GOODBYE 37
[“So Israel is on the skids” wrote one disgruntled reader. “I get that from lots of places. So you’re having toilet troubles. Why should I give a crap that you can’t give a crap? I only waste my time reading you because of the cats. So what’s with the cats?”
Okay…
Muffy-the-superannuated-Slut has a large, deep wound on her neck. How she got it is a mystery. The wound dries, she scratches, blood flows again. Rachel is concerned. I am not. Rachel wants us to take MuffSlut to a veterinarian. I wouldn’t mind taking her to a taxidermist.
Muffy has aged visibly. But that – given my predilection for older females – is not the reason I am less than enthusiastic about her. She travels with an entourage, three of her offspring courtesy of The Impregnator. Two have their father’s slits for eyes and fluffy tale. The third has Muffy’s beautiful large-eyed innocence. Unfortunately she howls endlessly. All three are larger than Muffy but the feline yiddishe mama hustles food for them constantly. She appears at the door, whining piteously, then saunters off as soon as I’ve put the food out. At which point The Unholy Three come out of hiding and eat.
The only one who gives me pleasure is Chaleria (Cholera) who follows me about and lets herself be petted. At one point I started feeding her by hand, but she clawed me so badly I’ve given it up. Still, there are moments close to ecstatic. I sat down on the lawn, extra-length cigar in hand, to listen to a broadcast of Brahms 4th. Chaleria appeared. I groaned inwardly at the thought that I would have to get up and feed her. But she lay down at my feet and didn’t utter a sound or move until the symphony and my cigar had ended. Was she listening? Probably not. But I could pretend that she was, and shed tears of contentment.]
[“You should have been a conductor, Moshe. Too bad the streetcars and trolleys don’t run anymore.”
Yes, I should have been a conductor. Among the many fantasies that have sustained me, this is near the top.
Of course, there are problems. The first is that I never learned to play an instrument or to read music. In retrospect, this is all to the good. Over the years my numerous contacts with musicians made me realize that their attitude to music is largely that of a mechanic to motors, or a butcher to meat. In my case, ignorance really is bliss. I have been able to maintain my awe of music, my belief that music starts where words leave off, my belief that music is holy.
I listen to a piece over and over and over, til I’ve memorized it, then indulge my fantasy that I’m attending a concert and the conductor suddenly drops dead/has a stroke/is whisked away by aliens. The concertmaster calls out, “Is there a conductor in the audience?” I make my way to the podium, close the score, conduct – brilliantly, of course – from memory.
The second problem is less easily solved, even in fantasy. When my right arm was sent to nose-picker’s Valhalla, I was merely inconvenienced. I was, after all, left handed. Then my left hand was turned into a claw, and I cannot hold the baton.
There is, of course, another appendage to which the baton could be attached. But even an egomaniac like myself cannot fantasize about conducting anything lengthier than an orchestration of Chopin’s minute waltz. Thus do dreams die.]
GOODBYE 37 MISERY HATES COMPANY
Though the windows are closed the house is permeated with the smell of burning wood and leafs and Lord knows what else. It is L’G B’Omer eve [11 May] and all the crypto-pyromaniacs, like the crypto-drunkards on Purim, are allowed to live out their fantasies. Bonfires large and small abound, as do barbecues and cookouts. Viewed from space, Israel must have disappeared under a thick cloud of smoke.
Rachel is out among the bonfires, cheerfully working the crowds in her own inimitable way, while Old Grouchy sits transfixed before the computer, inundated with articles mirroring his despair.
It does little to cheer me that so many are coming around to the conclusions I reached long ago. Misery does not love company. I have prayed for so long that I’ll be proven wrong, that flaws in my arguments will be pointed out, that the hopeless despair I feel will be shown to be a personal psychosis and not one based on fact. Instead, the ‘usual suspects’, loonies like myself, are being joined by mainstream commentators. I thought I had scraped the bottom of the Misery Barrel. Now I’ve been given a shovel with which to dig beneath the Barrel.
One of these mainstreamers is the estimable Naomi Ragen. One of her recent letters has intensified an ongoing disagreement between Rachel, ever optimistic, and yours truly who requires no effort to wallow in blackest despair.
“I write less because I have no words to express just how bad things are,” wrote Ragen, “how beyond imagination that the Jewish State has gotten to this point in its history.”
Rachel and I are battling over “the Jewish State”. I say there is no Jewish State, only a state with many Jews. Were we a genuinely Jewish State, a state of Jewish believers, we wouldn’t be facing extinction right now.
Rachel points out that it is L’g B’Omer, and most Jews are attending bonfires, just as most Israeli Jews attend a seder on Passover. Even those who participated in the expulsion are doing the Jewish thing.
These, I argue, are nominal Jews and not believing Jews. Their having a bonfire or a seder makes them no different from the millions of Americans who have a Christmas tree. They are nominal Christians and not believing Christians. And their activities don’t make America a Christian country any more than the activities of nominal Jews make Israel a Jewish country.
Some of you were offended by my characterization of Obama voters as collaborators in our destruction. I was watching a documentary about the Jewish singles scene in the States, all those wonderful, caring, concerned people. And not a McCain voter among them. It must have been wonderful, even liberating, to polish your liberal credentials by voting for one of the traditionally oppressed. I believe you had no intention of harming Israel. The interests of Israel probably weren’t even on your radar when, floating on a cloud of rhetoric-induced euphoria, you wafted into the polling station.
And when disaster strikes us you will weep genuine tears on our behalf. I tell you in advance that we appreciate your tears, because by the time they flow we won’t be able to thank you. We will have been slaughtered. Rachel, myself, our children, our grandchildren, the Zionists, the non-Zionists, the anti-Zionists, the committed few, the indifferent many.
When we were expelled from Gush Katif I, like many others, underwent a crisis of faith. Was the Creator simply a sadist, setting us up with five years of indisputable miracles only to abandon us when we needed Him most? The conclusion I came to was that He protected us from everything the gentiles threw at us, only leaving us to our own devices when our fellow Jews were the enemy.
And it is about to happen again. Most of my fellow believers don’t see it. “The Almighty won’t allow it to happen,” is what I hear most often. “Even if you are right about Gush Katif, the Almighty won’t allow it because we face destruction by the gentiles, not the Jews.”
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Our physical destruction may be carried out by gentiles but it is the Jews who have empowered them, the Jews who have legitimized them, the Jews who provide their justification, the Jews who everywhere – especially Israel – lead the charge against us. Who, after the Holocaust, would call the Jews ‘Nazis’ unless the Jews themselves were using the term?
Is there another people anywhere, at any time, whose cultural and intellectual elite is so filled with self-hatred? Is there another people anywhere, at any time, whose cultural and intellectual elite is so desperate to rid itself of the religious burden placed upon it at birth that it will do anything – anything! – to be ‘free’?
The examples of their self-destructive actions are so numerous that I will not list them. You are aware of them, or you aren’t. As to motive…
There was a ‘joke’ I heard many years ago. It is Christmas Eve in the Ukraine and a band of Cossacks ride into a Jewish village. Fueled by vodka and native stupidity and a desire to avenge their crucified Lord they are determined to slaughter the inhabitants. A rabbi runs out to confront them. “Stop!” he shouts. “We have just learned that it was the Jews from the next village who killed Christ!” The Cossacks turn and ride away, to slaughter the Jews in the next village.
moshe
Showing posts with label Israel Letters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Israel Letters. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
Goodbye 36
[Rachel was attending a performance of something or other here in the refugee camp. I didn’t go because it was only for women (thank you, God!). A friend sitting next to her said “Look at these people. We were dragged out of the Holy Land of Israel and into the Unholy State of Israel.”
Apropos, some of you were upset at the news report that Netanyahu may make Michael Oren Ambassador to the US. The gentleman was an enthusiastic participant in our expulsion and remains a proponent for de-Judaizing Judea and Samaria. He should get on famously with the American Jewboys.
I don’t know why you are surprised. What else did you expect from Netanyahu the Invertebrate? He is probably already wetting his pants in fear of what Obama and his Court Jews are planning for him.
And how many of you are aware that Foreign Minister Avigdor Leiberman, the poseur assuming a Mr. Right Wing Tough Guy stance, has appointed the pondscum Dov Weissglass as his senior advisor? Weissglass, for those of you with Alzheimers, was the architect of our expulsion.
To (mis)quote Bette Davis in “All About Eve”, ‘hang on, girls, it’s going to be a wild ride’.]
[I suspect there will only be a few more Goodbyes. I write in spurts separated by very long silences. I feel a silence approaching. It is, just like the spurts, something over which I have no control.
Years ago I wrote “If you reach the age of fifty and wake up one morning to find that nothing hurts it means you died during the night”. Now I sometimes find myself envying those who died during the night.
Years ago I read something by the American philosopher and smutographer, Henry Miller, famous for ‘Tropic of Cancer’ and ‘Tropic of Capricorn’. This was from one of his undeservedly neglected works, ‘Tropic of Boro Park’: “When you reach the age of sixty a good dump is better than an orgasm”. I couldn’t imagine it, then. I can, now.
Sixty-eight is not old, these days. But though my chronological age is sixty-eight my body is, through long abuse, that of someone twenty years older. Like a chorus line in a bad Broadway musical, all the pains tap dance at once with each pain getting a chance to go front and center to hold the spotlight for a short time.
It is hard to convey the life-altering effect that aging is having. Once, secretion/excretion were incidental to whatever you were doing. Now, everything else is incidental to secretion/excretion.
Moreover, I have been forgetful for years, but the process seems to be accelerating.
The following is something I vaguely remember having written about years ago in pre-computer days. It isn’t really appropriate for Goodbye. Still, being a self-indulgent bastard, and before I forget it completely…]
GOODBYE 36 AH, LAYMEN, LAYMEN…
I had been in the Tel Hashomer Rehabilitation Ward several months [Winter, 1974]. My only excursions had been two Shabbat home visits in Jerusalem, and they had been very stressful. Wonderful, but stressful.
Like Boris Karloff in THE MUMMY my head was wrapped in bandages, my right arm from shoulder to stump in a cast, my left arm from shoulder to fingertips in a cast. If I didn’t love being in the hospital at least I felt I belonged there, surrounded by fellow misshapen creatures.
Our ward – Rehabilitation A [Rehabilitation B was for spinal injuries] – had fourteen rooms for patients. Ten were large: one had eight beds; nine had four beds, or five if one was placed in the center of the room. Four had only one bed each, and were reserved for the seriously injured or for social misfits. I was one of the latter. I had been in the room for eight, but was given my own room because the seven others were at least ten years younger than I and couldn’t stand the classical music I listened to all day.
A sweet old lady approached me. She was Romanian, and was one of the many volunteers serving lunch in our dining room every day. Often she would come early and stand outside the open door of my room, listening to the music.
On this particular day she shyly entered and offered me a ticket to a concert. She was a subscriber to the Israel Philharmonic and wouldn’t be able to attend the next concert – three days hence – as she was going to visit family in the north. I accepted as gracefully as I could while hiding my terror.
The idea of the concert was a dream. All Beethoven, conducted by one of my favorites, William Steinberg. I had dozens of his recordings with the Pittsburgh Symphony. The Third Piano Concerto soloist was the great Alfred Brendel. I wanted desperately to go.
The idea of the concert was a nightmare. I had barely survived two visits with Rachel and the kids. How could I manage mixing with three thousand strangers in Tel Aviv’s Mann Auditorium? And with only one ticket, there was no one to baby-sit me.
Who could I talk to? Rachel was the obvious choice. I trusted her. And equally important, I trusted her judgment. But there was a problem. I was an orchid in a hothouse. Doctors and nurses surrounded me, ancillary staff protected me, visitors came daily to coo over me and tell me how brave and heroic I was. But it was Rachel, home with three small children, no relatives or support staff, keeping our family together until I could return, who was genuinely brave and heroic. Even in the midst of my self-absorption I realized that at the most meaningful level she was more of a heroine than I a hero. And I was supposed to whine to her about whether or not I should go to a concert?
I decided to talk to the staff psychologist, a pleasant gentleman in his fifties who had ‘drafted’ me because I was the only patient who could read and write professional literature in English as opposed to merely speaking the language. The psychologist, with a small room adjacent to the doctors’ offices, spent much of his time writing articles in English for professional journals in the west. My job was to correct spelling and grammar and apply polish.
It was a wonderful learning experience, confirming my belief that his profession was 95% common sense, with a patina of incomprehensible jargon to make it seem mysterious to the general public. What disturbed me was how much of it was pure bullshit.
I had just fine-tuned an article for, if memory serves, The Calgary Journal of Quack Medicine.
“Look” I said, “your article says 30% of us get intensive one-on-one therapy, 30% get no treatment, and 40% get group therapy.”
“Correct” he said.
“I don’t know what goes on in your office, so I can’t say anything about the 30% one-on-one. And if 30% never show up, they never show up. But 40% group therapy? I have never seen a group therapy session.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Don’t you see the fellows sitting around and schmoozing every night?”
“Schmoozing is group therapy?”
He smiled.
“If schmoozing is group therapy, why don’t you say 90% get group therapy? Because 90% sit around and schmooze.”
He gave me the superior, supercilious smile one reserves for the hopelessly retarded.
“Laymen… Laymen…” he said. “You’ll never understand.”
This, then, is the character I went to for advice. Ridiculous in retrospect, but it didn’t seem so at the time.
