Sunday, February 26, 2012

It's Not Goodbye, It's Lehitraot


An article I wrote for blogs.timesofisrael.com
.
I moved to Israel six years ago when my oldest son, David was 17. He missed his friends, his school, his neighborhood he grew up in, his high school sweetheart, his world. It was daunting to begin anew as a teenager in an unfamiliar country, with exotic and sometimes strange divergent cultures merging into one. As far as my son was concerned, it was an entirely different planet from what he had been used to and on top of everything, it was a planet that he had to navigate in Hebrew. Despite the challenges, David made friends, slowly but surely began to speak in Hebrew, got a drivers license, travelled the roads like a native, smashed his car up like a native and served in the IDF as a combat soldier.
This past Thursday, he signed the last form that marked the culmination of his 3-year service in the army and on Saturday night, with a one-way ticket in hand, he boarded an El Al plane back to the U.S. to reunite with his high school sweetheart. It wasn’t easy sustaining a long distance relationship over the span of 6 years. From me down to his army buddies, everyone was impressed. Special kudos to Skype.
A wedding is in the offing. She is a bright and sweet young woman who sees the goodness in his heart as he sees in hers. She makes him happy. That is what matters. There are plans for college in New York, plans for renting an apartment, and plans for a job. And then…well, there are plans for them to come to Israel to set up their lives here…one day. But, life never turns out to be that simple and plans have a way of going off on unplanned tangents. Which is why, as I watched my son depart, it was with a heavy heart.
I tried to instill in each of my children an unwavering love of Israel and while I want them to want to stay here…in the end, it must be their decision. As a mother, I know all too well that the day would come when my children would leave to make their own mark on this world, but a 6,000-mile distance isn’t what I anticipated. Nor did I anticipate breaking down in tears in front of David just prior to his departure. I didn’t want to make a scene; I had no desire to make him feel guilty. It was his life, not mine. I meant to send David off with a smile. And yet, I did break down. I’m a mother − I’m no saint.
This last Shabbat that David spent with me and his siblings, he pointed out something to all of us as we sat around the dining room table. “Did you know that there is no word in the Hebrew language for goodbye?” he asked. It wasn’t new information, but that tidbit of a fact never gave me pause for reflection. “Shalom” is used for both “hello” and “goodbye,” but its actual meaning is “peace.” I never questioned why we didn’t have a word for goodbye. The closest thing is “l’hitraot”, see you later. And, since we never really say goodbye, it stands to reason that saying hello is superfluous. I wondered if it was because of our innate optimism. Despite many of us being natural cynics, we are a nation that has survived on optimism. Indeed, a stubborn optimism. One might even argue, irrational. Or, rather, just plain “hope,” which to me, seems fitting as the heart of our national anthem.
In several months from now I will be in the States to rejoice at my son’s wedding. And then, back to my home in Israel, together with his younger brother who is presently in the army and his teenage sister. What the future holds is anyone’s guess. But, I hold on to the hope that David and his lovely bride will return to build their true home in Israel. And so, the other day, I didn’t say goodbye to my son.
In my heart, it’s not goodbye. It’s l’hitraot.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

CODE RED! INCOMING SNOW!


By Zahava Englard
Published in blogs.timesofisrael.com



With Iran gearing up to nuke Israel into oblivion, one would think that such news would raise a measure of panic, perhaps even a smidgen of ire among the Israeli population. But, no. Pay no mind to what you read in the news. No one is even talking about it. Forget about panicking, hardly an eyebrow is raised. The people on the street are either bored with the entire subject or the more spiritual among us figure it's all in God's hands anyway, so why lose sleep over it.


Then again, should one wish to see real hardcore panic on the streets of Israel, just mention an impending snowfall and that'll get it going. Never mind that we have enemies surrounding us on all borders armed to the teeth with state of the art ballistic chemically tipped missiles. Forget that we live under a constant shadow of existential threat. And why waste time pondering over the full extent of the whipping winds from the Arab Spring that we have yet to experience? Snow is coming.

