downtown Jerusalem is the pits. Earthly Jerusalem has two main growth
industries, both dominating the streets even before the working day
begins. In addition to delivery men and sanitation workers, which it
always had, Jerusalem now has security guards and beggars.
Every bus stop has a security guard. Every shop selling food has a
security guard. Even many smaller shops have guards. Even Shmielke
Feintuch's alleyway stand selling shoelaces and chewing gum has a
security guard. With Arab suicide bombing the standard protest for
high prices and poor service, this situation requires no explanation.
As to beggars, yes, there have always been beggars. Most were
professionals whom you acknowledged, if not actually greeted. [Keep in
mind we lived there almost thirty years.] Now they are a plague. Sorry
to be so…uncharitable? But there are stretches of the Ben-Yehuda mall
and Strauss Street near Bikur Cholim Hospital where more people are
soliciting than being solicited. You walk through a crowd and a
majority are shaking plastic drinking cups. And have I mentioned that
every thoroughfare now has beggars at every stop light?
Apologies. I hadn't intended writing about Jerusalem in this letter.
Perhaps when I write about our hotel stay I'll deal with it in a more
coherent manner.
By 8:15 there were already a dozen people waiting to enter the bank. I
was number one. The guy behind me, late thirties, was very antsy. From
8:25 he was glancing at his watch every few seconds, cursing loudly
that it was already past 8:30 and why didn't they open the damn doors
already. You know the type, and if you don't know the type you aren't
missing anything.
As the door was opened he tried to elbow me aside. I pushed back.
"What's your problem?" he said in the local patois meaning `watch it
or you'll be eating a knuckle sandwich'.
"Oh, I'm sorry" I said with exaggerated politeness. "I forgot I'm
dealing with an Israeli."
"Aren't you an Israeli?" he said, clearly taken aback.
"No. I was, until Israelis like you threw me out of my home in Gush
Katif. Now I'm just a Jewish refugee."
Murmur, murmur, murmur – just like the great scene in YOUNG
FRANKENSTEIN – and the waters parted letting Moshe sail through. What
a feeling of triumph. Hollow triumph, to be sure, but you take it
where you can get it.
After the bank I went in search of Shlomo Carlebach discs, one of
Rachel's passions. We had discs and cassettes but all seem to have
disappeared. Securing the discs I then entered a Steimatzky looking
for another of La P's passions, magazines like HOUSE BEAUTIFUL, BETTER
HOMES AND GARDENS, and most appropriate for Dogpatch, MODERN LATRINE.
The young female clerks accepted my proffered mags with raised
eyebrows, and I rewarded them with my best Isaac Mizrahi imitation.
When they offered me a 50% discount on cookbooks I sniffed and said
"My partner and I only eat `take-out'".
On to my old friends Steve and Rivka in Bayit Vegan, where I did my
rant about the imminent collapse of the State. Their reaction was like
those of everyone else when I start foaming at the mouth on this
subject. Nobody disagrees with me, whether because they see things my
way or just don't want to argue with a madman. Instead they say "Don't
be so depressed". But how can I not be depressed, given what I
believe? There's a light at the end of the tunnel, someone said. To
which I replied "It's an express train hurtling toward us".
Occasionally I hear "The Almighty won't let it happen", to which I
remind the speaker he/she is talking to a refugee from Gush Katif.
I stop to visit Dafna and the beautiful cherubs on the way back to
Nitzan. Dafna, exhausted but radiant, thinks Alma looks like Rachel. I
don't see the resemblance, and probably won't until she learns to
speak and starts enumerating my faults.
Back in Nitzan I grab a quick snooze because we have to be in Ashkelon
for a bar-mitzvah early in the evening. I am going under duress – the
bar-mitzvah boy is Rachel's hairdresser's son – but Rachel has
promised "we'll stay for fifteen minutes only". How often have I heard
that… La P couldn't get out of a burning one-storey building in
fifteen minutes. But on the ladder of who she really needs in life the
hairdresser is several rungs above me. So I keep my mouth shut.
The hall, though its name has been changed, is the same hall where
Tamar and Oshri were married nine years ago. The area has the same
charm as any industrial area at night, with the added attraction of
the large prison one block away dominating the landscape. We feel
right at home.
An hour after our arrival Rachel says "You go downstairs and wait
outside. I'll be right there". Stifling the impulse to say "Who is
Hugo?" I dutifully swallow my tenth or eleventh pastel, a triangle of
dough filled with mashed potatoes, take a last look at the nubile
cuties attending a bat-mitzvah in the adjoining hall – the family name
is [I swear I'm not making this up] Mamboshvili – and escape into the
open.
Rachel appears an hour and two cigars later, but my time in the
parking lot has not been uneventful. I am approached by a latecomer to
the bar-mitzvah, a bus driver from Neve Dekalim now living in Nitzan.
We had been friendly. "I have to talk to you" he says. I stiffen.
But first, some background:
There are really two distinct towns called Nitzan. The first – let us
refer to it as Nitzan 1 – was built by the Expulsion Authority before
the expulsion and was filled with those who did not stay to the end.
These people, some from Neveh Dekalim, most from other Gush Katif
agricultural communities, were able to leave in an orderly way, ie,
with their belongings intact. Many also received financial advances.
The community into which Rachel and I have moved – shall we call it
Nitzan 2? – was built after the expulsion to house Neve Dekalim
refugees holed up in hotels. People with few belongings and less
money. People for whom Rachel started Operation Dignity.
Nitzan 1 is geographically adjacent to Nitzan 2. Emotionally and
ideologically the communities are miles apart. We left with little but
we kept our self-respect. They left with their belongings, money, and
self-loathing.
"It's unfair that you people got so much," he began, "and we got
nothing. You got shoes, clothes, money, while we got nothing."
I pointed out that he left with his belongings, so he didn't need
shoes or clothes, and had received money from the Expulsion Authority.
"You were having a good time in the hotels while we were suffering" –
I used to marvel at how history in the Soviet Encyclopedia was revised
every few years, and here the history of the past half year was being
turned on its head – "and it's unfair. What are we? Second class
citizens? Traitors?"
I didn't bother to argue because, first, I'm braver in print than in
person and, second, I genuinely like this guy. I finally understood,
first hand, why since our arrival Rachel and the women who help her
distribute money have been harassed by former Neve Dekalim people in
Nitzan 1 who want, retroactively, to receive what those of us in
hotels received. There are only a few agitators, and all are well off
by current standards. More than the clothes and money they want us to
validate their decision to leave early. And that we cannot do.