I told him I wanted to consult him professionally. He nodded. I talked of my desire to go to the concert.
“So, go” he said.
I talked of my fears of going to the concert.
“So, don’t go” he said.
“But I want to go…”
“So, go.”
“But I’m afraid…”
“So, don’t go.”
This went on for minutes, during which he never said anything other than “So, go” or “So don’t go”
The army maintained an office in the hospital to deal with the needs of the wounded and their families. One of the duties was to provide tickets and transportation for those wanting to attend movies, theatre and sporting events.
When I entered the office and said I wanted to go the Philharmonic the soldierette was flustered. “Gee, no one has ever asked for that stuff before.” When I assured her I already had a ticket and just needed transportation she exhaled in relief and arranged for a taxi to take me early so I could enter before the crowd, and be waiting outside to bring me back at 11pm when the concert was due to end.
It was cold, windy and drizzling and I should have been dressed warmly. But I couldn’t get my casts through the sleeves of the sweater I hoped to wear, so simply had the sweater thrown around my shoulders.
The driver, a regular at ferrying soldiers, was chatty but soon grew silent when I answered his every remark with a grunt. I was terrified. And my terror increased when I saw there was already a small crowd when we arrived at the Mann Auditorium. It took all of my willpower to exit the taxi.
Everybody was looking at me. At least, that’s what I thought. And given what I looked like I was probably right. I would have stayed outside but the drizzle had turned into a steady rain and I had to enter. The foyer was filling up, and I climbed the stairs to the balcony level foyer. The doors to the hall were not yet open and I sought a place to hide. And found it.
In a corner of the foyer there was a five foot tall pedestal, mock marble, and atop it a large bust of Arturo Toscanini. I wedged myself between the pedestal and the railing and remained largely hidden from view until the doors to the hall were open. One more reason to love Toscanini.
Once seated I could relax. I was surrounded by Romanian matrons who clearly had been alerted that I was coming, and greeted me warmly in Romanian and Yiddish. Following the greetings I was, thankfully, ignored and was able to wallow in fantasy.
As with so many aspects of life, the anticipation is more satisfying than the realization. This is truest in the concert hall when you are going to hear familiar works. You know the work. You know (or think you know) how it should be played and what it should sound like. Rarely, so rarely, can the performance match your hopes.
The musicians were taking their seats and I was aquiver with excitement. For two hours – the 3rd piano concerto, to be followed by the 3rd symphony – I could slip into my favored persona as Moshe Music Maven and escape the reality of Moshe Misshapen Monster.
Alas…
Brendel took his seat, nodded to Steinberg who nodded back and raised his arms, and the violins began to saw away. And I heard nothing. Not really nothing. A woman near me coughed, and I heard it. Another was tearing at the crinkly wrapping of a candy bar, and I heard it. Someone let off a basso profundo fart, and I heard it. But not a sound from the stage.
The first half minute of the concerto is violins only. I could see them clearly, working themselves into a sweat. But I didn’t hear a single note. In that half minute I felt my world was dissolving. When the piano entered I heard it perfectly. What was happening? It was insane. I was insane. Whatever vestiges of self-control I had disappeared. I began to tremble, and to cry. The ladies around me were alarmed. “What’s the matter?” some called in Yiddish. “Can we help you?”
I had to get out of there. I stood. Naturally I was in the center of a long row. How many canes did I knock down in my panic? How many old bones did I bruise in my haste? I was causing a small commotion but was crying too hard to control myself. Then I was in the aisle, up the steps to the foyer exit, and out of the hall. Several people called to me as I left the building. I didn’t stop.
The rain stunned me. I had lost my sweater. All my bandages were exposed, and getting soaked. I had to get back to the hospital. The taxi wouldn’t return to pick me up for another two hours. I would find a taxi!
When you leave the Mann Auditorium there are seven possible directions you can take. Three are major thoroughfares, with taxi stands. Three are wide streets, with taxis cruising at all hours. One is narrow, dark, lined with old apartment buildings. Guess which one I staggered on to?
[Fifteen years later I was back on this street, visiting Israel’s greatest composer, Paul Ben-Haim. A sadder story than this one…]
As I lurched farther and farther down the street, farther and farther from the light, I resumed crying. Crying? I was howling. A life with one arm? No problem. I had a spare. A life with one working eye? Ditto. Minor body parts damaged or gone? No more than an inconvenience. But not to be able to properly hear the music I love? Intolerable. It would be nonsensical to say life would have no meaning without music. But I would be existing rather than living. And I had no interest in simply existing.
This is the state I was in when a flashing blue light made me stop. A police car had pulled alongside me. Two patrolmen now stood before me. They spoke but I couldn’t hear. I was crying too hard. I didn’t resist when they sat me down in the back of their vehicle.
After a few moments I had the crying under control.
“We were looking for you” one policeman said.
“There was a call from the Auditorium about you” said the other.
“How did you find me?”
Both laughed. “You left a trail.”
They put the car into reverse and slowly backed up the street. Glistening all along the dark sidewalk were large white splotches. My casts were melting in the rain.
I asked to be put into a taxi but they insisted on driving me back to the hospital. They half-carried, half-dragged me into the ward. Two male nurses were on duty. There was an argument about whether to change my bandages. Instead I was sedated and dropped into bed. They did get my shoes and pants off. My last thoughts before losing consciousness concerned the old lady who had given me the ticket, and how much trouble she would have over my behavior.
Late the next morning the old lady entered my room. I cringed in embarrassment and started to apologize. “How are you?” she asked. “My friends are so worried about you…”
That afternoon, my casts changed and a new bandage on my head, I saw the psychologist. “You son-of-a-bitch” I said, [the Hebrew vernacular is son-of-a-whore] “I trusted you. Couldn’t you have warned me?”
“I did warn you” he said. “I said ‘go’ if you want to, ‘don’t go’ if you don’t want to.”
“That was your warning?”
He smiled his superior, supercilious smile: “Laymen… Laymen… You’ll never understand.”
[Today’s (May 3) paper has the results of a Gallup poll showing 79% of American Jews are tickled brown with BHO, making them the largest group of sycophants after American Moslems, 85%
What the paper doesn’t mention – and I have yet to see it anywhere except the blogosphere – is that the recent budget included an item allotting $20million to bring Gazan refugees to the United States. This disturbs me greatly. And not because refugees from Darfur or Sri Lanka or anywhere else are more deserving.
How many of our peace-partner-neighbors can you remove from here for a paltry $20m?
Had the sum allotted been $20billion enough might be removed so that I could go home to Neve Dekalim.
But not to kvetch…
$20m is a start, and presents a glorious opportunity for you BHO fans, particularly those who fall into the ‘earn like Episcopalians, vote like Puerto Ricans’ category. May I modestly suggest that you start a campaign now to have each congregation Adopt-A-Refugee-Family? Imagine the effect on these victims of Israelo-Nazism to be feted and cosseted in ways that only guilt-ridden apologetic Jews excel at.
I would say ‘For God’s sake, get it right’, but invoking the Creator would seem too, too recherché to progressives like yourselves. So I’ll just say, ‘Tikkun Olam, baby, Tikkun Olam!’.]
[I thought I might conclude on an uplifting and educational scientific note… The media are agog over Predator X, a prehistoric creature whose bones were just discovered on a Norwegian island above the Arctic Circle.
Well, I’ve discovered remains of two [2] prehistoric creatures, right here in the refugee camp. The first is a creature with the largest rump ever. I am planning to call it Tyrannosaurus Dreks.
The second, who apparently used to trail behind the first, had the largest nostrils yet discovered. I am planning to call it Tyrannosaurus Shmeks.]
[Pardon my right-wing paranoia, but isn’t it a remarkable coincidence that the day after the American government announces it will not pursue the prosecution of two AIPAC employees, AIPAC announces it supports a two-state solution.
Shucks, how silly of me, it’s probably just a fortuitous confluence of events…]
[Our friends Mendy and Sharon are arriving in Israel May 11th. Mendy owns Glatt Mart in Brooklyn and always brings some salami to gladden my intestines. I informed him that the Pope arrives here on the 11th as well, and expressed my concern that their bags don’t get mixed up. “The Pope will get the salami, and I’ll end up with a crucifix.”
“But imagine the publicity” Mendy replied, “if there’s a picture of the Pope carrying a Glatt Mart shopping bag…”]
moshe
Apropos, some of you were upset at the news report that Netanyahu may make Michael Oren Ambassador to the US. The gentleman was an enthusiastic participant in our expulsion and remains a proponent for de-Judaizing Judea and Samaria. He should get on famously with the American Jewboys.
I don’t know why you are surprised. What else did you expect from Netanyahu the Invertebrate? He is probably already wetting his pants in fear of what Obama and his Court Jews are planning for him.
And how many of you are aware that Foreign Minister Avigdor Leiberman, the poseur assuming a Mr. Right Wing Tough Guy stance, has appointed the pondscum Dov Weissglass as his senior advisor? Weissglass, for those of you with Alzheimers, was the architect of our expulsion.
To (mis)quote Bette Davis in “All About Eve”, ‘hang on, girls, it’s going to be a wild ride’.]
[I suspect there will only be a few more Goodbyes. I write in spurts separated by very long silences. I feel a silence approaching. It is, just like the spurts, something over which I have no control.
Years ago I wrote “If you reach the age of fifty and wake up one morning to find that nothing hurts it means you died during the night”. Now I sometimes find myself envying those who died during the night.
Years ago I read something by the American philosopher and smutographer, Henry Miller, famous for ‘Tropic of Cancer’ and ‘Tropic of Capricorn’. This was from one of his undeservedly neglected works, ‘Tropic of Boro Park’: “When you reach the age of sixty a good dump is better than an orgasm”. I couldn’t imagine it, then. I can, now.
Sixty-eight is not old, these days. But though my chronological age is sixty-eight my body is, through long abuse, that of someone twenty years older. Like a chorus line in a bad Broadway musical, all the pains tap dance at once with each pain getting a chance to go front and center to hold the spotlight for a short time.
It is hard to convey the life-altering effect that aging is having. Once, secretion/excretion were incidental to whatever you were doing. Now, everything else is incidental to secretion/excretion.
Moreover, I have been forgetful for years, but the process seems to be accelerating.
The following is something I vaguely remember having written about years ago in pre-computer days. It isn’t really appropriate for Goodbye. Still, being a self-indulgent bastard, and before I forget it completely…]
GOODBYE 36 AH, LAYMEN, LAYMEN…
I had been in the Tel Hashomer Rehabilitation Ward several months [Winter, 1974]. My only excursions had been two Shabbat home visits in Jerusalem, and they had been very stressful. Wonderful, but stressful.
Like Boris Karloff in THE MUMMY my head was wrapped in bandages, my right arm from shoulder to stump in a cast, my left arm from shoulder to fingertips in a cast. If I didn’t love being in the hospital at least I felt I belonged there, surrounded by fellow misshapen creatures.
Our ward – Rehabilitation A [Rehabilitation B was for spinal injuries] – had fourteen rooms for patients. Ten were large: one had eight beds; nine had four beds, or five if one was placed in the center of the room. Four had only one bed each, and were reserved for the seriously injured or for social misfits. I was one of the latter. I had been in the room for eight, but was given my own room because the seven others were at least ten years younger than I and couldn’t stand the classical music I listened to all day.
A sweet old lady approached me. She was Romanian, and was one of the many volunteers serving lunch in our dining room every day. Often she would come early and stand outside the open door of my room, listening to the music.
On this particular day she shyly entered and offered me a ticket to a concert. She was a subscriber to the Israel Philharmonic and wouldn’t be able to attend the next concert – three days hence – as she was going to visit family in the north. I accepted as gracefully as I could while hiding my terror.
The idea of the concert was a dream. All Beethoven, conducted by one of my favorites, William Steinberg. I had dozens of his recordings with the Pittsburgh Symphony. The Third Piano Concerto soloist was the great Alfred Brendel. I wanted desperately to go.
The idea of the concert was a nightmare. I had barely survived two visits with Rachel and the kids. How could I manage mixing with three thousand strangers in Tel Aviv’s Mann Auditorium? And with only one ticket, there was no one to baby-sit me.
Who could I talk to? Rachel was the obvious choice. I trusted her. And equally important, I trusted her judgment. But there was a problem. I was an orchid in a hothouse. Doctors and nurses surrounded me, ancillary staff protected me, visitors came daily to coo over me and tell me how brave and heroic I was. But it was Rachel, home with three small children, no relatives or support staff, keeping our family together until I could return, who was genuinely brave and heroic. Even in the midst of my self-absorption I realized that at the most meaningful level she was more of a heroine than I a hero. And I was supposed to whine to her about whether or not I should go to a concert?
I decided to talk to the staff psychologist, a pleasant gentleman in his fifties who had ‘drafted’ me because I was the only patient who could read and write professional literature in English as opposed to merely speaking the language. The psychologist, with a small room adjacent to the doctors’ offices, spent much of his time writing articles in English for professional journals in the west. My job was to correct spelling and grammar and apply polish.
It was a wonderful learning experience, confirming my belief that his profession was 95% common sense, with a patina of incomprehensible jargon to make it seem mysterious to the general public. What disturbed me was how much of it was pure bullshit.
I had just fine-tuned an article for, if memory serves, The Calgary Journal of Quack Medicine.
“Look” I said, “your article says 30% of us get intensive one-on-one therapy, 30% get no treatment, and 40% get group therapy.”