In fact, while on my weekly excursion to the Rami Levi supermarket the other day, I was met with extraordinarily long lines and frantic shoppers pushing and shoving their way through the aisles. One could argue that this was just another regular day at the market, but I immediately discerned that something was different. An overwhelming sense of foreboding permeated the air. Shelves that stocked water bottles and canned goods were totally cleared out, and not a slice of bread could be had. I squeezed my way through a treacherous gridlock of shopping carts making haste toward the butcher at the back of the store and found an overly hyper animated crowd clamoring for service. By the time it was my turn to order, there wasn’t a chicken left. I didn’t know what to make of this scene of panic. But then it hit me. Of course!  The news this morning opened with a forecast for snow! That’s right, the flurry of commotion was due to a forecast for two and half centimeters of snow. In other words, one inch.

Caught up in the frenzy, I scored a major coup grabbing the last flashlight and after nearly three hours, I finally made it out of the supermarket thankful to once again see blessed daylight. I passed a local shoe store and noticed a sign advertising a special last minute deal before the "storm," offering a 2 for 1 snow boot sale. Several weeks before, there was also a snow forecast, which turned out to be a false alarm, yet there were reports of serious shortages of gloves and scarves from the Golan down to the Judean hills. Mt. Hermon  yes, the ski resort, was closed  due to the snow.

In the six years that I’ve been living in Israel, I’ve seen snow twice. The first year here, when the accumulation reached a soaring two inches, and last year when a “major snowstorm” amounted to nothing more than 15 minutes of fame. Nevertheless, a "snow-day" was officially declared, schools had closed, and the local kids rushed outside with their makeshift sleds to coast down what amounted to very rocky hills with barely a hint of white fluff to cushion the ride. In each of these blizzards, as a precautionary measure, major arteries of roadways had been closed off to vehicles  due to the “snow.”

And so, it seems that once again, word has it that another perilous inch of snow is anticipated. As one might expect, earnest vigilance is imperative. Jerusalem City Hall has been gearing up with emergency crews ready to whip out the salt at a moment’s notice, as well as increasing the staff at emergency centers to man the influx of calls. All households are buttressing appliances with surge protectors and military helicopters are at their ready to search for stranded souls. 

Nukes? That's a walk in the park. After this weekend's battle in braving the elements, Israel will be ready for anything.





























































Friday, February 17, 2012

Final Excerpt from The Gilboa Iris Before The Book Launch!!


Dov Regev’s Office, Herzliya, Friday 10 a.m.

“Boker tov, Dara. Good morning. I regret that we had to meet under
such circumstances.”
I could only nod an acknowledgement.
      “I trust your flight went smoothly?”
“Yes, it did.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you. I would just like to get on with the purpose of this
meeting, if you don’t mind.” I opened my bag and pulled out the cursed
file, placing it on the desk between us. “Here is my father’s file.”
“Thank you, Dara.”
      I watched him as he leafed through it. Dov Regev was younger
than I imagined he would be. He could not have been much older than
Roni. He too exhibited a confidence and quiet strength so rare in men
his age – or rather, so rare in men I would meet in the United States, for
example. I recognized it right away. It was the solemn strength of one
who was battle worn.
      Dov proceeded to question me about Mace Devlin, and I told him
everything I knew, including the meeting he had with the owner of Al
Mansaf restaurant in Brooklyn.
      “Dara, I would like to thank you for all your help in this matter, as
well as for your courage. David Lev filled me in on all that transpired
in New York. I know how terrifying this entire experience has been for
you.” He looked at me, conveying a genuine warmth.
“Well…now, I would just like to put the whole thing behind me.”
“Of course. I understand. Do you have family in Israel?”
“No.”
“Friends?”
“A few.”
      He crinkled his brow in concern. “So…you’re nineteen and alone
in the world?”
“Yes, I suppose I am.” I felt my face fall into a cynical smirk, the
kind that Roni had sported when we first met.
      “Do you at least have plans to stay at a friend over Shabbat?”
“Actually, I made no plans. If you can direct me to the nearest
hotel, I’ll get a room before I figure out what to do next.”
      Dov picked up the phone and instructed his secretary to reserve
a room in my name at the Tel Aviv Hilton. “You have the room for a
week; the expense is taken care of.”
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
“Please, don’t give it a thought. You put your life at great risk by
providing us with your father’s file. It’s the least we can do for you. Oh,
and if there is anything I can help you with in getting yourself settled in
Israel, don’t hesitate to call me.” He handed me his card.
“Thank you, Dov.”
      We shook hands, and I walked out of his office just as another man
walked in.
                                       ***
“Whoa! Who was that?” the man exclaimed once he closed the
office door behind him.
“Did you notice her eyes?” Dov asked.
“Let’s just say I noticed the whole package…why?”
“Well, they looked…battle worn.”
“I guess you would know, Dov.”

