Review of THE GILBOA IRIS in The Jewish Standard

Just wanted to share a review of my novel, THE GILBOA IRIS soon to be released at the end of February!

http://jstandard.com/content/item/vampires_and_israeli_soldiers_inspire_former_n.j._authors_latest/21747 

Abigail Klein Leichman • World

Published: 27 January 2012

Former Teaneck resident Zahava D. Englard credits best-selling authors Leon Uris and Stephenie Meyer for turning her into a novelist.
Uris’ magnum opus, “Exodus,” so inspired Englard as a teenager that she kept nudging her 15-year-old youngest child, Nili, to read it. Nili, however, prefers fantasy novels, like Meyer’s “Twilight” books.
“So to get me off her back, she said, ‘You read “Twilight” and I’ll read “Exodus.”’ And I actually fell in love with it and read the whole series,” says Englard. “After the first book, I thought, ‘I could do this.’ That’s when I decided to write a novel.”

The result of more than a year’s work, “The Gilboa Iris” is soon to be released by Israel-based Gefen Publishing House. The sometimes-racy romantic drama takes place in Israel, where Englard and her family have made their home since 2006, but it’s not merely a Harlequin-style story set on a kibbutz.

“I was always different from my friends growing up,” Englard relates. “I never touched romance novels. I was very focused on Israel and the Holocaust, and if I read a novel, it had to be about Israel. It was just natural that I read ‘Exodus,’ because it’s about Israel and it’s also a very passionate book — and I love passion.”
She even named her older daughter, Jordana, after a beautiful and brave character in the Uris classic. (The family also includes two boys, both serving in the Israel Defense Forces.)
Like the fictional Jordana, Dara — the similarly gorgeous and gutsy protagonist of “The Gilboa Iris” — suffers traumatic personal loss. The American Dara’s love interest, the macho Israeli soldier Roni, also deals with death in the context of the battlefield and global jihad.
“I tried hard not to base them on anyone actual, or to focus on any one real incident,” says Englard, whose previous book, “Settling for More: From Jersey to Judea” (Devora Publishing, 2009), is a compilation of e-mails she sent to friends and family during her first two years in Israel.
“The storyline came out of my experiences of visiting people who’ve lost family members to Arab terror,” she says. “I had all of them in my mind, especially David Hatuel, a father from Gush Katif whom I met a few months after his wife and four daughters were murdered. Knowing what he went through had a huge impact. I also knew that he somehow was able to go on with his life, remarry, and start anew.”

Englard wove that hopeful note into her writing. “I did not want a sad ending to my book. I wanted it to have a positive message.”
She geared her novice novel to a general audience, believing it has commercial appeal to non-Jewish and non-affiliated Jewish readers.
“It’s not an in-your-face pro-Israel book,” says Englard. “I wanted to acquaint people with the human side of life in this country, through characters they could relate to. It’s a novel of personal and national survival, triumph in the face of despair and over evil. As insurmountable as global jihad can be, the human spirit is stronger.”
Ilan Greenfield, CEO of Gefen, says “The Gilboa Iris” “deals with a realistic situation and brings out a great story. Our editor, who reads many books and doesn’t like them all, praises it from start to end. She loved every page.”
Were “The Gilboa Iris” to be made into a movie, Englard envisions “Twilight” stars Ashley Greene and Kellan Lutz playing the leads.
Perhaps the same celeb pair could star in a remake of the Paul Newman-Eva Marie Saint film version of “Exodus,” which Nili Englard still hasn’t gotten around to reading.

Zahava D. Englard

The Gilboa Iris link - Gefen Publishing House website. http://www.gefenpublishing.com/product.asp?productid=960

The Gilboa Iris ( U.S. Pre-orders Ship Jan 2012)-Gefen Publishing House

www.gefenpublishing.com

Whispers OF WAR

A disparate title to say the least. War does not come in a whisper, it seethes in a raging cauldron, rumbling to the fore until it at last pervades the earth with thunderous blows.

The Arabs have never tiptoed around their intention to murder all the Jews and wipe Israel off the map. That people and governments on this earth choose to feign ignorance to this fact can only be due to a perverse ambivalence, a pathetic disposition toward acquiescence and, of course, classic hatred of Jews.

Yet, there are whispers that war in the Middle East may come this summer, if not sooner.The waters are being tested, literally in the Strait of Hormuz with allied warships playing chicken with the Iranian regime in order to secure the passage rights of oil tankers, and at the same time, Iran's proxies of Hammas, Islamic Jihad and Hezbollah are ever poised to wage what they hope will be a war of annihilation against Israel. Now with the Muslem Brotherhood and the Salafists at the helm of power in Egypt, the deluge of heavy-duty arms pouring into Gaza is not even worth a headline in any newspaper. And Hezbollah has been rearming to the teeth under the "watchful" eyes of the UN peacekeeping forces. At the same time, Prime Minister Binyamin Netanyahu is being pressured by the U.S. and the European quartet to further curtail building on our own land and come up with more "confidence building measures" for our foes who are interested in anything but peace.
It's almost funny. Almost.