The sad, ironic truth is that those bothering Rachel for money don't
need it, while those in need, even dire need, keep silent out of shame
or pride or mental and physical exhaustion. What a mess.
8 March
There is a meeting tonight for supporters of the Lachish option, and
Rachel has gone with a neighbor whose husband, like me, refuses to get
involved. God bless the Women of Israel. They may yet save us.
Several of you were very sarcastic about my weight loss. One suggested
I make some money out of it, for Operation Dignity of course, by
patenting it: Moshe's Eat Your Heart Out Diet. Step aside, Dr. Phil!
9 March
Bitter cold, fierce winds, a thick sandstorm. Our gardener has
succeeded in moving the protruding pipe – the one that couldn't be
moved – to a point where it is marginally less dangerous. I have mixed
feelings about destroying a shrine to man's stupidity.
He has also just finished installing enough plants for a medium-sized
botanical garden, with computerized watering. It seems a bit grandiose
considering our circumstances, especially as it's costly and we'll be
out of here before it really flourishes. Still, I defer to La P in
matters aesthetic. And I do believe that living well is the best revenge.
From moshe Saperstein, Nitzan
housing:
It is 4:15am and I'm awake because I slept so much on Shabbat.
Semi-trailers rumble on the highway, whining and screeching to a halt
when the traffic light turns red. It is cool and, I suppose, still
starry though the street lamps blot out whatever feeble light comes
out of the sky.
I drag on my cigar and inspect the laundry hung out last night. Of
course it is still damp. One of the first things we did while setting
up was have the laundry lines installed. There were at least three
boxes full of bedclothes hurriedly stuffed in – remember, we had many
people sleeping over – before the expulsion. Though most were clean,
after six months in storage they were also odiferous. So I enjoyed
washing and hanging them out, and folding them.
At least they could be washed. Many of the foodstuffs we bought in
anticipation of a long siege in Gush Katif have had to be thrown out.
Canned good were okay but the pastas and dry cereals and soup nuts,
though sealed, developed a strange odor. So out they went.
Rachel wanted to go to a meeting in Ashkelon tonight at which the
three options for permanent housing are being considered. Option 1 is
an area called Nitzan just south of here in which 600 housing units
for former Neve Dekalim people will be built; Option 2 is just north
and called Nizzanim Park, 1000 housing units, first choice for Neve
Dekalim; Option 3 is Lachish. I refused to go, pointing out that if
the State is going under as rapidly as I believe, `permanent housing'
is a joke.
Even discounting my fate-of-the-State obsession, none of the options
is feasible. Both Options 1 and 2 are very close to Ashkelon, where
Kassam rockets are already falling daily. It is an open secret that
the dribble of rockets will turn into a hailstorm after our corrupt
version of Neville Chamberlain is elected. Why plan for an area to be
hit far worse than Gush Katif ever was?
Option 3, Lachish in the Negev, is Rachel's choice. I envy her
enthusiasm, and her ability, like most of this country, to ignore
reality. The area in question has 100 Jewish families, and several
hundred thousand Bedouins and Palestinian Arabs. These latter married
Bedouin women and under our oh so humane laws have been permitted to
join them, and to bring many relatives along. This area, as related to
my son-in-law Chanan by a friend of his who is an officer in the Green
Patrol environmental police, is already no-go for police and army. It
is totally under the control of drug smugglers. If this weren't
enough, our Supreme Court has ruled that the government's plan to
develop the Jewish Negev is racist, and that no sums can be allotted
for Jewish expansion without a proportionally larger sum for Arab
expansion.
Friday morning a representative of the Defense Ministry showed up. The
Defense Ministry, in our topsy-turvy world, is responsible for the
garden. That he showed up at all is unprecedented, a testimonial to
your faxes and e-mails. He looked at the protruding pipe: "We can't
fix that". He looked at the electricity-threatening sprinkler: "That's
not going to cause a short. But if it does, call me." And away he
went. Rachel and I have pretty much decided that we want to keep the
pipe where it is. So many people have visited and insisted on taking
pictures of it that it clearly is an attraction. And we don't want to
disappoint our public.
That same day my brother and sister-in-law brought my mom for a
working visit. Best of all mom brought food for Shabbat, and being mom
she made enough to last us all week. While they were here an ice-cream
truck arrived, parked right outside our door, and deafened/serenaded
us with `Jingle Bells'. I had left this noisome terror off the list,
in error. It appears every day just as kids get out of school. We'll
survive it.
By now all our pictures are hung, or almost all – there are some too
heavy for the wall – and the house looks like an art museum. La P is
happy.
La P was even happier over Shabbat visits with neighbors. At the best
of times I am not easy to live with, and these are – a rare
understatement – not the best of times. Rachel is a social creature
and I find socializing torture. Yet, after a lovely dinner a deux we
decided to take a walk. The weather was balmy as we strolled through
the Neve Dekalim section of Nitzan. The streets were largely empty as
most were still eating.
To our surprise, and sorrow, though here and there an effort was
clearly being made to make property attractive, most places looked
like dumping grounds. I'm not referring to the shipping containers
behind many houses. People have nowhere else to put them. But litter,
such as one never saw in Gush Katif, abounded. Not garbage, but broken
chairs and empty cartons and the like. It was Dogpatch, without the
stills.
We visited friends, who returned the visit Shabbat afternoon. And
Shabbat after services we ate at other friends. I was my brilliant,
witty self and a good time was had by all, particularly Rachel.
Both last Shabbat and this past Shabbat the sermon in shul was about
the Almighty's miracles and how we must never give up hope for a
miracle. These sermons fill me simultaneously with awe and anger. The
first Shabbat after the expulsion, just three days earlier, found
thousands of refugees gathering for Friday night prayers in a large
outdoor square between the Central Bus Station and the Jerusalem
Convention Center. All week the square has a small population of
derelicts, beggars and homeless. Refugees housed in the nearby
Jerusalem Gate, Jerusalem Gold and Caesar hotels were there, as were
many who made the forty-five minute walk from the Shalom Hotel.
Swelling our ranks were sympathetic Jews from nearby neighborhoods. A
contingent of television and newspaper reporters and photographers
appeared, and were politely asked to leave. They didn't leave until
they were asked less politely.
Even August nights can be cold in Jerusalem and most of us were
inadequately dressed: short-sleeved shirts, sandals, nary a sweater in
sight. But the tears and embraces as we exchanged horror stories kept
the cold at bay. I suspect most of us were too numb to feel anything
except our grief. Our rabbi spoke of the need to pray even harder for
a miracle. This absurdity – we had already been expelled – and the
fervor with which most people prayed drove me to the edge of hysteria.