                                      ***

Two days after I met with Dov Regev at his office, I received a call
from him. With the additional information that I had provided Dov
– information that his office subsequently passed along to the FBI –
the FBI arrested Mace for homicide and conspiracy to commit
treason. They raided the apartment where Mace was staying. There, they found the
murder weapon, although there were no fingerprints on it. It had been
wiped clean. “The apartment,” Dov explained, “was actually used as a
safe house for Mace and his neo-Nazi cronies.”
      I felt no relief at this news. I felt nothing. I questioned if I still
had a pulse. “I suppose I have to go back and testify, right?” The lack
of emotion in my voice sounded odd to me. Dov hesitated before he
answered. “Dara, there may not be a trial.”
“What?” I suddenly found my pulse.
“Mace may be able to make a deal.”
“What deal?”
“He can provide the FBI with valuable information. He’ll do time,
but it won’t be life.”
“No! I won’t allow it.”
“I’m very sorry, Dara; I know how painful this is for you. But…
as I understand it, it’s…not up to you. It’s up to the state prosecutor
and the FBI. You see, Mace Devlin is small-fry compared to what’s out
there. To avoid the risk of a life sentence, Mace may decide to turn over
significant information on the neo-Nazi network.”
“But he committed murder…” I trailed off.
“Yes, he probably did. But, the evidence is at best…circumstantial.
They can’t categorically pin him as the triggerman. Plus, Mace seems to
have an alibi. Still, Devlin doesn’t want to run the risk of a trial, and the
FBI feels it has much more to gain in making a deal with him.”
      I didn’t answer. I was wondering what other bombshell awaited me.
“Dara? Are you still there?”
“How many years will he get?” I found my voice again.
“I don’t know that yet.”
“Well…I appreciate you calling and apprising me of the situation.”
“Are you going to be all right?”
“I won’t fall apart and cry over this, Dov, if that’s what you mean.
Tears have never helped us,” recalling Roni’s words. “One way or
another, the Jews will fight back.”
“Yes, Dara. That is one thing that I can promise you.”

Thursday, February 16, 2012

The Commuting Subculture in Israel: Secrets of a Thursday Night Stepford Wife

as posted in Blogs.TimesofIsrael
by Zahava Englard




The transatlantic commuting population in Israel has grown in recent years into an impressive subculture within Israeli society. Many immigrants, mainly from the United States choose to keep their jobs in the States and travel back and forth, some doing so every week, leaving for the States late Sunday night and returning to Israel on Thursday evening.
Imagining the difficulties and complexities involved in living with a transatlantic commuting husband, I decided to investigate the extent of the toll it takes on the wife living with such an arrangement. I had an opportunity to discuss what it is like to live with a commuting husband with a woman who recently immigrated to Israel with her three children, as well as to observe her over a period of time in an exploratory capacity. For reasons you will soon find obvious, fictitious names were required to protect the identities of the people involved in what amounts to an exposé. I present the following based on my eyewitness account:
The night is slowly approaching and Sara has done all she can do to make things right. The pressures are great in having a husband that constantly commutes 6,000 miles to a job in the States. It seems commuting husbands imagine that life is set on the pause button while they are away and fancy an ambiance of perfection upon their return. For tactical reasons, Sara allows her husband to indulge in this fantasy.
Her homemaking prowess intensifies each Thursday morning in anticipation of Avraham’s return that evening. The heck with the rest of the week – she honed her procrastination skills to an art form. It’s not a character flaw, it’s a lifestyle alternative – she works much better under duress. And so, in the several hours prior to her husband’s return, the house is clean, the laundry is done, dinner is ready, everything for Shabbat is ready, the gas tank is full and she finally watered his plants which inexplicably revived despite her torturous neglect during the week. Yes, she’s a regular Stepford wife. Or at the very least, she is quite the actress.
“You see,” confesses Sara, “I am hardly the proverbial homemaker.” She explains that when Avraham is away, she dawdles, she dallies, she mucks about, she basks in clutter, and she has mastered the “sweeping everything under the rug” technique to a literal science. Sara likewise discovered that the dryer makes a great last minute catchall. Her closets are in an open at your own risk status – way too many skeletons. I spy a reminder post-it note − REINFORCE HINGES! next to one closet door that bulges ominously at the seams. Visitors are encouraged to sign a waiver. But, by hook or by crook, come Thursday evening Sara manages to pull off a flawless home façade – a masterful deception!
(Tip: Forget the music…the aroma of freshly fried onions on the stovetop, combined with a flowing scent of Channel and a violent action movie in the DVD player, soothes the savage beast.)
Continuing with the spirit of her charade, for all you lovers of wet, slimy things out there, do not fret – Avraham, on his return “visits” to his home in Israel, had occupied his down time by building a fishpond in the front yard and “those fish in the pond have indeed been fed,” Sara boasts. No thanks to Sara of course, but rather to the expert care provided by one of the neighborhood boys that she just today cleverly employed as her “pond boy” due to the wave of warm weather these past few days that fell over central Israel. Sara explains, “Once the cold winter weather sets in, the fish are not fed since they hibernate.” Now that’s a gripping detail you don’t come across everyday, I thought. As Avraham’s wife, Sara is steadily enchanted with oodles of fishpond trivia. And “Yes,” she says, “I feign fascination while mentally retreating to another world. Did you even have to ask?”
Regrettably, I discovered that until her hired pond-boy’s arrival onto the scene, the pond suffered a few casualties under her tutelage. “No matter,” Sara says with a wave of her hand, “Avraham will be coming through the door any moment now; the props are in place and the curtain will be going up. No need to even mix a Martini – he prefers Scotch on the rocks. I take it straight up,” she admits, “a requisite for success. My performance, as always, will be impeccable!”
“So, what’s for dinner?” I ask her.
Fried fish of course. She never skips a beat.