In reality though, we in Israel do not need to heed the whispers of war. We are always in a state of war.

In marking the International Holocaust Day, Prime Minister Netanyahu correctly pointed out that lessons have not been learned, as there is a disconnect on the part of the world powers between Iran's nuclear weapons program aimed at Israel and the Nazi's war against the Jews.
In the end, we Jews have only ourselves to rely on. And on God.

My friends and I all have kids in the army. In fact, it is fair to say, that everyone in Israel is closely connected with someone serving in the army, whether it be a dear friend or relative. No one is untouched, and the whispers of war resound with an unambiguous and decisive clamor. That we are all in this together is a stance that resonates throughout the land. For us, there are no slush piles of statistics. Each of our soldiers owns a face and countless hearts as well. This brings to mind a piece I had written during the last war in Gaza known as Operation Cast Lead back in 2009. It was based on a true event.

We were five friends, five mothers all in one row, standing in shul, side by side in prayer. We came together as we do every Shabbat, to pray with the community, and afterwards to catch up with each other's lives after another busy week. It's pretty much routine, only this past Shabbat, marking the second full week of fighting in Gaza, we had much more to pray for, and something else made it not so routine at all.


Five Friends - three of us having children either in Gaza or at a nearby base preparing to go in, and the other two with boys scheduled to enter the army in just several weeks. As we listened to the chazan (cantor) repeat the Shmoneh Esrei, we stare blindly at the windows of the shul in front of us. One friend has her house in view, the last one in the cul de sac directly across the street from the shul, when we all witness the slow-moving army jeep inching towards her front door.


Suddenly we are no longer staring blindly. Our friend gasps deeply, her eyes widen in trepidation and the rest of us stand paralyzed, not daring to breathe. Her son informed her before Shabbat that he would be going into Gaza. 


For a few long moments we lose sight of the army jeep as it passes the width of our window. Where is it? Is it parking? Is that it? There was no other house at the end of the street. Our friend measures her options in her mind - does she run out to seek the army personnel or just...wait until they find her?


Why run out? As long as she doesn't hear the dreaded news, all is fine. Her son is alive and well. Cherish those last moments of ignorant bliss.


Several seconds pass, and we see the army jeep turn around at the end of the cul de sac, making its way to leave the block. Perhaps a routine security round?
It drives down the street, past the windows of our shul, vanishing from our sight. Our friend cries tears of relief into her prayer book, and we hold her, each of us blessing this moment of reprieve.

As mothers, we know that today it is up to our boys' generation to safeguard our land. As it has been throughout the generations, it is our people's destiny to fight and to struggle for the preservation of our existence until such a time as our swords will be set aside for plowshares. Only that time is not yet here and, until then, we will do what needs to be done.


In reverence for our young fighters, respect for our wounded, and in deference to our dead, one can only hope that our government will not succumb to a peace deal that relies on false promises and on the dubious good graces of international forces. Let lessons of our past be learned; our security can only be entrusted to ourselves and to God.


We pray to God to watch over us, to give wisdom and courage to our leaders, to protect our soldiers and to heal our wounded. We pray that God brings safely home all of our boys. We pray that all of God's angels in the realm above, their golden-winged likeness safely sealed in our imagination, serve nobly as our relentless guardians. 

Yet, on the ground, on the front lines and in the trenches, ever is the sense that our angels wear green.

A View From the Inside

Did you ever have the feeling of being on the outside looking in?

I used to on occasion, as in certain circumstances where I distinctly felt like an outsider. Not too infrequently I envisioned myself at a window peering in through the panes. Prior to my move to Israel, Christmastime in the States, for example, had that effect on me.

I have this clear memory of myself as a very young child shopping with my mother in a department store, where Santa, in all his white-bearded glory, suited up in bright red velvet, was perched on a kingly chair giving out free gifts to the children of customers. I recall my mother telling me to join the other children and pick out a gift. And, I remember not wanting to do so. I couldn't have been more than five years old yet I understood that those gifts were really not meant for any Jewish child. My reluctance to partake in the department store's Christmas giveaway was like sacrilege to my mother. In her defense, she didn't see it as compromising our principles. As a Holocaust survivor, she simply could not lose an opportunity to acquire something that was being given out free. It was important to take it, for survival's sake, whether we needed it or not. Not to take it was to waste it. And waste for Holocaust survivors, I learned early on, was a grave sin.