It was clear to me, if to few others, that our loyalty to Him was
clearly greater than His loyalty to us.
[Aside: Now don't get all persnickety over that last sentence. I
accept intellectually that the Creator can do no wrong, and that all
will eventually be seen to have been for the best. But I cannot accept
it emotionally. Not yet, anyway. That I do know my place in the great
scheme of things is illustrated by the following:
Several months before the expulsion a crew from the Korean
Broadcasting Service visited us at home. By this time I was no longer
giving interviews – a subject for another letter – but Rachel was
doing an interview at the Local Council offices and I was stuck. In
truth, I was beguiled by the reporter. Small, sweet-faced, so ageless
that I couldn't tell if she were twenty-five or sixty-five, with a
soft, lilting voice. Her camerawoman seemed to be an airhead, also of
indeterminate age.
During an interview that went on for more than an hour I kept
restating my certainty that the expulsion would not take place,
because the Almighty wouldn't allow it.
Two weeks after the expulsion she appeared at the hotel. I was out yet
she and her cameraman waited for over an hour til I returned. The
interview was held in that part of the hotel parking lot closed to
cars and filled with chairs and tables. While Rachel sat at a nearby
table giving an interview to a Norwegian journalist, Miss Seoul and I
and her cameraman began working.
At one point, after reminding me of my certainty that the Almighty
wouldn't allow the expulsion to happen, she said, "Ah, Moshe, you must
be very angry at God."
"Yes. But I am more insignificant to God" – tears were flowing – "than
this speck of dust is to Mt. Fuji."
She reached across the table and took my hand, my hideous claw-like
hand, in one hand and began to stroke it with her other hand. "Ah,
Moshe, you are in such pain. Is there anything I can do to make you
feel better?"
Well… actually I had several suggestions. But kept my mouth shut
because Rachel was nearby and her cameraman, a zits-faced youth with
baseball cap turned backwards, was glaring at me.
As they left I asked her age. "I am forty-five, dear Moshe, and still
looking for love."]
7 March
Yesterday morning I was up at 3, did a load of laundry and hung it
out, and was on the way to Jerusalem by 4:30. Why I needed to leave so
early doesn't make sense to me, so I can hardly explain it to you. But
the roads were clear and I could be thrilled as ever by the first
lightening of the sky.
My first stop, shortly before 6, was the hotel. A bag of laundry had
not been returned to us before we left and I was hoping it would be
awaiting my arrival. It wasn't. May the s.o.b. wearing my underpants
get terminal crotch rot.
I was surprised at how I felt entering the lobby. Surprised because I
felt nothing. It was familiar, of course, but familiar in the way
that, say, a subway station is familiar. You know the place but there
is no feeling of connection. The night watchman, with whom I had spent
many hours gabbing in Yiddish because he didn't want those around us
to understand that he was cursing them, gave me a warm greeting and
started one of his interminable tales of hotel managerial malfeasance.
I listened just long enough not to be impolite. The sole Gush Katifer
in the lobby at that hour asked a pro forma question about how we are
managing in Nitzan and started on hotel gossip, which was pointless to
me. The pointless need not be uninteresting, but this no longer meant
a thing to me and I escaped quickly.
This left me two hours to prowl downtown while waiting for my bank to
open at 8:30. I was struck, as I invariably am, by how dismal
everything is. Heavenly Jerusalem may indeed be heavenly, but earthly
downtown Jerusalem is the pits. Earthly Jerusalem has two main growth
industries, both dominating the streets even before the working day
begins. In addition to delivery men and sanitation workers, which it
always had, Jerusalem now has security guards and beggars.
Every bus stop has a security guard. Every shop selling food has a
security guard. Even many smaller shops have guards. Even Shmielke
Feintuch's alleyway stand selling shoelaces and chewing gum has a
security guard. With Arab suicide bombing the standard protest for
high prices and poor service, this situation requires no explanation.
As to beggars, yes, there have always been beggars. Most were
professionals whom you acknowledged, if not actually greeted. [Keep in
mind we lived there almost thirty years.] Now they are a plague. Sorry
to be so…uncharitable? But there are stretches of the Ben-Yehuda mall
and Strauss Street near Bikur Cholim Hospital where more people are
soliciting than being solicited. You walk through a crowd and a
majority are shaking plastic drinking cups. And have I mentioned that
every thoroughfare now has beggars at every stop light?
Apologies. I hadn't intended writing about Jerusalem in this letter.
Perhaps when I write about our hotel stay I'll deal with it in a more
coherent manner.
By 8:15 there were already a dozen people waiting to enter the bank. I
was number one. The guy behind me, late thirties, was very antsy. From
8:25 he was glancing at his watch every few seconds, cursing loudly
that it was already past 8:30 and why didn't they open the damn doors
already. You know the type, and if you don't know the type you aren't
missing anything.
As the door was opened he tried to elbow me aside. I pushed back.
"What's your problem?" he said in the local patois meaning `watch it
or you'll be eating a knuckle sandwich'.
"Oh, I'm sorry" I said with exaggerated politeness. "I forgot I'm
dealing with an Israeli."
"Aren't you an Israeli?" he said, clearly taken aback.
"No. I was, until Israelis like you threw me out of my home in Gush
Katif. Now I'm just a Jewish refugee."
Murmur, murmur, murmur – just like the great scene in YOUNG
FRANKENSTEIN – and the waters parted letting Moshe sail through. What
a feeling of triumph. Hollow triumph, to be sure, but you take it
where you can get it.
After the bank I went in search of Shlomo Carlebach discs, one of
Rachel's passions. We had discs and cassettes but all seem to have
disappeared. Securing the discs I then entered a Steimatzky looking
for another of La P's passions, magazines like HOUSE BEAUTIFUL, BETTER
HOMES AND GARDENS, and most appropriate for Dogpatch, MODERN LATRINE.
The young female clerks accepted my proffered mags with raised
eyebrows, and I rewarded them with my best Isaac Mizrahi imitation.
When they offered me a 50% discount on cookbooks I sniffed and said
"My partner and I only eat `take-out'".
On to my old friends Steve and Rivka in Bayit Vegan, where I did my
rant about the imminent collapse of the State. Their reaction was like
those of everyone else when I start foaming at the mouth on this
subject. Nobody disagrees with me, whether because they see things my
way or just don't want to argue with a madman. Instead they say "Don't
be so depressed". But how can I not be depressed, given what I
believe? There's a light at the end of the tunnel, someone said. To
which I replied "It's an express train hurtling toward us".