Monday, February 13, 2012

The Grittier Side - A Positive Take




The Grittier Side – A Positive Take 


 Zahava D. Englard, as featured in TimesofIsrael.

http://blogs.timesofisrael.com/the-grittier-side-a-positive-take/#.Tzfu-dOgdQI.facebook


F
rom David Ben-Gurion to Binyamin Netanyahu, the modern day leaders of Israel have not been without faults or sins, but their human frailties do not necessarily diminish their merit. It is in this light that when our leaders do act with conviction, courage and with clarity of thought, their actions emerge even more significant and notable. Such is the forgiving and uniquely magnanimous attitude with which I was met by Shaul Ryan Lifshitz, a promising young Israeli artist from Tel Aviv that I found impressive, open-minded and refreshing, in a country where no flaw among our leaders is overlooked.

Moses Loses It
According to Shaul, a graduate of the prestigious Bezalel Academy of Art and Design in Jerusalem, Judaism is mostly taught in a “matter-of-fact-no-room-for-other-possibilities manner.” With strokes of his artist’s brush that boldly illuminates his canvas with daring and resolve, Shaul Ryan Lifshitz indeed makes room for other possibilities. In his artistic portrayal of the human, “grittier” and unattractive side of our biblical ancestors, this budding artist, raised in a religious home, takes biblical events not counted among the proudest moments of the Jewish people, and rather than convey these scenes in a negative light, Shaul extols human weakness. Using King David and Moses as examples, he maintains that “being imperfect does not mean one cannot be great.”
In a country with an unforgiving media, and where harsh critique abounds, from taxi drivers who view themselves as political strategists to every second person on the street – a self appointed military expert, it’s inspiring to come across an artist who sees the inherent virtue in people, flaws and all. We all know that no one among us is perfect, but when it comes to our official leaders, we expect more. And the predominant view would be that we have a right to expect more. Yet, what Shaul Ryan Lifshitz’s art conveys is that even our greatest biblical leaders were just as human as you and me and there is certainly no shame in that, and no need to whitewash their errors. He is disappointed that much of the “uglier” side to our biblical heroes were covered up in the course of his religious education. Shaul prefers the entire picture, and since he didn’t get that as a young student in Jewish day school, he chooses to convey in a provocatively stimulating manner, a more honest rendition through his art.