Standing there with my mother it was so palpable to me that I was not an authentic member of this Christmas holiday crowd. Though I spoke the same language and looked no different from the other children, I knew I was an outsider. It was an overwhelming feeling - call it innate.

Finally, after much persistent cajoling from my mother, I worked up the courage and stole my way into the crowd of children. I shyly said hello to Santa, averting my eyes, nervous he would discern my true identity, and made off with one of the many wrapped gifts that were stacked in a huge pile. I quickly grabbed my mother's hand, wishing to exit the store in haste before anyone got wise to the big sting I just pulled off.

Throughout my years in the U.S., there were many instances of feeling as if I was on the outside looking in. Two thousand years of forced exile and persecution has a way of seeping into the Jewish consciousness. Conversely, there were other occasions where I experienced a thrill at "blending in" and being just plain American. As much as there is a separation of church and state, the United States is essentially a Christian country. Christmas, New Year's, and Easter are after all national holidays. Blending in effectively, therefore, meant being mistaken for a Christian. Down the line, however, having the name "Zahava Lifshitz" made anonymity a tad tricky.

Even when I finally was old enough to vote, I was keenly aware there was no candidate who truly represented me.  I would simply try to make an educated calculation as to who would be the lesser of two evils, where Israel was concerned, that is. I found it impossible to get too enthusiastic about any one candidate or any one party. I was, after all, on the outside looking in.

Though there is admittedly room for improvement and many obstacles to overcome in our little land of Israel, at the end of the day I go to sleep knowing that the State of Israel is my state, the Land of Israel is my land, and its defense and future are once again in Jewish hands. Why settle for anything less?

I welcome the challenges that we face here as I welcome the privilege of having a share in solving the hardships and shaping our destiny, however humble my contribution might be. Only by being here can we directly help shape Israel's future and secure the destiny of the Jewish people.

My eldest son is finishing his three year army service this month. I still vividly recall driving him to Ammunition Hill in Jerusalem where he was formally inducted. He was understandably nervous but at the same time proud to serve not only in the Israeli army but in the army of the people of Israel. Standing on the outside and looking in was not an option. I remember how he said "This is where I'm meant to be, and this is what I'm meant to do, and it's my privilege to be a part of it." As he is the grandson of Holocaust survivors on both his father's and mother's side, I dare say, it was almost poetic.

But, make no mistake! We are not here because of the Holocaust. We are here despite the Holocaust. And that is the miracle of our times.

My nose is not pressed against any windowpane. Here in Israel, I'm already on the inside. I have the bird's-eye-view, and it is good.

Come and Get It....Make My Day

The other day I received a call from my son, RJ, who is a paratrooper in the 101 battalion of the IDF. He had just finished several days of training in the shetach, (in the field), doing everything that is expected to be done during time of war.  He told me that he and his buddy, Avi, who is a lone soldier and a regular welcome guest in our home, were daydreaming about my Shabbat cooking while laying in the mud during a night of training in the field. All at once the pride of a "Yiddishe mamma" popped out. This modern woman who while growing up scorned the stereotype, suddenly found that to be the best darn compliment anyone can get this side of the Mediterranean!

Apparently, my apple cranberry kugle was getting them through the long cold night. And for a mom who has boys in the army....nothing, and I mean nothing beats that!

That's right...my apple cranberry kugle with carmelized brown sugared oatmeal topping, my cholent with just the right amount of plum Chile sauce, my aromatic roast chicken and roast beef that melts in one's mouth  was providing strength to my combat son and his buddy in arms. It offered moral fortitude, staying power and endurance where one's endurance is tested to the limits. Nope, I never thought of myself as a "Yiddishe mamma", but I donned the role like a pair of battle fatigues.  I was doing my part. It was clear -Hell! My kugle was the backbone of their moral!

At the end of our short conversation, I felt an urge to run to the kitchen and begin cooking in anticipation of my boy and his army buddy coming home for Shabbat in two weeks time.

I was never a feminist, but I imagine, that even if I were, once you have boys in the army, the feminist nonsense goes out the window. Take my word for it - I've had two sons in the army at the same time. The kitchen becomes the prep station for getting your boys battle-ready. The kitchen became my chamal, the war room. Oh yeah, months and months of a soldier's grueling army training, discipline, sleep deprivation, stretching the physical capabilities way past the threshold of the norm, expertise in state-of-the-art high tech warfare is all par for the course, but Pshhhh, don't underestimate the power of Ima's homemade cooking.

So come and get it....make my day.

Excerpt # 6: The Gilboa Iris:


A turn of events...