Occasionally I hear "The Almighty won't let it happen", to which I
remind the speaker he/she is talking to a refugee from Gush Katif.
I stop to visit Dafna and the beautiful cherubs on the way back to
Nitzan. Dafna, exhausted but radiant, thinks Alma looks like Rachel. I
don't see the resemblance, and probably won't until she learns to
speak and starts enumerating my faults.
Back in Nitzan I grab a quick snooze because we have to be in Ashkelon
for a bar-mitzvah early in the evening. I am going under duress – the
bar-mitzvah boy is Rachel's hairdresser's son – but Rachel has
promised "we'll stay for fifteen minutes only". How often have I heard
that… La P couldn't get out of a burning one-storey building in
fifteen minutes. But on the ladder of who she really needs in life the
hairdresser is several rungs above me. So I keep my mouth shut.
The hall, though its name has been changed, is the same hall where
Tamar and Oshri were married nine years ago. The area has the same
charm as any industrial area at night, with the added attraction of
the large prison one block away dominating the landscape. We feel
right at home.
An hour after our arrival Rachel says "You go downstairs and wait
outside. I'll be right there". Stifling the impulse to say "Who is
Hugo?" I dutifully swallow my tenth or eleventh pastel, a triangle of
dough filled with mashed potatoes, take a last look at the nubile
cuties attending a bat-mitzvah in the adjoining hall – the family name
is [I swear I'm not making this up] Mamboshvili – and escape into the
open.
Rachel appears an hour and two cigars later, but my time in the
parking lot has not been uneventful. I am approached by a latecomer to
the bar-mitzvah, a bus driver from Neve Dekalim now living in Nitzan.
We had been friendly. "I have to talk to you" he says. I stiffen.
But first, some background:
There are really two distinct towns called Nitzan. The first – let us
refer to it as Nitzan 1 – was built by the Expulsion Authority before
the expulsion and was filled with those who did not stay to the end.
These people, some from Neveh Dekalim, most from other Gush Katif
agricultural communities, were able to leave in an orderly way, ie,
with their belongings intact. Many also received financial advances.
The community into which Rachel and I have moved – shall we call it
Nitzan 2? – was built after the expulsion to house Neve Dekalim
refugees holed up in hotels. People with few belongings and less
money. People for whom Rachel started Operation Dignity.
Nitzan 1 is geographically adjacent to Nitzan 2. Emotionally and
ideologically the communities are miles apart. We left with little but
we kept our self-respect. They left with their belongings, money, and
self-loathing.
"It's unfair that you people got so much," he began, "and we got
nothing. You got shoes, clothes, money, while we got nothing."
I pointed out that he left with his belongings, so he didn't need
shoes or clothes, and had received money from the Expulsion Authority.
"You were having a good time in the hotels while we were suffering" –
I used to marvel at how history in the Soviet Encyclopedia was revised
every few years, and here the history of the past half year was being
turned on its head – "and it's unfair. What are we? Second class
citizens? Traitors?"
I didn't bother to argue because, first, I'm braver in print than in
person and, second, I genuinely like this guy. I finally understood,
first hand, why since our arrival Rachel and the women who help her
distribute money have been harassed by former Neve Dekalim people in
Nitzan 1 who want, retroactively, to receive what those of us in
hotels received. There are only a few agitators, and all are well off
by current standards. More than the clothes and money they want us to
validate their decision to leave early. And that we cannot do.
The sad, ironic truth is that those bothering Rachel for money don't
need it, while those in need, even dire need, keep silent out of shame
or pride or mental and physical exhaustion. What a mess.
8 March
There is a meeting tonight for supporters of the Lachish option, and
Rachel has gone with a neighbor whose husband, like me, refuses to get
involved. God bless the Women of Israel. They may yet save us.
Several of you were very sarcastic about my weight loss. One suggested
I make some money out of it, for Operation Dignity of course, by
patenting it: Moshe's Eat Your Heart Out Diet. Step aside, Dr. Phil!
9 March
Bitter cold, fierce winds, a thick sandstorm. Our gardener has
succeeded in moving the protruding pipe – the one that couldn't be
moved – to a point where it is marginally less dangerous. I have mixed
feelings about destroying a shrine to man's stupidity.
He has also just finished installing enough plants for a medium-sized
botanical garden, with computerized watering. It seems a bit grandiose
considering our circumstances, especially as it's costly and we'll be
out of here before it really flourishes. Still, I defer to La P in
matters aesthetic. And I do believe that living well is the best revenge.
From moshe Saperstein, Nitzan
Saturday, March 04, 2006
How Could You ?
How Could You?
When I was a puppy I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" - but then you'd relent and roll me over for a bellyrub.
My housetraining took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed, listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.
Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.
She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."
As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up! on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them, especially their touch - because your touch was now so infrequent - and I would have defended them with my life if need be.
I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams. Together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being your dog to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.
Now you have a new career opportunity in another city and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.
I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog or cat, even one with "papers."
You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.
After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"
They are as attentive to us her! e in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.
I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table, rubbed my ears and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.
She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"
Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. With my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not meant for her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever.
May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.
--
The best and most beautiful things in the world
cannot be seen or even touched.
They must be felt with the heart.
Helen Keller
When I was a puppy I entertained you with my antics and made you laugh. You called me your child and despite a number of chewed shoes and a couple of murdered throw pillows, I became your best friend. Whenever I was "bad," you'd shake your finger at me and ask "How could you?" - but then you'd relent and roll me over for a bellyrub.
My housetraining took a little longer than expected, because you were terribly busy, but we worked on that together. I remember those nights of nuzzling you in bed, listening to your confidences and secret dreams, and I believed that life could not be any more perfect. We went for long walks and runs in the park, car rides, stops for ice cream (I only got the cone because "ice cream is bad for dogs," you said), and I took long naps in the sun waiting for you to come home at the end of the day.
Gradually, you began spending more time at work and on your career, and more time searching for a human mate. I waited for you patiently, comforted you through heartbreaks and disappointments, never chided you about bad decisions, and romped with glee at your homecomings, and when you fell in love.
She, now your wife, is not a "dog person" - still I welcomed her into our home, tried to show her affection, and obeyed her. I was happy because you were happy. Then the human babies came along and I shared your excitement. I was fascinated by their pinkness, how they smelled, and I wanted to mother them, too. Only she and you worried that I might hurt them, and I spent most of my time banished to another room, or to a dog crate. Oh, how I wanted to love them, but I became a "prisoner of love."