“Correct” he said.
“I don’t know what goes on in your office, so I can’t say anything about the 30% one-on-one. And if 30% never show up, they never show up. But 40% group therapy? I have never seen a group therapy session.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Don’t you see the fellows sitting around and schmoozing every night?”
“Schmoozing is group therapy?”
He smiled.
“If schmoozing is group therapy, why don’t you say 90% get group therapy? Because 90% sit around and schmooze.”
He gave me the superior, supercilious smile one reserves for the hopelessly retarded.
“Laymen… Laymen…” he said. “You’ll never understand.”
This, then, is the character I went to for advice. Ridiculous in retrospect, but it didn’t seem so at the time.
I told him I wanted to consult him professionally. He nodded. I talked of my desire to go to the concert.
“So, go” he said.
I talked of my fears of going to the concert.
“So, don’t go” he said.
“But I want to go…”
“So, go.”
“But I’m afraid…”
“So, don’t go.”
This went on for minutes, during which he never said anything other than “So, go” or “So don’t go”
The army maintained an office in the hospital to deal with the needs of the wounded and their families. One of the duties was to provide tickets and transportation for those wanting to attend movies, theatre and sporting events.
When I entered the office and said I wanted to go the Philharmonic the soldierette was flustered. “Gee, no one has ever asked for that stuff before.” When I assured her I already had a ticket and just needed transportation she exhaled in relief and arranged for a taxi to take me early so I could enter before the crowd, and be waiting outside to bring me back at 11pm when the concert was due to end.
It was cold, windy and drizzling and I should have been dressed warmly. But I couldn’t get my casts through the sleeves of the sweater I hoped to wear, so simply had the sweater thrown around my shoulders.
The driver, a regular at ferrying soldiers, was chatty but soon grew silent when I answered his every remark with a grunt. I was terrified. And my terror increased when I saw there was already a small crowd when we arrived at the Mann Auditorium. It took all of my willpower to exit the taxi.
Everybody was looking at me. At least, that’s what I thought. And given what I looked like I was probably right. I would have stayed outside but the drizzle had turned into a steady rain and I had to enter. The foyer was filling up, and I climbed the stairs to the balcony level foyer. The doors to the hall were not yet open and I sought a place to hide. And found it.
In a corner of the foyer there was a five foot tall pedestal, mock marble, and atop it a large bust of Arturo Toscanini. I wedged myself between the pedestal and the railing and remained largely hidden from view until the doors to the hall were open. One more reason to love Toscanini.
Once seated I could relax. I was surrounded by Romanian matrons who clearly had been alerted that I was coming, and greeted me warmly in Romanian and Yiddish. Following the greetings I was, thankfully, ignored and was able to wallow in fantasy.
As with so many aspects of life, the anticipation is more satisfying than the realization. This is truest in the concert hall when you are going to hear familiar works. You know the work. You know (or think you know) how it should be played and what it should sound like. Rarely, so rarely, can the performance match your hopes.
The musicians were taking their seats and I was aquiver with excitement. For two hours – the 3rd piano concerto, to be followed by the 3rd symphony – I could slip into my favored persona as Moshe Music Maven and escape the reality of Moshe Misshapen Monster.
Alas…
Brendel took his seat, nodded to Steinberg who nodded back and raised his arms, and the violins began to saw away. And I heard nothing. Not really nothing. A woman near me coughed, and I heard it. Another was tearing at the crinkly wrapping of a candy bar, and I heard it. Someone let off a basso profundo fart, and I heard it. But not a sound from the stage.
The first half minute of the concerto is violins only. I could see them clearly, working themselves into a sweat. But I didn’t hear a single note. In that half minute I felt my world was dissolving. When the piano entered I heard it perfectly. What was happening? It was insane. I was insane. Whatever vestiges of self-control I had disappeared. I began to tremble, and to cry. The ladies around me were alarmed. “What’s the matter?” some called in Yiddish. “Can we help you?”
I had to get out of there. I stood. Naturally I was in the center of a long row. How many canes did I knock down in my panic? How many old bones did I bruise in my haste? I was causing a small commotion but was crying too hard to control myself. Then I was in the aisle, up the steps to the foyer exit, and out of the hall. Several people called to me as I left the building. I didn’t stop.
The rain stunned me. I had lost my sweater. All my bandages were exposed, and getting soaked. I had to get back to the hospital. The taxi wouldn’t return to pick me up for another two hours. I would find a taxi!
When you leave the Mann Auditorium there are seven possible directions you can take. Three are major thoroughfares, with taxi stands. Three are wide streets, with taxis cruising at all hours. One is narrow, dark, lined with old apartment buildings. Guess which one I staggered on to?
[Fifteen years later I was back on this street, visiting Israel’s greatest composer, Paul Ben-Haim. A sadder story than this one…]
As I lurched farther and farther down the street, farther and farther from the light, I resumed crying. Crying? I was howling. A life with one arm? No problem. I had a spare. A life with one working eye? Ditto. Minor body parts damaged or gone? No more than an inconvenience. But not to be able to properly hear the music I love? Intolerable. It would be nonsensical to say life would have no meaning without music. But I would be existing rather than living. And I had no interest in simply existing.
This is the state I was in when a flashing blue light made me stop. A police car had pulled alongside me. Two patrolmen now stood before me. They spoke but I couldn’t hear. I was crying too hard. I didn’t resist when they sat me down in the back of their vehicle.
After a few moments I had the crying under control.
“We were looking for you” one policeman said.
“There was a call from the Auditorium about you” said the other.
“How did you find me?”
Both laughed. “You left a trail.”
They put the car into reverse and slowly backed up the street. Glistening all along the dark sidewalk were large white splotches. My casts were melting in the rain.
I asked to be put into a taxi but they insisted on driving me back to the hospital. They half-carried, half-dragged me into the ward. Two male nurses were on duty. There was an argument about whether to change my bandages. Instead I was sedated and dropped into bed. They did get my shoes and pants off. My last thoughts before losing consciousness concerned the old lady who had given me the ticket, and how much trouble she would have over my behavior.
Late the next morning the old lady entered my room. I cringed in embarrassment and started to apologize. “How are you?” she asked. “My friends are so worried about you…”
That afternoon, my casts changed and a new bandage on my head, I saw the psychologist. “You son-of-a-bitch” I said, [the Hebrew vernacular is son-of-a-whore] “I trusted you. Couldn’t you have warned me?”
“I did warn you” he said. “I said ‘go’ if you want to, ‘don’t go’ if you don’t want to.”
“That was your warning?”
He smiled his superior, supercilious smile: “Laymen… Laymen… You’ll never understand.”
[Today’s (May 3) paper has the results of a Gallup poll showing 79% of American Jews are tickled brown with BHO, making them the largest group of sycophants after American Moslems, 85%
What the paper doesn’t mention – and I have yet to see it anywhere except the blogosphere – is that the recent budget included an item allotting $20million to bring Gazan refugees to the United States. This disturbs me greatly. And not because refugees from Darfur or Sri Lanka or anywhere else are more deserving.
How many of our peace-partner-neighbors can you remove from here for a paltry $20m?
Had the sum allotted been $20billion enough might be removed so that I could go home to Neve Dekalim.
But not to kvetch…
$20m is a start, and presents a glorious opportunity for you BHO fans, particularly those who fall into the ‘earn like Episcopalians, vote like Puerto Ricans’ category. May I modestly suggest that you start a campaign now to have each congregation Adopt-A-Refugee-Family? Imagine the effect on these victims of Israelo-Nazism to be feted and cosseted in ways that only guilt-ridden apologetic Jews excel at.
I would say ‘For God’s sake, get it right’, but invoking the Creator would seem too, too recherché to progressives like yourselves. So I’ll just say, ‘Tikkun Olam, baby, Tikkun Olam!’.]
[I thought I might conclude on an uplifting and educational scientific note… The media are agog over Predator X, a prehistoric creature whose bones were just discovered on a Norwegian island above the Arctic Circle.
Well, I’ve discovered remains of two [2] prehistoric creatures, right here in the refugee camp. The first is a creature with the largest rump ever. I am planning to call it Tyrannosaurus Dreks.
The second, who apparently used to trail behind the first, had the largest nostrils yet discovered. I am planning to call it Tyrannosaurus Shmeks.]
[Pardon my right-wing paranoia, but isn’t it a remarkable coincidence that the day after the American government announces it will not pursue the prosecution of two AIPAC employees, AIPAC announces it supports a two-state solution.
Shucks, how silly of me, it’s probably just a fortuitous confluence of events…]
[Our friends Mendy and Sharon are arriving in Israel May 11th. Mendy owns Glatt Mart in Brooklyn and always brings some salami to gladden my intestines. I informed him that the Pope arrives here on the 11th as well, and expressed my concern that their bags don’t get mixed up. “The Pope will get the salami, and I’ll end up with a crucifix.”
“But imagine the publicity” Mendy replied, “if there’s a picture of the Pope carrying a Glatt Mart shopping bag…”]
moshe
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Goodbye 35
Subject: GOODBYE 35
[Even a pretentious purveyor of perverse prose like moi finds it grotesque to start a mm(hopefully) humorous Pessach letter on Holocaust Festival Day. To hear ‘Never Again!’ – started by Rabbi Meir Kahane who is universally reviled when he should be universally revered – in the mouths of our governing Judenrat and their uniformed Kapo accomplices, leaves me aghast.
As does watching you, my co-religionists outside of Israel, particularly in the States where 78% of you voted for The Manchurian Candidate, allying yourselves with the JStreet/Reform movement crowd, the good Jewboys who are aiding and abetting our destruction, solemnly intone ‘Never Again!’
One can only hope that, busy as you will be preparing Israel Holocaust Memorials, vigils, Walls of Remembrance, etc, following our erasure you also take the time to attend a ceremony marking your receipt – individually and collectively – of the Rabbi Stephen S. Wise Collaborator’s Award.
For the next Holocaust is almost upon us. Sooner than you can say Rahm Emanuel Barney Franks George Soros it will be here.
And though we in Israel will no longer be around to say ‘we told you so’, it will be coming for you soon after.]
[Some of you have expressed concern that, with my constipation problems, the constipatory qualities of matzah – especially the 90% concrete shmura matzah that we aspiring-to-be-holy types impose on ourselves – would cause hardship. But the Good Lord was merciful. Imagine, if you will, that my bowels are Egypt. Every day during Pessach there was a new Exodus. Of course that vision is problematic in what it implies about the contents of those bowels. Fortunately I am not a profound thinker, and can ignore the implication of my half-witticism.
Alas, following the Pessach remission, the problem has returned and (sorry) there’s no end in sight. I have developed a technique, as elaborate and fixed as a Japanese tea ceremony, of breathing/stretching/pushing/squeezing/bending to get the desired response. While there is no denying I resemble a sumo wrestler more than a gymnast or dancer, I find it amusing that in my dotage I – who never achieved even a low level of competence at social dancing – have become the Bowel-movement Balanchine.
We will leave this subject, as it were, behind us with a quote from One Fine Lady who suggested I consult an accountant rather than a physician: “He can work it out with a pencil”.]
[Many thanks to the sage who wrote in response to Goodbye 34: “Beware excessive exuberance when using ailing protuberance.”
To the many who suggested alternative treatment for bladder problems, I was in downtown Jerusalem and passed one of those small, private pharmacies that have been there since the Second Temple Period. A hand-lettered sign in the window caught my attention: ‘Inglsh Spic Hir’. The proprietor, a wizened ancient, gave me a look of undisguised contempt when I asked if he carries homeopathic medicines. “Ve only got heteropathic medicines here!”
In any case, I have been swallowing three Saw Palmetto whatsits for almost a month. No change, but it makes me feel virtuous.
By the way, are you aware there is a hotel chain for people with bladder problems? The Incontinencel.]
GOODBYE 35 April 19, 2009
“AGE BRINGS WISDOM, PATIENCE, SERENITY”
AND OTHER NONSENSICAL BELIEFS
or
TAILS FROM THE CRYPT
We spent Pessach at the Kibbutz Lavi hotel in lower Galilee. We had been regulars at the hotel from our arrival in Israel in 1968 for some ten or twelve years. Then, for no particular reason I remember unless it was the kids being tired of it, we went elsewhere. In those early days it was perfect for a family with rambunctious children. Informal, relaxed, just an extension of the kibbutz. More important, many of the members were from English-speaking countries and there was an air of civility unlike the incivility that characterized most other places.
We visited again early in 2005, months before our expulsion from Gush Katif, and while we were happy to see old friends it was infuriating to see the general support for our expulsion. On a tour of the synagogue furniture factory there were signs like “Peace is more important than the Land of Israel”, and the kibbutz synagogue itself was filled with flyers and booklets from ostensibly religious left-wing movements.
I have longed nagged Rachel that I am ready for an old age home. But I had reason to reconsider. Arriving at Lavi the morning of Passover Eve we found ourselves, literally, in an old age home. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes, crutches, motorized carts and Asian caregivers everywhere. At lunch it was treacherous maneuvering in the dining room, and disconcerting to be poked and pushed aside at the self-service food counters by grumpy, aggressive oldsters.
As the day wore on young(er) people arrived, generally relatives of the geriatrics, many with children in tow. This created some balance, but the initial impression of a Last Stop Before the Pearly Gates establishment remained strong.