After grandfather’s passing, my life in the States turned into one huge 

blur – the weeks all running into each other, void of significance. Even 

seeing my mother was a rarity, as she occupied herself with her art shows 

and her cultural pursuits. Just as well. For when she was around, our
relationship was strained, and I didn’t care for the pretentious company that
she kept. On weekends, when my father would be home, he would spend
most of his time working in his library.

Without Pops, each day was more inconsequential than the preceding one.

       I toyed with the idea of leaving the States sooner than I had planned, 

but I decided it made sense to finish the semester. Roni had called the 

previous day and told me that he would be in a training exercise outside 

of Israel for the next several weeks and I wouldn’t be hearing from him 

for quite some time. He could not tell me where. There was little to look 

forward to outside of crossing the days off on my calendar, marking

the time until my semester was over and I would return to Israel, and 

to Roni.

       Soon, however, I would be longing for the repetitive, lackluster life.

It was a Saturday night at the end of November when I returned home 

from a late-night shift at the restaurant. I saw from the street that my 

parents had the lights turned on at each floor level. I glanced at my 

watch. It was 3 a.m. That’s odd at this late hour. I punched in the security 

code and entered. 

        Random papers strewn all over the floor greeted me. Paintings 

were thrown off the walls. Those that weren’t, hung askew, and the 

wind from the opened door blew white fuzzy stuff around like leaves 

in an autumn dance, the stray papers rustling around my feet. I took 

several cautious steps into the gallery and noticed that someone had 

repeatedly slashed my mother’s English Victorian couches, their white 

fillers bleeding out. Oh my God. We’ve been robbed.

        But, where were the police? Why hadn’t my parents called the 

restaurant to tell me – to warn me about the robbery? They had gone 

out with friends to a Broadway play, but surely, they should have been 

home…hours ago. I studied the gallery more carefully. The expensive 

artwork was not taken. In fact, nothing of any obvious value was taken. 

Someone ransacked the place…looking for something specific. After 

fumbling through the mess, I found the phone in the disarray and called 

the police. The smart thing would have been to leave the house and wait 

outside until the police arrived; only I wasn’t too smart that night. 

       I don’t know what prodded me, but I started up the flight of stairs 

leading toward the main floor of our home. The creaks in the wooden 

staircase seemed louder than usual and I stepped lightly, as if walking on 

broken glass. Upon reaching the first landing, shockwaves flooded my 

veins, my knees buckled and I screamed in horror. There, on the steps 

before me, just past the landing, lay Gabriel's body, riddled with bullets, 

his blood splattered on the adjacent wall. I pulled myself up by grabbing
onto the stair rail for support and stared in disbelief, transfixed, frozen in
terror, my heart pounding ferociously against my rib cage. 

      Gradually, I struggled out of my semi-catatonic state and tried to 

think coherently. I staggered up the rest of the steps to the upper 

floor. The living room was identical to the gallery – in total disarray. 

I spun around in every direction, confused, tripping over the tangled 

mayhem. From the corner of my eye, I spotted red splotches on the 

white-tiled floor of the kitchen and forced myself to follow the trail 

around the large rectangular island. 

       I hadn’t noticed that I was no longer alone and jumped when two hands 

gripped my shoulders from behind me. I went wild. The hands held me 

more firmly. A gagging sensation...A noxious smell...The floor beneath my 

feet began to sway like the ocean. The kitchen cabinets swirled around me,
black patches clouded my vision and I crumpled into unconsciousness.

Hillary, the Artful Dodger:

I am so relieved that I could just kick back, eat my bon-bons while watching American Idol and give nary a care to the troubles of the world, because we have people like Hillary Clinton who can pinpoint the source of evil and pounce upon it before it goes viral.

One would think that with all the horrors going on in this world, it would be a no-brainer to isolate and identify the source and take it to task. But no, it's not as easy as it seems. What may appear obvious to the normal mind...to us regular folk, is not necessarily the grander truth. And that is what Hillary strives to achieve...the grander truth. You see, Hillary goes beyond the obvious. Her talent in this endeavor is outstanding and transcends the realm of the normal mind.

Hillary, in fact, takes it to an art form when dodging past

honor killings inspired by Shariah law-
the persecution of Christians throughout the various Muslim dictatorships, now stepped up in Egypt since the Arab "Spring" -
the Islamic call to murder Jews wherever the hell we may be -
the Islamic jihadists intolerance to any religion outside of Islam and the call to conquer the west and spread Shariah law throughout the world -
the indoctrination of children to become homicidal suicide bombers -
the hanging of homosexuals in the city square of countries like Saudi Arabia or Iran -
the Muslim demagogues who rally the masses to completely obliterate Israel off the map -
the absence of basic rights for women in Muslim society and the inherent wanton abuse of women and of female children as young as the age of 6, forced into marriages with men pedophiles.