As they began to grow, I became their friend. They clung to my fur and pulled themselves up! on wobbly legs, poked fingers in my eyes, investigated my ears and gave me kisses on my nose. I loved everything about them, especially their touch - because your touch was now so infrequent - and I would have defended them with my life if need be.
I would sneak into their beds and listen to their worries and secret dreams. Together we waited for the sound of your car in the driveway. There had been a time, when others asked you if you had a dog, that you produced a photo of me from your wallet and told them stories about me. These past few years, you just answered "yes" and changed the subject. I had gone from being your dog to "just a dog," and you resented every expenditure on my behalf.
Now you have a new career opportunity in another city and you and they will be moving to an apartment that does not allow pets. You've made the right decision for your "family," but there was a time when I was your only family.
I was excited about the car ride until we arrived at the animal shelter. It smelled of dogs and cats, of fear, of hopelessness. You filled out the paperwork and said "I know you will find a good home for her." They shrugged and gave you a pained look. They understand the realities facing a middle-aged dog or cat, even one with "papers."
You had to pry your son's fingers loose from my collar as he screamed "No, Daddy! Please don't let them take my dog!" And I worried for him and what lessons you had just taught him about friendship and loyalty, about love and responsibility, and about respect for all life. You gave me a goodbye pat on the head, avoided my eyes, and politely refused to take my collar and leash with you. You had a deadline to meet and now I have one, too.
After you left, the two nice ladies said you probably knew about your upcoming move months ago and made no attempt to find me another good home. They shook their heads and asked "How could you?"
They are as attentive to us her! e in the shelter as their busy schedules allow. They feed us, of course, but I lost my appetite days ago. At first, whenever anyone passed my pen, I rushed to the front, hoping it was you - that you had changed your mind - that this was all a bad dream...or I hoped it would at least be someone who cared, anyone who might save me. When I realized I could not compete with the frolicking for attention of happy puppies, oblivious to their own fate, I retreated to a far corner and waited.
I heard her footsteps as she came for me at the end of the day and I padded along the aisle after her to a separate room. A blissfully quiet room. She placed me on the table, rubbed my ears and told me not to worry. My heart pounded in anticipation of what was to come, but there was also a sense of relief. The prisoner of love had run out of days. As is my nature, I was more concerned about her. The burden which she bears weighs heavily on her and I know that, the same way I knew your every mood.
She gently placed a tourniquet around my foreleg as a tear ran down her cheek. I licked her hand in the same way I used to comfort you so many years ago. She expertly slid the hypodermic needle into my vein. As I felt the sting and the cool liquid coursing through my body, I lay down sleepily, looked into her kind eyes and murmured "How could you?"
Perhaps because she understood my dogspeak, she said "I'm so sorry." She hugged me and hurriedly explained it was her job to make sure I went to a better place, where I wouldn't be ignored or abused or abandoned, or have to fend for myself - a place of love and light so very different from this earthly place. With my last bit of energy, I tried to convey to her with a thump of my tail that my "How could you?" was not meant for her. It was you, My Beloved Master, I was thinking of. I will think of you and wait for you forever.
May everyone in your life continue to show you so much loyalty.
--
The best and most beautiful things in the world
cannot be seen or even touched.
They must be felt with the heart.
Helen Keller
New Jewish Haiku
N E W J E W I S H H A I K U
After the warm rain the sweet smell of camellias. Did you wipe your feet?
*****
Her lips near my ear, Aunt Sadie whispers the name of her friend's disease.
*****
Today I am a man. Tomorrow I will return to the seventh grade.
*****
Testing the warm milk on her wrist, she sighs softly. But her son is forty.
*****
The sparkling blue sea reminds me to wait an hour after my sandwich.
*****
Lacking fins or tail the gefilte fish swims with great difficulty.
*****
Like a bonsai tree, your terrible posture at my dinner table.
*****
Beyond Valium, the peace of knowing one's child is an internist.
*****
Jews on safari -- map, compass, elephant gun, hard sucking candies.
*****
The same kimono the top geishas are wearing: I got it at Loehmann's.
*****
The shivah visit: so sorry about your loss. Now back to my problems.
*****
Mom, please! There is no need to put that dinner roll in your pocketbook.
*****
Seven-foot Jews in the NBA slam-dunking! My alarm clock rings.
*****
Sorry I'm not home to take your call. At the tone please state your bad
news.
*****
Is one Nobel Prize so much to ask from a child after all I've done?
*****
Today, mild shvitzing. Tomorrow, so hot you'll plotz. Five-day forecast: --
feh!
*****
Passover Left the door open for the Prophet Elijah. Now our cat is gone.
*****
Yenta. Shmeer. Gevalt. Schlemiel. Schlimazel. Meshuganah Oy! To be fluent!
*****
Quietly murmured at Shabbatt services: Yanks 5, Red Sox 3.
*****
A lovely nose ring, excuse me while I put my head in the oven.
****
Hard to tell under the lights. White Yarmulke or male-pattern baldness.
After the warm rain the sweet smell of camellias. Did you wipe your feet?
*****
Her lips near my ear, Aunt Sadie whispers the name of her friend's disease.
*****
Today I am a man. Tomorrow I will return to the seventh grade.
*****
Testing the warm milk on her wrist, she sighs softly. But her son is forty.
*****
The sparkling blue sea reminds me to wait an hour after my sandwich.
*****
Lacking fins or tail the gefilte fish swims with great difficulty.
*****
Like a bonsai tree, your terrible posture at my dinner table.
*****
Beyond Valium, the peace of knowing one's child is an internist.
*****
Jews on safari -- map, compass, elephant gun, hard sucking candies.
*****
The same kimono the top geishas are wearing: I got it at Loehmann's.
*****
The shivah visit: so sorry about your loss. Now back to my problems.
*****
Mom, please! There is no need to put that dinner roll in your pocketbook.
*****
Seven-foot Jews in the NBA slam-dunking! My alarm clock rings.
*****
Sorry I'm not home to take your call. At the tone please state your bad
news.
*****
Is one Nobel Prize so much to ask from a child after all I've done?
*****
Today, mild shvitzing. Tomorrow, so hot you'll plotz. Five-day forecast: --
feh!
*****
Passover Left the door open for the Prophet Elijah. Now our cat is gone.