The Eleventh of August, 2006
Originally from the United States, with his “in your face view” of who we are and where we come from, in 2005, Shaul moved to Israel to join the IDF and in 2006 he was wounded in combat in Lebanon. A number of his paintings depict his experiences during the war. But as he says in a dry wit and with a boyish smile, “I just throw them into the pot of a peaceful flawless Judaism.”
Shaul Ryan Lifshitz – the grittier side of life…it’s a good thing.
www.wix.com/sryanl/portfolio

Thursday, February 9, 2012

DANCING WITH WOLVES


Zahava Englard, An article I wrote for Times of Israel....Click on "Dancing with Wolves" title. Hope you "like" it on the Times of Israel page, and as always, I welcome your comments.
blogs.timesofisrael.com
In a 1990 western starring Kevin Costner, Lieutenant John Dunbar is dubbed “Dances with Wolves” by a band of Sioux......

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

New sneak peek # 7 THE GILBOA IRIS


“You’re a very interesting person, Mr. Devlin.”
      “How so, Detective?”
“We’ve done a little homework on you. It’s not every day that a kid from the back roads of Nebraska gets to travel to exotic places like Lebanon.”
      “Last I checked it wasn’t against the law to travel.”
“Did you hear me accuse you of anything, Mr. Devlin?”
      “No, sir,” Mace whipped out his dimpled smile.
“Why Lebanon of all places?”
      “Why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Tanzy’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “Maybe because there’s a civil war there? Maybe because it has become dangerous for Americans to travel there without getting kidnapped.”
“Maybe I like living on the edge,” Mace quipped.
     “What were you doing there for six months?”
“Lebanon is a fascinating place, Detective Tanzy. I wanted to travel after getting my degree from MIT before settling down in a job.”
      “Where did you travel besides Lebanon?”
“It appears to me that you already have that information.”
      “Just answer the question, Mr. Devlin.”
“Germany. I traveled to Germany for several months and then to Lebanon.”
      “What did you do in Germany?”
“Drank beer and hung with the fraulein.”
      “Do you know a Gerhard Kestel?” 
“No.”
“Are you sure about that?” Detective Tanzy asked with a skeptical frown that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face.
“Yes. I’m sure.”
      With a contemptuous smirk, the detective excused himself from the room. A few minutes later, he returned to the interrogation room with a man in a dark-grey suit. His forehead bore a deep-set widow’s 
peak and his black-rimmed glasses hung low on the bridge of his nose, imparting an appearance of an IRS auditor. “Mr. Devlin, this is FBI Special Investigator Harris Taylor.”
      Traces of his smile vanished. Mace was visibly annoyed. “Should I 
be calling my lawyer?”
      “Do you think you’ll need one, Mr. Devlin?” Agent Harris Taylor was expressionless as he seated himself across from Mace, placing a file on the table between them.
      “Why am I being questioned by the FBI?”
      The FBI agent opened his file and took out a photo, placing it on the table in front of Mace. “That person that you’re standing next to in this photo is Gerhard Kestel.This picture was taken two years ago in Lebanon, in 1982, and two years afterKestel moved his paramilitary training camp to Lebanon with PLO assistance. Mr. Kestel is a neo-Nazi leader with close ties to Yasser Arafat, the Hezbollah, and the Moslem Brotherhood…but you already knew that, Mr. Devlin, didn’t you?”
      Mace stared hard at the photo, furrowing his brows in confusion. “I don’t know any Gerhard. This guy introduced himself to me as Wilhelm Hess.We met at a bar in Berlin, and I didn’t ask him about his politics. We got friendly and he invited me to a party at his apartment – so I went. I figured what could be so bad…women, beer…why not?” 
      The investigator coolly conveyed his disappointment. “Surely you can come up with something more creative.” 
      Mace eyed both Detective Tanzy and Special Investigator Harris Taylor with a condescending grin. “You’re both picking at straws here. You’ve got nothing to go on, so you’re wasting your time questioning me about some bum I hung out with at a bar in my travels. Well, let me save you some time, gentlemen. I’m a man who enjoys a good beer or two – or three,” he added, as an afterthought. “I meet plenty of questionable characters in the lairs I hang out in. It makes life interesting. But I don’t give a damn about their politics and they don’t give a damn about mine. We get drunk and we get laid. End of story.”
      Taylor stared at Mace as if looking straight through him, disregarding what he considered a poor attempt at a cover-up, and then continued with his questioning as if Mace had not uttered a word. 