Yes, Hillary is able to look well past all this superficial and inconsequential evil and get to the crux of the matter. She artfully dodges the obvious and instead targets the gender separate-seated buses that run through a few ultra orthodox neighborhoods in Israel. Never mind the fact that these buses are not government enforced but are a matter of choice on the part of particular communities. Nor do these gender separate-seated buses serve to demean one gender over another. The men and women from these communities feel more comfortable when not having to rub up against the other on crowded buses while traveling to and from work. Now, separate seating is not my cup of tea, but I don't have to ride these buses. I prefer the ones where men and women are squished up against each other. A form of social networking that I generally have no problem with. Okay, I'm depraved. I admit it. Whatever....

The point is....thank goodness for Hillary Clinton's indefatigable courage to direct her condemnation at Israel's "eroding" democratic values by  voicing her objections to the men and women who choose to sit separately on a bus. God only knows how many innocent lives her exposé will save.

Excerpt from THE GILBOA IRIS: # 5

JFK International Airport, New York


“Mace! What a surprise.”
“Hi, Dara. You look wonderful. I guess farm life agrees with you.”
“I was on a kibbutz, Mace, not a farm.”
“Whatever. You look great. Your parents are going to be thrilled to
see you, finally.”
“I thought they would be here.”
“Well, turns out, your mother had an art show, and your father is
still in Maryland at RDECOM. You know the drill, Dara, he’ll be back
tomorrow for the weekend.”
“Yeah, I know the drill. How did you get out?”
“Your father sent me. I took the early morning shuttle from
Washington. He didn’t want you landing at JFK airport without anyone
to greet you.”
“How thoughtful.”
“Hey, if anyone should gripe, it’s me. Apparently I’m pretty
dispensable in the research lab.”
“You know my father thinks the world of you, Mace.”
“I know. It’s just a matter of paying my dues. So, anyway, Columbia
in the fall, huh? You must be excited.” I nodded to be polite. We made
our way to the airport parking lot and Mace threw my luggage in the
back of his trunk, which was a chaotic jumble of disheveled clothes,
research papers and empty beer cans.
         “Still living out of your car, I see.”
“You know me,” he said with a wink, “I’m a man of perpetual
habit.” He opened the passenger door for me and then walked around
to the driver’s side. “Okay, I think we’re good to go.” He backed out of
the parking space, burning rubber as he did so, and flew onto the Van
Wyck Expressway toward the city.
         “So, Mace…did you ever think of finding someone and settling
down? Maybe even getting a permanent residence?”
“Well, I’ve been waiting for you to grow up, Dara.”
“Mace, you’re like a generation ahead of me,” I teased.
“Hey, I’m only twenty-eight, and you’re what, nineteen? That’s only
a nine-year difference – I think there’s potential,” he said, flashing an
ample smile.
“Ever the optimist! I guess you never bothered checking out the
singles scene in Maryland. Do you still spend weekends in New York?”
“Yeah, I don’t like mixing work with play,” he threw me a playful
fiendish look. “Anyway, there’s nothing like New York City.”
“So I hear. Where do you stay these days when you’re in the city
and not in Maryland?”
“Oh, here and there. That’s never a problem.”
          No, I wouldn’t think it would be, I thought. Mace Devlin, graduate
of engineering from MIT, was charming to a fault. He boasted a clean
cut, Midwest American look about him, Nebraska to be more precise,
and was a real ladies’ man. His chocolate brown hair was close-cropped,
and he had smoldering dark eyes, almost black, that were smooth and
penetrating at the same time. His nose was broad and looked like it had
been broken more than once, but he had a ready smile that displayed
deep dimples on his cheeks as his redeeming feature. I never thought
he was particularly handsome, not in the classic sense, although he had
a quality about him that was extremely alluring. And, he knew it.

        We drove up the road to my parents’ house, a brownstone on 70th
Street, off Central Park on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It was
a quiet, tree-lined street with diverse-colored brownstone buildings and
their grand, sandstone-raised entrances lining the way. Ornate carvings
and ornamentation characterized the nineteenth-century architecture.
My parents’ house was in the center of the block. They owned the
entire building, consisting of four floors, the bottom of which hosted
my mother’s art gallery.
       Mace double-parked the car on the street and walked me to the
door, carrying my suitcases with casual ease. He looked more like a
marine than someone cooped up in a lab doing research. “Well, this is
it, Dara. Welcome home, again.”
“Thanks for picking me up from the airport.”
“Hey, anytime. You know where to reach me if you need me. I have
all my calls forwarded.”
“To where? Your car?”
“Go out with me one night, babe, and you might just find out.”
I rolled my eyes at him, “Bye, Mace.”