*****
Yenta. Shmeer. Gevalt. Schlemiel. Schlimazel. Meshuganah Oy! To be fluent!
*****
Quietly murmured at Shabbatt services: Yanks 5, Red Sox 3.
*****
A lovely nose ring, excuse me while I put my head in the oven.
****
Hard to tell under the lights. White Yarmulke or male-pattern baldness.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
A House Is Not A Home
A HOUSE IS NOT A HOME
From: Moshe Saperstein, Neve Dekalim/Nitzan:
A house is not a home. Not necessarily. And this house in Nitzan will
never be our home. Though Rachel has worked her customary magic and
turned a pigsty into a palace, this house cannot be our home.
This house cannot be our home, not because it is a temporary
residence. We are committed to living here for a minimum of two years,
maximum of four. But few things are as permanent as those labeled
temporary, and there is no way of knowing how long we will actually be
here. And Rachel managed to turn that most temporary and impersonal of
dwellings, a hotel room, into more of a home than this can ever be.
This house cannot be our home because it was built by the bastards who
destroyed our home in Neve Dekalim. This cannot be our home because we
enter it under duress, and not of our own free will. Many refer to
this as the Nitzan Refugee Camp. A high-class refugee camp, but a
refugee camp nonetheless. But refugee signifies someone fleeing a
conflict or natural disaster and being cared for by a neighboring
state or aid agency. Perhaps we would better be described as displaced
persons, making Nitzan a D.P. Camp. My own view is that we were not
onlookers to a conflict but participants – I would like to say
combatants, but we were far too genteel to have earned that title –
which makes our present domicile an Internment Camp, even a POW Camp.
[Aside: A complicated subject, why we are in Nitzan. Technically –
theoretically – we can go where we want. Practically, there is no
choice. I wanted to go to a community in Judea or Samaria, where the
next stage of the struggle – yes, even though I still believe it is
hopeless – will take place. Rachel wanted Nitzan because those most in
need are here and she feels her Operation Dignity charitable work
requires her to be here. And she says we are too old to go through
another expulsion. Add to the mix that our Bolshevik government has
stated that no compensation will be paid to any of the Gush Katif
refugees who go to Judea or Samaria. So, instead of tilting at
windmills in Judea and Samaria we are moping in Nitzan.]
The move from the hotel was exhausting. Certainly it was murderously
so for Rachel, who runs between setting up the house and helping Dafna
and the babies, suffering all the while from severe sciatica. Three
weeks ago Friday our belongings were transferred from the shipping
container behind Dafna's home and we worked every day, except Shabbat,
to get things set up. More accurately, Rachel has worked every day.
Ari and his girls have worked. My brother and my mother have worked.
Girls from a local high school have worked. A Russian couple who
helped in Neve Dekalim have worked. I run errands, carry out garbage,
busy myself putting my cd's in order – they had been packed
alphabetically, but young volunteers who wouldn't know their ABC's
from their XYZ's were ordered to empty the boxes and fill the shelves
and the result is chaos – and try and stay out of everyone's way. My
friend David who runs a large company tells me I have achieved upper
management status.
There have been moments of grand guignol during the week of
preparation. I was sent to an office to complain about something or
other and, while standing in a crowd waiting to attract the attention
of some puffed up clerk, someone started pointing at me and yelling "I
know you! I know you! But you don't know me!" All conversation ceased
as everyone, clerkie included, stared at the both of us. "I was there
when you were wounded on the Kissufim road. After they took you away I
found your finger on the floor of your car!" I just stared. What was I
supposed to say? So I said, "What did you do with it?", fully prepared
to hear that he had pickled it or mounted it on a frame over his
fireplace. "I gave it to an army rabbi" he said.
[For years after my right arm was blown off I was obsessed with its
final resting place. The katyusha had exploded just behind me, at
waist level, and I saw my arm fly into Egyptian territory, the arm
itself obscured by the sleeve of my uniform, the sun glinting off my
watch as the limb spiraled away. The IDF Rabbinate was supposed to
have retrieved it but that is hardly possible considering where it
landed. So my arm is somewhere in the Land of Lost Limbs. I've hardly
spent time wondering about my finger, which I know was retrieved. It
was certainly disposed of halachically, though I prefer to think of it
as being in the Field of Forgotten Fingers. If there is an afterlife
for detached digits I hope it has found a disembodied nose to… scratch.]
The actual move was made a week ago Sunday. Initially most things that
can go wrong, went wrong. Our air conditioner is firm X and we were
given remotes from firm Y. That's been straightened out. Cable tv has
been hooked up but the remote only gets you some cooking channel in an
Eastern European country I cannot identify. [Anyone know of a land
where rat pie is a delicacy?] The washing machine was hooked up
without the small rubber disk on the hose connecting it to the water,
so one has to wear a bathing suit while doing laundry. Our four-burner
stove is now a three-burner stove as we lost a part. And on and on it
goes. Still, pictures are hung throughout the house so it clearly is a
La Passionara dwelling.
The house seems large, 90 square meters, with four bedrooms and two
bathrooms. In fact it is very cramped, and though we have lived in far
smaller places the sense of crowding is overwhelming. Perhaps we own
too much. Certainly we're bouncing off each other the way we did in
the hotel room.
It is shoddily built, rather, the building materials are shoddy.
Plasterboard walls that you can punch a hole through, just leaning
against them makes you fear collapse, and floor tiles that magically
always look filthy. Wash them, scrub them, they still look like
someone just threw up on them.
Here and there a surprising plus. We have two bathrooms, which means I
can leave the toilet seat up without getting yelled at. And – you are
aware of my obsession with excretion and my passion for doing laundry
– as the front-loader washing machine is in my toilet I can combine
these disparate pleasures. Sitting on the oval seat doing my thing
while watching the clothes whirl in the spin cycle is an wholly
unexpected delight.
The yard is problematic. The idiots who put the grass down – the same
mentally challenged folks responsible for the protruding pipe and
short-circuiting sprinkler – were supposed to level the ground before
putting down the squares of grassy turf. But they didn't bother, so
its all hills and valleys and I stumble every time I walk through it.