One of my favorite comic books as an impressionable pre-teen was “Tales From the Crypt”, and it occurred to me that where I to write about this Pessach, given the large number of females among the decrepit, I might have to call it “Tails from the Crypt”.
The hotel has changed enormously. The original buildings are still in use, and have been spruced up, but several large and luxurious newer buildings have been attached.
Other things have remained the same, particularly the people we have known for years. I was shocked at how old they have become, until Rachel suggested I look in a mirror. More important, the grounds are beautifully maintained. And most important, the staggeringly awesome views remain undisturbed.
From the window in our room we could see Mount Tabor, much of Nazareth to the west, north to Tzfat, northwest to Megiddo which my Christian friends believe will be the sight of Armageddon. A few minutes walk through a landscaped garden and we are looking east down at the Horns of Hittin where the Saracens defeated the Crusaders, and at Tiberias and the entire Sea of Galilee.
I spent hours lying in bed watching the cloudscape through the picture window. If history excites you, if nature exhilarates you, if religious belief exalts you, this is THE place.
Rachel, still high from her flirtation with Nico at the Dead Sea Meridien, ordered salt-free meals in advance of our arrival. These were lovingly prepared and lavishly served at each meal. But instead of Nico there was Shula, kindly, anxious to please, advanced in years. And each time the food was served Rachel would fulsomely thank all the staff for their efforts, move things around on the plate until the server had left, then push the plate aside and snatch food off my plate. I was alternately amused and annoyed.
The Seder started badly. Family units had private Seders, but the elderly and disabled and alone were in a community Seder. I was sleepy, Rachel was weepy. “What kind of Seder is it” she wailed “without our children and grandchildren?”
“Relaxing” was my ill-considered reply.
In truth, looking around a room many of whose inhabitants appeared to be either comatose or anticipating a Celestial Seder, was quite depressing. But the gentleman leading the Seder was witty and charming, his wheelchair-bound wife smiled infectiously, and as we progressed from wineglass to wineglass the mood improved considerably.
Indeed, when all moved to the large dining room the next day the children howling and teenagers cavorting among the wheelchairs engendered an instant nostalgia for the lonely Seder of the night before.
In general the meals were enjoyable for Rachel as she is a people-watcher and delighted in observing and commenting on the people around us. That her assessments were incorrect as often as they were accurate, was of no importance. She was having a good time. I, El Grumpo, spent my time wondering whose wheelchair to kick or crutches to knock over as I wended my way up and back from the table to the food, which I did constantly as I could only manage a single plate per trip.
And when Dafna, Hanan and four offspring visited for some hours one day, and Tamar, Oshri and the Wrecking Crew spent an entire day, even Rachel’s need for family was sated. Particularly pleasurable were the visits by Johan and Christa, our Dutch friends, who were staying about fifteen minutes away.
This being a religious holiday much time was spent in the hotel synagogue. Alas, most of those leading the services were British and American guests who thought of themselves as cantors and were determined to enlighten their benighted Israeli cousins on the finer points of cantorial ornamentation..
One fellow in particular, a genuinely nice and intelligent man, had the disconcerting habit of interrupting his prayers every few seconds with a loud “oy vey!” I was never able to determine if his pain was physical, artistic, or existential. In any case I was able to relieve my alternating boredom and annoyance by staring at Rachel through the latticework separating the men’s and women’s sections. Unlike my easily distracted self, Rachel was deep in concentration and watching her both calmed and inspired me.
The synagogue itself, while attractive, could hardly contain the worshippers. Making the problem worse, several old cane-wielding geezers – invariably the first to arrive – placed their canes on the table in front of them, effectively taking up three places. Anyone who tried to sit down was growled at. Few had the temerity to object.
But most annoying to me – I know this is ridiculous – was what happened on the last day of Pessach. Long before morning prayers I lit a cigar at a stand of memorial candles near the still-empty synagogue and stepped outside. The hotel is at the top of a hill and though a heavy ground fog obliterated the surrounding vistas, the sky was clear. Absolute silence, no one else about, flocks of birds emerging from the fog then being swallowed up in it. A delicious chill in the air. It was magical, and exhilarating for one who hasn’t the intellectual prowess to lose himself in Torah study or philosophy but connects with the Divine best in Nature.
I finished one cigar, re-entered and lit a second, and spotted a coven of wizened cane tappers shuffling toward the synagogue each to establish suzerainty over at least three seats. I had to beat them inside, but what to do about my freshly lit cigar? The solution was to hide it in one of the outsized rubber plants that serve as decoration, so it could be recovered after services. I chose one that totally hid the cigar and whose access was limited to the freely mobile. I proceeded to pray, untroubled by any fears that my treasure was at risk.
Following the service I went to retrieve my cigar. It was gone! No one had seen me hide it, so who could have taken it? And why? Foul-smelling, marked with my teethmarks and saliva, who would have wanted to take it? The mystery of the disappearing cigar has troubled me ever since.
Finally, last and definitely least, my massages. The holiday being paid for by the Defense Ministry, I was required to have massages. As these were not available in the hotel I had to go to the Tiberias Baths on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. A real bummer. Though only fifteen kilometers away, it was tortuous winding down through Tiberias. And coming back was worse. Crawling traffic, straight uphill.
What made it a delight was that my masseuse, a young Ukrainian woman, was expert at her job. And the last massage was best. She told me of her youth in the Young Pioneers and serenaded me with songs I already knew through Russian films. If the massage was wonderful, the concert was exquisite.
The trip back to the refugee camp was somber because the holiday had been so special. Adding to the mood was a steady drizzle. And on arriving back any doubts as to where we are were immediately dispelled: our lawn was covered with chunks of Matza.
28 April. Memorial Day, always tough for us. By now you should have read Rachel’s piece, powerful and direct, unlike my own tortured and labyrinthine prose. I have never been able to figure out if His repeatedly sparing me from certain death was an act of kindness or He was just mocking my desire for a quick and heroic demise. Once I believed I was spared to fight for Gush Katif. With our expulsion that belief was replaced by one in which I was spared to do laundry. Which held until today, when I went out to collect my freshly washed best jeans [actually, the sole jeans I can still stuff myself into] only to find them covered in bird poop. He couldn’t be that cruel…
Some months after I was wounded the first time, my army unit held a dance/reunion/memorial. A fee was charged, but waived for those who had been disabled. I presume it was also waived for those who had died in combat and could only attend in spirit. Wives or girlfriends required. Rachel had misgivings but back then I was too insensitive. During the social dancing we were stared at. I assumed it was because Rachel looked gorgeous, but clearly my buddies and their significant others were discomfited by the empty sleeve and the bandages on my head. It finally dawned on me – ridiculous as the image is – that I was like a ballplayer who had been traded to another team. Instead of being part of Jerusalem Brigade’s Unit 161 I was now a member of the Tel Hashomer Cripples. New teammates, new loyalties. Before the speeches began everyone was asked to stand for a minute of silence in memory of those who hadn’t ducked in time. I expected a cascade of laughter when I called out “How about ten seconds extra for my arm?” Absolute silence. Cringing embarrassment silence. We were not invited to subsequent gatherings.
29 April. It seems appropriate to conclude on Israel Dependence Day. ‘Hatikva’, our national anthem, has the line “to be a free people in our land”. Which is a con, because 80% of Israeli Jews state that they want Israel to be part of the European Union, ie, to lose their unique identity in the vast European swamp. The desperate-to-be-assimilated Jews ‘Final Solution’ to the Jewish Problem: total anonymity. Little wonder we won’t survive.
I didn’t go to evening prayers last night, nor to morning prayers today. I simply would not say, and could not hear others say, the celebratory prayers for the State on its 61st birthday.
That the public at large says them is understandable. But why should the Gush Katif refugees, disenfranchised and continually demeaned by the State they served so bravely, shout Hosannahs! and Hallelujahs! for our oppressors? That so many of us do so bewilders and depresses me.
It is said of the French that they forget nothing, and learn nothing. I don’t know how accurate that is about the frogs, but it certainly fits us.
The worst thing about today is that, with the smoke and the stench of outdoor barbecues, I can’t do laundry.
moshe
[Even a pretentious purveyor of perverse prose like moi finds it grotesque to start a mm(hopefully) humorous Pessach letter on Holocaust Festival Day. To hear ‘Never Again!’ – started by Rabbi Meir Kahane who is universally reviled when he should be universally revered – in the mouths of our governing Judenrat and their uniformed Kapo accomplices, leaves me aghast.
As does watching you, my co-religionists outside of Israel, particularly in the States where 78% of you voted for The Manchurian Candidate, allying yourselves with the JStreet/Reform movement crowd, the good Jewboys who are aiding and abetting our destruction, solemnly intone ‘Never Again!’
One can only hope that, busy as you will be preparing Israel Holocaust Memorials, vigils, Walls of Remembrance, etc, following our erasure you also take the time to attend a ceremony marking your receipt – individually and collectively – of the Rabbi Stephen S. Wise Collaborator’s Award.
For the next Holocaust is almost upon us. Sooner than you can say Rahm Emanuel Barney Franks George Soros it will be here.
And though we in Israel will no longer be around to say ‘we told you so’, it will be coming for you soon after.]
[Some of you have expressed concern that, with my constipation problems, the constipatory qualities of matzah – especially the 90% concrete shmura matzah that we aspiring-to-be-holy types impose on ourselves – would cause hardship. But the Good Lord was merciful. Imagine, if you will, that my bowels are Egypt. Every day during Pessach there was a new Exodus. Of course that vision is problematic in what it implies about the contents of those bowels. Fortunately I am not a profound thinker, and can ignore the implication of my half-witticism.
Alas, following the Pessach remission, the problem has returned and (sorry) there’s no end in sight. I have developed a technique, as elaborate and fixed as a Japanese tea ceremony, of breathing/stretching/pushing/squeezing/bending to get the desired response. While there is no denying I resemble a sumo wrestler more than a gymnast or dancer, I find it amusing that in my dotage I – who never achieved even a low level of competence at social dancing – have become the Bowel-movement Balanchine.
We will leave this subject, as it were, behind us with a quote from One Fine Lady who suggested I consult an accountant rather than a physician: “He can work it out with a pencil”.]
[Many thanks to the sage who wrote in response to Goodbye 34: “Beware excessive exuberance when using ailing protuberance.”
To the many who suggested alternative treatment for bladder problems, I was in downtown Jerusalem and passed one of those small, private pharmacies that have been there since the Second Temple Period. A hand-lettered sign in the window caught my attention: ‘Inglsh Spic Hir’. The proprietor, a wizened ancient, gave me a look of undisguised contempt when I asked if he carries homeopathic medicines. “Ve only got heteropathic medicines here!”
In any case, I have been swallowing three Saw Palmetto whatsits for almost a month. No change, but it makes me feel virtuous.
By the way, are you aware there is a hotel chain for people with bladder problems? The Incontinencel.]
GOODBYE 35 April 19, 2009
“AGE BRINGS WISDOM, PATIENCE, SERENITY”
AND OTHER NONSENSICAL BELIEFS
or
TAILS FROM THE CRYPT
We spent Pessach at the Kibbutz Lavi hotel in lower Galilee. We had been regulars at the hotel from our arrival in Israel in 1968 for some ten or twelve years. Then, for no particular reason I remember unless it was the kids being tired of it, we went elsewhere. In those early days it was perfect for a family with rambunctious children. Informal, relaxed, just an extension of the kibbutz. More important, many of the members were from English-speaking countries and there was an air of civility unlike the incivility that characterized most other places.
We visited again early in 2005, months before our expulsion from Gush Katif, and while we were happy to see old friends it was infuriating to see the general support for our expulsion. On a tour of the synagogue furniture factory there were signs like “Peace is more important than the Land of Israel”, and the kibbutz synagogue itself was filled with flyers and booklets from ostensibly religious left-wing movements.
I have longed nagged Rachel that I am ready for an old age home. But I had reason to reconsider. Arriving at Lavi the morning of Passover Eve we found ourselves, literally, in an old age home. Wheelchairs, walkers, canes, crutches, motorized carts and Asian caregivers everywhere. At lunch it was treacherous maneuvering in the dining room, and disconcerting to be poked and pushed aside at the self-service food counters by grumpy, aggressive oldsters.
As the day wore on young(er) people arrived, generally relatives of the geriatrics, many with children in tow. This created some balance, but the initial impression of a Last Stop Before the Pearly Gates establishment remained strong.
One of my favorite comic books as an impressionable pre-teen was “Tales From the Crypt”, and it occurred to me that where I to write about this Pessach, given the large number of females among the decrepit, I might have to call it “Tails from the Crypt”.
The hotel has changed enormously. The original buildings are still in use, and have been spruced up, but several large and luxurious newer buildings have been attached.
Other things have remained the same, particularly the people we have known for years. I was shocked at how old they have become, until Rachel suggested I look in a mirror. More important, the grounds are beautifully maintained. And most important, the staggeringly awesome views remain undisturbed.
From the window in our room we could see Mount Tabor, much of Nazareth to the west, north to Tzfat, northwest to Megiddo which my Christian friends believe will be the sight of Armageddon. A few minutes walk through a landscaped garden and we are looking east down at the Horns of Hittin where the Saracens defeated the Crusaders, and at Tiberias and the entire Sea of Galilee.
I spent hours lying in bed watching the cloudscape through the picture window. If history excites you, if nature exhilarates you, if religious belief exalts you, this is THE place.