I don't like to be labeled.

I was 17 when I decided to live for a while on a kibbutz and volunteer to work the land. I remember how some Israelis there asked whether I was American or Canadian or whatnot, and I responded with, "Ani bat-Yisrael." I am a daughter of Israel. That response elicited much laughter from the Israelis. I didn't care. I laughed at it myself...it was a tad dramatic. But,  I didn't want to be labeled as an American. I didn't feel like an American. I defined myself as a Jew. A Jew who loved Israel and believed in the Torah way of life. Plain and simple. 

And don't call me Orthodox. I'm not even sure what that means in practical terms. While I try to be religious, I'm certainly no saint, so let's leave the labels of Orthodox, Modern Orthodox, Conservadox, Conservative and the like out of the picture. The time will come, as it does for all, when God will judge my actions on earth, and while I have no inside information, I've got a feeling that my earthly label counts for naught in the eyes of the Heavenly Tribunal.

One can believe in the truth of the Torah, and yet for whatever reason, not be so fervent in its dictates, while still having a constant spiritual perspective- always having God on one's mind or in one's heart. Oh, and don't call me a settler, even though I'm proud of living in Judea. But I know what most of the world means, in large part thanks to an ignorant and biased media, when they refer to one as a "settler". And please, please, please don't refer to me as a beverage.

I don't like being bunched into a category. Too claustrophobic and it doesn't bode well with my in-your-face non-conformist persona. I prefer to be able to anonymously flit from one labeled group to another, although

I suspect that with my uncovered head, I would stand out in places like Mea Shearim and Geula. I guess my jeans would be a dead give-away too so let's skirt that issue.

So, when you see me on the street, or talk about me behind my back, just call me Zahava. Or better yet, you can point at me and say, "Hey, isn't she the great author, Zahava D. Englard?"

 That works for me too.

The Enablers Among Us:

Once again, Abbas and co. is demanding a freeze on the so-called settlements before any “peace” negotiations can resume. Ho-hum….excuse me while I take a long drawn out yawn, but really, this topic is tiresome, don’t you think?

By now, we all know, or should know that It’s not about the "settlements".  It’s not about the land. It never was. It’s not even about the entire Oslo inspired mess that we still find ourselves in. 


How can we expect to take on the existential threat on all our borders, when we can’t hold at bay the pesky little pseudo-intelligentsia anti-zionist elite in our midst who care not one iota about their own people, and can only worship with fervor their own ground they walk on.


What it is about, is the failure of our leadership to finally get its act together, and stop kowtowing to the minority ultra leftist elite. In other words, to show some…um…balls. The lack of strong leadership among successive Israeli governments allowed the small but lethal cabal of anti-zionist elitists to spread their venomous tentacles, and enabled the Oslo/Road Map or whatever they call it these days, to fester. 


Implementing the freeze back in 2009 was merely a symptom of ailing convictions – a disease with an ominous prognosis.  And should Netanyahu agree to another freeze, well…since the freeze is not the real problem in and of itself, all I can say is “Here we go again”.


Our problems do not rest with Obama and his allegiance to Islam and to those elements conspiring to spread Sharia law throughout the world, although it sure as hell doesn’t help. Neither are the Arabs at the core of our troubles.


Our predicament rests not only with our leadership in Israel, but with the Jewish leadership in the Diaspora as well.  Our problems lie with the enablers among us.

To be sure, the immediate results of the freeze on “settlements”, was that it stiffened the resolve of our enemies. It solidified the Arab stance in demanding further concessions while compelling our leadership to chill as the world, with the U.S. at the helm, shrieks against our right to our eternal capital. It served to put on ice the natural growth of the Jewish population and immobilize our efforts to settle our land. It has caused financial challenges and burdens on scores of people throughout Judea and Samaria and it rendered Israel a vassal state to the U.S. who in effect, acquired the power through this agreement to restrict our every movement in our own land including within our own capital. Despite this, however, our population in Judea and Samaria has risen in the past year to over 350,000, an increase of over 4 percent. To which I can only say, HA!

Freezing the “settlements” wrongly acknowledges that “settlements” are the cause of the problem, and that is a grave mistake. We saw it in Gush Katif. The destruction of the Jewish communities in Gaza proved to be nothing less than a catalyst for increased Arab terror and bombs and missiles targeted at our civilian population, holding southern Israel hostage to the whims of Hamas.

Time and again, our good will gestures, outright withdrawals, retreats from our land and from our convictions, the lack of adhering to any red lines, has proven that nothing is achieved with the Arab world via acquiescence.