      “Before traveling to Germany, Mr. Devlin, you spent some time in Elohim City in Oklahoma.”
“Yes. My sister lives there with her husband. What of it?”
      “So your sister is a neo-Nazi, too?”
“Now wait just a minute!” Mace stood up from his chair.
      “Sit down, Devlin!” Detective Tanzy ordered, shoving him back into the chair, startling him.
      “We know what kind of place Elohim City is.” Taylor continued in a monotone voice. “You’re a Nazi, Mace Devlin – a home-grown, white Aryan supremacist, scum-of-the-earth Nazi.”
      “I don’t have to take this crap! Are you arresting me, or what? Because if that’s all you’ve got, you have no right to hold me here.”
      “With what kind of work were you and Dr. Harow involved at RDECOM?” Taylor asked, ignoring Mace’s outburst.
“That’s classified,” he spit out. 
      “But you don’t have the same security clearance as Dr. Harow did. Do you?”
“No.”
      “Still, you had two years to ingratiate yourself with Dr. Harow and gain his trust. So much so, that you were often a houseguest in his home.”
“I had a tremendous amount of respect for Dr. Harow. And yes, he and his wife were very gracious to me.”
     “Did they know you were a neo-Nazi?”
“I’m not a neo-Nazi.”
      “Mr. Devlin, you run from one neo-Nazi stronghold to another; from here to Germany to the Middle East. You met with Gerhard Kestel in Berlin and then met up with him again in Lebanon. This picture of 
you and Kestel was taken at his paramilitary base in Lebanon.” 
      Mace shifted uneasily in his chair, his Midwestern charm cracking under the strain. “This is all pure conjecture on your part,” he insisted. “While in Berlin, I mentioned to him that I was planning to travel to Lebanon and since he was planning to be there as well, he told me to look him up when I got there.”
      “Your explanations are ridiculously flimsy. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“I’m telling you the truth.”
      “Mr. Devlin, we can place you at the headquarters of the National Socialist German Workers Party in Lincoln, Nebraska. Here’s a copy of your membership ID card.” Taylor pulled out another sheet from his 
file and placed it in front of Mace. 
      Mace’s expression turned cocky. “That’s not illegal.”
“It is if you’re involved in the coordination of neo-Nazi and Muslim terrorist activities.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
      “Of course not,” Taylor said dryly. “Let’s get back to you and Dr. Harow: you took the shuttle together to New York on Friday. Isn’t that correct?”
“Yes. We traveled together every Friday to New York.”
      “So, he must have mentioned his weekend plans to you.”
“He may have said something about a Broadway show.”
      “For that reason you didn’t expect him to come home early Saturday night.”
“What the Harows did on their weekends did not affect me one way or another.”
      “What were you searching for last night in the Harows’ home?”
“I wasn’t there.”
      “You were after some classified material that Dr. Harow had in his possession. Material that you didn’t have security clearance for – material that you wished to pass on to Arab terrorists.”
“That’s pretty farfetched, even for the FBI. But anyway, I told you, I was nowhere near the Harows’ home on Saturday night.”
      “Where were you?”
“With a lady friend.”
      “All night?”
“Pretty much. That is, until I got the call from Dara, which was about, I don’t know, maybe 4 a.m. The detective can back me up on that.” He nodded his chin toward Detective Tanzy.
      “And, needless to say, your lady friend will back you up on your alibi.”
“She has no reason not to.”
      “What is your interest in Dara Harow? I understand you shared a room with her at the Mayflower."
“She called me. She doesn’t have anyone else here that she can trust. And I think it’s understandable that I’d try to be a comfort to her at this time. She needed a place to stay – I wasn’t going to leave her high 
and dry. The poor kid is in a state of shock.”
      Detective Tanzy, until now, remained quiet while observing Taylor and Mace. He had a look of disgust on his face. “That’s touching. Quite a balancing act, Devlin – being a neo-Nazi and comforting a Jew at the 
same time.” Tanzy started for the door. “I’ve heard enough.”
“I told you, I’m not a Nazi.” Mace glared at him. 
      “Then how is it that you are a member of a neo-Nazi organization?” Taylor broke in. 
      Mace rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. “I joined when I was eighteen. It was a social thing – I never took it seriously.” 
      Taylor showed no emotion on his face. He simply took out another photo from his file and placed it on the table. Mace’s face turned ashen, his lips twitched involuntarily. 
      “I think we can stop dancing around the truth now…don’t you, Mr. Devlin?” 