Rachel, still high from her flirtation with Nico at the Dead Sea Meridien, ordered salt-free meals in advance of our arrival. These were lovingly prepared and lavishly served at each meal. But instead of Nico there was Shula, kindly, anxious to please, advanced in years. And each time the food was served Rachel would fulsomely thank all the staff for their efforts, move things around on the plate until the server had left, then push the plate aside and snatch food off my plate. I was alternately amused and annoyed.
The Seder started badly. Family units had private Seders, but the elderly and disabled and alone were in a community Seder. I was sleepy, Rachel was weepy. “What kind of Seder is it” she wailed “without our children and grandchildren?”
“Relaxing” was my ill-considered reply.
In truth, looking around a room many of whose inhabitants appeared to be either comatose or anticipating a Celestial Seder, was quite depressing. But the gentleman leading the Seder was witty and charming, his wheelchair-bound wife smiled infectiously, and as we progressed from wineglass to wineglass the mood improved considerably.
Indeed, when all moved to the large dining room the next day the children howling and teenagers cavorting among the wheelchairs engendered an instant nostalgia for the lonely Seder of the night before.
In general the meals were enjoyable for Rachel as she is a people-watcher and delighted in observing and commenting on the people around us. That her assessments were incorrect as often as they were accurate, was of no importance. She was having a good time. I, El Grumpo, spent my time wondering whose wheelchair to kick or crutches to knock over as I wended my way up and back from the table to the food, which I did constantly as I could only manage a single plate per trip.
And when Dafna, Hanan and four offspring visited for some hours one day, and Tamar, Oshri and the Wrecking Crew spent an entire day, even Rachel’s need for family was sated. Particularly pleasurable were the visits by Johan and Christa, our Dutch friends, who were staying about fifteen minutes away.
This being a religious holiday much time was spent in the hotel synagogue. Alas, most of those leading the services were British and American guests who thought of themselves as cantors and were determined to enlighten their benighted Israeli cousins on the finer points of cantorial ornamentation..
One fellow in particular, a genuinely nice and intelligent man, had the disconcerting habit of interrupting his prayers every few seconds with a loud “oy vey!” I was never able to determine if his pain was physical, artistic, or existential. In any case I was able to relieve my alternating boredom and annoyance by staring at Rachel through the latticework separating the men’s and women’s sections. Unlike my easily distracted self, Rachel was deep in concentration and watching her both calmed and inspired me.
The synagogue itself, while attractive, could hardly contain the worshippers. Making the problem worse, several old cane-wielding geezers – invariably the first to arrive – placed their canes on the table in front of them, effectively taking up three places. Anyone who tried to sit down was growled at. Few had the temerity to object.
But most annoying to me – I know this is ridiculous – was what happened on the last day of Pessach. Long before morning prayers I lit a cigar at a stand of memorial candles near the still-empty synagogue and stepped outside. The hotel is at the top of a hill and though a heavy ground fog obliterated the surrounding vistas, the sky was clear. Absolute silence, no one else about, flocks of birds emerging from the fog then being swallowed up in it. A delicious chill in the air. It was magical, and exhilarating for one who hasn’t the intellectual prowess to lose himself in Torah study or philosophy but connects with the Divine best in Nature.
I finished one cigar, re-entered and lit a second, and spotted a coven of wizened cane tappers shuffling toward the synagogue each to establish suzerainty over at least three seats. I had to beat them inside, but what to do about my freshly lit cigar? The solution was to hide it in one of the outsized rubber plants that serve as decoration, so it could be recovered after services. I chose one that totally hid the cigar and whose access was limited to the freely mobile. I proceeded to pray, untroubled by any fears that my treasure was at risk.
Following the service I went to retrieve my cigar. It was gone! No one had seen me hide it, so who could have taken it? And why? Foul-smelling, marked with my teethmarks and saliva, who would have wanted to take it? The mystery of the disappearing cigar has troubled me ever since.
Finally, last and definitely least, my massages. The holiday being paid for by the Defense Ministry, I was required to have massages. As these were not available in the hotel I had to go to the Tiberias Baths on the shores of the Sea of Galilee. A real bummer. Though only fifteen kilometers away, it was tortuous winding down through Tiberias. And coming back was worse. Crawling traffic, straight uphill.
What made it a delight was that my masseuse, a young Ukrainian woman, was expert at her job. And the last massage was best. She told me of her youth in the Young Pioneers and serenaded me with songs I already knew through Russian films. If the massage was wonderful, the concert was exquisite.
The trip back to the refugee camp was somber because the holiday had been so special. Adding to the mood was a steady drizzle. And on arriving back any doubts as to where we are were immediately dispelled: our lawn was covered with chunks of Matza.
28 April. Memorial Day, always tough for us. By now you should have read Rachel’s piece, powerful and direct, unlike my own tortured and labyrinthine prose. I have never been able to figure out if His repeatedly sparing me from certain death was an act of kindness or He was just mocking my desire for a quick and heroic demise. Once I believed I was spared to fight for Gush Katif. With our expulsion that belief was replaced by one in which I was spared to do laundry. Which held until today, when I went out to collect my freshly washed best jeans [actually, the sole jeans I can still stuff myself into] only to find them covered in bird poop. He couldn’t be that cruel…
Some months after I was wounded the first time, my army unit held a dance/reunion/memorial. A fee was charged, but waived for those who had been disabled. I presume it was also waived for those who had died in combat and could only attend in spirit. Wives or girlfriends required. Rachel had misgivings but back then I was too insensitive. During the social dancing we were stared at. I assumed it was because Rachel looked gorgeous, but clearly my buddies and their significant others were discomfited by the empty sleeve and the bandages on my head. It finally dawned on me – ridiculous as the image is – that I was like a ballplayer who had been traded to another team. Instead of being part of Jerusalem Brigade’s Unit 161 I was now a member of the Tel Hashomer Cripples. New teammates, new loyalties. Before the speeches began everyone was asked to stand for a minute of silence in memory of those who hadn’t ducked in time. I expected a cascade of laughter when I called out “How about ten seconds extra for my arm?” Absolute silence. Cringing embarrassment silence. We were not invited to subsequent gatherings.
29 April. It seems appropriate to conclude on Israel Dependence Day. ‘Hatikva’, our national anthem, has the line “to be a free people in our land”. Which is a con, because 80% of Israeli Jews state that they want Israel to be part of the European Union, ie, to lose their unique identity in the vast European swamp. The desperate-to-be-assimilated Jews ‘Final Solution’ to the Jewish Problem: total anonymity. Little wonder we won’t survive.
I didn’t go to evening prayers last night, nor to morning prayers today. I simply would not say, and could not hear others say, the celebratory prayers for the State on its 61st birthday.
That the public at large says them is understandable. But why should the Gush Katif refugees, disenfranchised and continually demeaned by the State they served so bravely, shout Hosannahs! and Hallelujahs! for our oppressors? That so many of us do so bewilders and depresses me.
It is said of the French that they forget nothing, and learn nothing. I don’t know how accurate that is about the frogs, but it certainly fits us.
The worst thing about today is that, with the smoke and the stench of outdoor barbecues, I can’t do laundry.
moshe
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Goodbye 32
[I owe a debt of gratitude to Muffy-the-Slut’s paramour, The Impregnator. I hate this creature so passionately that when he appears I forget my aches, pains, physical limitations and try and harm the furry fiend.
I, who won’t bend down to pick up a coin lest I have a stroke from the exertion, am bending for stones though I turn red and the blood rushes to my head.
I, who have torn ligaments in my arm, am hurling these stones though I barely have strength to pick my nose.
I, who can barely move on two mangled legs, run after a creature who flies on four legs.
So thank you, you furry feces, for providing me with the only exercise I get.]
[Our car alarms are working once again. But for the period that thousands of car alarms were disconnected we had a bright and shining example of co-existence as Jewish and Arab car thieves worked together in harmony. May this heartwarming occurrence inspire us to even greater cooperation in future.]
[I fear the natural world is turning against me. We occasionally see a lizard on an outside wall. Suddenly dead lizards litter our lawn. Worse, flying rats a.k.a. pigeons, are dive-bombing our laundry whenever I hang it out. Do I have to perform some sacrifice to appease the deities? Serious suggestions gratefully accepted.]
GOODBYE 32, THE SOUND OF SILENCE
Hardly. The sirens may be silent but planes streak over at low levels almost hourly. What a waste of expensive aviation gasoline. And if the reporters no longer call or visit – praise be to Allah! – the shnorrers have returned en masse. The former, at least, limited their depredations to daylight. The latter work from dawn to midnight.
Not one person I have spoken to – okay, you know I hardly talk to anyone these days – believes the quiet will last very long. The most optimistic think it may last several weeks. So, what did we achieve?
The outpouring of hatred against us during the war has neither surprised nor upset me. The Palestinian Narrative, that they are an ancient people dispossessed by interloper Jews, has achieved a level of acceptance everywhere, aided and abetted by self-hating Jews. It is, like Global Warming, a religious belief that cannot be argued against. What has thrown me for a loop is the degree of Jewish participation in the anti-Jewish demonstrations. To see a young woman holding a sign "Queer Jews for Palestine" in a California demonstration has upset me far more than it should have amused me. It simply buttresses my own anti-Semitism.
[Rachel is always reminding me that I'm less an anti-Semite than an anti-everything. And she's right. I don't discriminate. I hate almost everybody equally.]
We attended a meeting of people who want to return to Gush Katif. I always say, whoever is first, I’ll be second. It is the triumph of hope against realism. There were about thirty people, the usual suspects, my kind of people. The meeting had been called by Daniella Weiss, a founder of Gush Emunim and a very great lady. That there are as many Jews as there are today in Judea and Samaria is largely due to her pioneering efforts after the Six Day War.
The meeting itself was less than satisfactory. Lots of well-meaning chatter. Perhaps I'm being unfair. All beginnings are difficult. I suspect that I am terrified of being disappointed. Losing the paradise of Gush Katif just over three years ago almost killed me. To lose it again… would certainly finish me.
4 February. Just when you think it can't get worse, that we have hit bottom and the only way is up, our Fearless Leaders pull out their picks, axes and shovels and dig us even deeper.
Who would have thought they were devotees of "The Howdy Doody Show" and had modeled themselves on Phineas T. Bluster?
A soldier is killed by a roadside bomb? Our response: bluster.
Kassam rockets hit Sderot, including one next to a kindergarten? Bluster, bluster.
A Grad missile, yesterday, in the center of Ashkelon? Bluster, bluster, bluster.
Of course the air force bombs empty buildings, empty because their occupants have been forewarned. How humane. How stupid. How Jewish.
It's Groundhog Day. Was there a war? Soldiers killed? Great heroism? Miracles? Spiritual awakening? Victory declared? Fearless Leaders preening over their 'accomplishments'?
Elections, seven days away, are often given as the reason we don't respond. Nonsense! Our politicians took us into this war solely because of imminent elections. And don't be surprised if, in a day or two, we see the March of the Murderers as thousands of imprisoned 'militants', their hands forever stained with our blood, walk free in exchange for Gilad Schalit. Whether Schalit is vertical or horizontal is immaterial. "We got him back!" our Fearless Leaders will exclaim. "Give us your votes!"
The real problem is that Jews talk. And talk. And talk. Our propensity for verbosity guarantees paralysis. We never act. We barely react. It is a sometimes loveable, sometimes annoying flaw in the Western Jewish Diaspora. In the Middle Eastern jungle in which we live, it is a fatal flaw.
[Apropos elections… I'll be voting for the National Union because I love and trust their number three, Dr. Arye Eldad. Otherwise I wouldn't bother voting.
Ah, for the days of the Roman Senate, when a horse could be elected Senator. Imagine, a noble steed… In our Knesset we are already inundated with chickens, snakes and swine.]
moshe
I, who won’t bend down to pick up a coin lest I have a stroke from the exertion, am bending for stones though I turn red and the blood rushes to my head.
I, who have torn ligaments in my arm, am hurling these stones though I barely have strength to pick my nose.
I, who can barely move on two mangled legs, run after a creature who flies on four legs.
So thank you, you furry feces, for providing me with the only exercise I get.]
[Our car alarms are working once again. But for the period that thousands of car alarms were disconnected we had a bright and shining example of co-existence as Jewish and Arab car thieves worked together in harmony. May this heartwarming occurrence inspire us to even greater cooperation in future.]
[I fear the natural world is turning against me. We occasionally see a lizard on an outside wall. Suddenly dead lizards litter our lawn. Worse, flying rats a.k.a. pigeons, are dive-bombing our laundry whenever I hang it out. Do I have to perform some sacrifice to appease the deities? Serious suggestions gratefully accepted.]
GOODBYE 32, THE SOUND OF SILENCE
Hardly. The sirens may be silent but planes streak over at low levels almost hourly. What a waste of expensive aviation gasoline. And if the reporters no longer call or visit – praise be to Allah! – the shnorrers have returned en masse. The former, at least, limited their depredations to daylight. The latter work from dawn to midnight.
Not one person I have spoken to – okay, you know I hardly talk to anyone these days – believes the quiet will last very long. The most optimistic think it may last several weeks. So, what did we achieve?
The outpouring of hatred against us during the war has neither surprised nor upset me. The Palestinian Narrative, that they are an ancient people dispossessed by interloper Jews, has achieved a level of acceptance everywhere, aided and abetted by self-hating Jews. It is, like Global Warming, a religious belief that cannot be argued against. What has thrown me for a loop is the degree of Jewish participation in the anti-Jewish demonstrations. To see a young woman holding a sign "Queer Jews for Palestine" in a California demonstration has upset me far more than it should have amused me. It simply buttresses my own anti-Semitism.