The moment an Israeli government allows the other side to believe that we are willing to compromise on the very core of who we are - to surrender land that is the spiritual essence of our existence - then it only serves to embolden our enemies, and operates as a jump start platform for the likes of Obama to drive through his anti Israel agenda.  It never fails. One loose thread and the entire hem inevitably unravels.


So let’s get with the program. The “settlements” are not an obstacle to peace. Enough of that nonsense. Our troubles with the Arabs are over 100 years old, well before the settlement enterprise was born.  What the settlements are, aside from being the very heart of our land, is a necessary asset for our security.


And, plain and simple, a secure Israel in any shape, manner or form, is not tolerable to the Islamic world.


Peace was never part of the equation as far as the Arab world was concerned. In their eyes, the entire Israel is a “settlement” – a cancer in a part of the world they consider theirs. It is an affront to Islam and serves as a constant humiliation to the Moslem world. The only solution therefore, according to them, is its complete and total eradication from the Middle East, and that is non-negotiable. The freeze concept, is therefore a joke - certainly not a viable solution to be taken seriously in any Arab agenda.


For the Jewish people, Israel was never just a piece of real estate. One can negotiate a price on property, but there is no price on one’s soul. And  that is the crux of the matter. The Land of Israel is the soul of the Jewish people and it is like-wise non-negotiable.


Unfortunately however, someone forgot to tell that to the Prime Minister. 
On the other hand, one can gripe a lot about the current leadership in Israel, but…when all is said and done, they are here.  Which brings me to the topic of American Jews who are, well…not here.


Not only are they not here in Israel, but, for the most part, act as enablers for a hostile American administration. Whether the overwhelming liberal majority among American Jewry votes for Obama, Ron Paul, or some other genius, it makes little difference.  One can only go just so far in blaming it on ignorance. So let’s call it what it is.  Apathy.  The 78 percent Jewish vote for Obama in the previous election was a vote of apathy for Israel and their fellow Jews who reside within. 


And, the apathy continues, representative in the earth shattering silence in the face of Obama’s anti Israel stance and his audacity (to be fair, like the presidents before him) to give directives where we can or cannot build within our capital.  The silence from the mainstream American Jewish leadership is astounding. While the world conspires to wrest Jerusalem away from us, the American Jews and its leadership remain frozen in idleness.
One can say that the Israeli government is busy with the looming nuclear threat from Iran, but, hey, we’re talking Jerusalem here. Where is the rage, the anger, the fury? 
The freeze? It’s not over the settlements. The freeze is over the Jewish soul.

 Excerpt from THE GILBOA IRIS - # 4

The drive to Ben Gurion Airport was quiet. Strange how it felt to
embark on a journey that would lead me backwards in time, to an
old world in which I no longer belonged, to which I no longer related.
The only part I looked forward to was seeing Pops.
      Roni held onto my hand throughout the drive, clasping it, caressing
it as if to make the touch endure through the next several months. Words
were unnecessary. No doubt, the next half year would be emotional
agony for the both of us. Roni, scheduled to join his new unit in just
days, said virtually nothing about his forthcoming tour of duty, and I
knew better than to ask any questions. Army secrecy in this case was a
blessing. I was sure that I would not want to know more than I already
did. He had to do what he had to do, and I had to face the looming
wrath awaiting me in New York City. In that respect, emotional agony
would be putting it lightly. I wasn’t sure what was more daunting…
dealing in counterterrorism or dealing with my parents. I was resolute,
however. I would not have my life shackled to my father’s career with
the United States government. If they wouldn’t trust his loyalty once I
moved to Israel, then, as Roni said, my father should consider that he is
working for the wrong government.
My parents made their choices. It was time for me to make mine.
Should they cut me off for it – then, so be it.
        Roni parked the car and helped me with my suitcases. We arrived at
the entrance to the airport and didn’t venture another step. Instead, we
faced each other under the sweltering heat of the Tel Aviv sun, staring
silently into each other’s eyes, studying each other’s faces, permanently
etching them into our memories. The blur of travelers, luggage and
taxicabs whizzed around us, all melding together into a moving canvas
of the indistinct. He wrapped his arms around me, and I clung to him,
relishing his solid strength. It was unthinkable that I would not feel his
arms around me for five long months.
       The time of my flight was fast approaching and I had yet to go
through all the routine airport security checks – it was impossible to
suspend the inevitable. Roni held my face in his hands and tenderly
kissed the tears that ran down my cheeks. His lips then repeatedly kissed
mine, neither one of us wanting to pull away. “I have something for
you,” Roni murmured between kisses. “I put it in your carry-on bag.
Don’t open it until you’re on the plane.”
I nodded, silently kissing him back.
“You have to go now, motek.”
“I know.”
“We’re not going to say good-bye.”
“Never.”
“Take care of my heart.”
“I will. And you, take care of mine.”
“I will.”
“Roni?”
“Yes, Dara.”
“May God watch over you.”
“Over us both.” He curled his hands in my hair, his eyes boring
into mine, never failing to stun me, and we kissed one last time until our
lips slowly and grudgingly parted.
      Once seated on the plane, I looked in my bag and found the box
that Roni had placed into it. I lifted the lid and found wrapped in tissue
paper a Gilboa Iris, its vibrant shade dancing in a symphony of deep
amethyst. There was a small note.