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Kicking The Head In The Sand Syndrome

Something dawned on me a moment ago after reading yet more dismal news on the Middle East...you know... on who else wants to attack us, on who else wants to boycott Israel, who else is attempting to delegitimize our right to exist on our land and who else wants to wipe us off the face of the earth - the usual. What dawned on me was the true motivation behind the debilitating condition known medically as the Stick the Head in the Sand Syndrome.


With the prospect of Bashar Assad's huge arsenal of chemical weapons falling into the "wrong hands" such as Hezbollah on our northern border, (as if Assad's hands were the "right ones"), with the Muslim Brotherhood sharpening their swords to the south of us, and with Iran on the precipice of becoming nuclear, it's a wonder why more of us do not refuse to crawl out from under the blanket and beg off from facing the world as we know it. On numerous occasions I too have experienced bad news overload and have taken a much needed hiatus from perusing the newspaper or reading any online news.
                                       



In fact, I don't know what makes me eventually throw the covers off and get out of bed to face reality. It's a frightening world out there, yet at the same time, so compelling that I never allow myself to go on my anti news hiatus for too long.

But shutting myself off from the news is very different from shutting oneself off from reality. Reality, being too harsh to swallow, there are those that prefer to live in a parallel universe where reality has no bearing, where Obama has America's best interests at heart, oh, and Israel's too, where republicans and Zionists are the root of all evil, and where peace would be possible with maniacal Arab terrorists if only Israel would end the "occupation." They don't see the unadulterated government sanctioned barbarianism in Muslim countries where human rights are systematically crushed. They don't want to know of the hundreds of thousands to well over a million killed in Muslim inspired wars raging from the Sudan to Afghanistan.They don't notice the encroachment and influence of the Muslim Brotherhood in UN agencies, US government offices and in the upper echelons of European and American society. They don't want to grasp the threat of global jihad period. It's easier to live in utter delusional delirium.

Well, here in Israel, while one may need to turn off the radio for a few days here and there, sticking one's head permanently in the sand is one syndrome we cannot fall prey to.  Deluding ourselves into thinking that weak sanctions can pull the plug on our nuclear demise and relying on foreign promises of aid in our defense is outright suicidal. Hosni Mubarak might have a word or two to say about Obama's treatment of US allies and I suspect would even back me up.

Israel is a No Freak Out zone.

The reality is not going away. We've got to accept it, deal with it, blow the chemical and nuclear missile mongering Muslim butts into oblivion and move on. We'll worry about the world blaming the spike in oil prices on us Jews afterwards. One problem at a time.


Sunday, February 5, 2012

TRUE HEART


A few months ago, my friend's son was doing his reserve duty on the Israeli Egyptian border. He wrote a letter about his experiences there, and I first came across the letter in a blog post by Judy Lash Balint in her Jerusalemdiariesblogspot. With no end in sight to the anti IDF propaganda flying around cyberspace I wanted to share his letter as well and convey the true heart of the Israeli soldier.

My name is Aron Adler. I am 25 years old, was born in Brooklyn NY, and raised in Efrat Israel. Though very busy, I don’t view my life as unusual. Most of the time, I am just another Israeli citizen. During the day I work as a paramedic in Magen David Adom, Israel’s national EMS service. At night, I’m in my first year of law school. I got married this October and am starting a new chapter of life together with my wonderful wife Shulamit.

15-20 days out of every year, I'm called up to the Israeli army to do my reserve duty. I serve as a paramedic in an IDF paratrooper unit. My squad is made up of others like me; people living normal lives who step up to serve whenever responsibility calls. The oldest in my squad is 58, a father of four girls and grandfather of two; there are two bankers, one engineer, a holistic healer, and my 24 year old commander who is still trying to figure out what to do with his life. Most of the year we are just normal people living our lives, but for 15-20 days each year we are soldiers on the front lines preparing for a war that we hope we never have to fight.

This year, our reserve unit was stationed on the border between Israel, Egypt and the Gaza Strip in an area called “Kerem Shalom.”  Above and beyond the “typical” things for which we train – war, terrorism, border infiltration, etc., this year we were confronted by a new challenge. 
Several years ago, a trend started of African refugees crossing the Egyptian border from Sinai into Israel to seek asylum from the atrocities in Darfur.  What started out as a small number of men, women and children fleeing from the machetes of the Janjaweed and violent fundamentalists to seek a better life elsewhere, turned into an organized industry of human trafficking.  In return for huge sums of money, sometimes entire life savings paid to Bedouin “guides,” these refugees are promised to be transported from Sudan, Eritrea, and other African countries through Egypt and the Sinai desert, into the safe haven of Israel.

