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