My Sweet Dara, 
As is the Gilboa Iris, 
You are light, you are perfection, you are life.
My life.
Roni

THIRD EXCERPT:  THE GILBOA IRIS      



      “Come Roni, let’s walk to the rocks.” Dalya took hold of his arm,
leading him behind the house where there stood a small forest of trees.
They followed a winding path laden with fallen pinecone needles, which
led to a formation of huge stones that jutted out from the hill.
      “It’s been awhile since we spent some time together,” Dalya said, wistfully.
“It’s taken you a long time to get back to yourself.”
“Back to myself ?” Roni contemplated. “I’m not sure I remember
what that is.”
“Well, at least you’re talking now instead of grunting. And I never
thought I’d ever see you smile again.”
          Roni sat down on one of the large rocks and narrowed his eyes at
his sister. He knew her too well. “Why do I get the feeling that all this
is leading somewhere?”
          “She’s a lovely girl, Roni.”
“Thanks, Dalya. I know,” Roni said, still wary.
          “She’s clearly very good for you. I can see that.”
“She gave me my life back.”
          “And now…you’re going to take hers away.”
          Roni shot his sister a hard look. “Stop right there, Dalya.”
“I know you, Roni. I know what’s in your head. You don’t have to
spell it out.”
         “Dalya, I told you to stop. I can’t talk about this with you.”
“Then don’t. But I can talk.”
“I won’t listen. You’re bitter.”
“I wasn’t always like this, Roni. You know that.”

         Shaking his head, he said in a low voice, “She’s not like you.”

         “I doubt that Dara truly understands what she’s getting herself
into.”
         “You don’t know her.”
“But does she understand?”
           Roni’s eyes blazed at his sister. “She understands that this is our
land; she understands that we must safeguard it for the generations to
come; she understands the burden that God has entrusted us with. Yes,
she understands and she accepts it!”
          “Ahh, now you’re a man of God again. I thought you two had
parted ways.”
“This conversation is over.” He rose from the rock and started for
the path heading back to the house.
          “Look, Roni,” Dalya hurled herself in his way, clutching his arms
before he could leave, “it’s easy to see how much you love her and why.
She’s warm and she’s kind-hearted; at first glance one can tell how truly
special she is. The whole family is taken by her…”
          “So, Dalya? What’s your point?”
“So don’t curse her to the kind of life I have. My children don’t
know their father – is that what you want for yourself ? And for Dara to
constantly be alone, never knowing when she’ll see you next, or for how
long, and never knowing what God-forsaken part of the world you’re
in – it’s a miserable existence, Roni.”
          “I’m not like your husband,” he lowered her hands from him.
“But you’re planning to be.”
          “I’m not planning anything. You’re talking nonsense.”
“I’m married to a Mossad agent! Do you really think I’m clueless?”
          “Your imagination is running wild. I have nothing to do with
Mossad.”
“You’re not regular army!”
          “And I suppose you get your information straight from the chief
of staff.”
“Joke all you want, but I know you probably better than you know
yourself.”
          “Dalya, you know pathetically little. Don’t ever bring this up again.”
There was an implicit warning in his tone, and he stared her down with
a burning glare before walking away.
            “This is not something you can walk away from. It’s not just about
you,” she called out after him. He stopped short and turned slowly and
deliberately around to face her.
            “No, it’s not about me.” His voice was acid. “It never was. I’ve
always looked at the bigger picture, Dalya. It’s time you did that instead
of wallowing in self-pity.”
“Don’t you dare judge me.”
            “In this land of ours, until there is peace, we all have a price to pay.
What Natanel is doing, he’s doing for your children – for all our future
children. Don’t ever forget that Dalya, and don’t ever forget all that he
is sacrificing.”
“Forget it? I live with it every day of my life. Years of waiting take
a toll on a woman, and Dara will be no different.”
            “You’ve said enough. It ends now.”
            “Just one last thing, Roni, and then I’ll leave you to your thoughts.
If you need to follow this course, then follow it. If anyone was born to
it, you were. But if you really love Dara, then you’ll set her free.” With
that, Dalya ran past Roni and headed back to the house.