[Rachel is always reminding me that I'm less an anti-Semite than an anti-everything. And she's right. I don't discriminate. I hate almost everybody equally.]
We attended a meeting of people who want to return to Gush Katif. I always say, whoever is first, I’ll be second. It is the triumph of hope against realism. There were about thirty people, the usual suspects, my kind of people. The meeting had been called by Daniella Weiss, a founder of Gush Emunim and a very great lady. That there are as many Jews as there are today in Judea and Samaria is largely due to her pioneering efforts after the Six Day War.
The meeting itself was less than satisfactory. Lots of well-meaning chatter. Perhaps I'm being unfair. All beginnings are difficult. I suspect that I am terrified of being disappointed. Losing the paradise of Gush Katif just over three years ago almost killed me. To lose it again… would certainly finish me.
4 February. Just when you think it can't get worse, that we have hit bottom and the only way is up, our Fearless Leaders pull out their picks, axes and shovels and dig us even deeper.
Who would have thought they were devotees of "The Howdy Doody Show" and had modeled themselves on Phineas T. Bluster?
A soldier is killed by a roadside bomb? Our response: bluster.
Kassam rockets hit Sderot, including one next to a kindergarten? Bluster, bluster.
A Grad missile, yesterday, in the center of Ashkelon? Bluster, bluster, bluster.
Of course the air force bombs empty buildings, empty because their occupants have been forewarned. How humane. How stupid. How Jewish.
It's Groundhog Day. Was there a war? Soldiers killed? Great heroism? Miracles? Spiritual awakening? Victory declared? Fearless Leaders preening over their 'accomplishments'?
Elections, seven days away, are often given as the reason we don't respond. Nonsense! Our politicians took us into this war solely because of imminent elections. And don't be surprised if, in a day or two, we see the March of the Murderers as thousands of imprisoned 'militants', their hands forever stained with our blood, walk free in exchange for Gilad Schalit. Whether Schalit is vertical or horizontal is immaterial. "We got him back!" our Fearless Leaders will exclaim. "Give us your votes!"
The real problem is that Jews talk. And talk. And talk. Our propensity for verbosity guarantees paralysis. We never act. We barely react. It is a sometimes loveable, sometimes annoying flaw in the Western Jewish Diaspora. In the Middle Eastern jungle in which we live, it is a fatal flaw.
[Apropos elections… I'll be voting for the National Union because I love and trust their number three, Dr. Arye Eldad. Otherwise I wouldn't bother voting.
Ah, for the days of the Roman Senate, when a horse could be elected Senator. Imagine, a noble steed… In our Knesset we are already inundated with chickens, snakes and swine.]
moshe
Letter From Israel
February 3, 2009
"Gush Katif"
Finally, thanks to Arutz 7, I have a link to a video of the talk (in English) that Rachel Saperstein, formerly a spokesperson for Gush Katif, delivered at the Jerusalem Conference last week. It was particularly informative and moving. And it is pertinent now, both because we have an obligation to be mindful of the situation of those who were expelled from Gush Katif, and because it provides signal lessons about wrong-minded decisions by an Israel government promoting "peace."
I encourage you to watch this, and to share it broadly.
http://dwnmedia.a7.org/inntv-eng/09/jconf/main/saperstein.wmv
~~~~~~~~~~
For the first time since the end of our military operation in Gaza, a Grad Katyusha was launched at Ashkelon early this morning. There were no casualties, but there was property damage.
Yesterday, a Hamas spokesman had charged that we were "torpedoing" the cease-fire negotiations with our demands. He said Hamas was looking for more time to convince us. My assumption now is that this is how Hamas seeks to "convince": It will be difficult for us unless we cave and agree to what they are seeking.
We'd better not cave!
~~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, Mahmoud Abbas, who seems more vile with every passing day, if that is possible, has charged that Israeli "military operations" and "bombardments" are endangering the "fragile" cease-fire. As we have noted, Abbas is now in his "suck up to Hamas" mode in order to find himself included in whatever deal is eventually struck with regard to control in Gaza.
I would like to think that those who are vigorously promoting that "two-state solution" would take note of this, but I know that is expecting too much.
Abbas was in Paris yesterday and met with French President Sarkozy in order to garner support for a Palestinian unity government. He is seeking a "solution with Hamas in the framework of a government of national unity," but rejects ideas of restructuring what is referred to as the Palestinian political structure. I take this as referring to a Hamas push for more involvement in the PLO.
~~~~~~~~~~
Some important explanations here:
The PLO, founded in 1964, is said to be the sole representative of the Palestinian people wherever they are. It is extensively dominated by Fatah -- was controlled for many years by Arafat. While presumably Abbas inherited Arafat's mantle, inside of the PLO are many Fatah obstructionists who do not approve of peace negotiations (this is one more reason why Abbas's peace negotiations can't succeed). At least in theory, all negotiations are to be done with the PLO.
Hamas has been working for some time to have greater influence within the PLO, aiming ultimately to secure control. There has just been a push in that direction -- it's part of what Hamas is seeking within a new unity agreement.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Palestinian Authority (PA), an administrative entity, was established in the framework of Oslo, in 1994, and was envisioned for a five-year interim, pending final arrangements. All Rabin planned was the establishment of autonomous regions for the Palestinians. The officials of the PA, at the time of its establishment, were simply higher-ups in the PLO, wearing new hats.
With the electoral legitimacy of Hamas established and its achievement of victory in the PA legislative elections in 2006, Hamas acquired a dominant role in the PA political structure.
But because of the illegitimate Hamas takeover of Gaza in 2007, the nature of that political structure is currently being contested. The PA in Judea and Samaria is operating with officials appointed by Abbas, notably with Fayyad as prime minister. Hamas involvement is excluded. While Hamas has held meetings of the legislature in Gaza that exclude Fatah legislative members, and has its own prime minister, Haniyeh. As Haniyeh was the PA prime minister before the Hamas takeover, Hamas claims he is legitimate and Fayyad is not.
The PA is essentially restricted now to Judea and Samaria. Abbas claims it also includes Gaza, but Hamas says it does not. That the PA is paying a good number of Hamas salaries in Gaza as a function of the Mecca agreement gives Abbas leverage in saying Gaza is still part of the PA. This is a fascinating state of affairs: the unity agreement of Mecca fell apart quickly and was followed by the Hamas takeover. Yet Abbas still "honors" the Mecca agreement for political reasons. At this point Fatah has no power or significant physical presence in Gaza.
~~~~~~~~~~
If all of this seems convoluted and complicated, it is because the situation is convoluted and complicated. A clear grasp of this background helps in understanding the various postures and machinations that are now taking place.
~~~~~~~~~~
Netanyahu toured the Old City of Jerusalem yesterday, with press accompaniment, in order to promote Likud's commitment to keep Jerusalem united. In the main, from what I've read, he reiterated the position he advanced last week at the Jerusalem Conference. I like one particular catch phrase of his, which was new to me:
"A sane country does not give its capital to its enemies."
Indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~
Following the Grad rocket attack today, Netanyahu also pledged that his government would bring down Hamas.
~~~~~~~~~~
Efraim Inbar's piece from Besa, "No to the Reconstruction of Gaza," that I cited yesterday, has been put up by the Post. (Thanks Debbie B.) You can find it at:
http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1233304654535&pagename=JPost%2FJPArticle%2FShowFull
~~~~~~~~~~
I hope to take a look soon at issues of Iranian ships carrying weapons for Gaza, and the possibilities for stopping them.
~~~~~~~~~~
see my website http://www.ArlenefromIsrael.info
"Gush Katif"
Finally, thanks to Arutz 7, I have a link to a video of the talk (in English) that Rachel Saperstein, formerly a spokesperson for Gush Katif, delivered at the Jerusalem Conference last week. It was particularly informative and moving. And it is pertinent now, both because we have an obligation to be mindful of the situation of those who were expelled from Gush Katif, and because it provides signal lessons about wrong-minded decisions by an Israel government promoting "peace."
I encourage you to watch this, and to share it broadly.
http://dwnmedia.a7.org/inntv-eng/09/jconf/main/saperstein.wmv
~~~~~~~~~~
For the first time since the end of our military operation in Gaza, a Grad Katyusha was launched at Ashkelon early this morning. There were no casualties, but there was property damage.
Yesterday, a Hamas spokesman had charged that we were "torpedoing" the cease-fire negotiations with our demands. He said Hamas was looking for more time to convince us. My assumption now is that this is how Hamas seeks to "convince": It will be difficult for us unless we cave and agree to what they are seeking.
We'd better not cave!
~~~~~~~~~~
Meanwhile, Mahmoud Abbas, who seems more vile with every passing day, if that is possible, has charged that Israeli "military operations" and "bombardments" are endangering the "fragile" cease-fire. As we have noted, Abbas is now in his "suck up to Hamas" mode in order to find himself included in whatever deal is eventually struck with regard to control in Gaza.
I would like to think that those who are vigorously promoting that "two-state solution" would take note of this, but I know that is expecting too much.
Abbas was in Paris yesterday and met with French President Sarkozy in order to garner support for a Palestinian unity government. He is seeking a "solution with Hamas in the framework of a government of national unity," but rejects ideas of restructuring what is referred to as the Palestinian political structure. I take this as referring to a Hamas push for more involvement in the PLO.
~~~~~~~~~~
Some important explanations here:
The PLO, founded in 1964, is said to be the sole representative of the Palestinian people wherever they are. It is extensively dominated by Fatah -- was controlled for many years by Arafat. While presumably Abbas inherited Arafat's mantle, inside of the PLO are many Fatah obstructionists who do not approve of peace negotiations (this is one more reason why Abbas's peace negotiations can't succeed). At least in theory, all negotiations are to be done with the PLO.
Hamas has been working for some time to have greater influence within the PLO, aiming ultimately to secure control. There has just been a push in that direction -- it's part of what Hamas is seeking within a new unity agreement.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Palestinian Authority (PA), an administrative entity, was established in the framework of Oslo, in 1994, and was envisioned for a five-year interim, pending final arrangements. All Rabin planned was the establishment of autonomous regions for the Palestinians. The officials of the PA, at the time of its establishment, were simply higher-ups in the PLO, wearing new hats.
With the electoral legitimacy of Hamas established and its achievement of victory in the PA legislative elections in 2006, Hamas acquired a dominant role in the PA political structure.
But because of the illegitimate Hamas takeover of Gaza in 2007, the nature of that political structure is currently being contested. The PA in Judea and Samaria is operating with officials appointed by Abbas, notably with Fayyad as prime minister. Hamas involvement is excluded. While Hamas has held meetings of the legislature in Gaza that exclude Fatah legislative members, and has its own prime minister, Haniyeh. As Haniyeh was the PA prime minister before the Hamas takeover, Hamas claims he is legitimate and Fayyad is not.
The PA is essentially restricted now to Judea and Samaria. Abbas claims it also includes Gaza, but Hamas says it does not. That the PA is paying a good number of Hamas salaries in Gaza as a function of the Mecca agreement gives Abbas leverage in saying Gaza is still part of the PA. This is a fascinating state of affairs: the unity agreement of Mecca fell apart quickly and was followed by the Hamas takeover. Yet Abbas still "honors" the Mecca agreement for political reasons. At this point Fatah has no power or significant physical presence in Gaza.
~~~~~~~~~~
If all of this seems convoluted and complicated, it is because the situation is convoluted and complicated. A clear grasp of this background helps in understanding the various postures and machinations that are now taking place.
~~~~~~~~~~
Netanyahu toured the Old City of Jerusalem yesterday, with press accompaniment, in order to promote Likud's commitment to keep Jerusalem united. In the main, from what I've read, he reiterated the position he advanced last week at the Jerusalem Conference. I like one particular catch phrase of his, which was new to me:
"A sane country does not give its capital to its enemies."
Indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~
Following the Grad rocket attack today, Netanyahu also pledged that his government would bring down Hamas.
~~~~~~~~~~
Efraim Inbar's piece from Besa, "No to the Reconstruction of Gaza," that I cited yesterday, has been put up by the Post. (Thanks Debbie B.) You can find it at:
http://www.jpost.com/servlet/Satellite?cid=1233304654535&pagename=JPost%2FJPArticle%2FShowFull
~~~~~~~~~~
I hope to take a look soon at issues of Iranian ships carrying weapons for Gaza, and the possibilities for stopping them.
~~~~~~~~~~
see my website http://www.ArlenefromIsrael.info
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Sirens and Serpents, Goodbye 31
[One morning last week I came back from early services to find an avalanche of bread on our front walk and lawn. Clearly the Holy Hurler is back at work. The rear of our place doesn’t have a square foot without a pyramid of canine excrescence, and now he is determined to get the front of the house decorated as well. Will I have to install security cameras to catch him in the act?]
[Muffy, bored with her role as heroine, is back to being Muffy the Slut. Whenever a prospective male is in sight she raises her tail to display the merchandise.
Two kittens, now almost fully grown, from her first litter are around, as is one from her second litter. A new visitor is a scraggly skin-and-bones one-eyed cat I’ve named The Pirate. The coloring seems to be Muffy’s but this pirate is so filthy it’s hard to be certain.