Most people leave their yards unadorned, either through lack of
interest or lack of money or a refusal to enhance the enemy's
property. But Rachel and our neighbors feel that we might as well live
in beauty while we're here so she has gotten our Neve Dekalim gardener
to fix things up. The cost is substantial but the results should be
worth it. Of course there is a small fly in the yard ointment. A small
black dog, domiciled two houses away, has chosen to fertilize our
lawn. I'm going to find some way to skin the adorable little
miscreant. [And I'll bet you thought I might actually get through an
entire letter without mentioning dog poop…]
Also problematic is the noise level here. Not as horrific as the hotel
and its Central Bus Station surroundings, but far worse than I
imagined it would be. This is still a construction site and tractors
and steamrollers abound, as do their noisy Arab operators. We are
close to the main highway connecting Ashdod and Ashkelon and the truck
traffic doesn't fade before midnight. An air force base is nearby and
the jets roar overhead. An army base is adjacent and gunfire rings out
all day. Railroad tracks parallel the highway and trains are frequent.
[I'm developing a theory that the trains, generally idle in the yard
reading, playing pinochle or strip-the-motor, sense when I'm getting
into the car and hasten to close the road separating us from the
highway.] Firecracker go off at all hours, this being the pre-Purim
period. And buses, friendly and unfriendly, noisily crawl through our
streets. The friendlies carry sympathetic visitors who get off to talk
with Rachel. The unfriendlies carry visiting dignitaries whom the
Expulsion Authority rushes through the town to show how happy and
well-taken-care-of we are. These don't stop to talk to anyone.
More problematic for us, personally, is the nature of Nitzan itself.
Israeli society in general is decidedly uncivil by Western standards.
People are loud, aggressive, brutish. Those who are considerate of
others are viewed as suckers, and the most corrupt are most admired.
In the magical atmosphere that prevailed in Gush Katif there was an
aura that induced calm even in times of great stress. Here in Nitzan
the atmosphere is decidedly unmagical. Many people are broken by
joblessness, hopelessness and a seemingly pointless existence. And
those who are not broken are badly bent. I, who am a loner, find the
atmosphere here oppressive but bearable. I fear most for Rachel,
sensitive, gentle and outgoing.
Less problematic but more annoying is that I am gaining weight. In the
weeks before the expulsion, unable to sit at the table in a house full
of people, I began skipping meals. In the hotel I found the noise and
atmosphere in the dining room simply torture, so I ate and ran. The
result, though I myself hardly see and feel it, is a substantial
weight loss. No, no need to panic, I'm not fading away. I've simply
gone from obscenely obese to frightfully fat. What's interesting is
that most people, with nothing to do in the hotel but eat, have gained
enormous weight. In the narrow hotel hallways it was difficult to
maneuver past people who had developed bulldozer-sized behinds. Now,
here, I am able to go shopping and indulge myself as in days gone
by. And my clothes are no longer loose. Alas…
It is almost midnight and I just stepped out for another cigar. Cars
aplenty, groups of teenagers, the roar of trains and trucks. One of
the things I hate about this place is that with the houses so close
together, and so many street lamps, the sense of isolation I so
cherished in Neve Dekalim is lost. One can't even see the stars, much
less hear the waves.
Our first Shabbat – with food brought in from outside as Rachel was
too exhausted to cook – was spent splendidly alone. We turned down all
invitations and reveled in the relative silence. Friday night prayers,
in a makeshift synagogue barely a fraction of the size of that in Neve
Dekalim, found me surrounded by old friends and singing the old tunes.
I could almost imagine… After prayers I spoke with a friend I hadn't
seen since the expulsion. "We have been here two months" he said.
"How can you stand it?" I asked.
He looked at me as if I were mad. "After four months in a hotel?
Praise God, this place seems like Paradise."
Have a good Shabbat, people.
Moshe Saperstein, Neve Dekalim/Nitzan
From: Moshe Saperstein, Neve Dekalim/Nitzan:
A house is not a home. Not necessarily. And this house in Nitzan will
never be our home. Though Rachel has worked her customary magic and
turned a pigsty into a palace, this house cannot be our home.
This house cannot be our home, not because it is a temporary
residence. We are committed to living here for a minimum of two years,
maximum of four. But few things are as permanent as those labeled
temporary, and there is no way of knowing how long we will actually be
here. And Rachel managed to turn that most temporary and impersonal of
dwellings, a hotel room, into more of a home than this can ever be.
This house cannot be our home because it was built by the bastards who
destroyed our home in Neve Dekalim. This cannot be our home because we
enter it under duress, and not of our own free will. Many refer to
this as the Nitzan Refugee Camp. A high-class refugee camp, but a
refugee camp nonetheless. But refugee signifies someone fleeing a
conflict or natural disaster and being cared for by a neighboring
state or aid agency. Perhaps we would better be described as displaced
persons, making Nitzan a D.P. Camp. My own view is that we were not
onlookers to a conflict but participants – I would like to say
combatants, but we were far too genteel to have earned that title –
which makes our present domicile an Internment Camp, even a POW Camp.
[Aside: A complicated subject, why we are in Nitzan. Technically –
theoretically – we can go where we want. Practically, there is no
choice. I wanted to go to a community in Judea or Samaria, where the
next stage of the struggle – yes, even though I still believe it is
hopeless – will take place. Rachel wanted Nitzan because those most in
need are here and she feels her Operation Dignity charitable work
requires her to be here. And she says we are too old to go through
another expulsion. Add to the mix that our Bolshevik government has
stated that no compensation will be paid to any of the Gush Katif
refugees who go to Judea or Samaria. So, instead of tilting at
windmills in Judea and Samaria we are moping in Nitzan.]
The move from the hotel was exhausting. Certainly it was murderously
so for Rachel, who runs between setting up the house and helping Dafna
and the babies, suffering all the while from severe sciatica. Three
weeks ago Friday our belongings were transferred from the shipping
container behind Dafna's home and we worked every day, except Shabbat,
to get things set up. More accurately, Rachel has worked every day.
Ari and his girls have worked. My brother and my mother have worked.
Girls from a local high school have worked. A Russian couple who
helped in Neve Dekalim have worked. I run errands, carry out garbage,
busy myself putting my cd's in order – they had been packed
alphabetically, but young volunteers who wouldn't know their ABC's
from their XYZ's were ordered to empty the boxes and fill the shelves
and the result is chaos – and try and stay out of everyone's way. My
friend David who runs a large company tells me I have achieved upper
management status.
There have been moments of grand guignol during the week of
preparation. I was sent to an office to complain about something or
other and, while standing in a crowd waiting to attract the attention
of some puffed up clerk, someone started pointing at me and yelling "I
know you! I know you! But you don't know me!" All conversation ceased
as everyone, clerkie included, stared at the both of us. "I was there
when you were wounded on the Kissufim road. After they took you away I
found your finger on the floor of your car!" I just stared. What was I
supposed to say? So I said, "What did you do with it?", fully prepared
to hear that he had pickled it or mounted it on a frame over his
fireplace. "I gave it to an army rabbi" he said.