We increasingly hear horror stories of the atrocities these refugees suffer on their way to freedom.  They are subject to, and victims of extortion, rape, murder, and even organ theft, their bodies left to rot in the desert. Then, if lucky, after surviving this gruesome experience whose prize is freedom, when only a barbed wire fence separates them from Israel and their goal, they must go through the final death run and try to evade the bullets of the Egyptian soldiers stationed along the border. Egypt’s soldiers are ordered to shoot to kill anyone trying to cross the border OUT of Egypt and into Israel. It’s an almost nightly event.

For those who finally get across the border, the first people they encounter are Israeli soldiers, people like me and those in my unit, who are tasked with a primary mission of defending the lives of the Israeli people. On one side of the border soldiers shoot to kill.  On the other side, they know they will be treated with more respect than in any of the countries they crossed to get to this point.

The region where it all happens is highly sensitive and risky from a security point of view, an area stricken with terror at every turn.  It’s just a few miles south of the place where Gilad Shalit was kidnapped. And yet the Israeli soldiers who are confronted with these refugees do it not with rifles aimed at them, but with a helping hand and an open heart. The refugees are taken to a nearby IDF base, given clean clothes, a hot drink, food and medical attention. They are finally safe.

Even though I live in Israel and am aware through media reports of the events that take place on the Egyptian border, I never understood the intensity and complexity of the scenario until I experienced it myself.

In the course of the past few nights, I have witnessed much.  At 9:00 PM last night, the first reports came in of gunfire heard from the Egyptian border. Minutes later, IDF scouts spotted small groups of people trying to get across the fence. In the period of about one hour, we picked up 13 men - cold, barefoot, dehydrated - some wearing nothing except underpants. Their bodies were covered with lacerations and other wounds.  We gathered them in a room, gave them blankets, tea and treated their wounds. I don’t speak a word of their language, but the look on their faces said it all and reminded me once again why I am so proud to be a Jew and an Israeli.  Sadly, it was later determined that the gunshots we heard were deadly, killing three others fleeing for their lives.

During the 350 days a year when I am not on active duty, when I am just another man trying to get by, the people tasked with doing this amazing job, this amazing deed, the people witnessing these events, are mostly young Israeli soldiers just out of high school, serving their compulsory time in the IDF, some only 18 years old.

The refugees flooding into Israel are a heavy burden on our small country.  More than 100,000 refugees have fled this way, and hundreds more cross the border every month. The social, economic, and humanitarian issues created by this influx of refugees are immense. There are serious security consequences for Israel as well. This influx of African refugees poses a crisis for Israel. Israel has yet to come up with the solutions required to deal with this crisis effectively, balancing its’ sensitive social, economic, and security issues, at the same time striving to care for the refugees.

I don’t have the answers to these complex problems which desperately need to be resolved. I’m not writing these words with the intention of taking a political position or a tactical stand on the issue.

I am writing to tell you and the entire world what’s really happening down here on the Egyptian/Israeli border. And to tell you that despite all the serious problems created by this national crisis, these refugees have no reason to fear us. Because they know, as the entire world needs to know, that Israel has not shut its eyes to their suffering and pain. Israel has not looked the other way. The State of Israel has put politics aside to take the ethical and humane path as it has so often done before, in every instance of human suffering and natural disasters around the globe. We Jews know only too well about suffering and pain. The Jewish people have been there. We have been the refugees and the persecuted so many times, over thousands of years, all over the world.

Today, when African refugees flood our borders in search of freedom and better lives, and some for fear of their lives, it is particularly noteworthy how Israel deals with them, despite the enormous strain it puts on our country on so many levels.

Our young and thriving Jewish people and country, built from the ashes of the Holocaust, do not turn their backs on humanity. Though I already knew that, this week I once again experienced it firsthand.  I am overwhelmed with emotion and immensely proud to be a member of this nation.

With love of Israel,
Aron Adler writing from the Israel/Gaza/Egyptian border.