Since the onset of winter, and particularly since the ‘war’ began three weeks ago, we have been going through cat vittles at an amazing rate. I thought it has to do with cold weather, and the felines’ need to burn calories to stay warm. But a neighbor says all the animals are affected by the anxiety vibes adults and children are giving off. The animals need, she says, comfort food as much as we do.]
GOODBYE 31: January 17/18, 2009
SIRENS AND SERPENTS
One of the problems with being a politician is that you lie with such regularity no one believes you on those rare occasions when you tell the truth.
Barak and Livni are saying the operation in Gaza has achieved its goal, but the public can’t accept it as the rockets keep falling. Naive Israelis. They thought the goal was to stop the attacks when, in fact, the goal was to increase the electoral prospects of Barak and Livni.
These prospects having increased – quite dramatically in the case of Barak – the curtain can be lowered on the Gaza Follies. It is midnight as I write this. At 2am a unilateral cease fire goes into effect. And if the bad guys keep shooting? We will complain to our friends, the Egyptians. And we will get really, really, really annoyed.
Another factor leading to the Unilateral Surrender, sorry, Unilateral Cease Fire, is that the Enlightened Ones have been taken aback by the degree of religious fervor the war has unleashed.
Miracle stories abound, starting with the one in which two soldiers are directed away from a building by a woman in black who identifies herself as the Matriarch Rachel. Moments later the booby-trapped building explodes.
It would be easy to mock this tale with a pitying and condescending smile. As a veteran of Gush Katif where I witnessed numerous miracles, and as a recipient of bombs and bullets that should have sent me to Valhalla but which I survived, I know better than to dismiss this and all the other tales.
What must infuriate the Enlightened Ones are the pictures of secular soldiers putting on ritual fringes, kissing Torahs and asking religious people to pray for their safety.
Definitely not in keeping with their view of Israel as a secular, progressive state.
Last Monday some forty-three Women in Green members and friends showed up. We had been expecting twenty, and were set up for that number. With the overflow we had to use our front lawn, smelling – to my shame – of fresh dog poop. It was wonderful seeing these people, dear friends, valued friends, true comrades in arms. It was less wonderful seeing that they were accompanied by a crew from Israel television Channel 1.
I had promised myself to do no more interviews, and tried to ignore the tv crew who intruded on the hugging/kissing/reminiscing and nagged for ‘just a few words’. With some Women in Greeners saying ‘talk to them, Moshe’ I agreed.
Looking around to see if Rachel was in the vicinity, and finding the coast clear, I did one of my trademark shticks, one that Rachel hates. I turned to the cameraman and stuck my cigar up one nostril. “Why are you doing that?” said the interviewer, taken aback.
“This way I can continue to smoke while talking to you.”
We never did see our segment on television, but have been told that Rachel was very effective.
By the time Women in Green departed Rachel was near collapse. We put the house back in order and, just as Rachel was about to lie down we were informed that reporters from Sweden, Norway and Canada were on the way. Rachel pleaded with me to deal with them and I, on a role from my earlier shtick, agreed.
The Swedes and Norwegians arrived simultaneously, though in separate cars. I recognized the Norwegian as one who had done a hatchet job on us in Gush Katif. When told that I wouldn’t see her until the Swedes left she got huffy and demanded to see Rachel. Rachel, I told her, was busy with a representative of Morpheus Magazine. In compensation I directed her to a gentleman whose English was already passé in the time of Chaucer and who spoke in such a slow and convoluted manner listeners were rumored to have slit their wrists while listening to him.
The Swede was a delight, and not just because she was beautiful. Most of the time was spent discussing Scandinavian composers, about whom she was very knowledgeable, so I was in heaven. For all I know she will do a piece like ‘Hitler loved Wagner, Moshe loves Lars-Erik Larsson’. I really don’t care. A wonderful hour.
That left the Canadian, who never showed up. Rumor has it his dogsled overturned, he was pissed on by a penguin, mauled by a moose, and turned into blubber by a bear.
We had a houseguest for several days, a dear old friend from Brooklyn. Desperate to escape from here, even if only for a few hours after yesterday, we took him to the village near Rehovot where we had celebrated Rachel’s birthday. Everything was fine until we were ready to leave. I couldn’t start the car. The alarm went off and would not stop. Pressing the code didn’t help. Finally we managed to get it going, and assumed the problem was a weak battery in our car starter.
The next day, Wednesday, I took Rachel to Ashkelon for an appointment, and the car wouldn’t start when we were ready to return. The alarm was going off, and when a woman approached I apologized for the noise.
“Don’t apologize” she said, “I have the same problem. It’s the army…”
She proceeded to explain that our Peace Partners in Gaza planted many mines and booby traps that are set off by a remote car starter, and to neutralize these the army has equipment that renders many frequencies unusable. I have since learned that thousands of our cars are affected.
The inconvenience is a small price to pay for keeping our boys safe in the war effort, but infuriatingly large if the war effort exists solely to boost Barak and Livni.
2am. I suspect the bad guys will honor the cease fire, violating it just enough to show they are still in charge, but not enough to force genuine retaliation. Then, when the elections are over, and a government of snivelers is formed, they will resume full scale shooting. If I were a betting man, and had something to bet with, I would wager that we will have a coalition government with Netanyahu the Spineless as Prime Munster, and Barak and Livni reprising their current roles as Virtual Defense Minister and Brain-Dead Foreign Secretary. The more things change, the more they remain the same.
9am Two rockets have just fallen on Sderot. Does that upset us? Of course not! We are opening all the crossings so that humanitarian aid can flow in, and are opening field hospitals at certain crossings so that injured Peace Partners can receive first aid before being transferred to hospitals in Israel. [short pause while I mop up my vomit]
Rhetorical questions. Will the world love us now? Will they at least hate us less?
2pm Sirens sounded here and everyone, except you know who, raced to the sewervilla. I stood outside, puffing away, a laundry basket on my head for protection. Those emerging from the sewervilla after the explosion looked, laughed, and applauded. My reputation as Resident Lunatic is secure.
Sirens go off several times each day, but the one that disturbed me most was the siren set off in Jerusalem and Bet Shemesh by a malfunction. My mother and her neighbors were panic stricken.
On Thursday consecutive sirens were heard late afternoon. Rachel hurried out and I promised to follow, but stayed glued to the tv. It was the last scene of Karl Marx’s ‘A Night at the Opera’ and Kitty Carlisle was singing an aria from Puccini’s “Muppets In Outer Space”. I couldn’t help noting that the siren was more on key than the soprano.
Friday afternoon we had four consecutive sirens, the last just as Shabbat began. This last had the loudest explosion and all through Shabbat rumors spread about where the missile had landed. None of the rumors has been confirmed.
As Shabbat ended a siren was heard, but few responded. In our case we could hardly waddle. A neighbor – the wife of the Holy Hurler! – had brought us her home-baked bread, a genuine Yemenite delight, consisting of one part zaatar, one part cumin, and eight parts cement.
Now we can only watch as the homunculi who rule boast of their glorious triumph, while we weep at how they have once again snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.
When the Almighty punished serpents for tempting Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, He made them crawl. But in His wisdom, He allowed them to remain dangerous. Snakes may crawl, but they also bite. You may find a snake loathsome, but at least you treat it with caution if not respect.
When the Almighty made us – His people – loathsome crawlers couldn’t He have left us with something that would have made the world treat us with caution rather than contempt?
- moshe
[Muffy, bored with her role as heroine, is back to being Muffy the Slut. Whenever a prospective male is in sight she raises her tail to display the merchandise.
Two kittens, now almost fully grown, from her first litter are around, as is one from her second litter. A new visitor is a scraggly skin-and-bones one-eyed cat I’ve named The Pirate. The coloring seems to be Muffy’s but this pirate is so filthy it’s hard to be certain.
Since the onset of winter, and particularly since the ‘war’ began three weeks ago, we have been going through cat vittles at an amazing rate. I thought it has to do with cold weather, and the felines’ need to burn calories to stay warm. But a neighbor says all the animals are affected by the anxiety vibes adults and children are giving off. The animals need, she says, comfort food as much as we do.]
GOODBYE 31: January 17/18, 2009
SIRENS AND SERPENTS
One of the problems with being a politician is that you lie with such regularity no one believes you on those rare occasions when you tell the truth.
Barak and Livni are saying the operation in Gaza has achieved its goal, but the public can’t accept it as the rockets keep falling. Naive Israelis. They thought the goal was to stop the attacks when, in fact, the goal was to increase the electoral prospects of Barak and Livni.
These prospects having increased – quite dramatically in the case of Barak – the curtain can be lowered on the Gaza Follies. It is midnight as I write this. At 2am a unilateral cease fire goes into effect. And if the bad guys keep shooting? We will complain to our friends, the Egyptians. And we will get really, really, really annoyed.
Another factor leading to the Unilateral Surrender, sorry, Unilateral Cease Fire, is that the Enlightened Ones have been taken aback by the degree of religious fervor the war has unleashed.
Miracle stories abound, starting with the one in which two soldiers are directed away from a building by a woman in black who identifies herself as the Matriarch Rachel. Moments later the booby-trapped building explodes.
It would be easy to mock this tale with a pitying and condescending smile. As a veteran of Gush Katif where I witnessed numerous miracles, and as a recipient of bombs and bullets that should have sent me to Valhalla but which I survived, I know better than to dismiss this and all the other tales.
What must infuriate the Enlightened Ones are the pictures of secular soldiers putting on ritual fringes, kissing Torahs and asking religious people to pray for their safety.
Definitely not in keeping with their view of Israel as a secular, progressive state.
Last Monday some forty-three Women in Green members and friends showed up. We had been expecting twenty, and were set up for that number. With the overflow we had to use our front lawn, smelling – to my shame – of fresh dog poop. It was wonderful seeing these people, dear friends, valued friends, true comrades in arms. It was less wonderful seeing that they were accompanied by a crew from Israel television Channel 1.
I had promised myself to do no more interviews, and tried to ignore the tv crew who intruded on the hugging/kissing/reminiscing and nagged for ‘just a few words’. With some Women in Greeners saying ‘talk to them, Moshe’ I agreed.
Looking around to see if Rachel was in the vicinity, and finding the coast clear, I did one of my trademark shticks, one that Rachel hates. I turned to the cameraman and stuck my cigar up one nostril. “Why are you doing that?” said the interviewer, taken aback.
“This way I can continue to smoke while talking to you.”
We never did see our segment on television, but have been told that Rachel was very effective.
By the time Women in Green departed Rachel was near collapse. We put the house back in order and, just as Rachel was about to lie down we were informed that reporters from Sweden, Norway and Canada were on the way. Rachel pleaded with me to deal with them and I, on a role from my earlier shtick, agreed.
The Swedes and Norwegians arrived simultaneously, though in separate cars. I recognized the Norwegian as one who had done a hatchet job on us in Gush Katif. When told that I wouldn’t see her until the Swedes left she got huffy and demanded to see Rachel. Rachel, I told her, was busy with a representative of Morpheus Magazine. In compensation I directed her to a gentleman whose English was already passé in the time of Chaucer and who spoke in such a slow and convoluted manner listeners were rumored to have slit their wrists while listening to him.
The Swede was a delight, and not just because she was beautiful. Most of the time was spent discussing Scandinavian composers, about whom she was very knowledgeable, so I was in heaven. For all I know she will do a piece like ‘Hitler loved Wagner, Moshe loves Lars-Erik Larsson’. I really don’t care. A wonderful hour.
That left the Canadian, who never showed up. Rumor has it his dogsled overturned, he was pissed on by a penguin, mauled by a moose, and turned into blubber by a bear.
We had a houseguest for several days, a dear old friend from Brooklyn. Desperate to escape from here, even if only for a few hours after yesterday, we took him to the village near Rehovot where we had celebrated Rachel’s birthday. Everything was fine until we were ready to leave. I couldn’t start the car. The alarm went off and would not stop. Pressing the code didn’t help. Finally we managed to get it going, and assumed the problem was a weak battery in our car starter.
The next day, Wednesday, I took Rachel to Ashkelon for an appointment, and the car wouldn’t start when we were ready to return. The alarm was going off, and when a woman approached I apologized for the noise.
“Don’t apologize” she said, “I have the same problem. It’s the army…”
She proceeded to explain that our Peace Partners in Gaza planted many mines and booby traps that are set off by a remote car starter, and to neutralize these the army has equipment that renders many frequencies unusable. I have since learned that thousands of our cars are affected.
The inconvenience is a small price to pay for keeping our boys safe in the war effort, but infuriatingly large if the war effort exists solely to boost Barak and Livni.
2am. I suspect the bad guys will honor the cease fire, violating it just enough to show they are still in charge, but not enough to force genuine retaliation. Then, when the elections are over, and a government of snivelers is formed, they will resume full scale shooting. If I were a betting man, and had something to bet with, I would wager that we will have a coalition government with Netanyahu the Spineless as Prime Munster, and Barak and Livni reprising their current roles as Virtual Defense Minister and Brain-Dead Foreign Secretary. The more things change, the more they remain the same.
9am Two rockets have just fallen on Sderot. Does that upset us? Of course not! We are opening all the crossings so that humanitarian aid can flow in, and are opening field hospitals at certain crossings so that injured Peace Partners can receive first aid before being transferred to hospitals in Israel. [short pause while I mop up my vomit]
Rhetorical questions. Will the world love us now? Will they at least hate us less?