[For years after my right arm was blown off I was obsessed with its
final resting place. The katyusha had exploded just behind me, at
waist level, and I saw my arm fly into Egyptian territory, the arm
itself obscured by the sleeve of my uniform, the sun glinting off my
watch as the limb spiraled away. The IDF Rabbinate was supposed to
have retrieved it but that is hardly possible considering where it
landed. So my arm is somewhere in the Land of Lost Limbs. I've hardly
spent time wondering about my finger, which I know was retrieved. It
was certainly disposed of halachically, though I prefer to think of it
as being in the Field of Forgotten Fingers. If there is an afterlife
for detached digits I hope it has found a disembodied nose to… scratch.]
The actual move was made a week ago Sunday. Initially most things that
can go wrong, went wrong. Our air conditioner is firm X and we were
given remotes from firm Y. That's been straightened out. Cable tv has
been hooked up but the remote only gets you some cooking channel in an
Eastern European country I cannot identify. [Anyone know of a land
where rat pie is a delicacy?] The washing machine was hooked up
without the small rubber disk on the hose connecting it to the water,
so one has to wear a bathing suit while doing laundry. Our four-burner
stove is now a three-burner stove as we lost a part. And on and on it
goes. Still, pictures are hung throughout the house so it clearly is a
La Passionara dwelling.
The house seems large, 90 square meters, with four bedrooms and two
bathrooms. In fact it is very cramped, and though we have lived in far
smaller places the sense of crowding is overwhelming. Perhaps we own
too much. Certainly we're bouncing off each other the way we did in
the hotel room.
It is shoddily built, rather, the building materials are shoddy.
Plasterboard walls that you can punch a hole through, just leaning
against them makes you fear collapse, and floor tiles that magically
always look filthy. Wash them, scrub them, they still look like
someone just threw up on them.
Here and there a surprising plus. We have two bathrooms, which means I
can leave the toilet seat up without getting yelled at. And – you are
aware of my obsession with excretion and my passion for doing laundry
– as the front-loader washing machine is in my toilet I can combine
these disparate pleasures. Sitting on the oval seat doing my thing
while watching the clothes whirl in the spin cycle is an wholly
unexpected delight.
The yard is problematic. The idiots who put the grass down – the same
mentally challenged folks responsible for the protruding pipe and
short-circuiting sprinkler – were supposed to level the ground before
putting down the squares of grassy turf. But they didn't bother, so
its all hills and valleys and I stumble every time I walk through it.
Most people leave their yards unadorned, either through lack of
interest or lack of money or a refusal to enhance the enemy's
property. But Rachel and our neighbors feel that we might as well live
in beauty while we're here so she has gotten our Neve Dekalim gardener
to fix things up. The cost is substantial but the results should be
worth it. Of course there is a small fly in the yard ointment. A small
black dog, domiciled two houses away, has chosen to fertilize our
lawn. I'm going to find some way to skin the adorable little
miscreant. [And I'll bet you thought I might actually get through an
entire letter without mentioning dog poop…]
Also problematic is the noise level here. Not as horrific as the hotel
and its Central Bus Station surroundings, but far worse than I
imagined it would be. This is still a construction site and tractors
and steamrollers abound, as do their noisy Arab operators. We are
close to the main highway connecting Ashdod and Ashkelon and the truck
traffic doesn't fade before midnight. An air force base is nearby and
the jets roar overhead. An army base is adjacent and gunfire rings out
all day. Railroad tracks parallel the highway and trains are frequent.
[I'm developing a theory that the trains, generally idle in the yard
reading, playing pinochle or strip-the-motor, sense when I'm getting
into the car and hasten to close the road separating us from the
highway.] Firecracker go off at all hours, this being the pre-Purim
period. And buses, friendly and unfriendly, noisily crawl through our
streets. The friendlies carry sympathetic visitors who get off to talk
with Rachel. The unfriendlies carry visiting dignitaries whom the
Expulsion Authority rushes through the town to show how happy and
well-taken-care-of we are. These don't stop to talk to anyone.
More problematic for us, personally, is the nature of Nitzan itself.
Israeli society in general is decidedly uncivil by Western standards.
People are loud, aggressive, brutish. Those who are considerate of
others are viewed as suckers, and the most corrupt are most admired.
In the magical atmosphere that prevailed in Gush Katif there was an
aura that induced calm even in times of great stress. Here in Nitzan
the atmosphere is decidedly unmagical. Many people are broken by
joblessness, hopelessness and a seemingly pointless existence. And
those who are not broken are badly bent. I, who am a loner, find the
atmosphere here oppressive but bearable. I fear most for Rachel,
sensitive, gentle and outgoing.
Less problematic but more annoying is that I am gaining weight. In the
weeks before the expulsion, unable to sit at the table in a house full
of people, I began skipping meals. In the hotel I found the noise and
atmosphere in the dining room simply torture, so I ate and ran. The
result, though I myself hardly see and feel it, is a substantial
weight loss. No, no need to panic, I'm not fading away. I've simply
gone from obscenely obese to frightfully fat. What's interesting is
that most people, with nothing to do in the hotel but eat, have gained
enormous weight. In the narrow hotel hallways it was difficult to
maneuver past people who had developed bulldozer-sized behinds. Now,
here, I am able to go shopping and indulge myself as in days gone
by. And my clothes are no longer loose. Alas…
It is almost midnight and I just stepped out for another cigar. Cars
aplenty, groups of teenagers, the roar of trains and trucks. One of
the things I hate about this place is that with the houses so close
together, and so many street lamps, the sense of isolation I so
cherished in Neve Dekalim is lost. One can't even see the stars, much
less hear the waves.
Our first Shabbat – with food brought in from outside as Rachel was
too exhausted to cook – was spent splendidly alone. We turned down all
invitations and reveled in the relative silence. Friday night prayers,
in a makeshift synagogue barely a fraction of the size of that in Neve
Dekalim, found me surrounded by old friends and singing the old tunes.
I could almost imagine… After prayers I spoke with a friend I hadn't
seen since the expulsion. "We have been here two months" he said.
"How can you stand it?" I asked.
He looked at me as if I were mad. "After four months in a hotel?
Praise God, this place seems like Paradise."
Have a good Shabbat, people.
Moshe Saperstein, Neve Dekalim/Nitzan
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)