2pm Sirens sounded here and everyone, except you know who, raced to the sewervilla. I stood outside, puffing away, a laundry basket on my head for protection. Those emerging from the sewervilla after the explosion looked, laughed, and applauded. My reputation as Resident Lunatic is secure.
Sirens go off several times each day, but the one that disturbed me most was the siren set off in Jerusalem and Bet Shemesh by a malfunction. My mother and her neighbors were panic stricken.
On Thursday consecutive sirens were heard late afternoon. Rachel hurried out and I promised to follow, but stayed glued to the tv. It was the last scene of Karl Marx’s ‘A Night at the Opera’ and Kitty Carlisle was singing an aria from Puccini’s “Muppets In Outer Space”. I couldn’t help noting that the siren was more on key than the soprano.
Friday afternoon we had four consecutive sirens, the last just as Shabbat began. This last had the loudest explosion and all through Shabbat rumors spread about where the missile had landed. None of the rumors has been confirmed.
As Shabbat ended a siren was heard, but few responded. In our case we could hardly waddle. A neighbor – the wife of the Holy Hurler! – had brought us her home-baked bread, a genuine Yemenite delight, consisting of one part zaatar, one part cumin, and eight parts cement.
Now we can only watch as the homunculi who rule boast of their glorious triumph, while we weep at how they have once again snatched defeat from the jaws of victory.
When the Almighty punished serpents for tempting Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, He made them crawl. But in His wisdom, He allowed them to remain dangerous. Snakes may crawl, but they also bite. You may find a snake loathsome, but at least you treat it with caution if not respect.
When the Almighty made us – His people – loathsome crawlers couldn’t He have left us with something that would have made the world treat us with caution rather than contempt?
- moshe
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Letters From Israel
[Today is La Passionara’s birthday. As is traditional, she has been reminding me since last June. We are supposed to go out to a restaurant but everything in Ashkelon is closed. Ditto for Ashdod. I’ll have to think of something. What’s left of my manhood is at risk.]
GOODBYE 29 January 7, 2009
COMFORT FOOD: EAT YOUR WAY TO HAPPINESS
One of the reasons men, most men, love being called up for reserve duty or even active service is that one is, of necessity, detached from the cares of every day life. A nagging wife? A sick child? A boring job? Unpaid bills? The list is endless. In uniform, kitbag on your shoulder, you wave and say “I’ll take care of it when I get back in thirty days/forty days/whenever” and off you go to have fun with the guys. You may be crippled or killed or shell-shocked for life but the odds are in your favor and the risk makes your activity that much more pleasurable.
Even in a miniature country like this, where you needn’t cross oceans or continents to get to the action, where the front may be twenty minutes from your home, walking out the door in your uniform is like stepping into another world.
Having played most of the different male roles – I am currently doing a COG, Cantankerous Old Grump – I have come to the conclusion that the true heroes are the LLBs, the Ladies Left Behind. This is not to take anything away from the troops. I know what they are going through. Several, including one in critical condition, are from Gush Katif. And my daughter Tamar just called to say she is on the way to the funeral of another who was from her settlement.
Still, everyone is praying for the troops, concerned for them, while civilians – largely Les Girls – are on their own. Which isn’t really true. There has been a tremendous outpouring of support, for people in the south generally, for Gush Katifers in particular. Free this, free that, home hospitality, you name it.
Three consecutive sirens just sounded [8am, Jan.7] and the effect was quite beautiful. The thud of the first explosion was heard simultaneous with the second siren, the thud of the second with the third siren. Alas, the third thud was unadorned by appropriate background music.
I puffed away – no smoking in the sewervilla! – and stroked Cholera while watching a crowd enter and exit the sewervilla as if it were the F train on Delancey Street.
An interesting phenomenon is that a lot of people are noticeably putting on weight. Comfort food is what helps you get through the tension. And comfort food is, by definition, fattening. No one says ‘I’m so nervous, I’ll have a green salad to calm me down’. And even if, by superhuman effort, you keep meals more or less consistent with proper eating, how do you get through the hours and hours of televised war reporting without varieties of nuts and chocolates? You don’t survive a half hour of al-Jazeera chewing on a carrot. Nothing less than a cheesecake will do.
Added weight on a gelatinous blob like me goes unnoticed. On most people it can’t be unnoticed. So my particular problem is less overeating than hyper-tobacco-incineration.
I’m going through my cigars at a scary rate. And they’ll soon be finished. If you think I’m weird now, watch me then. And don’t be surprised to read that seventy flatbed trucks loaded with stogies are being delivered to me, under UN auspices of course, to solve my humanitarian crisis.
If we can expand the definition of graffiti, there is a Graffiti War going on here, an echo of the Gaza War. And the battlefield is each sewervilla. Printed posters have gone up on sewervillas and tombstones saying “We are returning to Gush Katif… An historic injustice will be made right… We will again be Israel’s first line of defense…” Most of you think the very idea is absurd, or impossible given geopolitical realities. Be that as it may, many of us think of little else. Yesterday, when it was reported that our troops were in the former settlement of Netzarim, some here wept openly.
At the same time, government crews race from sewervilla to sewervilla spray-painting “Defense Ministry Home Front Command cares about you.” They don’t do it if people are around as our reaction has been less than enthusiastic.
Another siren, another thud. This one landed two kilometers down the road in a farming community called Beit Ezra. No one hurt, thank G-d, and no serious damage, but lots of soiled underwear.
Later La Passionara got her way, and it was wonderful. She had read a review of a restaurant in a rural community out of rocket range not far from Rehovot, and off we went. Everything was picturesque, including the food, and we walked and walked and walked around the village, oohing and aahing about things like a well dug in 1870 and crystallized dog poop from 1893. As we were about to leave La P saw a museum devoted to the community’s history. The door was open but as we entered a woman said “Sorry, I’m closing up”. She then asked Rachel where were we from, Rachel said ‘Gush Katif’, the woman appeared genuinely excited and took Rachel on a private tour while I – o’ Joy! – sat on a bench outside and billowed clouds of cigar smoke into the ionosphere. A happy birthday, indeed. And I can relax for half a year, at least.
There have been numerous articles, learned and not so learned, decrying the use of the term ‘disproportionate’ in describing Israel’s response to eight years of missile attacks from Gaza. My own feeling is that ‘inadequate’ would be a better word, especially in light of today’s news about a three-hour cease fire which is clearly the precursor to leaving before the job is done.
Proper use of the term would be, say, “French President Sarcasti’s marriage to a super-model after dumping a plain wife is clearly a disproportionate act.”
Keeping in mind that the killers of Jews in Mumbai were Pakistanis and not Palestinians, and those who blew up the Buenos Aires Jewish Center were Iranians and not Palestinians, it is clear the war is not between Israelis and Palestinians but between Jews and Muslims. Given that there are some ten million Jews and one billion Muslims, proportionality would call for one thousand Muslim deaths for every Jew killed.
Several of you have criticized me fiercely for expressing bewilderment that so high a percentage of Jews had voted for Obama despite paying lip-service to being supporters of Israel. I have just seen a poll indicating 70% of Republicans support Israel, while 55% of Democrats support Israel. Is it any wonder I have become disillusioned with my co-religionists in my old age when Christian believers are more steadfast in support of Israel than Jews?
We just had a call from someone who identified himself as a journalist. I think he said – not kidding – Borat from Kazakhstan. I wanted to pass him off to Rachel, but she was out for a walk. I told him to call back later but he pleaded, “Just one question…” “Just one” I said.
“How do you feel about Palestinians suffering so cruelly in Gaza?” he asked.
“Hamas leader Khaled Maashal said ‘We Palestinians will defeat you Jews because we wish for death as you wish for life’.”
“So?”
“So, may they get what they wish for.”
moshe
GOODBYE 29 January 7, 2009
COMFORT FOOD: EAT YOUR WAY TO HAPPINESS
One of the reasons men, most men, love being called up for reserve duty or even active service is that one is, of necessity, detached from the cares of every day life. A nagging wife? A sick child? A boring job? Unpaid bills? The list is endless. In uniform, kitbag on your shoulder, you wave and say “I’ll take care of it when I get back in thirty days/forty days/whenever” and off you go to have fun with the guys. You may be crippled or killed or shell-shocked for life but the odds are in your favor and the risk makes your activity that much more pleasurable.
Even in a miniature country like this, where you needn’t cross oceans or continents to get to the action, where the front may be twenty minutes from your home, walking out the door in your uniform is like stepping into another world.
Having played most of the different male roles – I am currently doing a COG, Cantankerous Old Grump – I have come to the conclusion that the true heroes are the LLBs, the Ladies Left Behind. This is not to take anything away from the troops. I know what they are going through. Several, including one in critical condition, are from Gush Katif. And my daughter Tamar just called to say she is on the way to the funeral of another who was from her settlement.
Still, everyone is praying for the troops, concerned for them, while civilians – largely Les Girls – are on their own. Which isn’t really true. There has been a tremendous outpouring of support, for people in the south generally, for Gush Katifers in particular. Free this, free that, home hospitality, you name it.
Three consecutive sirens just sounded [8am, Jan.7] and the effect was quite beautiful. The thud of the first explosion was heard simultaneous with the second siren, the thud of the second with the third siren. Alas, the third thud was unadorned by appropriate background music.
I puffed away – no smoking in the sewervilla! – and stroked Cholera while watching a crowd enter and exit the sewervilla as if it were the F train on Delancey Street.
An interesting phenomenon is that a lot of people are noticeably putting on weight. Comfort food is what helps you get through the tension. And comfort food is, by definition, fattening. No one says ‘I’m so nervous, I’ll have a green salad to calm me down’. And even if, by superhuman effort, you keep meals more or less consistent with proper eating, how do you get through the hours and hours of televised war reporting without varieties of nuts and chocolates? You don’t survive a half hour of al-Jazeera chewing on a carrot. Nothing less than a cheesecake will do.
Added weight on a gelatinous blob like me goes unnoticed. On most people it can’t be unnoticed. So my particular problem is less overeating than hyper-tobacco-incineration.
I’m going through my cigars at a scary rate. And they’ll soon be finished. If you think I’m weird now, watch me then. And don’t be surprised to read that seventy flatbed trucks loaded with stogies are being delivered to me, under UN auspices of course, to solve my humanitarian crisis.
If we can expand the definition of graffiti, there is a Graffiti War going on here, an echo of the Gaza War. And the battlefield is each sewervilla. Printed posters have gone up on sewervillas and tombstones saying “We are returning to Gush Katif… An historic injustice will be made right… We will again be Israel’s first line of defense…” Most of you think the very idea is absurd, or impossible given geopolitical realities. Be that as it may, many of us think of little else. Yesterday, when it was reported that our troops were in the former settlement of Netzarim, some here wept openly.
At the same time, government crews race from sewervilla to sewervilla spray-painting “Defense Ministry Home Front Command cares about you.” They don’t do it if people are around as our reaction has been less than enthusiastic.
Another siren, another thud. This one landed two kilometers down the road in a farming community called Beit Ezra. No one hurt, thank G-d, and no serious damage, but lots of soiled underwear.
Later La Passionara got her way, and it was wonderful. She had read a review of a restaurant in a rural community out of rocket range not far from Rehovot, and off we went. Everything was picturesque, including the food, and we walked and walked and walked around the village, oohing and aahing about things like a well dug in 1870 and crystallized dog poop from 1893. As we were about to leave La P saw a museum devoted to the community’s history. The door was open but as we entered a woman said “Sorry, I’m closing up”. She then asked Rachel where were we from, Rachel said ‘Gush Katif’, the woman appeared genuinely excited and took Rachel on a private tour while I – o’ Joy! – sat on a bench outside and billowed clouds of cigar smoke into the ionosphere. A happy birthday, indeed. And I can relax for half a year, at least.
There have been numerous articles, learned and not so learned, decrying the use of the term ‘disproportionate’ in describing Israel’s response to eight years of missile attacks from Gaza. My own feeling is that ‘inadequate’ would be a better word, especially in light of today’s news about a three-hour cease fire which is clearly the precursor to leaving before the job is done.
Proper use of the term would be, say, “French President Sarcasti’s marriage to a super-model after dumping a plain wife is clearly a disproportionate act.”
Keeping in mind that the killers of Jews in Mumbai were Pakistanis and not Palestinians, and those who blew up the Buenos Aires Jewish Center were Iranians and not Palestinians, it is clear the war is not between Israelis and Palestinians but between Jews and Muslims. Given that there are some ten million Jews and one billion Muslims, proportionality would call for one thousand Muslim deaths for every Jew killed.
Several of you have criticized me fiercely for expressing bewilderment that so high a percentage of Jews had voted for Obama despite paying lip-service to being supporters of Israel. I have just seen a poll indicating 70% of Republicans support Israel, while 55% of Democrats support Israel. Is it any wonder I have become disillusioned with my co-religionists in my old age when Christian believers are more steadfast in support of Israel than Jews?
We just had a call from someone who identified himself as a journalist. I think he said – not kidding – Borat from Kazakhstan. I wanted to pass him off to Rachel, but she was out for a walk. I told him to call back later but he pleaded, “Just one question…” “Just one” I said.
“How do you feel about Palestinians suffering so cruelly in Gaza?” he asked.
“Hamas leader Khaled Maashal said ‘We Palestinians will defeat you Jews because we wish for death as you wish for life’.”
“So?”
“So, may they get what they wish for.”
moshe
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